The Honk and Holler Opening Soon (9 page)

Vena felt a shiver run up the back of her neck as she looked into the kitchen where Bui Khanh’s face was framed by the pass-through.

“He fell out of a helicopter over there.” Molly O’s hands went limp in her lap. “Broke his back.”

“My God.” Vena closed her eyes, hoping to black out the image of Caney falling through space.

“He never talks about it, and with Caney it’s hard to figure what goes on in his head, but I know he still . . .” Molly O looked up when Bui Khanh came from the kitchen with a tray of clean cups and saucers. “Why, of all places in the world, did he come here?”

she whispered. “And why did Caney give him a job?”

“Maybe he’s so desperate to get out of here that he would’ve hired whoever walked in.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He said he wouldn’t be so tied down here if he could find a steady cook.”

“We’ve had steady cooks before. One stayed more’n three years, but Caney didn’t go anywhere.”

“You’re saying Caney didn’t take a vacation, not once in three years?”

“Why, he hasn’t been out that door since the day we rolled him in here.”

“You mean . . .”

“I mean, Caney Paxton hasn’t been outside for twelve years.”

*

Caney had known from the first that it would be a mistake to hire Bui Khanh.

For starters, Bui didn’t know diddly about English. When Caney had said, “Sorry, but I don’t think I can use you,” Bui had pulled off his jacket, pushed up his sleeves and tied a cook’s apron around his waist, his face beaming with pride. And after Caney said, “Well, I can give you a day’s work, but only one,” Bui, still smiling, shook Caney’s hand and said, “Yes, work very hard, thanks you, very much work.”

But even if Bui had known the difference between gravel and gravy, he couldn’t cook a lick. The toast he grilled was limp and soggy, the sausage patties hard as hockey pucks. He busted the yolk on every egg he fried but called them all “sunday size up.”

Besides, Caney knew even if Bui picked up a little English and learned how to fry an egg, he wasn’t going to stick around long. As soon as he could put together some traveling money, he’d drift over into Arkansas and hire on at one of the poultry plants or take off for St. Louis or Kansas City where he might find factory work.

But whatever he did, he wasn’t going to stay in Sequoyah where his dark Asian features made him stand out like bamboo in a row of cotton. Caney knew, without a doubt, that no one on Main Street was going to take Bui for one of their own. And with TV

images of Vietnam still more painful than surgery without anes-thetic, Bui was likely to get an uncomfortable reception.

And if Caney couldn’t make sense of watching this Vietnamese man drink coffee from a Batman mug, or dry his hands on a Santa Claus towel, or put on an apron that said I HATE HOUSEWORK, then how could the others?

But the
real
reason not to hire Bui Khanh was that each time Caney looked into his face, he saw the eyes of the lone peasant in a rice paddy watching him fall from the sky—the last pair of eyes that would see Caney’s body before it broke itself apart.

C
ANEY HAD JUST FINISHED basting the turkey and was sliding it back into the oven when he heard the front door slam.

“Merry Christmas,” Molly O called, her voice so full of glad tid-ings that Caney was almost convinced. But when she merried her way inside, the holly-jolly smile she was wearing looked about as real as the plastic snowmen dangling from her earlobes.

“The door was open, Caney. You forget to lock up last night?”

“Guess so.” The truth was, he had unlocked the door as soon as he got up in case Vena showed up early again. But he wasn’t about to admit that to Molly O.

“I should’ve stayed till you closed. Should’ve locked up myself.”

“You were beat. No reason for you to hang around.”

“You do much business after I left?”

“Vena had some heavy traffic at the curb.”

“On Christmas Eve?”

“She stayed busy right up till we closed.”

“I don’t understand it. We go for years without one soul pulling in here for curb service. Then, all of a sudden, looks like we’re running a used-car lot.” Molly O shook her head. “Doesn’t make sense.”

“Might not, but it makes money. We turned out more orders yesterday and the day before than we’ve had for the whole month.”

“Good thing you took on a new cook, then, isn’t it?” Molly O

studied Caney’s face, looking for some reaction. “But I was kind of worried when he showed up. I mean, when I found out he was from Vietnam . . . well, I was afraid you might be upset.”

“Hell, I was upset.” Caney’s forehead wrinkled with displeasure.

“He couldn’t cook.”

“Then why’d you hire him?”

“I didn’t. I paid him last night when he left and told him not to come back.” Caney pushed away from the counter and rolled toward the kitchen door. “But it didn’t have nothing to do with Vietnam.

Not a damned thing.”

“Well, I guess—”

“If I’m going to pay someone to cook, then he ought to be able to cook. Right?”

“Right.”

Molly O followed Caney into the dining room where he parked behind the counter. He was just reaching for his cigarettes when he noticed the brightly wrapped package beside the cash register.

“Now I know why you left the door unlocked,” she said.

“Why?” Certain Molly O knew the truth, Caney could feel his face redden.

“So Santa could get in.”

“Oh, yeah.” His sheepish smile sat crooked on his face.

“Well, open it,” Molly O said.

“I think I’ll wait until you open yours. That way—”

“Then I’ll go get it.”

“No, not right now. See—”

Before he could stop her, Molly O had rounded the counter and stepped through the door of his room where she came to a sudden stop.

“What in the world . . .”

The room looked like it had been searched by the CIA. Clothes poked from dresser drawers; newspapers and magazines littered the floor; storage boxes and garment bags spilled out of closet doors; and a yellowed baby quilt hung over the side of an antique trunk.

“You forgot where you hid my present, didn’t you?”

“No, I didn’t.” Caney tried to sound injured, but Molly O wasn’t fooled.

“You put it in the suitcase on the bottom shelf of your closet.”

“Damn,” Caney said under his breath.

“Good thing you’re not Santa Claus. Kids wouldn’t get any toys till ’long about April when you finally remembered where you put them.”

“Seems pretty strange to me that you know where to find your own present.”

“Well, it’s a good thing one of us does,” she said. “Next year, why don’t you just let me hide it myself.”

Caney knew the package was right where Molly O said it was, right where it had been since it was delivered last summer. And though he couldn’t recall with much detail what he had bought her, Molly O could describe it with accuracy.

Every August when she got her JCPenney Fall/Winter Catalog, she left it at the Honk along with a string of strong hints about what she wanted for Christmas. This year it was a rayon pantsuit with a double-breasted jacket and rhinestone buttons . . . the right style, the right size, the right color. Molly O made sure Caney wouldn’t go wrong.

But he wasn’t nearly as certain about the other gift, the one he had tucked into the side pocket of his wheelchair.

Last night when he had found it in his Aunt Effie’s trunk, it had looked like a delicate treasure. This morning, though, in the light of day, he realized what a silly gift it was . . . a whatnot, a gimcrack Vena would probably laugh at.

But it was too late to come up with anything else. Nothing in town would be open except for Wal-Mart, but asking Molly O to pick up a gift for Vena would be a bad mistake. Caney knew that for sure. And Aunt Effie’s trunk had little else to offer beyond his first pair of cowboy boots or his grade school art awards or his worn copy of
The Black Stallion.

“Caney, it’s beautiful,” Molly O said as she came from his room.

She held the jacket of the pantsuit against her, posing. “Exactly what I wanted.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

“Now, open yours.”

“Okay, but if this is—”

Caney and Molly O turned toward the front door as it opened.

“Good today,” Bui Khanh said as he closed the door behind him.

Then, bowing and smiling, he hurried past them. “I am cooker for work to do,” he called as he disappeared into the kitchen. “Much cooker. Many work. And happy Christmastime.”

*

Vena hurried back inside, her hands buried in the pockets of her jacket. “It’s turning colder,” she said.

“Beats me why anyone would want curb service in this kind of weather,” Molly O said as she watched Vena prepare a tray for one of the pickups parked outside.

“Maybe they’re just trying to pretend.”

“Pretend what?”

“That it’s not Christmas.”

“Well, if it works, then I’m going to go eat in my car,” Molly O

said as she went to start a fresh pot of coffee.

She’d been trying to stay busy to get past the pain of missing Brenda, but the people in the Honk weren’t helping her mood which was turning as dark as the sky.

Life was there, of course, making sure she noticed how lonely and pitiful he looked on his first Christmas without Reba, but she couldn’t help feeling sorry for him, remembering how she felt that first year without Dewey.

And just as she had predicted, Henry Brister showed up, still unable to cut up his food because of the bandages on his hands. Henry had lost both his thumbs in an accident at the plastic factory, just after his wife ran off with a John Deere sales rep from Shreveport.

Poor Henry, Molly O thought. No wife . . . no thumbs.

Duncan Renfro had managed to stray from home again and wandered around the kitchen measuring for nearly an hour before Soldier and Hooks took him back to Ellen, who was in bed with the flu.

Wanda Sue had stopped by, but only for coffee and gossip. She said she knew for a fact who had torched the Bottoms Up Club over in Marble City, but if she told who’d done it, her life would be in danger. She even had the nerve to whisper that Henry Brister’s wounds had healed, but he was keeping the bandages on so he could keep drawing workmen’s comp.

Bilbo and Peg Porter had been in, but they didn’t stay long.

Peg’s oxygen canister was running low and Bilbo smoked his last Carlton, a brand Caney didn’t carry.

Wilma Driver came by to pick up two takeout orders. Her husband had finally passed his kidney stone, but now he was down with shingles.

Through it all, Molly O tried to keep a smile on her face, convinced that her cheerfulness, even though it was faked, might make the others feel better. But when she served Christmas dinner to a family of three—father, mother and teenage daughter, whose laughter sounded so much like Brenda’s—her misery settled on her so hard she couldn’t shake it.

She thought of going on home where she could nurse her hurt in private, but the idea of returning to the empty trailer made her feel even worse.

When the phone rang just after two, Molly O rushed to answer, the sound of Brenda’s voice already playing in her head.

“Honk and Holler,” she said, her breath quickened with excitement. But a moment later, when she heard a man’s voice on the line, her shoulders sagged with the weight of disappointment. Then she turned and held out the phone to Vena.

“It’s for you.”

Vena took the phone, speaking softly with her mouth pressed close to the receiver, but Molly O had no interest in the call.

She wandered to the kitchen doorway, but didn’t invite conversation as she watched Caney trim the last of the turkey from the bone. When Bui came in the back door dragging a ladder, he set up such a racket it made her teeth ache.

After his surprise appearance earlier in the day and Caney’s refusal to let him near the grill, Bui, undaunted, had declared himself a “fixer” and, in spite of Caney’s objections, had spent most of the morning taking the dishwasher apart. And when he put it back together, no one seemed more surprised than he was that it worked.

Fueled by success, he had gone into such a frenzy of repair Caney didn’t have the heart to try to run him off again, so Molly O figured he’d be around, at least for a while.

When she drifted back to the front, Vena, just hanging up the phone, expected she’d have to fend off questions about the call, but Molly O didn’t ask. Instead, she turned strangely silent until she heard a car engine and glanced outside.

“Looks like you’ve got another one.” Molly O gestured toward the lot as a battered Cadillac pulled in, but she lost interest even before it parked.

The driver was a long-haired man with a thick dark moustache, his passenger a girl wearing a tight sweater and large silver earrings.

“I think they’re coming in,” Vena said when the girl opened her door and stepped out of the car. But as she started for the Honk, the man backed the car out and pulled away.

“Well, one of them’s coming in,” Vena said as she watched the girl tug her tight skirt over her hips and run her fingers through her hennaed hair.

Molly O looked up then, narrowing her eyes to bring the girl into focus.

Ankle-strap shoes too adult for her feet . . .

head haloed in copper curls,

mouth painted sunburst coral

“Brenda,” Molly O said, her voice as soft and light as the snowflakes just beginning to feather the air. “My Brenda’s come home for Christmas.”

A
S SOON AS BRENDA stepped inside the trailer, she tossed her purse on the couch, then zeroed in on the TV.

“You get TNN?”

“What’s that?” Molly O asked.

“God, Mom! Nashville Network.” Brenda punched buttons but got nothing more than static and snow. “What’s wrong with this thing?” she growled, slapping the side of the set.

“The picture’s better at night.”

“Why don’t you have it fixed?”

“You’re the only one who watched it much. I hardly ever turn it on.”

“Look, a TV’s like a car,” Brenda explained, her voice edged with irritation. “You got to fire ’em up ever’ once in a while or they won’t start.”