Still Life in Brunswick Stew (9 page)

“I can’t be late for dinner, Cherry,” said Leah, fanning herself with a folded church bulletin. We had the windows cranked down, but it was still hotter than blue blazes in the Datsun. “Momma is probably already wondering where I am.”

“I’ve got to be back for dinner, too. Don’t you worry.” I flashed Leah a quick smile as we sped down the country road. Although in the Datsun, sped is a bit of a misnomer. More like jerked forward with the occasional wheeze and shimmy.

“How do you talk me into these activities? I’m going to die from heat stroke in this truck.”

“Take your jacket off. It’s not my fault you dress like an Eskimo in July.” I turned past the Viper onto a short street at the edge of Sidewinder. “We’re visiting the grieving. A perfectly acceptable activity for a Sunday morning.”

“If I had known, I would have brought a casserole.”

“I picked up donuts.” I jerked the gearshift into park. “That’s plenty gracious enough for Griffin Ward.”

I’d rather bring Griffin some Chinese water torture after the misery he put Eloise through, but an unexpected visit required an air of respectability. Which is why I brought Leah and a box of donuts. Generic donuts. I wasn’t going to waste Krispy Kreme dollars.

“I should warn you. Griffin’s been popping steroids since high school wrestling and they’ve done a number on his etiquette skills,” I said. “Not to mention his anger management skills.”

“What have you gotten me into?”

We examined the small white ranch with black shutters Griffin rented. The ceramic pot filled with dying petunias was Eloise’s touch. “Looks like nobody is home,” said Leah.

“Let’s check anyway.” I hopped out of the truck. “Come on.”

Leah followed me up the cracked sidewalk, holding the white donut box before her. The slap of my flip-flops and the tip-tap of Leah’s sexy heels broke the stillness. I hammered on the door before I lost my nerve. A long minute passed. I tried the knob, found it unlocked, and poked my head in.

“Griffin?” I called and stepped into his living room. “We’re melting out here. Mind if we come in?”

“Cherry, we can’t just walk in.” Leah tugged on my dress from the porch.

“His door is unlocked. Maybe he’s in the back.” Gym equipment, a large screen TV, and a collapsing pastel floral couch packed the small living room. “We’re bringing you donuts and our condolences, Griffin,” I hollered.

A squeal of tires caused Leah and I to spin around and peek out the door. An older, red Pontiac Grand Prix bumped up the drive and parked next to my Datsun.

“What the hell do you want?” Griffin popped out of his vehicle. He wiped a towel across his bare chest, tossed it in the car, and slammed the door. He strode up the walk clad in a pair of purple training shorts, socks, and gym shoes. Without a shirt or doo-rag, his shiny head matched the glow of his shaved, bulbous chest.

“Glad to see you aren’t sick from food poisoning.” I almost asked him about his topless condition, but thought better. “I’m sorry about Eloise. I was with her when it happened.”

He pushed past us and walked through the living room. Circumnavigating a bench press, Leah and I followed into the kitchen. With a polite frown, Leah turned a circle with the donuts. All available counter space in the kitchen was covered in vegetables, fruits, and large plastic containers. The kitchen table held plastic bottles, an industrial blender, and a large juicer.

“Where should I put your donuts?” she asked Griffin.

“I don’t eat that shit,” he said. “Toss it or take it with you.”

“Okay,” she pulled the word out slowly and began edging toward the doorway.

I wandered to the long counter and picked up a bunch of limp celery. “You’re a health food nut, huh?”

“I don’t eat the crap you do, if that’s what you mean.” He tried to cross his bulging arms over his bulky chest, gave up, and placed his hands on his hips. “My body is a temple, and I’m not going to fill it with a lot of shit. Like those donuts.”

“That’s funny. To me, most health food tastes like sh—”

“We’re so sorry about Eloise,” said Leah quickly. “You must be heartbroken. Is there anything we can do? Would you like a visit from my pastor?”

He shot Leah a look of disgust. “How’s that going to help?”

I examined a giant jar of protein powder and moved to the next plastic jug. Sniffing the green-black sludge, I wrinkled my nose and backed away. “What is this? Compost?”

“Get out of there.” Griffin swept the jug off the counter. “You’re going to contaminate it. I’ve got to finish up this batch for the Green Gourmet.”

“You’re selling this stuff to the health food store? People buy this gunk?”

“Hell, yeah. At least people who are interested in being healthy, unlike you and Eloise. I tried to tell her the food y’all eat would kill her and she wouldn’t listen to me. I could have saved her life if she had switched over to my diet.”

“I’m so sorry, Griffin,” said Leah.

“Yeah, sorry does nothing for me.” He thumped the jug onto the counter. “It’s too late for sorry. I finally convinced her to try a new blend and look what happened. I might have cured her of her Crohn’s.”

“You really think you would have cured her?”

“Obviously. Look at me. I’m never sick. The picture of health.” He spun in a slow circle with upraised arms, allowing us to admire his shiny, perfect temple. Which reminded me of a Rubik’s cube what with his short stature. “Eloise should have listened to me.”

“Maybe she didn’t like the taste,” I offered. “She told me veggies bothered her stomach. And that’s why she smoked all the time. The nicotine actually made her feel better.”

I left Leah at New Order Fellowship and tried to put Griffin out of my mind on the trip to my Grandpa’s farm for the obligatory Sunday dinner. With my brain full of Genuine Juice and muscle-bound threats, I cranked the Datsun’s wheel at the corner of the farm lane and almost forgot myself.

A massive, white billy goat popped out of the ditch. I pounded the brakes, avoiding slamming my truck into the cud-chewing hellion by a matter of inches. Tater the goat, more favored by my Grandpa than his own grandchildren, had a dysfunctional relationship with me and the Datsun. In particular, a sick love of playing chicken with my truck. Tater needed serious therapy. Which eventually might involve a close and personal encounter with tire tread.

My motor revved and Tater pawed the dirt. The bed of my truck still hung past the ditch and stuck into the road. The goat lowered his horns. His amber eyes gleamed. The tip of his beard dragged in the dirt and gravel while he waited for me to make my move. I revved. Tater pawed. I inched forward. He slammed his thick skull into my grill.

“Dammit, Tater!” I jammed the gearshift into park and hopped out of the truck.

Tater pranced around me, celebrating his victory.

“I can’t just leave my truck here.”

The neighbor’s horses drifted to the fence adjoining our lane to watch the show. Tater bleated, and they bobbed their heads in agreement. I shook my fist and slipped into the Datsun while Tater danced along the fence line, trying to agitate the horses. I floored the little truck. Tater hung a sharp left from the fence and galloped alongside me, clearly enjoying the race. I made it to the split in the lane before Tater careened to the left, taunting me into T-boning him. I pumped the brakes, body slammed the steering wheel, and thrust the gear into park.

Hugging my sore stomach, I curled up into a fetal position on the bench of my truck. I could hear Tater butting the truck door, waiting for me to clamber out and yell at him, but for some reason, I just didn’t have it in me. The thought of walking up the lane in the blasting heat with Tater snuffling my armpits and getting his slobbering cud all over my dress made me tired. A scrabbling sound accompanied Tater’s head poking through my open window. He bleated and cocked his head, wondering what in the hell was wrong with me.

“I don’t know,” I muttered. “Go away.”

I heard the scuttle of tires plowing through loose gravel and flattened on the seat, hoping the driver would go around me and follow the lane to park at the house. It wouldn’t be the first time I had abandoned my truck in the middle of the farm drive, thanks to Tater. Hopefully, my siblings or Uncle Will drove the vehicle to the house for Sunday dinner. Chances were they wouldn’t give the Datsun much thought.

Unfortunately, the vehicle slowed and stopped behind my truck. I heard the creak of a door and the shuffle of steps in the dirt. I gusted a long held sigh and flipped over on my back. A moment later, Luke peered through my window.

“Taking a nap?”

I shot up in my seat. “No. I was waiting for Tater to give up and leave.”

“He’s gone.” Luke reached through the window and popped the door handle. “Took off when I pulled up.”

“Figures,” I said, sliding over as Luke climbed into the cab. “He only does this to me.”

“I wonder why?” Luke drew an arm along the back of the seat. “Maybe he’s got a thing for you.”

A half-dimple popped in his cheek.

I averted my eyes.

“Yeah, well I’ve got a thing for him if he keeps ramming my truck.” I scowled. “It’s called a shotgun.”

Luke laughed. “You want to tell me the real reason why you’re lying in your truck?”

“Not really.”

His long fingers played in my hair, rubbing the thin, blonde filament between his thumb and forefinger. I shifted in my seat to face him but couldn’t bring my gaze up to watch his dimple disappear.

I should tell him. Get it over with. Be honest. Do the right thing.

But it was just a kiss. One I ended before it went too far, and I didn’t want to see Luke and Todd get into a fight.

I looked up. Luke watched me with expectant eyes. Sweat beaded his forehead and his t-shirt was damp at the collar and under his arms. Even with the windows rolled down, the air in the truck was stifling, and I wondered how I could stand it a few minutes ago. The scent of Luke’s sweat and maleness overpowered my senses. I needed to get out.

“It’s hot in here,” I said. “Let’s go inside and cool off.”

“What’s wrong?” He drew his arms in, folding them, and gave me the look that said, “What drama am I going to have to deal with now?”

That’s the kind of look that doesn’t set well with women. Particularly when we know there’s something wrong but aren’t too sure how to put it into words or ideas that would make sense to a person of the XY chromosome. Because there’s something about that XY combination that makes their listening skills turn off when an XX girl says, “I feel like...” That combination of words makes XY’s eyes glaze over or roll back in their heads, and we’re left just as frustrated as we were when they asked “What’s wrong?”