It's Not Like I Knew Her (14 page)

“Little lady, what the hell's got you playing wrinkle-fender with a semi?”

“I've gotta have a ride out of here.” She fought back tears.

“I can see that, but that's no good reason for me to break my road rule.”

“I'm headed to Dallas, Texas. Trying out with the Cowgirls.” There was no recognition in his gathered brow.

“Can't help you, even if I was of a mind to. I'm headed north.”

“Don't matter. I mean to go as far as you'll take me. Go on from there.”

The driver looked back toward the station where Roy Dale now leaned against the Hudson. He wore the arrogant grin he'd perfected; one that said he considered her shit-out-of-luck with the driver.

“What's that boy to you?” He looked down at her, and only the truth could save her.

“Nothing. A ride, that's all.” His question was about ownership; he wasn't a man who'd interfere with another man's rights to a woman.

He looked again at Roy Dale.

“I was traveling with him, and he turned … rough.”

“You live around here, do you?”

“No, sir. I'm from Florida.” She'd be from anywhere that suited him.

“And does your mama know you're out here thumbing?”

“She died a long time ago.” If he didn't shut up with the questions she was sure she'd croak.

“And how old would you be?”

“Twenty, next month.” She didn't hesitate. It was a convincing lie, and she felt the driver's disposition shift, like momentum in sports.

Roy Dale must have sensed it as well. His slouched posture coiled into that of a man of action, but he didn't advance.

“Like I said, I don't make a habit of riding gal hitchhikers, but I can't say that I like that feller's manners. Go to the other side and climb in.”

She scrambled into the cab ahead of Roy Dale, who was now running flat out toward the semi, shouting and waving the way she had. The driver pulled the semi onto the highway, and Roy Dale leaped back from its path, shaking his big fist in the air. She felt blessed that was all he could do.

The driver stared straight ahead, accelerating and working through the gears, and if he regretted that she'd talked him into breaking his rule, he didn't show it. She watched for Roy Dale through the side mirror, fearing she'd see the Hudson speeding after her.

“Don't worry. No man's willing to tackle a speeding semi. Unless you stole his money. And if you ain't lying about the other, he's got no smart reason to come after you.” He squinted over at her and then back at the road.

“Like I said. He's nothing to me. And I'll have you know I'm not a thief or a liar.” She guessed that he figured her both. “Okay, so I took his gun. But where I'm going, I might need it.”

“Yep, you just might at that. But a little advice.”

“What's that?” He was starting to make her squirm.

“Don't point that thing unless you intend to use it. And understand it's a piss-poor excuse for a gun. It's not about to stop something thick as a man with evil intent unless you luck up and hit a vital part.”

“I'm not planning on shooting anybody.”

“That's likely good. For now, I recommend you take it out of your belt before you shoot yourself another butt hole.”

Embarrassed, she nodded. She removed the gun from her belt and put it inside the suitcase, snapping it shut.

Too exhausted for more talk, Jodie stared out the window, and the driver didn't seem to mind. He hummed to himself, doing no more than occasionally glancing in her direction. The trees along the roadside began to blur, and her eyelids drooped.

“If you're a mind to, you can climb back there and pile up a few Zs.” He nodded toward the sleeper. “Go on now. But take care you don't piss off that old tom. His name's Buddy Highway, but that don't mean he'll take a shine to you. Then, he'll let you know. He ain't a bit bashful.”

She took a bet with fate that she could trust a trucker who rode with a fussy tomcat and climbed into the sleeper. It smelled of old sweat and recent sex, the way Jewel's bed had after one of Red's longer visits. A gray cat opened a lazy yellow eye and closed it without complaint. She took that as a good sign, and she, too, closed her eyes and slept.

Sometime later, she was jarred awake by the pitch of the big rig coming to a full stop. Buddy lifted onto his haunches, blinked hard at her, as though he didn't remember going to bed with a stranger.

“Hey, kid. Here's where you get off,” the trucker called to her.

She climbed down from the sleeper and sat rubbing her eyes, her thoughts scattered.

“You're in downtown Selma, Alabama.”

“Where?”

“Little darling, Selma ain't the end of the earth, but you can sure make it out from here. If you're hungry, go in there.” He pointed to a café. “Ask for Sally. Tell her Buddy sent you. He runs a tab there.” He grinned for the first time.

She wasn't sure why she hesitated, just that she did.

“Go on now, girl. I've got a load to drop.”

“I'm grateful to Buddy.” Most of all, she was grateful to him, but not sure how to thank him for not hitting on her for no reason other than he could. She climbed down out of the truck and reached back for her suitcase.

“You stay low, you hear?”

She watched until the semi rolled through the second traffic light, and although she didn't know the man's name, she felt a strange sense of loss. Her empty belly pinched through to her backbone, and the promise of a free meal had her crossing the street. Whatever awaited her would be easier on a full stomach.

S
ally, a plump woman Jodie guessed to be in her late forties, didn't ask how she knew Buddy Highway, though the question appeared lodged behind dark eyes that didn't match the dullness of her hair; it was piled high and sprayed into a hardened shell, giving her a rigid yet unsettled presence. She glanced at the suitcase and sighed, then led Jodie to the table nearest the kitchen. Most likely she wasn't the first girl to arrive hungry, carrying a battered suitcase.

“Where you headed, shug?” Her curiosity was laced with pity, and Jodie considered walking out. But her rumbling belly trumped her pride.

“Dallas, Texas, ma'am.” Her sagging confidence rallied at the sound of certainty in her own voice. Maybe she'd arrived in Selma through ill-fortune, but she had a plan for moving on. She wanted Sally to know that she was no hard-luck case.

“All right then, what're you gonna have?”

Jodie liked that Sally's earlier hint of pity was somewhat tempered, although her doubts may have lingered.

“I'll have a cheeseburger, double fries, large fountain co-cola, and a piece of that lemon pie.” The thought of food had caused her to drool.

“Lord, child.” Sally laughed. “It's eight o'clock in the morning.”

Unlikely or not, Sally called across the café to a colored man the size of a bear, his hair big as a smutty wash pot.

“Arthur, give me a cheese with double fries.” She leaned and whispered. “If he weren't the best cook in all of Dallas County, I'd never put up with that mess of wild hair. Ain't it just awful?” Shaking her head, Sally walked away.

Sally's problem with her help was none of Jodie's concern. What mattered was taking full advantage of Buddy Highway's generosity and getting back on the road. She stood and crossed the room to a public telephone hanging from the wall in a dimly lit hallway. She pulled the sock from the pocket of her jeans and counted out ten dimes, cupped the grease-smeared receiver in her hand, and pressed it to her ear. Line static sounded like a hive of angry bees.

The long-distance operator asked for the name of a city and a number. Jodie's anxiety swelled in her throat, choking her voice, and she hung up. She dropped into a squat. Dimes rolled across the dirty tile floor, spun on ends, and flopped.

“Hey, kid. You all right? You sick or something?”

Jodie looked back along the hallway where a second waitress stood at the far end, a steaming pot of coffee clutched in her hand.

“Yes'm, I'm fine. Dropped some change.” Jodie began gathering the coins, and the woman watched until Jodie turned back to the phone and lifted the receiver. She gave the operator the number she'd memorized and leaned against the wall.

“Yeah, yeah, I'm busy here. Make it snappy.” The speech Jodie had practiced for months was never intended for the gruff male voice at the end of the line. She'd imagined Lou Palmer's friendly greeting. Jodie froze, turned stupid and tongue-tied.

“Out with it. You're wasting my time.”

“Hey, yeah, sorry. I'm Jodie Taylor from Catawba, Florida.”

“Speak up, kid.”

Jodie believed she heard the sound of balls bouncing and the high-pitched chatter of women. “Mister, I don't know who you are, but Lou Palmer's expecting my call.”

“Palmer ain't on the team no more. Broke her contract. We don't need her kind. What's this about?”

“Trials. She said I should come try out. Said I'm good enough.” It wasn't what she'd said, but she had given Jodie her card.

“That right?” His tone carried a load of sarcasm, and Jodie wanted to blame him for her shitty luck.

“Yes, sir. I'm headed your way now. Can be in Dallas in a day or two.” Thumbing a ride was chancy. Maybe it was best she sacrificed, bought a bus ticket. A sure arrival time would mean she'd hit Dallas nearly broke, but she'd only need to hold on until her first check.

“Look, doll, I don't know a damn thing about a Joanie whoever you said .…”

“It's Jodie, Jodie Taylor.” Had
Joanie
made her sound like a sissy?

He paused. “Look, you're too late. I'm set here.”

She slumped against the wall. “Then at least tell me when trials come up again.”

He laughed. “Ten months. But unless you've got an invite, you can forget it. We get girls like you all the time, wanting to catch on. Forget basketball. Marry some shoe salesman and squirt out babies.”

“No, sir. I'm not interested in that. I'll call back.”

He laughed. “Yeah, you do that, kid.” The man slammed the phone.

Jodie felt weak. She'd need to eat, and soon, or she'd surely faint. She walked back and sat at the table. Her entire body felt numb, her brain on fire. Roy Dale's crimes and her idiocy had likely made her a fugitive. Even if she wanted to go back to Catawba, she didn't dare.

Struggling to check her near panic, she forced herself to focus on the café. The place smelled of years of grease and sweaty men who chain-smoked. Its patrons were mostly blurry-eyed laborers, along with a few white-shirt store clerks. Swap overalls for heavy denim work pants and khaki shirts, and they were the same dull-witted men she'd known all her life.

The café was roughly the size of a half court, barely room for a short-order grill, a counter with ten tarnished chrome stools, and the same number of tables, four to six metal chairs at each. A full-color, autographed picture of Governor “Big Jim” Folsom hung from a back wall and on the center wall, behind the counter, an unsigned picture of Coach Bear Bryant. Jodie knew nothing about Governor Folsom, but it figured a coach's autograph was harder to come by than a politician's was.

A clean-shaven young man, his upper arms heavily tattooed, looked Jodie's way and winked. She turned away, focusing her attention on the approach of the waitress who'd called to her moments ago. She twisted her way to the man's table, and his face brightened with something far different than the lust she'd known in the eyes of the men her mama had bedded. Yet their exchange held familiarity of a kind she couldn't name.

Jodie overheard “Hey, shug, you gonna have your usual?” He smiled and nodded. The waitress poured coffee and called across the café, “Arthur, give me a full Ted.” The bear of a man nodded, but never as much as looked up.

Sally returned with a platter of food and a tall, frosty glass of Coke and set both before Jodie. “There you go. Eat up.”

“Thank you. Looks mighty good.” Jodie lifted the hot burger and her stomach romped and stomped.

“What's your name, honey?”

Jodie put the burger back onto the plate and considered her answer.

“Well, you've got one, don't you? Nobody here's got much, but at least we all got names.” She waved the hot pot of coffee, meaning to take in the curious, their forks suspended in the spaces between mouths and their next bites.

“Jodie … Jodie Smith. And you're every bit the kind of boss I favor.” Where was her mouth taking her? “And believe me, I know plenty about café work. My mama owns one down in Florida. You might say the café trade's in my blood.” Feeling she would drown, she paused, sucking air into her burning lungs. “And I can see my stopping in here is about to work out good. I mean for both of us.”

“And just how would that be?” Sally shifted her weight, and maybe she'd gone back to thinking
free-loader.

“I've just now decided to settle in Selma for a time. And, I need work. I figure me and this place fit together smooth as slip and slide.”

Jodie sat back in the chair, her chest pumping like the gills on a dying fish, and Sally looked as if she'd heard the whopper of all whoppers. But to Jodie's amazement, her face broke into a slow smile.

“Well, Jodie Smith, it just so happens today's our lucky day. I'm short a busboy. The job's bussing tables, along with cleaning the toilet, vacuuming, and hauling garbage to the alley after closing.” Sally looked again at the suitcase, and Jodie wasn't sure how much it played into her next offer. “The job comes with a room upstairs, the blue-plate special twice a day, thirty-five cents an hour, and you share tips with the waitress.”

“That's kind, but bussing is a bit of going backward. What I mean is, I'm used to waiting tables.” Shocked by her own bluster, Jodie felt to hurry what she figured was her last meal at the Red Wing Café.