Deep Fried and Pickled (Book One - The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles) (17 page)

Katie Lee rebutted, “Theoretically that’s true.”

“Freakin’ golden excuse,” I said, “And that, Katie Lee Brown, is what scares me about you.”

“What did you say about the scratches?” Macy asked.

“Mostly the conversation went one way. They knew, so I confessed. I told them what happened, including the part that Patsy drove--filtering the cigarette and alcohol consumption.”

“And the part about the Nash delivery to Billy Ray?” I asked.

Katie Lee launched an evil eye in my direction.

Macy and I clung to the inflection Katie Lee placed on the word – confessed -, waiting for the clincher. How much trouble was she in? How much trouble was I in? Would the Brown’s call my Dad and tell him what a bad influence I was on their daughter?

Katie Lee liked the sound her words made when they entered the atmosphere. Somehow, the conversation took a turn from car wreck ramifications to kitchen recipes. “Mama pulled a blueberry crumble out of the oven for the officers. Her recipe is amazing, and she won’t share it with anyone. She says I can have it when I get married--”

Like using flares to guide a jet into an airport gate, I crisscrossed my arms for her attention. “Are you, Patsy, or any of us, going to be prosecuted for a hit and run?”

“No,” she said.

“Is your driver’s license going to be revoked?” Macy asked.

She twisted her face. “No.” 

“Are your parents coming up here to take the Big Blue Olds away? Make you transfer to the local community college while you live at home until you get your act together?”

“Raz, that’s a bit dramatic.”

My voice grew small. “That’s what would happen to me.”

“So, are you off the hook?” Macy asked.

Katie Lee made eye contact with the light post outside the window as if it were a long lost friend.

“Katie Lee,” I said. “What’s going to happen?”

“Daddy’s agreed to cover the damages. So no one’s pressin’ any charges.”

“You just got yelled at?” Macy asked.

She rotated her sock heel into place. “Patsy and I have to clean the jet skis, the Sunfish and the Bayliner.”

Macy and I fish-eyed each other, waiting for her to fill in the blank -– her real rap on the knuckles.

“Top and bottom,” she emphasized. “Inside and out.”

“No, really. What’s the punishment?” I asked again.

“Daddy wants all the water vehicles looking brand new. He’s serious. Do you know how hard it is to muck barnacles off fiberglass? I’ll have to get the scuba gear on and swim underneath. It’ll take Patsy and me a solid day.”

Macy ran her fingers through her wavy hair, not quite catching all the pieces in a ponytail. “Now, let me get this straight. Homecoming football game weekend, a dozen drunken girls drove around New Bern in the family van. Patsy - buzzed - whacks off some car’s fender, keeps going, parks, and everyone scatters.”

“You make it sound irresponsible,” Katie Lee said. “It was an accident.”

Macy signaled silence. “Two months later, give or take, the cops show up at your parents’ house, and to everyone’s surprise there are scratches on the van. The police, with your parents’ assistance, connect the dots to you.”

“For the record, which Rachael can attest, they were nicks. Barely recognizable.”

Macy paused her recap long enough to file a jagged nail. “You ‘fess up, and your responsibility in all this is cleaning the boats with Patsy? Fucking put some sunscreen on. You’re off the hook.”

Katie Lee leaned her arms out of Macy’s window and lit a cigarette. She inhaled then passed it to me before saying, “Mama and Daddy are flying to Aspen for some early season skiing. I’m planning a small get together at my house. Are y’all up for a road trip to The Bern?”

NOTE TO SELF

Hugh and Macy?

Francine and Macy. Hopefully nothing will happen.

Can’t decide if Katie Lee is lucky as hell or unlucky as hell.

18

O
ne
M
ore
F
or
T
he
R
oad?

I
pressed my nose to the rear passenger window and fogged Big Blue’s glass. The setting sun painted golden yellow and burnt orange streaks on plowed corn stalks and tobacco. The dirt-covered crops in the red-clay earth looked like hummingbird bundt-cake.

With a population just over twenty thousand, New Bern, North Carolina, sat on a junction in Craven County where the Trent River meets the Neuse River. Katie Lee rambled about her hometown being low-key and quaint. Trendy boutique shops and low country inspired restaurants. Thirty miles outside of New Bern Proper, she sped East across a two-lane road without stop signs, traffic signals or other vehicles.

The girls I’d met on my last visit had perfected the finer points of partying. Of them all, Patsy McCoy, still a senior in high school, was the seasoned pro. I’d had a fabulous time minus Katie Lee disappearing, the hit and run, shagging with Billy Ray, being in proximity to falling artillery, and losing my bathtub dew in the Brown’s Maytag. Tonight Katie Lee had arranged a small get together and assured me the libations she served would not be green or contain grain alcohol. A giddy anticipation simmered inside of me. Drinking a few beers, sleeping soundly on a bed with a box spring mattress, and not sharing a bathroom with fifty girls would be a welcome change.

I leaned into the front seat. “What if your parents had a change of plans. The could be at the house.”

Katie Lee cracked her gum. “They called me from their ski villa before we set off. It’s snowing. They’re stoked to ski on powder. Patsy and Mitch will show up. Meredith’s comin’ home, plus Nash and a few others. Tonight you can let Raz out.”

Initially, the name Raz brought up images of deer steaks and Billy Ray, which I only narrowly survived. Lately, though, I’ve grown to like Raz. She shows up as weekends approach, and departs when the Monday morning alarm beeps.

Weather permitting, Katie Lee said we’d cruise the intracoastal waterway in the ski boat, but mostly just relax with a few of her friends. I envisioned sipping sweet tea from a mason jar, and I knew which rocking chair I’d claim. Since the party would be at Katie Lee’s house, I didn’t have to concern myself with her disappearing. The weekend plans sounded perfect.

Macy dozed and midway along the US 70 East, she opened her eyes and straightened her back. “Are we lost?”

“No,” Katie Lee said, “we’re not lost.”

“There’s nothing around. How do people make a living?”

Bridget had given up on the FM dial, and Katie Lee took the task of finding a better station of static. “Most people in The Bern, work in the medical industry, cater to tourists or build for Hatteras.”

“Hatteras? As in yachts?” Bridget asked.

Katie Lee grinned. “Big money passes through these parts. Movie stars, moguls and sheiks all want a Hatteras. It’s the Cadillac of yachts.”

Bridget rested her arm across the back of the front seat. “Do you think we’ll see anyone famous?”

“It’s a possibility. Yacht buyers come down here all the time. They like to watch their bank accounts being launched into the Atlantic. Once they pour a bottle of champagne over their new girlfriend’s hull, stroke her instruments and give her a nickname, they charter her to their port.”

“I’m surprised you wanted to come home,” I said.

“Weekends on campus are so dead. I thought we all could use a breath of fresh air.”

“Even after the phone call from your parents?” Macy asked.

“That’s all settled,” Katie Lee said. 

Across the industrial gray seat fabric, I stared at Macy’s square tipped, polished nails that fanned ten cards. “Your turn,” she said.

Macy was a card shark, and I’d cut her too many slices of my humble pie in more hands of gin rummy than I cared to count. I selected a queen of hearts from the discard pile and in a ploy to distract her, said, “It’s November and my shrink wrap is still intact.”

Reorganizing her hand, she threw one face down and knocked on the plastic armrest. Signaling gin, she laid her matching sets for me to see.

In between heckling the cards I chose, and loudly tallying the scorecard, she asked, “Did you see any cute guys on your last visit?”

“New Bern has potential,” I told her.

She tapped a pink plastic case that rested inside a pocket of her Gucci purse. “Glad I remembered to pack this.”  

“What is it? An orthodontic retainer or a magic charm to lure cute boys.”

“It’s a diaphragm.”

I shifted backwards and rearranged my hand of cards. I was desperate to win some hands, but would have to wait. Katie Lee drove toward the magnolia trees that lined her driveway.

Katie Lee pulled in behind a black Dodge that blocked the carport and shifted into park. “Make yourselves at home. Beer is in the downstairs refrigerator, and I’ll order pizza.”

My door opened and rocked on its hinge. A drawn out, “Hey y’all,” greeted us. Nash held a can of Coors and pinched a cardboard carton of wine coolers in his other hand. He moved toward the car with a couple of friends trailing behind and asked, “Anyone thirsty?”

I didn’t want to like Nash, but his welcome offering diffused my intuitive sensibilities.

“Thanks Nash,” I said, opening a wine cooler.

“You rock,” Macy said distracted by his shirtless, shoeless friend.

I recognized those bare feet, and I knew Macy had familiarized herself with most things above Stewart Hayes’ ankles. Standing in Katie Lee’s driveway was the Beefcake from the Chapel Hill frat house who’d unlocked the bathroom for me. He and Macy had smoked weed before I found them, and Macy claimed that the pot gave her amnesia. Seeing her eat Stewart up with her eyes, I theorized she remembered more than she’d told me.

Katie Lee made the introductions. “Nash, Stewart, Clive, meet my roommate Raz, and my girlfriends Bridget and Macy.”

“Ladies,” Nash said, in a flirty, sing-song voice, “We are delighted to be in your company this evening.”

“I believe we’ve met,” Stewart said.

“I’m not sure,” Bridget replied.

Macy stepped forward. “Do you prefer Thin Mints or Tagalongs?”

“Tagalongs,” Stewart said and hugged Macy.

So Stewart Hayes and Nash were friends. The encounter sparked an annoying prick of electricity that buzzed inside me. Stewart didn’t make mention of our brief encounter. If he and Nash were moving drugs inside canvases, he wouldn’t want Macy and I to know about it. I hoped she was sensible enough, not to mention the artwork I’d found.

Clive wore a tie-dye, T-shirt with a pair of ripped Levis and crisp white canvas tennis shoes. Seeing his tanned face and arms, I guessed the sun had bleached his shoulder-length hair. Clive’s appearance masterfully blended elements of hippie-prep, and he pulled it off without compromising his manliness. Taking the keys from Katie Lee, he said, “Let me help y’all unload.”

Nash and Stewart helped Clive carry our bags into the house. As the three walked along the breezeway, I contemplated drugs, cash, and canvases. Tonight, the players would be under one roof. It wasn’t any of my business, but I couldn’t help myself. I didn’t have solid proof, but had a hunch that Nash and Stewart worked together in some scheme, and by default, Katie Lee was entangled. If I could figure out what was going on, I’d clue in Katie Lee before she and I became accessories to something that would intimately familiarize us with the justice system.

THE ONLY PRE-PARTYING AT Katie Lee’s house was the journey from the driveway to the kitchen where I finished a wine cooler. Katie Lee walked and talked slower than I did, but when it came to organizing a get together, she was miles ahead. My bags were still in the hallway when the pizza guy appeared, his face hidden behind the stack of cardboard boxes he carried. He’d led a parade of Katie Lee’s friends into the Brown’s kitchen. I’d set my empty bottle on the counter when I spotted the McCoys. Bathtub dew and shotgun shells have a way of bonding people together, and both Patsy and Mitch hugged me as though I’d always known them. 

Patsy had been a good friend of Katie Lee’s since the fourth grade. Word had gotten around that the Browns were out of town, and a respectable number of friends showed up. By respectable, I mean, more than I could count and I had a hard time keeping tabs on Nash and Stewart. I needed to stay alert, to overhear anything pertinent to their business venture.

Inside the Brown’s house, the air hung with salty river and tobacco. The first floor became standing room only with open doors awaiting a gust of relief from the Trent River.

Patsy stood by Clive and nudged his ribs. “Raz, we have something to share. Come on outside.”

I had no idea what she was talking about. She nudged Clive’s arm. “Don’t we, Clive Summers?”

Clive wasn’t a man of many words. He gave Patsy and me a head nod in the direction of the water. The three of us snuck away to the covered dock where rhythmic sloshing washed the rocky shore. Pulling out a crumpled plastic baggie from his jeans pocket, he said, “This is local. None of that import crap.”

“Have you smoked before?” Patsy asked.

“Not unless inhaling fumes counts.”

Curiously, I watched Clive pack a small wooden pipe with dried grass, flick a lighter and inhale from the side of his mouth. I’d been in a mob on Halloween, and now I could tick another item off my ‘to do’ list. The only problem was I wasn’t checking the items off in the order of importance I’d listed them. If I continued at this rate, I’d be lucky to lose my virginity by Thanksgiving of senior year.

Clive held smoke in his lungs and spoke like Mr. Mouse, “Pretty good batch. Go easy.”

As the sun disappeared, a hazy night-mist crept up the bank and hovered low, disguising the water below the dock. Patsy coached, “Suck, hold, blow.” I’d been smoking cigarettes since I landed in North Carolina and I didn’t think this would be much different. Imagining the pipe was a Benson and Hedges, I inhaled a throaty burn. Deflating chipmunk cheeks, I exhaled a hack.