Down and Out in Bugtussle (34 page)

“Thank you,” I say. “How much is that?”

“Not a dime,” he says, and starts to snicker. “I’ve had this nursery for thirty-five years, Little Ms. Jones. You bought all perennials, which multiply like crazy. You should see the garden I have out behind my house. If I didn’t dig ’em up and sell ’em, they’d take over the whole property.”

“Well, I have to pay you something.”

“Then pay me another visit sometime and let’s talk about your grandmother,” he says. “How about that?”

“That’s a deal,” I say, and we walk out to the car, where he sees Buster Loo.

“Well, look at that little guy,” he says. “Let him out and let him run around a minute. It’s no fun to be cooped up in the car.” I open the door and Buster Loo looks like a rodent-sized gazelle as he leaps from the passenger seat. He barrels over to M. Emerson and starts paw tricking. “Hey there, little feller,” he says. “What is this, a wiener dog?”

“He’s a chiweenie, actually,” I say. “Part dachshund and—”

“Part Chihuahua,” he says, finishing my sentence. “You’re a pretty little thing, I tell you that.”

I stand there, watching M. Emerson pet Buster Loo, and I feel as if my heart is about to burst. I go over and kneel down to pick him up and Buster Loo completely ignores me.

“Thank you for the flowers,” I say.

“Thank you for coming by here today,” he says.

After I scoop Buster Loo up and put him back in the car, I walk back to where Mr. M. Emerson is standing and give him a big hug. I’m surprised by how thin he is and I wonder how old he is.

“Have you figured out her secret yet?” he asks. My face burns with embarrassment. There’s no way he could know I know about the letter. He continues. “The secret to having the most beautiful flower beds in Bugtussle?”

I breathe a sigh of relief. “No,” I tell him. “I haven’t.”

“Barnyard,” he says with an adorable grin. “Essie put barnyard in her beds, but she never would tell anyone.”

“Barnyard?”

Mr. Emerson points to the cow pasture to the left of his nursery. “Barnyard,” he says again.

I start laughing and can’t stop. Mr. Emerson gets tickled, too.
“Can you imagine what those snooty old ladies up at the garden club would think if they knew that?” he says, still chuckling. “They would die.”

“Well, I’m glad I used gloves last time I pulled weeds,” I tell him, and he starts laughing again.

“Oh, Ace Jones, you’re just like your grandmother,” he says. “Please come back here and see me real soon.”

“I’ll be hanging out here all the time now, Mr. Emerson.”

“I’d like that,” he says. “And please, call me M.”

As soon as I pull out onto the highway, I start squalling and I’m not even sure why. Buster Loo gets upset because I’m upset, so I get myself under control and try to keep my composure for the rest of the trip home. When we get there, Buster Loo hops out of the car and makes a beeline for the gate. I open it for him, then go back to the car and unload the flowers I got for my yard. I load a few things from the garage into my car, then go inside and grab a Diet Mountain Dew from the fridge. I walk back outside and look at the flower beds. “Barnyard,” I say. “I cannot wait to tell Birdie Ross about the barnyard.” I run back inside and grab my phone, then get in the car and drive over to Lilly’s. When I pull up in her driveway, I dig my eyedrops out of the console and, after putting a few drops in my eyes, I rub some of the liquid around my eyes so they won’t look red and puffy. I walk around the back door and when Lilly opens it, I see that she’s been crying, too.

Basket cases,
I think.
We’re all just a bunch of fucking basket cases.

“What are you doing?” she asks. She has a tissue in her hand.

“Get dressed and come outside,” I say. “I need you to tell me where you want these flowers.”

“What flowers?” she sniffles.

“Your flowers.”

Between my ten gallons of monkey grass and the free flowers from Mr. M. Emerson, Lilly—who actually gets down and digs in the dirt with me—and I transform the area around her house from something pitiful and scary to something pleasantly pretty.

“I have another surprise for you,” I tell her before getting up and walking back to my car. I pop the trunk and get out a hedge trimmer along with a ten-ton bright orange power cord.

“What in the hell do you plan on doing with that thing besides getting electrocuted to death?”

“Plug me up and stand back,” I tell her.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “I’ll stand way back. Should I go ahead and call 911 or wait for you to actually cut into something vital?”

“Go ahead and give ’em fair warning,” I tell her, and laugh my evil, wicked, crazy laugh that always cracks her up. “Just kidding,” I say. I crank up the hedge trimmer and look over to where she’s standing, looking at me like I’m deranged. “Steer clear, my dear, and observe a professional at work.” Unbeknownst to her, I did a practice round at my house the other day, so I know exactly how to operate the hedge trimmer. At least I think I do. After ten minutes of trimming and retrimming, I shut the machine off and stand back to survey my progress.

“That looks so much better,” she says.

“Everything looks better after a good trim,” I say. “Shrubs, bushes, the muff.”

“You just get crazier every day, don’t you?” she says, laughing.

“I try. Now, here, help me move this cord, and I’m going to carve a serpent out of those hedges over there.”

“Are you sure you can do that?”

“No, but I’d like to try.” She gives me a wary look that makes me laugh. “Maybe later?” She shakes her head. “No? Okay, then.” I finish trimming Lilly’s shrubs and hedges, then help her bag up the trimmings in one of my superbig garbage bags.

“Wow, Ace, this looks great.” She looks at me. “How much do I owe you for those flowers?”

“Well, the flowers were free.”

“How did you get the flowers for free? Did you steal them or are you sacking the flower salesman?”

“Actually, I think Gramma Jones was sacking the flower salesman.”

Lilly’s jaw drops at that. “Are you kidding me?”

“Nope,” I say. “His name is M. Emerson. He owns the nursery. He and Gramma Jones were, uh, friends.”

“I have to hear all about this.”

“I can’t talk about it today. Maybe tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow then,” she says. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Sitting on the damned couch. Drinking beer and eating pizza topped with aspirin and ibuprofen. I can hardly move.”

“You should sit on my couch and do that. The least you can do is let me buy you some pizza.”

“Can we watch
Saturday Night Live
?”

“Absolutely! I’ll make us some blue coconut margaritas!”

“You know I don’t drink that shit!” I say, laughing. “I’ll go home, get a shower, and then BYO—some of my own beer.”

“Okay, let me know when you’re on your way back and I’ll call in the pizza.”

“Okay.”

I go home and kick my shoes off at the back door. I go inside, take a long, hot shower, and throw on some clean cutoff jogging pants and an old T-shirt. Then I grab Buster Loo and head back over to Lilly’s where I hang out for the rest of the night and wonder why Tate Jackson hasn’t called me yet.

A
nother week passes during which I do not hear from Tate Jackson, and I think every single day about quitting my job as a permanent substitute teacher. On Friday, I go to Chloe’s office during my off period and tell her that we need to talk.

“What’s going on?” she says when I sit down.

“First of all, it’s the end of the year, so why am I having to work so much? Where are all of these teachers going? What’s the deal?”

“There have been a lot of meetings at the county office this week,” she says. “Everyone should be back next week and you can go back to getting paid to sit in the teachers’ lounge and gossip with Stacey Dewberry.” She smiles.

“Thank you,” I say, smiling back. “That’s just what I wanted to hear.”

“I can’t believe you hung in here this long, Ace. Honestly, I didn’t think you’d last two weeks as a sub. And a little birdie told
me that the board was pleased that Cameron is hosting the art fair, and I have a feeling that she’s going to do great on her evaluation next week.”

“Don’t forget Stacey Dewberry,” I say. “She’s more popular than I am now.”

“And that,” she says, laughing. “You’ve really done a great job with everything and I am very impressed and I very much appreciate it.”

“I am pretty awesome,” I say.

“Yeah, you’re so awesome that we’ve had a lot of parents calling in bragging on what a nice sub you are.”

“Really?”

“Of course not! Rest assured, we have had some calls about you, but I took it upon myself to deal with those.”

“Bring me up here next time you get a call about me,” I tell her. “I’d be more than happy to talk to some of these kids’ parents.”

“I know you would,” she says. “This is why I handle it. Some of the parents don’t have good sense.”

“Complaints my ass,” I whisper. “I’ve got some complaints for them!”

“Okay, so the pain is almost over and you’ve survived. You only have two weeks left.”

“How’s the wedding planning?”

“Great,” she says. “Everything is in order. Jalena is decorating and catering, and I can hardly wait.”

“That’s fantastic,” I say. Technically, our conversation has come to a close, but I just keep standing there.

“Got something else on your mind?”

“I haven’t heard from your favorite soon-to-be brother-in-law.”

“Oh Lord,” she says. “I’ve been meaning to tell you—”

“Wait, let me guess. He’s dating a twenty-year-old bean pole.”

“No! Nothing like that,” she says. “He’s been out of town on business. He’s kind of a workaholic.”

“You think he’s screwing anybody while he’s gone?”

“Ace, really?” she says. “What else?”

“Your shower is all taken care of. I think you’ll be most pleased.”

“Jalena Flores is an amazing woman,” Chloe says. “She’s made this whole wedding-planning thing so easy for me. I was expecting to be more stressed out.”

Jalena and her business model. “She’s got a plan and it appears to work.” The bell rings and she stands up.

“Oh, Ace, did you get that e-mail about the bridesmaids’ dresses?” I tell her that I did. “So what did you think?”

“Well, as for me personally, I would’ve preferred some kind of sea foam green silk dress with, like, some lace on the chest and maybe some mauve-colored puffy sleeves that would, of course, have to be sewn on by hand.” She starts laughing. “But a nice chocolate and white polka-dot sundress from Macy’s isn’t so bad.”

“Do you like the dresses? I mean, I loved the polka-dots. And I didn’t want it to be too formal or too boring, and I thought maybe the dress would be something you could wear again.”

“I love it,” I say as we step out of the office and into the bustling commons area. “And they actually had my size, which was a huge relief. I’ve already ordered it and the shoes you recommended.”

“Good deal.”

“So when do we find out if we’re having a boy or a girl?”

“At my next visit,” she says, looking around nervously.

“So what are you hoping for? And don’t say, ‘Just a healthy baby and we don’t care either way,’ because I know you want a healthy baby. Everybody wants a healthy baby.”

“I’d like to have a girl,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Maybe you’ll have triplets!” I say, just to get her wound up.

“Ace Jones, you better shut your mouth!”

I go back to my classroom and try to think positive, but by the time the bell rings at the end of the day, I’m just barely hanging on to what’s left of my sanity. I go down to D Hall, stop and chat with Lilly for a minute, then peek in on Cameron.

“How’s it going?” I ask her.

“Great, but I have a few questions. Could you come in for a second?”

“Sure.” I glance out the window at the buses in the parking lot. “Is it just me or does it take them longer to leave on Friday?” I ask Cameron.

“I don’t think it’s just you.”

I think I’ll talk to Stacey Dewberry about that. See if she can pass out some Dr Pepper to all the other drivers and maybe speed things up a little bit.

When I get home Friday afternoon, I’m exhausted. I call Pier Six as soon as I get there and then munch on pizza off and on for the rest of the night.

On Saturday, I get up early and go outside to plant all of my new flowers. Saturday afternoon, Stacey calls and says she’s going out with Cameron and Freddie. I decide to pass because I’m exhausted. Lilly comes over and we talk about the who/when/where of our trip to North Carolina next weekend.

“Have you started packing yet?” she asks me.

“No, but I’ve been putting a lot of thought into what I plan to take with me.” She laughs because she knows better.

On Tuesday, Lilly goes to the garden club meeting with me, not because she wants to, but because I guilt-trip her into it. Gloria and Birdie are most pleased to see her and she actually ends up enjoying herself. During the “snack time,” I tell Birdie about the barnyard and she almost busts a gut laughing.

“She never would tell me,” Birdie says. “I pestered her all the time. Boy howdy, I’d love to get up at that podium and give a presentation on that,” she says, snickering. “Wouldn’t you just love to see the look on some of these ol’ coots’ faces?” She pokes me in the arm. “You could help me.”