Brightleaf (5 page)

11

Brightleaf R.F.D

June 14, 1990

Dear Diary,

Like on the Andy Griffith reruns, R.F.D. stands for Rural Free Delivery. In other words, B.L.T.-- Boring Little Town. Grandmother took me shopping at Dundy’s for a few things, but what I wouldn’t give for a new baby doll dress and a pair of acid washed jeans. I won’t be caught dead in the Little Mermaid
swimsuit she picked out for me. She told me all the other swimsuits were too immodest for a girl my age. Forget the Brightleaf pool this summer. Grandmother has no cable, so there’s nothing to do but watch PBS and Lawrence Welk reruns on the local channel. That’s why I’m up here, writing again. Sometime I guess I’ll confess the Huey Incident. I would probably still be secretly in awe of Huey if he didn’t get too big for his britches and muscle ahead of me in the cafeteria and take the last chocolate pudding. Huey probably saw me standing there and said to himself, There’s that slow girl I beat on field day, so I’m going to get in front of her. That decided it. I did not secretly want to know how strong Huey was anymore. The harelip lost its charm. Grandmother is knocking and wants me to go to a flea market with her and her old lady friends. The flea market beats watching the white guy with the afro paint pictures on public television. The Huey Incident will be continued….X

12

Share Group #2

Mary Beth

It’s Wednesday night again. We finished eating and are pulling chairs around for Share Group. Those who didn’t come for dinner are just arriving. Angus is here. His eyes are more bloodshot than usual. Jimmy, Winslow, Mavis, Eleanor, Vanessa and Ned are sitting in the circle. Vanessa is smiling and showing off the new gold star on her front tooth. She comes here once a week and cleans the whole downstairs, mops, dusts, and kills spiders. She won’t accept a dime for her work. I’d be more than happy to pay her because this is a woman who knows how to clean. Finding good household help is like stumbling upon a diamond in a pile of zirconia. Vanessa could definitely be one of those angels.

We sit down and prepare to free our minds to share when the doorbell rings. No one rings the doorbell here; everyone just lets themselves in. I start worrying it might be the police catching up with me about a dognapping. Eleanor hops up to answer it, and I pour myself another cup of coffee.

We hear Eleanor and another voice echoing in the foyer, then footsteps in our direction. I hear a man’s voice saying, “I heard you give regular tours.”

“I’m not sure, but I can ask Mary Beth,” says Eleanor.

Eleanor walks into the room followed by Dr. Dorrie. I about drop my coffee cup on the floor. He looks clean and fit in blue jeans and a t-shirt. He walks towards me with his hand out-stretched for a shake and says, “Mary Beth? Right?” Then he realizes there is a circle of people staring at him.

“Whoops,” he says. “Looks like you guys are having a meeting. I didn’t realize it was this organized when you invited me.”

I cannot believe my eyes. The Jersey Guy is here. In my very home. Floyd’s home. I invited him.

Boy, am I in trouble.

Flustered, I say as cheerfully as I can, “Why yes, Doctor! So glad you came!” I shake his hand.

“You mentioned something about an open house on Wednesdays, so I thought I’d check it out,” says Dr. Dorrie.

I totally doubted he would come.

I look around the room, hoping to God that Floyd stays put, wherever he is. I say, “Everyone, this is the Jers—Dr. Terry Dorrie. I met him the other day and invited him to come over and see the house.”

“Hey Doc, have a seat,” says Jimmy pulling up a chair.

“Thanks,” says Dr. Dorrie.

“Dr. Dorrie, we were just getting ready to have our Share Group session,” I say. “This is normally what we do on Wednesday nights. I guess I didn’t make that clear.”

“It’s Terry,” he says. He sits down halfway, like he may not stay and says, “Is this group therapy or something? I can come back another time if you want.”

Here is my chance to send him on his way, to save my butt, to make sure Floyd is nowhere around next time he comes.

“No, no,” I say. “This is not professional group therapy. You’re welcome to stay, and afterwards I’ll show you around.”

“Great.” He sits back down and gestures for me to carry on.

I take a brief moment to explain the rules of Share Group again, and we begin in silence. I have trouble relaxing. I want to shoot out of my chair, find Floyd and stick him in the backyard with a muzzle. I decide he’s probably sleeping in Mavis’s room, so I look at my scripture verses on the wall and wait for someone to say something.

“So what kind of doctor are you?” asks Winslow. “Academic or medicine?”

“Medical,” says Dr. Dorrie.

If he’d said gynecologist, everyone would automatically conclude he’d seen me naked.

“What kind of medicine?” asks Winslow.

“OB/GYN.”

All eyes turn on me.

Vanessa says, “Mary Beth, you pregnant?”

“I am not pregnant. I assure you I am not.”

“Did you think you was pregnant? I never even knew you had you a boyfriend.” She scans the circle, trying to figure out if I could be dating one of the men present: Angus, Jimmy, Winslow or Ned. Certainly not the Jersey Guy. Everyone else starts looking around too. Wondering.

I say, “Remember when I shared how I was going to get a mammogram? The one Dr. Kelly begged everyone to get?”

Automatically everyone stares at my breasts. Now I’m positive everyone thinks Dr. Dorrie has seen me naked. The men are all kind of smiling. And so is Dr. Dorrie. Then I say, “Well, ladies, ya’ll need to go get one, too. And hurry up.”

“I hope it ain’t too late to get that shirt, This Mamma Got Her Mammo,” says Mavis.

“If it’s too late, you can have mine,” I say.

Things get quiet again.

“I’ve had irregular pap smears for the last ten years,” Eleanor says, staring at the floor.

Winslow says, “I could help you get them more regularly. I’m a doctor.”

“Psychologists don’t give pap smears, you warped thing,” says Vanessa.

Mavis pipes up, “Well, you’d probably be more regular if you ate somethin more nutritional than coffee and lettuce.”

“Your irregularity could be caused by a number of things,” says Dr. Dorrie. “Who’s your gynecologist?”

“Patterson.”

“Is Dr. Patterson concerned about this?”

“It’s hard to tell,” says Eleanor.

“Tell you what, let’s talk about this later. Maybe I could call Dr. Patterson and we could discuss it, if it would help you feel better. I believe we can get to the bottom of this.”

“No pun intended,” mumbles Winslow.

I feel bad for Terry Dorrie. I bet he’s wondering what kind of Confederate freak show he’s wandered into. I’ve got to think of a way to change course. But before I say anything, he sneezes twice.

“Bless you, Dr. Dorrie.”

“Thankyaaa-choo! Achoo!”

“Catchin cold?” asks Mavis.

“I don’t think so. I felt perfectly fine when I walked in. You must have a pet of some sort here. I’m highly allergic to animal dander.”

Mavis opens her mouth and says, “As a matter of fact, we’ve got ourselves a poor little poodle we saved from an abusive pervert. Only, the Poodle Almanac says poodles is one of the least allergic dogs in the world.”

“’Cause poodles don’t shed!” says Jimmy.

“The Poodle Almanac says that poodles do shed,” says Mavis. “Their hairs just don’t fall all over the floor like a lot of animals’ fur does. It stays on them. The old fur sticks to the dog. But that don’t mean it won’t make somebody start sneezin.”

“An abusive pervert?” says Terry Dorrie.

Mavis says, “Mary Beth is a hero. She brought him home, and he was white–”

“White with fear,” I cut in and give Mavis a look. “Yes,” I continue. “Poor Floyd was white with fear when we found him.”

“How can a dog be white with fear?” asks Dr. Dorrie.

“Well, Terry, you’ve got to be a dog lover to detect a certain pallor about them at times. The whites of their eyes are…whiter, more gel-like.”

“Gel-like, ay?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, I just learned something new. You know I had a poodle myself, and he was white, except not with fear. Just white. He got out of his fence and I haven’t seen him in a few weeks.”

Now, as if on cue, Floyd begins to whimper at the kitchen door. Great.

“That must be the fearful one now,” says Dr. Dorrie, laughing. “It’s okay, you can let him out.”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” I say. “Floyd is petrified of strangers and he might pee on the floor.”

“Nonsense,” says Mavis. “Floyd ain’t never met a stranger.”

With this, she opens the swinging kitchen door. Floyd stands there with his new Midnight Blue hairdo and looks at Dr. Dorrie.

“I may be allergic,” says Dr. Dorrie, “but I’ve definitely got a way with dogs. So it’s Floyd, huh? Come ‘ere Floyd,” he calls, patting his knee.

I give Floyd a look that says
if you go to him I’ll tie bows in your hair.

Floyd ignores me and streaks out of the kitchen in a blur of blueness right onto Dr. Dorrie’s lap.

“Hey boy…wow, you’re fast. Almost as fast as my dog. Maybe faster.”

Dr. Dorrie scratches behind Floyd’s ears, and his eyes land on the rose tattoo.

“What? Is this dog a member of the Russian Mafia?”

Floyd whimpers and licks Dr. Dorrie’s hand and face and sits in his lap until Dr. Dorrie breaks out into a full blown sneezing attack and has to place him on the floor.

Around nine, we call it a night. Before Dr. Dorrie goes home, he bangs on the banister a little to see if it’s hollow and then pokes his head in the kitchen to say good-bye to Floyd, promising to bring him a doggie treat on his next visit.

Next visit? Why would he come back?

Tonight was a close call.

A strange night, too.

13

Doyle Stubb

Mavis

Manchild, he done gave up on me cuz I quit talkin to him. He’s got hisself a new love now. Eleanor done made the mistake of feelin sorry for him and bought him a iPad to get him real professional, so he could get a regular job. First he watched a whole bunch of porno on the iPad, then he hocked it at the pawn shop. It sure did make him feel loved to get a present.

I’m fixin the food for the Share time when I hear Dr. Dorrie talkin out in the Great Room. “Hey there, Yankee!” I yell out the kitchen door. “Come on in and make yourself at home.”

I told Dr. D he can call me Trailer Trash, since I like to call him Yankee. But he gets this real bothered look on his face and won’t do it. Last time he said, “Mavis, I could never call you that.
Trash
should never be applied to
anyone
.” (He takes it real serious.) “If I had to call you Trailer anything it’d be Trailer
Treasure
.”

That’s real sweet and all, but he’s got to learn to take a joke. Loosen up, baby. And if you’re gonna give me a nickname with
Trailer
in it, I’m very partial to
Twilight Trailer
cuz I did read them Vampire books. And they was gooood.

Dr. D swings open the kitchen door. He’s been comin to the Share Group for a few weeks now and taken to comin early to help me fix supper and set up the furniture. He’s got on a t-shirt and jeans. He likes to pull up a chair at the kitchen table and talk while I’m cookin. He’s told me a little about hisself.

First off, Dr. D was going to be an architect. He went to some fancy design college in Chicago. But when his mama, who he was devoted to, got real sick and died of some kind of lady cancer, he decided to go into medicine. Doc’s a natural born gynecologist. That lady doctor who works with him is for prisspots, like Mary Beth. But for folks like me who would much rather have a man gynecologist, he is happy to oblige. Don’t be gettin no strange notions – Dr. D is professional.

Some thangs I learned about Dr. D: He grew up in New Jersey. They don’t drink sweet tea up yonder. Dr. D is divorced. He was once married to a lady who ran out on him. She wrote him a note sayin how she needed some adventure and left him her dog.

Doc thinks he’s helpin with supper by bringin over kitchen tools. So now I got me a new garlic press, meat thermometer, apple corer, egg timer and a julienne maker (whatever). Stuff like that. I always says
thank you
, but I don’t have the heart to tell him I won’t never use any of that junk. What I want to say to Dr. D is,
Get your sweet buns down to the Sam’s Club, and pick me up a jumbo bag of instant mashed potatoes, a fifty-pack of frozen burgers, and a ten-pound bag of shredded cheddar.
Now that would make sense.

Sometimes when we’re sittin around the table talkin, Eleanor sticks her skinny head in the door and looks. If Doc’s in the middle of sayin somethin, he shuts right up sayin what he was sayin and turns to Eleanor in a doctor-like way and says, “Well, hello Eleanor. How have you been feeling lately?”

Eleanor says she’s doing okay and tries to hang out and be a part of what we were doin. She fixes a cup of coffee and tries to look casual and all. She sits down at the table like she’s sayin,
I’m cool to hang out with
. But Dr. D usually turns toward her like she’s a patient, and he’s waitin to hear her tell what all she’s ailin from so he can write her a prescription. Doc means well, but Eleanor don’t like to be taken like a science project.

The thing I find strangest, Mary Beth don’t never come into the kitchen and chat with me and Doc. And he has plenty of questions about her.

“You need to ask Mary Beth them questions.”

Winslow coughs and pants his way into the house. I can hear him clear from the kitchen. I walk into the livin room and behold him in his tan joggin outfit, sweat rollin down the sides of his face, chokin like he’s fixin to pop a hairball. He holds up a hand and motions for me to hold on till he catches his breath. Then he reaches in his pocket with the other hand and pulls him out a cigarette.

I cross my arms and wait for his coughin to die out. Then he lights up. Mary Beth don’t like people smokin in the house, but I ain’t the smoke police.

“You better quit that before you have a heart attack.”

He takes a drag and shakes his head.

“I ain’t talkin about smokin. Quit that joggin.”

“I need to do it,” he says after blowin out smoke. ”Keeps my heart and lungs strong.”

“Hmpf. Smokin and exercise don’t mix.”

“Actually, Mavis, you ought to seriously think about going out for a jog yourself.”

“I suspect you’re thinkin more about how my girls here would look bobbin up and down in a tank top than my general health.”

“It would be a pleasure to have a jogging buddy,” says Winslow. “Especially an attractive older woman like yourself.”

“Older woman, my ass,” I says ”I ain’t got but fifteen years on you.”

Winslow laughs and jerks into another fit of coughin.

Most everyone is startin to trickle in the house for the sharin time. The ones that didn’t come for supper is settlin themselves down, includin Doyle.

Doyle! It’s his first time, and he just sorta slipped in without anybody seein him. But here he is, lookin like he’s gettin ready to do somethin otherworldly. I’ve only met the man one single time in my life, but I feel like he’s one of the most unusual people I’ve ever met. If he had him a fan club, like Michael Bublé, I’d be his biggest fan.

I says, “Why Doyle Stubb, you sly thang. How’d you get past the security?” I point at Floyd, who’s prancin around the inside of the circle gettin friendly with everyone. It’s a joke about Floyd being security.

Doyle smiles with his tiny lips and looks at me real cheerful outta the good eye and says, “Perhaps the dog is more selective than you think.”

I swear, that man is cool as all get-out.

“Doyle, what do you mean by
selective
?”

“Have you ever seen the dog shy away from anyone?” he asks.

“Come to think of it, Floyd won’t go near Manchild. What are you gettin at? Floyd reads people like you read them groceries?”

“Dogs are quite different. Their animal instincts work constantly, which humans, although we possess them, don’t normally allow to operate.”

“So you think Floyd’s got
ESP?
”

Everybody, except Mary Beth, who’s in the kitchen, quits talkin and listens to Doyle.

“When I approach a home,” says Doyle, slowly movin his hands like he’s touchin an invisible wall, “I prepare myself for the possible presence of an animal by letting my defenses down and opening my senses up to them.”

Now he’s usin his hands to stir the air, and he’s sniffin like he’s a hound dog, his mustache twitchin.

“Your Floyd accepted my spirit and was immediately aware I was no threat to his home.”

“You can do that stuff, Floyd?” I says, lookin at Floyd like he’s a real genius.

Floyd chews his bottom.

Winslow says, “Yeah, I do that, too.” He starts coughin like he’s got another hairball, but really he’s just tickled with Doyle talkin all serious that way about Floyd.

Mary Beth looks real surprised when she walks outta the kitchen and sees Doyle Stubb bein the center of attention. “Well hello, Mr. Stubb,” she says. “Fancy seeing you here. It’s been a couple of weeks. I hope your mother is well.”

Doyle says, “Thank you for inquiring after mother. She’s fighting as valiantly as anyone who cannot remember her own name. I sing Barry Manilow to keep her spirits up, and at times she joins in. To hear her sing ‘Copacabana’ would bring tears to your eyes.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” says Mary Beth.

“Your concern is touching.”

“Well, how in the world did you find the house, considering I don’t quite remember giving you directions?”

Doyle says, “My dear, I had no problem finding you, as I could not help but notice the large can of wasp spray in your cart at our last meeting.”

Mary Beth looks worried.

Doyle keeps on talkin, “Also, the presence of five packages of toilet tissue and several large frozen lasagnas provided me with a route.”

“Do tell,” says Mary Beth. She crosses her arms.

Doyle’s lazy eye looks at the ceiling, and his regular eye looks at me. He says, “I looked for a house with a large porch, simply because wasps enjoy making nests in them, and a home that is big enough to warrant five bathrooms, as well as a large crowd of people to whom the lasagnas would be served. Several homes fit the description, but then I saw the poodle on the porch, which corresponded to the bag of pet food for ‘small and toy-sized dogs.’ It was slightly more than a lucky guess.”

Mary Beth has a pretty strange look on her face, but she says, “Everyone, this is Mr. Stubb–”

“Call me Doyle. It is a pleasure to meet you all.”

“Doyle is new to Brightleaf, but it looks like ya’ll have already met him.”

“Hey, Doyle.”

“What’s goin’ on, Doyle?”

Doyle shakes hands with Jimmy, Winslow, Vanessa, Ned and Terry.

“Doyle is a particularly talented man,” I says. Mary Beth rolls her eyes at me, but I think these folks have the right to know a sensation is in their midst.

“Oh yeah?” says Dr. D. “What are your talents, Doyle?”

Doyle is just standin there chewin on a carrot stick, his tiny lips movin like a rabbit. He don’t look like a master at nothin.

I says, “I ain’t never seen a man who can mind read like you see in them alien movies, but Doyle is the closest thing to it, next to a real life alien.”

“Why thank you, kind lady, that was quite poetic,” says Doyle.

Mary Beth

I’ve never seen, nor heard, Mavis so touched by a person in all my life. I sincerely hope Doyle is not a cult man because if he happened to form his own religion, Mavis would be his first follower. Then I’d lose my cook, but not before Doyle wielded his power to get his eyeballs in my pantry and discover all my secrets. The thought that he could steal my identity just by peeking at my canned goods...

“Well I sure do wish you’d show everyone some of the thangs you can do,” says Mavis. “But I guess you’d have to follow every one of us around the supermarket, like you did with me and Mary Beth.”

“I was fortunate enough to glimpse your purchases at the checkout,” says Doyle, smiling, “but I’m quite astute at reading grocery lists, as well as receipts.”

“You need to get you a job with the police,” says Mavis. “Crime solvin. Lord, I’d love to know the kinds of foods a killer would buy.”

“What can he do, exactly?” asks Winslow.

“Doyle can tell your fortune just by lookin at all the stuff you buy. Right Doyle?” Mavis says.

“Particularly food stuffs, but not limited to,” says Doyle, nodding.

Mavis whispers in my ear that it would be very dramatic if we let Doyle do his thing. I’m not sure about any of this hanky-panky, but Mavis reminds me of my scripture on the wall about strangers maybe being angels. So I give a reluctant nod.

Now she goes and whispers in Doyle’s ear. Doyle’s lazy eye looks like it’s assenting and gearing up for action.

Mavis takes charge and says, “I want all ya’ll to fish around in your pockets and pocketbooks and find you a grocery list or a receipt, if you got one. Put your name on it, and pass it to Doyle here.”

“I’m doubtful,” says Vanessa.

“Just you wait,” says Mavis.

Jimmy says, “I’ve got a receipt from last month. It’s kind of crumpled, though.”

Vanessa says, “Why you got a receipt in your pants pocket from last month? Don’t you wash your britches?”

“Why wash them? Paint won’t wash out.”

Eleanor says she lost all her shopping lists.

Everyone else passes lists or receipts around to Doyle. He pulls Vanessa’s out first and studies it.

“Ah, here’s a woman, fastidious and tireless, with a heart as golden as her tooth. You will begin a new business venture in the near future. And I see you writing your memoir, which is to be well received. House cleaning will be a thing of the past. I assume that is your current occupation, my dear? You will live long and enjoy your grandchildren, who will bring you nothing but pride.”

Even though Vanessa is a black lady, you can tell she’s blushing. She asks, “How do you know I clean houses? There ain’t no cleaning supplies on that receipt.”

“Ahhh,” says Doyle, holding up a finger. “No cleaning supplies, but a pair of rubber gloves, a Martha Stewart
Living
Magazine, and a
Soap Opera Digest
. The digest tells me the most about your schedule. That you keep up with the soaps, but can’t always.
Living
is known to be a most un-relaxing publication, as it is full of tips on how to keep your home and domestic duties seamless, orderly, and immaculate. Individuals as tireless as yourself flock to it. Oh, my dear. This receipt is rich. The bag of dried kidney beans, the pound of turkey bacon, the jar of pickled beets.”

Vanessa has the most curious expression. She holds out her hand for her receipt and puts on her reading glasses for a closer look. She shakes her head and smiles.

Next is Ned. Doyle takes longer to analyze Ned’s receipt. He stands there eyeballing each item, then looks up at the ceiling, then at Ned. Finally he frowns and says, “This is dark. Perhaps I should deliver your reading in private? Conversely, you may prefer the presence and comfort of friends. Which do you desire?”

Ned makes this goofy, thinking face, pretending to be scared and all. Then he relaxes and says, “Naw man, hit me. I can handle it.”

Both of Doyle’s eyes focus steadily on Ned. Then, holding his G.P. receipt with two fingers, Doyle says, “A love for video games and syndicated television will quickly bring doom. However, I see there’s a strong chance of success if you can break the addictions. And I mean, IF.”

“Cool!” says Ned, more excited than anyone should be. “How’d you know that, dude? Like, what food do I buy that tells you that stuff? Like ‘doom’? How
sick
is that!”

Then Ned hugs Doyle. You can tell by Doyle’s response, he isn’t normally hugged at times like this.