Southern Living (14 page)

“Don’t you think the timing of this is interesting?” Stephanie asked. “I mean, Friday is Valentine’s Day.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Do you think this is someone’s idea of a joke? Maybe a secret admirer of yours?”

Donna looked down at her hands, which she’d been tightly, nervously cupping as if the potato were water that could escape. She quickly flattened them, splaying her fingers, then slowly rocked them at the speed of a languid, hanging mobile, back and forth, the way the models did on Home Shopping Network or QVC when displaying a ruby necklace.

“Now you tell me how someone could make somethin’ like this.”

“Well, it certainly does look real!”

“It is real.”

“Yes … well … Are you single, Donna?”

“Ma’am?”

“Are you married?”

“Oh, no, ma’am.”

“Well maybe this is a sign. Maybe, Donna Kabel, this is your lucky day! From the Kroger on Truman Parkway, where Cupid—or somebody, anyway—seems to be mixing magical passion with the produce, this is Stephanie Reno.”

The cameraman cut off the light, and Donna’s world instantly grew again to its normal size. Rhonda from floral came forward with a holder she’d fashioned from a plastic rotisserie-chicken dish from deli, and she invited Donna to lay the potato down upon the nest of cut-up baby’s breath surrounded by daisies and roses. Donna thanked her, even though she thought it looked too much like a casket.

After escorting the TV crew to the door, Mr. Tom returned to the produce section. “We’ll need to keep it out,” he said. “People will want to see it. How about up front with the cherry hearts?”

“I’ve got a better idea, Mr. Tom,” Donna answered. “Wouldn’t
it be better if we put a sign at the front of the store, invitin’ people to come back to see it in the produce section? I mean, that way we’d get them back there and there’d be a chance they might buy somethin’ else. I’ll get some potato recipes off the corporate website, ones that have lots of other vegetable ingredients, and then we can sell those, too.”

Mr. Tom put his hands on his hips and smiled, revealing the nickel-thick gap in his two front teeth that reminded Donna of David Letterman. “You’re right, Donna,” he said. “That makes a lot more sense.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Thank you,
Tom
,” he corrected.

“Mr. Tom,” she said.

After things quieted down, Donna returned to her job of stacking the russets. She could feel Adrian’s stare as he sorted through nectarines, trying to pick out the spoiled ones. He’d been eyeing her warily ever since the TV crew left.

“Okay, Adrian, what are you starin’ at?” she finally said. “You’re givin’ me the willies.”

“Nothing, Miss Donna.”

“No, Adrian, what is it? You’re drivin’ me crazy.”

Adrian set down his nectarine and walked over. Unconsciously, he began taking deep breaths to lessen the pounding of his heart, which he could hear all the way up in his ears.

“So what is it?” she asked.

“It’s your potato, Miss Donna.”

Though he was just two years younger than Donna, Adrian always addressed her as an elder. And here was something new: He was now bowing his head in little Asian-like nods of respect. Donna wondered if he was trying to sneeze.

“Are you familiar with the scripture?” he finally asked.

She nodded.

“Jeremiah twenty-four seven?”

“No. Not by heart.”

“It says, ‘I will give them a heart to know me, that I am the Lord. They will be my people, and I will be their God, for they will return to me with all their heart.’ ”

“Yes?”

“Miss Donna, ma’am, I believe like all good Christians believe that Jesus is fixin’ to come back any day now. And I believe he’s tellin’ us, through that potato of yours, that it’s gonna happen soon, and it’s gonna happen right here in Selby … and that you’re part of His plans.”

Donna laughed. “You’ve got to be kiddin’ me.”

He shook his head. “Miss Donna, I mean this from the very bottom of my heart and soul.”

Donna rolled her eyes. “Adrian Braswell, you are weirder than a turban squash.”

Donna was wheeling the produce cart back into the stockroom when she heard herself paged. She ducked into the employee lounge to take the call. Mr. Tom was at a table, talking in hushed, serious tones to Takeesha, who had called in sick three days that week, leaving Koquita to work double shifts each time.

Donna was expecting a return call from Lois at dispatch in Atlanta. This could be a long conversation; there had been problems finding Clementine oranges, and Donna needed three crates for a new Italian restaurant down by Martha’s Linen’s ’n’ Things on DeLeon Street. Lois had told Donna she should go ahead and sell him regular oranges, that he wouldn’t know the difference, and though she was tempted to take her advice, Donna knew there was no comparison between the crude, thick-skinned California navel, whose rind had a slight petrochemical smell, and the more delicate Spanish sister, whose juice was sweet as green grapes and flesh as supple as well-hydrated lips. If four years at Lancôme had taught her anything, it was how to scrutinize then deconstruct a living, three-dimensional organism—only now the human head had been replaced by tangerines and artichokes and fennel bulbs. It was easy
for Donna, and she did not have patience with anyone, especially Koquita and the other checkers, who could not grasp the obvious subtle differences between a Rome and Fuji apple.

Donna pulled a chair up to the phone on the wall and sat down as she answered.

“This is Donna Kabel. How can I help you?”

“Hey!” blurted a young man’s voice. “I saw you on TV! Are you gonna make French fries outta that thing?”

Donna thought she had moved beyond Robbie weeks ago, yet the second she heard his voice she felt herself begin to melt. Unconsciously, she’d been carrying inside her a morsel of hope, like a cash register mint in the bottom of a dark purse, lost and out of mind but
there
, and it would not decay and crumble for several months, and, subconsciously at least, she rested easier knowing about this emergency sustenance, a taste of something sweet and familiar in times of hunger.

“Robbie?” she asked.

“Yeah, it’s me. Did you think I was dead or somethin’?”

Donna’s eyes began to fill with tears. “I don’t know what to say, Robbie,” she said.

“I’ve been busy, Donna. I got top salesman again the last two months. I sold more Suburbans than anyone in the whole southeastern United States.”

“You saw me on TV?”

“We had the news on in the showroom, and Leonard yelled for us all to come inside and watch.… You looked great.”

“You think so?”

“You’re all healed up, baby.”

Donna unconsciously brought the receiver down to her chest and leaned her forehead against the wall. Feeling the muffled, electric buzz of Robbie’s voice on her skin—“Baby? Baby? Donna baby? Are ya there, darlin’?”—she noticed someone quietly breeze past her and out the door. She smelled a fragrance that reminded
her of sweetened peanut butter, some kind of candy bar or the oil that African Americans slathered in their hair to keep it moist.

Suddenly, Donna felt a hand on her shoulder. It was Mr. Tom, who had overheard Donna leaving messages on Robbie’s voice mail time and again over the past several weeks.

He took the receiver from her and put his hands on her shoulders. Crying and wiping her nose with the back of her hand, Donna suddenly lunged for his torso and wrapped her arms around him tightly … as if she’d finally caught hold of a rock or log after being awash for days in a turbulent river.

As she cried into his shirt, Mr. Tom awkwardly patted her back, letting his other arm dangle at his side. Unbeknownst to Donna, he looked up at the security camera and rolled his eyes, a measure he hoped that would exonerate him of sexual harassment in case of a video audit.

“I’m sorry, Donna,” he said. “But it’s probably for the best, don’t you think? It’s time to move on.”

He stopped patting and shifted his weight to indicate a desire for detachment, but Donna would not let go, and Tom Green soon noticed a warm, wet spot growing on his shoulder, a sensation he had not experienced since his youngest niece, Haley, was in diapers.

H
is truck washed and waxed by hand, Dewayne arrived at Margaret’s house thirteen minutes early. As he opened his door, Margaret emerged from the front door of the house then turned to lock it.

“I was fixin’ to come get you,” Dewayne yelled.

“You could have just honked,” she said, descending the stairs of the porch. “I was watching for you.”

Dewayne’s eyes absorbed her as she came down the sidewalk. Margaret wore an orange, long-sleeve silk blouse, sandals, and a denim skirt short enough at mid-thigh that she’d tried on two pair of long pants, one pair of shorts, and two dresses in hopes of finding an alternative that would make her feel even prettier and not as naked.

Suddenly realizing she was almost to the curb, Dewayne scurried around the truck to open her door. He saw her already reaching
for the handle and quickly pressed the remote lock button on his key chain. Margaret heard the muffled
thunk!
and looked up at him, surprised.

“Why did you do that?” she asked.

“I’ve gotta get your door,” he answered. “You’re way too fast.”

“I can get my own door.”

“No, ma’am. Not when I’m here you won’t.”

He opened the door and watched her step up into the cab.

“Is anything wrong?” she asked.

Dewayne smiled. “You look so good I wanna scoop you up with a biscuit.”

“I can’t say I’ve ever heard that one before, Dewayne.”

He took her to Bellissimo, the restaurant on the top floor of the downtown Radisson that had recently metamorphosed from a Hawaiian theme to southern Italian. He ordered the cacciatore, she the Mediterranean spinach salad. The former had chunks of green pepper larger than the chicken pieces and so much oregano that the dish smelled like a cleaning agent. The salad, though it came with capers and calamata olives, had a dressing so sweet it tasted like candy, and the fake crab had been cut into clean, perfect cylinders that resembled sawed-off pieces of candy cane. Both of them made an effort to move the food around on their plates but very little went into their mouths.

“It’s not real good, is it?” Dewayne finally said.

“It’s fine,” she answered. “Maybe we ordered the wrong thing. What do you usually get?”

“Oh, I haven’t been here for a long time. We had homecoming dinner here in high school, but that was different. They had drinks you could light on fire in these big bowls that looked like volcanoes. I remember havin’ a real good time.”

“Where do you normally like to eat?”

“I usually eat at home.”

“You cook?”

“I know a little bit.”

Dewayne looked at her with wary eyes. He hesitated then said, “I’m the cook at the station.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“But it’s not exactly somethin’ you wanna tell a girl you’re tryin’ to impress.”

“You’re wrong about that,” Margaret said. “What do you cook?”

“Just home-cookin’.”

“Can you make biscuits?”

“Course I can make biscuits.”

For weeks now, Margaret had been tinkering with biscuit dough. As a signature dish for her catering business, she had a vision of warm biscuits with soppressata, thinly sliced canary melon, and a basil-infused olive oil. Yet despite experimentation with the amounts of butter and milk and the baking time, her biscuits continued to come out as dry and crumbly as the stale scones from airport coffee kiosks.

“My biscuits are a failure,” she answered. “I’m trying to make those wonderful Southern biscuits I eat everywhere, and I can’t do it.”

“You usin’ lard?” he asked.

“No.”

“What are you usin’ for fat?”

“Butter and vegetable oil.”

“Why not lard?”

“But that’s so unhealthy, Dewayne.”

“I’ve never heard of cookin’ good biscuits without lard.”

“Where do you buy lard?”

“Kroger.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“No, ma’am. Right there by the vegetable oil.”

“You know,” Margaret said. “I’ve got to go to the rest room. Would you excuse me?”

Dewayne quickly plucked his napkin from his lap and rose to his feet as Margaret stood up.

“That’s not necessary,” she said.

“Southern men know how to treat a lady.”

On the toilet, Margaret recounted the conversations of the evening thus far:
Lady! I thought the word had dropped from the American vocabulary.… He’s cute but seems too simple … his sentences sound like they’re from a Dick and Jane book.… The longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen on a man … wouldn’t they get singed on the job?… I could stare at his face all night.… He wants to scoop me up in a biscuit!… I want to put his fingers in my mouth.… What is wrong with me!

When Margaret returned to the table, Dewayne stood up to pull out her chair.

“I can manage, Dewayne,” she said.

“You’re real resistant to this kind of thing, aren’t you?”

“You should have seen my mother.”

“Maybe I will some day.”

“That’s impossible. She’s dead.”

“Oh! Gosh, I didn’t mean to …”

“No, no, that’s okay. She died of cancer last year. She was a gynecologist and she died of ovarian cancer. Tops the irony scale, doesn’t it?”

Wary of the Southern Baptists, Margaret had told no one in Selby about her mother. Despite her occasional interviews on National Public Radio and in the
New York Times
, most people here had no idea who Ruth Pinaldi was. And if they did, Margaret realized she most likely would never know because Southerners veered around controversy as if it were fresh roadkill. If they did know, Margaret was certain they were praying for her in a Sunday school class somewhere.