Yankee Doodle Dixie (12 page)

“No.”

“No, ma’am?”

“No, ma’am.” Her voice is barely audible.

“We’ll be home soon and you can watch
cartoons
,” I say, hoping to console her.

Instead of answering me she stares out the window. I figure it’s best not to bring up anything else about the events of the day.

When we pull into the driveway, I’m ready to cry myself. It’s a little before six and I haven’t even thought about supper. Since Kissie’s been keeping Issie all day, I feel like the least I can do is treat the poor thing to dinner. I’ll call the Germantown Commissary, the best barbecue joint in town, and order takeout for all of us as soon as I get inside.

I stop in front of my mailbox and as I’m getting out to check my mail I notice, out of the corner of my right eye—Riley—in his front yard raking leaves, even though it’s almost dark. He’s wearing his Tupperware windbreaker (I can tell by the turquoise) and what appears to be a white painter’s cap. Luke, perched in Riley’s driveway, which is separated from mine by only four feet of grass, is keeping watch over the cove.

Goodness gracious, I’m not at all in the mood for Riley. I jump back in the car, acting as if I don’t see him, but it’s no use. He’s in my driveway now, motioning for me to roll down my window.

“Who’s that man, Mommy?” Sarah wants to know.

“Our new next-door neighbor. Hi Riley,” I say, as my window lowers.

“How was your first day at work?”

How in the world did you know that? I’ve only met you once.
“Oh fine. Thank you.”

He notices Sarah in the backseat. “Is that Sawah?”

“Yes.”
And how did you know my daughter’s name?

“Hi Sawah. I’m Wiley.”

“Hi Wiley,” she says.

“Actually it’s Wiley with an
aar
,” he tells her.

I turn back around and smile at Sarah who, unlike her crazy mother, keeps her mouth shut and simply waves at him.

“I have a pwoposal for you.” He tips his painter’s cap.

“What kind of proposal?” I ask hesitantly.
Oh dear. Why did I roll down my window?

“I noticed when I was in your house the other day that your guest bathwoom needs painting.”

He’s right. The color is terribly drab. A pale, ugly gray. “No kidding. I hope the landlord lets me repaint it.”

“You pick out the color and I’ll get the job done. It’s on the house. Neighbor helping neighbor.”

“Oh no, Riley, that’s not necess—”

“I insist. I could have it done in a couple of hours. While you’re at work. You could come home to a bwand-new bathwoom.”

“Don’t you have to work?” A reasonable question, I think.

“My hours are flexible. That’s another perk about my line of work.”

I consider when exactly I would have time to paint my bathroom and Riley’s offer suddenly seems pretty good. I speak before giving it another moment’s thought. “I suppose that would be okay.”

“I can do it tomowow.”

“Oooh, that’s too fast I think, but … okay.” As soon as I say it I regret it. “Actually, on second thought, I won’t be able to get the paint that fast.”

“You could head over to Home Depot wight now.”

“Oh no no no. Sarah will never survive the car ride. She is ready to be home. Plus, I would rather get my paint at Porter or Benjamin Moore and I have a feeling they’re closed by now.”

“Why buy fwom them when Home Depot is so much cheaper? It’s just a wental house.”

He has a point. “That’s true.”

“Say, I could go to Home Depot for you.”

“That is so nice of you but I’ll have to pick out a color, and by then the girls will be ready for bed.”
Why am I telling him all this?

He pulls out a paint sample book from his back pocket and hands it through the window. “I’ve alweady thought of that.”

“Well my goodness, Riley. You are so thoughtful.”
And a little creepy. Is there something more to this offer? It seems too good to be true.

“Thanks.”

“I’ll take a look at it and let you know.” I reach to put the car back in drive but he keeps talking.

“Why don’t you go ahead and call my number now? That way it will alweady be in your cell phone. It’s 901, of course, 555-5897.”

Before I have time to think about the ramifications of what I’m doing, I dial Riley’s number. The University of Memphis Tigers’ fight song blasts out of a cell phone holster on his belt. He grabs it, flips it in the air, and pops open the flip-top without the use of his fingers. “Got it.”

“Alrighty then. Thanks, Riley. I’ll let you know when I’ve picked out a color.”

*   *   *

The minute Sarah and I walk in the door, I smell food. Not just any food. Kissie’s food. Pork chops, macaroni and cheese, lady peas, homemade yeast rolls, and black-bottom pie for dessert. The feeling of euphoria that washes over me is enough to make me want to collapse on the floor.

Issie runs up and grabs my waist—so happy I’m home. “Mommy, where have you been?” I scoop her up and she pats my hair. “It’s been ages since I’ve seen you.”

“Ages? I know it feels that way, baby.”

I lean over and kiss Kissie’s cheek. She’s holding Sarah in her arms.

“Let’s do a group hug,” Sarah says, and extends her little arms toward Issie and me.

“It smells heavenly in here. I was just about to call the Germantown Commissary for takeout,” I tell Kissie.

“Save it for another night. Anytime you’re ready, we can eat,” Kissie says. For some reason, she’s walking around the house closing all the curtains and shutters.

“What are you doing?”

“I don’t want no Peepin’ Tom lookin’ at us in here. I want to eat my dinner in peace. Every time I’d get back to my story or my ironing, here comes a rap on the door. I’ll give you one guess who it was.”

“My next-door neighbor?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Bless his heart. What did he want?”

“
Nothin’
. He’s just comin’ up with some excuse to be here, that’s all. Doesn’t he have to work himself?”

“He was in the driveway when I drove up.” I reach into the cabinets and pull out the dinner plates, lining them each side by side.

Kissie spoons the food onto the plates as she talks. “Lawd have mercy, that boy is so
nosy.
First he wants to know where you are workin’. Next, he wants to know the girls’ names. Then he’d be acting like he wanted to help me but all he did was talk. He’d tell me he was gonna fix this and paint that. I finally had to shoo him out the door.”

“He wants to paint the half bath in the hall.”

Her eyes bug out. “You gonna let him?”

“He says he’ll do it for free.”

“Unh-unh, Leelee. There ain’t no such thing as free. There’s always a string attached.”

“Oh don’t be silly. What in the world could he want from me?” I say, while walking over to the table with the girls’ dinner plates.

“Your hand.”

I stop dead in my tracks and look at her straight on. “My hand? Don’t be silly. Never going to happen.”

“That ain’t gonna keep him from wantin’ it.”

“Oh Kissie. He’s harmless,” I say, and call the girls to the table.

“Might be. But he’s irritatin’.” She has a point.

“I feel sorry for him, actually.”

She’s reaching in the fridge for the milk carton. “I don’t.”

“Why not?”

She shuts the door to the refrigerator and turns around with a serious look on her face. “He’s got a nice house. A nice car. Nice clothes. Nothin’ wrong with him but the way he talks, and that ain’t all that bad.
Hm, hm, hm
.”

“Maybe he’s just lonely,” I tell her, pondering the fact that he’s an almost forty-something, living alone and selling Tupperware for a living.

“And that’s exactly why you need to be careful.” She puts our plates down on the table and goes back to the counter for the butter dish.

*   *   *

The next afternoon I’m sitting at my desk. I’ve only been back from lunch a little while when the station phone rings. “May I speak with Leelee?” a man says.

“This is she.”

“Hi Leelee. It’s Wiley.”

“Oh hi, Riley,” I say, a wee bit frustrated. There’s a no-personal-calls policy at the office, or so Edward insists, and Riley is not someone worth bending the rules for.

“Say, I need to ask you something. I’m coming along nicely in the bathwoom. But I was wondering if you want me to wemove your hardware.”

I feel the need to whisper in case someone overhears me. “That’s funny you should ask. I’ve been thinking of replacing it with something cuter. But since I’m just renting the house I’ll want to put the old hardware back on when I leave. You can remove it but save it for me, please. Just put it in one of the drawers in the vanity if you don’t mind.”

“I didn’t want to get paint on it.”

“Of course not.”

“Why are you whispewing?” he says.

“Because I’m not supposed to take personal calls at work.”

“All wight,” he whispers back. “I’ll get back to work myself.”

“Thanks, Riley.”

“No pwoblem.”

I can’t help but think about Kissie alone with him all day. My hope is that he’ll be so busy, that he’ll leave her alone. Besides, Kissie can easily put Riley in his place. Surely she’s just being overprotective. After all, how much trouble can he really cause?

*   *   *

When I drive up from work, Riley’s not in the driveway. The minute Sarah and I step in the door I run to the guest bathroom to see the transformation. I’d been thinking about it all day. I even stopped by Restoration Hardware on the way home and found some beautiful green glass knobs to replace the old tarnished brass handles. With the honey-wheat color paint I had picked out, I just knew the bathroom would look gorgeous.

“Hi Kissie,” I say as I dump my purse on the kitchen table. “Does the bathroom look good?”

She looks up from her ironing board but doesn’t say a word.

Issie’s watching TV in the den. Running past her I reach down and kiss the top of her head on the way to the guest bathroom. There’s a little flutter in my heart I’m so excited.

Throwing open the door, Restoration Hardware sack in hand, I switch on the light. I’ve been picturing a cute new soap dish with fragrant soaps, monogrammed guest towels that pick up the green in the new handles, a pretty wicker wastebasket, and my water lily painting that I’d bought from a Memphis artist at the Pink Palace Crafts Fair, hanging over the commode.

Before I even have a chance to inspect the paint job I’m taken aback. There’s a large gaping hole in the wall, right next to the toilet. After a deep gasp, my hands shoot up to cover my face. What in god’s name? I bend down to examine it further and peek inside the hole. Studs, wires, and insulation are all I can see. When I glance around the rest of the half bath, two smaller holes, to the right of the sink, are my next clue that Riley Bradshaw’s definition of hardware must be synonymous with toilet paper holders and towel racks. Not to be confused with the brass, ornamental kind, his idea of hardware means the white porcelain holders built into the drywall. I have to admit I’m wondering if poor Riley has his own loose screw.

Just for the heck of it, I pull out the drawer to the vanity and sure enough, right where I told him to put it, is “my hardware.” It barely fits in the drawer due to the big glob of drywall cement protruding out of the back of each piece.

Out of the corner of my eye, I happen to catch a glimpse of a certain butterscotch face. And it’s not happy.

“
Hm, hm, hm
.
Hm, hm, hm
,” she hums, extra loud.

I have no words … or hums.

“I declare. I ain’t seen a man so uncoordinated in all my life. He’s all thumbs.
Hm, hm, hm.
”

“What was he thinking?” I say, whisking my hand across the bigger of the two holes.

“That’s just it. He doesn’t think.” She waves her arm. “Look at the size of that hole.”

“Bless his little heart.”

“His little
brain
is what you need to be blessin’.”

“Oh Kissie, that’s awful. Okay, bless his little brai—” I can hardly get the words out because my shoulders have started to shake.

When Kissie sees me she belts out one of her deep, wonderful guffaws and all of a sudden the situation is completely hilarious.

“He was just trying to be help … ful,” I say. “No telling how much his
free
paint job is going to cos—” Words are hard to come by when Kissie gets me going. We hoot and teehee until tears are streaming down our faces. For a solid five minutes we howl and point at the holes in the wall, bending over, holding our stomachs. The only reason I can let up at all is because my face hurts so bad.

Kissie points to the floor while holding her stomach with the other hand. “At least, at least the toi—toil—toilet paper is in go—good shape.”

At the sight of the lone toilet paper roll sitting on the tile floor beside the toilet, I fall to my knees, avoiding the painted walls and collapse onto the floor, shrieking and snorting until I’m sure we’ve alarmed both the girls.

“Wait, baby, I’m fixin’ to wet. Move out of the way.” She pushes past me and tugs on her girdle before plopping down on the toilet. I push my way back up, shut the door to give her privacy and stammer out to the den. Falling down on the nearest chair, I can hardly contain myself. I’m doubled over in the fetal position. Watching me roar gets Sarah and Issie going, so the three of us continue to fall out laughing until Kissie comes back from the potty. Now all four of us are a mess.

If not for a loud knock there’s no telling how long our sides would continue to split.

“Uh-oh. Here he comes now,” Kissie says, keeping her backside firmly planted on the sofa. “The un-painter.”

I stand up to answer the door.

“I wouldn’t answer that if I were you,” she says.

“He knows I’m here. I’m going to have to open it eventually.” I sling open the door and sure enough, there he is. No longer wearing his painter’s cap, a billowy white chef’s hat now rests on his head. He’s holding a magazine and hands it to me straight away. It’s all I can do to keep my composure, especially at the sight of the poor thing in his new hat. “What’s this, Riley?” My face is wet with tears.