Dancing Naked in Dixie (3 page)

Necessary papers tucked securely in the crook of my arm, I straighten up, flick an imaginary piece of lint off my skirt with my free hand, and begin to walk out. My feet brush the carpet in small, level steps.

I reach for the doorknob, inches from the hallway.

“Have fun! Don’t forget to check in,” David calls after me. “Oh, and send a postcard.”

I scowl. His voice is ringing in my ears.

That’s low. Lower than low. He knows I collect postcards. Make that
used to.
In my past life. I want to stomp out—have a proper a four-year old temper tantrum. Be in control, I tell myself. Keep your chin up. Walk.

David can go to Hell!

I make the most horrible, gruesome face I can think of.

Surveillance cameras be damned.

Chapter 2

My day is about to get worse.

I’m in trouble. Big trouble. The sort of trouble that ends careers. And every single person in the office knows. Eyes track me like bloodhounds. My ribcage contracts like I’ve been caught in a lasso. When did my cubicle get so far away?

What, did David send out a memo announcing my punishment? I can picture the subject line now. Something catchy and stolen from a trashy tabloid magazine.
Julia Sullivan Strikes Out Again. It’s Alabama or Bust!

Now, to my immense irritation, some idiot is whistling. What’s that tune? Then I know. John Denver.
Country Roads.

Coincidence. Pure coincidence. I shake it off.

“Yee haw!”

My head jerks up.

A fluke. It must be.

Still, it rattles me. I remind myself that a shift in management brings out the worst in people. Employees expect a shake up, some casualties, and a few empty desks. Every man and woman defends his or her own worth. I’ve been lucky. I’m usually off on assignment halfway around the globe.

Until now.

I see the straw cowboy hat. It’s perched jauntily on the entrance to my cubicle.

This is personal.

My eyelids flutter, while my steps slow to the pace of a slug in dry heat. And I realize everyone within a hundred-mile radius is watching to see what I’ll do.

The first thought that pops into my mind, quite sincerely, is to snatch up the hat, throw it on the ground, and trample it with the wildest abandon of a Nairobi warrior.

I swallow.

And walk past Marietta’s empty cubicle to my desk.

I gather my purse and down jacket, then shut down my laptop, which gets jammed into my leather bag with the folder and airline ticket. From the corner of the room, there’s a sneeze. Or a snicker. When I twirl around to leave, at least a dozen faces peer up at me.

Hell’s bells!
I have an audience. Think Julia. Don’t lose your cool. Think.

Ever so casually, I force an easy smile, stroll to the hat, and settle it on my head. I twirl a piece of hair and assume my best Daisy Duke pose. I grasp the edge of the cowboy hat and tip it ever so slightly. And wink.

“Bye, y’all!” I swing my hips toward the elevator.

No one makes a sound.

Mercifully, the elevator is empty and waiting. The doors shut behind me. I collapse against the wall, toss the hat to the floor, and press my cheek against the cool metal.

Question: How much does it suck when your new boss is the one person in the world you can’t trust?

Answer: A lot. Especially when it’s your own father.

I start to bawl like a baby.

The elevator offers a ten-floor reprieve from any human interaction. I cling to the metal handrails, praying the doors don’t open before we reach the first floor. The light moves, ticking down from nine, then eight, and seven. At the third floor, I sniff back my tears, wipe at my face with both hands, and pick up the hat. I cram the straw appendage under my arm, holding back a desire to crush it under both feet. With my luck, if I do it, someone will cite me for littering in my own workplace and fine me two hundred dollars.

A ding signals we’ve hit ground level.
Rock bottom
, I think. How appropriate.

The wind’s picked up since this morning, gusting in bursts that seem to push me down the sidewalk. Sleet pelts my hair. Balancing my bag and the stupid hat, I shrug on my white jacket, zip up, and re-position my scarf. Barrier up, I almost sigh in relief.
There. Better.

Teetering on the heels of my boots, I hold my breath and squeeze into an opening in the crowd, just as an elbow catches me in the ribcage.
Sheesh.
I wince in pain and bump against a man’s shoulder. He glares at me from under his faux fur-lined hood.

“Sorry,” I squeak and resume jostling for position. A flash of bright yellow speeds by, sending a spray of wet, gray slush. There’s a yelp of outrage, some fist-shaking, and a few choice cuss words lobbed after the taxi. I glance around the angry mob.
Why is everyone in Manhattan looking for a cab?

The answer comes a moment later, when I overhear two women exchanging shrill weather reports. They’re both clutching iPhones, tapping and sliding manicured fingertips over the glossy screens.

“We’re going to get buried,” one hisses. She tucks her black cashmere wrap over her pearl choker and adjusts her Louis Vuitton clutch.

“Six to ten inches of snow before midnight,” the other confirms. Her red Chanel lips are pursed. “The whole city may shut down.”

A tap of panic hits me between the shoulder blades.
If the airports close, how will I get to Atlanta? I have to get home. I have to pack. I need a taxi now.

With a surge of energy, I push through the group, balance on the curb, and wave my arms at the oncoming traffic. “Taxi! Taxi!”

In one miraculous instant, three yellow cabs pull up. With a rush of activity, people swarm the vehicles. I manage to latch onto a back door handle and yank it open. The weather-report ladies are on the other side of my taxi, deflecting dagger-looks from a pair of men who arrived a few steps too late.

The driver is honking his horn, waving us inside. “Come on, ladies,” he urges with a nasal shrill. “Meter’s running.”

“We were here first,” Chanel Lipstick calls over the roof of the cab at me. I watch as her mouth curves into a satisfied smile. Obviously, the woman always gets what she wants and is quite comfortable taking it away from someone else. This makes me angry and slightly hysterical. I say the first thing that pops into my mind.

“I-I’m sick,” I declare, making my best wide-eyed and pitiful expression. “I can’t last out here much longer.”

This announcement makes both women stop. Cashmere Wrap throws me a dubious glance. I wrack my brain for an illness. Something awful that will make them regret trying to steal my taxi. The Flu? Salmonella? Mad Cow disease?

“Athazagoritis,” I announce, shocking even myself when the words spurt out of my mouth. This gets the desired reaction. The women offer simultaneous pitying looks, almost as if they’ve been practicing.

Chanel Lipstick waves a gloved hand, acquiescing. “Get in, dear, we can ride together.”

The trip to my apartment is an exhausting exercise in humiliation. Every mile, I curse my impulsive nature, swearing on my mother’s grave that I will never lie again—even to strangers who are mean to me—blizzard conditions or not.

The two women rapid-fire questions at me like I’m the subject of an FBI investigation.
How did I learn that I had this illness? When? How many treatments do I have to have? Does it make me very sick? For how many days? Who is helping me at home?

I stutter through answers, wanting to smack my own forehead for ever saying it. Of course, Athazagoritis isn’t real. The word popped into my head because Marietta’s forever teasing me about being so scattered and missing appointments. She says Athazagoraphobia—fear of forgetting—might actually be a good thing for me.

Cashmere Wrap presses gloved fingertips to her rouged cheek. “Is it terrible?”

I think fast. “It’s somewhat rare,” I say, darting my eyes toward the snow-covered sidewalks, wishing I could jump out. “I’m able to work, but I get really tired.”

“Oh, you poor dear,” Chanel Lipstick says. “A career girl. What is it that you do?”

“I’m a writer for
Getaways
,” I admit, relieved that I don’t have to fib about that part.

“The travel magazine? How glamorous,” Cashmere Wrap purrs. “I hope you get your strength back. You’re so young. I would never have guessed you were ill.”

“Thank you,” I whisper and sink lower in the seat.

Then, the taxi stops and the driver announces my address and the fare.
Thank goodness.
I’ve managed to answer everything, every single question. Now I can get out of here. I reach for the door handle, lift, and swing one foot out onto the street.

Chanel Lipstick presses a hand on my arm. She’s holding on, and I’m not sure she’ll let go. “Oh, my dear,” Chanel Lipstick whispers. “I have to know. Is there any cure?”

“Yes, um. Sure.”

Finally, she releases her death grip on my arm.

Outside the cab, I hear my name. Someone is yelling “Julia!”

Relieved at the thought of escaping the taxi, I spring onto the sidewalk, then catch myself. It’s Andrew, my boyfriend, striding down the sidewalk in a long wool coat. His hair, despite the storm, is combed in place. He looks a bit worried, with his shoulders hunched, both hands shoved deep into his pockets.

Actually, when I come to think about it, there aren’t many moments when Andrew
isn’t
concerned about something. He worries about numbers because he’s a CPA. He’s employed by a large firm, a very prestigious company, where everyone scurries around doing very important accountant things, especially during tax season. His job, I’ve learned, is about managing forms. There’s the long form and short form, and forms with different titles: W-2, W-4, 1099, 8863, 941. I can’t keep them all straight.

Being good-natured, Andrew always laughs at my confusion. He says he can’t identify all of the stamps on my passports—with emphasis on the plural—and that makes us even. I’m not about to argue.

“Andrew, w-what are you doing here?” I sputter as he kisses my cheek. I fumble inside my bag for cash to pay the cab driver. Of course, I’m short a dollar or two. My boyfriend, prepared as usual, chips in the remaining bills.

My new-found friends are fascinated by his sudden appearance. Four gloved hands cling to the open window. Both women, in turn, edge the other one out for space.

“Take care of her now, she’s not feeling so well,” Chanel Lipstick calls out first.

Andrew throws an arm around my shoulders and gazes down at me, concerned. “What’s wrong, Julia? Rough flight, sweetheart? Bad day?”

“You’re right about that,” Cashmere Wrap accuses him, almost hanging out of the cab to berate my innocent boyfriend. “Her Athaza—”

Andrew blinks at the women as the cab driver guns the engine and drives off, vehicle fishtailing back and forth in the slush.

“What did she say?” My boyfriend’s brow is crunched into a deep line.

I scramble to cover the gaffe. “I think she was trying to tell you—” I glance at the collar of his pressed shirt, then down to the red swatch of his tie. “Ah, that’s a sweet boyfriend.”

Andrew grins and buys the cover-up.

I pat his shoulder and paste on a wide smile. “Let’s grab dinner.” With a firm hand, I steer him away from my apartment and up the street toward our favorite pizza joint.

It’s crowded and loud, brimming with music and noise. My ears usually ring for hours afterward, but the food is worth it. They have brick-oven pizzas, all kinds, with toppings like Porcini mushroom and Gorgonzola cheese. The restaurant also offers fifty-two exotic beers on tap, a concept Andrew claims to adore. Of course, tonight, like every other evening, he places the same request.

“Red Stripe, please,” he says to the server, who nods and doesn’t move to jot it down on her notepad.

“Merlot?” she asks me, pencil poised. I’m a little less cautious than Andrew, choosing a Shiraz or Cabernet on special occasions. She appears almost crestfallen when I nod, but perks up when Andrew orders Napoli pizza.

“Adventurous,” I comment.

“You’re just back from Italy,” he grins and winks, as if needing to remind me.

I don’t dampen his enthusiasm by reminding him that Rome and Naples are a few hours apart. The cities are nothing alike. The food is half a country apart. The people, ditto. I don’t bother because Andrew doesn’t like to travel outside the United States. He’s phobic about public transportation, airlines, trains, and cruise ships, which rather limits our romantic vacation possibilities.

Our relationship works—and has for years—likely because I’m so exhausted from logging frequent-flier miles that I don’t want to leave the City once I’m here. Andrew loves that I never beg him to take me to the Hamptons, the Adirondacks, or Vermont.

Nope, I’m content in my pajamas and socks, snuggled up with my fleece blanket next to Andrew, watching movies all weekend. Of course, I’m usually asleep halfway through the first film. Jet lag always gets me.

Andrew says he doesn’t mind—likely because I have no earthly idea what we’re watching; probably back-to-back reruns of
The Apprentice
while I doze off. Andrew has a real thing for Donald Trump. I told him, if he ever gets a wild idea about adopting a comb-over, he can forget it.

“Tired from the trip?” Andrew asks as the server plops down our drinks. “You seem distracted.”

“A little,” I agree and take a long sip of wine, trying not to gulp. “Sorry.”

“Well, we need to plan our anniversary dinner,” Andrew reminds me, offering a shy smile.

An immediate pang of anxiety hits me when I hear the word ‘anniversary.’

Andrew reaches a hand to rub my back. He looks so hopeful, so sweet. “So, are you here for longer than a day? Aren’t you staying for a week this time?”

“Afraid not. New boss. Big change in plans,” I shake my head.

“Oh,” he replies. Andrew is used to me cancelling plans.

I avoid his gaze, not wanting to hurt him, but unable to be completely honest. I’m not happy about the trip, but I’m almost relieved to avoid the momentous anniversary celebration.