Contemporary Women's Fiction: Agnes Hopper Shakes Up Sweetbriar (Humorous Women's Fiction) (23 page)

“He’ll have to figure something out for himself,” I grumbled to Charlie.

A
t last, I was out on the sidewalk, headed in the opposite direction from downtown. I was glad to see the Assassin’s truck was gone and no sign of the director. A young man jogged past me. A little black dog trotted behind him, its tags jingling. Made me long for Miss Margaret. She was the best company, bar none. I wondered if she had gone to work with Henry this morning or if Betty Jo had her confined to the washroom in case of an accident—like yesterday’s.

Then I got to thinking about those black high heels doing a fancy-stepping dance when Miss Margaret let loose on the porch. I wish she had wet that woman good. I laughed out loud and picked up my pace. “Oh me, Charlie, laughing does a body good. Indeed it does.”

I waved to an old man sitting on a turned-up crate at the service station across the street. He lifted his orange soda in greeting. I smiled and yelled, “Good morning.” This had the makings of a most wonderful day.

I walked past Tubby Sizemore’s Garage where Charlie had always taken our truck for repairs and sometimes played checkers on a gray, winter afternoon. I heard Tubby had passed away last year, and I didn’t know any of the young men who worked there now.

Then I passed Henckle’s Feed and Seed, a gathering place for farmers to talk about the weather and tobacco allotments. The newspaper said those allotments had grown smaller with each passing year until our government now paid a man not to raise it. Thank the Lord that didn’t happen in Charlie’s day.

In no time, I stood at the corner of Fourth and Main where Main changed to Berea Highway. Here the sidewalk ended abruptly, the last
section tilted like a mini ramp jutting up in the air. I stepped sideways onto a worn path through the roadside weeds and turned right. I would walk down to Church, and then go left down to Seventh where I hoped to find Case’s Produce. I wondered if Jack would be there or out making deliveries.

An old station wagon squealed around the corner, pulled off the street onto the grass, and stopped maybe twenty or so feet in front of me. I stopped too, as a passel of young girls in little brown uniforms, some wearing beanie caps, piled out. A big woman, also wearing a brown uniform, slowly emerged.

Her voice boomed and was deep like a man’s. “All right, all right, everybody back in the car except for Darlene.”

When they did as their leader said, I could see the one named Darlene was sick as a mule. Sitting on the back bumper with her curly black head hanging between her knees, the poor girl held her stomach, retched, and moaned.

“We only got fifty more miles,” the woman said. She lit a cigarette and sucked hard before she added, “You’re going to love Camp Tonawanga.”

“I want my mommy,” Darlene said.

The woman took two more drags, flicked her cigarette into the street, then handed the girl a tissue. “Step over here away from that mess and take some deep breaths. You’ll be alright.”

In the meantime, every available car window had been rolled down and arms and heads swung out in the air. Their voices began a singsong jeering.

“Darlene is a baby. Darlene is a baby.”

By now I had walked a little closer and stopped to fish a handful of peppermints out of my purse. The woman apparently hadn’t noticed me and ran to the children who had worked themselves into a frenzy. “Settle down or I’m going to turn around and take every last one of you brats back home where you can stay ’til hell freezes over.”

They must have heard this threat before. The singing paused before it began again, only this time very low, like a pot simmering just below the boiling point.

I approached the little girl. “Here, Darlene. Suck on one of these and put the rest in your pocket for later.”

She took them, wordless and wide-eyed. I walked on. The woman and I passed with a slight nod of greeting as she rushed back like a hen gathering a stray chick. I paused beside the car long enough to say, “You
girls ought to be ashamed. Have you no compassion? I’ll put a curse on all your stomachs if you’re not nice to Darlene.” I raised both arms, rattled my shopping bag, and spouted off some gibberish.

Complete silence reigned until some dear child screamed, “She’s the witch from Hansel and Gretel.” More squeals erupted from the car.

I continued walking as the big woman tried to settle her charges. “Girls … girls, that’s no witch. That’s one of those crazy homeless people I’ve been telling you about. Come on, let’s hear our camp song.”

The engine started and the carload left singing about Camp Tonawanga. A little hand waved out a side window and I waved back.

“Bet that was Darlene, Charlie. Didn’t she remind you of our girl when she was about that age? Couldn’t go nowhere without her ending up carsick. What did that woman call me? Humph. You don’t have to tell me. I heard her. I might be homeless, but I’m not crazy.”

I couldn’t remember ever being on this particular block of Sixth Avenue, which sat between the road leading to Berea and Church Street. It was an interesting mix of little, well-kept houses decorated with pots of begonias or geraniums, and tiny, run-down houses with weeds growing up between the front porch steps. Some of the worst houses had been abandoned and had broken or boarded-up windows.

One had suffered a fire and its charred remains leaned haphazardly like no one cared, or perhaps they didn’t have insurance or any money of their own to clean up the rubble. Better to have it bulldozed and buried in the earth than left like this, to my way of thinking.

In stark contrast, the next house fairly shouted, “Hey, look at me.” I would’ve looked even if it hadn’t had a homemade sign taped to the gate:
For rent by owner. Remodeled inside
. I had checked the classified listings every day without fail, but whoever owned this house probably couldn’t afford such as that. I could hardly believe my eyes. “Hallelujah!” I shouted.

The house was painted a bright yellow with a neon pink door and a green roof, dressed for a carnival or something as outlandish as Mardi Gras. The little dwelling stood empty and lonely-looking, as if someone had forgotten to take it to the parade.

Ignoring the yapping black and white terrier running up and down the fenced yard to the left, I pushed open the wrought-iron gate and found myself on the front porch with my face pressed against a window. From what I could tell, the remodeling must have consisted of lavishly painting the walls the same intense colors as outside.

“Someone must’ve gotten a deal down at the paint store. Cheerful, though, don’t you think, Charlie?”

A lady in curlers and a too-small bathrobe stepped out from the house next door and yelled at her dog. “Sweetness! Get in here! I got to have my sleep and you’re out here raising cane. What you so fired up about?”

Sweetness?

Then she spotted me. “You fixing to rent the Thompson place? She killed herself, you know, right in that front room there.”

I looked in the window again, the walls brighter than sunshine. “She did?”

“Thought you ought to know if you’re gonna live there.” Her front door slammed and just like that, the lady and her dog were gone.

The little neighborhood now seemed very quiet and still. No breeze stirred in the great old oaks lining the street. Even the little wren I had heard earlier had hushed its singing. I rested on a metal glider on the front porch, painted pink like the door, fished my little notebook out of my purse, and wrote down the address. 203 Sweeten Creek Lane. “My, Charlie, doesn’t that have a good sound to it?”

As the sun disappeared behind black clouds, I remembered what Shirley had said about her big toe never being wrong. I hurried to the gate to get the phone number from the sign. When I reached Church Street and turned left, I felt like shouting once again. A red tomato-shaped sign was attached to an open shed-type building on the next corner, Seventh Avenue—not Eleventh.

Case’s Produce supplied wholesale fruits and vegetables to the Dixie Diner and Mabel’s Café in town, and to most restaurants within a fifty-mile radius. Tomato plants were their specialty, bought from local farmers around Sweetbriar. Beefeater reds, delicate yellows, tart greens, and even tiny cherry ones were gaining popularity for gracing fancy salads, a new item on Dixie Diner’s menu.

Jack Lovingood was carrying a wooden crate out to a rusty old truck, its slatted sides leaning outward. I’d recognize those long curls anywhere, even if he did have it all tied back in a ponytail. He wore no shirt, only his usual jeans and black cowboy boots.

As he headed back inside, I called and waved my hands. “Jack … Jack … yoo-hoo.”

He turned and looked, but he pressed his lips together and narrowed his eyes into slits. Before I could say one more word, his voice boomed
like an angry parent. “What in thunder you doin’ way over here? Don’tcha got any sense a’tall?”

He wasn’t finished. As he eyed me up and down, he kept spouting off. “What you doin’ dressed like a bag lady in this part of town? Asking for another ride in the sheriff’s car? And danged if they won’t lock you up this time.”

That spill was the most words I’d ever heard come out of Jack’s mouth.

I stood up straight and tall and glared back at this man who was not going to boss me around. “Well, I’m certainly glad I didn’t come to visit you, seeing as you’re such a grouch. Came to see Juanita. Can you show me where she lives?”

Before he could answer—and that was assuming he was going to be civil—big drops of rain splattered on top of my gardening hat. We ducked into Case’s Produce just as a deluge poured from the heavens.

“Shirley’s big toe was right,” I said, but I couldn’t hear my own voice for the rain beating on the tin roof and tin walls that had been raised on poles and slanted from the shed roof. Instant waterfalls poured off the ends of those walls and between the openings of each section.

As Jack pulled on a tee shirt and lit a Camel, we watched the rain turn the street into a fast-moving creek that carried newspapers, a piece of clothesline with a large pair of panties still attached, an aluminum lawn chair turned upside down, a man’s shoe, and a chicken. Yes, a chicken. Very much alive and terror-stricken, if a chicken could have such a look. I found myself so intent on watching the water sweep people’s belongings away that I didn’t notice at least a dozen men and women of all ages, sizes, and various shades of skin color, had pressed around us seeking shelter. Since the rain had drenched them, it was hard to tell if they worked for Mr. Case, somewhere nearby, or were simply street people. Even dogs, long-haired and smelly, joined us. I had to resist the urge to hold my nose.

After about twenty minutes, the rain stopped as quickly as it had begun and the sun beamed down, making steam rise from sidewalks, streets, the hood of the old truck, the tin walls, the roof—anything and everything wet.

A barefoot teenaged boy with long dripping-wet hair stood in the middle of the street pointing to the sky. “Come look. Come look,” he cried.

Jack threw down the beginning of a third cigarette and picked up
a tomato crate. “Already behind schedule.” He hurried to his truck. Apparently, he had no time for any nonsense, or even to fuss at me or answer my questions.

A few of us went out to the boy who kept pointing and hollering. Through the branches of a tall oak we saw a sky full of dark, angry clouds, but stretched over them was a massive rainbow so bright it seemed the good Lord had flipped on a neon sign.

Somehow I knew that my coming here to The Bottom was no mistake, but rather would turn out to be a blessing far beyond anything I had planned or imagined. I said a prayer of thanksgiving for the Lord leading me not only to Juanita, but that little yellow house.

“You see, Charlie. Sometimes you just got to get out of the boat if you want to swim. Doesn’t the Good Book say such?”

Charlie never answered. Seemed he’d got unusually quiet lately, and I couldn’t figure why. As the rainbow gradually faded, the small group of people began milling about. The boy took off running, splashing down the steamy street before I had a chance to thank him.

I decided to wait out of the hot sun until Jack finished loading. Besides, I was not going back to The Manor before finishing what I came to do. Mr. Case, a big man with curly black hair and wearing a dirty apron, swept the concrete floor where the rain had blown in, sending sprays of water into the street. His voice followed the broom’s rhythm. “Move along, move along. This is a business, not no charity for every Tom, Dick, and Henry.”