Calamity Jayne Rides Again (20 page)

"Throw the oinker off the stage!" someone yelled.

"Get the hook!" another one called.

No, neither person was yours truly, although I did have a few choice words to share with little Miss Dixie when she was sober
enough to understand them—and when I wasn't pee-ohed enough to want to kick her chunky you-know-what into the next county.

"I said, show's over, Dixie." I yanked the microphone out of her hand and placed it back on the stand. "You've made a fool
of me enough for one day," I told her. "And I don't like it one damn bit 'cause that's usually my job."

She looked at me and squinted. "You're not as dumb as everyone makes you out to be," she said. "Are you?"

I shook my head. "You're not as mean and ornery as you make yourself out to be, are you?" I replied.

"The hell I'm not."

I took hold of her arm and helped her off the stage. She suddenly put a hand to her mouth.

"I'm gonna be sick!" she warned.

"Oh, no, you're not," I said. "Not on my Dingo Horn-back slouch boots that took me six months to save for." I grabbed her
waist and gave a hard pinch, and she squealed. Pain usually takes a person's mind off their pukeyness. At least temporarily.
"I'd really have to kick your ass if you did that," I told her.

"You could try," she said.

I smiled. "Do or do not," I told her. "There is no try."

She smiled a goofy smile. "I really am gonna be sick, you know."

Patrick and I carried her out of the bar.

"Boy, you cowgirls sure do know how to show a guy a good time, Tressa," Patrick said, as we stood watching Dixie retch in
a nearby trash receptacle. I was just glad I didn't have sanitation duty that night.

"Stick around, buckaroo," I said, removing his hat and placing it back on his head. "You ain't seen nothin' yet."

"You all right, miss?" P.D. eased back into his peace-officer persona like a great character actor takes on his next role.
"You need to sit for a second?" he asked Dixie.

She wiped her mouth and nodded, and we helped her over to a nearby bench. Dixie jumped back as if she'd hit an electric fence.

"I can't sit there," she said, staring at the bench like it was fixin' to take a bite out of her.

"Why not?" I asked.

She pointed to the bronze plate screwed to the back of the seat. It read donated by frank and regina bar-

LOWE & FAMILY.

"It would be disloyal," she said.

"Sitting on a bench is disloyal?" P. D. asked.

She nodded. "To the family. Do you know how many benches I have to walk by before I find one I can sit on? And the butterfly
garden? I've never seen it. I have to cross to the other side of the street when I pass."

"Isn't that a bit anal?" I asked, wishing I had Taylor's handle on the psychological stuff.

"That's easy to say when you're always a winner," she said. "You don't know what it's like to be a loser all your life."

I looked at her then. Who the heck did she think she was talking to? I'd been handed a raw deal so many times, it was a wonder
I didn't have E. coli.

"I've got a pretty good idea," I said. "Rather than waving at me, folks in my hometown flash the big L sign. Either that or
they point to their heads and make little circles with their index fingers."

"At least they acknowledge you," Dixie replied. "Try being invisible."

"I tried that last night. We both know how that worked out," I told her. "Speaking of last night, what were you doing at the
mini-freeze?" I asked, hoping she was still drunk enough to admit what she'd been up to.

"I'm feeling woozy again," she said, and I looked at Patrick, who shook his head.

"Let's get you to bed," he said, and I glared at him.

"Did you go to the mini-freeze last night to cause another snafu for Uncle Frank, Dixie?" I pressed. "Have you been helping
your father behind the scenes? Do you know a clown named Bobo?"

Patrick shook his head at me again. "These questions can wait for another time," he said. "I think Dixie needs to get tucked
in for the night."

I rolled my eyes. Just my luck: a compassionate cop. Where was a do-you-feel-lucky-punk type when I needed him?

"All right, all right," I said. "I'll see Dixie gets home," I told Patrick. "Her folks have an RV down the road a piece from
us, so I'll drop her off on the way."

Patrick gave me a doubtful look and then nodded. "Behave yourself," he warned, and I snapped to attention.

"Yessir!"

He smiled and shook his head. "Catch you later," he said.

I nodded. "Roger that!" I told him.

"Come on, Dix, let's call it a day," I said, pulling her along behind me. "If you need to stop and hurl, give me adequate
warning, would ya?" I told her. She mumbled something that I took as agreement, but I decided to change positions and walk
behind her just in case.

Three-quarters of the way to her folks' campsite, Dixie became more talkative. I figured the alcohol in her system was still
working on those inhibitions.

"I wish I could wear cute boots," Dixie said, "but my legs are so short, I'd look like a potted plant. I'm built like my dad's
side of the family. I look at my grandma and shudder, thinking: Is that what I'm gonna be like in fifty years?"

I looked at her. Holy moley, another looking-glass moment. I'd often wondered—okay, worried—whether my own grammy embodied
the vision of the Tressa to come.

"You know, I'm not exactly turned on by the ice cream business either," Dixie said. "Let's face it, dispensing fattening food
all day is far from glamorous. And how do you think I got this weight? Boredom," she told me. "Sheer boredom."

"Why do you do it, then?" I asked her.

She shrugged. " 'Cause it's safe, I guess," she explained, and I again felt the connection I'd experienced earlier, surprised
by how many people there were out there living their lives in such a way that they didn't make any ripples in the depths around
them. Some because they didn't want to disturb the still waters of others' lives, and others so they could drift along unnoticed
and just get by.

My life made the wave pool at Waterworld look like a home whirlpool. I now realized I kept the waters churning because I'd
craved attention but didn't feel I could earn it the conventional way. Not when I had an honors grad setting the standard
ahead of me and a beautiful genius bringing up the rear.

We'd just rounded another bend when Dixie suddenly stopped and I ran into the back of her.

"Is that a clown?" Dixie asked, pointing to a figure standing smack-dab in the middle of the gravel road ahead. "Or am I still
drunk?"

"Yes to both questions," I told her, stepping around to get a better look at the clown.

"That looks like Booboo," Dixie said. "What's Booboo doing in the campgrounds?" she wanted to know.

I was curious about that myself. "That's Bobo," I said. "Stay here." I walked toward the clown, not about to let the slippery
varmint get away this time. He advanced on me. I felt like Gary Cooper in
High Noon
—well, except there wasn't a clown in the movie showdown and Coop was pretty much on his own. I did have a tipsy back-up who,
from a distance, could pass for a short man. Okay, so Dixie could pass for a man at closer range, too. She had.

We stopped about ten feet apart, and the phrase, "This fair ain't big enough for the both of us, Bobo" played in my head.
I'd always wanted an opportunity to say something so classically, heroically cowboy as that.

"Bobo," I said, flexing my fingers at waist level, as if I really did have a six-gun on my hip and wasn't afraid to use it.

"Calamity," the clown responded, with a similar stance and terse nod. Of course, with his clownish shoes and pants and made-up
face, any dramatic effect was lost.

"You got business with me today, Bobo?" I asked, thinking we probably looked more like a Mel Brooks parody of
High Noon.

"Who's that with you?" the clown asked, his voice low and hoarse.

"A hapless drunk," I answered.

"Yoohoo! Booboo!" Apparently, after emptying her stomach's contents, Dixie was feelin' good again. I heard gravel fly up behind
me but didn't take my eyes off the clown for a minute. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be resting up for your next
round of dunking?" Dixie asked.

Sensing that Dixie had distracted the clown character, I decided that the moment had come to act. I lowered my shoulder like
Dawkins's ex-lineman brother would and hurled myself at the clown, coming in low like he was a football dummy, "taking him
completely out of the play" like the football broadcasters like to say. Once he was good and down, I piled all one hundred
and blankety-blank pounds, including thighs strengthened by years on the back of a horse, on the stunned carnival comedian.

"Okay, buster, the jig is up," I said, managing to keep the struggling jester in check.

"Ouch, let go of me! What are you doing!"

"Frankie?"

"Frankie!"

Dixie's shocked gasp got my attention.

I eased up on the prone prankster.

"Frankie, is that you?" Dixie asked.

"Dixie?"

I looked from Dixie's stunned face to the clown's ridiculous one.

"Frankie!"

I was shoved aside and fell to the graveled road like a discarded pizza crust. You know, the crust that isn't stuffed with
cheese.

"Oh, my God, Frankie, I was so worried!" Dixie tilted her head to one side. "What on earth are you doing dressed up like a
clown? And why hasn't anyone seen hide nor hair of you? Oh, Frankie!"

I looked on, dazed, as Dixie the drunk embraced Frankie the fool. I was even more amazed when the clown hugged the ten-fifty-six
back. (That's cop code for an intoxicated person, remember? See, I learned something and applied it! Aren't you proud?)

I got to my feet, brushing the dirt from my rear and extracting bits of gravel from my thighs. I looked down on the kissing
couple, who appeared totally oblivious to my presence. Lacking a garden hose and the requisite cold water, I kicked some gravel
in the duo's direction to get their attention.

"Frankie? Dixie?" I said. "You two like each other?" I asked, thinking under the circumstances, and considering they were
rolling around together in the middle of the road, it was about the dumbest thing I could have said.

"Worse," Frankie said, his hands on Dixie's shoulders. "We're in love."

I stared at the odd couple. Luther Daggett's daughter and Frank Barlowe's son? And they both hated the ice cream business.
These two had about as much of a chance surviving their courtship as a snapping turtle has of crossing the lanes on the mile-long
bridge back home.

In other words, we were looking at some imminent road kill.

CHAPTER 17

"Tressa! Hello!" My best friend, Kari Carter, waved to me as she marched up the gravel road that ran through the campground.
"Yoohoo!"

I waved back from the picnic table where I was sipping French vanilla cappuccino (instant, but not bad at all) with Gram and
Aunt Reggie, and trying to keep my eyes open while trying to put all the various pieces of the great fair puzzle together.

Frankie and Dixie. Dixie and Frankie. No matter how I considered it or how many times I said it, the idea still seemed like
one of those jokes that leaves you shaking your head going, "I just don't get it." (Yeah, I know. I
do
say that a lot.)

I was still confused over what role, if any, Dixie had played in the campaign to force Uncle Frank out of business and into
retirement. Why had she been scoping out the mini-freeze the other night, and why did she get foxed the next? Had her father's
plan backfired and Dixie's guilt over having the bulk of the blame laid at her beloved's door been too much for her to deal
with?

Why hadn't Frankie let on before about his relationship with Dixie Daggett? I thought back over everything I'd said about
her in front of Frankie and had one possible answer: I could be such a clueless ass sometimes.

I also had to wonder why Frankie was still wearing the Bobo costume. He'd told me earlier he had to abandon it due to pimple
problems, but I hadn't seen any more bumps than usual when I tackled him, and believe me, when it comes to pore care, I'm
on top of things. In light of this new romantic angle and a mutual dislike of their family businesses, it occurred to me that
it would be in both Frankie's and Dixie's best interests if Uncle Frank threw in the towel and retired, leaving Frankie free
to pursue his destiny, guilt-free.

I'd left the newly reunited couple together after making sure Frankie had received my note regarding the assignment changes,
adding that if he needed further information as to why, he should ask Dixie. I'd caught a couple of hours of sleep at the
trailer and bedded down again from two to five at the Emporium, but all was quiet. I'd managed to climb the hill and jump
into my bunk before anyone noticed I'd been gone. The dark circles under my eyes from lack of sleep? They were on their own.

"Whew! That's quite a climb," Kari said, taking a seat on the picnic bench across from me. "Good thing I had my breakfast
of champions this morning!"

My best friend, Kari, will soon be starting her second year as a middle school teacher. She teaches Language Arts to sixth
graders. I know, I know: you're wondering how a college graduate and educator of impressionable young minds and a multivocational,
college dropout got to be best buds. Frankly, I'm still trying to figure that one out, too.

Kari and I have been fast friends since that day in fourth grade when we first met and discovered a mutual fondness for chasing
the mean boys around on the playground. I held them down with a knee to the windpipe, while Kari lectured them on behavior
expectations and how to get along well with others. Kari's personality is a perfect fit for teaching. She has more patience
than my brother Craig does while bow hunting. He can sit up there in that deer stand for hours on end, not making a sound,
just waiting for Bambi's unsuspecting male relatives to come along, waiting for the perfect shot. I tried deer hunting in
a stand once. Within ten minutes I was ready to swing upside-down from the branches and scratch my armpits.

Kari is getting married in December, and I am her maid of honor. This terrifies me. I have a very bad track record when it
comes to weddings. At Craig and Kim-mie's, Rick Townsend's baboonery relegated me to the back in all the wedding pictures
due to the trail of barbecue sauce down the front of my bridesmaid dress. He goosed me when he discovered me sampling the
appetizers a bit early. And we won't even talk about my encounter with the ice sculpture. Or Kimmie's great-uncle Graham,
who, come to find out, is a bit of a groper.

Kari always works the fair for a few days, too. She's an old pro, having worked for Uncle Frank for as many years, if not
as many hours, as I have. Her fiance, Brian, is a Physical Education teacher at one of our four elementary schools. His only
flaw is that he hangs out with Ranger Rick Townsend way too much. Kari and Brian make a really cool couple. His black hair
and athletic build is the perfect foil for Kari's pale skin and dark blond hair.

Kari and I were scheduled to pull the day shift at the Emporium together. Brian would be up that evening, and the two of them
would hang out then.

"Hey, Kari," I said, and Gram and Aunt Reggie greeted her, too. "We're having instant cappuccinos. You're welcome to join
us. They're actually not terrible."

"Yeah, if you put in ten tablespoons of cappuccino," Gram said. "And I miss all that foam on the top, like you get at the
convenience store. Although you have to be careful with those. I burned my lip once and went around for a week looking like
I had this hideous cold sore."

I raised my eyebrows at Kari. "Partake if you dare," I said.

"I think I'll pass." She laughed, dropping the copy of the
Grandville Gazette
I'd asked her to pick up for me on the table. I like to take a look at what I've written to see how much Stan has changed
it.

"Besides," Kari continued, "it's hot when you hoof it up that hill. You got anything cold?"

"There should be pop in the fridge," I answered.

"And there's sun tea in there, too," Aunt Reggie said, "but you'll have to sweeten it."

Kari went into the RV, and Gram unfolded the paper. "Wonder who died I don't know about yet," she said. "I hope if it was
somebody I knew, they don't think I'm rude for not sending flowers or a card."

I patted her hand. "I think it's safe to assume the dearly departed will not think ill of you, Gram."

She swatted my hand. "I was thinking about their kin, girl. I have a reputation for being on top of all the births and deaths
in the area," she said.

"So you're in charge of the comings and goings?" I asked. I gave a wink. "Good to know."

Gram shook her head. "Anybody ever tell you you're a character?"

Kari returned, carrying a glass of tea and one of Uncle Frank's day-old donuts. Brave girl. She asked, "Does cartoon character
count?"

Gram went back to the paper.

"Check for my fair feature promo," I told her. "Kari and I have to take off for work in a few minutes, and I want to see what
kind of hack job Stan performed on it so I know how ticked to act the next time I e-mail him."

"Hold your horses, I'm looking," Gram said, turning another page. "It's not in here," she said after going through the entire
paper.

"Whaddya mean, it's not in there?" I roared. "I worked long and hard on that preview piece!" Okay, so I hadn't, but that's
beside the point.

"Well, it isn't here," Gram said, closing the paper. "And apparently everyone had the decency to hold off dying 'til I got
back home," she added, " 'cause there's no obituaries either."

I took the paper from her. "I don't get it. Why didn't Stan run it?" I asked, and caught a look at a front-page headline.
"Wait, here it is. He put it on the front page! How cool is that?" I said, staring first at the content to check for Stan's
handiwork. I took a sip of my cappuccino while I perused the article. Stan had made a few changes, mostly for economy of space,
but not his usual butchery. I took a look at the accompanying picture. I blinked my eyes a couple of times to make sure lack
of sleep wasn't playing tricks with my vision. I opened my eyes. Then crossed them. I felt all kinds of really naughty words
form in my subconscious, each vying to be the first one out of my recently reformed mouth.

"Holy sh-moley!" I jumped to my feet, taking the newspaper with me. "Would you look at the time?" I said. "We'd better hit
the road, Kari. We open in less than half an hour."

She gave me a startled look. Yep, she's got that expression down pat. Lots of practice.

"Uh, yeah, sure. Okay, Tressa," she said. "Just let me finish my tea."

"We've got to go now!" I said, my voice taking on the same urgency young children use when they've just polished off a Big
Gulp drink and their parents have passed the last rest area for thirty-five miles.

"Leave that paper here," Gram ordered. "I want to see what bargains I'm missing at the meat market." She yanked it out of
my hand.

"Why beat yourself up?" I grabbed the paper back and stuck it under my arm. "You'll just stew over them."

"Do you know something I don't?" Gram asked. "They got them breaded tenderloins on special? Nothing I like better than a big
old tenderloin with mustard, pickles, and onion. Think that's what I'll have for lunch today. 'Course I'll belch onions all
afternoon. Hm. I'd better remember my Tic Tacs."

I turned to leave.

"Give me that paper!" Gram pulled it from under my armpit before I could stop her, and swatted me with it.

I grabbed Kari's arm and pulled her to her feet, trying to slink away.

"Hell's bells! Will you looky here! Frank's made the front page!"

"Damn!" I said, and stopped.

"What are you talking about, Hannah?" my Aunt Reggie asked.

"Your husband. He's front-page news. And he's drinking beer with some woman."

You've heard of being ripped from the headlines, right? Well, my usually placid, even-tempered, takes-a-lot-to-rile-her Aunt
Reggie ripped this headline from my grammy like it was a buy-one-get-one-free offer on coney buns.

"Let me see that!" she said, poring over the picture of Uncle Frank and Lucy Connor like I examine my dogs for wood ticks.

"Isn't that Lucy of Trinkets and Treasures?" Gram asked, peering over my aunt's shoulder. "The one who smokes like a chimney?"

"Lucy Connor," Aunt Reggie growled.

"That's right. What's she doin' sharin' a pitcher of beer with Frank? I didn't think he cared for beer all that much."

"Neither did I," Aunt Reggie said in the same tone my mom uses with clients who bring in their tax receipts in shoeboxes and
Tupperware. "Where was this taken, anyway?" she asked.

"My guess is the corner table at the Bottoms Up," Gram said. I stared at her.

"How do you do that?" I asked, wondering how my gammy can account for everyone else's whereabouts and activities but manages
to forget she's not supposed to answer my mom's business phone and pretend to be her secretary and has difficulty remembering
to bring along her checkbook when someone takes her shopping.

She shrugged. "It's my curse," she said. "I didn't think Frank hung out at the Bottoms Up."

"Neither did I," Aunt Reggie said again. "You took this picture, Tressa?"

I shook my head. "A friend did," I said, not wanting to get Rhonda involved. It was sure to be ugly.

"It wasn't me!" Kari joined the group perusing the paper. "I didn't do it."

"It was a friend at the Bottoms Up," I elaborated. "She was just fooling around and shot a couple of pictures. I totally forgot
they were on the camera when I downloaded the images for Stan. I'm so sorry, Aunt Reggie. But, honest, nothing happened between
Uncle Frank and Lucy. He was just thanking her for helping him suck up cockroaches. I took pictures of Taylor and Townsend
for Stan to print. I can't imagine why he picked this one of Uncle Frank."

"'Frank Barlowe takes a break from the steamy temps at the State Fair,' " Kari read.

"Hmph. How nice that Frank has time to take beer breaks," Aunt Reggie replied.

"With lady friends," my grammy added.

"Gram!" I scolded. "She's Uncle Frank's, uh, business associate," I pointed out. "They've run their businesses next to each
other for the last ten years."

"Yes, they have, haven't they?" Aunt Reggie said, her scary guess-who's-gonna-be-audited tone giving me the willies. "You
know Frank never did tell me how Lucy came to be at the Emporium the night the roaches were let loose," she added. "Did Frank
ask you to go get her to help out, Tressa?"

I'd never wanted to lie so badly in my whole life. Well, except for the time when I was fifteen and I pilfered my grammy's
wine coolers and my dad found me in the hayloft singing "California Dreamin'," and asked me if I'd been drinking. Or the time
the local cop asked me if I was responsible for the horse manure left in the car wash, or when I had that stiff in the trunk
and the deputy asked why I couldn't get to my spare tire. Okay, bottom line here? I wanted to tell a doozy of a whooper.

"Not exactly," I said, shifting my weight from one foot to the other.

"Tressa?" Aunt Reggie pressed.

I rubbed the back of my neck, as if trying to remember. "As I recall, Mrs. Connor was already there, so I didn't have to go
get her, but I'm sure Uncle Frank would've asked me to if she hadn't already been there, as she has the biggest bug-sucker
vac this side of the fairgrounds. But she offered that shop-vac right away and it worked like a charm. Sucked those mothers
right up.
Thuuuup
!" I made a long, loud suction sound.

My aunt shook her head. "But you told us the Emporium was dark when you got there. So, where did Lucy come from?"

I felt my wiggle room start to slip away. I put a hand on my chin. "Hmm. Let's see. Uh, Townsend was behind the counter chasing
bugs, and I was sweeping up a pile on the floor with the broom, and ... urn, oh, yes, I think that was when Uncle Frank walked
in, and I'm not sure, but I think I seem to remember vaguely that he might have had—"

"Oh, spit it out, girlie. You caught Frank and Lucy in flagrante delicto," my gramma interrupted.

"Huh?" I said, no clue what she'd just said. "What?"

"In flagrante delicto. You know. Caught in the act. Clinch-time," she explained.

I shook my head. "The only thing Uncle Frank had in a clinch was a glass of beer I'd have given my graduation savings bonds
for," I said. "It was Lucy who had a hold of his arm—tighter than Uncle Frank's hands on his wallet," I said; then saw Gram's
pupils dilate and Aunt Reggie's shoulders stiffen. I clasped a hand to my mouth, then covered it with my other hand for good
measure.