Somebody Everybody Listens To (3 page)

Estelle poked her head out the door. “Stinky's on the warpath, Retta. You better get back to work.” She narrowed her eyes. “What's the matter with you? You ain't been right all morning.” She came outside, sat down on the stoop next to me. “Did you go to Tercell's party last night?”

I shook my head and took a sip of tea.

“You sad about graduatin'?” she asked.

“No,” I replied firmly.

Suddenly the door swung open, and Stan's round, Buddha face scowled down at us. “Y'all better get back in here. We got customers,” he said.

“Me and Retta are entitled to a break,” Estelle snapped. Stan ignored her and slammed the door.

“I hate that man,” I said.

“Oh, honey, don't waste your precious energy hatin' him. He ain't worth it.”

 

The afternoon wore on and on and on. Around three, a group of very sunburned, slightly buzzed college kids came staggering through the door demanding silver-dollar pancakes and hash browns. Estelle set them straight on the breakfast menu hours, and they settled for turkey club sandwiches instead. Usually, Bluebell's is dead this time of day, which is why Faye, the short-order cook, left early for a doctor's appointment, and Stan slipped off to the back somewhere.

While Estelle took care of the orders, I tossed a couple of hamburgers on the griddle. Neither of us had eaten a bite for hours, and I was starving. Greasy heat filled the kitchen; sweat trickled down the sides of my face. All afternoon I'd been humming Patsy Cline in my head. It was the Patsy from a YouTube video I'd watched a million times in the Starling High School library when I should've been studying. With nobody around to hear me, I let the words to “Crazy” slide off my tongue. I strived to get her signature sound just right—the swooping glissandos, that slight catch in her voice, the achy sadness.

Right then the faintest twinge of happy washed over me, but it was shattered instantly when something bit my right butt cheek—
hard
. I whirled around, half expecting to find a rabid dog or a king cobra, but it was only Stan. He was laughing hysterically and snapping a pair of kitchen tongs like they were castanets. “I couldn't resist,” he said.

I glared at him. My butt was throbbing, and I'd have a bruise with Stan Plummer's name on it, which was too disgusting for words. A greasy, hot spatula sat on the griddle. “Say you're sorry,” I said, and snatched it up.

Just then Estelle came through the door with an overloaded tray. “Y'all stop it,” she ordered. “Retta, put that down before you hurt somebody.”

My temper was in charge now.
“Say. You're. Sorry!”

“Retta, please,” Estelle tried.

“I ain't sorry,” Stan said. “It was just a joke is all, and you're about as likely to hit me with that spatula as you are to make a hit record.”

The
thwack
was louder than I'd expected, and truth be told, it was his hit-record comment that made me do it.

“Ow!” Stan yelped, and pressed his palm to his face. “Ice!
Ice!
Get me some ice!” Ugly red welts were rising up on his cheek. I'd burned myself on that hot griddle at least a hundred times over the past three years, and I knew that later Stan's wound would blister then ooze. “Don't just stand there!” he screamed. “Get me some ice, dammit!”

“Get it yourself, butt breath,” Estelle replied. She slammed her tray down, and plastic cups clattered to the floor. “All's you had to do was say sorry. Five little letters, Stan. When are you gonna learn to keep your hands to yourself?
Huh?
I guess Retta here taught you a lesson.”

“Retta's crazy!” Stan hollered. “She's just
crazy
!”

The word jumped out at me. I untied my apron. This place
was
making me crazy. This whole town was making me crazy. All of a sudden it was like being tied up in a straitjacket; somehow I had to get out. My purse was under the counter. I grabbed it, slung it over my shoulder.

“Retta, don't do this. Don't let him run you off,” Estelle tried.

“I'll call you later,” I said.

“You
better
go!” Stan yelled at my back. “I ought to call the law! Have you arrested for assault!” I didn't turn around. I just marched out the door and toward the highway.

It was six sweaty miles to Polk Road, but I wasn't going home, not yet. Daddy would have a fit if he heard what Stinky Stan had done with those tongs, and Mama would have a fit when she found out I'd quit my job. Instead, I decided to stop off at Baker's Point, which was only three miles or so from the diner. I'd hang out by myself for a while, think things over before I walked the rest of the way home.

Baker's Point was always pretty this time of day—glistening water, nice breeze, sunny skies. The calm after the storm. Boats buzzed across the water, and a pair of dragonflies danced right in front of me. The ground was still a little damp from last night's storm, but I didn't care. I lay back and stared up at the summer sky, thought of all those kids I'd gone to school with: Marlena Blackstone was pregnant, but refused to tell anybody who the father was (of course, if her reputation was any indication, the baby would need a blood test before Marlena knew herself). A lifetime of WIC-funded Pampers and Similac awaited them both for sure. Sissy Rummage and Lloyd Thomas were getting married tomorrow. Desiree Gibbons was leaving Monday for some summer program at her college. I couldn't even remember where she was going, which was strange because it was all she'd talked about for four years.

I sat up and chewed a hangnail. The $514.76 number churned in my head again. It was all I had. Now it was all I was gonna have, at least for a while. And last night, the roof leaked—there was the tiniest brown stain on my ceiling this morning when I woke up. It was only a matter of time before somebody'd have to pay to fix it.

IT WAS SURE TO BE MY DAY OF RECKONING. Appropriate, I guess, since it was Sunday. On Friday I had stayed down at the river then come home at the usual time. Mama didn't suspect a thing. And Saturday is my day off, so it was normal for me to sleep late and eat strawberry Pop-Tarts at noon. But today at church somebody would say something about my little spatula episode. Like the song says,
word gets around in a small, small town
, and as I adjusted my tired blue A-line skirt and buttoned the sweat-stained white blouse, I tried to figure out how I'd respond.

“Y'all come on! We're gonna be late!” Mama called, and hurried out the front door. Within seconds she was in the car and laying on the horn. My stomach lurched, and I could hear Daddy cursing under his breath down the hall.

“Mornin', Ree Ree,” he said as I emerged from my bedroom.

“Morning, Daddy,” I replied.

Daddy drove. Mama fussed about Daddy's driving. And I stared out the window and tried not to notice the TEAM MEMBER WANTED sign on the Taco Bell marquee.

It wasn't until we got out of the car and headed up the front steps of the Starling Methodist Church that I noticed Mama, really noticed her. Her lips were bright red and her hair was twisted up into an elegant French knot. She wore a Fashion Bug wrap dress that accentuated her perfect figure and a pair of rhinestone hoop earrings I'd never seen before. Of the three of us, Mama is the only one who ever seems to have anything new, and at times I wonder if she's giving herself a five-finger discount over at the Dollar King.

Mama dragged Daddy toward the front, but I slipped into the back pew. If you sit toward the front, you get caught in church traffic—a bunch of chatty old women who ask lots of questions about your personal life and clog up the aisle with their walkers and oxygen tanks. Cranky old Mr. Shackleford came in late and slid into the space next to me, although I didn't mind. He was only cranky on the surface; underneath he was kindhearted, and also a good tipper.

All through the sermon, I stared four rows ahead at the back of Tercell Blount's big hair. She sat in the pew with her parents and Bobby McGee (after his granddaddy, not the song), and I couldn't help but feel jealous. As far as I could tell, she had everything: more clothes than one girl could possibly wear, a nice car, and any kind of future she wanted. The irony was
she'd
never worked a day in her life. Mr. Blount runs a successful trucking business, and Mrs. Blount sells riverfront real estate. The Blounts have plenty of money, a fact Tercell always manages to brag about just when the electric company is threatening to shut off our lights again or our phone number has that embarrassing “This number has been temporarily disconnected” recording.

After a lengthy sermon on the miracle of Lazarus, Tercell and her mama clicked toward the altar to sing what I prayed would be just one hymn. Mrs. James, the preacher's elderly mother, twisted around in her seat and half shouted, “Why ain't you singing today, Retta?” I shrugged. I sang in church all the time, and it seemed only fair that someone else have a chance, even if it was the tone-deaf Blount women. “Well, I hope they ain't singing but one song,” Mrs. James said much too loudly, and snatched the hearing aid out of her ear.

Brother James hooked up the microphone, and the Blounts began. They started off with “Blessed Assurance” then “Praise Ye the Triune God” then “Give Me Jesus,” and just when I thought they never would stop, they ended with “I Saw the Light,” a number so far off tempo Mrs. Dempsey couldn't keep up on the organ.

“That-uz mighty good,” said Brother James when they finished.

“My foot,” Mrs. James whispered over her shoulder. “Times like this I wish I was
completely
deaf.”

“I got to go feed my cows,” Mr. Shackleford grumbled. Noisily, he left—even before Communion—and let the heavy, wooden door bang shut behind him. This didn't faze Mrs. Blount or Tercell, however. The two of them beamed like they'd been nominated for a Grammy.

By the time the service was over, my palms were sweating. The backs of my knees were sweating. Nervously, I glanced around, wondering who would be the first to say something. I decided it would be better if Mama and Daddy heard the news without me around, so I made a fast break for the Chrysler.

“Retta! Hey, Retta!” It was Tercell coming up behind me. I stopped in my tracks, drew in a deep breath, and turned to face her. “We sure did miss you and Brenda at the graduation party.” I could tell by the way she said it she hadn't missed us one bit.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry about not making it. I'm sure it was fun.” “Oh, it was. We had
steak
.” She said the word like I'd never heard of it before. “And chocolate fondue. And Daddy bought two thousand dollars' worth of fireworks and set them off right over the river. It was spectacular. Way better than the Fourth of July down at the marina.”

“Well, I'm glad y'all had fun,” I said, and turned to go.
Two thousand dollars. What a bunch of idiots.

“You're in a big hurry today, although I don't know why,” Tercell said to my back. “Your mama's in there talking up a storm. You shoulda seen the look on her face when Daddy teased her about your little run-in with Stan Plummer. I mean, I think it's hysterical, but your mama didn't appear very amused.” I stopped and turned around again. “You're lucky he doesn't file assault charges or something. That'd be just like him, don't you think so? Personally, I don't know how you could stand working there all these years. I would die if I had to wait tables.”

Bobby walked up just then, and Tercell hooked her arm through his. “Wouldn't you, Bobby?” she asked, and blinked up at him.

“Wouldn't I what? Hey, Retta,” he said in that slightly hoarse, sexy voice of his.

I smiled and felt my heart speed up a little. Bobby's so cute it kills me. Plus, he's also nice and smart. His only flaw, as far as I can tell, is his taste in girlfriends.

“Die if you had to wait tables.”

“There's nothing wrong with waiting tables. Speaking of work, I've got to help clean up out at McClellan's this afternoon.”

“Aw, Bobby. It's Sunday,” Tercell complained.