Death of a Domestic Diva (22 page)

Word had finally gotten out—Tyra Grimes was in Paradise.

And so the world had at last discovered Paradise.

We were about to get the fame I'd wanted for my hometown. My wish had come true.

I should have been happy. But there was this sick fluttery feeling in my stomach, and I heard the words Mrs. Oglevee used to say: “be careful what you wish for . . . you just might get it.”

I had to park all the way down by Lewis's Funeral Home, four blocks from my laundromat. Then, I had to wake Tyra up, which made her grumpy, like a kid who's napped too long. But when she saw the media vans, a switch went off. She was suddenly Happily Beaming Tyra, Meet-the-Media Tyra, Gracious Tyra.

To get ready for the role, Tyra whipped a lipstick out of her purse and peered into a little mirror while she freshened up her lips, then finger-combed her hair.

“Did you see where they all are?” Tyra asked. She meant the media, of course.

“Everywhere,” I moaned.

“They have to be somewhere big. Where would that be?”

I thought. There's no really big gathering spot in Paradise—not big enough for all the people who were currently clogging the streets.

“Even during the Beet Festival Parade, the streets aren't this crowded,” I said. “The only place in town with lots of space is the Paradise Theatre—but it's closed—or . . .” I stopped, the terrible truth hitting me, then wheezing right back out again in a thin stream of words. “Or . . . my . . . laundromat . . .”

Tyra got out of my car, hurried off without waiting for me. Of course, it wasn't like I needed to introduce her.

I got out too and started hurrying down the sidewalk—I was mighty worried about what was going on in my laundromat—but I stopped when I saw, on the corner down by the Rothchild Funeral Home, Vivian, staring at me. She looked quickly away and ducked into Cherry's Chat and Curl.

She'd followed us. That had to be the truth. Vivian wasn't likely to go in and get her hair trimmed into some chic new style, not when she'd been wearing the same bun for years.

But I didn't have time to run into Cherry's to question her—I needed to get down to my laundromat. Now, I kind of wish I had. I could have talked with Cherry about why my scalp was itching all the time. I could have talked with Vivian, maybe even found out what was bothering her, then and there . . . instead of later, when it was too late.

But truth be told, I was more worried about my laundromat at the moment than about anything else—than about Tyra and whatever she was plotting at Stillwater, than about Billy and why he wanted me out at the Red Horse Motel at three o'clock. Toadfern's Laundromat is my livelihood.

I ran. By the time I got there, I was huffing for breath.

But when I stepped in, what I saw took my breath away.

Reporters.

Everywhere.

Like an infestation of ants.

Not just Henry Romar, the publisher/editor/reporter for the
Paradise Advertiser-Gazette
, although he was there too, eyes wide, taking pictures of all of the reporters. This would be Henry's biggest scoop—this many reporters had never been in Paradise before.

And it wasn't just reporters and photographers crowded into my laundromat. As I picked my way through the crowd, trying to get to Tyra, I ran into Mayor Cornelia. And stumbled into Pastor Whitlock, from over at the Baptist Church.

It was so noisy that when I shouted, “This is a place of business! Unless you've got something to wash . . .” my voice was picked up and drowned in the thundering voices all around me.

It was so crowded that to see what was going on I finally climbed up on one of my folding tables and stood up on it and peered out over the crowd.

I took in what was going on in the center of my laundromat. There stood Tyra, a little circle of space around her, silent but smiling for camera after camera as reporters jostled to take her picture. She turned slowly, an eye of calmness in the middle of all these people storming around her, like she knew that her worth, in that moment, was in being seen, being photographed, being filmed. She knew it, and she liked it, and she relished it, so she played to it. It made me wonder how it felt to be someone like Tyra Grimes, when she was all alone. From what she'd said in my car on the way to Stillwater, it felt lonely. My thought from my last visit at the old orphanage echoed through my mind . . . two different things, alone and lonely. And not an easy combination to live with.

I could only pick up bits of the questions being hollered—“Ms. Grimes, what brings you to this little town?” “Ms. Grimes, can you address the allegations about illegal workers at your manufacturing site in the California desert . . .”

Tyra held her hand up. The people in the room got quiet, more or less, although there were still people taking pictures.

About this same time, a hefty reporter with a camera noticed me standing up on my folding table, and climbed up too.

“Get down,” I hissed at him. “I own this place . . . this is my table . . . I'm the only one who can—”

But he ignored me. Trouble was, other reporters and photographers noticed the vantage point this big fellow had gained by joining me up on the folding table, and so they started climbing up too. I swatted at them like horseflies, but they were just as stubborn, and swarmed on up.

Meanwhile, Tyra was speaking. “I'm so glad you are all here. I do have important news to share with all of you.” The room got really quiet after that—except for the creaking sound of the table that I and about five other people were standing on, plus the sound of me swatting and hissing, “Shoo, shoo!”

“I will be holding an official press conference day after tomorrow, on Friday afternoon.” A groan went up and someone hollered, “Why do we have to wait so long?”

Tyra held her hand up for silence and the crowd quieted. “Please, the conference will be two days from now at Stillwater Farms. I'm sorry to wait that long, but I have to wait for a few, um, details to be finalized.” She paused, as if unsure of what to say next. She missed Paige and her counsel, I thought. Then Tyra smiled and went on. “I also need to wait until after the funeral of Mr. Lewis Rothchild, out of respect for his family.” The crowd buzzed at that. Tyra finished, raising her voice, “At that time I will answer your questions—and make a significant announcement of both a personal and business nature.”

There was a lot more buzzing after that—people trying to get Tyra to answer more questions about the questions she wouldn't answer yet—and picture taking. And me, saying “please get down off my table . . . please get out of my laundromat. . .”

And then, just what I was afraid would happen happened. The table legs buckled and the table swayed and then crashed. Some of us went down in a heap, some of us tumbled into other parts of the crowd, so people in those parts fell down, too, knocking down other people who hadn't even been near the table to begin with—in a kind of willy-nilly people-domino way. Me, I landed right on the reporter who had gotten up on the table with me to begin with. He cushioned my fall, for which I was grateful, although he was moaning pitiably.

Still, I had a whole split second of prayerful hopefulness that everything would be all right, but then someone landed on me, and someone else hollered that they were pinned under the table, and then I heard first one crashing sound from back in the storeroom, and then another crashing sound, from over where the cappuccino machine was, then a sort of tumbly thump-thump sound.

And over and around all those sounds, people hollering and moaning and cursing, and I thought, oh Lord, we're gonna have one of those panic-induced stampedes, like what you read about happening at rock concerts, where everyone gets crushed to death, only it was going to happen right here in my laundromat.

Then, rising above all the other noises came a new sound—a long, high thin voice mewling one plaintive word—
“M-a-a-ma!
”

A little kid—somewhere in this crowd, in my laundromat . . . I scrambled up, not sure what to do. Suddenly, there was a roar, “Get out of my way!” and parting the crowd in a manner that would have made Moses proud was Becky Gettlehorn, holding Tommy on her hip. The crowd hushed and pulled back as she got to the little girl—Haley—who was sitting in the middle of the floor, crying, her lip bleeding and cut. I remembered how Lewis had rescued Haley from the crowd out front just the day before yesterday.

Becky swooped down, scooped up Haley, murmured at the child until she calmed down, then glared at me.

“I just got my last load out of the washer,” Becky said, spacing her words out evenly, so each one sounded like a judgment coming down on my head, “but I guess I'll take the clothes home wet, and hang them up to line dry.”

With that, she put down her kids, grabbed up a stack of three laundry baskets, and staggered out with Tommy and Haley following her.

Before the crowd could close over the path she'd cleared, or start talking again over the hush her righteous mama's wrath had made, I said, “Anyone who isn't doing laundry in here—get out!”

Everyone ignored me.

Their attention was back on Tyra, who'd somehow remained calm, standing and unruffled through everything. The eye of the storm.

“Thank you for your time and attention,” she said sweetly, as if she'd just completed a public service announcement. “I'll look forward to seeing you all over at Stillwater in a few days.”

With that, she grabbed Mayor Cornelia's elbow and started moving toward the front door, all the while chatting at Cornelia as if they were old school chums miraculously reunited. Cornelia had a shoeprint on the shoulder of her white blouse, and loose ends of hair were sticking out of her usually smooth coif, and she was limping—I had heard her high voice among those hollering after getting knocked down—but she still looked thrilled to be receiving Tyra's attention.

I watched the rest of the crowd follow them out. At the tail end of the crowd was Vivian. I hadn't realized she'd followed us in here. She didn't even notice me as she moved by me—her gaze was glassy, far off again.

I didn't stop her or anyone else. I was glad to see them all go.

Finally, I was alone in my laundromat—and able to take in the mess it was in. The folding table was bent in the middle, its legs broken. The bookshelf had fallen over, and books were scattered everywhere. Two of my laundry carts were knocked over. There were soda cans and plastic coffee cups and even cigarette butts on my once clean floor and tables. And the cappuccino machine had gotten knocked to the floor, where it was in pieces.

Some sample packets of powdered soap had gotten trampled, so a fine powdery residue was everywhere. A trash can was knocked over, so wads of lint and fabric softener towels and soda cans and other trash were all over the floor. My laundromat looked just plain shameful.

I went to the front door, locked it, and turned my sign from
OPEN
to
CLOSED
. I pulled down the miniblinds over the big plate glass windows that front my laundromat. Then I checked my washers and dryers. At least they seemed fine.

But still, I felt just plain sorrowful. I had to go see what Billy wanted to show me out at the Red Horse Motel, but after what had happened, I couldn't leave my place standing open. Even if it was fit for customers—and it would take hours of work before it would be again—I just didn't want to risk it after what had happened.

Poor little Haley had been scared in my laundromat—and it could have been a lot worse. She could have been really hurt. Maybe even trampled to death. My head spun as I thought about that.

No, I'd have to lock up my place while I was gone.

Because for the first time ever, I didn't feel safe enough in my own hometown of Paradise, Ohio, to leave Toadfern's Laundromat open and unattended for a few hours.

So for the first time ever, it would be closed in the middle of a working day.

In fact, for the first time ever, Toadfern's Laundromat would be closed for several days running—until Tyra and all the reporters were out of town—because I sure didn't want to risk a repeat of what had just happened.

I didn't see that I had a choice.

And not having a choice made me feel even more sorrowful.

My plan was to leave by the back door, being sure to lock it too, then see what Billy wanted out at the Red Horse, then come back to start cleaning up.

I crossed to the stock room and saw, on the floor, a tiny kid's T-shirt. I picked it up. It was still damp. One of Becky's kid's T-shirts. An old worn-out one, with a patchy bit of teddy bear picture still on the front. Folks like Becky, I thought, sure wouldn't be buying Tyra Grimes's T-shirts.

I hung the tiny T-shirt over a hanger on one of the laundry carts before leaving.

Billy was waiting for me in the bar of the Red Horse Motel. He was sitting with Luke Rhinegold, Billy drinking a beer, Luke nursing a cup of coffee. They were both staring up at the big-screen TV, watching a wrestling match. Somehow without flicking his eyes away from the television, Luke saw me coming in, stood up, and moved back to the bar.

I sat down in the chair he'd left. Billy kept staring at the television. “You're early,” he said.

I stared at the TV too, uncomfortable with looking at Billy in case he decided to make eye contact. Billy had changed. I hadn't really had time to think about it this morning, when he'd been waiting for me in my laundromat—but he was different. Serious. Even as a preacher, even when he was worked up to a good preaching froth on his favorite topic—the glories of heaven and the agonies of hell—he hadn't been so . . . serious.

I made myself look at him, take him in. Yes, there was a new set to his jaw—determined. A new set to his shoulders—confidence, instead of the old cockiness. Billy was on a mission—and it was finally something he really believed in.

I put my hand on his arm. “I'm in trouble,” I said. “
We're
in trouble. I mean—Paradise is in trouble.”