Gone South (12 page)

About to click on the sports section, his hand stilled. A woman was marching down the far side of the street with a small white dog in her arms. Couldn’t be Daisy, though. The mutt was in Calv’s custody—wasn’t she?

Directly opposite the shop now, the woman checked for traffic and jaywalked, unaware of her audience on the balcony. In jeans and a red T-shirt, she had her reddish hair pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail.

Daisy lifted her head, locked eyes with George, and let out an apologetic whimper. It was her, all right. Therefore the woman was the new resident of 525 South Jackson. Daisy wouldn’t have gone to any other house.

Yep, it was the woman he’d seen taking pictures of the house, weeks ago. Letitia McComb, the contemporary version. But she had to be a decent person if she took the time to return a stray dog to its owner. He ought to speak up and welcome her to Noble—right in front of Mrs. Rose, whose grandmother had allegedly scared the original Letitia McComb right out of town with a fierce, old-fashioned tongue-lashing.

The woman passed out of sight beneath the balcony. Remembering his crazy idea of renting some garage space, George decided it wouldn’t hurt to try. He’d start with a low offer. Real low.

He gathered his things and went inside, then downstairs and into the shop through the back door. Leaning around the corner into the showroom, he had a good view of Calv and the newcomer in profile. Still holding the dog, she faced him over the counter—and there was Mrs. Rose, peering through the filigree case of the Luminaire funeral fan and eavesdropping for all she was worth—as if its cast-iron pole could hide her from the neck down.

“Good mornin’,” Calv said. “I see you found the runaway.”

“Yes. Are you George?”

“No ma’am. I’m his uncle, Calvary Williams.” He stuck out his hand.

She shook hands, keeping Daisy cradled against her shoulder. “I’m Letitia McComb,” she said with no hint of apology.

Mrs. Rose’s mouth dropped open, but she didn’t let out a peep.

“That’s a nice, old-fashioned name,” Calv said.

“Thank you. And Calvary is an unusual name. A meaningful one.”

“Yes ma’am. My daddy was a traveling evangelist,” he said as if that explained everything. “He named my brothers Gethsemane and Zion, or Geth and Zi for short. He named my sister Jerusalem, but she much preferred to be called Rue.”

“Interesting,” Miss McComb said with a smile.

“Yes ma’am, but whatever name your mama and daddy slap on you, it won’t make you a good person or a bad person.”

Afraid Calv would say too much, too soon, George walked into the showroom. “Hello,” he said. “I’m George Zorbas.”

She shook hands with him while Daisy made guilty eyes at him. “Tish McComb. Or—well, I answer to either one. Tish or Letitia.” She thrust the dog into his hands. “Does she belong to you?”

“I’m afraid she does,” he said as Daisy wilted against him. “Thanks for bringing her back. Every chance she gets, she hightails it to her old house, and I have to fetch her back. I swear, my mother named her Daisy just so I’d always be driving Miss Daisy.”

That line usually drew a laugh, but Letitia only frowned. “Shirley Nelson is your mother?”

“No. I’m sorry, let me back up. My mother—who was Calv’s sister, Rue—owned the house until a couple of years ago when she passed away and I sold it to the Nelsons. Daisy thinks she still lives there.”

“That’s an awfully long time for a dog to stay attached to her old home.”

“Si gave her doggie treats. Against my wishes.”

“Oh. I won’t do that, so maybe she’ll stop coming.” She reached over to scratch Daisy’s head. “I’m glad it’s not a terribly busy road, but I hope you’ll keep a better eye on her.”

“Yes ma’am.” George hesitated. He couldn’t assess her character from one casual conversation, but she seemed all right so he plunged in. “I’m looking for some work space to rent for a while. Would you consider renting your garage to me?” He glanced at Calv, whose eyes had gone round.

“My garage?” she asked.

“Yes ma’am. I need a place where I can work on a project car for six months or so. I could pay you … say … a hundred … and fifty?”

“A month?”

He nodded, ready to raise his offer if necessary. “I wouldn’t need more than half of the garage, and I wouldn’t need the upper level at all.”

“I understand the upper level was a hayloft when the building was a carriage house. I can just imagine horses out there …”

“Yes, well, my project car has quite a few horses under its hood, and they would love to stay in the old carriage house for a while.”

She let out a burst of laughter, blue eyes sparkling. “Let me think about it. I’ll never park my car back there because it’s so far from the house, but I might need the storage space.”

George lifted one of his cards from the holder on the counter. “Sure. Think it over and let me know. Here’s my number.”

She reached for the card, her fingernails tipped with pale pink polish, thoroughly chipped. “Okay. The sooner I finish unpacking, the sooner I’ll know if I’ll need the space for anything. I’ll be in touch. Bye.”

“Thanks again for bringing the dog back.”

“No problem.” She walked toward the entrance and stopped short near the door. Eyeing the vintage mannequin wearing the black velveteen ball gown from the Helm estate, she reached out to touch the cap sleeve. He’d set the dress in the place of honor, but she’d missed it on the way in.

“Oh my goodness,” she said softly. “That’s gorgeous.”

“It’s nice, isn’t it? Circa 1955 or so. It’s not from a big-name designer, so it’s more reasonable than some.”

She checked the price tag that hung from one sleeve and laughed out loud. “For me, until I find a job, it’s not the least bit reasonable.” She gave the dress a farewell pat and breezed past Mrs. Rose, who turned slowly to watch her exit, then followed her right outside as if she were attached by a tow rope.

George blew out a long breath. “There she goes. The modern-day Letitia McComb.” And she would have looked mighty fine in that dress.

“I’m more interested in the modern-day Letitia’s garage,” Calv said. “Sure would be nice to work there again.”

“We’ll see what happens,” George said. They couldn’t go back to the good old days—and for Calv, they hadn’t been good anyway—but it would be something.

“She has that forward Yankee way about her, but she’s tolerable. And she brought the dog back.” Calv frowned. “I don’t think anybody’s told her anything yet.”

“Nope. Nobody likes to be the bearer of bad news.”

“If you’re gonna move your project car into her garage, maybe you’re elected.”

“Maybe.”

“Now you’d better get off to your appointment. And take that crazy dog. I can’t watch Daisy and the shop both.”

“You had her shut up in the back room, didn’t you?”

“I thought I did. I’m telling you, the dog’s middle name is Houdini.”

“What am I supposed to do with the dog when I’m busy wheeling and dealing?”

“That’s not my problem.” Calv grinned. “Maybe you can arrange a trade.”

“I wish.”

George took his mother’s dog into the back room to gather the leash and other canine accoutrements. It was past time to leave on the ninety-minute drive to Huntsville.

Mel’s fingers made a soft rippling sound against the school’s chain-link fence. As the sunset glowed orange behind the school building, she thought of nasty-nice Amanda, one of the bosses of the playground. She was probably the boss of her whole college by now.

Inside, the lights were still on, so the custodians hadn’t left yet. They’d be mopping hallways or cleaning bathrooms or straightening rows of tiny desks.

The playground hadn’t been much fun since first grade. Mel’s dad was on the school board then, and they’d voted to take out the jungle gym and that scary-fast, old-fashioned merry-go-round before somebody got hurt and the parents sued. Now there were only swings, not-too-tall slides, and a climbing wall so low it wouldn’t be a challenge even for an itty-bitty kid.

She tried to remember being a happy, noisy kid playing on the jungle gym. She couldn’t. It was like trying to remember being a Martian. She sort of remembered the school lunches, though. Syrupy canned peaches. Meatloaf Mondays and Taco Tuesdays.

Earlier, in half-day kindergarten, they’d only had morning snack. She’d loved kindergarten. It was all crayons and games and funny stories, and then a nap on a striped mat. Even the talent show was fun until she had stage fright. She’d practiced her song at home for days, but then nothing would come out of her mouth. Her brother had acted as if she were the star of the show, though.
Stu had whooped and whistled and clapped, hollering “Melly, Melly, Melly!” like she’d done something special just by showing up.

He’d even taken the morning off work so he could be there, but her dad—her ex-dad—hadn’t bothered. She didn’t remember her mom’s reaction. She’d probably been embarrassed.

She stepped over weeds growing in a crack in the sidewalk. Step on a crack, break your mother’s back.

She’d never wanted to hurt her mom, and her mom probably hadn’t meant to hurt her. Doormats didn’t hurt people. They only lay there. They could keep a clean house and cook great meals and raise beautiful tomatoes, but in the end they were something for somebody to walk on.

Carefully stepping over another crack, Mel daydreamed about sneaking into a classroom and making it a free motel room for the night. The kindergarten classroom might have nap-time mats to soften the floor under her sleeping bag. First, though, she’d stop in the school kitchen and raid the humongous refrigerators. Her dad would call it stealing, but she wouldn’t feel guilty. After all the hours he’d put into school-board business, she’d just be collecting a little bit of what they owed him.

She’d wash her hair in one of the gigantic stainless-steel sinks. She’d have to use dish soap for shampoo. Maybe she’d find some kitchen towels to dry her hair with, or she could use one of the hot-air hand-dryers in a bathroom. Then she’d find a cozy spot to spread out her sleeping bag.

Except none of it would happen. She didn’t dare trespass on school property. That was a federal offense, she was pretty sure.

Not letting herself think about all the food in those giant fridges, she tried to read the street signs as she approached the corner. She couldn’t stay on any one street too long. People didn’t want scruffy people with bedrolls hanging out in their precious neighborhoods.

Third and … Mimosa? Good. She hadn’t walked down Mimosa yet.

She picked up her pace, partly so she’d look like she knew where she was going and partly to warm up. The hoodie was paper-thin compared to her dad’s big black jacket.

“He’s not my dad,” she said under her breath. “Not anymore.”

Tempted to stop and dig out a cigarette, she slapped her right hand with her left. She didn’t have a light anyway, and she didn’t want to draw attention by asking somebody for one. If she bothered people, they’d call the cops. Then the cops would have to crack down on her. Besides, she had to make her cigs last. Once she ran out, she would quit for good.

Mel kicked a stone off the sidewalk. If she could find a way to get into her folks’ house, she’d take some things from her room. Some to keep, like clothes and shoes, and some to pawn or sell so she’d have cash for food. Everything in her room was hers too. It wouldn’t be stealing.

But Noble didn’t have a pawnshop. She’d have to hitch a ride to Muldro, and hitchhiking scared her every time.

At Mimosa and Fourth, she got the idea of walking to Fifth and all the way to the dead end where Hayley’s family lived. The Mitchells used to be so nice to her. They wouldn’t kick her out, would they?

Probably. Mel made a face, remembering the last time she saw Hayley’s folks. Senior year. She and Hayley had been out all night, which the Mitchells didn’t appreciate. They’d called her incorrigible, over and over, like it was one of Mr. Stinchfeld’s weekly vocabulary words and they’d get extra credit every time they used it. Before that, they’d worried that Mel wasn’t a good influence on Hayley—Mel’s bad grades probably had something to do with that—but her dad’s status around town kept them from banning the friendship.

When she stopped at the corner of Mimosa and Fifth, the sun had nearly faded behind the trees. Once it was really dark out, she might find an unlocked vehicle to hole up in. But she couldn’t try it until most people were sound asleep, and by then she’d be so frozen she wouldn’t warm up all night.

Mel turned toward Main. If she hung out where there’d be more people, she might run into somebody she knew. Somebody who didn’t hate her. At least she wasn’t on drugs or sick or pregnant. She was just hungry and broke and cold.

The cold went all the way to her core when she remembered that morning in the park, just after she’d lost her job at Fishy’s and had to move out of the apartment. The palm trees and flowers made her feel like she was on vacation, soaking up the same sun that the rich folks soaked up on the balconies of their million-dollar condos. She’d just unzipped her sleeping bag and spread it out on the grass to air out when an old man walked by and gave her a sad smile that reminded her of Grandpa John. Standing there in the sun, she’d shivered. She’d become one of those homeless people he’d always felt sorry for.