Yankee Doodle Dixie (8 page)

“Oh and one more very important rule. We have quite a few celebrities who come in an out of this station. There’s no room for star fu—uh, stargazing. I don’t want my staff hounding the stars.”

“I understand. I’m not like that anyway.”

“It’s a real no-no, Leelee. I don’t run that kind of ship.”

“No worries at all, Edward.”

“So when can you start? Can you be here at eight thirty Monday morning?”

I’m so not ready for this. How in the world will I ever get the girls dressed, fed, and ready for school, and be in Midtown by eight thirty? But it’s not like I have a choice—I have to have a job. And I’m certainly fortunate to have found one so quickly.

“So you’ll start Monday?”

“Yes. Of course I’ll start Monday. That’s no problem at all!” Lie number three, or four—I can’t keep track—comes out easily and with high-pitched enthusiasm. What the heck? That’s only five days from now. Of
course
I can have my rental house completely unpacked, Sarah and Issie enrolled in school, and my new life completely figured out in that amount of time.

“Before you head up to Janice, I’ll introduce you to Kyle. He’s my promotion director.”

“Okay, sure. I’d like to meet him.”

Once again I trail behind Edward Maxell on the way to Kyle’s office. The man walks so fast it’s hard to catch up. I decide not to even try. Kyle is sweet, probably about my age, not much to look at but he’s a frosty bottle of Coke compared to the program director. That Edward is an odd bird. Oh
boy
is he an odd bird. And that might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about him.

Chapter Four

Moving day arrives, bright and early on a Saturday morning, and it’s mixed with all kinds of emotions. It makes me happy to think that I’ll be settled again in a home that’s all mine. A home where the girls don’t have to whisper. A home where there’s no wicked witch waiting on the other side of a flimsy door ready to bite their heads off for raising their voices. But, I’m moving into a bedroom all alone. No husband with whom to share my bed, to reach over and pull me close, stroke my hair, share our love. I haven’t been sleeping alone for nine years. And even during those last months in Vermont, I may have been alone, but Peter was always close by in the kitchen, not to mention in my thoughts.

As I’m dressing for the day, I’m struck by the fact that I’ve been home for five days now and haven’t heard a word from Peter. Something is not right. It’s not like him to ignore my phone call … phone calls, really. At the very least he’d want to tell me he’s glad that Sarah, Issie, and I made it back safely. It doesn’t make sense.

Before I know it I’ve let my mind run away with me, conjuring up all kinds of neurotic scenarios. I’m picturing him stranded on the backside of a black diamond with a broken leg, screaming for someone to rescue him. That boy can ski anywhere, and he ventures into uncharted areas where he has no business. Maybe he sped too fast over a patch of black ice—I was always telling him to slow down. That little truck of his doesn’t have enough weight in the back to warrant speeding down a bunny slope much less a mountain. Oh gosh, suppose he hit a moose?

If he’s in the hospital somewhere he’ll wonder why in the world I haven’t checked on him. What’s the matter with me? Punching in his number, I dial it so quickly that the line doesn’t connect, causing me to have to hang up and start over. My fingers are practically shaking as I dial again. After four rings, there’s still no answer. And then … voice mail.
What?
He should be answering his phone. It’s—I glance at my watch—7:30
A.M.
in Vermont. Uh-oh, that’s way too early to call a chef who works nights.

Even still, I leave a message trying hard not to sound desperate. “Hey, it’s me,” I say, my voice happy and shrill. “Gosh. I, I’m just checking on you. The girls and I are here. We made it safe and sound. Kissie’s helping me to move into a new house this morning. It’s nice and spacious with
plenty of room for guests
. Hey”—I lower my tone—“will you please call me? I want to know you’re all right. You know how my head gets going, worrying about things that might not be true. I want to make sure Helga hasn’t hijacked you and forced you to become her boy toy. Now that’s an image I’m sure you’d rather not have planted in your brain,” I say, with a giggle. “Seriously, call me. I can’t wait to talk to you.”

After hanging up the phone I analyze every word I said. It sounded motherly. Too desperate. He’ll think the joke about Helga was stupid. On the other hand, my lightheartedness might convince him to dial my number. Oh lord, Peter. Please just call me back.

*   *   *

Kissie and I drop off Sarah and Issie at Virgy’s so we can be at the new rental house by seven, or at least soon thereafter. There’s a whole lot of cleaning to be done before we meet the movers who are due to arrive around ten.

After kissing the girls good-bye and shutting Virgy’s antique mahogany front door, I notice Kissie in the passenger seat as I walk back to the car. No matter what I say to try and convince her to stop wearing her white uniform, she won’t do it. I tell her all the time that it’s old-fashioned and completely unnecessary and that I want her to be comfortable when she’s at my house but it doesn’t do any good. She insists on wearing a white dress with three-quarter-length sleeves and a puckered waistband in the back that she’s spent time ironing the night before. Her hose are wrinkled around the ankles, and she wears white, lace-up orthopedic shoes, which are bulging over the outsides of the soles, just as they always have been. You can’t cook like she does and not keep on an extra few pounds—and heaven help anyone who mentions dieting. There aren’t enough
hmm, hmm, hmm
s in the world to express how Kissie feels about restrictive eating. When she bends over too far, her white girdle shows. It extends way down on her thighs, which can’t help but bubble out around it. It’s the kind of girdle with snaps to hold up her stockings. I bought her a pair of tennis shoes for her birthday three years ago and although she was ecstatic when she opened them, she won’t dare put them on unless she’s in her own home.

For the last sixteen years, she’s been out at her mailbox waiting on the postman the exact day her Social Security check is due to arrive. I try to pay her when she’s helping me but she flat refuses to take my money. “We are family, Leelee,” she tells me. “I ain’t takin’ no money to help you move, or to take care of your little girls. You ain’t got no mama; no daddy, neither. Who else is gonna help you? Alice and them have their own hands full. They’ve got their own children. They can help you sometimes, but ole Kissie is here for you all the time.”

That leaves me no choice but to go out and buy her groceries. Or sneak and pay her light bill. Or ask to take her car when we go out and fill it up when she’s buying her toiletries in Walgreens. The truth is, if she charged for it, her loyalty and support would bankrupt me and there’s no currency besides love to repay all that she’s done.

Kissie’s not spent much time in Germantown and as we drive down Poplar Avenue she’s taking in the sights. Every once in a while she’ll make a comment. “I catered a party one time down that street there,” or “that’s the nursery where your daddy bought that dogwood tree that stayed in our front yard on East Chickasaw Parkway.” I love to take her driving, it reminds me of when I was a little girl and Daddy would take us all out for a Sunday drive, which always included a trip to our family plot at the cemetery. He and Mama would be in the front seat and Grandmama, Kissie, and I would be in the back. Looking back on it now, it makes me wonder when Kissie ever got a weekend off.

When we pull up in the driveway on Glendale Cove, Kissie oohs and ahhs. That’s until she gets inside. My new rental house is nice but it’s certainly not clean. At the last second before leaving her house, Kissie remembered her Hoover. That’s after we had already put her broom, mop, toilet wand, and all kinds of cleaning supplies in my car. If it weren’t for Kissie, I’d have no idea how to cook, clean, or remove any sort of stain out of a blouse. She’s the one who taught me that hot water sets a stain—a fact that got me through college at Ole Miss and then through two messy toddlers.

With a deadline fast approaching, we get right to work—starting first with the foyer, and then moving deeper into the home. After we clean the bathrooms, I head on in to the kitchen to start lining the cabinets with shelf paper. Kissie’s in the front living room vacuuming when she spots the big eighteen-wheeler out the front window. “Movin’ van is here, baby,” she hollers, after turning off the motor.

“
Just in the nick of time,” I say, under my breath, dashing out the front door to meet the two men in the driveway. I direct the movers while Kissie finishes lining the kitchen cabinets. “You need to get your kitchen done first,” she says. “Your little girls need three meals a day.” Each time she gets another box marked “Kitchen” Kissie has it unpacked in minutes.

Once the movers finally set down the last piece of furniture, right at four hours later, I write them out a check and shut the door. Kissie and I collapse on two of the wooden chairs at my breakfast room table.

“How ’bout a Coke?” I ask her, knowing that the first thing she stocked in the fridge was two six-packs of the little green-bottled Cokes. “Let’s rest a second before we make lunch.”

“That sounds delicious, baby.” She slightly pushes her chair away from the table.

I clutch her arm. “I’ll get it. Don’t you move a muscle.” I’m halfway to the fridge when I remember bottles have caps. “Oops, we don’t have an opener.”

“Oh yes we do. I unpacked it already.” She points behind her. No one in the entire world can set up a kitchen like Kristine King. She’s got an innate method of organizing each kitchen tool in relation to the stove, the sink, or the fridge. “Church key in that drawer right there beside the box. Second one down.” She shortens “icebox” to “box.” After finding it right where she said it would be, I reach into the fridge and take out two ice-cold beverages. I set one down on the table in front of her. “Here you go.”

“Thank you. Sometime there ain’t nothin’ any finer than this right here.” She holds up the bottle and takes a long swig. “Ahhhh. I thank the Lawd every day He lets me have another.”

“The only problem with these is eight ounces isn’t always enough. I’ll get you one more.”

“No, baby. I can’t have but one. My sugar’s been actin’ up
any
way.”

“I thought it was better.”

“One day it is. Next day it ain’t. Dr. Jones says I need to lay off my sweets.” Kissie loves pies, cakes, candy, and especially Hershey’s Kisses. She says she loves the way they melt on her tongue.

I close my eyes and sigh; the last thing I want to hear is that anything is awry with her.

“Kissie is okay—”

A loud knock on the door interrupts her sentence.

“Who in the world?”

“Maybe the movers forgot somethin’,” she says.

I shrug my shoulders. “Finish your Coke, I’ll be right back.”

When I open the front door there’s a man with dark brown hair beaming at me. He’s wearing a black and turquoise windbreaker with “Tupperware,” of all things, written across his right breast. One hand is shoved in the pocket of his khaki pants and the other is holding some sort of orange-colored cleaning product. He’s not bad looking or anything but his hairdo makes me think he’s in the military. It’s a little longer on the top and from what I can tell it seems to be buzzed in the back. “Hi,” I say hesitantly.

“Hi! I’m, Wiley. I live in the house next door.” He takes his left hand out of his pocket and switches hands with the cleaning product before reaching out his right hand to shake mine.

“I’m Leelee Satterfield. Nice to meet you.” I respond as pleasantly as possible when you’re covered in dust and have been cleaning and moving all day long.

“And this is Luke.” He points to the dog at his side. Luke’s not on a leash but he doesn’t move from his perch.

“Hi Luke,” I say, and bend down to pat his head. The pooch looks up at me with appreciation. “What kind is he? A Lab?”

“Half Lab. Half something else, maybe.” The man leans in closer, lowers his voice and speaks out of the side of his mouth. “I got him at the pound. Had a feeling he might be put to sleep.”

“He’s so sweet.” I scratch the dog under his chin and down his back. “We never would want you put to sleep, Luke, never.”

“Watch what you say. He’s pwetty smart.”

“Oh. Gosh. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I named him after Luke Skywalker.” Upon hearing his name, Luke peers over at his master. “I see you’re moving in.” He pokes his head in my door and glances around at the living room on the left and the dining room on the right side of the foyer. “Would you like some help?”

“Oh no. You’re nice to ask but you don’t have to do that.”

“I insist. Let me just go put ole Lukey boy up and I’ll be back. Second thought, can he stay in your backyard? That way I can look out on him.”

“Actually … Wiley,” I say, trying to politely come up with an excuse as to why all I want is some peace and quiet.

“It’s not Wiley, it’s
W
iley.”

I tilt my head.

“With an
aar
.”

“Oh my gosh! Excuse me.
Riley.
” How embarrassing. I feel just awful. He’s obviously got a speech impediment. Now I
have
to invite him in. “You can let Luke out through the patio door in the den, if you want.”

“Oh no he cain’t!” Kissie hollers from the kitchen. “I just finished vacuumin’ those carpets. I don’t want no big dawg trackin’ mud through this house.”

“Oh he won’t bwing in mud.” Riley puts his hand aside his mouth, and calls from the front door, leaning in toward the foyer, “It’s not wet outside.”

My coy smile lets Riley know that I’m humoring Kissie and I ask him to please take Luke around back. Within a minute flat, Riley’s knocking on the back patio door. Kissie’s closest so she lets him in.

“Kissie, I’d like for you to meet my next-door neighbor, Wiley … I … I mean
Riley
.”
Gosh, Leelee, what’s the matter with you?
“Rrriley, this is Ki- Kri-Kiiissie.” At this point I’m so flustered I can’t get anybody’s name right.