by M. O. Walsh
But Stacy was right. Things were beginning to bloom around town, and maybe that was it. Allergies. Had she taken a Claritin this morning? Done her nose spray? Changes in weather could do physical things to a person, everybody knew that. Even the paper reported on pollen and such. She would give it another week, maybe. If it wasn’t better then, she’d make an appointment with Dr. Granger.
Or maybe she would just be straight-up with Douglas and tell him how it’s worse than she’s been letting on, how it’s more than just the headaches, how there’s some other things she’s been worried about. Maybe confess to him the true reason she’d dropped her phone. And, while she was at it, maybe she’d even tell him that she had been on the computer today and learned a lot of interesting things about royalty and would he ever want to visit one of those places?
“Mrs. Hubbard?”
And maybe she would also tell Douglas, by the way, I am supposed to be a queen myself. Or maybe a princess. A royal person. And I have proof. Isn’t that funny?
“Yoo hoo, Cherilyn.”
And maybe she could go with Douglas to do this machine, too, and maybe his readout would say that he was also destined for something great and so they could go off and be great together. Why couldn’t they?
“Going once,” the man said. “Twice.”
Cherilyn stopped walking. Who was talking to her? She looked over and saw a black Lincoln Town Car driving slowly along the curb. The window was rolled down and the man inside was smiling. She recognized him immediately.
This was Tipsy Rodrigue, who everyone knew.
“Oh,” Cherilyn said. “Hey, Tipsy. How long have you been there?”
“About four houses,” he said. “Want a ride?”
“I’m just going to my mom’s,” she said.
“I know the place,” Tipsy said. “Plus, I’ve got A/C. Hop in.”
Tipsy Rodrigue, among his other distinguishing features, was missing some important teeth. This was not necessarily uncommon for a man in his fifties who, like Tipsy, had made a slurry of questionable choices in life but, unfortunately for him, he was missing his two front teeth. So, no matter what he was talking about—baseball, fuel efficiency, marine life, climate change—his countenance lacked a certain credibility. Still, he was a nice guy who was doing his penance in Deerfield, and so not many people turned down a ride when they saw that gap-toothed smile from the Lincoln.
“It is hot out here,” Cherilyn said. “I’ll admit it.”
Tipsy leaned over and opened the door. “Well, come on, then,” he said.
Above all else, Tipsy Rodrigue was a man-about-town.
As the only cab driver in Deerfield, he held a sort of monopoly on the transportation-for-hire scene. However, since he didn’t charge any money, you didn’t hear people complain. His venture was not for profit. Tipsy instead just drove around town all day and night, offering people free rides. He didn’t need money since he’d gotten that big settlement from the slip and fall at Walmart a few years ago, but it was that hip injury and the settlement money that most people said caused his drugging and drinking, which then led to the DWI and head-on collision he’d had with the front of Tony’s Donut Shop two years back. This accident had not only removed his front teeth but could have been, everyone knows, much worse, as the Donut Shop was normally full of children at the hour in which he struck it—eight a.m. on a Saturday morning—and can you imagine the tragedy that would have been if Tony’s was not closed that day for maintenance? Yes, everyone could imagine.
Tipsy himself had imagined this tragedy-that-almost-was to such a degree that he’d publicly sworn, in a letter to the editor of The Deerfield Bugle, that he would never drink and drive again. He also would not get fake teeth so that he, too, would always remember.
After giving it a few weeks, though, and realizing that drinking was not really a thing he was likely to give up on his own, Tipsy had decided to simply begin driving all the time. This was the only thing he could find to help keep him sober. He began to pick up couples on their way to church, scoop his old friends as they stumbled out of Getwell’s, and even ferry nice married women over to their mothers’ houses. In this way, he had remained true to his word and so the town of Deerfield held him close, took his rides when offered, and appreciated how he was somehow paying them back for the tragedy he almost caused.
Cherilyn liked him, too, mainly because he always had the good gossip. He was a living Deerfield newsfeed.
Cherilyn sat down in his car and shut the door. “How have you been, Tipsy?” she asked.
“Busy, busy, busy,” he said. “I’m telling you, Mrs. Hubbard, with the bicentennial and all, this town is a-buzzing.”
“Is that right?” Cherilyn said and leaned her head back on the leather seat. The frigid air from the A/C was like heaven as Tipsy automatically rolled her window back up, sealed them inside the car. He had the radio tuned to the local talk station, where someone was reporting on the amount of speckled trout that were apparently biting that spring.
“So,” Cherilyn said. “What’s the news?” She tried not to let on how she was feeling, just figured to make some small talk and let Tipsy carry on in his usual way, as she knew this would be a short ride. She blinked her eyes, looked at her hands, and tried to focus. She rubbed her right palm with her thumb. Was it cramping again?
“National, regional, or local?” he said. “Do you want political? Celebrity? Illicit? You need to narrow it down a bit.”
“Well,” Cherilyn said. “Don’t tell me anything that’s going to hurt my feelings. I know just about everybody here, you know.”
“Is that too cold for you?” Tipsy asked, and fiddled with the A/C. He had the nicest car in Deerfield, with black leather seats and this sophisticated climate control that could keep, according to Tipsy, the four different passenger zones at four discrete temperatures based on the riders’ preferences. He also had seat heaters, which never got used, and tinted windows. He was proud of his car, proud of the things he’d accomplished these last two years, and had even ordered a bumper sticker for his back window that read “The Goober Uber.”
He was hard not to like.
“Let’s start with celebrity,” Cherilyn said.
“Okay,” Tipsy said. “Well, they say Britney Spears is making a comeback.”
“Is that so?” Cherilyn said. “Good for her.”
“She’s so talented,” Tipsy said. “And from right up the road in Kentwood, you know. If she could just keep her underpants on, she’d probably be all right. I can’t help rooting for her.”
“I feel the same way,” Cherilyn said. “So, how about political?”
“All-righty,” Tipsy said. “Did you know there is a final city council meeting tomorrow about the bicentennial?” Tipsy lowered his voice as if keeping it secret. “And word on the street is that Deuce is going to make a play for Hank’s job. Going to say he’s no longer fit to serve due to, you know, his personal losses.”
“That’s not news,” Cherilyn said. “Bruce has wanted to be mayor since he was seventeen years old. He’s harmless. Plus, everybody loves Hank. It was a tragedy what happened to his boy, but he’ll be okay with a little time and prayer. Let’s stay local, though. What else do you have?”
“Well,” Tipsy said. “Did you know Alice’s Costume Shop is doing bang-up business? I mean, bang-up. I’ve been bringing people there every day. People buying firefighter outfits, police outfits, old fluffy dresses. You can’t hardly fit in the store.”
“Really?” Cherilyn said.
Cherilyn knew Alice well. They used to craft together, share a booth at the Fish Festival, and Alice had even invited Cherilyn to partner up for the costume shop whenever that was, some ten years ago now, probably. And why hadn’t Cherilyn done it? Douglas had encouraged her to, she remembered, but why hadn’t she done it?
>
“Why do you think that is, Tipsy?” Cherilyn asked. “Is it just people getting ready for the bicentennial? Is there going to be a fancy party?”
“No, ma’am,” Tipsy said. “I believe it’s because of these.”
Tipsy leaned forward and pressed a button on his dash. A compartment slid open without noise, as if every single joint of this vehicle was motorized and lubricated, and it was beautiful to witness in its small way. When Tipsy pulled from it a stack of blue receipts, Cherilyn felt her heart drop.
“Oh,” she said. “I’ve heard about those.”
But what Cherilyn was really thinking at this moment was, Where are mine? Oh my God, she thought, they are in the car with Douglas. They are in the car with Douglas.
“Miss Alice says nearly everybody coming in her shop is coming on account of these. Trying to get the right clothes, I figure, for what they know they can be now. Trying to dress for success, as the expression goes.”
“What are you saying?” Cherilyn asked. “Other people in town, they believe these readouts? People don’t think they’re crazy?”
“Shoot yeah, they believe them,” Tipsy said. “How could you not? It’s science, Mrs. Hubbard. Plain and simple.”
Tipsy took one of his readouts between his fingers and held it out to Cherilyn. It read: Justin Paul Rodrigue. A series of meaningless numbers. Then, Potential Life Station: DRIVER.
Cherilyn wanted to cry.
“I told Miss Alice I’m just lucky mine doesn’t require any fancy paraphernalia, you know? I’m lucky doing what I’m already doing. But maybe it’s not luck at all, Mrs. Hubbard. Maybe the fellow upstairs just works in kooky ways.”
“So, your readout was right?” Cherilyn said. “Is that what you’re telling me?” She went to hand it back to him. “Some of these are right?”
“You keep that,” Tipsy said. “I’ve written my phone number on the back. It’s my new business card. As if a person might need any more proof that I’m done boozing. Here’s my proof. Clear as can be. You can count on me.”
Tipsy stopped the car and put it in park. Cherilyn looked up to see they were already at her mother’s house. She stared at the orange brick front with its gray roof. She looked at the rusty screen door, the Oldsmobile parked in the driveway.
“Looks like somebody’s been waiting on you,” Tipsy said, and then Cherilyn noticed her mother standing at the open door to her garage, peering out at them. She wore a pink jogging suit with sparkles along the shoulders and, just by the look of her hair from here, Cherilyn knew she was not having a good day.
“Thank you, Tipsy,” Cherilyn said, and folded the blue slip of paper into her hand. What tremendous evidence this was, she realized, what a great moment. “I am very, very glad I got in your car today.”
“That makes two of us,” Tipsy said.
“And you keep me posted on this Britney Spears comeback story, okay?”
“Will do,” he said. “You know, they say she’s opening up a new restaurant in Kentwood.”
“Is that a fact?” Cherilyn said.
“Yep. It’s going to be called Hit Me Baby, with Some Fries.”
Cherilyn looked at him. Tipsy smiled.
“It’s a joke, Mrs. Hubbard. I’ve been kind of trying it out.”
“It’s a good one,” Cherilyn said, and shut the door.
Cherilyn walked up the driveway with her grocery bag and held it up in the air for her mother to see, as if to start off their conversation on a good foot by giving her a present.
“I brought food,” she said.
Her mother looked like she had just gotten out of bed, which Cherilyn knew couldn’t be true. Still, the bright white hair that she was so vain about, that she normally spent an hour fixing up in the mirror, was as flat and unkempt as if she’d slept on the couch.
“Where have you been?” her mother said.
“I’m sorry,” Cherilyn said. “The car wouldn’t start and I got tied up at the house.”
“I’ve been waiting forever,” she said. “I called and called.”
“I broke my phone,” Cherilyn said. “Why? Is everything okay?”
“No, of course it’s not okay,” she said.
“What’s the matter?” Cherilyn asked.
“It’s my daughter,” she said. “She’s trapped in the attic. She won’t come down.”
“Oh,” Cherilyn said. “Mom.”
And all those feelings.
Fear. Illness. Worry.
Were they all coming back to her now?
Yes, they were.
And how long could they stand there together, these two women, a mom and her only daughter, on opposite sides of the door, with each of their minds in some mysterious disarray? And what were the worries between them? Were they all the same? All different? In what directions were they headed? And are all daughters destined to become their mothers and mothers destined to become their daughters? And, if so, was it true that life was buzzing for them both in that moment, that something big was about to happen for each of them, but in totally opposite ways? Could they feel it? What was about to happen.
The future.
Could they feel it buzzing?
9
Slide of Hand
Douglas pulled into Geoffrey Mallow’s apartment complex on time, parked near the green dumpster on the side of the building, and stared blankly through the front windshield. He was doing all he could to erase from his memory the conversation he’d just endured with Principal Pat. He’d tried calling Cherilyn to tell her about it, the outrageous notion that he become principal of Deerfield Catholic because his boss had purchased a pair of safety goggles, but she didn’t answer. He figured she must have walked down to her mother’s, but since she didn’t have her phone, and since Douglas didn’t have the energy for a conversation with his mother-in-law, whom he loved but who was undoubtedly losing her mind, he decided he would just tell Cherilyn the whole mess tonight. This was probably better.
After all, they had a lot to talk about. There was the business of that ridiculous machine, after all, which he would need to mention in regard to Pat’s sudden change of vocation. And this topic, if arising as he and Cherilyn consumed the suspicious amount of eggplant and olive oil she’d asked him to purchase, would undoubtedly bring up Cherilyn’s own DNAMIX reading, which she likely didn’t know Douglas had seen. And how would he react if she told him? How should he? He worried that, for the first time in their lives together, he may need to pretend to be happy about something that he wasn’t happy about, that he might have to act like someone else in front of her instead of just being himself. And all because of a little slip of paper. But it wasn’t just eggplant and amateur carpentry, was it? It wasn’t only Cherilyn and Pat, but also the Major League pitcher and origami girl, perhaps all of his students and colleagues, the whole town newly adrift in doomed daydreams. What was Douglas to do? How could a rational person, he wondered, express the silliness of these readouts, of Cherilyn’s readout especially, without making Cherilyn herself feel silly? How could he bring her back to normalcy? How could he branch out from his own?
There was much to think about for a Thursday.
But, for now, his lesson.
The Scenic Wetlands Apartments and Balconies was the only complex in town. A decade ago, its construction was a pretty hot topic, as the old guard of Deerfield believed that apartments, or any multifamily homes, really, were destined to become crack houses and brothels. This notion was ludicrous but understandable. Change is hard, especially in the South. Douglas understood that. And since everyone else in the history of Deerfield had seemed perfectly content living with their own families in modest ranch-style houses separated by ample yards that either lined the highways or sat quietly along neighborhood roads, each equipped with a two-lane gravel or oyster-shell driveway with grass growing along its middl
e that led to a covered two-car garage with a tin or shingle roof, what possible reason, people wondered, would anyone have to live on top of a stranger?
The idea of apartments, much like the idea of public transportation, seemed to offend some deep sense of southern freedom to the older generation of Deerfield, but, as Douglas knew would happen, the apartments were eventually built and occupied not by prostitutes and drug addicts, but by normal people who just didn’t want to do any yardwork.
The building now sat as quietly as the rest of town, where the only weekday sounds you might hear were the persistent hum of lawnmowers and Weed Eaters, maybe a UPS truck rattling by on occasion. It therefore became part of the normal and innocuous Deerfield soundscape, where it would be hard to find any place that wasn’t generally, almost excruciatingly quiet, unless you counted Getwell’s Bar on LSU football Saturdays, or the Straight Pin Bowling Alley whenever they had that eighties cover band for the Fourth of July. So, like most worrisome things in the history of Deerfield, it turned out to be nothing to worry about. It was not a drug den, not a strip club, and not the end of the world.
The brick front of the Scenic Wetlands Apartments and Balconies was also unremarkable. It was two stories high, with maybe twelve apartments total, all with dark gray doors. There were rusty guard railings on the second floor, mosquito screens on all the windows. Not much to look at, really. The view from the back balconies of these apartments, however, was what gave the place its charm. The complex was situated at the northernmost reach of Bayou Ibis, along a watershed known to attract wading birds like egrets and spoonbills whenever the water rose. Even in the dry times, when the bayou was low, this area was covered in white and pink flowers, and so legend had it that this was actually the best place in town to sit and have a glass of wine, maybe play a little soft guitar or saxophone, light up a citronella candle, and watch the long-legged birds go about their gentle pacing.