Etta Mae's Worst Bad-Luck Day (3 page)

After a while I reached for the phone, feeling about half ready to tackle old lady Springer, who owned the Hillandale Trailer Park, and complain again about garbage pickup and dogs running loose to damage property and mess up a person’s whole day and general outlook on life. I dialed her number, knowing it by heart since I’d had to call it so often.

“Mrs. Springer?” I asked as she answered her phone. “This is Etta Mae Wiggins, remember me? I’m a friend of Hazel Marie’s and I spent the night at your house back in that late winter storm we had when I was Mr. Sam Murdoch’s home health care nurse after he broke his leg? And I was at Binkie and Coleman’s wedding? And I rent a space in the Hillandale Trailer Park that you own? And I always pay my rent on time?”

“I know who you are, Miss Wiggins.” The woman could rub me raw just with the tone of her voice, but I didn’t let on.

“Well, I’m sorry to be calling and complaining again, but it’s been over a week and the garbageman hasn’t been here, and on top of that, somebody’s dogs have been. I came home to a mess today you wouldn’t believe, and I knew you’d want to know about it.”

“What do you want me to do about it, Miss Wiggins?”

Get another garbageman! Call the dog pound! Lock somebody up! Come over here and live with it and see how you like it,
I wanted to say. Instead I bit my lip and said, “I’d appreciate it if you’d make the owners of the dogs keep them penned up. At least.”

“Well,” she said, with a long sigh. Like I was putting her out, but she was just too much of a lady to say so. It just burned me up. “I’ll see what I can do, but if you don’t know whose dogs they are, I don’t know that anything can be done.”

“Well, something better be,” I said, trying my best to stay professional, but firm. “I work hard all day, cleaning up after other people, and I don’t need to come home and have to clean up after a pack of dogs!” The whole day was catching up with me, and I was about to lose it. “And I know good and well, Mrs. Springer, that if I just left that mess out there, you’d be sending me an eviction notice.”

“Your lease requires you to keep your space neat and clean,” she said. I
knew
that. That’s what I was trying to do. That’s why I was calling her. Was everybody after me? Was every effort I made going to be shot down? Seemed like I couldn’t get anywhere for trying.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, hoping she couldn’t tell that I was about to cry. “I do try to keep my place neat and clean, but I need some help here.”

She took another deep breath, and said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

Now, see? That’s what I’ve been talking about. If Mrs. Howard Connard, Senior, had called with a complaint, that woman would’ve fallen all over herself to straighten it out. But let Etta Mae Wiggins complain and you see what happens.

With an ache in my heart at the unfairness of it all, I hung up. At least the inside of my trailer was neat and attractive, the floral sofa the stunning centerpiece of my home decor. Rubbing my face against Bobby Lee’s giraffe and setting aside Mrs. Julia Springer, I turned my mind to some hard thinking and careful planning, now that a snag in the form of Junior Connard had popped up. Mr. Howard would be counting on me to figure something out, because he knew I wasn’t the type to sit back and let Junior or anybody else mess up our plans.

Reaching for the remote, I turned on the TV, zipping through stations until I got to CMT, the country music station that I always listened to when I had hard thinking to do. Tracy Lawrence was singing about time marching on, and don’t it ever. There’s so much truth in country music, if people would only take it to heart. I sank back into the recliner and flipped it to maximum recline. I lay back and studied my bare feet with Roundup Red polish painted on my toes. Then I cocked my left leg up so I could admire the tiny butterfly tattooed in blue and green and rose on the inside of my ankle. Bobby Lee had gone crazy over it. He used to reach across the bed and grab me by the ankle so he could . . . But that was in some of our more intimate moments.

I didn’t have the time nor the inclination to dwell on Bobby Lee Moser. Now was the time to think of the future. The
immediate
future, and what I could do to outmaneuver Junior Connard.

I knew Junior wouldn’t stay around Delmont long. He’d made his life over in Raleigh, and in the year or so I’d been looking after Mr. Howard, Junior had never once come to see him. If I hadn’t known so much about the Connard family already, due to the fact that everybody in Delmont kept up with everybody else, especially the most prominent family in town, I would’ve never known there was a Junior.

So it wasn’t like I had to worry about Junior staying around and taking over Mr. Howard’s care himself. And from what I’d heard, there was no danger of his current wife letting herself be saddled with a stroke-stricken father-in-law. She was a TV anchorperson on
Your Live Local Late-Breaking News at Six O’Clock
in Raleigh, and not about to interrupt her career to look after anybody twenty-four hours a day. I could just see her messing up that lacquered hair as she got Mr. Howard settled on the commode.

The one thing I did have to worry about was Junior putting Mr. Howard in a nursing home with a restriction on who visited him. There were three nursing homes in the area, two over in Abbotsville and one right outside Delmont. I didn’t think much of any of them, though they all had state licenses. Last year I’d helped get old Mrs. Stanton moved into the Mountain Ridge Rest Home, and I wouldn’t put my dog in there. If I had a dog. Poor old thing, she’d cried and held on to me that day till I thought I’d cry with her. Her daughter’d said she had Alzheimer’s, but I think she was just old and confused. I mean, wouldn’t you be confused if your daughter came into your house and cleaned and straightened and moved everything out of its place so you couldn’t find your glasses or your pocketbook or your nightgown?

You have to realize that old people don’t like change. And they don’t like people, even if they are kin, coming in and taking over what’s been theirs for seventy years, either.

I didn’t think Junior would consider the Mountain Ridge Rest Home or the Bonny Acres, but he might the Aycock Center because it was private and expensive. I figured that he’d think the more expensive the better, especially since the payments wouldn’t come out of his pocket. He could go back to Raleigh satisfied that his old daddy was getting the best of care and that somebody would always be around to keep me away from him.

So that was one possibility, one that I thought I could get around. There’re ways to get around any restrictions Junior might set up in this town. It might take some time, though, and I didn’t have time to waste.

Well,
I
had plenty, but Mr. Howard probably didn’t. Not that he was dying or anything like that, but once a victim of stroke, always a candidate for another one. That’s what his doctor’d said. Along with instructions for Mr. Howard to avoid high-salt, high-fat foods and mental or physical stress. And you couldn’t tell me that throwing him in a nursing home wouldn’t bring about plenty of mental stress. I knew he wouldn’t want to be committed to an old folks’ home, and I knew he’d be fit to be tied if he couldn’t have me around.

Instead of upsetting or depressing him, as his son was likely to do, I was the only one who knew how to give him something to live for.

He’d come to depend on me, see, and he knew he could rely on me to know what he could stand and what he couldn’t. He could get right sprightly if I’d let him, but I always called a halt before he went too far and got too excited. I just eased him along a little at a time, all the while watching his pulse rate and checking how flushed his face was while he got some pleasures he thought he’d lost forever. Now, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea of what went on when Mr. Howard and I were alone together. I was a churchgoing woman, had been ever since I broke up with Bobby Lee. All I’d done with Mr. Howard was let him find out that life still had something to offer, that there were things to look forward to, and that there was a possibility of having those things every day. And every night.

I know for a fact that I helped him, because his doctor said so. He was amazed at Mr. Howard’s rapid rehabilitation, not to the point of having full use of his left side, of course, but enough to compliment me on the physical therapy I was practicing on Mr. Howard.

It wasn’t the same for me, of course, as it was for Mr. Howard. But I never expected it to be. After two husbands and Bobby Lee, oh, and Junior Johnson for a little while, I’d had about all the thrills, and the heartaches that went along with them, that I could stand.

I figure everything’s a trade-off. I could give Mr. Howard what he wanted, and he could give me what I wanted. And if we didn’t want the same things, why, who’s to say one was getting the better of the deal? We could both be happy if people would just let us alone.

But that was the very thing Junior was hell-bent on not doing. It just worried me sick to think how mad Mr. Howard was going to be when Junior dumped him in an old folks’ home, and how unglued he’d be when I wouldn’t be allowed to visit. That was a blueprint for another stroke. And another stroke might wipe his memory clean of what I meant to him. It might even kill him. We’re talking life or death here.

The worst possible case would be if Junior took his daddy to Raleigh and put him in a nursing home there. No way would I have the means to commute two hundred miles often enough to get on the good side of an aide or an orderly who’d let me sneak in to see him.

I got so agitated at the thought that I had to get up for another Bud. One nice thing about living in a single-wide, you don’t have to walk far to get to the refrigerator.

I watched Patty Loveless for a minute—that woman can mortally
sing
—then got myself reclined again to think out what I needed to do. First, I had to find out what Junior’s plans were. Regardless of what he did—closed up the house, pensioned Emmett off, committed Mr. Howard—I could get around them if he just didn’t take Mr. Howard out of town.

As I lay there wiggling my toes and sipping on the Bud, I heard the uneven growl and pop of what sounded like a dirt bike or a motorcycle whose timing was off, puttering and popping along somewhere in the trailer park. I pictured Jennie’s husband, Mack, coming home from the Kawasaki Cycle Center where he worked to their double-wide across the street from me. From the sound of it, though, what he was riding needed more work than it’d gotten.

Then I heard footsteps on the cement slab, and somebody banged on my door. I jumped up and tied my robe tighter, wondering who was visiting me at eight o’clock at night. I glanced in the mirror by the door and fluffed up my hair.

Lurline had been right; my roots could’ve used some help.

I put on the chain lock and cracked the door. Lord, my heart sank to my toes when I saw who it was.

“What in the world are
you
doing here?”

“Lemme in, Etta Mae,” he said, pushing against the door as he glanced over his shoulder. “I need help, and you’re the only one I could think of. Come on, hon, lemme in.” His hand, grease-stained knuckles and all, curled around the door.

“Oh, no, Skip Taggert, you’re not getting in here. I had my fill of you a long time ago. Now, get on away from here.”

He mashed his face right up in the crack between the door and the trailer so I could see the blond stubble around his mouth, and said real low and pleading, “Etta Mae, I ain’t foolin’. I need help real bad. I’m in big trouble, and you just got to help me. I got nowhere else to go.”

“I’ve already helped you to the tune of fifteen thousand dollars’ worth of bills you ran out on. Who do you owe now?”

“It ain’t like that, Etta Mae,” he said, whispering across the chain so close that I could smell his breath. Onions and beer. “Please, I don’t owe anybody anything. This is something different, and it’s big. Lemme in so I can tell you about it. You won’t be sorry, I promise.”

“You think I’m a fool? Is that what you think? Well, let me tell you I’m not. I learned my lesson with you when you left me with enough debts to choke a horse, so you might as well get on away from here.”

“Etta Mae,” he whispered, letting his big, flabby body slump against the door like he’d just given up on everything. “Please, I really need some help. I’m in big trouble.”

I’d never heard Skip ask for anything. Usually, he just took what he wanted with never a thought of what it might cost him. Or anybody else, for that matter. He did look pitiful, though, and my heart always goes out to the pitiful and the helpless. Even when it’s their own fault.

“Get off the door, then,” I said with a click of my tongue, “and let me get the chain off. But I want you to know right up front that I’m not giving you a nickel so you’d just better not even ask.”

“You won’t be sorry, I promise.”

“Uh-huh, I hear you.” I slipped off the chain and stepped back. “Come on in, then.” He held the door so that it wouldn’t fully open and sidled inside. Then he stuck his head through the opening and peered out, looking one way and then the other.

Apparently satisfied, he closed the door, turned the latch, and put the chain back on.

“Thanks, Etta Mae,” he said. “Thank you from the bottom of my heart. I ’preciate this more’n you’ll ever know.”

“Oh, sit down and shut up about it,” I said, waving toward the couch.

“I will in a minute, but right now I got to go real bad. Which way’s your john?”

“Down the hall,” I said, pointing. “First door on the right, and close it behind you.”

Unzipping as he went, he said, “I ain’t even had time to stop at a bush.”

I shook my head, watching him hurry to the bathroom. There’d been some big changes in the way he looked from the last time I’d seen him. Back then, he’d been a hunk, the star that every girl in school wanted to date. I thought of how he used to be everybody’s friend, a good ole boy who’d thrilled this town every Friday night on the football field. We all thought he’d go places, like to Chapel Hill or State. But I found out quick enough that gaining a hundred yards every game didn’t prepare a man for anything but pumping gas and guzzling beer at the Broad River Fish Camp. As long as he had ten dollars in his pocket for a few beers and a pool game, he never gave a thought to the next day when the rent was due or his truck needed tires.

But when he came back from the bathroom, I could see there was something heavy on his mind this time. He looked lost and pitiful and, worst of all, he’d taken no pains with his personal appearance. That told me something was bad wrong. His blue plaid shirt was half out of his jeans, with a buttonhole gaping open. His jeans were smeared with grease and grass stains, and no telling when they’d been washed. The biggest change, though, was the fifty or so extra pounds on him, making him look as round and pudgy as a baby. He certainly wasn’t the boy I’d married before I knew any better.

But I’m an easy touch when it comes to the downtrodden, so I said, “You had supper, Skip? I could heat up some pizza, if you want it.”

“Naw, I don’t want anything.” He flopped down on my new couch and leaned his head back against the pretty floral pattern that I’d paid extra for. I wished for one of Lurline’s doilies. “Maybe some brew or something stronger, if you got it.”

“I don’t have anything stronger than Bud Light,” I said, opening the refrigerator door and looking around inside. “And only two of them.”

“Well, shoot, Etta Mae,” he said. “I know you wadn’t ever much of a drinker, but looks like you’d be a little better stocked than that.”

“I wasn’t exactly expecting you, you know.” He took the can I held out to him, glanced at the unopened top, then up at me with a hurt look. Maybe that was when it got through to him that I wasn’t going to wait on him hand and foot like I’d once done.

I sat down in the recliner far enough away to cut down on the body aroma I’d been smelling ever since he came in. This was a small trailer that was pretty tight against the elements.

“So what do you want, Skip? What kind of trouble are you in now?”

“Etta Mae,” he said, coming up for air after emptying the can. “My luck has turned. You’re not gonna believe this, but I’ve hit it big. I won’t ever have to work again.”

“Big deal!” I said. “When’ve you ever?”

“Now, hon,” he said, his mouth drooping down like I’d cut him to the quick. “You got to admit I used to take good care of you. You didn’t want for a thing.”

“I sure didn’t, except the money to pay for it. But I don’t want to talk about the past; that’s over and done with. I want to know what kind of trouble you’re in and why you’re bringing it to my door.”

“You’re not gonna believe it,” he said again, this big, goofy grin spreading across his face.

He sat forward on the edge of the couch, his hands dangling between his legs. His smile spread even wider, waiting to hit me with his news. “What would you think if I told you what I’ve got in my pocket?”

I jumped straight up out of my chair. “I don’t want to hear that nasty talk!” I headed for the door, mad enough to jerk it off its hinges. “Just get on out of here. Right now!”

“Wait, wait, hold on a minute,” he said, holding both hands up and patting the air, “that’s not what I meant. Come on, Etta Mae, I didn’t mean a thing by that. I just said it wrong. I’m not coming on to you or nothing. Not that I wouldn’t if you gave me half a chance. You’re lookin’ real good, hon, but this is bigger than anything me and you ever had goin’ for us.”

“Well, get on with it,” I said, standing there fuming with my arms crossed under my breasts, just waiting for him to cross the line again.

“What would you say if I told you I got two million dollars in my pocket?”

“
What?
Where would the likes of you get two million dollars?”

“Hold on, and I’ll tell you. Let me catch my breath a minute. I been on the run for two days.” He bowed his head and shook it, letting me see how beat he was. I just rolled my eyes.

“On the run from who? More creditors?” Then it hit me. “The
Law
? Skip, I swear, are you running from the Law? Did you steal that money?”

“No! Whatta you think I am, Etta Mae? I don’t owe anybody anything. Well, maybe I left a bar tab, but I didn’t steal anything. Give me a break, hon, I just need a place to lay low for a while. That’s where you come in, and it’s nothing illegal, so you don’t have to worry. I got enough to make it worth your while.”

“Huh, it’d take a lot more than you’d ever have. So, if you didn’t steal it, how’d you get this so-called two million dollars? What is it, Confederate money?”

“Look here,” he said, standing up and pulling a worn leather wallet from his hip pocket. It was curved from being sat on so much. He opened it, stuffing gas receipts and dog-eared business cards back into it, and pulled out what looked like a ticket. “Know what this is?”

I opened my mouth to say it looked like a pass to the Asheville Speedway, but three taps on the door stopped me.

Skip jumped a mile, almost knocking me over. “Oh, shoot, damn, and dang it all, they’re here!” he croaked, his voice hoarse and scared. He grabbed my arm and gave it a shake. “Quick, Etta Mae, hide me someplace. Tell ’em I’m not here; tell ’em you ain’t seen me.”