Southern Fried Sushi (24 page)

Everlasting… never-ending… the cry of my heart … give You praise
… The words kept pouring like water into my thirsty soul. I turned them over and over in my mind, trying to understand.

The chords haunted me, struck something deep I didn’t know existed. A sensation like tears prickled in my throat, and I had no idea why.

The tune changed, and one song streamed into another. “I will not die but live, and will proclaim what the Lord has done….”

I rubbed my ear to see if I’d heard right. “What did that just say?”

Adam replayed the song as something cold crept up my neck. It sounded almost word-for-word from that radio-preaching show, the one with …

“Like it? It’s from the Bible.”

I slumped back in my seat, tickling my chin with the dandelion. Surely not the same verse. Could it be? “It’s a new one. I like it, too.”

I tipped my head back and let the music, like medicine, pour into the sore spots in my heart, my past. I didn’t know why, or how, but I wanted it. Needed it. Felt like raising my hands to the sunlight and inviting Him—whoever He was—inside.

Singing wafting out of churches intrigued me, but these words—these throbbing chords—called me. By name.

“In my anguish I cried to the Lord, and He answered by setting me free. I will not die but live….”

The painful ache expanded with each second, like a shimmering bubble, and I longed to lift my life up to Someone greater, Someone stronger, and let Him hold it in His hands as Faye had suggested. My job, Carlos, Japan, my family—all of it. Could He really take it? Make something good of my mess?

I couldn’t look at Adam. He must think I was a pagan. Or worse, he’d think he converted me.

The Brit was speaking over the music, praising God, praying as if on behalf of all of us. I dared to let the prayer pull me along, the way a stream pulls fallen leaves. I mean, how could I pray? I didn’t believe in Him. Not exactly.

I listened to that voice, that hush, those guitar chords in the background, afraid to make a sound and ruin the sacred moment. The truck transformed into a chapel. Nothing would ever be the same.

Relationship
. Adam had called it a relationship. Tim called it a romance.

“You all right?” Adam looked over at me, tone softer than before.

I nodded curtly, afraid if I spoke I would cry. I am Shiloh P. Jacobs. I do not cry.

A thousand questions danced in my head, sparkling with blinding radiance like stream ripples as we rumbled over a bridge, wet rocks shining.

We pulled into a small country town announced by a couple of old trailers. Adam slowed the truck and turned down adumpy-looking side road then parked in front of what looked like a shack.

“Come on. Let’s have lunch.”

“Lunch?” The music stopped when he turned off the truck.

“Sure. Aren’t you hungry? It’s noon already. After.”

I glanced at my watch, surprised. I hadn’t felt a thing.

Adam held the door for me as we entered—I kid you not—Bubba’s Diner. The paint (if you could call it paint) peeled like a moldy onion, and it looked about a hundred years old. It had definitely survived air raids and probably a couple of fires.

“Now, this isn’t anything fancy like you’re probably used to, so don’t get your hopes up,” he said with a little jibe at the look on my face. “Just give it a try. Okay?”

The place was dingy, but something did smell good. Adam pulled up two bar stools in front of a long counter with an old guy working steadily behind it. Several men were already eating and talking loudly about NASCAR and taxes, slapping their knees, over the country music. I awkwardly scooted onto the bar stool in my dress.

“Whakinnadawgyawantdahlin?” the old man asked, leaning on the counter.

I stared at him and then at Adam. “Sorry? What?”

“He wants to know what kind of dog you want. You do like hot dogs, don’t you? I guess you have those in Japan.”

Was he mocking me? “Hot dogs? Of course. I love hot dogs. Um … what are the options?”

“Up there.” Adam leaned back and pointed to a white plastic placard over the counter with movable black letters, many of which were missing. Chili Dog. Chili Cheese Dog. Chili ‘n’ Kraut Dog. And so on. If I could guess past the blanks.

“I don’t see a Collard Dog,” I said, scanning the menu.

Adam rolled his eyes. “Funny. He’d probably make it for you if you asked.”

“No thanks. What do you recommend?”

“Chili dog with mustard. Todd’s favorite.” “Todd?”

“My younger brother.”

I still had all kinds of things to learn about people. “I didn’t know you have a younger brother.”

“He’s eleven. A great kid.”

“Well, I’ll trust his taste in hot dogs then, if he thinks they’re okay.”

“Okay? These are fabulous.”

“They’re just hot dogs, aren’t they?” From a joint called Bubba’s Diner?

Adam smirked and turned to the man. “Two chili dogs with mustard.”

As he made our “dawgs,” I looked around the place for an inspection sticker or a sign that any reputable person, governmental or otherwise, had ever set foot in Bubba’s Diner. I was still looking for it when the man appeared and slid two plates in front of us.

Adam bowed his head—the prayer thing again—and I tried to do the same. Whispered something along the lines of, “Please don’t let me get food poisoning.” Then took a bite.

Wow. I mean, WOW. The spicy homemade chili took me by surprise, and the soft, warm bun housed a tasty, fat little sausage inside. Grilled, not dunked in a pot of boiling water. The mustard had a nice kick, too—not the cheap stuff.

I ate my hot dog in four bites. Relived carnivals, fairs, and baseball games I’d never attended all rolled into one.

“Another one?” asked Adam, wiping his mouth with his napkin. I nodded, mouth stuffed full. The warm, squishy bread and tangy mustard were addicting.

We ate, and I took my time, imagining what the
New York Times’
food editor would write about Bubba’s Diner. I’d seen articles about thousand-dollar balsamic vinegar and imported Italian prosciutto, but never an article about a hot dog.

I wonder if they’d pay me if I floated the idea. Hot dogs were, after all, one of Americans’ top comfort foods, if they ever stopped to think about it—so long as you didn’t buy them at the gas station or on a turning spit at the roller rink. I made a mental note to write up a proposal later. If it went to press, Bubba’s Diner would have to rent out an empty lot just to contain all the Yankee foodies on pilgrimage.

“Why don’t you have an accent?” I blurted.

Adam finished chewing and reached for a napkin. “Why should I? My family’s not from Tennessee. That’s where the good accents come from. Or Alabama.”

“But everybody else around here has one. How did you miss out?”

He shrugged. “Actually a lot of people don’t have accents. But in my case … beats me. I guess exposure to other people and places. Education and all that. Sort of neutralizes it a little.”

So practical. I’d hoped for something a little more exciting. I wiped the last bit of chili from my plate while Adam paid. He thanked the man, and we pushed back our stools.

“Thatnsagudn,” the man said, winking at me. Adam reddened and nodded politely.

“What did he say?” I asked impatiently as we headed for the door. “Why doesn’t he speak English?”

“He was speaking English.” He held the door for me.

“Well, not any kind of English I’ve ever heard. Can you translate?”

He hesitated and fumbled with his keys in embarrassment. “Nothing important.”

“Yes he did, too! What did he say?”

“He said, ‘That one’s a good one.’ Meaning you.”

“Me?” I looked accusingly back over my shoulder. “He doesn’t even know me!”

“I know.”

“Then why did he say it?”

“I guess there are things every Southern man looks for in a woman he can respect.”

I rolled my eyes. “I bet I can guess what they are.”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“Forget it.” He strode across the gravel and opened the truck door for me.

“No,” I insisted, annoyed. “Tell me!”

Adam ignored me, and I stopped in the middle of the parking lot. “Tell me! I’m waiting.”

He turned to look at me. “You really want to know?”

“Yes.”

“He saw you pray.”

“Pray?”

“Yes, pray. It’s important to find a good woman who loves God. That’s more attractive than any pretty face.”

I harrumphed. Like I believe that! “Anything else?”

“You’re dressed like a lady. And not a streetwalker.”

It was my turn to blush. “It’s just a dress.”

“Well, a man wants a woman who saves a little something for later, if you know what I mean. Some girls let it all hang out or come right up to the edge. It’s not attractive. At least not around here.”

“So all a woman has to do is wear a dress to catch a man in these parts?” I asked sarcastically, unfolding my arms and climbing up into the truck. “She can be dumb as a rock, but look pretty?”

“I didn’t say that. Southern men aren’t scared of a smart woman. In fact, she’s a real catch. But they want her to be a woman.”

“And wear a dress.”

Adam looked annoyed. “I didn’t say that either. You just asked what the man said, and I told you. It’s a plus to dress decently. That’s all.”

I couldn’t believe my Yankee ears. “Now don’t try to sound all high and mighty, Adam Carter!” I snapped back. “If a woman walked into that diner in a miniskirt, every man in the place would bug his eyes out.”

“You’re probably right. But they’d never respect her.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“They’d consider her a cheap item, like a Wal-Mart clearance special. ‘A piece a work,’ they’d say. But nobody wants a piece a work for the mother of his children and the woman he loves.”

“I can’t believe you!” Adam Carter, a landscaper, lecturing me on how to dress in the South and talking about women having children. I saw red. Of all the backwoods, ignorant, chauvinistic, sexist …

I grabbed for my seat belt, still steaming. “Is that all?”

He closed my door and got in on his side. Didn’t answer.

“There’s more and you’re just not telling me. Go on! Spill it!”

Adam buckled his seat belt and leaned back in his seat, looking hard at me. “Why do you want to know if you hate it so much?”

“No reason.” So I can know what kind of redneck creeps I have to deal with! “Just tell me.”

“Fine.” He started the truck. “You let me pay for your lunch and open the door for you.”

“And that’s supposed to mean something?” I crossed my arms.

“It means you’re not a man-hating feminist.” He glanced at my scowl. “Although I could be wrong.”

I turned up my nose. “As if you would know.”

“Southern men appreciate women who aren’t too frilly,” he said as if he hadn’t heard me.

“I promise you, I’m frilly!” I snapped back. “Just because I’m not wearing heels today doesn’t make me a Betty Sue or Daisy Mae or whatever her name is. I’m definitely frilly!”

“No you’re not.”

“Yes I am!”

“No you’re not. You ate two hot dogs on a bar stool, without worrying about your lipstick, and you still have mustard on your chin.” His mouth curved into a self-satisfied smirk. “You asked. Not me.”

I cried out and pulled down the visor, finding the spot in the mirror and angrily wiping it off.

“And now you’re going fishing.”

“Fishing?” I retorted indignantly. “Who said I wanted to go fishing?”

Adam didn’t answer. Kept on driving. Turned the music back on. Pulled into a gas station to get gas.

“Why don’t you wear cowboy boots if you’re such a Southern man?” I shot back as he took the keys out of the ignition.

“I’m not a cowboy,” he said. And disappeared with a slam of the truck door.

And to my fury, it made perfect sense.

Adam came back out of the gas station with a paper bag, which he put on the seat between us.

I was still steaming. “Those better not be live worms. I’m not putting a worm on a hook, and that’s final.”

“They’re not worms.”

We didn’t say anything more until he pulled up to the entrance of what looked like a national park. It stretched out green and tree-ful, with a few cars parked at the entrance. Adam dug two fishing poles out of the back of his truck, plus a tackle box, and I reluctantly carried the paper bag. Cold condensation on the sides told me there were drinks inside. Probably not beer, knowing the king of temperance.

We wended our way through a lush, meadowy area with picnic tables, and Adam set his stuff down on one of them. At least the picnic table was clean enough not to ruin my dress.

I couldn’t say as much for the lake.

Squirrels chattered in the oak trees overhead, which groaned and swayed in the breeze. Everything smelled fresh, like it had just been washed, and the heat stuck my formerly cooperative bangs to my forehead.

Adam opened the bag and took out two frosty bottles. “A redneck meal isn’t complete without processed soda laced with chemicals.”

“Thanks for ruining my appetite.” I pulled my hair to the side to cool my sweaty neck.

A cold Coke did sound good though, after those two spicy chili dogs. Sort of like pairing wine and cheese. Maybe we could have a redneck version? With Tang and grits? Or root beer and potted meat stuff in a can?

Adam opened the bag one last time and tossed two more things onto the picnic table. My vision blurred.

It’s not … oh no. It’s not possible. I paled, looking at the two round circles shining in clear plastic.

No, God, noooo…. Anything but that! Please!

“It’s one of the redneck food groups,” said Adam as he folded up the paper bag. But I barely heard him.

He put one of the silver disks in my hand, and I dropped it like a cup of scorching green tea—not believing what I saw. It can’t be the same one. The same one! Even the same brand!

And then without warning, I, Shiloh P. Jacobs, burst into tears—right in front of Adam Carter, landscaper, and two fishing poles, in the middle of Nowhere, Virginia.

W
hen it rains, it pours like Japan during monsoon season.