A Life of Bright Ideas (12 page)

“Hi, Button,” Tommy said.

“Evy,” I reminded him.

“Hey, you just let Winnalee call you Button.”

“That’s different,” I said, and I hoped he wouldn’t ask why, since I didn’t know.

“So is your friend,” Brody said with a grin.

I wanted to grab Winnalee and whisper in her ear that Brody was married. Instead I just stood there, arms crossed, gawking at the line of cars, hoods glistening in the sun, so I didn’t have to watch the guys watching Winnalee’s boobs—or mine.

Winnalee asked them if they knew of any places that were hiring bartenders or waitresses.

“I know of a place,” Brody said, with a grin that made me want to bite my cheek.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. The new bar down past Evy’s old man’s place.
Used to be Marty’s Place. Some dude from Chicago bought it and I guess he’s looking for a couple girls yet.” His gaze brushed over Winnalee and me, and I tugged at my shirt some more. “You two might want to look into it.” Tommy looked down and shook his head.

The carhop came and latched our tray on to the window of my car, calling over to us so we could pay her. I made a move to head back to my Rambler, and Winnalee grabbed my arm, clamping me beside her. “Why don’t you boys come by one of these nights,” she said. “Bring a little beer, and we’ll have a smoke and a little fun.”

I suppose Winnalee didn’t realize that in Dauber, beer and marijuana were horses of a different color, and that guys like Tommy (the jury was still out on Brody), who didn’t think anything of getting smashed on beer, were appalled by pot. I’m sure Tommy would have let Winnalee know this, too, but he thought she meant cigarettes.

The guys left, and while Winnalee and I ate our burgers and had our root beer, I told her that Brody was married. “Your point?” she asked.

“His wife is pregnant, too.”

Winnalee turned to me. She had a splotch of ketchup on the corner of her mouth. “What? You think I make a habit of stealing other women’s husbands?” She sounded indignant.

I sighed with relief, then tripped over myself trying to take the insinuation back. “I should have known better.” And I should have. Even Freeda didn’t sleep with married men.

Winnalee’s eyes narrowed. “Look, Button. I don’t have any use for husbands.”

I almost felt sick to my stomach. “I’m sorry.
Sorry
. Forget I said it, please.”

Winnalee snapped her last french fry between her teeth as she watched me. “Button, you’re a beautiful piece of work, you know that?” She downed the last of her root beer and thumped
the mug back on the tray propped on the window. She honked for the carhop.

“Nope,” she said. “I don’t steal husbands. I just ball ’em, and give ’em back.”

My mouth probably dropped open big enough to drop a root beer mug in without chipping my teeth, and Winnalee laughed. Hard. And so I laughed, too, even though I was embarrassed that I’d taken her seriously.

We were on Highway 8 when Winnalee shouted, “Wait, stop! There’s your dad!”

Dad was in the driveway, hunched over the hood of his car. He craned his head around, saw it was my Rambler, then turned back again.

Winnalee didn’t wait for me to put the car in park before she leapt out, shouting, “Uncle Reece! Uncle Reece!” Dad turned and squinted into the sun. “It’s me,” she called. “Winnalee!” Dad tossed the empty oil can he was holding onto the mound of empty plastic containers piled at the corner of the house.

I shut the car off and gingerly stepped out, watching, as Winnalee leapt up to wrap her arms around Dad’s neck, her
feet dangling above the ground. I looked down, feeling every bit as confused as I’d been as a child over the ease with which Winnalee could cozy up to Dad—and him to her—while I chewed my cheek when I
had
to talk to him. I stepped back, my foot leaving the drive and sinking into grass that was as scraggly as his hair.

“Man, Uncle Reece. You look like a dog-chewed bone,” Winnalee said after she dropped back to the ground.

“It must be the same dog who chewed off the bottom half of your skirt,” Dad said, his brows bunching with fatherly disapproval.

Winnalee looked offended, then slapped him on the arm, right over the tattoo of a knife jabbed through a heart. “It’s a miniskirt, Uncle Reece. And stop changing the subject.” Dad was wearing work pants, the thighs smeared with greasy handprints, and a gray T-shirt that looked as dusty as his skin. Winnalee gave his concave stomach a whack. “What the hell … you give up eating?”

“What? I eat,” he said, sheepishly.

“It sure as hell don’t look like it,” Winnalee said. Then she half smiled, half frowned. “It’s good to see you again, Uncle Reece. But I’m so sorry about Aunt Jewel. Christ, who gets struck by lightning?” She wrapped her arm around his middle, leaned in, and gave him a hug.

Dad didn’t say anything, but he gave her shoulder a comfort squeeze. I lifted my foot and scratched at my ankle.

Dad had to wash the oil from his hands, so we tagged along inside … or should I say, I tagged along inside after
them
.

Apparently Winnalee didn’t notice that the house had fallen to ruins, because she didn’t say anything. She just followed Dad into the kitchen, while I wandered off into the living room to check Ma’s bells. I could hear water running in the sink, and Winnalee’s voice chattering. Woodstock … a job … 
her van … random words peaked above the murmurs, along with an occasional “Hmm” or chuckle from Dad.

I ran my finger over the shelf that Ma’s bell collection sat on and the dust made a gray smudge. I glanced toward the kitchen, wondering if I could dust them without getting caught. I decided not, so merely blew and dabbed at the grime the best I could.

“Button?” Winnalee called. “Where are you?”

“I need something from my room,” I called, then hurried off. I dug around the near-empty drawers and closet to find something I could grab to support my excuse, and ended up taking a summer nightgown that I hadn’t worn in two years.

I was hoping to drag Winnalee out of there right away, but she wouldn’t budge. As they talked—mostly Winnalee—I watched Dad as he opened a beer. I knew his profile so well that if I was artistic like Winnalee, I could draw him to a T. I knew every bend of his ears, and the precise spot alongside his nose that glossed when he was overheated. I knew the exact outline of his beard when the stubble built, and the spot near his jawbone where a twitch would crop up when he got irritated. And I knew, by the stiffening in his neck, the exact moment when he’d feel me staring and glance up and we’d both turn away.

Dad walked us to the car. “You’d better come see us, too!” Winnalee warned, her voice scolding, yet playful. “We’ll cook you something yummy so you can beef up and get your hunky body back. Won’t we, Button?”

“Sure,” I mumbled.

“You been checking the oil?” Dad asked as he thumped the hood of my car, probably because he felt he had to say
something
to me.

“Yeah,” I said, and he reminded me—again—that I could crack the engine block if I ran out of oil.

“You and your dad are weird together,” Winnalee said as I backed us out of the drive. “Like strangers.”

I didn’t comment.

“But then,” Winnalee said, “I guess you two were always like that with each other.”

But we weren’t. Not for that stretch in between when you left and when Ma died. We weren’t so much during that time
.

I watched Winnalee from the corner of my eye, wishing I could say those words out loud, because keeping them to myself made me feel like the tree in the picture Uncle Rudy gave me, only with my roots dangling loose in midair.

“It’s kinda weird, isn’t it?” Winnalee said, as we rumbled down Peters Road, the ruts bumping our ride, the wind thumping through the windows tossing our hair. “They
made
us … we share half of their genes … seems like it should be easier getting along with them, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” I said, and the roots of my sadness reached over to twine with hers.

Winnalee and I headed to Aunt Verdella’s early, two mornings later, carrying a basket of dirty laundry between us. Boohoo was in the yard, his pants pulled down enough to show the tops of his butt cheeks, humming as he swirled urine in loops over the grass. “Boohoo, what are you doing?” I shouted.

“Taking a leak, by the looks of it,” Winnalee mumbled under her breath.

“I’m doing what you told me …,” Boohoo replied.

“You told him to piss in the grass? Why, Button, you surprise me.”

We were close enough now for Boohoo to hear that one, so he responded, “No. She said to practice so I wouldn’t forget
my letters in the summer. That’s what I’m doin’. I’m writing my name.”

“I didn’t tell you to do it with
pee
,” I said. “Pencils, Boohoo. Peeing is private. Not something—”

Winnalee interrupted. “So how far did you get before your pee pencil ran dry?”

Boohoo’s stream slowed to a stop, and he shook himself off, hiked up his pants, and beamed. “I got to the
h
, this time.”

“Cool,” Winnalee said, giving his head a pat as we passed.

Uncle Rudy was just coming out the door when we reached the porch, Knucklehead hobbling behind him. “Mornin’ girls,” he said.

“Where you off to so early?” Winnalee asked.

“Well, Tommy’s bringing the cows over in a bit, so I thought I’d give him a hand unloading them.”

“I wanna help, too,” Boohoo said, bopping up and down.

“Boohoo, don’t get too close to the cows,” I warned, and Uncle Rudy assured me he’d keep a close eye on him. He reached down and patted Boohoo’s head. “He’s a good helper, this one. He’s gonna help me with my garden today, too, aren’t you?”

“Yep.” Boohoo beamed, as he pulled a wad of yarn from his pocket. “Uncle Rudy, can cows wear leashes?”

Aunt Verdella was at the kitchen window when we got inside, her belly strained against the sink as she watched Uncle Rudy circle the house. She was wearing a smile when she turned. “You two want some breakfast? I could make some more French toast.”

“No. We have cereal and milk at home,” I told her, because judging by the pyramid of new yarn on the counter and the stack of crocheted items waiting beside a box on the dining room table, she was planning to get right to work after she got the dishes done.

“Hey, where are you going with that?” Winnalee asked,
when Aunt Verdella opened the basement door to take our basket down. She shot me a look, then hurried to take the basket. “Why would
you
run this down? It’s
our
dirty laundry.”

Aunt Verdella glanced at me, then leaned closer to Winnalee, as if in doing so I couldn’t hear her. “Button doesn’t like basements. They scare her.”

Winnalee looked confused at first, then her mouth formed just a hint of a circle. “Exactly why
I’m
doing it,” she said.

Aunt Verdella cleared the table, gobbling up the cold wedges of French toast glued with syrup as she carried Boohoo’s plate to the sink. “And I weighed myself, too. One week of dieting, and I haven’t even lost a pound!”

“Dieting? Aunt Verdella, why you dieting?” Winnalee asked as she stepped up into the kitchen. “I love you just the way you are …” She wrapped her arms around Aunt Verdella and gave her a squeeze. “… all pillow-squishy and warm.” Aunt Verdella gave a sickly moan.

“Well, opening Saturday is only two weeks away. You all set, Aunt Verdella?” I asked.

“The Community Sale?” Winnalee guessed, smiling, no doubt because she remembered how we’d gone along once and bought things for our adventure bag with the money we earned from selling homemade pot holders.

Aunt Verdella nodded. “I’m going to make a few more baby sweater sets and a couple of ponchos, then I’ll be good to go.”

She poured me a cup of coffee and Winnalee a cup of juice, then began rummaging through the clutter on the counter, pulling out a strip of cream-colored crocheted lace. “Look at this pattern,” she said, handing it to me. “I thought this would be pretty for the edge of a tablecloth. What do you think?”

Winnalee grabbed the lace to admire it, then looked up, her eyes wide. “Hey,” she said, holding it against her denim
cutoffs. “Wouldn’t this look cool on jeans?” She turned around and held the lace between the waistband and her butt. “Here maybe? Or,” and she spun back around, “here,” she said, running it down the outside seam.

It did look cool, and I told her so. Aunt Verdella laughed. “I never saw that before, but I guess if they can make dresses out of paper, why not put tablecloth lace on jeans? I’ll make you up some lace and Button can sew it on for you. I wouldn’t quite know where to place it.”

“Far out,” Winnalee said. “Thanks.”

“Oh! Speaking of baby sweater sets,” Aunt Verdella piped—as if that’s what we were talking about—“I ran into Nancy Bishop and her daughter-in-law, Marls, yesterday, and I was thinking … Button, we should give Marls a baby shower. She hasn’t made any girlfriends here yet, so I can’t see that anybody else is going to give her one. It would be a nice gesture, don’t you think?”

“Sure,” I said, while Winnalee stared off with disinterest.

“Good. I’ll call Nancy today and see if we can’t set up a date. I’ll ask them to put together an invitation list. I’ll come up with a few games—everyone loves baby shower games—and I’ll make up a few little crocheted items for gifts. We’ll keep the food simple. I was thinking sandwiches, some chips, a pretty Jell-O mold, a sheet cake. I’ve got a couple quarts of my homemade pickles left, I think.”

“I saw Uncle Reece a couple days ago,” Winnalee said, cutting in to change the subject even though Aunt Verdella wasn’t finished with the last. “Man, he looks almost as rough as Knucklehead.”

Aunt Verdella forgot all about the baby shower once
that
comment was made. “He’s not sick, is he?”