2 Heroes & Hooligans in Goose Pimple Junction (4 page)

“My intuition tells me you are whatcha call a natural used-car salesman,” Big Darryl D said.

Lenny assured him he was.

“So that’s pretty much it,” Big Darryl D finally said after showing him around. “Our little corner of the world.” He nudged Lenny in the stomach with his elbow. “Oh, and you can help yourself to any of the cars on the lot. Sign them out over there; the keys are on the pegboard above the sign-out sheet. Just make sure you log a car out each night you take one home and keep them neat and clean. I don’t care what you do in them, just keep them clean.” Darryl D winked at Lenny. “Welcome to Car Country,” he said, pumping Lenny’s hand.

“Glad to be here.” Lenny flashed a smile full of teeth and added, “More’n you know.”

“I like your new clothes, Martha Maye, but I think it’s time we get you a whole new wardrobe.” Honey gripped Martha Maye’s arm lightly as they walked down the sidewalk under the canopy of decades-old trees with leaves just starting to turn colors. “You need to show off that new figure of yours, and it’s time to get fall clothes anyway. Half of your things hang off you like a scarecrow. Let’s go shopping!”

Martha Maye was taking Butterbean, Honey, and her daughter, Maddy Mack, to her mother’s house for dinner. The two ladies lagged behind the little girls, who skipped merrily down the uneven sidewalk, which had buckled with the huge tree roots.

“I can’t really afford much right now.” Martha Maye waved to Paprika Honeywell. “Butterbean needs new school clothes, and I have the rent, utilities, and food. I’m a single mom now, you know.”

“And you’re gonna set aside some money for yourself, too, sugar. You gotta.”

Martha Maye wanted to get Honey off a subject that had been coming up all too often lately, so she said, “Listen, when we get to Mama’s, just talk to Aunt Imy like normal, but don’t be surprised if some crazy talk comes out of her mouth.”

“Crazy talk? Like what?” Honey dodged an anthill on a crack in the sidewalk.

“Since she had the stroke, she comes out with commercial slogans every now and then. Sometimes it’s funny, but try not to laugh. I don’t know what goes on in her head, but she doesn’t realize she’s said anything weird. She’s got that Altenheimer’s disease, too.”

“You mean Alzheimer’s?” Honey hooked her arm with Martha Maye’s.

“Yeah, that’s it. So just try to act normal around her.”

“Alrighty dighty. I won’t laugh. Do the doctors think the commercial lingo will go away?”

“They don’t know. But even if it does, she’ll still have Alten . . . Altzey…”

“Alzheimer’s.”

“Yeah, that.”

“And who else did you say is living with your mama?”

“That’s kind of a long story,” Martha Maye said. “Mama took Charlotte Price in about two months ago. She’s Henry Clay’s daughter.”

“
The
Henry Clay? Your mama took his daughter in?”

“Yeah. Charlotte’s mama ran off a while ago, and her daddy’s . . . uh, he’s a little too busy for parenthood right now.” They both chuckled. “She didn’t have anyone to turn to. Mama is good people, but I think she figures she’s been given a sort of gift with Charlotte coming to live with her. It’s almost like she has another daughter. And Lord knows, that girl needed a mama.”

“No wonder you wanted a place of your own. Charlotte and your aunt living with your mama—whew! That’s a full house. I expect you were a might crowded.”

They walked for a bit, commenting on the flower gardens they passed, the beautiful hundred-year-old houses, the smell of someone grilling steak, and the cooler nights they were having now that October had arrived.

As they approached Louetta’s house, Honey said, “Good job changing the subject, but don’t think you can get me off the topic of new clothes forever, missy.”

Martha Maye made a face as she followed the girls up Lou’s front walk.

They reached the door, knocked once, and went in. Louetta came running to greet them wearing lime-green pants and a hot-pink blouse. Her brassy red hair was in the usual bouffant style, and her makeup was applied perfectly, if not a little heavy. It clashed slightly with the bold cabbage rose wallpaper behind her. At nearly eighty, Louetta was definitely still alive and kicking. She was a stout, hefty woman and a whirlwind of perpetual energy.

“My babies! Come on in, y’all,” Lou gushed, hugging them all. “I hope you brought your appetites,” she said, ushering them into the kitchen that wafted of heavenly smells of fried chicken and hot yeast rolls. Lids jiggled on boiling pots on the stove, chicken fried in an old cast-iron skillet, and dirty dishes filled the sink.

“Hi, Aunt Imy, hireyew?” Martha Maye leaned down to hug the frail old lady in the chair. She had on a blue flowered housecoat, stockings that were rolled down to her ankles, and loosely tied white Keds tennis shoes. The side of her left shoe was cut at the big toe to ease the pressure on her bunion. Her short brown hair was set in tight curls, making it look kind of like she had a Brillo pad for hair. She couldn’t have weighed more than ninety-eight pounds wet.

“I’d walk a mile for a Camel.” Aunt Ima Jean sat sideways with her legs spread out, like a man would sit, with her knobby knees protruding through the housecoat that hung over them, maintaining her modesty.

“Who wouldn’t?” Honey said with a big smile.

“Aunt Ima Jean, this is Honey Winchester and her daughter Madison Mackenzie. Folks call her Maddy Mack.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” Honey said, reaching out to shake hands.

“Ow!” Ima Jean pulled her hand from Honey’s.

“Honey’s a personal trainer and a PE teacher,” Martha Maye interjected. “She doesn’t know her own strength.” She patted her aunt on the shoulder, while Ima Jean rubbed her hand dramatically.

“What’s doing up at Robert E. Lee Elementary?” Louetta asked.

“We’re humming right along,” Martha Maye said. “I’ve got some rowdy ones and some sweet ones, too.”

“Oh, in first grade every one of them’s sweet,” Honey said. “Try teaching all the grades. Then you get a taste of rowdy. How many love notes do you get a day, Martha Maye?”

“Hmm. About two or three. Some of my little boys are smitten, or so they think.”

“Just wait until you give them their first report card. That’ll bring their little heads down to earth,” Lou said.

“Where’s Charlotte?” Butterbean asked.

“She’s out with Pickle, as usual. They’ll be here in a little while, I expect he won’t pass up pie.”

An hour later, after finishing a dinner of fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans, sliced tomatoes, and hot rolls, the doorbell rang. Butterbean ran to answer it and came bouncing back with a huge bouquet of roses.

“Ooh law, Buttabean, who are those for?” Lou asked.

“They’re for Mama,” she said, handing the bouquet to her mother and opening the card that came with it.

“Oh my stars, who are they from, Butterbean?” Martha Maye tried to grab the card from her daughter.

Butterbean, looking confused, read: “It says, ‘From your secret admirer.’“

Honey squealed and clapped her hands. “You have a secret admirer? How exciting! I’ll bet it’s Wally, the fifth-grade teacher up at school. No, maybe it’s Henry Clay . No, I’ve got it! Maybe it’s Johhhnnnny,” she said, drawing out the name.

“But why would they be delivered to Mama’s house?” Martha Maye’s forehead was scrunched in a wrinkle.

“Maybe whoever it is thinks you still live here,” Honey suggested. “After all, y’all moved out not long ago.”

“Who delivered them, Bean?” Martha Maye asked, turning over the envelope, blank except for her name.

“I dunno.” Butterbean shrugged.

“Well, ain’t that something.” Louetta reached for the flowers. “A secret admirer. Here.” Her chair squeaked as she stood up. “Let me have them so’s I can put them in water.” She started for the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, “Buttabean, you and Maddy Mack clear the dishes. I’ll bring out dessert.”

“Can me and Maddy Mack go outside and play? We don’t want dessert.”

“
Me
and Maddy Mack?” Martha Maye said disapprovingly. “
Can
?”

Butterbean rolled her eyes and said, “Maddy Mack and I.
May
Maddy Mack and
I
go outside to play before it gets too dark?”

“You don’t want dessert?” Lou shrieked from the doorway, her ample bosom and the bouquet of flowers preceding her into the room. “Are you sure you didn’t pick her out of a punkin patch, Mart? There ain’t never been nobody in our family who didn’t want dessert.”

“Can we eat it later, Granny?” Butterbean hopped up and down in front of her grandmother, her hands in a prayer position.

“Oh, gwon outta here.” Lou tried to suppress her smile and affectionately swatted at her granddaughter’s bottom. “It’ll still be here when you get back, but clear the table first, now.”

“So who do you think the flowers are from, Mart?” Lou said a few minutes later, as she served pieces of caramel apple pie.

“I have no earthly idea.” Martha Maye stared at the flowers as if in a trance.

“Martha Maye, be happy.” Honey put her hand on Martha Maye’s arm. “Flowers are a good thing. I told you you’d be attracting men left and right.”

“Who’s attracting men left and right?” Charlotte asked, coming into the room with her boyfriend, Pickle. They were a mismatched pair if ever there was one. Charlotte was a short fifteen-year-old beauty with long honey-blond hair and big blue eyes. Pickle, only a year older, looked like a tall stick figure with oversized arms and legs. His hair was so blond it was almost white, with a cowlick at the top of his head that made a tuft of hair stick up. He had big brown eyes and freckles across his nose. Charlotte looked like the cheerleader type, and Pickle looked like Ichabod Crane.

“Oh, there’s the little darlins now. Sit down and have some pie,” Lou said.

“Nothin’ says lovin’ like somethin’ from the oven,” Ima Jean piped up. The expression on her face was almost always serious.

“Ain’t that the truth,” Honey said.

“Have y’all met Honey? She’s Mart’s neighbor and fellow teacher,” Lou said. “Honey, this is Charlotte Price and Peekal Culpepper. Charlotte lives with us, and Peekal purt near does too, on account he’s here so much to see Charlotte.” She winked at him.

Pickle blushed as he took the piece of pie Lou offered.

“You sure did wear the right shirt to this house, Pickle.” Honey was looking at his T-shirt. It said,
EVERYONE HAS TO BELIEVE IN SOMETHING. I BELIEVE I’LL HAVE ANOTHER PIECE OF PIE.
“Wull, I had help,” Pickle said, grinning. “Charlotte told me Mizz Louetta was baking pie.”

“Aw, you’re cuter’n a box full a puppies,” Honey crooned, but Pickle was too busy gulping pie to notice her.

“He’s my stock boy up at the bookstore, too. I’ll bet I see him more ‘n you do, Charlotte.” Lou pinched Pickle’s cheek. “But don’t worry, he’s too young for me. I won’t steal him from ya.”

“‘Cause your heart belongs to Jack,” Ima Jean said.

“Oh, hush up that crazy talk,” Louetta protested. “The man’s fifty-two years old. I’d have to be T minus dumb and counting to be interested in someone that young, and besides, he belongs to Tess. They’re a match made in heaven if I ever saw one. I swan, the two of them are so cute together. If only all of us could be that happy.”

“Mr. Jack and Ms. Tess are out front with Butterbean.” Charlotte took a dainty bite of pie.

“He’s outside? I sure would like to meet him,” Honey said, wide-eyed.

“He’s taken, Honey,” Martha Maye said quickly.

“Oh really? Maybe he’s your secret admirer? Is that what you mean? You got something going with Mr. Jack?” Honey teased.

“Oh no, Honey, Jack couldn’t be the secret admirer. Hello! Aren’t you listening? We done told you fifty eleven times he’s taken by Tess. Matta fact, he’s mighty taken
with
Tess.” Lou giggled.

“Tess was also kidnapped when I was,” Martha Maye whispered to Honey. “And Jack was one of our rescuers.” Louder, for everyone to hear, she said, “Jack’s a best-selling author. He’s lived here for about five years now. And Tess is from up north. Jack translates our Southern speak for Tess, although sometimes even he gets stumped.”

“Have Mizz Tess and Mr. Jack set a date for getting hitched?” Pickle asked, his mouth full of pie.

“I don’t think they have yet,” Lou answered.

“What’s this about a secret admirer?” Charlotte asked.

“Somebody sent Martha Maye these here flowers. Card said they were from a secret admirer,” Honey explained.

Charlotte gulped. “Who do you suppose they’re from, Martha Maye?”

“Don’t rightly know. I don’t have the foggiest idea.”

“Don’t worry, Martha Maye, we’ll figure it out. And once we get you into some new clothes to show off that new body, he’ll come a-knocking for sure.” Honey put her arm around Martha Maye’s shoulder.

“Gentlemen prefer Hanes,” Ima Jean said.