Bless Her Heart

by Debby Mayne

  My cell phone rings as I pull into the driveway of my townhouse. I look down and see Tim Puckett’s name and number. It took him a while to start calling again after the ten-year reunion, but now we have a more defined relationship that I wouldn’t trade for anything. Every once in a while I get the impression he’d pick up right where we left off, but then I occasionally hear about some girl he’s dating. I have to admit to an occasional twinge of jealousy, but I know that’s only my ego tugging at me. I’ve relinquished all rights to romance with this very sweet man, and he’s entitled to see whomever he wants.

  2

  Tim Puckett

  I’m a little surprised when she answers on the third ring. Most of the time Priscilla’s so busy she lets the calls go and gets back with me later . . . much later—sometimes several days or a week. But I clear my throat and jump right in.

  “Hey, Priscilla, I was just wonderin’—”

  I hear her sigh. “Yes, Tim, I’m going to the class reunion, and if you still want to go with me, that’s fine.”

  “Don’t give yourself a heart attack from excitement.”

  “Sorry, Tim, but I just got some unsettling news, and I haven’t had time to process it all yet.”

  “About the reunion?” I think back to her last one and try to figure out which of the many crazy people might have upset my favorite girl on the planet. Of course we’re just friends now, but stranger things have happened, and . . . well, you know.

  “No, it’s Rosemary. She’s leaving.”

  “Well, it’s not like she’s leaving the Cut ’n Curl altogether,” I remind her. “She’s just going to Raleigh.”

  “You knew?” Priscilla’s high-pitched voice lets me know she’s not happy. “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “Because it’s not my place?” With anyone else, that would be a statement, but with Priscilla, I tend to have more questions than answers. That girl sure does keep me on my toes.

  “I understand. Anyway, if you don’t mind putting yourself through it again, I’d love for you to go to the reunion with me.”

  “My pleasure.” I lean back in the recliner as relief floods me from head to toe. After seeing Priscilla get all gooey-eyed over that Maurice fella and knowing she wished she was with him instead of me, I wasn’t so sure about where I stood with her. Even after it was all over, and she gave him the heave-ho for trying to take advantage of her, she pretty much let me know she wasn’t feeling for me what I felt for her, and I’ve finally come to terms with the fact that we’re not likely to ever become a couple. But I still enjoy her company when we have time to get together.

  “I don’t want you taking all your vacation time this year,” she says. “Why don’t you just plan to come the night before the reunion?”

  “Uncle Hugh gave me an extra week of vacation on account of he can’t give me a raise this year.”

  “So you don’t mind wasting . . . I mean spending that time in Piney Point in the midst of all that drama?” she asks.

  “I don’t mind at all. In fact, I rather enjoyed the drama.”

  This might come across as silly, but the sound of her laughter is how I imagine harp music in heaven. I used to fantasize about her laughter with our young’uns. “Tim, you are definitely a glutton for punishment.”

  She might call it punishment, but as long as I can hang out with Priscilla Slater, I know I’m gonna have a good time. “You didn’t seem to mind having me there last time.”

  “You were mighty helpful.”

  “And I will be this time too. At least now I know what to expect. Maybe I can dodge Pete Moss’s fist a little better next time he tries to deck me.”

  “That was crazy,” she says. “According to Sheila, he’s still drinking, so maybe you better try to avoid him completely.”

  Sheila is the manager of Prissy’s Cut ’n Curl in Piney Point, and she knows more about what’s going on in town than the mayor. “I’ll just try to stay in his good graces.”

  After we get off the phone, I get up from my recliner and carry my empty chip bowl to the kitchen. Seems no matter how much I eat I can’t seem to put on weight. Mama used to tell me she thought I swallowed a tapeworm, but I think it’s because I’m in and out of the car all day, and it can get mighty hot in Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia, Tennessee, Kentucky, the Carolinas, and the Florida panhandle, my territory with Uncle Hugh’s beauty supply company. By noon, I’m always sweatin’ bullets, and by the end of the day, I look like a drowned rat that couldn’t find the cheese. That’s why I try to stop by Prissy’s Cut ’n Curl office first thing in the morning. I like to smell nice for Priscilla.

  I go to bed with happy thoughts, hoping to dream about Priscilla. Only problem is I can’t get her last class reunion out of my mind, and I wind up dreaming about Pete Moss and the flask he keeps in the back of his pickup.

  Early the next morning, I give up trying to sleep. I get up before the alarm goes off, and I trudge toward the bathroom. A look in the mirror has me groaning. For the past year I’ve been trying to grow some facial hair, but it don’t come in nice like Justin Timberlake’s. Instead, I look like one of them guys who keeps trying to break into MacCaulay Culkin’s house in Home Alone.

  Since I’m grooming for someone else, I make the decision to get rid of the uneven stubble. After all, I wouldn’t want to embarrass my favorite girl—especially since I’m fully aware of how important it is for her to keep up her image, even though I reckon she’d say it isn’t so. But I’m not blind. I saw her in action with all her classmates, and I can tell she still has something to prove.

  And that reminds me. I haven’t been too good about learning a new word every day. I make a mental note to pick up the book she gave me when she first found out I wanted to learn to talk as good as her—the one called A Hundred Days to a Smarter Vocabulary. I was actually moving along at a decent clip, back before Priscilla’s last class reunion. But I got so perturbed I figured there wasn’t any use in filling my brain with words longer than my forearm if she still had a hankering for that bozo Maurice. In my book, he’s got two things wrong with him: he’s a pretty boy who looks in the mirror more than he’ll look at any girl, and his muscles bulge in all the wrong places, which tells me he’s a gym rat. Everyone knows those are fake muscles and not all that useful in the real world. I might look scrawny, but I can lift my share of grocery bags and rearrange my mama’s furniture when she gets in one of her moods. I reckon some girls don’t realize guys like Maurice don’t wanna get their hands dirty doing actual men’s work.

  After I shower, I down a cup of coffee before going out on my beauty supply route for the day. As I head toward Birmingham, I call Priscilla to find out the exact dates of the events so I can let Uncle Hugh know when I’m taking off.

  “If at any point you change your mind and decide to back out, I promise I won’t think any less of you,” she says. “I mean, I appreciate your loyalty and everything, but—”

  “Relax. I don’t have anything better to do. In fact, I been lookin’ forward to it . . . and hopin’ you’d want me to go with you.” I actually got a kick outta seeing some of those people misbehaving and carrying on like they didn’t know their mamas would find out. Plus Aunt Tammy told me she thinks I’m one of them people who like to feel needed. I don’t see nothin’ wrong with that.”

  “If you’re sure . . .”

  I laugh. “I like helpin’ out.”

  “Okay,” she says. “Just remember it’s never too late to back out.”

  “Priscilla.” I clear my throat, wondering if what I’m about to ask is just downright stupid, but I can’t help wondering. “You had a rough time at the last reunion. Why do you wanna go?”

  I hear her sigh. “Good question. Maybe I’m just a glutton for punishment.”

  “Naw, I don’t think that’s the case. I think you really do like your old friends, and deep down, you enjoy bein’ there.”

  “I think you’re right.”

  We hang up, and my day lo
oks brighter already. My chin feels smooth, and I realize I never really liked the prickly feeling from my feeble attempt at facial hair, so I make a deal with myself. No more trying to be something I’m not . . . and I’m definitely not a pop star.

  The drive to Birmingham is long and boring. I listen to the contemporary Christian music station, but then I’m out of range, and I still have a way to go. I try talk radio, but the guy gets on my nerves. Sometimes I think those folks just love the sound of their voices because it don’t sound to me like he’s saying much—just the same thing over and over.

  I grip the steering wheel with both hands and stare at the road ahead, trying to project myself into the future. My daydream starts out all nice and rosy, with me and Priscilla walking into the reunion arm in arm, but then the image gets hazy. I blink and turn my thoughts over to something I can predict. I bet Mama would appreciate a call. I haven’t talked to her in a while.

  “Hey, Timothy. I was about to head on out to yoga class. Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, Mama. Just wanted to check up on you and let you know I’m goin’ to Priscilla’s fifteen-year high-school reunion.”

  Mama makes a clucking sound. “You’re not still holding onto the notion that you and Priscilla are—”

  “No, Mama, it’s just that she needs a date and we’re good friends and I’m available.”

  “That’s your own fault. Listen, Timothy, you’re a good-lookin’ boy who has a lot to offer some worthy woman. I like Priscilla, but I don’t think she’s the one the good Lord meant for you to spend the rest of your life with.”

  I disagree, but I don’t say it. Arguing with Mama is like getting in the ring with a bull and telling him not to charge.

  She goes on and on about my heart getting tromped on, but I focus on my driving. What was I thinking when I told her about the reunion?

  I zone back into the conversation when I hear her winding down. “So when was the last time you had a date with Priscilla?”

  It’s been almost a year since me and Priscilla hung out, but I wouldn’t exactly call it a date. I sigh. “This isn’t a date, Mama. I’m just goin’ with her to show my support.”

  “Don’t get your heart broken again, Timothy. No girl—not even Priscilla Slater—is worth losin’ sleep over. Besides, you need to stay away from those career-type gals and get yourself someone who dotes on you.” She pauses. “I gotta get outta here. My yoga instructor says part of people’s problems today is we wait ’til the last minute, and that stresses us out.”

  I’m relieved to be let off the hook. “Okay, Mama, love you.”

  There’s nothing worse than a mama trying to protect her grown son’s heart. Mama and Daddy split up when I was little, so I was all Mama had. We moved in with Granny, and Mama got herself a job. Them two women would’ve spoiled me rotten if I hadn’t been so caught up in trying to act like a man—even at the young age of three. When I started school, Mama and I moved into an apartment nearby.

  Daddy’s brother, Uncle Hugh, was just getting his beauty supply business going then, but he got all ticked off at Daddy for leaving and found time for me. He taught me the manly stuff like fishing and hunting and how to fix a toilet when it wouldn’t stop running, but he couldn’t grow his business and stay in Mississippi, so he moved to the Big Apple. I sure did miss him, but every now and then he’d send a plane ticket for me to come up and visit. Once when I got upset with Mama, I threatened to move north. That was when Uncle Hugh promised to hire me if I stayed put and went to college. My daddy never came around much throughout my childhood, but Uncle Hugh more than made up for it. I reckon Uncle Hugh wanted to be the father figure in my life, and I’m happy he did. Working as a beauty supply sales rep is perfect for me. It pays real good, and I have more freedom than I’d have at a desk job.

  Once I get to Birmingham, time goes by fast. The salons are scattered all over town and in the suburbs, but I have them all lined up in a route. Some of the folks I do business with have their orders ready for me when I walk in. Others want to spend a little time with me going over the new products and chatting my ear off about this and that. Before I even step foot in each salon, I know about how long I’ll be there, and I save my favorite for last. Angela Stanton, senior hairdresser and proprietor of Making Waves, greets me with an ear-to-ear grin and hearty, “Come on back to the break room and let’s catch up.”

  Uncle Hugh warned me early in my career that hairdressers like to get to know people real well. “Don’t tell them nothin’ you don’t want comin’ back at ya later,” he said. That’s easier said than done. What I’ve discovered is that hairdressers have a knack for getting folks to talk. I’m thinking they’d make excellent government interrogators.

  “So how’s your love life?” Angela asks. “Seen that girl at the Cut ’n Curl lately?”

  “Not much.” I rub my chin, trying to decide whether or not she needs to know about the class reunion. “She’s been busy.”

  “So I hear. Word out there is she’s about to acquire every available salon east of the Mississippi.”

  I laugh. “I’m not sure how accurate that is, but she’s ambitious.”

  “Ambition is a good thing as long as it doesn’t get in the way of a happy life. I don’t mean to tell you what to do or who to fall in love with, but be careful not to lose your heart to a woman who’s all wrapped up in her work.”

  I shift uncomfortably in my seat. “I’ll try to remember that.”

  Her eyes narrow as she tilts her head before taking a sip of coffee. “So are you seein’ anyone else? I’m sure you meet enough women in your line of work to have your pick.”

  “Speaking of work, I’ve been pretty busy myself. My uncle is about to expand, and he’s all but promised me a promotion.” The instant those words leave my mouth I wish I’d kept it shut. Uncle Hugh once told me if he promoted me it’d likely involve relocating to New York City. That’s a great place to visit, but even with a raise, my salary wouldn’t be high enough to cover an apartment near as nice as the one I have in Mississippi.

  “Is that so?” Angela lifts one of the hairstyle magazines and flips through it without looking at the pages. “What kind of expansion?”

  When she looks me in the eye, I see something I can’t quite put my finger on. “We’re addin’ more products and movin’ west of the Mississippi.”

  She clears her throat as she puts the magazine on the stand behind her, then she leans forward on her elbows. “Tim, I need to share something with you, but you have to promise not to breathe a word of it to anyone.” Her forehead crinkles. “Okay?”

  I nod. “Of course.”

  “Business isn’t so good lately, with all the folks cuttin’ back and all. Those cheap salons in the suburbs are thrivin’, making things tough for beauticians in the better salons. I been thinkin’ . . . you know, what with all the experience I have . . . well, I might want to see what Priscilla Slater is willing to give me for this place.”

  “Really?” I never saw this coming. I try to recover by clearing my throat and straightening up in my chair. “What will you do?”

  She grins. “If I get enough money, I’ll probably take a cruise, but I can’t be a lady of leisure forever, so I thought maybe I could do what you do.” She gives me a puppy-dog look. “Think you might be able to help me out? Put in a good word?”

  Wow. Double whammy. She wants me to help her find a job, and she wants me to use my influence on Priscilla. “I reckon I can try, but I can’t promise anything.”

  “I wouldn’t have mentioned any of this if you hadn’t said your uncle was wanting to expand.”

  “I reckon I can talk to him,” I tell her for lack of something better to say.

  She lifts her eyebrows into a pleading expression and nods. “Do you mind?”

  “I’ll ask if he’s planning to add more sales reps.”

  “Oh, and don’t forget to talk to Priscilla. Let her know I might consider selling this place if the offer is right. I don’t w
ant her to think I’m desperate or nothin’ . . . ’cause I’m not, ya know?”

  “Sure, I’ll see what her plans are.” I stand. “I best be gettin’ outta here. I have a busy day tomorrow.”

  Angela walks me to the door, chattering about unimportant things. I’m out on the sidewalk when she winks and grins. “Thanks, Tim. You’re a sweetie pie.”

  3

  Laura Moss

  Mama, when am I gonna get my period? Bonnie Sue done started hers, and that ain’t fair.”

  I turn around to face my second-born child and firstborn daughter Renee. “Only God knows. And stop using ain’t. People will think you’re stupid.”

  “I’m the only girl in my homeroom who never had a period.”

  “Oh, Renee, I’m sure you’re not the only girl.”

  She rolls her eyes in a way I suspect all thirteen-year-old divas do when they think their mama is dumb as a sack of rocks. “The only girl except Myra, and she don’t count. She’s gross.”

  “She doesn’t count.” What’s up with my young’uns who know how to talk but insist on sounding like a bunch of hicks?

  “See? Even you know what I’m talkin’ about.”

  “Renee, Honey, just stop worryin’ about gettin’ your period. It’ll happen when it’s supposed to.” And once it starts, she’ll regret wishing for it, but I don’t say that. I’ve learned to say as little as possible to my preteen and teen children ’cause everything that comes out of my mouth comes back to bite me on the backside later.

  “Laura!”

  One thing I’ll never have to worry about is my husband sneakin’ up on me. When he comes home from work, everyone in the house knows about it.

  “I’m in the kitchen.” As usual.

  He walks through the door and casts a curious glance at Renee before turning to me, waving an envelope in the air. “What’s up with this?”