Looking for Salvation at the Dairy Queen (11 page)

“Catherine Grace, I've been saving something to give you. You know how much I loved your mama. When you were born, I used to go over and do a little cooking for her or rock you to sleep so she could get some rest. I'd sing ‘Hush Little Baby,’ not as pretty as your mama, but you'd fall right to sleep anyway. Worked like magic every time.

“Anyway, as a way of saying thanks, your mama painted this little box for me. She used to kid and tell me she made it to hold all my wedding rings,” she laughed, handing me the box. “Look inside, she even lined it with red velvet and fancy gold trim.” I held it for a long time, just feeling its weight in my hands. I opened the lid. The trim was straight and not a raw edge was showing.

“Now turn it over and look at what she wrote on the bottom of the box.”

You welcomed my little Catherine Grace with love and joy.

I hope she celebrates life as you do.

Love, your friend, Lena Mae.

I couldn't believe that I was holding something so beautiful that my mama's very own hands had made, and I had that feeling, that really odd feeling deep down inside, that the message on the bottom of this box was meant as much for me as it had been for Gloria Jean. That familiar shiver ran down my back, Mama's way of letting me know she was floating nearby.

I hugged Gloria Jean and let my body rest in her arms before looking up to see that all three of us were sobbing like newborn babies. We sat there crying and hugging till finally Gloria Jean said, “Okay girls, enough of this carrying-on. You got an adventure waiting for you. Now, go on, get out of here. And don't worry about Martha Ann, I'll be looking after her.”

“I love you, Gloria Jean,” I said, and I wanted to keep saying it, over and over again.

“I know you do, hon,” she said quietly. “Now go on, you must have a mountain of things to do before you get on that Greyhound.”

Martha Ann and I walked down the driveway still sniffling and rubbing our noses with the backs of our arms. I held my box next to my heart, hoping Mama could see how pleased I was with her handiwork. Martha Ann asked if I wanted to stop by the house before walking to town so I could put the box in my suitcase for safekeeping. I told her no. I wasn't ready to let go of it, not even for a minute.

We walked on to town, stopping on the sidewalk to talk to Mr. Tucker. I told him he had been partly responsible for this moment, letting me sell my jam in his store all these years. He asked me again when I was leaving, forgetting he had asked me the very same question only the day before. I said about six tonight and then told him how much Martha Ann and I loved our new flip-flops, shaking my left foot as I spoke. He told me he was going to miss me, and I said I was surely going to miss him, too. It was tiring, all this good-bying.

We even ran into Ruthie Morgan and Emma Sue Huck-step as they were making their way into the Dollar General Store, surely looking to buy themselves a new pair of hot pink flip-flops, having already seen ours. Ruthie reached out to give me the obligatory good-bye hug, but as I pressed my body against hers, I wondered if I hadn't been so busy hating her for the past eighteen years if we could have been friends. Leaving sure makes you rethink your friends and your enemies alike.

Emma Sue and I decided a polite smile would be sufficient.

Finally, we made it to the Dairy Queen, and fortunately nobody was there except Eddie Franklin, standing behind the counter as usual waiting to take our order. Eddie had worked at the Dairy Queen since he was no more than thirteen. He graduated from high school five or six years ago and now worked there full-time. No one can make a more perfect curlicue at the top of a soft ice cream cone than Eddie Franklin. Even when he dips the ice cream in the warm, melted chocolate, it holds its shape.

“Hey Catherine, Martha Ann, what can I get you girls?” he asked like he really had no clue what we were going to order.

“Same as usual Eddie, two Dilly Bars,” I replied, putting eighty cents on the counter.

Lolly had said she was going to try to meet us here so we could see each other one last time before I left. I didn't normally encourage visitors while I was at the Dairy Queen, but today seemed worthy of making an exception to the rule. I figured Lolly's mama would probably come up with some stupid chore for her to do at the last minute just to keep her from coming to say good-bye. You'd have thought Lolly would have gotten herself out of town the minute she was handed her diploma, but for some reason she hadn't been able to go. I think that crazy mother of hers had convinced her she wasn't capable of much of anything, not even running away.

Martha Ann was sitting on the picnic table and staring blankly at the road in front of her. I handed her a Dilly Bar, and we sat there eating our ice cream and talking about life like we had a thousand times before, never once mentioning my leaving. We talked about the kids at school and Mrs. Gulbenk's tomato aspic and how it tasted like an unfortunate combination of Hunt's tomato paste and lime Jell-O.

And we talked about Miss Raines and her new boyfriend. She finally broke up with Daddy, saying it was time to get on with her life. After all that complaining I'd done when she first started coming over to the house, it turned out I really liked her. And I knew Daddy did, too. He obviously loved her but couldn't bring himself to commit to anything much more than Sunday lunch. I guess Gloria Jean was right. Miss Raines wanted to grow her own little crop of tomatoes while she still could.

Martha Ann asked me how I thought Daddy was going to handle my leaving.

“I don't know,” I told her. “It's gonna be real hard, I'm sure, but, heck, I'm only gonna be a couple of hours down the road.” But with Daddy it didn't seem to matter whether I was two hours or two days from home. I was gone.

“You know, Catherine Grace, I bet Daddy is not the only man who doesn't want you to leave town. Have you seen Hank lately? Ruthie Morgan said he'd been asking about you.”

“No way. When she'd say that? She's lying. Anyway, Hank and I are history, you know that,” I told her.

But I also knew that if I hadn't been so determined to leave town, Hank and I would have been engaged by now, spending these last days of summer picking out our wedding china and arguing with Ida Belle about the flavor of the wedding cake. Ida Belle would insist that it be almond, so I guessed it'd be almond.

I hadn't seen Hank in more than a month, which takes some doing in Ringgold. Somehow we had managed to successfully avoid each other all summer long, and I certainly wasn't expecting to run into him today.

“Come on, Martha Ann, it's getting kind of late. Daddy's probably back from the church wondering where we are.” We slowly eased our bodies off the table and began walking on home. I couldn't help it. I just kept looking back at that picnic table till it was nothing more than a speck in the distance. When we got to the house, we found Daddy out back watering the flowers along the side of the garage. He looked up when he heard us coming. “So, Catherine Grace, you think your sister and I are going to be able to keep these zinnias and tomatoes from dying in this heat?”

“I don't know, Daddy,” I said. “But I think it's a good thing you're a man of God because they're definitely going to need some saving if Martha Ann gets a hold of them.”

“Hey,” my little sister blurted, like she was actually offended. Truth be told, sometimes I thought Martha Ann killed Daddy's tomatoes on purpose just so she wouldn't have to take her turn watering.

“You know, sweetie, the mustard seeds that fell among the thorn bushes grew up nice and tall, but then the thorns choked them and their fruit never ripened. The seeds that fell in the good soil grew strong and bore many fruits.”

“Daddy, c'mon,” I said, a little irritated by this last-ditch effort to biblically guilt me into staying home.

If something was really heavy on my daddy's heart, then he started talking in parables, just like Jesus Christ Himself except in overalls. What Daddy was really saying was that Atlanta was going to be a difficult place to lead a good, healthy life. There may be too many temptations, too much money, too much fast living, too many smooth-talking men. I could only hope.

But here in Ringgold, where the soil is rich and healthy and temptations are few and far between, I could grow a strong, healthy family and be bored out of my mind.

“Well, at least I always knew you were going to leave . . . not like your mama.”

“Daddy, I'm not dying. I'm just going less than a hundred miles from here. You're going to see me again,” I said, even more irritated that he was talking about Mama like that, like she died on purpose. I guess his heart had finally caught up with his mouth.

“I'm sorry, sweetie. I didn't mean that the way it came out. It's just harder than I thought,” he said, staring at the ground. “Maybe we oughta get your bags in the car. Your bus is going to be here soon, and I know you need to be getting on your way.” I walked into my room and saw my suitcases against the wall, just where I had left them. I couldn't bear to look at my room anymore; the emptiness was hurting too much. I never for a minute would have believed a dream could be this painful.

Somehow I managed to drag all three of my bags to the front door, carrying the smallest one across my shoulder and pulling the other two behind me. If my house had any feelings at all, I sure hoped it understood why I left without saying good-bye.

Daddy put my luggage in the backseat of the Oldsmobile. Then the three of us climbed into the front, not wanting to be separated for a minute more than we had to be. Martha Ann called shotgun, but that was fine with me; I wanted to be nestled in between the two people I loved most in this world.

We pulled into the parking lot next to the Dairy Queen, surprised to find the bus already there, the driver standing by the door licking a chocolate-dipped ice cream cone, obviously the handiwork of Eddie Franklin.

Daddy pulled the bags from the back and handed the two biggest ones to the bus driver. He handed me the small cosmetic bag where I had packed Gloria Jean's chocolate chip cookies, her brand new copy of
Vogue
magazine that she had given me even before reading it herself, and, wrapped in an old soft hand towel, my mama's box.

“We're running right on time, little lady, and I intend to keep it that way,” the driver said rather firmly. It was kind of hard to take him too seriously, though, since he had a big chocolate stain on the pocket of his white uniform shirt. “I'm going to finish this ice cream, and then we're off. So say your good-byes and find your seat.”

“Yes, sir.” I was panicked and relieved to know that after eighteen years of waiting, my moment was finally here. In my dream, I had planned on having a few more minutes with Daddy and Martha Ann, but I guess by now I'd said all that needed to be said.

“I love you,” I mumbled, afraid if I said it too clearly or too loudly then I'd start crying again. I wrapped my arms around them both and lowered my head between their bodies.

“I love you, too. I'll be right here waiting on you,” Daddy said, sounding calmer than he had all day.

I turned to Martha Ann and she held me tight. “I don't know if I can do this without you,” she said.

“Yes, you can,” I told her, whispering in her ear. I felt so guilty leaving her behind. Maybe she really did need me to stay. I wondered if this was how Mama felt when she got to heaven, happy to be there but sorry she had to go. God, I wished Gloria Jean were here, pushing me onto that bus. She would tell me that I had to go, that Martha Ann was going to be just fine, that she had some dreaming of her own she needed to do.

“I'm not going to be far,” I said, and kissed her on the cheek, stepping onto the Greyhound without looking back.

As soon as I was situated in my seat, the driver climbed onto the bus and started the engine. It was all happening much faster than I had imagined. But I think the good Lord knew that I, unlike Moses, needed my exodus to be short and sweet. I just kept staring out the window, looking straight ahead, not looking back.

The driver yanked the door shut, revved the engine, and then steered the bus onto the main highway. He was barely out of the parking lot when a red pickup truck came barreling down the other side of the road, forcing the bus driver to swerve his Greyhound off onto the dirt shoulder. “Holy crap,” the driver shouted. But I knew that truck. I came out of my seat and pushed my way to the other side of the bus, leaning over some poor old man. It was Hank. He sped into the parking lot and jumped out of the front of his pickup. He stood there staring at the bus, looking as stunned as my daddy and Martha Ann. I didn't know what to do so I fell back in my seat and closed my eyes.

I
always figured my Moses was going to be a strong, handsome man capable of parting an ocean with one hand, not some bald-headed bus driver with blobs of chocolate dripping down his shirt. But I guess there's no sense in questioning God's choice in saviors when you're making your way to the Promised Land.

Laura Lynn Cline picked me up at the Greyhound station just like she told Daddy she would. She had written my name on a piece of white cardboard and was holding it out in front of her chest so I'd know who she was. What a sad thing, I thought, needing a sign to find a girl who's got some of the very same blood running through her veins as is running through mine.

Turns out, I didn't need any old piece of cardboard. Laura Lynn was staring at me with those same steely blue eyes that can belong only to a Cline. Daddy said her great-granddaddy Merrill Otis and our great-granddaddy were brothers, but Laura Lynn said her mama told her that after William Floyd found the Lord, he never had much to do with his brother. They just figured William Floyd was too busy doing God's work to keep up with his family, especially considering Merrill Otis was a whiskey-drinking Methodist and all.

Laura Lynn had moved to Atlanta three or four years ago and was some kind of loan officer at the Peachtree Savings and Trust. I really didn't know what she did but she wore the same dark navy suit to work every single day. To tell the truth, I'd never seen a girl dress more like a man than she did, and except for that string of pearls hanging around her neck, you'd hardly know there was a woman inside that get-up. Laura Lynn said that's what all the professional women in Atlanta wear these days, and if I ever wanted to make something of myself, I better understand real quick that it's a man's world out there.

Actually my cousin didn't seem to like men much, except for Royce that is. She had gotten engaged back in the spring sometime, and her pending nuptials and her fiancé, Royce Randolph Duncan, III, were all she knew to talk about. She always said his name real slow like I was supposed to be impressed. So I called him Roy whenever Laura Lynn was around just to see her squint her little eyes and puff those cheeks out like some kind of African blowfish I'd seen in an old
National Geographic.

Laura Lynn said that she and Royce were getting married at his mother's house over in Buckhead, some rich, fancy neighborhood in town. Since she and Royce didn't go to church much, she thought it more appropriate to get married in a house not belonging to the Lord. She also said that someday they would be the ones living in the big house in Buckhead.

They even went and hired themselves a caterer for the wedding reception. Of course, when I asked what a caterer was, Laura Lynn just rolled her eyes like I should know better. Ida Belle would absolutely die if a bride at Cedar Grove paid somebody else to make her ham biscuits and Cheddar cheese straws. But Laura Lynn said that anyone who's anybody in Atlanta would know to hire a caterer.

Truth be told, I figured Laura Lynn would be more like me—and not just because we turned up sharing the same last name. I thought she came to Atlanta to do something that she couldn't do back in Martin, Tennessee. But instead she seemed to be like all the other girls back home, just waiting for the world, or a boy named Royce, to take care of her.

But one thing was for darn sure. I decided real quick that hanging around two people in love was about as awkward as watching Brother Fulmer's horse when he's put out to stud. Gloria Jean was right—there's no sin in loving somebody, but you sure don't need an audience. And Royce was stuck to Laura Lynn's lips like a magnet. Unfortunately, her apartment was real tiny, and there weren't many places for me to go unnoticed. So I spent a lot of time out on the balcony, but I really didn't mind. In fact, I liked it out there, especially late at night when all the lights in the city were turned on bright and twinkling all around me. Heck, I felt like I was standing smack dab in the middle of a birthday cake with all its candles ablaze.

I could see Laura Lynn's bank building from up there, and I couldn't help but wonder what all those women in their dark navy suits did behind those glass walls all day long cooped up like a bunch of chickens in a henhouse. On top of the building stood this giant orange ball that turned 'round and 'round day and night. I reckon it was supposed to be some kind of oversized Georgia peach.

A little bit farther down were two big yellow arches that glowed in the dark like the Star of David lighting the way for all those weary shepherds apparently hungering for a burger and an order of fries. McDonald's was open twenty-four hours a day, and that's the God's honest truth. I'd figured only hospitals and police stations were open all night long, and I certainly couldn't imagine Eddie Franklin staying up until three in the morning to make banana splits and chocolate-dip cones for anybody, not even his own mama. One time I made Royce walk me over there after midnight for no good reason other than I wanted to order something in the dead of night. I got a Quarter Pounder with cheese, French fries, and a large Coca-Cola and sat there under those golden arches until one in the morning.

And lucky for me, Lenox Square mall was only four blocks from Laura Lynn's apartment. She was real anxious for me to get over there and start “knocking on some doors,” so to speak. I told her that it made me a little nervous walking there seeing how I had to cross a road that looked more like an interstate than a city street. She told me I was being ridiculous, that I had two good eyes and two good legs, so use them. Personally speaking, though, I always considered it somewhat of an accomplishment making it to the other side in one piece.

I'd been to the mall only once before, with Daddy and Martha Ann, and that was a long, long time ago. And other than the toy department at Davison's and that Barbie doll dressed in her white winter coat, I really didn't remember much. All these years later, I couldn't help but wonder if that Barbie doll was still hanging around, maybe sporting a little cotton sundress and a wide-brimmed hat.

But when I got there, what I found looked more like a city than a shopping mall. There were so many places to eat and spend your money, I figured you could be lost for weeks and come out none the worse for wear. One store sold nothing but women's handbags and another one sold nothing but women's underwear—all sorts of silk panties and lacy bras—things I was not sure should be displayed for everybody to see. But I decided right at that very moment that when I got my first paycheck, I was marching into that store and buying myself a pair of pink panties with little pink roses embroidered all over them. Somehow knowing that Ruthie Morgan would trade her best cashmere sweater set for a pair of those panties would make it worth it, no matter what they cost!

I must have filled out at least a dozen applications and, even though my feet were hurting from walking so much, I headed on over to Penney's to introduce myself to that old friend of Gloria Jean's. I had made a solemn promise that I'd look her up as soon as I got to town, and there's no going back on a solemn promise, especially one involving Gloria Jean Graves.

A tall, slender woman with bright blue eye shadow was standing behind the jewelry counter, and I knew without even asking her name that she was the woman I was looking for. She said she didn't know about any jobs at Penney's that would be good for a girl like me, but she did know a sweet, old lady, a Miss Myrtie Mabie, who might have a room to rent, something I could afford.

She handed me a small piece of paper with Miss Mabie's phone number on it and suggested I call her, not too early and not too late, seeing how she was nearing eighty. And seeing how I was sleeping on some crummy old couch Laura Lynn bought at the Goodwill store, which had such a stale smoky smell about it that it left me feeling like I'd been puffing on Mrs. Dempsey's Virginia Slims, I was real eager to call this Miss Mabie.

Living with Laura Lynn wasn't all bad, don't get me wrong. But I must admit that my favorite time of day was right after she left for work. As soon as the door slammed shut, I fixed myself a bowl of cereal and turned on the television. Daddy never let Martha Ann and me watch too much TV, said it wasn't good for our brains. But here, I just couldn't get enough of it, especially the Action News on WSB-TV.

Every morning, this nice-looking man, much younger than Daddy's Walter Cronkite, talked about all the bad things that had happened in Atlanta while I was sleeping—all the things I imagined Daddy hoped I would never hear or see. Truth be told, probably not a single night went by when somebody wasn't getting robbed or shot, but the man's voice was so warm and soothing that it just never sounded all that bad.

Today the worst thing he had to say was that the temperature was going to be close to one hundred and five, again, some kind of late-summer heat wave pushing east from the Great Plains. I'd never sweated more like a stuck pig in my life. Laura Lynn said it was all the asphalt and concrete, something about an urban jungle. So I decided today was as good as any to sit by the telephone, in the air-conditioning, in front of the TV, and wait for somebody to call and give me a job.

And sure enough, someone did. A man, a senior manager I think he said, from Davison's department store phoned a little before noon and wanted me, Catherine Grace Cline, to come in for an interview. He said he was looking for an energetic young woman to join a new department that was scheduled to open early next week. He said he had read my application carefully and was very impressed with my entrepreneurial spirit. It was possible I might have made my jam-making business sound a little grander than it really was. But either way, he figured I must be a real go-getter, just the kind of person he wanted representing Davison's department store.

My nerves started twitching right there on the telephone, but I kept telling myself that any girl who can sell strawberry jam can surely sell pretty clothes and high-heeled shoes. Then I started blabbing, telling him all about my daddy and the time he brought me to the store to see Santa Claus and how I had dreamed of working there myself someday. He said he looked forward to meeting someone who loved Davison's as much as he did and that I should meet him at the back door, by the loading dock, the very next morning at nine o'clock sharp.

I spent the rest of the day trying to decide what to wear, finally choosing my Villager set that Gloria Jean had bought me a couple years ago for the Mother-Daughter Tea. Laura Lynn said it didn't look very professional, not being navy and all, but she guessed it would be okay for retail work. I was really growing to dislike that girl.

The next morning I woke up extra early, not even needing to set my alarm clock. I wanted to spend a little time in the bathroom before Laura Lynn started shooing me out of her way, leaving me to brush my teeth in the kitchen sink and fix my hair staring into the side of the toaster. The man on the television said it had been a real quiet night in Atlanta, and I took that to be an omen of sorts that something good was coming my way.

Mr. Wallis was standing by the back door, waiting for me when I got there. Thankfully, I was five minutes early ’cause I noticed he glanced down at his watch and noted the time. Mr. Charles Humphrey Wallis turned out to be a very soft gentleman even though his voice had sounded big and strong on the telephone. He was short and thin and had thick, gray hair parted neatly on the side and coated with some kind of oil that made it shine real bright in the sunlight. A little blue handkerchief was tucked inside his suit pocket and gold buttons were fastened to his shirt cuffs. He was dressed more like the governor than any other man I had ever met before in my life.

We walked from one end of the store to the other, and even though I kept step with Mr. Wallis, I couldn't keep my eyes from darting every which way. I started wondering how many people it would take to buy up all the dresses and jewelry and perfume that were on display, more than everybody in Ringgold, that's for sure. Mr. Wallis didn't seem to notice any of it. I wondered if that would happen to me after a while.

He led me into a small but comfortable-looking office directly behind the women's shoe department. He sat behind the desk and I sat in front of it, and we talked back and forth for almost an hour. He asked me all sorts of questions about Ringgold—about school and making jam and the like. He even asked me about Daddy and Martha Ann. Next thing I knew, I had myself a job, although I wasn't going to be selling cosmetics or fancy dresses. Turns out, I had gourmet food experience and would be working in Davison's new specialty foods department, selling expensive crackers and olives and candies and . . . yes . . . jams.

But Mr. Wallis said that if I did a real good job, the store's executives might even consider me for the management-training program. “Because Davison's is all about opportunity.” That's exactly what he said.

Mr. Wallis started as a sales clerk just like me, and he told me that if I worked hard, someday I might be sitting right where he was. I wasn't sure if perched behind a stack of women's shoes was exactly what he meant, but I smiled and told him I sure hoped he was right.