Down and Out in Bugtussle (13 page)

“Okay,” I say.

And more silence.

“I don’t want him to ask me to marry him because I’m pregnant,” Chloe says. “I don’t want us to have to get married. I want him to marry me because he wants to and because he loves me, not because he has to.”

“Chloe, he does love you,” I say. “He’s always been crazy about you. Even when you were married to that shithead Richard Stacks.”

“Oh, please, let’s not talk about him.”

“We’re not going to talk about him!” Lilly says, giving me the evil eye. I give her my best okay-then-well-you-say-something look. She continues. “I think we can all agree that it would be best to tell J.J., right?” She looks at me and I nod.

“I can’t do that,” she says. “I just can’t. And I can’t believe this has happened to me. I’m on the pill and I never forget to take it.”

“I do not doubt that at all,” I say.

“What are we going to do?” Chloe asks.

“We?” I exchange another look with Lilly. We pick up our wineglasses and then I pour the next round. “This wine is fabulous,” I say. “Where on earth did you get it?”

“Ethan Allen gets it for me,” Chloe says. She looks at Lilly and then at me, her expectation obvious.

“Well, we are going to find a way to get J.J. to propose before you have to tell him that you’re pregnant,” I say with great conviction even though I’m only guessing.

“No!” she says.

“Chloe, you have to be realistic about this. We’re all adults here.” Lilly looks at me. “Well, almost.”

“Thank you,” I say.

“Anyway,” Lilly continues, “J.J. needs to know. He would want to know, and he might get upset if you don’t tell him.”

“It is his baby, right?” I ask, and Lilly kicks me under the table.

“Of course,” Chloe says, taking offense. “Who else would it belong to?”

“Sorry,” I say. “That was so stupid.”

“Yes, it was,” Lilly agrees. “Do you want us to talk to him, maybe try to drop some hints?” Lilly ventures. I shake my head in disagreement because J. J. Jackson does not entertain foolishness in any shape, form, or fashion.

“Please don’t do that,” Chloe says. “Let’s just give it a few weeks.”

“A few weeks?” Lilly says. “How far along are you?”

“Almost six weeks. My due date is November 15, so I should have at least another month before I start showing.”

“But y’all have talked about getting married, right?” I ask.

“No.”

“Not even after you bought this big nice house?”

“No.”

“Has moving in together been discussed?” Lilly asks.

“No.”

I look at Lilly and she shrugs. She picks up the bottle and fills each of our glasses half full, emptying it.

“You have to tell him, Chloe,” I say. “You have to. He has a right to know.”

“I am not telling him,” she says stubbornly. “Maybe he’ll just up and decide to propose.”

“Maybe so,” I say, realizing that there will be no reasoning with her tonight.

“Maybe,” Lilly says, obviously sensing the same.

On the drive home, I call Lilly and we discuss ways to drop some hints to the sheriff that he needs to propose to his damsel in distress.

F
riday, Stacey Dewberry is hell-bent on the two of us going barhopping, and after the sixteenth time I tell her I can’t, she finally stops asking. Lilly texts me just before noon and says they’re pulling into the driveway at Dax’s parents’ house and she’s about to have a panic attack because they live in a tiny farmhouse and she’s wearing a three-hundred-dollar pair of heels. She’s not worried about getting them dirty—she’s worried about looking ostentatious. I send her a few messages, trying to encourage her, but then her texts stop abruptly so I spend the next few hours worrying about how that’s going.

When the bell rings at the end of the day, I walk into the teachers’ lounge to get a Diet Mountain Dew. Freddie Dublin is stretched out on the couch with his shoes off. I compliment his wide-striped green and navy blue socks.

“Big plans for the weekend?” he asks as I drop quarters into the drink machine.

“Not hardly,” I say. “You?”

“Going to Memphis and seeing a show at the Orpheum.”

“That is so cool, Freddie!” I say because it is. “What are you going to see?”

“
Memphis
. It’s based on a true story.”

“Sounds great. Have a blast.” I turn to leave and run right into Stacey Dewberry who, in her haste to get into the lounge, almost knocks me down with the door. I step out of her way.

“Ace—I mean Ms. Jones—I am so sorry about that,” she says, hustling past me to the drink machine. “Gotta go! Gotta go!” she chants, and she forcibly inserts her coins into the machine.

“What’s your hurry, sunshine?” Freddie asks, still lying back with his feet crossed at the ankles.

“My nerves are shot to holy Hades and I can’t drive that bus today without a can of medication.” She pulls a Dr Pepper out of the dispenser and holds it up for us to see. “Gotta run, peeps.” And run she does. I look at Freddie, who is humming and smiling as he piddles with his phone.

“She drives a bus?” I ask him.

“Obviously,” he says, without looking up.

“Who in their right mind—”

“Now, Ms. Jones,” Freddie says with a smile. “Surely you don’t presume the curious Ms. Dewberry to be in her right mind?”

I freeze, thinking that anything I say can and will be used against me in a court of frenzied gossip and twisted hearsay.

“Enjoy the show!” I say, and then get the “holy Hades” out of
there before he has a chance to say anything else. In the safety of the hallway, I take a sip of my semi-cold drink and decide that even though Mr. Freddie Dublin is one of the coolest cats I’ve met in a while, I will not be entrapped by his trickery and charm. Then I think about Stacey Dewberry behind the wheel of a school bus, and that makes me laugh out loud. How in the world does she do that and sub? No wonder she drinks so much Dr Pepper.

I spend Saturday morning helping Jalena hang rods, blinds, and curtains while discussing the pros and cons of a wall mural. After we unpack what seems like ten thousand boxes of dishes and silverware, she asks me if I could do some flamingos instead of marsh grass.

“Not, like, real-lookin’ flamingos,” she says. “I want them to be cartoonish. Cartoonish, but not childish. Like they’re just about to say something funny and might use ugly words when they do.”

“Got it,” I say. “I can do that.” I grab a pencil and sketch a few flamingos that could possibly be cussing or telling dirty jokes.

“That’s perfect,” she says. “How long will it take for you to do that?”

“Couple of hours,” I say with a shrug. “Depends on how many you want and how pink you want them to be.”

“I think I want three,” she says. “Like two hanging out on one side of the wall and one on the other.”

“Okay,” I say. “I’ll make the one by itself a little bigger. Like it’s a bit closer to you.”

“That sounds good,” she says as she walks over to the wall. “So, two here. One over there, and could you add some water and the
sun in the middle? Maybe some clouds? Like the flamingos are framing a sunset. Kind of blend them into a nice scene.”

“That’s actually a great idea,” I tell her. “I could do this today, you know.”

“Really?”

“Sure. No time like the present. Unless, of course, you have another truckload of dishes coming in that needs to be unboxed.”

“I think I have enough plates and glasses to do me for a day or two,” she says with a giggle. “You wanna go pick up some paint?”

“Do I?” I say, laughing. “Do I?”

“Do you need some kind of special paint for this?” she asks, and I assure her that I don’t. We ride to Walmart where I grab four different shades of pink craft paint along with several other colors and a can of glaze. I go find Jalena and see that she’s picked up a bag of chicken strips, some jojo potatoes, and a package of frosted sugar cookies. On the way back to the diner, we stop by my house, where I run inside and grab my paint brushes. When we get back to the diner, she fixes us drinks and we eat lunch on paper plates at the bar. After asking her one last time if she’s absolutely sure that she wants to do this and assuring her it will not hurt my feelings if she doesn’t, I start sketching on the back wall of Jalena’s diner. She stands and watches me for a few minutes, and I don’t know if she’s curious about what I’m doing or worried about me making a mess.

“And if you hate it, it will only take a minute to cover this wall with primer and repaint it, okay?”

“I’m not worried, Ace!” she says, but she keeps standing there. I turn around and look at her. “Okay, I’ve got to get this menu typed up, so I’ll go get started on that.” She disappears into the kitchen
and returns a minute later with an old FM radio that she sets on the bar and fools with until she finds a station. Then she starts pecking away on her lavender laptop. I line up my colors, pick up my paint brushes, and get to work.

“Okay, are you ready to see greatness?” I ask when I finish the first flamingo. “Close your eyes and turn around.” Jalena turns around on her bar stool with her eyes shut. “Okay, look!” I say.

“Wow!” she says when she opens her eyes. “I love it!”

“Thanks!” I tell her. I like it, too. “So you want two more?”

“Abso-freakin’-lootley!”

And so we both get back to work. After I finish the other two flamingos, I get started on the sunset, which is quick and easy work, and then paint some blue-green water and a white seashore. I stand up straight, back and knees cracking, and give the mural a thorough inspection. After a few touch-ups, I sit down on the floor and lean back against the wall to rest my aching back. Then I literally watch the paint dry. When it does, I get up and start on the glaze, which makes the whole scene look soft and faded like an old postcard.

“Voilà!” I say, and Jalena turns around on her bar stool again.

“Double wow!” Jalena says. “I love it! Talented!” She opens her mouth to say something, then stops.

“What?”

She gives me a funny look.

“What is it?” I ask. “If something is wrong, just say so and I’ll fix it. This has to be perfect, so no holding back.”

“It’s not that.” She nods toward the wall. “I love it. It’s perfect.”

“Well, what is it then?”

“I don’t even want to bring it up.”

“Bring what up?”

“Just never mind. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t just never mind me, sister. What were you going to say?”

“I was just wondering how you don’t miss having your own art gallery,” she blurts. “This”—she points to the wall—“is amazing. I’m sorry. I don’t want to upset you by bringing up the past. I just don’t see how you can not do this for a living.”

“It doesn’t upset me to talk about the art gallery,” I say, trying not to think too hard about it. “It’s over. I gave it my best shot and it wasn’t for me.” I shrug.

“You don’t miss it?”

“Hell to the niz-oh,” I say, and that’s the honest truth. “I mean, I love to paint, but I hated being in there by myself all the time. I’m a social bird, sister, and I can’t function without my flock.”

“Yeah, and speaking of flocks,” she says, eyeing me, “how are things going over at the schoolhouse?”

“Oh, it’s terrible,” I say with a laugh. “Worse than I ever imagined, but it’s okay. It’s fine.” I pause. “Okay, I’m lying. It’s not fine at all. It actually sucks rotten donkey balls, but whatever. It’s a means to an end.”

“The end of what little sanity you have left,” she says, laughing. “I don’t see how you do it. Hell, I don’t see how anybody does it.”

“Teaching isn’t as bad as you think.” I look at her and she doesn’t look convinced. “It’s actually nice when you have your own classroom and your own desk and all of your stuff put together just like you want it. It’s really cool.” She looks skeptical. “Don’t get me wrong here. I’m not trying to convince you that subbing isn’t the absolute rock-bottom hottest freakin’ part of hell. Because it is.”

“I just hope it’s worth it,” she says.

“Me, too,” I tell her. “It would suck for real to go through all this crap for nothing.”

“So you’re pretty sure you’re going to get your old job back?”

“I don’t know,” I say with a sigh. “Honestly, it’s not looking good right now. I mean, that hussy Cameron Becker doesn’t have any idea what she’s doing, but she’s made it abundantly clear that she has no plans to vacate my classroom and she’s even threatened to get a lawyer.”

“Why can’t they just add some more classes and have two art teachers?”

“They could if they had enough students to fill up the classes, but Chloe has already told me that barely enough students have registered for the class next year to justify having one art teacher on the payroll, let alone two. That’s the problem with electives. The students have to elect to enroll in your class. Chloe says she’s had to coax students into taking the entrance exam and she’s never had to do that before.”

“See? You’re irreplaceable.”

“Not hardly,” I say with a snort. “I take my classes on awesome field trips to the Brooks Museum of Art in Memphis.” I smile at Jalena. “Fifteen bucks each to ride a charter bus, lunch at the Hard Rock Cafe afterward, and bingo! Everyone loves your class.”