by Joan Hess
“Then I hope someone’s ear hurts,” Ruby Bee said. She came around the bar and over to my booth. “That’s just awful about Carolyn and those fraternity boys. No wonder she was a might testy when she talked on and on about how men were no damn good. If I was in her shoes, I might feel the same way. The vents’ve been repaired and I’m going to take the Closed sign off the door. Do you want I should fix you a nice plate of pork chops and crowder peas?”
“I’m not hungry.” As I crossed the dance floor, the topic of apologies and ears was renewed, and with a verbose vengeance. I kept on going.
Truda Oliver struggled toward the bus depot. The new suitcase holding her recent purchases—and the metal box, naturally—was heavier than she’d first realized, but the bus depot sign was in sight. She dropped the suitcase for a moment to catch her breath, then fluttered her hands over her hair and reached down for it again.
“Let me help you with that,” said a man in a three-piece suit and muted red tie.
“No, thank you,” Truda said firmly. “I can do it myself.”
“And that’s another reason why you ought to fire Arly,” Mrs. Jim Bob said. “She’s supposed to keep those unsavory Hell’s Angels types from speeding down the middle of the highway and terrifying the good citizens of the community. I was so terrified that I just sat in the middle of the road waiting for my heart to stop pounding. I was absolutely speechless.”
Jim Bob didn’t believe that, but he had enough sense not to say so. In truth, he didn’t have time to say anything, because she was off and running again, and liable to make him late getting to Cherri Lucinda’s, who was less and less willing to listen to his excuses. The bitch.
“I sure could do with another beer,” Earl Buchanon said, peeking at his wife out of the corner of his eye.
Eilene put down her needlework. “Then let’s both hope you can find the way to the refrigerator. I think I’ll ask Joyce Lambertino if she wants to go to a picture show in Farberville. We might even stop somewhere afterwards and have a drink.”
“But, honey, it’s a long way into town, and you and Joyce shouldn’t drive all the way back home after dark. I don’t want any wife of mine in a bar at night, especially with another woman. You two are liable to get yourselves in a bushel of trouble.”
Eilene dialed Joyce’s number.
In the booth next to the jukebox, Kevin gazed forlornly at the light of his life, the apple of his eye, the salt pork in his turnip greens. “But, honey,” he said piteously, “I did it all for you.”
“Ate chocolate cake and lemon merinque pie for me, you mean, while I was all by myself out in the woods to save you. If I’d of known you were sitting around on your behind with a catalogue for entertainment, I wouldn’t have nearly starved to death or been scared out of my wits.”
“But I was doing it for you. I told you how I came out of the rest room just as Miss Una was leaving. I’d been in there for a long time, partly because I didn’t want Bernswallow to know I was there and partly because I started looking at the reels in the catalogue and lost track of time. They’ve got a new one with a magnetic cast control system—”
“Kevin!”
Her cheeks were puffing in and out real fast, so he decided not to mention that it cost less than sixty dollars and was guaranteed for a year. “She told me that I had to hide or some of those men would do awful things. She said they’d already set the bank on fire because of the demonstration in the parking lot, and that if I’d stay at her house for a few days, you all would be safe because you wouldn’t be able to yell at me and get everybody riled up.”
“That’s the dumbest thing I recollect you ever saying,” Dahlia said mercilessly. “There I was on that rough old log, out of sandwiches and my throat so sore I couldn’t hardly get out more than a croak, when this crazed madman comes creeping up on me.”
Kevin gasped. “He didn’t—do anything to molest you?”
Dahlia folded her arms and put them on the table, where they spread out like Virginia hams. “You’d better get it in your thick skull that I can take care of myself, Kevin Fitzgerald Buchanon. There I am, sitting in the pitch black, minding my own business, and thinking I might ought to just let the bears eat you, when this madman starts trying to pile up rocks like they was wood blocks. Then he prances around and mumbles all kind of foolish nonsense in what sounded like a foreign language. After a while, I got wearied of it and got up and asked him what in tarnation he was doing. Well, that’s when I realized how plumb crazy he was, because he jumped so high he banged his head on a limb and then ran off into the woods, a-stumbling every which way and spouting out more gibberish. It was the funniest darn thing I’ve ever seen. Mebbe I ought to send it in to Reader’s Digest. I reckon they’d pay me money.”
“You don’t need to worry your precious head about money,” Kevin said with all the tenderness he could find within his being. “I told you I’d always take care of you, my dumpling.”
“Then why don’t you explain one more time how come you were clinging on to some skinny-minnie girl dressed in nothing but her underwear?”
“I had to take off my dress to climb out the window,” Staci Ellen said, and not for the first time. “Once I’d wiggled free of the clothesline, I saw Miss Una out on the porch with that cigarette lighter in her hand and heard her saying all that crazy stuff. I was scared she’d see me if I went to the kitchen, so I crept upstairs. I couldn’t let that peculiar fellow in the bedroom get burned up, so I let him out and told him to shut up and let me think for a minute. I finally decided to get above Miss Una and then jump down on her and grab the lighter right out of her hand.”
“You couldn’t grab a lollipop out of a baby’s hand,” Bruno said, sneering at her. “Not even if the baby was sleeping.”
“You might be surprised what-all I can do. Anyway, I was about to leap on her when you showed up and ruined everything. If I hadn’t shoved that fellow off the side of the roof and then jumped after him, both of us would have been burned up along with Miss Una and—” Staci Ellen stopped to wipe a tear. “And sweet little Martin.”
“Who the fuck is Martin?” Bruno growled.
Staci Ellen gazed across the table. “That’s none of your business. Furthermore, I don’t care for your tone of voice and I don’t like the way you use bad language around me. I’m real sorry that you got that speeding ticket and had your motorcycle run over by the fire truck, but nobody invited you to Maggody, so it’s your fault. From now on you’re going to treat me with respect. I’m going to say where we go on dates at least some of the time, and I’m going to wear whatever kind of perfume I choose. If I want a cocktail instead of a Dr Pepper, you’re going to order it and you’re going to pay for it.”
Bruno’s eyes bulged but finally receded back into their sockets without exploding. “So whaddaya want to drink?”
In that Staci Ellen had never ordered a cocktail in her life, she was stumped for a minute. “I know,” she said at last, “I want something sophisticated, not one of those sissy girl’s drinks with an umbrella and a fruit salad on the rim of the glass. I think I’ll have a Perrier and soda, thank you.” Remembering a scene from a movie, she flipped her hair back and put his cigarette between her lips. “Make it a double.”
Sherman Oliver sat in the den, drinking whiskey and wondering when Truda would get home so he could tell her about the burglary. And getting fired. And how he’d come real close to making a par on seventeen, and would have if the ball hadn’t stopped one inch from the cup.
Brother Verber sat in the darkest corner of his closet, the witchcraft manual in his hand. He’d heard the demon pounding on his door a while back. Just remembering how the hulking creature had risen from the ground and croaked something vile was enough to put him right smack back in a cold sweat. When the demon had persisted trying to get into the mobile home, Brother Verber had cowered so hard he’d ended up with a crick in his neck, which fit in real well with the lump on his head and the soreness in his ankle from spr
awling in the dark. He figured the demon would be back for him, and the only thing between him and true evil was the manual and the mayonnaise jar.
There had to be a section on how to send demons back where they belonged, but he hadn’t been able to find it, mostly because it was real dark in the closet and he didn’t want to risk opening the door. Somehow, requesting a little assistance from the Almighty seemed inappropriate, considering the awful truth that he’d raised the demon all by hisself.
But for a good and righteous cause, he amended as he let the manual slip out of his hand. Everything he’d done was to save the mortal souls of his flock, to prepare himself to meet their impending depravities and do battle with the devil, if and when he was called on to do so. He’d been real convinced the women were going to get naked and do all those wicked, lustful, depraved things.
Brother Verber opened the closet door to let in a small ribbon of light. By positioning the book just right, he could take one more look at the drawings of all that depravity. You never knew.
Turn the page to continue reading from the Arly Hanks Mysteries
1
“The picnic pavilion,” Ruby Bee read aloud with enough sarcasm to choke the cud right out of a cow, “has comfortable seating for twenty-four diners, who will be only a few steps away from the most incredible display of hot and cold entrées in the county. Don’t miss our grand opening.” She whacked down the newspaper and folded her arms across her chest. “Well?”
The customer at the counter hunkered over his blue plate special and wished mightily he was elsewhere, because he knew damn well he was in for it, no matter what he said.
“Well?” Ruby Bee repeated, her eyes flashing like the one traffic light in Maggody. “Aren’t you impressed with shiny plastic tabletops and an international deli only a few steps away? Everything from tamales and ribs to fresh peach cobbler and that mush they call mousse?”
“Nothing’s as good as your chicken-fried steak and turnip greens, Ruby Bee. Why, when I’m hauling a load cross country, I don’t think of anything else except getting back to Ruby Bee’s Bar & Grill for the best home cookin’ in the whole damn county.”
“Are you telling me that you’re not going to try their Frenchbread sandwiches and chocolate mousse?”
The trucker shoveled in the last bite of mashed potatoes, drained the iced-tea glass, and put an appropriate number of dollar bills on the counter. “I got to run,” he said over his shoulder, not actually running but nevertheless making pretty good time. “See you next time, Ruby Bee.”
She snatched up the newspaper and squinted at the description of meats and cheeses available for sandwiches and party platters. “Italian baby Swiss! Pro-choot-o! Kosher Polish pickles! What in tarnation’s wrong with a nice bologna and cheese sandwich, with a dill pickle and potato chips on the side? I wish you’d tell me that, Gilly Jacana. I wish you’d tell me that.”
Gilly was already revving the engine at the stoplight, praying it’d turn green. He swore later he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck rising like there was a spook in the back of the cab.
“Genuine homemade Mexican tamales,” Geraldo Man-dozes read, struggling with the longer words. He rolled up the newspaper and began to slap it against his leg. “How in the name of sweet Jesus can a bunch of Arkansas grocery clerks make genuine Mexican tamales? I make genuine Mexican tamales because I am a genuine Mexican who came from Mexico, not from some little redneck town. You think my tamales are the best, don’t you?”
Kevin Buchanon bent down so he could look through the Dairee Dee-Lishus counter window. He was nervous because Geraldo Mandozes looked like one of those banditos—what with his shiny dark hair, mustache, and stocky body—and everybody knew they could be dangerous if they got riled up. Nobody knew much about this Mexican fellow who’d bought the Dee-Lishus a couple of months back; Maggody’s version of the Welcome Wagon (the contingency of church ladies who dropped by in a neighborly fashion to appraise the furniture) tended to roll right past foreigners and other suspicious types.
Kevin cleared his throat. “Sure, Geraldo, your tamales are real good.”
“And genuine?”
“Sure, Geraldo. Like you said, you’re a genuine spic.”
A tamale hit the countertop in an explosion of greasy white paper and greasy orange chili sauce. “I did not say spic, you skinny little turd. I said Mexican, as in a person from Mexico.”
“Yeah, I remember now, Geraldo … and this tamale looks real good.” Kevin fumbled with the paper until he had secured it around what would be his lunch, then scattered change on the counter and pedaled away before the genuine spic started throwing chili straight from the pot.
“A total-service supermarket with fully trained employees who are dedicated to your needs,” Elsie McMay read, her head tilted back so she could see through her bifocals and also keep the perm solution from dribbling into her ears and shorting out her hearing aid (she’d read about such a fatal tragedy in a tabloid and was always careful). She stopped to dab her forehead with a tissue, then met Estelle’s gaze in the mirror. “Now just where is Jim Bob finding these fully trained employees? At the Maggody Academy of Supermarket Studies?”
“I couldn’t say,” Estelle said, more concerned with a pesky wisp of gray hair that seemed to have a mind of its own. “Rumor has it Dahlia’s going back to work for him, and as the head cook in the deli, if you can imagine that.”
“Dahlia O’Neill couldn’t heat up a can of corn. Remember when she worked at the Kwik-Screw? All she ever did was stuff candy bars in her face and guzzle orange soda pop. It wasn’t any mystery to me why she topped three hundred pounds a few years back. I once asked her real nicely where to find the kitchen matches, but I might as well’ve asked her in some foreign language like French.”
“Or German,” Estelle mumbled through a bobby pin between her lips.
“Or Swedish.”
“Or American.” Estelle started chuckling, and then so did Elsie, and the bobby pin fell on the floor and the little pink curler unwound of its own accord, but neither one of them cared at that moment because of Estelle’s undeniable wit.
“Open from seven in the morning till nine at night,” Buzz Milvin read aloud, his frown getting deeper by the word. He aimed it in the direction of his mother-in-law, who was on the settee reading the directions on a bottle of medicine guaranteed to make her regular. “But that don’t make no sense, Lillith. When Jim Bob hired me on as night manager, I could’ve sworn he said the store was going to be open later than that.”
“Doesn’t change your salary, does it?” Lillith said, more interested in the promises she’d just read.
“No, but …” Buzz took a long swallow of beer as he scratched his head. “Well, it’s just that I thought I’d be overseeing the cash-register lines and okaying checks and making sure the employees stayed busy. Jim Bob said he was real impressed with how I’d been line foreman at the plant for more than four years now. The money’s still good, but I’m wondering if I’m gonna be a manager or a custodian.”
“Excuse me, Buzz, but I’ve got business to attend to.” Lillith headed for the kitchen.
“Jim Bob’s in for a surprise if he thinks I’m mopping any floors,” he said to himself, since he was the only one in the room except for his daughter, Lissie, who was in the corner whispering to her doll. “I worked my way up to line foreman ’cause I was willing to assume responsibility and keep the line at top productivity. Had to keep the guys happy, the production supervisors happy, the front office happy.” He finished the beer, then with slow deliberation crumpled the can in his hand.
Lissie flinched at the sound, but she didn’t say anything. She hardly ever did.
Brother Verber, the spiritual leader of the Voice of the Almighty Lord Assembly Hall, was reading, too, but he wasn’t exactly reading the full-page ad in the weekly newspaper, nor was he fretting about the impact of Jim Bob’s SuperSaver Buy 4 Less on the various citizens of Maggody, not even those in his fl
ock.
He was doing research. He was doing this on his couch, with the fan whirring and a pint jar of iced tea handy on the floor beside the couch. He was doing this in his pastel blue boxer shorts and nothing else, due to the heat in the silver trailer parked beside the Assembly Hall—and the intense nature of his study material.
To be honest—as all God-fearing folks should be—even during the week, he wasn’t reading so much as looking, because the study material leaned heavily in the direction of photographs rather than print. But the photographs were educational, to say the least, and Brother Verber made a point of reading the captions that explained why the various participants had selected their positions and what precisely was going through their heads.
Because, Brother Verber thought as he stopped to mop his gleaming forehead and blow his fat red nose, there was depravity in Maggody and the more he knew of the origin of such sin, the better equipped he would be to wrassle with that particular devil. There were things right there in the pictures that he hadn’t known were possible, much less popular with the younger set.
It was clear to him that God wanted him to study this variety of depravity, because if God hadn’t wanted him to subscribe to Kittens and Tomcats, there wouldn’t have been enough money in the collection plate.
He took a steadying gulp of tea and turned the page.
“Our amazing variety of fresh produce will be the lowest-priced anywhere,” Ivy Sattering read with a scowl. She turned the scowl on her husband, who was flipping happily through the latest issue of Organic Gardening. “Did you hear what I said, Alex? This supermarket ad says they’ll have fresh produce. If they buy in bulk, the prices will be lower than what we can afford to sell for.”
“Ladybugs,” Alex said wonderingly. He lit a cigarette and held the page closer to admire the amazingly symmetrical pattern of black dots on the little orange creatures. His ponytail swung like a fuzzy brown pendulum as he shook his head in awe, and behind thick spectacles, his faded eyes of indeterminate color flickered. The extent of his hallucinogenic experiences in the late sixties had left him a pleasantly addled child twenty years later. He enjoyed talking to himself in the mirror, even though he had a tendency to forget what he was going to say in the middle of a sentence.