Etta Mae's Worst Bad-Luck Day (8 page)

Like I was always trying to do, in spite of being reminded of Bobby Lee Moser every time I turned around and all the heart-stopping thrills I’d once had with him.

But it was my wedding day, and the time for thrills, heart-stopping or otherwise, was long past and gone.

It was a few minutes before nine by the time I got to the Delmont branch of Wachovia Bank, and there wasn’t a parking place left on Main Street. I drove past the nosed-in cars along the two blocks of downtown, hoping somebody would back out, all the time fuming about the Northern retirees who’d moved down here, crowding out the rest of us. Lurline says she always asks the Lord for a parking place and He finds one for her, but I don’t have that kind of pull. Finally I found a space around the block on Rosewood, got out, and locked the car because of the pile of dirty clothes in the backseat. I didn’t know who’d want them, but you never know.

I hurried down the sidewalk toward the bank, nervous now about being late with my payment. Lawyer Sitton was not a man to cross, or one to be late on when you’ve made a promise having to do with legal stuff. Paying no mind to the old men sitting on the sidewalk benches who followed me with their watery eyes, or to the lanky-haired, hairy-faced redneck who whistled and said “Babe” as I passed, I walked as fast as I could, my Kathie Lee dress swishing around my thighs.

Barreling through the heavy glass door of the bank, I ran right into Bobby Lee on his way out.

“Whoa,” he said, those white teeth gleaming against his tanned face. “Etta Mae. Just the girl I always wanta see.”

“Hey, Bobby Lee, how you doing?” I said, stepping around him. “Nice seeing you.”

“Wait a minute. What’s your hurry, sugar? Don’t you have a little time for me?”

I stopped and looked up at him. He was out of uniform, in soft prewashed jeans that looked sprayed on, a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and his pointy-toed cowboy boots. A big square buckle on his belt. He looked good, but then, he always did.

“No, I don’t have time for you, or for anybody else, either. I’ve got business to tend to.”

“You always have business to tend to. You ought to slow down a little, darlin’, not be in such a rush all the time.”

Well, that pushed my button. “Bobby Lee,” I said. “The reason I’m in such a rush is because of that idiot, Clyde Maybry, who took me in last night for something I did not do, and I had to get a lawyer to keep him from holding me all night long, and now I’ve got to get almost my last cent out of the bank and go pay for it, and do it within the next fifteen minutes. If you’d do something about the people you work with, I might have a little time to visit with you.”

He reared back like he was dodging the words I threw at him. Then, hooking his thumbs in the waistband of his jeans, he said, “Well, my goodness,” which sounded ridiculous coming from a man who could whisper the nastiest words you’d ever want to hear in the dark of the night.

Then he wiped the smile off his face and said, “Yeah, Wendell told me about that. Listen, Etta Mae, you should’ve called me. If I’d been on duty, none of that would’ve happened. You know I’d look after you.”

“I don’t know anything of the kind,” I said, looking away from him so he wouldn’t see the way I had to blink my eyes. “Clyde still doesn’t believe me, so he’s not going to be looking for whoever really broke in and knocked Junior out. So what can you do about that?”

“I can fix Clyde, don’t worry about him. Come on, Etta Mae, my truck’s right down the street. Let’s go sit down and talk about it.”

“No,” I said, squaring my shoulders. I reminded myself that I was through depending on the kind of men I’d always picked to take care of things, which none had ever done. What I wanted more than anything else was to
be
somebody. Somebody who was respected and listened to and treated in a nice way all the time. What I wanted was to be in a situation where nobody would ever again look at me and, without blinking an eye, think the worst. “I’ve got to cash a check and get to Mr. Sitton’s office. Good to see you, Bobby Lee, but I have to go.”

I went around him and over to a teller’s window. I wrote a check to cash for two hundred and fifty dollars and slid it across to Mary Ann Dooley.

“I’d like my balance, too, please.”

She smiled, hit some keys on her terminal, then counted out my money. She wrote a figure on a slip of paper and pushed it to me, along with the cash. I nearly folded at the knees when I saw my balance.

“Is this before or after the check I just cashed?”

“Oh, it’s after. Not to worry, this check is covered,” she said.

That helped. But the rent on my trailer space and hook-up would be due next week, then the light bill. Then the phone bill and cable TV. I might have to ask Lurline for a loan, which made my flesh crawl to think of.

Then I remembered that if everything went according to plan, I wouldn’t have to worry about any of those bills or getting a loan or anything else. As Mrs. Howard Connard, Senior, I could write all the checks I wanted to and not give a thought to what the balance might be. Of course I wouldn’t not give it a thought, since I planned to be just as careful with Mr. Howard’s money as I was with my own. I’m the financially prudent type of person.

I turned and hurried out of the bank. Almost nine-fifteen, and I had two blocks to walk to Mr. Sitton’s office above Eckerd’s Drug Store. When I came out on the sidewalk, there was Bobby Lee leaning against the bank building.

He pushed off the wall and started walking with me. “I forgot to tell you,” he said, “how tasty you’re looking today.” He sidestepped behind me, letting his hand brush my waist as he moved to my other side next to the traffic. He was always thoughtful that way, even though there were parked cars and a good twelve feet between us and the line of traffic.

“Don’t give me a hard time, Bobby Lee. Can’t you see I’m in the midst of conducting serious business here? I don’t have time for you.”

“Well, I’m trying to conduct some serious business, too. I want you to tell me all about last night, who was there, what happened, everything. I’m going to get to the bottom of this mess. Can’t have my baby girl being accused of something she didn’t do.”

I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, making a heavyset woman with a shopping bag swerve around me. “Two things, Bobby Lee. First, I’ve already been questioned on all that and I damn well don’t appreciate being questioned again. And on a public sidewalk, at that. And number two, I am not your baby girl, and the sooner you get that through your thick head, the better off you’ll be.”

He stood smiling down at me, like he hadn’t heard a word I’d said. Dense, is what he was. “Darlin’,” he said in that soft voice that sends chills down your spine, “you know you been thinkin’ about me, like I’ve been thinkin’ about you, and dreamin’ about us together. Sweetest thing in the world, you’ve got to admit. Remember how we used to put a blanket in the back of my truck, and what about that motel out by the airport?”

I locked on his eyes, black as his cheating heart, and nearly got lost in them. “Bobby Lee,” I whispered, leaning in close so he could get the full effect of Elizabeth Taylor’s Passion rising up from the V neck of my dress. Right there in the middle of the sidewalk with people walking around both sides of us, I felt him begin to sway as his eyelids drooped halfway down. “Bobby Lee,” I whispered again, “you can go straight to hell, and take Darla Davis with you.”

And off I went, leaving him standing there. It took a minute, but then he began laughing, and the sound of it followed me all the way down the block.

I jerked open the door next to the drugstore and went up the stairs to Mr. Sitton’s office. It was quiet up there and cool, with air conditioners running to block out the street sounds and everything else. Like people down there on the sidewalk laughing their heads off.

“I’m Etta Mae Wiggins and I want to pay my bill,” I said to the receptionist, who was skinny as a rail, and not a bit improved by her dyed orange hair with her scalp shining through. Old as the hills and dried-up-looking, too.

She sniffed and took my money but not before looking me up and down. She reminded me of my civics teacher, who’d never liked me.

“I’ll need a receipt,” I said.

She pursed her mouth and said, “We always give receipts.”

I let that pass because I wanted something else. “Is Mr. Sitton in? I’d really like to see him, if he’s not too busy.”

She didn’t even look up from the receipt book she was writing in. “Mr. Sitton’s always busy. You’ll have to make an appointment.” She tore out the receipt and held it straight up so I had to reach over for it. “But his appointment book is full for the next several weeks. There’s a new lawyer in town who might be able to see you. I’d try him, if I were you.”

I bit my lip to keep from telling her that she wasn’t me, and a good thing, too, since she wouldn’t be able to handle it. Instead, I took the receipt and thanked her as nicely as I could and left.

Just wait,
I told myself as I went down the stairs.
One of these days when I’m Mrs. Howard Connard, Senior, I’ll snatch that stuck-up witch bald-headed.

At the bottom of the stairs, I looked out to see if Bobby Lee was waiting. I didn’t see him anywhere, so I took the notepad out of my purse and struck off numbers 5 and 6 from my list.

Before going back to the car, I swung into Eckerd’s Drugs and started down the aisles. I wanted to have something to take to Junior when I went to the hospital. Maybe he would be more willing to talk to me when he saw that I knew it was the proper thing to take a gift when you made a hospital visit.

I couldn’t decide what to get him, not knowing the name brands he liked or what he might need. Pajamas came to mind, but that was too personal. He might not appreciate me giving him something that close to the skin. Besides, I didn’t think Eckerd’s carried them. I looked at some shaving cream and men’s cologne, but they didn’t seem right, either. Finally I decided to go with something safe, something that everybody liked.

I carried the Whitman’s Sampler to the counter, paid for it, and waited while the girl wrapped it for me.

Back in the car, I looked over my list again and tried to collect my thoughts before facing Junior. If I could even get in to see him.

 • • • 

Driving out of town, I passed the VFW clubhouse with its huge flag flapping lazily in the breeze. The public swimming pool next door was still and empty with kids back in school, but it sure looked inviting to me. My car was hot, even though I’d been lucky to’ve parked it in the shade. One of these days, I’d get the AC fixed. Maybe about the time the first snow fell.

Then I smiled, reminding myself again that after this day was over, I wouldn’t have to worry about cracked compressors or dragging mufflers or ripped seat covers.

That’s what I needed to keep in mind. Every time I had a sinking feeling about what the day would bring, I needed to remind myself to think of all the worries this day was also going to relieve me of.

Driving to Abbotsville didn’t take long, even though the ten miles was on a curving mountain road. The new Walmart Super Store was over there, so I’d made the trip often enough to know the county seat fairly well.

After checking at the desk in the lobby of the hospital, I rode up in the elevator to the second-floor medical wing, clutching the Whitman’s Sampler to my breast. With my other hand, I searched for a Kleenex in my purse, and used it to mop up the perspiration on my face. The hospital was cool, almost too much so, and a real shock after coming in from the heat. Still, I was sweating. Nerves, I guess. Since no one else was on the elevator, I held my arms out to the side to get some drying benefit underneath.

Turning right out of the elevator, I walked down the hall toward the nurses’ desk. Holding my breath so my luck would hold, I was relieved to see that no one was there. Slipping behind the desk where I wasn’t supposed to be, I quickly scanned the rows of charts and found Junior’s room number. I headed toward Room 216 on tiptoes to keep my high heels from clacking on the tile floor. So far, so good, I thought, and hurried around the corner. There was a
NO VISITORS
sign on the door, which I knew did not apply to family or to professional staff. I qualified on both counts, but I didn’t want to have to defend either one.

I tapped lightly and pushed open the door. Junior was lying on a slightly elevated bed, and the first thing I noticed was the bandage wrapped around his head. His eyes were closed and he looked awfully pale. I took in the sizable mound his body made under the covers, and could see how somebody might mistake him in the dark for Skip. It stretched my imagination to see how the first Mrs. Connard, Senior, managed to produce such a large figure of a man. It probably stretched hers, too. Recessive genes, I guessed.

I tiptoed to the side of the bed and whispered, “Junior? Mr. Connard? Are you awake?”

He opened one eye, then the other. “Blood pressure again?” he asked.

“No, I’m not a nurse. I mean, I am, but not a hospital nurse. I just came to see how you’re doing.”

He frowned and blinked like he couldn’t focus his eyes. And he probably couldn’t with his head busted open like it was. “Okay, I guess,” he mumbled. “Helluva headache.”

“I don’t doubt it. What happened, you remember?”

“Don’t know,” he said, and brought a hand with a heavy gold ring on his finger out from under the covers and ran it over his face. “Minding my own business, and wake up in the hospital.” He cut his eyes back to me, and winced with the movement. “You from the police?”

“No.” I took a deep breath and plunged in. “I’m Etta Mae Wiggins.”

“Who?”

“Etta Mae Wiggins. You know, I’m your daddy’s home nurse and . . . friend.”

“Oh. How is he?”

“He’s fine, but we’re all worried about you. He wants to know what you were doing when you got hurt.”

“Just . . . I don’t know. Went somewhere.” He stopped and frowned again like the events of the night were all jumbled up in his brain. “Woke up here. Where’s my wife?”

I’d forgotten about her. What if she came in while I was here? I looked over my shoulder at the door, which was still closed.

“I’ll try to find her for you,” I told him. “But don’t you remember going to my trailer? That’s where I—they—found you.”

“Trailer?” He screwed up his mouth, thinking hard, and frowned at me again with an addled look on his face. “Who are you?”

“Etta Mae Wiggins,” I said, loud and clear so I’d shake a memory or two loose. Then, deciding to risk it all, I said, “I’m your daddy’s fiancée. Remember how happy you were when you heard about it?” Well, I had to try it.

“I was?”

“Oh, yes. It took a burden off your mind to have someone in the family taking care of him.”

“Daddy’s married?”

“
Getting
married,” I said, and added, “real soon.”

A tiny smile flicked at the corner of his mouth, and he said, “Why, that ole goat.”

“I’m going over there in a little while. Is that all right with you?”

He blinked his eyes several times, mumbled something that sounded like “Okay,” and before I knew it, he’d dropped off to sleep.

“I brought you some candy,” I whispered, and put the Whitman’s Sampler on the bedside table.

In an even lower whisper, I said, “Thank you for your blessing.” And under my breath, I added, “Son.” Then, relieved that Junior’d never be able to say I’d married his daddy behind his back, I turned to get out while the getting was good.

She opened the door just as I reached for it, and we stood face-to-face, both of us too shocked to speak. Mrs. Howard Connard, Junior, known as Valerie McLean, of the Raleigh and Pinehurst McLeans, anchor of
Your Live Local Late-Breaking News
on the Raleigh CBS affliate, drew back like she’d almost stepped in something.

She got herself together first, and demanded, “What are you doing in here?”

“I, ah, I just brought him some candy,” I mumbled, feeling hot and sweaty, and short and frumpy, standing in front of the cool, thin-faced woman looking down on me. Danielle Steel, my favorite writer, would’ve called her a Nordic beauty. Everything about her, from the emerald green silk suit to the icy green eyes, was perfect. I’d never seen a TV personality up close before, especially one who glared at me like I was a waitress who’d gotten her order wrong. I wished I’d worn panty hose.

“From his daddy,” I added, hoping she’d get out of the doorway so I could leave.

“He’s not supposed to have visitors,” she said, her voice as hard and cold as her face. “Can’t you read? And just who do you think you are?”

“I am Etta Mae Wiggins,” I said, my head coming up to face her. “And you don’t have to speak to me like I’m a dog.”

“I’ll speak to you any way I please. You’re not supposed to be in my husband’s room, and I’m calling security right now.” She moved toward the telephone by the bed.

I’d had enough by then. “Why don’t you call the Delmont sheriff’s office instead? They’re dying to talk to him, and so am I. For instance, I want to know what he was doing in my trailer last night.”

She put the phone down carefully and turned toward me. “
Your
trailer?” She looked me up and down and said, “Well, this isn’t the first time he’s been attracted to trash. Trailer or otherwise.”

She could’ve slapped me in the face and I wouldn’t have been more shocked. It takes more than a silk suit and a perfect complexion to make a lady, and this woman, TV personality or not, certainly wasn’t one. A dozen things flashed through my mind to throw back at her, but I remembered that we were all going to be part of the same family. And families are supposed to get along and be happy. I swallowed hard.

Even so, I could feel my face getting hot as I tried my best to restrain the red haze that rose up so fast I could hardly see through it. Mr. Howard would want me to conduct myself like a lady, even if his daughter-in-law didn’t, so I clenched my fists and said, “Well, he’s
your
husband, so no wonder.”

Then, turning on my heel, I left the room, clacking down the hall on my high heels and muttering, “Bitch, bitch, bitch” to myself all the way to the elevator.