The Sweet Potato Queens' First Big-Ass Novel (17 page)

W
ho would have thought to deep-fry a pickle?” I said, dangling the delectable appetizer above my lips. “It's sheer genius.”

“I'm a gumbo gal myself,” Mary Bennett said, dipping her spoon to get the last bite of the fragrant roux. “What's this place called again?”

“Hal and Mal's. Mal is the one who organized the parade, and his brother Hal is the king of all soups,” I said in between bites. “Used to be a merchant's warehouse in the fifties.” I swept my arm around the restaurant with its exposed ceilings and brick walls. “Later on, they'll have live music for some dancing.”

“I can barely walk, much less dance,” Tammy said, looking over the remains of her supper, which included a catfish po'-boy, red beans and rice, and a fat wedge of Mississippi Mud cheesecake.

“You would
not
believe what I saw in the men's bathroom,” Gerald said as he slid into the red vinyl booth we all shared.

“There ain't much I haven't seen in that department,” Mary Bennett said out of habit.

“I was talking about the
décor,
” Gerald said coldly. “It's an Elvis-themed bathroom, and the urinals have motorcycle handles.”

Our waitress approached the booth. “Are you the world-famous Sweet Potato Queens?”

“Yep,” I said. “Word sure gets around fast.”

“The gentleman at the bar would like to buy your table a round of beers,” said the waitress.

Sean, who was seated on a stool, lifted a mug.

“That had better be light beer, fella,” I hollered to him. “Why don't you come over here and join us?”

He shook his head. “Gotta get on home—my queen is holding supper for me. Just as predicted, y'all were the hit of the parade.”

“Thanks for the good word and the beer,” I said, blowing him a kiss.

“Cold beer, fried pickles, and Elvis memorabilia,” Patsy said. “You couldn't ask for more in a restaurant. Maybe Hal and Mal's should be the o-fficial Sweet Potato Queens hangout. How does that sound to you, Boss Queen?”

“Marvelous,” I said, sopping the last fried pickle with Come-Back sauce. “We've been so busy stuffing our faces, we haven't had a chance to catch up. What's new?”

“Jack and I have a new addition,” Patsy said. She'd lived in Atlanta for so long she was starting to sound like a native.

“Again?” Mary Bennett's eyebrows jumped. “Y'all are going at it like a couple of rabbits.”

“Not that kind of addition. You guys would have known about that,” Patsy said with a giggle. “We added a bedroom and a bath to the house—so we'll have more room for those
other
additions.”

We made the proper noises over Patsy's new addition and the prospect of those Other ones, but after that, everyone got quiet.

“Anything else? Anyone?” I said.

“Well, not to toot my own kazoo,” Mary Bennett said, “but there's been talk of me starring in a made-for-TV movie. I've been looking at scripts.”

“Fantastic,” I said, and the others chimed in, except for Gerald. There was much chatter about plot and possible co-stars, but after the topic had been exhausted, the table was silent again.

“Does that cover everything?” I said. The room seemed thick with conversational elephants that no one was mentioning.

“Kitchie Koo has finally learned to make umps outside,” Gerald said, staring into his napkin. “I'm relieved. My apartment's been a minefield.”

The Queens all clapped enthusiastically over Kitchie's new-and-improved bowel control, except for Mary Bennett, who was pushing crumbs around her plate.

“Anything else?” I looked at Mary Bennett, hoping she might be in an air-clearing mood.

“I gave you a made-for-TV movie,” Mary Bennett said, defensively. “What more do you want?”

“All right, then,” I said, crumpling my napkin. “I have a few things to say.”

I launched into a long monologue about my frustrations with my job, and all the doubts and fears I had about my writing. Finally, I shared with them my new vow to take some risks—to put myself out there and see what happened.

“My very first one was appearing in the parade by myself,” I said. “I was scared shitless, but the parade is only gonna be once a year and I was determined I was NOT going to miss it just because y'all weaseled out on me. I would have spent the whole year pissed off at y'all for costing me my parade, so I just by God HAD my parade, and it felt good. I'm very proud of myself. Of course, it just made it perfect when y'all DID show up—but I learned I can make my own cake and eat the sumbitch, too!”

When I finished, no one said much of anything.

“I didn't mean to bend your ears like that,” I said, self-consciously. “I just—”

“No,” Mary Bennett said, shaking her head. “We needed to hear it. Who knew you had so much angst churning inside of you? Bravo for speaking up!”

“Yeah, Jill,” Patsy chimed in. “I think we've sorta monopolized the whining over the years. I'm glad you shared your troubles.” She twisted her hands in her lap. “By the way, you were right on the money. I
was
holding back. I'm actually a little worried about Jack. It was my birthday last week, and he gave me a blender—and a few nights recently he's come in real late and slept in that new bedroom.”

Every mouth at the table plopped open.

“It's a bad sign, isn't it?” Patsy said. “I worry that he's falling out of love with me.”

“It's a sign that he's a complete igmo,” Mary Bennett said. “Men who give appliances to women as gifts should be shot, or at the very least maimed.”

The other Queens rang in, agreeing that giving a blender for a birthday was a grave husbandly infraction, on a scale equal to but not greater than answering in the affirmative when asked, “Do I look fat in these blue jeans?” We all just kinda let that sleeping-in-the-guest-room thing sorta lie there on its own.

“Thanks for spilling, Patsy,” I said, rubbing her shoulder. “That was courageous of you.”

“Well, I guess everybody here knows that me and what's-his-name broke up,” Mary Bennett said.

“Brian,” Gerald said.

“Right,” Mary Bennett said. “Unfortunately,
some
people think I'm callous because I have made a healthy choice to move on with my life instead of clinging desperately to my past.”

Gerald threw down his napkin. “What's so healthy about treating people as if they were disposable?”

Tammy and Patsy swapped puzzled looks. They had no clue about what was going on.

“Not disposable, but certainly
replaceable,
” Mary Bennett said in clipped tones. “Or do you think it's healthier to sulk around acting miserable, dragging everyone down with you?”

“I am sorry if I haven't felt like being your happy little side-kick lately,” Gerald said sarcastically.

“I am just saying that this sad-sack act is a waste of fuckin' time. If you're so moon-pied over William, do something! Quit acting lower than a snake in a tire track. Swallow your pride and patch things up, for godsake. Give the boy a call.”

“I can't call him,” Gerald said tersely.

“I'd like to know why the hell not? False pride won't get you anywhere,” Mary Bennett said.

Gerald sat motionless. His eyes were staring straight ahead, but they didn't seem to be registering anything around him.

Gerald faced Mary Bennett. “I can't call William because…”

“Go on,” Mary Bennett said. “Spit it out! You'll feel better.”

“Because William is dead!” he shouted. “There! Are you satisfied?”

Mary Bennett was the first to break our stunned silence. “DEAD?! Oh my God, hunny—I'm so sorry, Gerald. I didn't know. Please forgive me.” She reached across the table to stroke his arm.

Gerald jerked away from her. “Don't touch me!” Then he gulped and swallowed a sob, and looked up at us with tortured eyes.

“No one should touch me,” he said in a barely audible voice. “William had AIDS, and it's entirely possible I have it too.” Gerald tore out of the restaurant, leaving a table full of very confused and very, very sad Queens.

I
'll just come out and ask it,” I said to the gorgeous specimen of manhood sitting across from me, who was at that moment slicing into a pink slab of prime rib. “Do you have a criminal record?”

The specimen (whose name was Ross) chuckled, showing off a set of pristine white choppers that would make an orthodontist swoon.

“I must confess,” he said. “Yesterday, I got a ticket for double-parking.”

“Check!” I said, pretending to summon the waiter.

He rested his well-chiseled chin in the palm of his hand and gazed at me through the flickering candlelight. “Are you the suspicious type?” he asked.

“It's just become a standard courtship question ever since I went out with a guy who got arrested for fraud—right in the middle of his shrimp scampi. Stuck me with the bill.”

“How did you meet him?”

“One of the Queens saw his personal ad that said his hobby was ‘creative writing,' so she thought we were made for each other and answered the guy ON MY BEHALF, but without benefit of anything like my PERMISSION. Set up a date with him and sent me to meet him—with me thinking he was some long-lost good buddy of hers. Turned out his passion for ‘creative writing' didn't extend much past ‘hot checks.'”

“So I guess you don't put much stock in the personals, huh?”

I laughed, barely concealing an underlying snort.

“I guess the answer is no,” he said, leaning forward to pour more wine in my glass.

“I've heard so many horror stories about the personals I learned to decode the ads. For instance, men who say they're seeking ‘confidential relationships' are always married with six kids. ‘Open-minded' is a code word for ‘into trick-fucking.' ‘Affectionate' means they'll try to feel you up in the movie line, and guys who say they're ‘teddy bears' need two seats on an airplane. I told Tammy she could read 'em if she wanted to but if she ever tried to fix ME up with one of 'em again, she might not live to tell the tale.”

“Good,” he said. “It sounds kind of dangerous. No telling what kind of shady characters you might encounter. I don't know why a stunning woman like you would have to meet men that way. I'd think you'd be fighting the guys off with an ax handle.”

“Aren't you a flatterer?” I rose from the table. “Would you excuse me? I need to powder my nose.”

“Don't be gone too long. I'll miss you too much,” he said, looking at me in such a winsome way, my heart flopped around like a bass in an empty cooler.

The ladies' room was lushly decorated with gold fixtures and a brocade fainting couch. It smelled slightly of expensive perfume.

“Wo-o-o-o GIRL, we could get used to this,” I said to my flushed face in the mirror. Then I peeked under the stalls to see if I saw any feet. The coast was clear. I had the joint to myself.

“Yip-yip-yip-yip-YA-HOO!” I half-sang, half-shouted, doing a bugaloo across the bathroom tiles. This was my third date with Ross, and each time we'd gone out, I had to steal away to the ladies' room and kick up my heels with absolute glee.

I also added one more item to my mental list of why Ross was the perfect man for me. He was genuinely interested in whatever I was yakking about, and best of all, he howled at my jokes.

I combed my bangs with my fingers as I hummed “You Make Me Feel Like a Natural Woman,” a choice that reflected how elated I was to be with Ross. For the last few years, the theme song of my dates had been “Love Stinks.”

It was positively head-spinning how quickly my feelings for Ross had grown. I was like a sports car that had gone from zero to sixty in three dates. Was it possible that he was actually The One? Was I finished kissing every slimy, fly-eating amphibian in the Southeast? Had I finally found my prince?

I returned to the table, and Ross gaped at me as if I were Christie Brinkley in a string bikini.

“She walks in beauty like the night,” he said in a low, scintillating baritone.

I met his gaze, and for a few silent moments, we devoured each other with our eyes. My cheeks were so hot I felt as if a brush fire were blazing under my skin.

He leaned across the table and caught my hand. “What do you say we have dessert at my place?”

Three days later, I was still there, kissing him passionately in the foyer of his condominium. My lips were slightly swollen, my chin was raw from razor burn, and my hair was a bird's nest, but I was one happy girl.

“Why don't you call in sick?” he asked, coming up for a gulp of air.

“I can't,” I said, working my fingers through my tangled hair. “I work for myself. Besides, I already canceled yesterday's clients. If I keep that up I'll be out of business soon.”

“To hell with 'em,” he said, nibbling my ear. “One day you won't need them. I have plenty of money for both of us.”

Little sparks of excitement shot up and down my spine. Ross was not a man who shied away from talks about commitment. In fact, he'd been we-we-ing for the past sixty hours. “
We
will have to go to Greece together.” “
We
should see the new Dustin Hoffman movie.” “
We
need to learn how to tango.”

But last night, he graduated from the “we” word to the “L” word. He'd laid it on me post-frolic just as we were drifting off to sleep.

Red lights flashed and sirens blared. A metallic voice warned, “Danger, Will Robinson.” Suddenly it all seemed too fast, too soon.

“I hope I'm not scaring you,” he'd whispered. “I just couldn't help myself.”

Of course you couldn't,
I thought, calming a bit, willing the sirens silent. How many times over the last couple of days had the “L” word swum around in my mind? I'd been feeling it too; I just didn't have the guts to say it.

“It's probably premature,” he said. “We've only known each other a week. But we've spent every waking hour together for two days and two nights. That must be at least the equivalent of nearly a month's worth of dates.”

I love the way this man thinks,
I mused to myself, sirens successfully muted.

“Call me if you have some time between clients,” he said as I reluctantly made my way to the door. “Call me when you have a lunch break. Or better yet, let's eat together. Hope you haven't made dinner plans.”

I laughed over his unbridled enthusiasm. “What about you? Don't you have things to do?”

“My hours are very flexible,” he said with a flick of his hand.

“Lucky you,” I said, giving him one last kiss. Ross was somewhat cagey about what he did for a living. “Businessman” was all I'd gotten out of him so far. Whatever business he conducted served him well, because he lived in a fancy condominium and drove a big-ass, silver Mercedes.

“I almost forgot,” I said with a grimace. “I have a lunch date with my friend Tammy today.”

“So cancel it.”

“I can't. It's been a while since we've gotten together.”

“How long?” he asked, his hand slipping into the waistband of my slacks.

I pulled away. If we started down that pleasurable path, I'd miss my first appointment.

“Maybe a week or so. I don't know.”

“That doesn't seem so very long.” He stuck his fingers in my belt loops and tugged me toward him. “I go months without seeing some of my friends.”

“That's why they say men and women are from different planets,” I said, wiggling out of his grasp.

“I think you and I are both from Venus, sugar.” He reached out for me, but I darted away.

“Gotta go.”

“You have a powerful effect on me,” he said with a sheepish smile.

The feeling is mutual,
I thought. It took superhuman restraint not to drag him back to his king-size bed by his hair and have my way with him.

“Where do you usually go for lunch?”

“A Chinese buffet place in the same shopping center as the Adonis Gym.”

“I'll miss you,” he said, touching my chin.

“Me, more.”

 

I slipped on a pair of sunglasses. “Wow! Is it bright in here or what?”

Tammy cast her gaze around the small restaurant. “What are you talking about? It's downright gloomy.”

I slipped the sunglasses down my nose. “I'm talking about the
glare
coming from that sparkling new piece of joo-ry on your arm.”

“Oh shit,” Tammy said, touching her diamond tennis bracelet. “I forgot I was wearing it.”

“Let me guess,” I said with a frown. “It ain't from Bob.”

Tammy sniffed. “This would cost Bob two months' salary.”

“Are you at it again?” I asked. After the very first St. Paddy's Day parade, Tammy had finally come clean to the Queens about her “secret” life. The diamond earrings were a gift from her lover, who just happened to be the owner of the TV station. All those long hours Tammy claimed to be working were spent with him. Instead of getting a “promotion,” Tammy was fired when his wife found out about their affair. It seemed she hadn't learned a thing since the disaster with Dr. Day.

After that debacle she'd vowed to be faithful to the clueless Bob, and for a time, she was. At least until, as a surprise for her, Bob hired a crew to remodel their sunroom and there turned out to be a too-attractive flooring installer in the bunch.

I'd pitched a fit when she told me she'd cheated again and, as usual, Tammy deflected the blame. “I was doing FINE, just going to work and then sitting my ass at home being Suzyfucking Homemaker and then goddamn BOB has to go and have TILE BOY over to the house all damn day for a month! What was I supposed to do?”

I pointed out to her that MANY people found it possible—easy, in fact—to resist the charms of all manner of persons to whom they were NOT MARRIED, Tile Boy included, but Tammy insisted that it was Bob's fault for placing her in temptation's way. Once again, though, Tammy's marriage was saved by the fact that the man du jour broke it off with her before Bob found out, and Tammy behaved herself for a time.

Recently, though, Bob had enrolled in night classes to become eligible for a principal's position. He often kept late hours at the university library, and obviously Tammy couldn't resist the opportunity to return to her old ways.

“You're not being very careful. What if you forgot to take it off before you got home?”

She unclasped the bracelet and tucked it into her purse. “I'd just tell him it was costume jewelry. He wouldn't know the difference. I might even keep that one. It's so pretty.”

After her liaisons ended, she always sold the “booty.” She'd amassed a modest nest egg from the proceeds.

“Have you ever thought about getting another job? And what about your singing?” I asked. Tammy was a leasing agent for temporary corporate apartments, and she met many of her “friends” through work.

“I'm not as resourceful as you, Jill, and as to the singing—well, I like to keep my evenings open.”

At the word “resourceful,” I had to laugh. I was working myself to a frazzle.

“Look!” Tammy said, pointing her chopsticks in the direction of the entrance. “Isn't that a
Diddy Wah Diddy
rack? I haven't seen this week's column yet.”

“Neither have I. The new one came out today.”

I scampered over to the rack and grabbed two copies.

“Page thirteen,” I said, handing one to Tammy. Even though I'd been writing for the
Diddy
a couple of years, I still got a little thrill from seeing my byline.

It used to be that when any of the Queens were reading my work, I'd practically sit in their laps, registering every eye movement and intake of breath.

Nowadays, I was much cooler about the whole thing. Tammy let out a small “heh,” and I didn't even flinch.

“
Ha! Ha!
” she laughed, holding her middle.

“What was that about?” I demanded. “Was it the bit about the fruit cake?”

“No,” Tammy said. “I was reading the comic
next
to your column.”

“Oh,” I said with a pout.

“Just kidding,” Tammy said. “It was great. I swear, you get funnier all the time. You should try to sell your columns to more papers.”

I took a gulp of iced tea so sweet it made my teeth hurt. “Syndication takes too much time. My personal trainer business is growing so fast I can barely keep up with it. I'm working day and night.”

“I don't know why you're killing yourself,” Tammy said. “You should use some of your windfall to take a vacation. Maybe a luxury cruise or something.”

“I need to save it for my retirement,” I said. Recently, I'd inherited a hundred and fifty thousand dollars from my granddaddy. It was more money than I'd ever imagined having. “I'm in a tizzy trying to figure out what to do with it. I mailed off for an investment kit nearly a month ago and still haven't received any information.”