by Dixie Cash
Edwina pumped a fist. “Yes!” She disappeared into the storeroom.
As Debbie Sue swiped on a fresh coat of lipstick, a video of mishaps she and Edwina had found themselves in played in her mind. “But being on the telethon is harmless,” she mumbled to the image in the mirror. “We’ll stand there, mouth the words and move a little. What could go wrong?”
As encouraging as those words sounded, a part of Debbie Sue’s psyche shuddered.
Fifteen minutes and a full makeup application later, Debbie Sue and Edwina stepped out of the salon, locked the door and headed for Hogg’s. Looking in Edwina’s direction, Debbie Sue studied her. “I don’t know why you don’t wear that wig more often.”
Edwina touched the ends of the spikey, coal-black synthetic hair. “You don’t think it’s a little over the top?”
“That’s exactly what I think, but it’s you. It works.”
“Good. That’s what I was going for when I bought it. Maybe I will wear it more often. I’ve got lots of wigs, you know. You should see the ones I keep at home for Vic.”
“For Vic?”
“Well, you know, I wear them, but they’re for Vic. It spices things up in the bedroom, you know? I swear, one evening he put one on and . . .”
As Edwina’s voice trailed off, an image formed in Debbie Sue’s mind. Vic was six-feet-five, weighed close to three hundred and was bald as an egg. Visualizing him wearing Edwina’s black wig made Debbie Sue chuckle.
At Hogg’s entrance, before opening the door, Debbie Sue drew a deep breath and looked across her shoulder at her friend and partner. “Here we go, partner. Off on another crazy adventure. In a way, I feel silly for being reluctant. These are professional people who know what they’re doing, right? What’s the worst that could happen?”
Pulling open the door and stepping inside, Debbie Sue halted mid-step. “Whoa!”
Standing on a chair, slightly off balance on her high heels, Darla Denman, former Queen of Country Music, fired a saltshaker at the head of a younger blond woman who was shielding herself with a laminated menu. An arsenal of the café’s tabletop articles—a napkin holder, a plastic squeeze bottle of ketchup and one of mustard—was stuffed under one of Darla’s arms.
Debbie Sue’s eyes darted everywhere, making a quick perusal of the scene. Hogg’s small dining area was in disarray—two chairs overturned, the floor littered with items that usually sat on tables.
The wide order and pickup window between the dining area and kitchen was shut off by its metal shade rolled down. Apparently the cooks had closed it in self-defense. Julie Rogers, the teenager who worked as order taker and cashier, was nowhere to be seen.
“Holy shit,” Edwina mumbled, halting beside Debbie Sue. “Where’s Julie?”
“Good God,” Debbie Sue replied. “She must be hiding out in the kitchen with the cooks.”
A tall, good-looking man was ducking and dodging, attempting to referee and at the same time, trying to shield the younger woman. Just then a plastic mustard bottle bounced off his forehead.
“Ouch!” He straightened and slapped his palm against his forehead. “Dammit, Darla, you hit me!”
Still frozen in place, Edwina winced. “Oh, shit.”
Darla climbed down from the chair, looking genuinely contrite. She placed a napkin holder and a ketchup bottle on the table. “Oh, Bob, I’m so sorry.” She reached up and touched a goose egg that had popped up on his forehead. “You’ve got a knot. Let me get some ice for that.”
Edwina leaned toward Debbie Sue and whispered, “That’s her ex-husband and manager, Big Bob Denman. The good-looking blonde’s his child bride.”
“How do you know?”
“ ’Cuz I read it in the National Enquirer and saw their pictures.”
The battling trio turned its attention on Debbie Sue and Edwina.
“Gosh, did we come in at a bad time?” Edwina gushed.
“No, no, not at all,” Darla answered with too much enthusiasm. “We’re just having some fun, aren’t we, Bob?”
Debbie Sue noted that the child bride had not lowered her shield.
“Yes, that’s right. Please pardon us.” Bob scooped a handful of crushed ice from a drinking cup and plastered it against his forehead. “We were just, uh . . . we were just negotiating a new agreement. Yep, just run-of-the-mill contract negotiations.”
“Holy cow,” Edwina said. “I’m not sure there was this much negotiation during the last L.A. riot.”
“I’m just blowing off steam,” Darla said, laughing too loudly. “Isn’t that right, Bob? . . . Roxie? . . . Just blowing off steam. An artistic difference is all it is.”
“Call the cops!” Roxie cried to Debbie Sue and Edwina and pointing at Darla. “This woman’s insane! I want to press charges!”
“No! No cops!” Bob’s voice boomed loud enough to rattle the window panes. “It’ll be over my dead body, or yours, before that happens.”
“Bastard!” The younger woman plopped onto a booth seat beside an even younger blond woman, grabbed a purse and began digging inside it. The other blonde petted her and stroked her hair.
Debbie Sue could hear frantic but undecipherable voices speaking in both English and Spanish from the shuttered kitchen. She knew Hogg’s kitchen help was Hispanic. She only hoped the English-speaking voice belonged to Julie Rogers.
Darla walked over, took Debbie Sue and Edwina by the arm and urged them toward her ex-husband/manager. “Bob, these are the two women I was telling you about. They’re going to help us out onstage.” She gave a breathless little laugh. “That is, if we haven’t scared them off with our little family feud.”
Bob dumped his handful of ice back into a cup, grabbed several paper napkins from a holder and dabbed at his forehead.
“Hmm,” Edwina said, looking closer at his swollen forehead. “Good aim. Good thing she only hit you with a mustard bottle.”
“Call the cops, Bob,” Roxie said from the booth. Near tears, she dabbed at her eyes. “Besides being old, that bitch is nuts. Be a man. You’re my husband. You’re supposed to take care of me.”
Ignoring his wife, Bob extended his right hand to Debbie Sue. “I’m so glad to meet you.” He gestured toward the corner booth where two of the men Debbie Sue had seen go into Hogg’s with Darla’s group earlier cowered. One of them needed a shave and wore big black sunglasses and the other had longer hair than most of the Styling Station’s customers. It was mouse gray and he wore it in a two-foot-long pony tail.
“This is Mike, our drummer,” Bob said, “and Eddie, our guitarist and keyboard man.” He moved his hand toward the two blond women. “And my wife and her makeup artist.”
The two men, still cowering, gave slight nods.
“I can’t thank you enough for what you’re doing for us,” Bob said. He turned toward the two men in the booth again. “We’re grateful, aren’t we, guys?”
The two men straightened slightly and nodded again.
“We’re in a real bind here,” Bob went on. “But don’t worry. I’ll reimburse you for your trouble as soon as we return to Nashville.”
“Uh, that’s okay,” Debbie Sue said, peeking past his shoulder at the child bride, who was throwing objects back into her purse. “We’re happy to help. We didn’t mean to intrude. We only came over to get more details about the show. You know, the rehearsal times, the costumes. We will be wearing costumes, won’t we?”
“Well, not exactly,” Darla said quickly. “We had asked the young ladies who left earlier to wear simple black dresses and red high heels. Those are my signature colors, red and black.” Her gaze swerved from Debbie Sue to Edwina and back. “You’ve got a plain black dress and red heels, don’t you?”
“Oh, hell, yes,” Edwina said. “I’ve got a killer black dress. Debbie Sue, you can wear the one you bought for the governor’s ball when you went to Austin with Buddy that time.”
“But do I have to wear the heels?”
“Well . . . yes,” Darla said, looking to Bob for
support.
“What she means is,” Bob said, “what you wear should be similar in color and style. Preferably black and red.”
“Right,” Darla added. “It’ll just look better if you match. And if you match me.”
“Listen, I’ve got a pair of red Jimmy Choos I bought in New York City,” Edwina said. “Those babies will steal the show. I hardly ever get to wear them in Salt Lick.” Her mouth spread into a huge grin and she rapidly clapped her palms. “Oh, this is so exciting!”
“How about you, Debbie Sue?” Bob asked. “Are the high heels a deal breaker?”
“No, no. Believe it or not, I’ve actually got some red high heels. I’ll wear them. But there’s just one thing.”
“What’s that?” Bob and Darla chorused.
“I pretty much live in my Tony Lama boots. I’ve never been very good in high heels.”
“Oh, a little wobbling won’t be noticeable,” Darla said with a little too much reassurance. “You won’t be doing much walking.”
“It’s not the wobbling that worries me. It’s the falling on my face I’m nervous about.”
Now the child bride was on her feet and standing beside Bob, staring at Debbie Sue and Edwina. “This show is a friggin’ joke.” Her glare swerved to Darla. “This is just perfect, Darla. Only you could find us a punked-out old scarecrow and a nervous Nellie who can only stand in high heels and might fall on her ass if she has to take a step. It’ll go down—”
“Roxie! Shut up,” Darla said.
At a loss for words, Debbie Sue gasped.
“Rox, you should apologize to these—”
“Punked-out old scarecrow!” Edwina shouted.
Splat!
A glob of ketchup landed between Roxie’s eyes.
“Aargh!”
Everyone turned and stared drop-jawed at the source of the ketchup.
Only Debbie Sue wasn’t surprised. She had known trouble was coming the minute she heard Roxie utter those words, punked-out old scarecrow. Hell. Hadn’t Edwina started a riot in a New York City hotel for less cause?
Roxie stood in place, hopping from one foot to the other as if she were jumping rope. “Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Look what she did! Bob! Look what she did!”
Debbie Sue saw Edwina, her teeth clamped down on her lower lip, shaking the ketchup bottle with both hands and readying another squirt. She leaped to Edwina’s side to grab the bottle, but before she could, Edwina squeezed off another blast of ketchup with perfect aim.
Splat!
Debbie Sue snatched the ketchup bottle away before Edwina could do more damage.
Now the child bride was bawling and cussing and swiping ketchup from her eyes. Bob picked up a metal napkin holder from the floor, yanked out a handful of napkins and rushed to his wife’s side.
“Will you just get us out of here!” Roxie screeched. “They’re all insane!”
Bob looped an arm around her shoulder and offered her the napkins.
“Rox, I’m sorry. Rox—”
“Oh, get the fuck away from me!” Roxie batted away the napkins and shrugged off his arm. “You impotent fool.”
The quiet blond makeup artist had come to her feet. She began to soothe Roxie, dabbing at the ketchup on her chin with paper napkins.
Bob looked bewildered, his gaze swerving from Roxie to Darla and back to Debbie Sue and Edwina. “Er . . . uh . . . now, now, ladies . . . ladies, please.” He patted the air with his palms. “Let all calm down. Before this gets out of hand.”
“Yeah, Bob, don’t let anything get out of hand,” Roxie yelled, bent at the waist, her hands fisted, her face contorted into a red mask of rage. “You get everything calmed down! Kiss everyone’s ass! That’s all you’re good for!” She grabbed her purse and stamped toward the restroom, still wiping away ketchup, her high heels clicking on the tile floor. The no-name blond woman followed her.
Debbie Sue’s insides were shaking. She set the plastic ketchup bottle on a nearby table with a thud. “I think I’d better check on the kitchen help.” She quickstepped to the kitchen’s doorway, eased the door open and stuck her head through the crack. The three people inside began talking all at once, but she calmed them and assured them it was safe to reopen the metal sliding shade.
She returned to the dining room just in time to hear Edwina say, “God, I’m sorry, Bob, Darla. I don’t know what came over me. Rude behavior just does something to me. I’ve been trying to learn to control myself, but I don’t react well to insults. I don’t like it when some asshole insults my friend, either.”
“Ed, Ed, it’s okay,” Debbie Sue said, grasping her arm. “Let’s just get back to the shop. No real harm done, right Bob?”
The last thing Debbie Sue wanted was for the Salt Lick grapevine to report that she and Edwina had been involved in a brawl in Hogg’s. Buddy would have a cow. Debbie Sue began wiping ketchup off her own hands with a napkin as Edwina explained to Bob that the truck on loan was parked behind the beauty salon.
“Right,” Bob and Darla chorused, and Bob thanked her again.
Bob’s repeated gratitude rang with enough sincerity that Debbie Sue felt her own anger abating. Now, all the wanted to do was escape. “Listen, Bob,” she said hurriedly, “the house is one block east of Main Street on Scenic View. It’s 210 Scenic View. Small white frame house on the corner. Red awnings on the front windows. You can’t miss it. The key’s under a pot of geraniums on the porch. Y’all make yourselves at home. The only thing that isn’t working is the phone.”
Bob raised his cell phone. “That’s okay. We’ve all got these.”
“Ah, yes,” Edwina put in. “How did we all get along before we all had cell phones?”
“It’s been a long day,” Bob said with a phony chuckle. He touched his forehead. “We should all land somewhere and get settled.”
“Right,” Debbie Sue said. “We’ve got a no-appointment-needed policy at the shop. We’ll catch hell if someone shows up and we’re not there.”
Bob again put out his right hand to Debbie Sue and she again took it. “Thanks,” he said. “All this commotion doesn’t change anything. I’ll see you two bright and early at rehearsals.”
“We’ll be there with bells on,” Edwina said.
“Sounds good. Seven A.M. at Midland Civic Center. Any problems getting there?”
“Nah. We know where it is.” Debbie Sue took Edwina’s arm.
Bob stepped forward and opened the door for them. “Once again. I—”
“Please, there’s no need to thank us,” Debbie Sue said, absently returning the hug that Darla offered. “Everyone finds himself in a bind from time to time. What kind of people would we be if we didn’t help those in need?”
She and Edwina left the café and hotfooted it across the parking lot. Debbie Sue was still rattled. “Fuck! What a mess. My God, Edwina. I can’t believe you did that.”
“Punked-out old scarecrow,” Edwina grumbled. “Screw her and the horse she rode in on. I wish I’d slapped her.”
“I’m sure a blob of ketchup in the face equals a slap,” Debbie Sue said.
“That was worse than one of my family reunions.”
Debbie Sue had never attended one of Edwina’s family reunions, but she had heard plenty of stories.
“God, Ed, what have we got ourselves into?”
“Nothing. It’s no big deal. We’re just gonna stand onstage for a few minutes and pretend we’re singing, then it’s over. Fini. Done.”
“But still—”
“Don’t get your panties in a wad,” Edwina said. “We don’t have to worry about them and their problems. We didn’t take them to raise, you know.”
“I’m not so sure of that. Hell, they’re driving Vic’s pickup and sleeping in my house. I just hope they don’t wreck either one. Do you suppose they fight like that all the time?”
“If they do, it’s a wonder somebody hasn’t killed somebody.”
Debbie Sue shook her head. “God, what have we got ourselves into?”
They soon reached the Styling Station. “The day’s over and I’m too shook up to work anyway. We might as well clean up, wipe up the shampoo room, and go home. I’ve got to figure out how to tell Buddy about this backup singer deal. And that I’ve lent them our house rent free.”
Leaving the ladies’ room, Roxie had had it. Ketchup in the face, then having to wash it off with public restroom soap and paper towels that felt like corn husks, was the last straw. She picked up her purse.
“Where you going, Rox?” her fool of a husband said.
“For a walk. I’m losing my mind. If you need me I’ll be headed north. You can’t miss me. There’s nothing to block the view.” She stormed out of the diner, cussing and mumbling.
Ten feet from the café she fished her cell phone out and keyed in a number, pressed it to her ear and listened to the ring, cussing the notion that her call might go to voice mail. Suddenly a man’s voice broke the irritating ringing sound: “Hey, what’s up? Where are you?”
“Where in the hell do you think I am? I can’t even have a conversation in private. I have to make up a lame excuse like going for a walk to have a moment’s peace and privacy with you. I don’t think I can stand much more of this.”
“But you have to. . . . We both agreed—”
“You don’t have to remind me of our agreement,” she said on a sigh of exasperation. “I’m all too aware of what I agreed to. I’m just so fed up with this whole charade.”
The voice laughed softly and she pressed the phone tighter to her ear. “Think of this as just another stage in your career,” the voice said. “One that will pay off in dividends far exceeding what you could ever imagine. I’m going to see to it.”
“I know, but . . .”
“Babe, I’ve seen six-figure contracts given to people who didn’t have half the talent you do. Some got it for their looks alone. Their voices were secondary. Sound engineers in the studio can fix the vocals. But you’ve got the pipes and the looks. You could be the next Nashville millionaire. Can you see yourself living in the suburbs of Belle Mead?”
“I’d rather live downtown,” she replied, brushing hair from her eyes. “I need stimulation you can’t get in the suburbs.”