by McNay, Dan
She put it in her purse. And put on her sunglasses to ward off the day. The goosebumps followed her to the truck. They were all thinking about her. Everyone in town. She went downtown and noticed that the diner was almost empty with no cars in the lot. Too late for breakfast and too early for lunch. They would have soup and crackers. She could hold that down. And she realized that she missed being alone. This was perfect.
She heard Winston’s voice as she parked.
“I won’t do it, goddam it!”
He was behind the building. She went to the corner to take a peek. He was with Edward and Jack. They were all puffing away with cigarettes in hand.
“You don’t have any choice,” Edward responded.
“I quit! You two can go hang yourselves!”
Edward grabbed him by the shirt collar.
“You shut up and listen. I have been more than generous in taking care of your wife’s tab. You owe me.”
Winston pushed away Edward’s hand.
“You are a son of a bitch.”
“Listen,” Jack interrupted. “Both of you. We are smart guys. We can figure out a way to get her to leave. Think about what we can use.”
Winston had that look of someone holding his tongue.
“Out with it,” Jack told him.
“Let me think about it,” Winston said.
“Well, I can probably get the bank to foreclose the mortgage on that apartment building. It’s really long overdue,” Edward said.
“Great. I’ve got to go. We’ll talk again in the morning,” Jack said. He was heading straight for her.
Daydee climbed back into the cab of her truck and hid as he passed. He was so worked up he didn’t even notice it parked there. Edward came a minute later, walking toward his office. She got out and rounded the corner to Winston. He dropped his cigarette when he saw her.
“What the hell was that?” she demanded.
“You need to leave Paris.”
He ran for his car and sped away. She considered her upset stomach and decided to try the soup and crackers. Going in, she spent the next half hour trying to eat, but mostly staring out the window wondering about what she was in for. She decided to buy ammunition and shoot them all if she had to.
* * *
She came back with the paint and began to cover the letters across her door. The smell of the paint was horrible and she had to go in to the bathroom again. She stuffed Kleenex in her nose before coming out. Her aunt used to do that because dusting made her sneeze she said. It helped. She sanded before she started and sanded each coat so the letters wouldn’t show under the new paint. This was making her angry. This was one of them. What couldn’t she see? Oil under that property out at the lake that they wanted for themselves? Something in the locked garage at her aunt’s house? Or something hidden out at the cemetery? Winston was the worst. He had taken advantage of her. The son-of-a-bitch. He had gotten to her, made her feel sorry for him.
Sarah pulled up behind her pickup. There was a couple with her. Daydee quickly opened the door so the lettering wasn’t in view and scooted the ladder in front of the side where there were still traces. Sarah brought them over. She obviously thought Daydee was a sight. She was swallowing her grin with her introduction. They were a young couple. She hoped they were old enough to sign a lease.
“I’ll get the keys,” Daydee went in.
“I can take them,” Sarah said. “You are busy.”
Daydee handed her the keys when she came back. Sarah pointed at her own cheek.
“You have streaks, dear. Kinda cute actually.”
How did this woman manage to make her feel so self-conscious? She went in to clean her face, she didn’t want to be cute. Daydee was almost through with the second coat. It might need a third. Sarah came back without the couple.
“They signed,” she said. “They are trying to make up their minds about which one they want. They are measuring both.”
“I really appreciate your help,” Daydee told her. That was what you were supposed to say, wasn’t it? Daydee had never gone to another woman for help in her life.
“You’ll get my invoice.”
“I heard your ex say he was going to get the bank to foreclose on me.”
“You sure? He’s real close to his chest with his plans. He never tells anyone anything.”
Daydee told her about the parking lot conversation, leaving out the tail end conversation with Winston.
“Any idea why they would want me gone?”
“I don’t know. Let me think about it.”
“When I went to meet with Edward about the apartments, he asked me to find out if he has any grandkids.”
“Really?” Sarah asked. “He doesn’t want to talk to our son. He’s sure he will get yelled at, which is probably true. When you talk to him again, you can tell him no grandkids – no wife.”
“Is there a way out of foreclosure?”
“Well, you could get another lawyer. Write Edward a letter to fire him and send a copy to the bank president as well and then go visit the bank with your new lawyer. I can give you a couple of names. And everybody’s names at the bank. That way, you wouldn’t have to talk to Edward again.”
“Ok.” This was what you did with men who wanted to take charge. You let them think they are in charge. She guessed it was the same.
“I’ll see if I can corner some of the bank people. You wave money at them, they wave back.”
“Your ex is not going to be pissed by you interfering?”
“He leaves me alone. He knows if something happens to me, our son will kill him.”
“I thought I had a crazy family.”
“You did,” Sarah said. “They taught you to stick Kleenex in your nose?”
“Aunt Eunice.”
* * *
She finished covering the graffiti the next morning. There was no trace left to see. She even showed another tenant an apartment and signed a lease in between coats. She called the lawyer Sarah had suggested and made an appointment for them to go meet with the loan officer at the bank. She finally sat down at her kitchen to write the fire Edward letter. Since it was going to the bank and the probate judge as well she wanted it to be correct and not demonstrate how dumb she might be. This was hard. She had never finished high school. There were probably rules for writing business letters, but she didn’t know what they might be. Finding a letter from one of her mother’s credit card companies, she thought she could use it as a model, but that turned out to be hopeless. Except for how to do the heading.
She worked up a hand-written copy, finally just writing what she had to say as if she were telling him face to face. She’d change some of the ‘you’s’ to Mr. Stills. There was a typewriter at the cemetery office. She hoped it still worked. What could you do to make a typewriter not work? She had never learned to type and knew she might be out there all night. And she had to make three copies.
She thought of asking Sarah for help, but she didn’t want to feel any more obliged to her. Nor did she want to look stupid in front of her. She thought of Mat. She called his office, but the phone just rang and rang. No answering machine, no nothing. She thought she might call his home. Did she have that number? But she thought better of it. His wife was a john’s wife.
Why hadn’t she taken night classes? Had she really thought her looks would last forever? You passed on that filthy rich guy because he looked like a fat chicken. And he had been a professor as well. There was no accounting for taste. Her John was proof of that. She finally ended up with a couple of paragraphs that worked. Grabbing her keys, she headed for the cemetery.
It was dinner time and there was not a soul out. She parked at the office and noticing the mound of earth on the new grave, she reminded herself that she had to order the marker. Did she have the right information for it? The typewriter was electric at least and she discovered it would back space and erase her error. What a wonderful thing. There wasn’t any carbon paper, so she would have to find a place to co
py it in the morning. Her spelling had never been great and now trying to hunt and peck for the letters while trying to remember how to spell the word was challenging. There was a dictionary in the drawer. She took it out to double check herself.
It was nearing dusk by the time she finished. The cemetery had no outside lighting except for a porch light over the door to the office, so now the windows that had provided such a great view were now mirrors, reflecting her at work. The dark glass didn’t show age or wrinkles. Nice, she told herself, as she stretched when she finally got out of the chair. Not bad for an old broad. She sat down again and pulled out a blank piece of paper and a pen. Since she was writing letters…
Dear John,
This return address is where you can reach me if you want to write. I hope you are surviving. I’m permanently here until further notice. My mother died and I’m dealing with her things and property. It looks like it may be doable here. I miss hanging out with you. Sorry I didn’t visit, I was trying to make a go of it with very little money and just couldn’t spare the car fare. Write if you want and tell me how it is. It must be real rough. You were a lot tougher than you let on, so I figure you’ll make your way. I’m real sorry for you.
John, I’m pregnant and it’s yours. I’ve decided to keep it if I can. I’ve not even been to a doctor yet, so I’m being real dumb. But I thought cause I’m so old that maybe it would just miscarriage or something. But it’s growing now and I’m sick in the mornings, so I’m going to a doctor pretty soon. I don’t expect anything from you. The situation here looks good, so I should have a living. I’ll tell you more as I know it. If you don’t want to write me, I’ll understand.
It wasn’t going to last forever down there. I know that now. I’ve never done anything but make a living and sit on easy street. This may be a last chance and I just have to take it. I may be too old to see it through. I want it to be a girl. I’d like to love it the way I wished I had been loved.
The town here is a little frightening. I’ve created quite a stir showing up and looking like I look. Everyone acts like I’m some kind of ghost that has come back from the dead. And it’s all about the boobs and the bod, I suppose after years of strutting, it’s only right that that’s all they see. Maybe it’s all I see.
God, I’d like to have a drink with you and have you make me see the silliness of it all. I hope you are all right,
Love…
She started to erase the ‘Love’ when a car door slammed outside. She jumped. An engine gunned and tires skidded out the gravel drive. What the hell was that? She hadn’t heard anyone drive up. She went to the closet to see if there was anything she could use to protect herself with. There was an old rake. And a shotgun. She grabbed it. She didn’t even know how to see if it was loaded.
She turned the lights off inside and out and stood in the dark by the door. There were no other sounds. She went right outside, but it was pitch black, the moon wasn’t up yet. She turned the porch light back on. No sign of the car. She went down to look around the corner back at the entrance to the cemetery. There were tail lights far away. What was that about? She turned toward the truck. On the side was the red ‘whore’. God damn them! There was a hose at the side of the office. She propped the shotgun by the front steps and turned on the water. The paint was still wet and a lot of it ran off under the spray of water. She found a rag and dish soap in the supply closet and came back to scrub it. She broke two nails cleaning it off, but it looked like she got it all. She was as wet and soapy as the truck. Shit! She sucked her broken nail and she checked the other side of the truck. And she had been so careful on the typewriter too. There wasn’t anything written anywhere else.
“And it wasn’t over there, it was over here,” someone said behind her.
She turned. It was an old man, in rags and as dirty as sin, sitting on the front step of the office with the shotgun in his hands. He seemed to be looking at it rather than at her.
“Hello?” she said.
“It wasn’t much to lookee see,” he said to himself.
“That’s my gun,” Daydee said to him.
He cocked his head as if listening for something. He placed the gun gently on the stoop and stood up. It was an effort to get to his feet and he looked very old and rickety. He wouldn’t look at her.
“Here is over there,” he said and shambled across the drive and walked on toward the back of the cemetery.
Thank God he put the gun down. New Orleans was filled with crazy homeless people. This guy seemed just like all of what she was used to.
“Did you see who tagged my truck?” she yelled after him.
He turned, but not all the way. He was talking to the mound of earth on the new grave.
“Just a lookee see, little Dede, just a lookee see. No harms, no hits, no errors.”
He disappeared into the darkness. She went to the shotgun and managed to get it open. There were two shells in it, but they were probably real old. How long had it been sitting in the closet? She took them out with the idea of going to buy new ones. She would need to know what to get. She took it back inside and put it back where she had found it. Slipping the shells into her purse, she gathered up her papers. She would figure out how to mail John’s letter later. There was a flashlight in the desk. It needed new batteries, but it worked. She brought it with her when she locked up.
She started the engine and then turned it off. The old man had called her little Dede. She got out and started across the cemetery on foot, following the direction he had gone in. This was real stupid, she told herself. She found him about fifty yards beyond the back boundary of the grounds. There was a grove of trees and bushes that were never mowed and the weeds were high. He was sitting on the ground next to a shopping cart full of crap – cardboard and plastic bags filled with God knew what. He had an old ratty blanket on the ground and another one wrapped around his shoulders. The flashlight was barely working. He looked down, shielding his eyes. Like a dog waiting to be run over. He smelled like roofing tar. She put the light on his face and he looked away and hid under his hand.
“Just a lookee see, for God’s sake!”
She didn’t know what to say. She was afraid to be right or wrong. She was afraid to say it.
“Daddy?”
“Oh nooo. No god here, no over there, no god here. Oh noo.”
She watched him. Hid under the blanket and she moved the light from his face. She needed to get away and think this over. The light would die and she would be stumbling her way out of here.
“I’ll come back,” she said and turned to get away.
She wasn’t sure at all. If this was her father, then who was buried in the ground with a marker? She was afraid he might follow her. But there was no sign of him as she reached the truck. She needed to go home. What if the asshole went back to the apartment to tag her there again?
Chapter six
The broken nails from that night would have normally sent her off in search of a fantastic manicurist to get them replaced, but when she got home, she trimmed them all back to the same length, took off the polish and filed them into shape herself.
It was another hot summer day. Daydee had gone to the bank with the new lawyer and the meeting had gone ok. The new guy was very persuasive about the apartment building and the loan guy seemed ready to grant an extension on the mortgage payment that was due. Hooray for small towns.
She had just gotten back to the apartment. Diane, Jack’s wife, appeared at her door. She was the ditzy skinny blonde that had come after her in the bathroom at the church. Her hair needed a brush which made Daydee think she was trying for the tousled look.
“Hi!” Diane seemed ready to hug her for some reason. It turned into a half hug. “Would you like to go for coffee?”
Daydee could sense an agenda. Was it concern for her or concern for appearances? Like in the bathroom.
“I’m pooped, I just got back. How about some coffee or ice tea here?”
“Ice tea sounds a lot be
tter,” Diane said.
Daydee picked up the living room a bit. She was still sleeping on the couch and the blankets were still there. She cleared the coffee table as well and offered her a seat.
“I’m not the best housekeeper these days. There’s a lot going on. I was over at the bank this morning about the estate.”
“Oh, are there problems?”
“Not really, but all the legal stuff means you have to write letters and have meetings. At least, that’s what they tell me.”
She went for the tea. There were dishes in the sink, but she had clean glasses and the tea was already made in a pitcher in the fridge.
“So how is your morning sickness?”
“Not fun,” Daydee replied sitting with her on the couch. “You would think it would make you lose weight, but it doesn’t. That’s not the purpose, I suppose.”
“Soda crackers and chamomile tea work the best.”
“I have the crackers.”
“You just have to ignore Mrs. Burton. She’s the prim and proper sort. She thinks she’s an expert. Everyone ignores what she says.”
This was the woman that had just buried her husband at the cemetery.
“Did she say something to you? I was out there to make sure it was all going well. I didn’t know I was supposed to be in attendance.”
“If you’re not sure about someone, give me a call. I’ll give you the low down.”
“I’ll remember that,” Daydee said. And she would provide the low down on me as well, she was sure.
“I hate being nosey, but I was wondering if there was a hubby around. We like to make everybody feel welcome. I could get him invited to football parties or some such thing.”
These kinds of people were incredibly stupid. Didn’t she realize how transparent and evil she was right now? She would smile and act ditzy and it was all ok. God, how she hated women.
“Well, if you promise not to tell a soul. It’s hurtful.” Daydee told her intentionally. It would be very easy this way, the entire town would know the story in a week and she wouldn’t have to remember it to retell it. Maybe even Mrs. Burton would say to herself: the poor dear.