Etta Mae's Worst Bad-Luck Day Read online

  Skip grinned. “Yeah, well.”

  Granny leaned over and craned her neck to look in the car. “Who’s that ole fool? Looks half dead to me.”

  “Now, Granny, that’s one of my patients, so leave him alone. He’s resting.” Mr. Howard had his head back on the car seat, taking a little nap.

  “Do I know him?”

  “I don’t think so.” I knew she knew of him, like everybody else, but I didn’t want to get into what I was doing with him until I’d gotten it done.

  “Well, you folks come on in the house. I got a ham in the stove, so there’s plenty.”

  “We can’t, Granny,” I said, though I hated to come and go so fast. She got lonesome without somebody to talk to, though Betty Sue visited almost every day. Which didn’t really count, because Granny was too mad to talk to her half the time.

  “I’ll be back Saturday,” I told her, “and we’ll spend the whole afternoon at Walmart’s.”

  “Lord, child, I don’t have that much to buy, nor that much to spend. Social Security don’t cover that kinda spree. Well, I know you got to go, so come give me a hug, and be sure you tell Betty Sue I’ve had a bellyful of her sneaky ways.”

  “I will, Granny,” I said, as I hugged her and patted her back. “I’ll talk to her, but you ought not get so mad at her. It’s not good for you, and it worries me when you get so upset.”

  “I’m through gettin’ upset. If she ever puts her sticky hands on them new jars, I’m gonna smack her face.” She cackled at the thought of it.

  “Betty Sue’s good to you, Granny. You shouldn’t hurt her feelings.” Turning to Skip, I said, “Crawl on in and let’s get on the road.”

  “Couldn’t I just stay out here with Granny? Nobody’d find me this far outta town.”

  “No, you cannot. I’m not putting Granny in danger, and you’re not, either. Besides, don’t you still owe Boyce for that Scag mower you bought on time? He lives right next door.”

  “Oh, yeah. I forgot.”

  I didn’t tell him I’d paid it off to keep peace in the family. Let him stew for the two minutes he’d worry about it.

  “Hurry up, then,” I said, as he began wedging himself behind the front seat, “and watch my clothes back there.

  “Granny, honey, I’m sorry I can’t stay longer, but you can see I’ve got my hands full.”

  “You’re a good girl, Etta Mae, but come over here outta earshot. I wanna ask you something.”

  We walked a few steps away, and she pulled me down to whisper in my ear, “Honey, what’re you doing with that old man settin’ there in your front seat with his mouth hanging open? He looks like he’s on his last legs, but take my word for it, old men can surprise you. They’ll jump you in a minute, an’ I know what I’m talkin’ about. He’s after something, I can tell. So I don’t want you to turn your back on him. It’s a good thing you got that young ’un in there with you. You tell him to watch that ole fool.”

  “Oh, Granny,” I said, laughing and hugging her again. “I don’t think I have to worry about him. That old man can hardly do a thing for himself, and I’m just getting him out and around for a while.”

  I wanted to tell her where I was getting him out and around to, but Granny was about as bad with secrets as Lurline. She wouldn’t tell on purpose. She’d just forget she wasn’t supposed to tell it. I was too close to the prize to risk sharing it with her at that point.

  • • •

  I turned the car around and, waving to Granny through the dust stirred up behind us, headed back toward the Abbotsville Highway.

  As I turned east on the highway, I said, “Get down on the floor, Skip. There’s a lot of traffic this time of day, and it’ll be hard to watch for the Pucketts. They could come up behind us before we know it.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “Yes. I can’t take any chances with my patient. So just do it.”

  He grumbled and mumbled as he got on the floorboard again, knocking against the seats and complaining about the cramped space. “It’s hard to breathe down here,” he said. “And I can’t stretch out and I don’t like being all scrunched up like this.”

  “Get over it,” I said, and pulled out into the traffic on the Abbotsville Highway.

  Chapter 22

  “Etta Mae?” Skip’s voice sounded hollow, echoing up from under Mr. Howard’s bucket seat.

  “What?”

  “Can I get up now? This driveshaft’s killin’ me.”

  “I don’t care if it is,” I said. “We’re hardly two miles out of Delmont, so you stay right where you are.”

  “My back’s gonna be broke in two. An’ it sure is hot down here.”

  “Well, just think what you’re missing, Skip. You could be stretched out in one of Lurline’s recliners watching Roseanne reruns, with a breeze from the air conditioner blowing right on you. On the other hand, you could also be in the hands of those real good friends of yours, getting your ticket punched in more ways than one. Now don’t that driveshaft feel better?”

  “I guess,” he mumbled.

  I kept watching the rearview mirror, checking to see if we were being followed. Then it struck me that I didn’t know what I was looking for. Duh. That’s what happens when you have too much on your mind.

  “Skip, what kind of car do they drive?”

  “Who?”

  “Who do you think!”

  “Oh. They got a ’95 Ford Windstar GL.”

  “What kind of car is that?”

  “It’s a van.”

  “Okay.”

  I glanced again in the mirror, quickly counting two cars and a pickup behind us, but no van.

  “Blue and white,” Skip said.

  “Okay.”

  “CB antenna.”

  “Okay.”

  We were well outside of Delmont on our way to Abbotsville by then, and I was able to speed up a little.

  “Teeny little Rebel flag on it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Rusted-out fender on the driver’s side.”

  “Okay!”

  “Piece a junk’s all it is.”

  “Skip!” Thinking, Oh, God.

  He mumbled something, and I felt him move around back there, trying to get comfortable. A knee bumped the back of my seat, and he groaned.

  “Can you maybe move your seat up a little, Etta Mae? And the old man’s, too?”

  “No, I cannot. My seat’s as close as it’ll get, and we’re not going to move Mr. Howard. And don’t call him an old man.”

  “Well, who is he, anyway?”

  “He’s Mr. Howard Connard, Senior, and don’t you forget it.”

  Dead silence from the back, and I could almost hear the wheels go round in Skip’s brain.

  “That’s ole man Connard?” he whispered. Like I said, everybody in Delmont knew Mr. Howard Connard, Senior. Or knew of him.

  “Skip!” I yelled. “Show some respect!” Then, reaching over and patting Mr. Howard’s leg, I said, “Don’t mind him, Mr. Howard, honey. He has a good heart, in spite of the way he acts sometimes.”

  We were well on our way to Abbotsville by this time, which was too far past four o’clock. I was beginning to get anxious again, worrying about the time. You know how county offices are. They’ll close their windows right on the dot of five, no matter how many are waiting in line. All I could do was hope that going-home traffic in Abbotsville wouldn’t slow us down. I swear it got worse every year, what with tourists and Northern summer visitors. And Floridians! You wouldn’t believe the way they drove. They were about to push us natives out and take over the whole county, something nobody liked unless they ran a business.

  My mind was in a whirl and seemed like it was doing everything but keeping itself centered on the matters at hand. Too much could go wrong that didn’t bear thinking about, I guess. Be
sides traffic, I had to worry about finding a parking place at the courthouse and how long it was going to take to get Mr. Howard out of the car and into his wheelchair. Oh, Lord, that walker! If he wanted to use the walker, it’d take us thirty minutes to get inside. And what if there was a line?

  I should’ve picked Mr. Howard up early that morning and gotten the license. I shouldn’t have waited till the end of the day.

  But that’s what I’d done and, as I’d had to do so many other times, I’d just have to make the best of it.

  • • •

  When we got into Abbotsville, I inched along the narrow streets, getting more and more anxious as I tried to watch the traffic, my watch, and the rearview mirror for a blue-and-white van. Finally, I turned into the parking lot by the courthouse, and was relieved to see several slots at the far edge of the lot. Dodging outgoing cars, I headed for a space and pulled in. Lord, it was hot, even with the windows down.

  I pulled the rearview mirror over to check my makeup, which felt like it was running down my face. My hair looked awful—frizzy, sweaty, and windblown. Oh well, one good thing about marrying a senior citizen. They couldn’t see so good.

  I took Mr. Howard’s hand and checked his pulse, looking also to see how pale he was and how he was holding up. “You doin’ all right, honey?”

  He smiled and nodded, and from the back floorboard, Skip said, “Not too good, Etta Mae. I might not never straighten up again.”

  I leaned my head down, wanting to bang it on the steering wheel. What else could you do?

  I opened the door and got out. Pulling up the back of my seat, I said, “Okay, come on out, Skip. Since you’re here, you might as well make yourself useful.”

  He crawled out of the car, crouching over and holding his back with one hand and hanging on to the car door with the other. “Golly, Miss Molly,” he moaned, “I’m inna awful fix here. My leg’s gone to sleep, an’ my back’s give out on me.”

  Pitiful, that’s what he was, standing there on one leg, pawing the ground with the other foot, trying to make it take his weight, and bent all the way over from the waist. Pitiful, if I’d had any pity to give him. But he could’ve been over at Lurline’s and out of my hair if he’d used his head instead of filling his stomach with Porky Park barbecue.

  “Get with it, Skip. I don’t have time to fiddle with you. I need you to get that wheelchair out of the trunk and open it up for Mr. Howard. Come on, now.”

  I unlocked the trunk, and waited while he hobbled over, lifting one leg up high and nearly falling every time it came down again. He held on to the side of the car with one hand, while catching himself on the ground with the other each time his numb leg gave out on him.

  Which was every other step. He was still bent over during all these contortions, moaning about his back, and any other time, I’d’ve laughed my head off at the sight of him. But not this time. I stood there, tapping my foot and checking my watch, wanting to smack him to kingdom come for delaying us.

  When he finally got to the trunk, panting and hopping on one foot, he stared at the folded wheelchair, which was at about his eye level the way he was bent over. Then he cocked his head up at me and said, “I don’t know if I can do this.”

  “You better do it.”

  I went on around the car and opened Mr. Howard’s door, reached in, and swung his legs out. “We’re going in now and get our license. I think we’ve got plenty of time, so don’t you worry.” I leaned over and smiled real big for him. “Any second thoughts? Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

  “Na-uh,” he said, reaching out for my hand.

  “I got it, Etta Mae,” Skip said as he rolled the wheelchair to us. I squatted down to be sure everything was locked in place, so there wouldn’t be any more accidents than there’d already been. Skip, still in a bent position, watched me, then said, “What you want me to do now?”

  “Take that side,” I said, pointing to Mr. Howard, “and help me get him in it.”

  “Oh, lemme do it,” Skip said, and picked Mr. Howard up like he was a baby and sat him down, nice and easy, in the chair. “There you go, Mr. Connard. What next, Etta Mae?”

  “Nothing. You can stay in the car till we get back.”

  Skip looked around the parking lot. “Well, where y’all goin’?”

  “In the courthouse. You just stay here.”

  Mr. Howard reached for Skip’s hand with his good one and said, “Go, too.” Which was as clear as anything he’d said in over a year.

  “Mr. Howard, honey, we don’t need him. Remember what me and you—I mean, I and you—came for?”

  Mr. Howard pulled at Skip’s hand and pointed with it to the courthouse. The only reason I could come up with was that he liked Skip’s strong arms and back, though that wasn’t in the best of shape at the moment. Mr. Howard had been used to Emmett and me tugging and lugging him around, and neither of us much bigger than he was, so I could see where he’d feel safer with Skip.

  I didn’t like it much, but if I could get that license with mine and Mr. Howard’s names on it, I decided it didn’t matter which ex-husband came with us. Though I’d’ve preferred none.

  Chapter 23

  I let Skip push the wheelchair, even though he looked as weak and crippled as Mr. Howard actually was. We went across the hot pavement toward the entrance to the basement of the courthouse, where a lot of the county offices were located for easy access of just the kind of handicapped individuals I was in the present company of.

  “Hold on a minute, Skip,” I said, as we got into the hall. It was a relief to feel the air-conditioned air after what we’d been enduring. I stooped over and straightened Mr. Howard’s tie and buttoned his suit coat. I knew he wanted to look presentable, and he did after I smoothed his hair down and gave him a smile.

  “It might be a good idea,” I said to him, “if you let me handle everything and not strain yourself trying to talk, okay? Let’s go, Skip. The office is down this hall and around the corner.”

  Skip kept pushing, following me, and I noticed that both his back and his leg were the better for the exercise. Though neither was completely back to normal working condition.

  “Where we goin’, Etta Mae?” Skip whispered loudly. He’d been in enough courthouses, or rather courtrooms, not to want to draw attention to himself.

  “Me and—I mean, Mr. Howard and me—have some business to take care of,” I told him. “And I don’t want to hear anything from you while we’re doing it. You ought to’ve stayed in the car, so you just act like you’re not even here and don’t know what’s going on.”

  “Well, I don’t.”

  “That’s the way I want it. Here we are.” I opened the door next to a sign that read REGISTER OF DEEDS.

  Holding the door for Skip to push Mr. Howard through, I was relieved to see the waiting area empty. Not that it would’ve held many people, for almost immediately in front of us was a counter that came almost to my shoulders, and ran the width of the room.

  “Push him on up here,” I said to Skip. “Then you just stay back out of the way till we’re through.”

  Skip pushed the wheelchair up against the counter, so that Mr. Howard had nothing to look at but the wood paneling on the front of it. I would’ve rearranged him if there’d been anything else for him to look at, but there wasn’t. Not even a wanted poster to read.

  Willing to please as he always was, Skip took a couple of limping steps back and leaned against the wall, propping his tingling leg against it. He looked around with interest, checking out the light fixtures in the ceiling and the tile on the floor, but even at his height there was little enough to see.

  Leaning against the counter, I waited to be waited on. The room on the other side was large and spacious, but filled with desks and file cabinets and wastepaper cans. There was a white-haired woman banging away at a typewriter over in the far corner. She didn’t
look up.

  Another woman, chewing gum like a cow with a cud, ambled across the room with an armload of papers. She was in a world of her own, and didn’t turn her head. Closer to the counter, there was about the fattest woman I’d ever seen, and I’ve seen some. She was sitting at a desk in a little secretary’s chair that, I swear, underneath her overlapping bottom, looked like one of those banana seats on a racing bicycle. She didn’t pay any attention to me, either, as she shuffled papers from one pile to another.

  I picked up a ballpoint pen laying there, and tapped it on the counter, polite-like. “Excuse me?” I said, trying to attract the fat woman’s attention since she was the closest. “Excuse me, but can we get some help?”

  She turned my way but didn’t say anything, so I said, “We’d like to take out a marriage license, please.”

  She heaved a sigh and pointed to a big round clock on the wall. “I don’t know why,” she said to the air in front of her, “people can’t come in during the eight business hours we keep every day. But here they come at fourteen minutes till five, knowing we close at five.”

  “Well, but we write real fast, and we’ve both done it before and know what to do. Please, we’ve come from Delmont and it’ll be awful hard to get back over here. I promise we won’t keep you late, if you’ll just give us the forms.”

  I don’t know how I could’ve been any nicer, but she sat where she was while the big hand jerked off another minute. My hands were trembling by then, as I thought of all I’d been through that day, to say nothing of the night before, and there I had to stand, watching this fat woman let my time run out. It was getting close to being all I could take.

  Just as I was about to crawl over the counter and slap her silly, she moved, sighing loudly as she leaned on the desk to heft herself out of the chair. She waddled over, ànd I saw she was shorter even than me. We both glanced up at the clock, then looked at each other, almost eye to eye, over that shoulder-high counter.

  “Fill this out, then,” she said, sliding a form over to me. With an exasperated glance, she gave Skip a quick once-over, as if that was all he deserved. Then she leaned against her side of the counter, waiting for us and, I expect, counting off the minutes.