Talk of the Town (6 page)

Lucy followed the conversation back and forth like a spectator at a tennis match.

“I sure enough can,” Donetta declared, jerking her chin up. I almost expected her to get on her hind legs and fight. “All them rooms need is some junk cleared out from last year’s parade and the church rummage sale, linens washed, and a quick coat of paint.”

“By
tonight
?” What in the world was she thinking? There wasn’t one of those rooms fit for habitation, much less by some lady wearing silk pants and toting a high-dollar handbag.

Donetta wagged her chin like I was half idiot. “Not by tonight. By Saturday. We can get the rooms ready by Saturday.”

“What are you gonna do with that girl until Saturday?” As usual, the more Donetta talked, the less sense she made. “Keep her at your house?”

Donetta glanced away, then back at me, then cut a quick look toward the stairs. “I gave her the keys to the Beulah room.”

Both Lucy and I gasped at once. Clearly, Donetta’s plan had caught even Lucy unaware.

“You gave her . . .
the Beulah room
?” I repeated slowly, trying not to imagine what Beulah, Donetta’s mother-in-law, would say if she knew Donetta had rented out Beulah’s private shrine.

Lucy muttered something in Japanese. I think she was praying.

Chewing the side of her lip, Donetta nodded. “Mama B’s in Florida for another month and a half yet. It ain’t like she’s usin’ the room.”

I wasn’t sure if Donetta was trying to convince herself or me. She looked nervous, and rightly so. Beulah was about as easy to get along with as a cow with a swole-up teat, and not half as useful. When Beulah took up residence in Daily, in between her winter trips to Florida and her summer trips to New Mexico, Donetta’s blood pressure went haywire.

And aside from the obvious question of Beulah’s reaction to having her room rented out, there was the issue of the room itself. “Has that girl
seen
the Beulah room?”

Donetta folded her arms on the edge of the table and locked them down tight. “Well, no, but she said she wasn’t particular.”

“She looks particular.”

“Well, she said she wasn’t, and she paid in cash—for all five rooms. I gave her the key to her room, and one to the rear entry door, and she left. She said she had some tourin’ to do around town and she’d be back later.”

“So she ain’t actually
seen
the Beulah room yet.” Which made sense, considering that I hadn’t heard anyone run out of the hotel screaming while I was serving lunch at the café.

“No, she ain’t, actually.”

The conversation dried up for a minute, and the three of us took bites of pie and swilled it around, thinking.

Even though I hated to do it, I had to bring up the subject of the rooms again. “It just don’t make sense, Netta. Why do all that work, clean out and paint the rooms, just for a few days’ rental? It won’t pay what you put into it.”

Setting down her fork, Donetta let out a long breath, the air blowing through her Rumba Red #5 lips in something between a whistle and a sigh. “That lady’s from Hollywood, Ima. If she stays here and the hotel gets on
American Megastar
, it’ll bring the customers back, just like the old days.” Donetta’d always hated the fact that after several decades of declining business, she’d had to close down the hotel that had been in her family for over a hundred years.

“Who said she’s from Hollywood?” Call me slow, but so far there hadn’t been any herd of cameras showing up in Daily. So far, all we had was a lot of supposing and guessing, and a couple yay-hoos hanging a banner over Main Street.

Donetta turned slowly, her pale gray eyes reflecting the faded words
Daily Hotel
from the old plate glass window. “Nobody has to say it, GiGi.” Donetta only called me GiGi during serious, emotional moments. It was a pet name from childhood, one of our sister-names for each other. DeDe and GiGi. “I just know.”

The room went silent, and a draft moaned down the dumbwaiter behind the counter, as if the building itself were getting in on the conversation. The sound crept up my shirt, and I shivered head to toe. Beside me, Lucy crossed herself and kissed her locket with the baby curl in it.

“All right. I’ll go to Wal-Mart for you,” I said, even though I knew it was crazy. One thing we all need in this world is a friend who’ll buy paint without asking questions. “Any particular color?” All right, that was one question, but I didn’t ask how three old women were going to clean out four musty hotel rooms.

“What?” Donetta asked, only halfway listening. Her eyes were darting around the beauty shop, making bold plans that, if she revealed them, would probably drive me to climb to the roof and jump off.

“The paint. What color?”

“Oh . . . off white.” The words were confident, like she could already see it in her mind. “That washable latex kind. Flat. Flat hides imperfections.” She sighed, looking up at the ceiling, momentarily deflated by the weight of her own intentions. “I’ll line up some high school kids to help us with the job. No telling what shape those rooms are in up there.”

That was a point I couldn’t even stand to rehash. I didn’t want to think about what the rooms looked like. “All right. Flat off-white latex. How much?”

“A lot.” She was too far into her own world to count up gallons.

“All right. A lot.” Lucy and I traded glances like two castaways being dragged out to sea. “I’ll run over and talk to Bob about getting off awhile tomorrow morning,” I said, and left poor Lucy there to deal with the rest of Donetta’s plan.

I caught Bob cleaning up the fry grill and asked him about taking a break tomorrow to go to Wal-Mart for Donetta. I tried to sound casual, because I didn’t want any questions about Donetta and her crazy plan.

Fortunately, Bob didn’t ask for details. “Sure. Not a problem,” he said, as I’d expected he would. Bob’s like a back-porch hound dog. Slow moving, not real smart, prone to bark whenever the wind shifts. Today he had bigger things on his mind anyway. “Hey, uhhh . . . Guess you didn’t hear anything else over there at Donetta’s . . . about Hollywood comin’ to town, I mean.”

“Well, Donetta was giving a haircut to a young fella in a flowerdy shirt when I walked in. Never seen him before. Told Donetta he just flew in from California. Seemed strange to me, because he didn’t talk citified. I swear, Donetta could make friends with a stump, and . . .”
Oh shoot. Time to shut up
. Past time. If Bob’s an old hound dog, I’m one of them useless little house mutts that can’t stop yapping.
Yip, yip, yip, yip
.

Bob’s face went gray, and I knew I’d stirred up a hornet’s nest. He started pacing behind the counter, muttering to himself about how he couldn’t understand why, being as he was the president of the Daily Chamber of Commerce, no one from
American Megastar
had contacted him yet, asking about permits and clearances to film on the streets of Daily. I could tell by the look in his eye that he was about to plow into the situation like a tornado down the midway of the county fair.

I did the wise thing and said, “Thanks, Bob. I’m gonna run over and finish my pie and coffee, then take an exercise class. I’ll be back before the supper rush gets going.” Bob didn’t answer as I hurried to the shelves. He was too busy plotting his next move.

“Bob says it’s fine,” I told Donetta as I came back through the wall. She didn’t answer me, either, but just nodded, her attention fixed on the window. She was plotting her next move, too. Which made me wonder why I was the one going to Wal-Mart tomorrow, since I wasn’t plotting anything.

I knew what it must feel like to be one of the little wooden men on the chessboard when the old farts sit around in the afternoons. My job here was to do all the movin’, none of the thinkin’. If someone got knocked off the table and kicked in the dirt, it’d probably be me.

I was still thinking about paint when Donetta pushed away her coffee cup, clapped her hands, and hopped out of the chair. “Guess we better get on with exercise class.” She walked to the TV and turned on the VCR. “Y’all want
Sweatin’ to the Oldies
,
Buns of Steel
, or
Yoga With Yahani
today?”

“Yahani have bun of steel,” Lucy said without looking up. Given the choice, Lucy always picked
Yoga With Yahani
.

“Lucy!” Donetta gasped, as if she was consumed with utter mortification. Truth was, she was the one who bought
Yoga With Yahani
, and not because she thought three old ladies were gonna master yoga.

Lucy just shrugged and grinned, and they went on with a discussion about which tape to use.

I tuned it out and focused on my pecan pie. I was thinking about the mess in the rooms upstairs and getting more and more depressed, which made me want to eat. Pecan pie comforts a lot of hurts. Unfortunately, it won’t paint hotel rooms or move parade decorations and yard sale leftovers to the storage shed.

“Ima!” Donetta’s voice snapped me back to life, which was probably good because I could feel myself sinking deeper into a funk. “Come on. We’re doin’
Yoga With Yahani.”

Donetta had filled what used to be the back of the hotel lobby with secondhand fitness machines. At one time, she’d had visions of adding to the beauty shop income by opening a workout studio in the space that wasn’t needed for the beauty shop, but so far the class had only grown to three—four, if you included Yahani.

I thought about making an excuse and going back over to the café, but I knew if I did, Donetta would be on me again about how I was letting myself go since Jack died. She’d start handing me books about depression, and calling me over for the
Dr. Phil
show, and making excuses to invite me to supper with her and her husband, Ronald, so I wouldn’t be home alone all evening.

“All right, sweats on, then
Yoga With Yahani
,” Donetta said, and disappeared into the bathroom, where she kept her exercise clothes. Lucy headed for the storage closet to change, and I got my exercise suit from behind the old hotel desk, then went to the bathroom out back in the auto shop so I could change and use the restroom, which at my age is pretty much an essential precaution before vigorous movement.

“Hey there, Imagene.” Donetta’s brother, Frank, peeked from under the hood of a car as I came out in the ugly purple sweat suit one of the kids gave me for Christmas. “Got yer new windshield ready to put in this afternoon, then I’ll pull yer car around front.”

“Thanks, Frank,” I said. As usual, he was looking out for me. Frank and I go back a long way.

“Put-put-put y-y-you up another buz-buzzard.” Doyle was hanging around the back of the shop by the domino table. “Sure ya don-don-don’t want credit for the urr-raccoon, too?” He pointed to the chalkboard, where another stick buzzard had been added beside my name.

“No, that’s all right. I didn’t kill the raccoon. It was dead before I got there.”

“B-b-buzzard b-b-bait,” Doyle joked, and Frank laughed as I headed back into the beauty shop. When I got there, Donetta was just inserting
Yoga With Yahani
. Lucy and I moved into position and we started our deep breathing.

We’d moved through a couple of stretches and were working our way into downward dog when the door opened.

“Be there in a minute,” Donetta called, keeping her eyes closed so as to stay focused. Once she starts yoga class, she don’t quit for anything. Folks around town know that, and usually take a seat at the front to wait.

I glanced under my armpit, and that young out-of-towner who’d had the haircut earlier was just rounding the cash register counter. He stopped midstride, looking no small bit embarrassed. I could imagine the view from where he was—one big behind and two bony ones in old sweat suits with granny panties hanging out the top.

“Uhhh . . .” He cleared his throat, trying to wipe away a grin. “I can come back later.”

Donetta opened her eyes and gaped at him upside down. “No, that’s all right.” Walking her hands backward so that she looked like a frog on stilts, she snapped up quicker than I’d have thought was possible.

Lucy braced one hand on her knee and one on the floor, got her balance, then hauled herself to her feet with a muffled groan. I collapsed onto all fours, baby-crawled my way to the exercise bike, and used the seat to pull myself up. We stood staring at the boy, Donetta and I straightening our sweat suits and Lucy fluffing her hair.

“Well, how do, Carter,” Donetta said, like she’d known him all her life. She ushered him back toward the cash register. “You’re back awful soon. Did I forget to give you your change or somethin’? I been known to do that sometimes. I get to talkin’ to folks and I’ll tell you what, I just forget what I’m supposed to be doin’. My daddy always said I could talk the beans right off the bush and into the basket.”

Carter laughed. “Well, that’d save a lot of work, wouldn’t it?” He gave Donetta a wide, slow smile that was dazzling against his tanned skin.

Donetta blushed, then giggled like a teenage girl. “Well, yes. Yes, I guess that’s true, isn’t it? What can I do for you, Carter?” She spoke in a smooth, soft voice that wasn’t hers at all. She sounded like the pastor’s wife on the Sunday morning preachin’ show, all sweetness and light.

Carter surveyed the room, pausing to nod at Lucy and me. “Afternoon, ladies,” he said. Lucy giggled and I felt a little flutter of color rise into my cheeks. Mercy, that boy did have the prettiest blue eyes. I wondered if he was a movie star, one of those sweet-talking types who rolled into town with a big smile and mysterious ways.

He turned his attention back to Donetta. “Actually, I need to rent a hotel room.” He motioned over his shoulder toward Donetta’s front window. “I noticed it says
hotel
.”

“Oh . . . well . . .” Donetta hesitated, no doubt hating to tell him she didn’t have any rooms to rent and he’d have to stay in Austin or Waco. So far today, we’d already rented five more rooms than we actually had.

Which brought up the question of why all of a sudden everyone was interested in a hotel that had been closed for years due to lack of business.

“For how many days?” Donetta asked.

Lucy and I looked at each other with our mouths hanging open.