Elvis and the Grateful Dead (15 page)

W
hen I hear Jack’s Harley, I know I’m caught red-pawed. I could have fooled Callie into thinking digging a hole under the fence was all Hoyt’s idea, but my human daddy is going to take one look at my guilty mug and know I was the one who put him up to it. Furthermore, he’s going to know why.

It takes one to know one. Jack’s a man of the world and I’m a dog-about-town. As much as I enjoy guiding Callie in her journey through life, occasionally I have to have the diversion of some good canine companionship (emphasis on
good,
meaning cute Frenchie and not stupid spaniel).

As a last-ditch effort to cover my crime, I toss my marrow bone into the hole and say, “Quick, Hoyt, act like you’re burying it.” But he keeps digging so hard you’d think he was trying to find China. That silly dog has a one-track mind.

When the Harley’s motor dies (Jack’s tucked it in the garage, I see, trying to surprise Callie) I amble over to the gazebo trying to act like I’m out for a midnight stroll in the moonlight.

“Looks like you got into trouble without me.” Jack squats to examine my paw, and for a minute I think the sympathy vote (my bandage) is going to get me out of trouble. “You wouldn’t know anything about that hole under the fence, would you?”

I howl a few bars of “Ain’t Misbehavin’.” Although Fats Domino could bring the house down with his rendition, I don’t make a dent in Jack.

He gets a shovel from the garage, fills up the hole, then cleans the dirt off us with a water hose and a doggie towel. (M
y towel
, thank you very much. I allow Hoyt to use it only because I’m feeling magnanimous tonight.) My human daddy marches us inside and straight to bed, then turns off the light.

“Stay put.” Hoyt immediately starts snoring, but I open one eye as Jack heads for the bedroom door. “I mean that, Elvis. Callie will be home soon and I won’t have her worrying.”

I don’t have to ask how he knows. Where Callie’s concerned, he has built-in radar. And if that fails, all he has to do is call Charlie. Those two are thicker than pissants at a picnic.

As for staying put, who does he think he’s dealing with? Some cheap imitation in an ill-fitting sequined jumpsuit? I’m the real thing, and I’m not about to loll around on my doggie pillow and miss my cues and curtain calls.

Jack heads to the front porch, but I don’t trot along behind and get caught. I lie low on my pillow, knowing that I have the advantage. Listen, my human daddy is formidable but unfortunately his ears match. What he gains in looks he misses in acute hearing.

I hear him tromping around the Angel Garden, checking out the crime scene tape, no doubt, thinking how Callie must hate it and making plans to see that it disappears.

If you’ve guessed that I think my human daddy walks on water, you’d be right.

Finally the chains on the porch swing creak and I hear the soulful strains of Jack’s harmonica. He’s a good musician. I like to think it’s my influence.

If Hoyt wouldn’t make a pest of himself, I’d wake him up to hear this. Jack’s music always matches his mood. That he chose my hit “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” instead of “Reconsider Baby,” by Lowell Fulson or “Walking the Blues” by Willie Dixon says it all.

I’m not just King of the world, I’m king of this hill, and Hoyt might as well learn to genuflect.

In the distance I hear the low-pitched roar of Callie’s big Hemi engine. The music stops, which means Jack hears it, too.

I wonder if he also hears that sports car turning onto our road. Easing off my pillow, I pad toward the front and position myself at the window with full view as Callie’s headlights hit the driveway. Not far behind is the Ford Mustang convertible I recognize from my unfortunate venture up Highway 371.

The engines cut off and Callie and the doc stroll toward the front steps, hand in hand. I glance at the swing expecting Jack to catapult off the porch and beat the tar out of Luke Champion. But he has blended himself into the dark like a big black panther. (By the way, that’s his code name, but you’re not getting another word about Jack’s profession out of me).

The doc says, “Callie, thank you for a lovely evening,” and she tells him, “You’re welcome” in her sweet southern drawl that would melt the heart of Hitler.

The aura I’m picking up from the swing is dark enough to start World War III. I brace myself for battle. If Callie invites Champ in, I’ll be the only one to save the situation.

I do my best to send her a telepathic message that Jack’s on the porch, but she just stands there, oblivious. My humans have so much to learn I’d be daunted if I were a lesser dog.

Instead I send her another message.
Say good night. Come inside. Now
. But she’s just standing there looking like Willie Nelson’s “Angel Flying Too Close to the Ground” while Champ closes in. Judging by the aura I’m picking up from him, he’s not planning to whistle “Let’s Be Friends.”

He lacks the finesse I used with Ann-Margret. You’d expect more from a man who is around animals all day. As for Callie, without the highly refined senses of a French poodle, she doesn’t even notice that Champ could use some lessons on the art of courtship.

He’s going to kiss her. I can smell his intent.

With the other third of the love triangle crouched in the swing, this is not going to be pretty.

I’m about to head out the doggie door to rescue the situation when the black panther springs.

“Hello, Cal.” Jack’s off the porch and planted between them so fast I’m probably the only one who saw him move. “I don’t believe we’ve met.” Extending his hand, he says, “Jack Jones. Callie’s husband.”

“Ex,” she says.

“Not quite.”

“Soon.”

“Never.”

“In your dreams.” Callie rarely loses her temper, but she’s spitting mad.

Champ’s just standing by looking like he doesn’t know whether to intervene, mind his own business, or turn tail and run. If I don’t do something fast, this business is liable to get out of hand.

Drat the bandage and full speed ahead!

I race through the doggie door into the backyard, but the fence keeps me from going around front where all the action is. Being the talented dog I am—and cagey, to boot—I let loose with a mournful rendition of my hit “Peace in the Valley.”

It’s not perfect for the occasion, but gospel is always good for sympathy and the song fits. If I don’t restore some peace between my human parents, I’m liable to end up with Champ’s spiteful Persian in the family. It’s bad enough to have seven newly adopted stray cats in the family without adding a hateful step-cat.

Callie and Jack come running, just as I knew they would, with Champ matching them step for step. First through the gate, Callie scoops me up and starts crying into my fur.

If I weren’t so pleased with myself for putting an end to that pissing contest in my front yard, I’d get down and wallop the daylights out of those two studs. I’ll think of a way to get even later. Nobody makes my human mom cry and escapes my wrath.

After Champ checks my bandage to see if everything is all right, he bids Callie a hasty good night and heads his Mustang back to Mantachie. I can tell by the way Jack’s looking at me that he knows I’m responsible for getting rid of his competition.

Even more to the point, he’s grateful, which means tonight’s shenanigans will earn me a good T-bone steak reward.

I rethink my position on revenge. Maybe I won’t go whole hog with Jack. Maybe I’ll just pull a little stunt or two that will let him know who’s in charge around here.

I’m not a dog you want to mess with.

T
his has turned into the longest, most traumatic day of my life. I’m going to sleep for a year if I ever get to bed. And I can guarantee you, it will be without Jack.

He winces when he puts Elvis back on his guitar shaped pillow. My first instinct is to rush over, ask if he’s all right, urge him into an easy chair, then bring a cool cloth for his head and a steaming cup of green tea chai for his soul.

I know,
I know.
I can’t make any progress by moving backward.

Still, keeping my distance from Jack is the hardest thing I’ve done today. Change is so difficult it takes enormous courage and resilience to pull it off. I’m not quite there yet, but I’m working on it.

Elvis immediately falls asleep and I’m left standing by a bed that suddenly takes up all the space in this room while my almost-ex watches me. I bite my lower lip to keep it from trembling.

“I’m very tired, Jack. It’s been a long day.”

Two steps and he’s beside me, cupping my face in his warm hands.

Just don’t let him kiss me, that’s all I ask.

“Cal.” He rubs his thumbs down my damp cheeks. “I’m sorry I made you cry.”

Without another word, he exits.

I don’t think my legs are going to hold me up more than two more minutes. I let my clothes fall to the floor and climb into bed without hanging them up, without even taking a bath. Pulling the sheets over my dusty feet and up to my chin, I stare at the moonlight pouring through the skylight, and I don’t allow myself to think about anything.

Not one single thing.

I wake up to the smell of coffee and the glorious feeling that this is Sunday morning. No hair appointments. No festival. No bodies waiting at Eternal Rest for my magic touch (I hope). Nothing to do but go to Wildwood, the little white clapboard church built on property donated by my grandfather Valentine and filled with stained glass windows in memory of my dearly departed Valentine ancestors.

Well, actually I do have something to do, but I don’t intend to check out my latest suspect until I’ve paid proper homage to the universe and this day. Clytee Estes can wait.

I believe in keeping your priorities straight.

Elvis is stirring, which means if I don’t get out of bed soon, he’ll drag his doggie dish into the bedroom and let it clank to the floor. Besides, the rich smell of coffee is impossible to resist.

I don’t remember setting the timer, but I guess I did. The minute my feet touch the floor, I revise my guess. My clothes are not there. Ditto, my shoes. Which means somebody picked them up and put them in their proper place. It doesn’t take a Philadelphia lawyer to figure out who that somebody is.

Jack, of course. Who else has the key to my house and comes and goes as he pleases?

Grabbing my robe, I head to the kitchen. Lo and behold, there’s a cheese Danish muffin on my blue lacquered tray along with a Gertrude Jekyll rose. I am grateful and even feel a bit pampered, never mind that the rose is probably from my garden and the cheese Danish is still wrapped in plastic.

I pour myself a cup of coffee and take my breakfast onto the front porch expecting to enjoy it in the swing. But another miracle is waiting for me outside. The crime tape around my Angel Garden has vanished.

I’m so grateful I take my cell phone out of my robe pocket and call to ask Jack about his gunshot wound.

“I’ll live,” he says, which makes me want to shake him.

“You got shot, Jack. How can you be nonchalant about somebody trying to kill you?”

“What about you, Cal? Who’s trying to kill you?”

Bound for him to turn the tables. “Nobody,” I tell him.

“That’s not what I heard.”

Nobody knows about that threatening note except Lovie, and I know she wouldn’t tell him. But then, Jack doesn’t need anybody to tell him anything. Obviously, he has spies or has bugged everything I own and every place I go. I wonder if there’s a law against that.

Still, it seems querulous to pick a fight after the lovely coffee and Danish, especially on Sunday.

“Thank you for breakfast, Jack.”

“You’re welcome, Cal.”

“And for making the crime scene tape disappear.”

He doesn’t deny it, just says, “My pleasure.”

When he tells me good-bye and hangs up without turning this conversation into something for his advantage, I wonder if he’s coming down with a fever.

I don’t have long to stew over it, though, because Mama calls to invite me to lunch after church. The frame of mind I’m in, her invitation makes me wonder what she’s done now. Probably some misdeed that would make me lose sleep.

The first thing I do when I get to church is check out Mama’s chin for beard burn. It’s either not there or she has cleverly disguised it with makeup.

“What are you staring at?” she asks.

“Nothing. Did you and Fayrene and What’s His Name have a good time last night?”

“His name is Thomas and he’s coming to lunch. I expect you to behave.”

With that, Mama flounces to the organ and starts playing the prelude too loud—“Rescue the Perishing.” I wonder if she’s trying to tell me something. From where I sit, it looks like all the Valentines are going to perish if things don’t change around here soon.

The only good thing I can say about Mama’s gentleman friend coming to lunch is that he can’t stay long. Philestine Barber’s funeral is this afternoon at two, and Mama has to provide the music.

The big surprise at lunch is not Thomas Whitenton (more about him later), but Lovie and Uncle Charlie. He’s not here; she is.

Now what? Mama’s never had a Sunday lunch without inviting Uncle Charlie. Did he stay away because she didn’t invite him or because of Mr. Whitenton?

And Lovie was supposed to be bidding farewell to Rocky instead of sitting at Mama’s dining room table eating roast beef, fried okra, and corn on the cob. The first chance I get, I drag her into Mama’s bathroom to ask what happened.

“Nothing,” is her answer.

The way she’s snapping my head off I can guess what that means.

“You mean absolutely nothing, Lovie, or just not what you wanted to happen?”

“Oh, quit pussyfooting around. Rocky didn’t find the holy grail. He didn’t even look at the map.” She applies a fresh coat of red to her lips in spite of the fact we haven’t had dessert and Mama’s serving apple pie à la mode, which will smear her lipstick. “I must be losing my touch.”

“You didn’t let him know how miffed you are, did you?”

“What if I did?”

“He might not come back.”

“Maybe I don’t want him to.”

I can tell by Lovie’s face she’s bluffing. I just hope Rocky didn’t leave feeling that she doesn’t want him to come back.

Maybe I ought to call him and smooth things over. Since I have Lovie’s best interests at heart, I don’t see how you could call it meddling.

“What about you? Did Champ kiss you?”

“Sort of, but Jack spoiled it.”

“What does that mean?”

I’m fixing to tell when Mama knocks and calls through the door, “The pie’s hot and it’s rude to tell secrets I can’t hear.”

We hustle back to the table and listen to Thomas calling Mama “Miss Ruby” and bragging on her cooking, a surefire way to win most women. What he doesn’t know is that Mama is not like most women. If he wants to win the heart of Ruby Nell Valentine he’s going to have to brag on something besides her cooking. Her hair, for instance, which she has had me dye every color in the rainbow. Or her art. Mama prides herself on her bohemian tastes.

When she went with me to a hair show in New York two summers ago, she bought a huge poster of a nude by Modigliani at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The poster now lords over the entire back wall of the dining room. It caused quite a stir when she first brought it home, but in spite of Fayrene’s advice to drape a cloth over it when the preacher comes to visit, Mama held firm.

“My house is my throne,” she said, “and I refuse to abdicate.”

I don’t intend to let Thomas in on Mama’s little vanities. If he flounders around long enough, she’ll throw him back for something better.

For one thing, his nose is too long. For another, his purple shirt makes his face look mottled and doesn’t match a thing he’s wearing. Even worse, he snorts.

This is good pie, snort, snort. What are you doing this afternoon, Miss Ruby, snort?

The only good thing I can say about him is that he has the good sense to leave right after dessert so Mama won’t be late for poor old Philistine’s funeral.

When I get her alone in the kitchen (except for Lovie, of course), I know better than to come right out and ask whether she invited Uncle Charlie. Back Mama into a corner and she grabs a pole and vaults through the ceiling.

“Mama, can you and Uncle Charlie handle everything at the funeral?”

“I’m fine.” While I’m covering the pie, she slaps a dish cloth over her shoulder and marches toward the table for the dirty dishes. “If you want to know what Charlie thinks, you’ll have to ask him yourself.”

“Daddy’s fine without us. I already checked.”

“Good, Lovie,” I say. “I need your help this afternoon.” I dither over the pie. “Uncle Charlie loves your apple pie, Mama. Why don’t I cut a slice and send it to the funeral home?” Mama acts like she doesn’t hear me. “Mama? I said—”

“I heard what you said. If Charlie wants pie, he can come and get it.”

I roll my eyes at Lovie, but she just shakes her head. She doesn’t worry over Mama and Uncle Charlie the way I do. Or maybe she worries, but covers it so well nobody can tell. A real art, if you ask me.