by Shelly Frome
“Now or never, LuAnn? I only took out a few minutes to rustle up this guy’s order. I don’t have all day, you know, and I hate this new touch-screen thing.”
“Okay,” LuAnn said in a soft, even tone, “be right there.”
Josh eyed the title of the book LuAnn was reading, shifted his gaze over to the tray of food at his table and looked back at the book. Under the circumstances, he decided the best tactic would be to suggest they might be kindred spirits as he broached the subject of Alice’s plight.
“‘Yonder Stands Your Orphan’,” said Josh. “How apt.”
When all he got was a quizzical glance, he said, “Could also apply to our young friend, I mean, and Bob Dylan to boot.”
“I don’t understand?” LuAnn said in the same soft even tone.
“You know, the Dylan song. ‘It’s all over now, Baby Blue . . . crying like a fire in the sun . . . look out, look out . . .’ ‘Yonder stands your orphan’ is part of the lyrics. The point being I guess is . . .”
“Yes?”
“Look, the truth is, from the way Alice mentioned your name, I thought maybe you knew her well enough. Or could tell me if there’s been some recent developments that might affect her.”
“I still don’t understand?”
“Well,” Josh said, feeling more awkward by the second, “she’s run off, you might say. And I’ve taken an interest in her situation. So, as long as I was passing through, I thought I’d take some soundings and ease her mind if I could.”
LuAnn closed the book, making doubly sure her bookmark was firmly in place, and said, “What situation? How is she?”
“Not so good but getting better.”
“Where is she?”
“Let’s just say she’s out of town for now in safe hands.”
“Oh, that’s good. I must admit I’ve been a little worried about her.”
“Can you tell me why?”
Getting more and more impatient, the waitress cut in through all the ambient noise and called over. LuAnn excused herself. Josh sat down at the adjoining table to consume his meal which, at this point, was lukewarm but edible. Though he hadn’t really gotten anywhere, at least LuAnn hadn’t rejected him out of hand and had shown some concern.
In the background, the murmuring and mumbling, raising, calling and folding followed by a few claps and groans went on.
When LuAnn slipped back behind her table, Josh was hoping they could continue their exchange about Alice. A hope that was immediately dashed when a slight figure wearing a tan sheriff’s department uniform ambled in, leaned over the counter, and began bantering with the waitress while looking over in Josh’s direction. LuAnn went back to her book. Not reading but leafing through it as though looking for some favorite passage.
“So where did we leave off?” said Josh, turning his chair toward her, ignoring the deputy’s curiosity.
“You mean about the book?” said LuAnn, seemingly put off by the deputy’s presence. Perhaps in response to the deputy’s off-putting presence, perhaps because she opted for Josh’s more literate sensibilities, LuAnn turned toward Josh and said, “There’s one line I kind of like. ‘She spun off her Mississippi axis out of control.’”
Taking the cue, Josh said, “Right. How did Alice do that? I mean exactly?”
Averting the deputy’s stare, LuAnn thought for a moment and said, “You know when you’re that young and incorrigible. And you’re right, she is practically an orphan.”
“Go on, I’m listening.”
Almost in a whisper, LuAnn leaned over and said, “Skipping school. Then, I guess, looking for a ticket out of here.”
Going along with her conspiratorial tone, Josh said, “What do you mean? What ticket? Who are we talking about?”
“Sorry,” said LuAnn, looking down and away. In a slightly more pronounced southern accent, apparently for the deputy’s benefit, LuAnn said, “I don’t really know you. Besides, looks like mister Sonny Drew doesn’t at all approve.”
And sure enough, by then neither Deputy Sonny Drew nor the waitress could contain themselves. As a result, in no time LuAnn was back behind the counter continuing her touch-screen ordering-and-checkout lesson and Sonny Drew was standing over Josh’s shoulder. Except for his pencil-thin lips, slight frame and a quiver in his voice, Deputy Drew could easily pass for what Josh took to be a standard-issue local cop.
“That your old delivery truck blocking the side street?”
“Not mine but I am making deliveries.”
“Around here?”
“No, I happened to be passing by.”
“Went out of your way, you mean,” said Deputy Drew, affecting a more firm and deliberate style.
“Well, I was famished.”
“Famished? What kinda word is that?”
Jerking out a ballpoint pen and a small notepad, clicking away, Drew said, “Except for your appearance, seems more like you’re from some agency filing some kinda report. Checking up on how we do things around here, some efficiency thing maybe.”
“Not at all,” Josh said, wondering what Drew’s problem was.
“Oh yeah? From the way you zeroed in on LuAnn, talking like you didn’t want nobody to hear. Plus, like she said, you don’t know her.”
Josh stood up and stepped over to the counter, leaving Drew hanging back notepad at the ready. With LuAnn standing by, the waitress barely managed to set the printer sputtering and ejecting Josh’s tab. Josh paid his bill, left a tip at the table and, a moment before he was set to leave, caught LuAnn’s eye. She smiled in a winsome way that Josh took as an okay to get in touch somehow.
Josh looked back into the knotty pine recesses trying to catch Strother’s eye. But Strother was much too busy and apparently had added a “Hot damn!” to his repartee.
Back outside, about to turn the corner and hop back into the truck, he ran into Deputy Drew again. Flicking his pen out once more, Drew said, “Seems like, according to Beca the waitress, who couldn’t help overhearing, I am not mistaken and you are definitely fishing for some kind of information.”
Having had enough of this, Josh countered with, “Seems like you and Beca are the ones playing ‘I spy’ not me. Sorry I can’t go on with the game but I’ve got to get back on the road before the rush hour does me in.”
Before Josh had a chance to hop in the cab of the truck, Deputy Drew gave him a dirty look and announced that since Josh declined to be cooperative, he was going to run Josh’s plates and do a criminal records search in case.
“You do that,” Josh called back. “Let me know what you find.”
When Josh was finally on his way heading back to the main drag, he mulled over the inklings he’d gleaned from LuAnn. Inklings that, given the fact that he’d received no messages on his cell, made him wonder what kind of day Alice had had and how she’d managed to stay cooped up at Billy’s.
13.
Earlier that day, Alice had gone down to the bar and pestered Dewey and Ella for a while. On the plus side, she found she liked the way they’d seen it all and made no bones about it. Ella, with her wide face, bags under her eyes and short thick hair that had been dyed so many times it was flecked with green. Dewey, a gimpy old black man with attitude who wouldn’t give you an inch. They were discussing menus and didn’t at all appreciate Alice’s little comments.
“What’s the matter?” Alice said. “Can’t a person even speak around here?”
Training a milky-white eye on her, Dewey said, “Girl, don’t you have somethin’ better to do?”
“Uh-duh. What does it look like? What do you think?”
“Then you best find yourself somethin’ till Joshua takes you off our hands.”
“Well, not that you deserve it, but I might tell you what I think anyways. But just now I don’t feel like it any more.”
“Have mercy. And when might that be you might feel like it so we can plan around it?”
“Soon as I catch up on the rest of my sleep maybe.”
“Can’t
hardly wait, girl. No sir, can’t hardly wait.”
Giving Alice a jaded look, Ella added, “In the meantime, mind if Dewey and I continue with our discussion? Taking into account we don’t really know what we’re doing, of course.”
“Oh that’s cute. That is real cute.”
And that, more or less, was how that first encounter ended.
Now, in the early afternoon, up in Billy’s flat, to kill some more time, Alice checked the getaway money and cell phone Josh had given her. She made sure her Swiss Army knife was snug in the inside pocket of the parka and began fiddling around with the stuff on the cell phone menu like the games and the camera.
Bored with that, she tried getting the hang of text messaging. But the keypad was so tiny and after trying to remember what to do—scroll up through the thread, hit S four times or was it three? space in-between, use both thumbs—she soon gave up. All the while, she couldn‘t help thinking of the kids back in Carbondale who had their own fancy ones with big slide-out keypads and touch-screens and sent stupid stuff back and forth like, “got your # . . . R U kidng? . . . Omg u shd txt him . . . .” That’s how it went with those boy-crazy girls who showed her, in-between fussing over their hair and splotching themselves with dabs of eye shadow and gunk. How they could waste time sending over seventy or eighty of these a day while messing with apps, whatever they were, and Face-booking and sending “like this” or swapping photos, while giggling and fussing with how they looked was totally beyond stupid.
Still having no idea where she was at or what she was doing, she checked the time display on the cell. Figuring Josh would be back around five with maybe something to report that would jog her memory; but with nothing better to do, she brushed by the kitchenette and clambered down the fire escape.
She told herself she was probably safe from the few-words guy or whatever as long as she stayed put. Not so safe if she took off and scouted around on what should’ve been a busy Tuesday in a strange city she knew nothing about.
At the end of the alleyway, she checked things out more closely. There was no sign of life in the windows of the single-story flats above the empty storefronts across the street. To her left, the pitted Blues Hall marquee and faded green awning and no one walking up or down the sidewalk. The dampness cut through her, giving her a chill. Nowhere near as bad as in the box car, but she started to shiver anyway.
Just in case, to be on the safe side, she sidled over and peered through the window under the burned-out neon bulbs. There, in the dim light, she spied a bunch of tiny round tables and cane chairs all lined up till they reached a little stage. A rumpled American flag hung over the bandstand. Old-timey “Ringling Bros” and river barge pictures, along with ads for “Bull Durham” and such lined the pinkish-brick wall. But more important, there was a doorway in the middle of the wall leading directly to the bar. Equally important was a back door next to the stage that led out to the alley, fire escape and up to the room where her stuff was.
Making a mental note, she looked up the street and noted for sure that all the action was a few blocks ahead at an intersection where cars were moving and shoppers were crossing back and forth. Down here it was quiet, too quiet.
Moving along, she eased into the empty bar and saw that Ella and Dewey were still at it but had made some progress. They’d pushed some tables together and were rearranging the layout for some holiday newspaper circular. By this time, Dewey had brushed aside last year’s bits and pieces and was slapping down some of his own cutouts in the center of the two-page ad.
“Lookee here,” said Dewey. “No more of that messy honey baked ham slices with peaches and pecans or cranberry glaze or cinnamon apple rings. I am sayin’ baby back ribs is heritage. It’s South. And ain’t nothin’ says holiday party and family like barbeque.”
Alice traipsed around the two of them, feeling like she was invisible or something, eyed the doorway behind the bar that led into the Blues Hall, saw that the door was shut, scooted behind the bar, turned the skeleton key and unlocked it.
The click must have caught Ella’s attention as she glanced back at Alice with that same jaded baggy-eyed look of hers.
“Pay attention here, woman,” said Dewey, limping around to Ella’s side and poking his finger at his new design. “I am talking variety. Talking cups of bourbon on the pork rib racks, slow simmerin’ hickory wood chips, mustard-bourbon sauce or that Memphis style dry rub. Memphis Dust, spices only and no sauce. Sprinkled on and sometimes rubbed in too and sometimes some of that Tennesse Hollerin’ Whiskey sauce.”
“What is this,” Ella said, “a little positive energy for a change? Given up muttering and moping around?”
“Just feelin’ a little fidgety and grown tired of the same old, same old.”
Feeling fidgety herself for no apparent reason, Alice let her gaze drift over to a wood carving over the ledge behind the bar. It was shaped like a cathedral with a framed black-and-white photo stuck in the center. The photo was so old you could barely make out the outlines of a woman in a floor-length white dress plucking on a banjo.
“You can say that again,” Alice chimed in, needing to say or do something as the weird stillness around the place was starting to get to her. “This joint is nothing but a broken down museum from what I can see, and nothing is gonna drag them down here. Besides, it’s all a front anyways. So I don’t get it?”
“My, my,” said Dewey. “She back and gonna grace us with more of her street smarts.”
“That’s right. Just ‘cause a person has a memory thing and is racked-up, doesn’t mean that person doesn’t have eyes and ears, doesn’t know what’s going on and shouldn’t be listened to.”
“Indeed,” said Dewey, “not only street smarts but knows about this business, though she only been around a few hours and on this earth ‘bout twelve years.”
“Make that fourteen as of last week if you don’t mind.”
“Whatever. Hey now, we got us enough from you for one day. So get your skinny butt out from behind that bar and, long as you here, stay where Ella and I can see what you up to.”
“Why should I? What are you now, my mother?”
“Good point. She probably worried about you by now, don’t you think?”
“No way, man. Her worry is I might show up. Likewise Ada Mae back in sweet-home Mississippi. Likewise everybody, come to think of it.”
“Look,” Ella said, “this may come as a shock to you, but Dewey and I are actually trying to accomplish something. So why don’t you check out the rest of the museum and expand your wisdom even more.”
“Yeah,” Dewey said. “Look around and learn yourself some more history and rest that smart mouth.”
“I love you too, Grumpy.”
Muttering to himself, getting back to his paper cutouts, Dewey said, “Uh-huh, grumpy old fidgety man . . . skinny fidgety kid . . . What else we got goin’ here?”
Taking a break, Ella scuffed away from Dewey’s barbeque scheme and went back to the bar. “I don’t know why you’re fidgeting. I don’t know why we bother. Same old regulars no matter what we whip up, Dewey. So why don’t we just knock it off?”
“‘Cause I can’t. ‘Cause like the girl I got to do somethin’.”
In the brief silence that followed, Alice could swear she heard footsteps, possibly outside somewhere, possibly clanging up the fire escape.
Stepping out of Ella’s way, Alice noticed a back door that could lead out to the fire escape in addition to the one next door in the Blues Hall behind the stage.
As Ella absentmindedly began wiping off highball glasses, Dewey carried on with his muttering act. Then got so frustrated with his scraps of paper, he grabbed a large silver bowl full of unshelled peanuts off the bar, plunked it down to hold the pieces in place and hobbled into a back office to retrieve some scissors. At the same time, as restless as Dewey if not even more so, Alice meandered away from the pair of them into the café itself. She bumped into a maze of long iron poles that seemed to hold up the fl
aky ceiling and took in a scattering of odd-sized tables and chairs. The light was so dim she could barely make out the jumble of guitars and banjos hanging over her head, let alone all the names and dates.
No exit here that she could find but, oddly enough, the sound of a door being forced open from way back in the bar.
She retraced her steps and peered out behind the thickest set of poles. As near as she could tell, there in the lighted bar Dewey was standing frozen to Alice’s right, scissors in hand, while a weird-looking beanpole of a guy was standing over him. The guy had long white straggly hair under an old college cap, a sloppy sweatshirt hanging out of his overalls and the most lopsided face she’d ever seen. He was grinning like crazy but his voice didn’t go with the grin. To make things worse, Ella had stopped polishing the highball glasses and was studying the phone next to the cash register as though she was about to pounce on it and call 911.
“I said, where’s Billy?” said the beanpole guy. “I hear he lives upstairs and owns this fleapit so don’t give me no crap.”
Dewey raised the scissors about chest high but didn’t answer.
“Well now, are you deaf and dumb? And are we gonna have us a knife fight?” With that, the beanpole guy whipped out a switchblade from out of nowhere, snapped out the long blade and retracted it. “I don’t think so.”
When Dewey hobbled over to the layout table, Beanpole said, “Hey, I am talkin’ to you. Obviously you ain’t deaf and dumb and obviously you don’t want no trouble neither.”
Still getting no answer, Beanpole pulled back, scratched his head under his ratty crimson and gold cap and said, “No trouble? Wait a minute here now. Wait a damn minute.”
Beanpole walked around clicking his fingers. Ella inched her hand toward the phone and then thought better of it.
“Hold on, hold on,” Beanpole said, “it’s coming to me, sure as hell is. That milky eye, that gimpy leg, that sassy but scared look. Driving the bus . . . imitating a damn school bus. Somethin’ wrong with the registration . . . resisting arrest, runnin’ off. And then later on--you the one from way back when, ain’t you?”