by Rhett DeVane
Hattie broke of a piece of her cake and delivered it to Sarah. “I’m dropping her by Joe and Ev’s after I leave here,” she said when she returned to her seat. “Holston will be home in a couple of hours, and I decided to take Ev up on her offer to babysit.”
“Ah, a little romantic tryst in the making.”
“I thought it might be nice to have the evening all to ourselves. And you know how Evelyn loves children. I feel sorry for her sometimes. Byron lives too far away for her to spend time with their two grandsons, and who knows when Karen will have children, if ever. I think she has to wait a little while after her chemo to get pregnant. When Ev gets to spend time around Josh or Sarah, it’s like she comes alive.”
“Between that and sewing, she’s quit redecorating and—thank you, our beloved Savior, for favors great and small—cooking.” Jake faked a bow to the heavens.
“Seriously.”
It was a fact. Evelyn Longman Fletcher—unlike her mother, Piddie—did not have a natural affinity for cooking. Fortunately, Joe had developed his culinary skills following retirement, and the gourmet kitchen had a true chef at the helm.
Hattie checked on Sarah. Happy kid. Surrounded by toys, with slobbery teacake clumped around her lips. Maybe Bobby would eat a teacake with his Gatorade, if she took some back.
“You decided to add to your evening by visiting your best girlfriend in the world?” Jake winked.
“You act like I never stop by.”
Jake cocked his head. “Sister-girl, don’t be defensive. Since you’ve been all disgustingly happily married to the hunk-of-the-century, we seldom have our long girlish chats.” His mouth turned down for a beat before it resumed its customary upward curve. “Not that I’m not deliriously pleased for you . . . and me. I am in the throes of conjoined bliss too.” He handed a chewy bone to Elvis.
“I’m sorry, Jakey. I never in a million years meant to make you feel like you don’t matter to me.”
Jake hopped up and wrapped his arms around her. “Sister-girl, we’re all good, you and me. We could be apart for decades and still be best-est heart-friends. Now seriously, is there something bothering you?”
Hattie took another teacake. “Am I that transparent?”
“To me, you are.”
“I have something really incredible to tell you.”
Jake pilfered her teacake with an evil grin, took a bite, and then leaned forward. Crumbs littered the corners of his mouth.
“Jakey, I have a sister!”
Elvis stopped chewing his bone and looked up at her.
“Oh, sweet girl. Of course you had a sister.” Jake put down the half-eaten cake and slid the plate toward her with a sad smile. “I’m sure you still think of Sarah. A lot of people get a little depressed around the holidays. What with Mr. D and Miz Tillie and Piddie gone, you’re sure to feel melancholy. Look at all of us who love you . . . me, Shug, Elvina, Evelyn and Joe, Bobby and Leigh, Holston and Sarah Chuntian.”
“No, no. I mean . . . I have a sister.”
“Lost me.” He made an air-circle with one finger. “Orbiting Uranus.”
“You were the one who pointed her out. The lady at the fall festival. The one dishing up soup? Her name is Mary-Esther, and there’s a pretty good possibility she is my long-lost sister.”
The Felix-the-Cat wall clock ticked, its golf-ball-sized eyes swishing in time with a swinging, black-plastic tail. Elvis watched them.
Jake pinched off another small bite of teacake and handed it down to the dog. “Sister-girl, you have been watching waaaay too many daytime dramas.”
Chapter Twenty
Mary-Esther swung a small Styrofoam cooler into the back of Jerry’s truck and slid into the passenger side. “Do you realize this is our first official date?”
“Guess that makes me a skinflint. Should be taking you out for a nice meal,” Jerry Blount said. “Instead, here I am, dragging you to Mule Days.”
“For one, I’m not hard to please. Until recently, I’d been living out of the back of a van. For another, I’m the one who wanted to go to this shindig. You were nice enough to offer company.”
Jerry backed from the driveway. The curtains parted slightly, Rose watching the action. “What’s in the cooler?” he asked.
“Ham and cheese sandwiches and potato salad. Julie threw in a couple of slices of her famous lemon pound cake. Some soft drinks. In case we get hungry and thirsty.”
“Aren’t you the considerate one? But they have food booths at Mule Days. I should’ve mentioned it.”
Mary-Esther flipped one hand. “We can eat them on the way back. How far is this place? Must be miles.”
“It’s about an hour from here. We had to leave early or else face a tremendous traffic jam.”
“In Calvary, Georgia? I’ve never heard of the place. Can’t be many people living there.”
Jerry smiled. “These little festivals draw in folks for miles. You’ll see. Plus, we wouldn’t want to miss the parade.”
“Parade?”
“Mules.”
Mary-Esther’s eyebrow lifted. “I see. Hey, we only have Jazz Fest in New Orleans with world-renowned musicians. What do I know from mules?”
His lips twitched. “This must seem like a foolish thing to you.”
“Stop, Jerry. I mean it. You can be so infuriatingly nice sometimes.”
“You’d rather I be mean?” He glanced over and winked.
Mary-Esther regarded him. “I didn’t say that.” Without the crisp, pleated uniform, he looked like one of many flannel-shirted farm boys. Still, an aura of authority clung to him like a used dryer sheet. She reached over and slipped her hand into his. He pulled her closer. His masculine scent wrapped around her, making her head swimmy.
Jerry grinned. “That’s the beauty of an older pick-up truck with a bench seat. A woman can nestle right up under a man, if she’s a mind to.”
“Bet you’ve had lots of women in this middle spot over time.” She noticed his features harden. Had she crossed some line?
“Only the one.” Jerry stared straight ahead.
He turned onto a narrow county road and headed north into Georgia. They rode in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes before Mary-Esther spoke. “I seem to have offended you somehow. If I did, I’m sorry. I . . .”
The muscles of his jaw flinched. She scooted back to her side of the seat and snapped the safety belt. For several miles of tobacco barns and barren, harvested cotton fields, they rode in silence.
Finally, Jerry spoke. “I was married. For many years.”
“So you’re one of those walking wounded men who got left and never got over it?”
“Maureen died. Breast cancer.”
Mary-Esther closed her eyes and clenched her teeth. It wasn’t the first time she had blundered to a wrong conclusion. “Oh . . .”
“It’s just—” His voice grew so low, she strained to hear. “You’re the first since her.”
She allowed silence to fill the space for a few moments.
“Jerry, I can’t say I know how it feels to lose someone you’ve been committed to for years. My marriages weren’t stellar. I lost one husband to youthful stupidity, one to heart failure, and one to . . . I suppose, lack of trust. But I did lose my Nana Boudreau. She’s the only person who ever loved me unconditionally. Then my mother died of kidney failure.” She paused. “Loretta and I had finally reached a truce. Quit fighting over every little thing. I think we might have done all right, if . . .”
“If.” He huffed. “Loaded little word, isn’t it?”
The traffic on the county highway increased. By the time they were two miles south of Calvary, the line had slowed to a bumper-to-bumper crawl. Mary-Esther fiddled with the radio dial as stations faded in and out.
“You weren’t kidding about folks coming from all over. I haven’t seen this many pick-up trucks in one place in, well, ever.”
Jerry patted the seat beside him. “Why don’t we do a restart on this date?”
She unfastened her seat belt, slid over, and attached the middle safety belt.
Jerry slipped his right arm over her shoulders and steered with his left hand. “You’re bound to get a kick out of this.” His voice resumed its usual good humor. “There’s a contest for tobacco spitting, handcrafted stuff, loads of funnel cakes, and fried bloomin’ onions and gator tail. Lordy, how I love those fried onions! They make cane syrup in big vats the old-fashioned way. Good stuff. I’m always entertained when I come to Mule Days, but then, with you from New Orleans—”
“Don’t be so quick to judge. I’ve eaten gator.”
He glanced away from the road and regarded her with an astonished expression. “You don’t say.”
“Hello? I’m from a city below sea level, up to its armpits in swamp water. And I’ve sucked down more mudbugs than I care to count.”
“Juice in the heads of those crawdads is nothing short of heaven.” Jerry chuckled. “Oh yeah, don’t look all shocked. I’ve eaten my share of those mudbugs myself.”
Jerry followed the procession into a large open field where local deputies motioned vehicles into grassy parking slots. He turned off the ignition and grinned. “C’mon, Cajun gal. Much as you said you love a parade, this is one you don’t want to miss.”
*
“I don’t think that mule with the white star on his nose was necessarily the prettiest. Who’s to say?” Mary-Esther pulled a hot snippet from a deep-fried bloomin’ onion and dipped it into a cup of ranch dressing. She would probably enjoy the worst case of indigestion she had ever had, but for now, the grease slid down easy. “And the one that got most ugly looked like the others. How does one judge these things, anyway?”
Jerry pulled an onion section from the opposite side. “Must be some type of score card. I’ve never known anyone to call for a recount.”
“Not like the mules care.”
Mary-Esther noticed the faint sheen of grease around his lips and blushed over the images prancing through her mind like spring-frisky colts. She swiped her mouth with the back of her hand, frowned at the oil slick on her skin, and reached into her back jeans pocket for a wad of paper napkins.
“Anything worth eating makes a mess.” Jerry winked.
Mary-Esther stopped wiping her fingers and studied him. That winking business was going to get him into trouble. “I am not even going to touch that remark. Can’t believe you’re so good at flirting. Who would have ever guessed?”
“Suppose it’s like riding a bicycle. A man never forgets how. He only gets a bit rusty.”
She offered the dregs of the onion to him before dumping the flimsy paper plate into an oil drum turned garbage can. “I’ve had enough health food. Let’s go see how many non-essential things we can buy. Other than my rocks, I have absolutely no character in my apartment.”
*
Near dark, Jerry pulled the truck into the driveway beside his mustang and shut off the engine. The Herring’s back curtains parted then closed shut. Nice to know someone cared enough to keep track of her comings and goings.
“I totally forgot to ask you,” Mary-Esther said. “Have you had a report on my van yet? I feel kind of guilty keeping this truck so long.”
Jerry hopped out and allowed her to slide out from the driver’s side. “I talked to my cousin yesterday, matter of fact. Didn’t want to spoil our date.” He reached for the cooler and tucked it beneath one arm. “Engine’s shot. He’s looking to find a rebuilt one to drop in.”
She walked alongside him toward the stairway leading to her apartment. “An engine? Sounds expensive.” Mary-Esther could barely make out his features in the dim light shining down from the crest of the stairs.
“I helped him build his barn. He owes me a big favor, so he’ll cut you some slack on the labor charge. Besides, a rebuilt engine won’t set you back as bad as a new vehicle. By the time Milton gets finished, your van will purr like a kitten.”
“Give me some ballpark idea of money, okay? I’ll pull as many extra shifts as Bill will let me.”
“I imagine it’ll be about eighteen hundred dollars by the time he does everything.”
Mary-Esther’s spirit wilted. The amount would deplete the remainder of her meager savings, and then some. Shouldn’t have spent anything at the festival. Oh, well. As her mother used to say when she hit another of her “lows”: life is a big shit sandwich and every day you take another bite. Loretta Boudreau Day, the eternal optimist.
They stood at the bottom of the stairs, facing each other. Reminded Mary-Esther of adolescence, when the awkward front door scenario was both feared and anticipated.
“Would you like to come up?” she asked.
“Mary-Esther, I don’t think . . . that is, I don’t know if I can—”
She reached up and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “I’m not inviting you to sleep over. I’m not even asking you to pet heavily on the couch. It probably wouldn’t withstand the action, anyway.
Mary-Esther tapped the cooler with one finger. “I have two really good ham sandwiches that are going to be wasted, not to mention my famous kick-butt red potato salad. And Julie’s cake.” She grabbed the cooler from his arm, turned, and started up the steps, calling over her shoulder. “I’m offering a quick meal on paper plates and some mundane conversation on the porch. Nothing more. Nothing less.”
Could she be the same woman who generally bedded a man—heck, even married him—before she knew how he liked his coffee? The one who had no clue how to take things slow, unless she counted the time it took her to figure out how to extricate herself from a hopeless entanglement?
When Mary-Esther reached halfway on the complaining stairway, she heard the sound of Jerry’s steps behind her. Her pulse stammered.
*
“Where should I turn?” Holston asked. He negotiated the swirling traffic on Tallahassee’s Capital Circle.
“Take a left at the light.” Hattie motioned to the next intersection. “The Orthopedic Center is past Capital Regional Hospital on the left. You’ll see a big sign.”
“You want to take in a movie after your appointment?”
“That might be fun. We can grab a paper and discuss it over lunch. This feels so strange, being without Sarah. I appreciate you wanting to come. It’s nothing massive today.”
“I wanted to be with my wife.” Holston reached one hand over and held hers. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in weeks.”
Hattie laced her fingers in his. Nice, how they fit together.
The Orthopedic Center waiting room brimmed with people in various stages of healing. Wheelchairs, walkers, canes, and braces abounded. Lines formed at three sliding glass check-in stations. Worse than Walmart during the holiday rush.
“There’s always a book of forms to fill out.” Hattie plopped down in an upholstered chair next to her husband. “Good thing we came early.”
A few minutes after she turned in the extensive health history, a nurse called her name.
“Should I come back with you?” Holston asked.
“I’m okay by myself. When else will you get to enjoy a six-month-old copy of Field and Stream?”
“I’m sure, if I search, there’ll be a mangled Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue.” Holston’s left eyebrow flicked up then down.
Hattie stuck out her tongue at him and followed the nurse into the inner office maze.
“Please remove your clothes from the waist up and put on the gown. Dr. Henry will be with you shortly.” The nurse exited and closed the door.
Hattie picked up the gown, pale yellow cotton with blue trim. Who picked out the material for these things? The cloth should be a fun print, something in keeping with the office’s purpose. Maybe line drawings of feet, legs, shoulders, and hands, with ribbons of gauze twirling between.
The doctor completed his exam. “You have a classic case of frozen shoulder. I’ve studied your MRIs, and there’s no tear in the rotator cuff tendons or the muscles, and no impingements in the neck.”
; “And I had this whole thing diagnosed.”
“Step over to the monitor.” The doctor pointed to the digital image of her shoulder. “This is the tendon attachment of the muscle you mentioned. It looks healthy.”
“Then, why does it hurt so badly?”
“We’re not really certain why this occurs. Sometimes, it is from an accident or a blow to the shoulder girdle area. I see it so often in Caucasian women, usually around your age, that I call it white girl shoulder.”
Hattie sniffed. “One more thing to attribute to aging.” At least it wasn’t the Big C, when a doctor started comparing the problem to the size and shape of some fruit.
“Age factors into a number of things, unfortunately. We become less flexible, lose muscle mass. I’m your same age. Consider myself to be in good shape, work out—all that. Couple of weeks ago, I pulled a muscle in my back getting out of my car. I moaned and groaned for a few days until it finally got better.”
“I take it this shoulder thing doesn’t require surgery?”
“No surgery. At one time, doctors prescribed aggressive physical therapy. Not so much, now.” He handed her a couple of information printouts. “We use prednisone therapy first with a few gentle exercises. The idea is to reduce the body’s inflammatory response in the area.”
Hattie scowled. “Prednisone. For how long?”
“A week.”
“Thank God.” Last time she had to take that longer than a few days, she went crazy as a March hare, couldn’t sleep, and tried to eat everything within a two-mile radius.
“You deserve to get some relief. This usually kick-starts the healing process.” The doctor scribbled onto a prescription pad then tore off the top sheet and handed it over. “I’ll see you in six weeks. If you are not on the upswing by then, we can discuss other options.
Six weeks. A lot could change in that time.
When Hattie returned to the waiting room, Holston asked, “What did he say?”
“He said I’m an aging white woman.”
“Huh?”
Hattie laughed at his confused expression and turned toward the door. “C’mon. I’ll explain over a massive plate of hot wings.”