Lost in NashVegas (3 page)

But, truth be told, it's not waking at three a.m. that bothers me. It's the reality of the job itself—stocking shelves at Willaby's Market & Grocery. Is this the culmination of my twenty-five years? Shelving food for the masses?

The other day Mrs. Farmington came into the store, saw me blocking down the sardine section, and said in her shrill voice, “Well, Robin McAfee. What in the world?”

Yeah, that's what I'd like to know. What in the world?

After showering, I find that my Willaby's uniform is on the bedroom floor, wrinkled and soiled. Should've done a load of washing last night. I left in such a jittery rush to get to the Music Hall, half hoping for an earthquake or flash flood (regardless of dry skies) to stop the show, I forgot all about my pile of laundry. Gathering an armful of clothes from the floor and making sure it contains two uniform pants and two shirts, I hurry to the stacked washer and dryer tucked into a kitchen corner.

The washer hesitates when I click the dial to
Normal
and push
Start
. Come on, Betsy
.
I bang the side and the machine lurches.

“Good going, girl. You'll be worth my fifty bucks yet.”

The set came from my landlord, Boon Crawford Jr. “Hate to see you toting your stuff to the Laundromat,” he'd said the afternoon he and Daddy helped me move in.

“I can always do laundry at Momma and Daddy's,” I answered.

That's when Daddy raised his eyebrows and stuck out his chin. “If you're gonna move out and be independent, might as well go all the way.”

Who'd have thought a washer and dryer would symbolize my emancipation?

Standing at the time clock at Willaby's, I punch in and follow
my nose to the coffee machine. French vanilla. Ricky and the rest of the stock crew are waiting for me as my nose leads me around the back hall corner. They whoop and holler when they see me, scaring me right into the box baler.

“Way to go, Robin!”

“You were hotter than bare feet on blacktop last night.”

“Girl, you can sing.”

“Did you write those songs? They were good.”

“Stop, y'all. Stop,” I demand, stirring too much sugar into my coffee.

They chatter about the Freedom Sing while refilling their cups, snickering a little about Elvira, Elmira, and Eldora until I tell them to hush up.

We have a lot of stock to work up today, so the crew starts hauling pallets of groceries out to the main floor. When the last crew member disappears, Ricky lures me behind the baler and with a wicked grin nuzzles my neck. “So, maybe you've got a little bit of fame after all.” His breath is hot on my neck.

“How-do, now you get it?” I press my hands on his chest. “Too little, too late.”

“Robin!” Mr. Chancy's voice booms down the hall.

My heart catapults into my throat. “Here, sir.” Ricky grabs at me with his octopus hands as I pop out from behind the baler with a whispered, “
Stop
!”

Mr. Chancy's right there. He narrows his eyes and stands with his hands on his hips, his belly dangling over his belt like a soft wad of dough. “Just because you were a hit last night doesn't give you cause to goof off today.”

“No, sir. Wasn't planning on it.”

He turns on his heel. “Holden, get to work,” he says without looking back.

Ricky sticks his head out, waits until the coast is clear, then grabs me for a little more necking.

“Ricky, come on! We're on the clock.” I squirm, trying to get away, trying not to giggle. His kisses tickle.

He brushes my hair away from my shoulders. “Hair like the fall leaves—red, gold, and brown.” He holds me tight and props his chin on my head.

I can't breathe. “Rick, please, we have work to do,” I mutter into his chest. “Chancy's already been on my case several times this month. I'm, like, the worst Willaby's employee ever.”

Ricky laughs low. “You're not. Remember Wes Duvall? Lazy son of a gun.”

“Wes Duvall?” I break away from Ricky. “I'm one rung above Wes Duvall? How hideous. I don't want to bumble around on the job, meandering through life.”

He walks toward the swinging doors. “Then do something about it.”

Sure, Robin, just do something about it. Simple, right? Ricky is swimming in the shallow end of my emotional pool again. If he really thought about what he said . . .

He watches as I slip my green apron over my head. “I love you, Robin.”

Now he wants to get deep. “I know.”

His blue eyes snap. “That's it? Would it kill you to say you love me too?”

“Yeah, probably.” I grin and shove through the doors so that Ricky tumbles forward. He swerves to the left as I go right, pausing to pull my little black song notebook and pen from my apron pocket. What was it he said earlier?
Hair the
color of fall leaves
? I jot it down, thinking it might make a great first line to a chorus.

“Robin, let's go.” Chancy bellows at me from the end of the aisle.

“Yes sir.” Tucking my notebook away, I head for my aisle. Over the PA system, the country radio station is playing a Sugarland hit. I belt out the lyrics with Jennifer Nettles. “Gotta be more than this . . .”

Late in the afternoon, I park beside my trailer in the shade of
the elm. Bone tired, I cut the engine and sit for a second. Mr. Chancy caught up with me as I clocked out and spent an hour giving me the stockperson's pep talk, reminding me that if I want a Willaby's career, I gotta step it up.

After a Chancy talking-to, a girl needs an RC Cola and a Moon Pie, maybe some fried chicken, and a little guitar picking outside under the tree. Though I've missed most of the early May day, what remains is still lovely and perfumed with the sweet scent of budding corn and freshly mown grass.

The trailer's front door sticks again, so I hip-butt it open and step inside. My foot squishes into the worn shag carpet, and water floods my shoe.

“What in the world—”

Glistening water covers the trailer floor, and I can hear a gushing noise coming from the kitchen.

Splash. Squish. Splash. Squish
. I make my way across the small pond on my trailer floor. What the Sam Hill happened? Then, “My songs!”

Splish-splashing down the hall to my room, I pray for dry carpet. Oh, relief. The flood waters haven't spread this far . . . yet. Dropping to my knees, I fish around for my cardboard box of song notebooks. Finding it tucked up against the wall, I pull it out and toss it on my bed, then splish-splash back to the kitchen and snatch up the portable phone.

“Crawford Realty.”

“I'm flooded, Boon.”

“What happened?”

“The washer, I think.” I shove the washer-dryer stack aside. Sure enough, a broken hose spurts water in my face. “Hurry.”

“I'm on my way, Robin.”

I cut off the valve and dial Daddy next. “Help.”

When Boon walks in with his toolbox a few minutes later, he splashes through the puddles, grinning like a kid after a good thunderstorm. Meanwhile, I'm on my hands and knees mopping up the mess with towels.

“Robin, I didn't know you could sing like that.” He drops his toolbox on the kitchen counter. “That song about Rosalie was something. I haven't thought of her in a long time.”

“Well, we all have our little hidden talents.”

Boon laughs. “Not me. What you see is what you get.”

Wringing the towels out in the sink, I glance over my shoulder at him. “Something to be said for ‘what you see is what you get.'”

“Do you like what you see, Robin?”

“What?” I drop the towel to the floor.

“Do you like what you see?” Boon props himself against the counter, crossing his arms.

Is he teasing or fishing? Lean and wiry, Boon's a decent-looking fellow, though his backside can't hold up his breeches. His dark hair is always clean and trimmed, his round brown eyes always laughing, and his smile reflects the sweetness in his heart. But he's more like a brother than a lover.

“Yeah, I like what I see, Boon. You're going to make some girl very happy.”

His cheeks glow. “Can't blame a guy for trying, Robin.” He fusses with the toolbox latches.

“No, guess not.”

I go back to mopping with towels while Boon assesses the damage to the trailer with a hammer in his right hand. Yeah, a hammer. I don't know why.

“I don't think this place is worth fixing up,” he says.

“What?” I wring out another water-soaked towel in the sink. “Boon, you got to be kidding.”

He shakes his head and props his hands on his narrow hips. “The water damage is too much, Robin. Look at this.” He hops up and down, and the old floor sways underneath him. A musty odor rises from the carpet.

“Well, stop jumping. I don't go around jumping.”

He waves the hammer at me. “Look here, girl, you can't spray perfume on a skunk and call it a kitty.” He lifts his nose, sniffing. “Yep, Dad will want to junk the place, count on it.”

“Junk the place? Boon, where am I suppose to live?”

“Home, I guess.”

“I can't move home.” He's plumb off his rocker. “Don't y'all have another trailer I can rent?” After all, Boon is partly responsible for this problem. He sold me that no-good washer-dryer combo. I should've been suspicious when he said, “Only costs fifty bucks. Runs like a top too.”

Boon tosses the hammer into the toolbox with a clank. “Naw, Dad keeps all our properties rented out and making money.”

“Robin Rae . . .” Daddy calls from the front door. “What's going on?”

“Noah's flood,” I answer. Boon laughs.

“Look at all this water.” Daddy strolls into the kitchen. The hem of his blue work pants are stuck into the top of his laced boots.

Boon gives him the lowdown, and when he says “move out,” Daddy looks at me.

“I just painted your old room and polished the floor. It'd make your momma's day.” His gray eyes scrunch up when he smiles. Laugh lines run from the corners of his eyes down the sides of his cheeks.

“By all means, let's make Momma's day.” I cross my arms and fall back against the refrigerator.

“Only temporarily, Robin.”

“Temporarily,” Boon echoes absently, then adds, “I
believe
Marie Blackwell is getting married in six months, and her place will be open.”

“Six months!”

“Marie's getting married?” Daddy settles against the sink as if he's ready for an afternoon of chewing the fat. “I hadn't heard. Good for her. What's she pushin', thirty-five?”

“I reckon so, Mr. McAfee.”

Great day in the morning
.
I'm in crisis, and they're calculating the age of Freedom's oldest spinster. “She's thirty-six,” I fire into their conversation. “Boon, are you sure there're no other rentals?”

“I'm sure, Robin.”

Defeat. I slap my arms down my sides. “If I'm moving home, let's get to it.” My eyes well up. I'm gonna miss my little trailer and the stupid washer and dryer.

Boon Jr. slams his toolbox shut. “Let's get 'er done.”

3

Get a root canal.

Dive into Black Snake Quarry, scraping my toes against the granite wall all the way down.

Learn to sew.

Three things I'd rather do than move back to the McAfee homestead, into Momma's domain.

Isn't twenty-five too old to move back into my old room? The first of three kids born into the Dean McAfee family, I was the last to leave. My sister, Eliza, went to Auburn three years ago, and baby brother Steve married his junior high school sweetheart, Dawnie, then went Semper Fi. He's twenty, overseas, and recently found out he's going to be a dad.

When Daddy, Boon, and I pull up, Momma comes out on to the porch, her apron pulled tight around her full figure. The dogs bay at Boon when he says, “Hey, Mrs. McAfee.”

Momma hushes the dogs while shoving an errant, dark curl from her forehead. “What's all this?”

“Washing machine flooded the trailer, Mrs. McAfee,” Boon says as he hauls the first load of hanging clothes through the kitchen door.

“Upstairs, last room on the right, Boon,” I call after him, toting in the laundry basket of wet clothes. “Hi, Momma.”

She holds out her hands for the basket. “Might as well let me.”

I wrangle open the kitchen screen door and inhale the warm aroma of baking bread. “No thanks, Momma. I can do my own washing.”

“Just offering to help.”

Hesitating, I gather my courage and turn toward her. “I love you, Momma, but I don't need you babying me. Don't get up at three a.m. and put on a pot of coffee or pack me a lunch or call Mr. Chancy to let him know I'm on my way, okay?”

“Will you be eating dinner here this evening, your highness?”

With a sigh, I let the screen door slam behind me. “Most likely.”

After dinner, Mo and Curly walk with Ricky and me out to his
truck. Though it's only May, the night is warm and humid. A chuck-will's-widow calls from somewhere in the dark trees.

“Your mom seems happy tonight.” Ricky scoops my hand into his.

“One of her little chicks has come home.”

“Her
favorite
chick has come home.” He angles up against the tailgate and pulls me to him, planting a kiss on my forehead.

“Favorite? What are you smoking?” I straighten his shirt collar as a pretend laugh gurgles in my throat. “We don't understand each other at all.”

“Maybe it's because you're so much alike.”

“Bite your tongue.”

“Robin,” he laughs, “you are.”

“I am
not
like Momma. She's wound tighter than a top. One of these days she might just spin out of control.”

Ricky brushes my hair away from my shoulder. “So, are you okay with moving home?”