Dancing Naked in Dixie (30 page)

My lips twitch, but I don’t smirk. It’s refreshing to know that someone will stand up to my father. While David wouldn’t hesitate to hand me a pink slip, there’s no way reliable Marietta would get cut loose over another one of my screw ups—the key word being ‘my.’ If anything, her loyalty probably won her another notch in my father’s employee of the month tally—if such a thing exists.

“So, you’re here to stop me, talk some sense into me?” I ask and settle my shoulders against the airport wall. “Tell me what a gigantic mistake I’m making?” A minuscule piece of dust or dirt tickles my nose.
“A-choo!”

I sneeze again, and David steps out of the line of fire, and takes a spot next to me. “Bless you.” He gazes out into the crowd. “You going to tell me what happened to your face? And why you’re wearing a scarf wrapped around your head?”

A harried mother rushes by. She’s pushing a stroller and I catch a flash of golden curls, but the child tucked beneath the blanket is decked out in lime green and purple. I grimace. It’s not my marker-wielding attacker. Lucky for her, and me, too.

“Long story,” I mutter, pulling the frayed edges of my sleeve to cover my marked-up skin. The fringe catches on my watch and I notice the time. “I have to go anyway. I need to get cleaned up and make a quick stop—before I catch a flight to the Big Easy.”

With a furtive glance, I dart my eyes to the right. My father’s smiling at the comment. He’s pleased with my determination. But, without even asking him, I can also guess that he’s completely convinced I won’t be able to pull it off.

I can’t let him have the satisfaction. With a sniff that I hope comes off like total disdain, I start walking. I don’t say good-bye. I step up my pace, feeling triumphant, edging around slower travelers, dodging suitcases. I begin to run, knowing that in another five seconds, I’ll be around the corner, down the escalator, and I can get lost in the chaos of baggage claim.

Except that I hear David’s Italian-made leather shoes slapping against the tile floor behind me. Up ahead, I see a slack-faced security guard. He’s almost asleep, from the look of his drooping eyelids, but I start waving anyway, wind-milling my bandaged arm.

“Help, officer!” I yell, hoping my outburst will force my father to give up the chase.

Just as the security guard springs to life, a hand catches my sleeve.

“Julia, quit it,” my father, red-faced, is clutching his chest. “Let me drive. We’re going to the same place.”

Chapter 34

Too late. After the Hartsfield Airport security guard assumes my cries are related to a terrorist plot or kidnapping attempt, three uniformed men with guns tackle my father and throw him to the floor.

“Stop,” I call out, waving my arms for someone to listen. “I didn’t mean it.”

No one hears me. As if a 7.5-magnitude earthquake just rocked the terminal, people run, scream, or duck to the floor for safety, covering their heads. Children cry, service dogs bark, and more alarms sound.

I watched in horror as my father is shackled, yanked to his feet, and dragged into a lock-down room, where I know he’ll be interrogated like a criminal.

“Please wait,” I say, racing after the swarm of security personnel, trying to stifle a sneeze.
A-choo!
“This is all a big mistake. He hasn’t done anything wrong. That’s my father.”

After repeating my plea to everyone who will listen, one of the female guards takes pity on me. She does a double take when she sees my pink and blue marked-up face full-on, but gives me the benefit of the doubt. “You’re his daughter?” She raises both eyebrows, her dark eyes suspicious.

I nod.

“All right, sister,” she says, taking my arm. “Let’s hear what you’ve got to say.”

Amid a few more sneezing fits, I manage to tell my story. Halfway through, I pull out my driver’s license, the last name of which matches my father’s, recite his birthday, and spout off the phone number of our workplace and one Dolores Stanley, executive assistant.

After that information is checked and verified, I produce my boarding pass and ticket information. I find the of bottle cold medicine in the bottom of my bag—as well as the receipt for the pills—which includes a helpful time and date stamp. The security guard then confirms that exactly four tablets are missing, and admits that the medicine may explain my vegetative state during the flight to Atlanta.

When I describe the little girl, the Sharpie markers, and her mother, the agent coughs and covers her mouth.
She doesn’t believe me.
Now, even more self-conscious, I run a hand over my scarf, pulling the edges together under my chin.

“I needed to disguise my appearance,” I gesture at my face and roll my eyes toward the ceiling, “until I could figure out how to get this stuff off,” I explain.

There’s a knock on the door, and another uniformed officer hands the woman across from me a handful of white squares.

“Give these a try,” she tells me and slides the pile across the table.

Alcohol preps. Individual wipes.
Smart.

With a bit of a struggle, I rip one of the packets open, releasing the scent of antiseptic. My eyes begin to tear, but I hold the square against my chin and begin to scrub. The white cloth turns an awful shade of purple-brown when I lift it from my skin, but I’m thrilled. It’s working.

While I reach for another alcohol prep, and repeat, my captor presses her knuckles against her bottom lip. “So, back to the disguise. That’s when your father saw you?” I can’t tell if she thinks I’m crazy, or if she believes me.

“Yes,” I answer. “We haven’t had the best relationship since I lost my mom.” Her face flashes in front of me, and I have to stop talking and inhale to regain my composure. “Now, we have to work together. He’s my boss.” My nose tickles, but I manage not to sneeze.

The woman nods with a flicker of empathy, but she doesn’t interrupt.

“He followed me here. I think it’s some bizarre attempt to help me. Or maybe, to make himself feel better. I don’t know.”

“So you didn’t really need help?” she asks.

“No.”
A-choo!

“Bless you. And your father isn’t a terrorist or kidnapper?”

“No.”
A-choo! A-choo!

“Bless you again,” the lady says with a heave of frustration. “You do realize that—in the event there was a
real
safety threat at the same time you pulled this little stunt—you could have jeopardized the lives of hundreds of innocent people?”

“Yes ma’am,” I say, my voice barely audible. I lower my chin.

“And, are you aware that we could hold you on criminal charges?”

The room spins. A bitter taste surges in my mouth. I’m terrified and can’t look up. I focus on a speck of dirt in the center of the table.

From the corner of my eye, I see the woman stand up.

“Perhaps next time, no cold medicine?” she asks.

That’s not at all what I thought she was going to say. I glance up, hopeful, anxious. Directly in my field of vision, she clasps her hands together, fingers interlaced. She’s not reaching for handcuffs, I notice. She’s relaxed.

“And can you promise no more false alarms? No more scenes in the airport terminal?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say.

“Ah, then we agree.” Her cell phone buzzes. She checks it and smiles down at me. “You can go.”

“Thank you,” I gush, so relieved that I almost fall out of my chair getting to my feet.

“Your father’s waiting. Right outside baggage claim. He says look for the red car.”

After a quick stop in the ladies’ room and another five wipes, I find my father waiting for me, leaning against a fire-engine red corvette, top down, chatting up one of the security guards.

David slaps the man on the shoulder. They shake hands and he stands up to greet me, noting my scrubbed-clean faces. Only a few traces of Sharpie marker remain.

“Now then, you look
a lot
like my daughter,” he says, his eyes dancing as he opens the door for me.

“Alcohol preps,” I say, sliding into the seat with a wry look as he walks around to the driver’s side. “I’ve got another half dozen wipes, so be prepared for the smell.”

“After what you already put me through today, I think I can handle it.” With that, my father presses down on the accelerator and we roar away, leaving Hartsfield International Airport in the rearview mirror.

Three hours later, the entire vehicle smells like rubbing alcohol, but my face is clean and I’ve stopped sneezing. My father theorizes that the chemicals may have killed whatever bacteria was lurking in my system since the flight.

I’m hoarse from talking.
My father hasn’t complained once. I’ve shared my theories and suspicions about TJ and Jordan Construction. I’ve worried out loud about MeeMaw, her stroke, and Hospice. I’ve described her grandson Shug and his mother Aubie, explained about PD’s bakery business and mentioned her daughter, wild-child daredevil-in-training Ella Rae.

“Sounds like you,” my father confirms.

Near the end of our journey, I tell him about Mary Katherine. I’m careful to say that she is Shug’s girlfriend, she’s very beautiful, and she works at a local bank. I don’t say that she tends to be very jealous, she doesn’t like me, or she’s not to be trusted.

I do mention the Eagle Investment website. And wonder out loud why she was in one of the photographs.

To this, David raises an eyebrow.

We rumble into Eufaula. It’s dark, except for the flicker of streetlights, and the residential streets are empty. My iPhone tells me that the public hearing was scheduled for eight o’clock. According to the corvette’s clock, and thanks to the time zone change from Eastern to Central, we’re already a half-hour late.

My father turns toward the city council building, easing the corvette around one corner and the next before I can offer directions. There are lights blazing from the courthouse, and the double doors are propped wide open. A few people mill around on the steps, but I can’t make out their faces. As I peer into the night, David slows and maneuvers down the next block.

Cars and trucks are parked three-deep in every available space. There are vehicles on the sidewalk, on the grass, and for as far as my eyes can see.

Without warning, my father jerks the car into reverse and backs into a sliver of space next to a humongous black pick-up. He reaches into his sport coat pocket and whips out a small, laminated sign. It reads “Press” in black capital letters. He slides it onto the dashboard where it’s plainly visible, then hands me a laminated pass bearing the
Getaways
magazine logo, loops a matching one around his own neck, and shuts off the car engine.

“I hope we’re not too late,” I whisper, more for my own benefit than David’s.

He hears me, though, and gives me a grin. “Didn’t I ever teach you that it’s not over ’til it’s over?”

Side by side, we hurry up the steps and enter the building. The room is packed, people sitting shoulder to shoulder, others in the aisle and standing against the side and back walls. The air is warm, almost stifling, the fans swirling overhead doing little to ease the heat.

The mayor and his council members sit at the front of the room on risers. There’s a podium in the center, a few feet away the city leadership. At the moment, there’s a woman speaking. She’s an ancestor of one of the families who settled Eufaula, and she’s sobbing so hard that it’s difficult to hear what she’s saying. My heart aches for her, and I am desperate to find out if Shug has had his turn at the microphone. His calming presence, his rational demeanor, and reasonable arguments are what the city council and mayor need to hear.

When my eyes adjust to the bright lights, I search the rows. Since I’m shorter than most of the men standing in the back of the room, I do my best to wiggle into a space where I can stand on my tiptoes and peer between shoulders.

There’s a row of businessmen in the front on the left—I assume they represent Eagle Investments. I don’t linger on the backs of their heads, I want to find the people I know and care about.

It doesn’t take me long to find Pearl and Shirl in matching hats near the front. Stump is sitting on the far right, spit cup in his hand. He sees me and nods. I grit my teeth into a weak smile and continue searching for familiar faces. I find Elma from the Citgo seated next to a man in denim overalls. Further toward the back, Roger is seated, back stiff, dressed all in black as if he’s attending a funeral.

My father nudges me and nods back toward the line of gray suits on the left. I shake my head and shrug.
I’ve already seen them.
Then, just as I’m about to look away, David tugs my arm and urges me to take a step in front of him.

I see then what—or who—he is trying to point out.

With an unobstructed view, I find the Jordans. Some of them, anyway.

In the middle of the room, I see PD with an arm around Ella Rae. Further down the row, my eyes land on TJ. But instead of Aubie’s generous curves, I see Mary Katherine’s slim frame. Her hair’s done up in an elegant twist and she’s wearing a black suit with a white ruffled collar. Like she’s already part of the family.

The sight causes my stomach to drop. I don’t mean to, but I squeak in dismay. The shrill noise makes Mary Katherine look. We lock eyes.

I can tell she’s shocked, but then, Mary Katherine looks right past me, shields her eyes, and turns back to the front of the room.

I glance at my father, trying to ignore Mary Katherine’s obvious brush-off. There are much more important issues to worry about, I remind myself. First and foremost—there’s no sign of Aubie or Shug, which can mean only one thing.

MeeMaw is dying.

The mayor bangs his gavel for attention. When the room is quiet again, he asks for any final statements from the public. There’s some activity from the center of the room, and I watch as TJ rises from his seat.

With everyone’s full attention, he makes his way up to the front podium, nodding this way and that at select people in the audience. I frown, watching him. This is a side of Shug’s father I haven’t seen. He’s preening, reveling in the spotlight, almost as if he’s a political candidate running for office. I half-expect he’ll stop and kiss a baby, if he can find one. Then, TJ settles behind the wooden stand, adjusts the microphone, and begins speaking. I can only guess that this is a strategic move, waiting until the end, and giving everyone else an opportunity to speak. Everyone’s tired. The people won’t want to keep arguing. And the council is ready to vote.