Deep Fried and Pickled (Book One - The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles) (11 page)

“Daddy, what if Rachael or I get sick or hurt? I’d hate to rely on public transportation to get to the hospital.”

The Browns were generous and treated me like family. I wasn’t happy that she referenced my name in reason number one. I didn’t want them to think I was unappreciative and feared that siding with Katie Lee would give that impression. I ordered another orange juice. “Do the sailboats race every Sunday?”

With bloodhound persistence, Katie Lee talked over me. “Mama, when I want to come home, you won’t have to fetch me.”

Having humiliated myself in the laundry room, I didn’t need any more red X’s on my scorecard. I sat in my chair and acted like Switzerland until Katie Lee kicked me under the table. “Rachael can attest. The food in the cafeteria is horrible. Isn’t it?”

“Well yah. They don’t serve crab cakes with pink sauce.”

“We need to make grocery runs, and the Piggly Wiggly isn’t within walking distance.”

Katie Lee possessed nerve like none I’ve encountered. Without a thought regarding the undiscovered damage on the cruiser van, she gathered momentum, pleading her case for the blue Olds.
Drop it,
I mentally transmitted, but she’d blocked my signal.

“Y’all, I can pack myself up at the end of the year.”

Mrs. Brown blew on her coffee. Lifting a spoonful of grits, Dr. Brown cracked a grin.

“Katie Lee,” Mrs. Brown said, “That’s silly. It took three of us four hours to unload you.”

In a last ditch effort, Katie Lee dug deep and teetered on the bullshit fence line. “Mama, I was considerin’ volunteering at the local children’s hospital.”

I busied myself by arranging pieces of my pancake into an intriguing Mona Lisa mosaic. The table fell silent as I ate Mona’s nose. Dr Brown looked at Katie Lee then at Mrs. Brown.
Holy shit, he was caving.
I knew Katie Lee’s number one reason for wanting the car. His name began with “N” and ended in “ash.” Sisterly protectiveness welled inside of me, and I didn’t want either of us to have contact with him.

Dr. Brown scraped the last of his grits off his bowl. “Where are you going to park the car on campus?”

AN ORANGE SPAGHETTI-STRAP sundress accentuated Patsy’s tanned arms that she waved at us from the dock. She leaned against the Brown’s covered Bayliner ski boat and waited for Katie Lee and me to walk down the path. “Hey y’all. I wanted to say goodbye before ya head back.”

The river slurped against the rocks, playing hide and seek with the shoreline. The three of us dangled our feet over the edge of the dock. Staring into the cyclical ripples she created with her toes, Patsy asked, “Have they noticed anything?”

“Noticed what?” Katie Lee asked.

“Stop messin’ with me. Have your parents seen the van?”

Katie Lee stood up, and leaned her back on a piling that was as tall as she was. “Y’all there’s nothing to notice.”

Y’all
? I didn’t bring up the subject and was miffed at the insinuation. Unable to clear my head of what Katie Lee confided the night before, worrying about the van took lower priority. Katie Lee needed to ditch her boyfriend, and I needed to convince her.

Baitfish darted under the shadows of my legs. I didn’t like being responsible for their short-term safety and pulled my feet out of the water. “What are you going to do about Nash?”

Staring across the river, she didn’t answer.

The tide was low, and Patsy stripped empty barnacle shells from the underside of a dock plank. “I’m telling you this as a friend. The kind who looks out for ya. Word is Ray’s are purchasing old man Wright’s place. Billy just pulled a permit to break ground on a huge home. We’re coming out of a summer drought, and the economy is moving into a recession, but it’s raining cash at the Rays. If Nash is dealing with the Ray’s, sooner or later, someone’s gonna end up with a turd in their punchbowl.”

“Y’all, are making a fuss over nothing. Nash just moved some business papers around is all.”

“Come on, Katie Lee,” Patsy said.

I tipped my head back and let sunshine warm my neck. “Nash isn’t being honest with you.”

Katie Lee turned on her heel. “Y’all can just fuck off.”

NOTE TO SELF

Persistence is critical to a successful wear-em-down. Katie Lee secured the keys to the blue Olds.

I like Katie Lee, Patsy, and New Bern with a “What’s next?” kind of infatuation.

Five weeks in and my roommate and I aren’t speaking –- going to be difficult to convince her to fess up to her PUs about the van.

OCTOBER 1986

10

D
on’t
M
ess
W
ith
M
ama

If
I were asked to dress as my favorite season, I’d roll in red candy apple coating then jump into a pile of autumn leaves. Humidity indexes had dropped, the days grew shorter, and the murmur of cicadas now hummed later in the afternoon. Fall had arrived.

Katie Lee had secured the blue Oldsmobile and a gas card from her parents. Riding back from The Bern, our sentences were short and without substance. I knew she held a grudge, and I was doing my best to ignore the knots it put in my stomach. If she was looking for an apology, she’d have a long wait. When I’d told her to lose Nash, I’d meant it. The little I knew about the black cases was more than enough to make me nervous. Being arrested as a co-conspirator wasn’t high on my to-do list. I didn’t want to be linked, in any way, to her boyfriend.

I’d finished stringing paper bats and Jack O’Lanterns above our dorm beds. I began decorating the flat surfaces with speckled gourds and cheese-wheel pumpkins. Leaving our door open, Katie Lee had strayed down the hall to nuke a bag of popcorn. Nibbling candy corn can make you thirsty, and I had a craving for fresh apple cider. Improvising, I crumbled a cinnamon stick in the coffee machine filter and brewed apple juice that I’d smuggled from the cafeteria self-serve station. It needed something more, so I added a shot of mandarin-flavored wine cooler I borrowed from Macy. Sipping the warm apple bite, I concentrated on Chapter Eight in my Psych book. I’d just read, “The winner of a mind game is the person that returns to the adult-ego stage first,” when I heard shouting from across the hall.

Seated at my desk, I had a panoramic view of two other open doors. Francine’s shadow loomed in Macy’s room. Normally the two stayed away from each other, separated by a block wall.

The catalyst for their dislike grew from something seemingly small, a fingernail and a picture frame. When the three of us landed on the floor that first day, both chipped. Macy had blamed Francine’s clumsiness, as the reason we toppled, and Francine accused Macy’s abusive mouth of sending down bad karma.

They loathed each other. It wasn’t black versus white distaste. I knew this since the graffiti on Francine’s door had infuriated Macy. The bristly animosity stemmed from equally strong temperaments that bubbled from deep beneath the skin. Francine eyed Macy as though she were foreign food, masterfully adorning an array of contorted facial expressions, in the form of high arched brows and exorcist-rolling eyeballs. Macy had an extensive assortment of finger, wrist and arm signals she used to insult Francine.

From behind my desk, I stood and pretended to search for a missing book. Francine tapped a pink-furry slippered foot and shouted, “Turn that whiney music down.”

Macy relaxed on her bed wearing men’s plaid boxers and a wife beater tank top. A contraption that looked like brass knuckles, only Styrofoam separated her toes. She capped a bottle of polish, most likely her signature color--Smok’n in Havana--before adjusting an oscillating fan. “Francine, go back to your cave.”

On tiptoes, Francine stood five feet tall max. Being short in stature made her voluptuous-curves all the more intimidating. She wore a permanent scowl and didn’t walk, but strutted in a motion that mimicked the swish-swish of maracas in a samba. Francine grew up Baptist on the Louisiana Bayou and used Ragin Cajun when she threw out insults. Marching back to her room, she returned to the hall with her boom box on a long extension cord. Strategically aiming the speaker at Macy’s open door, she pushed play. The speakers thumped a gospel-choir-musical-selection, “Take Me to the River,” which rhythmically conflicted with the B52’s, “Rock Lobster” playing on Macy’s machine.

I considered shutting my door but didn’t. As the two moved the dispute into the common corridor, I put my eyes into my open book and froze.

Macy, apparently unable to control herself, poked Francine in the shoulder. Beginning round one of verbal assault ping-pong, she shouted, “I’ll listen to whatever I want.”

Batting Macy’s hand aside, Francine growled, “Don’t poke me with those hooker nails.”

Shoving and jabbing evolved into a wrestling match that rivaled Hulk Hogan versus The Undertaker, landing them in my room.

From under Francine’s armpit Macy squeaked, “Help?”

“Francine. Let go of her.”

“Rachael, keep your gumbo out of this. Miss Filth Mouth needs a lesson on respect.”

Knotted together, Macy hooked her leg around Francine, and repeatedly tried to throw her off balance. Momentum moved them backward into the built-in dresser, capsizing Katie Lee’s perfume bottles and my cosmetic containers. I jumped on my bed and warned, “Someone’s going to get hurt.”

Grappling out of the elbow hold, Macy paused to catch her breath while Francine rested her hands on her knees.

“Truce?” I pleaded.

Macy positioned her hip sideways and extended her butt. “Listen here, Mama,” she said before slapping her ass with a whack sharp enough to send any four-legged animal into a gallop. “You-can-kiss this.”

“Your Crisco’s gone rancid,” Francine shouted.

I was born with the non-confrontational gene and vehemently avoided situations where mental or physical injury seemed likely. I would’ve bolted but Francine blocked the doorway when she bulldozed Macy into my desk. I leapt from my bed to Katie Lee’s side of the room, and cringed when my mug of cider tipped over onto my Psych book, before puddling to the floor. “See what you’ve done,” I spat on deaf ears.

In a defensive counter maneuver, Macy launched gourds and pumpkins at Francine. One ricocheted off her chest, causing her to wince and take refuge. Katie Lee’s closet door provided cover from exploding squash grenades and a trail of seedy-pulp mush.

When Macy ran out of ammo, Francine came out of hiding. “So, that’s how you want to play.”

The two circled each other in a game of chicken. “Rach,” Macy said, “back me up.”

Not exactly sure what Macy expected me to do, I crouched an arm’s length away, dodging and shuffling around them in a caveman dance.

Francine’s Louisiana drawl misted the air with every “s” sound she uttered. “You,” she told Macy, “are pissing me off, and I am going to report your biscuit ass and get it kicked outtahere.”

They were destroying my room, and I tried to think of something to diffuse their tempers. Before anything appropriate popped into my head, Macy flipped a double-fisted-bird. Her painted nails glowed like sparkling roman candles, and she told Francine, “Smoke these.”

When Macy turned to give me a wink, Francine snatched her ponytail and yanked. “Listen, you cracker. Out of respect to your neighbors, you-need-to–control-your-volume.”

I stood in shock at this brazen assault while Macy reached to rescue her hair.

Chucking the scrunchie into the hallway, Francine spat out  “Dumbass,” before storming off and slamming her door.

The neck of Macy’s Tank-top had stretched, and her hair took on a bed-head-esk style. “I’m gonna kill her.”

I grabbed her arm. “Leave it.”

Hearing the click of a lock enraged Macy. She shook loose and pounded her fists, careful not to damage her nails, on Francine’s oak veneer door.

“Come on, Macy,” I said tugging her arm again.

I smelled popcorn before I saw Katie Lee and Bridget. “What’s all the yelling? What’s goin’ on?” They asked.

Signaling my thumb at Macy, I asked Bridget, “Why is it you only show up after a fight?”

She curved her mouth in a closed smile. “Katie Lee and I had the munchies.”

Macy pressed her lips into the seal of the doorframe. “Mama, get your bayou butt out here. I’m not finished with you!”

“Mama?” Katie Lee mouthed.

The three of us huddled around Macy and forcefully escorted her into her room.

Katie Lee, Bridget and I mowed through the bag of popcorn while Macy spewed insults that referenced the inbreeding of Francine and her extended family.

“You need to calm down,” Katie Lee said.

To settle Macy’s nerves, I offered to brew an apple bite. As the coffee maker sputtered, I picked up pieces of broken pumpkin and squashed gourd. Sticky goo had smeared down Katie Lee’s closet, and I opened her wardrobe to give the door a wipe. Under a stack of sweater bags was a black suitcase I’d never seen before. I didn’t think much of it until I glimpsed dried paint on the handle. My mind rewound to the diner in New Bern where Katie Lee told Patsy and I about her fight with Nash. I worked hard to convince myself, it couldn’t be.

Katie Lee stood behind my back. “What are you doing in my closet?”

Like a hound flushing out a quail, I dug deep to contain my nervous energy. I held my stance and pointed. “Is that Nash’s?”

She moved toward the closet. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

It wasn’t my business, but I couldn’t stop myself. I was furious that she hid something for him in our room. For all I knew, he was a serial killer and body parts were fermenting in Katie Lee’s closet. Before she could slam the door, I pulled on the suitcase, tumbling the plastic zip bags that rested on top.

She grabbed the side handle. “What are you doing?”