It's Not Like I Knew Her (32 page)

“Peach cobbler, your specialty.” Jodie joined in laughter, awed by the sound of his voice; his first words since her arrival. The old dog spun in slow motion and they laughed at his antics. Their distraction likely explained neither having heard the approach of the vehicle before the hard slamming of its doors. Wiping tears from her cheeks, Jodie peered through the kitchen window, expecting to welcome either Maggie or Silas.

“Holy shit, Red, it's them. They're here.”

Jodie's alarm stemmed from her dread that Miss Mary would emerge from the back seat. But only Hazel and a bull-like man Jodie took to be Hazel's husband, William, stepped from the bat-winged '59 Chevy sedan, and Jodie's anxiety throttled down a notch.

William bent, tugged at his wedged trousers; Hazel squinted toward the house, and maybe she puzzled over the unexpected merriment she could have heard. William took a firm grip on Hazel's elbow in the manner of dominance and steered her toward the house.

Jodie's instinct was to distrust a man of his bearing, to carefully judge his intent. They had taken their own sweet time getting here, and she pondered what exactly had finally delivered them. She wiped Red's face and brushed food crumbs from the front of his stained shirt. If there had been time, she would have changed his shirt and considered getting out of her cut-offs and Red's cast-off white shirt and into jeans and a shirt of her own. There was no time to even look for her shoes.

She helped Red stand, and together they walked into the front room, Buster trailing. Jodie was certain a snapshot would have shown that she, Red, and the dog wore expressions of dread.

Hazel came through the door and glanced about the room as if she inventoried the drab furniture. Jodie decided that she'd remained her mother's compliant spy. The fair-skinned man with rolls of pink flesh riding his tight collar stood in the doorway. He had the somber yet gleeful demeanor of an undertaker, appearing to silently measure Red for a coffin. Hazel wore a navy crepe dress with a stiff white sailor's collar that jutted out from her heavy bosom like a mantelpiece. Her feet were thrust into fire engine red pumps, and her heavy legs, encased in nylons, were the color of peanut oil.

“Afternoon, Daddy. I do believe you're looking some better.”

How would she know? She didn't look at Red, but kept her eyes averted. William offered Red a wooden nod and he, like his wife, had the sanctimonious bearing of a hard-ass.

“My, my, Jodie. William and I heard you'd come back.” Her high-pitched tone betrayed her strained civility.

“Back isn't exactly the case. But I'm here now.” Local gossip being what it was, Jodie knew Hazel had known within an hour of her arrival.

“William, dear, this is Jodie
Taylor.
” Hazel encased her name in layers of scorn.

Jodie exchanged a quick nod with William. She sat, her bare feet tucked beneath the chair, and picked at the frayed edges of her shorts. Hazel took her mother's platform rocker nearest the oscillating fan that did little more than circulate the heat rising from decades of shared resentment.

“My gracious, but I must say I'm surprised at how you've spruced up the place. Don't you agree, William?”

“Found some near-rotted material and Maggie had it sewed into slipcovers. Never did like the prickly feel of that couch.”

At the mention of Maggie's name, Hazel's mask of courtesy slid into the folds of her double chin and she blurted, “
You
are not to make decisions about my mother's home.”

William grunted his impatience, and walking his round butt to the front of the chair, he drew a hard bead on Jodie. He wasn't here about sprucing up, but rather some yet undeclared mission of consequence.

“I'll come straight to the point. The old man requires a steadying influence. And as a loose woman, you must need to get back to wherever you've come from … doing whatever it is you do.”

Jodie's hackles bristled at William's slander, but for now she'd hear
loose
to mean
unmarried.
To a man like William, there was no difference. She looked to Red but he sat, pulling on Buster's torn ear, as if he had nothing at stake in what was said.

Hazel's body had stiffened, a nervous giggle escaping her lips, and she stammered, “My gracious, dear.” She glared at William, and Jodie took her displeasure to mean William had either deviated from the agreed upon script or that he'd simply spoken the truth too bluntly.

“William meant that it's only proper that I should be the one to handle Daddy's affairs. After all, he is
my
father. Decisions he's influenced to make could hurt my mother's interests.”

“Affairs? I don't know about any affairs. What I do know is that he needs looking after till he's back on his feet.” She remembered the sorry state she'd found him in on her arrival. If Hazel couldn't look Red in the face and Miss Mary had refused him as much as a visit, how did either expect to take care of him? Neither claim made sense.

“Are you forgetting his stash of money? Miss Mary's his wife and Hazel his lawful child. They're entitled. Certainly not you.” William scoffed, his thin upper lip pulled over his teeth, and he wiped sweat from his face bright as a baboon's ass.

It was Jodie's turn at outrage and she shouted, “Money? What money? Everything he owns could be hauled away in a damn goat cart.” Since her arrival Maggie had delivered every bite of food. When she'd asked, Maggie made it perfectly clear that she wasn't to stick her nose in what didn't concern her.

“Don't play innocent.” Hazel smirked as if she'd gained some moral high ground Jodie knew nothing about.

Red tugged on Buster's collar and struggled to gain his feet. His body swayed and a grating sound ripped from his throat. “Get from here.” He raised his good arm and pointed toward the door. His eyes flashed with anger, leaving no doubt as to his meaning. He displayed more fight than Jodie had seen until now.

William leaped to his feet, a chair leg tangling in the worn rug, and declared, “He's done things. We have proof. You'll see. My wife's God's servant in this. Her mother's interests will be protected.” He turned and stomped out of the house, Hazel following him down the rickety porch steps. They got into the Chevy and sped away.

Jodie turned to Red. “What the hell was that all about?”

Red waved her off, turned his back to her scrutiny, and made his labored way toward the bedroom. “Damnit, Red. Why won't you tell me?”

She replayed the parting scene over and over in her mind, deciding that Red may have believed the scrimmage had gone his way. But the sharp echo of Hazel's red pumps rang in Jodie's ears as a warning to what surely lay ahead.

M
axine's letter arrived in the rusted mailbox on the road, and although she continued to lament the loss of Teddy and the family they'd had, she admitted that in Teddy's absence, she and her kids were settling into a difficult new normal. Jodie worried that news of Teddy was certain to become even more scarce.

The letter also included a newspaper clipping, dated two weeks earlier. Jodie read through tears of grief and anger the blurred account of Elizabeth Stover, an employee at the jeans factory, who was reported to have fallen from her employer's loading dock. Her substantial injuries required hospitalization. The plant's spokesman claimed Stover had received prior warnings about her on-the-job drinking, declaring the unfortunate incident was her fault. The article further reported that there were no witnesses to the accident.

Jodie knew the accusation against Bitsy was a lie. She'd drunk her share of days and weekends, but never on company time. That miserable job was the one thing that stood between her and returning to the cotton fields. She'd never jeopardize that. A more likely story was that Bitsy had continued to gamble, and to lose.

Maxine wrote that local gossip held that after the woman checked out of the hospital, there was neither word of her whereabouts nor that of her young daughter, but that her son was serving time in a juvenile detention center for robbery and assault on an arresting officer. The plight of a drunkard and failed mother held little interest beyond finger-pointing, and her story had predictably given way to fresher gossip. Jodie didn't want to think about how much Bitsy likely owed Snake, or where her daughter was if she'd run without her. If Bitsy had kept Silas's number, she might call. Then, what good could she do for a desperate woman on the run? She had no vehicle, no cash, nothing. Bitsy came into this fucked world alone, and she was destined to go out the same.

Jodie laced up her high-tops, sprinted down the lane and onto the county road. She ran blindly, her rage driving her legs until they turned rubbery and her lungs burned. She dropped onto the shoulder of the road, among intermittent patches of sandspurs, and wept openly, ignoring the curious who slowed their vehicles to stare.

A
week with no word from either William or Hazel, and Jodie had begun to consider that her earlier estimate of threat may have been overblown. Although Red's speech was improving, he had grown quieter. He sat long hours, slumped in his porch rocker while he sipped whiskey, doing well to count the number of crows perched along the electrical wire. He stared in the direction of the road as if he awaited the arrival of an unwelcome messenger.

Concerned that Red's health had taken a turn for the worse, Jodie flagged Silas, asking that he call Maggie about her worries.

Midmorning, Maggie's truck pulled into the yard. She stopped on the porch and took the rocker next to Red. She leaned in close, and he whispered.

Maggie came into the house, walked straight to the phonograph, and began searching among the old record jackets. When she was done, she asked, “That first day you were here, I noticed these old records scattered about. Do you remember me asking you if you'd messed with them?”

“And you remember I told you I found them that way.”

“Is that still your story?” Maggie's tone was firm, her gaze steady.

“Why would I need to change what I said?”

“You wouldn't. But somebody did.”

“What does any of that mean?”

“Can't say exactly. But I can tell you it's not good.” Maggie walked back onto the porch. Red listened and slowly nodded, his weak arm resting on the rocker, his hand trembling.

Jodie overheard Maggie say, “Yeah, of course, I'll look into it. But how many times did I try telling you?”

Red raised a hand, hushing her.

“Damn, Red Dozier, you're one stubborn fool.” Maggie walked off the porch, got into her truck, and sped away.

Jodie went onto the porch and Red looked up at her.

“I worry … she got me cornered … this go ‘round.”

“Is this about you and me?” She tasted the bitterness of righteous anger between her teeth.

Red struggled to come to his feet. “Was always about that … and more. What it'll take this time .…” His body swayed, and he caught to a porch post.

“Damn you, Red. Maybe you thought bringing me here settled any debt you felt you owed my mama. But even before that time with the comic books, you knew what went on in your absence. Did you ever care?”

He clung to the post and said, “I'm tired. Think … I'll lie down.” He made his clumsy way across the porch and upon reaching the door, he turned back, her name on his lips, but he said no more.

J
odie borrowed Maggie's truck and drove to Silas's station. She parked beneath the oak and walked to where he leaned into the hood of a '56 Ford Falcon. Tapping him on the shoulder, she whispered her question.

He straightened, and without as much as a greeting, he guided her away from the piqued interest of his helper.

“That's got to be the second dumbest thing I've ever heard out of your mouth.” He took an oily rag from his back pocket and wiped his hands; she knew him to be stalling.

“I'm not playing, Silas. Tell me what you know.”

He looked at the ground between his boots. The skin at his temples furrowed, and he said, “You're asking me what I know about Red breaking the law in some of his political shenanigans.”

“Screw you. I'm wasting my damn time.” She turned to leave.

“Hold up there, will you?” He closed the distance. “What's got you so fired up?”

“Maggie came straight over like I asked. The two talked out of earshot, and whatever passed between them had both plenty stirred up.”

“That's nothing. They've got decades of secrets between them.” A duplicitous smile broke across his face as if he meant to dismiss her concerns, until she told him about Maggie's questioning.

He stared in the direction of the empty street, and when he looked back, he was clearly worried.

“Hell, Jodie, as far as I know, backstabbing and double-crossing among politicians aren't crimes unless weapons are involved.”

She continued on toward the truck.

Silas jogged alongside. “Why's trying to talk sense to you got to be like butting a damn stump?”

She slid behind the steering wheel and started the engine.

“Wait.” He placed his hand on the door frame. “With all your damn rearing, I nearly forgot about that gal friend's call.”

“What call? What gal friend?”

“I've got it here. Somewhere.” He patted down his coverall pockets and came up empty. “Must've left it in the wrecker. Was headed out just before I took the call.” He trotted to the wrecker, sorted through a stack of papers on the dash, and returned, handing her a name and number scratched on a Dixie cup.

“You sure you got this right?”

“Yeah, I'm sure. She wasn't the sweetest woman I've ever talked to, still she kept saying ‘urgent.”' He paused, tilting his head to one side. “Then, she didn't really seem all that upset. Whispered through most of what was a one-sided conversation.”