Seven

  

They’re not hot flashes, they’re power surges.

~ Bumper sticker on the back of Attalee Gaines’s Buick Skylark

  

Attalee parked her Buick Skylark in front of a large storefront on the Aiken-Augusta Highway. The aging vehicle continued to stammer and lurch long after she removed the key from the ignition.

“Is it supposed to do that?” Gracie Tobias grasped the armrest until the car finally wheezed to a stop.

“It’s temperamental, all right.” Attalee kicked open the door with the heel of her shoe.

“I should say so,” Mrs. Tobias said, folding up her white kid gloves and tucking them into her clutch bag. “We should have taken my Caddie.”

“Other folks driving makes me nervous.” Attalee slid from her car seat and pointed to the flapping banner on a pole that read ‘Last Chance Flea Market.’ “Here it is: shopping paradise.”

Mrs. Tobias surveyed the decaying building, which had formerly been a Kmart.

“I’ve never been to a flea market before. Are you sure we can find a nice present for Mavis here?”

All of Mavis’s friends had chipped in money to buy her a special gift, which they would present to her at the banquet for Business Person of the Year. Mrs. Tobias and Attalee had volunteered to choose and purchase something appropriate.

“You betcha.” Attalee hitched her battered vinyl pocketbook on her shoulder. “The flea market has one-of-a-kind items. Couple of weeks ago, I bought my daughter one of them moving waterfall pictures. You won’t find something that classy at the Wal-Mart. I’d get Mavis one too, but she’s got a tendency towards seasickness. And my boyfriend Dooley works here. He’s got a booth inside, and I told him we’d meet him for lunch.”

“Lunch?” Mrs. Tobias asked. “There’s a restaurant inside?”

“‘Course there is. With rib-sticking country eats,” Attalee said. “I recommend the chicken-feet casserole. It’s so good it’ll put your granny in a branch.”

“Oh my.” Mrs. Tobias’s stomach flip-flopped. “I still think we would have been able to find a more suitable gift at Rich’s in the Augusta Mall.”

“Boring! We need a present with pizzazz,” Attalee said as they crossed the parking lot. “Maybe a lava lamp or one of them singing fish.”

“Well, you have known Mavis longer than I,” Mrs. Tobias said. “I suppose you’re more familiar with her tastes.”

The women pushed open the glass door and were greeted by a medley of food aromas. The scent of piping hot nuts mingled with the fragrance of deep-fried funnel cake and candy-coated apples.

“It smells like an indoor county fair,” Mrs. Tobias remarked. She and Attalee lingered in the entrance, looking over the various vendors separated from each other with chicken wire and particle board.

“I believe Dooley’s booth is that-a-way.” Attalee pointed down the middle aisle. “But we’ll browse for a spell before we make our way over.”

Mrs. Tobias gazed up at a collection of t-shirts hanging on a cinder-block wall in a booth by the entrance called Rebel Ware. “‘Don’t be shy. Let it Fly,’” she said, reading the slogans on the shirts. “‘Dern tooting I’m a Rebel.’ ‘If you ain’t from Dixie, you ain’t spit.’”

A big-bellied man, wearing a faded red bandana on his bald head, noticed Mrs. Tobias and sidled up to her.

“This is just a small sampling of my inventory.” He stroked a beard that dangled from his chin like a piece of Spanish moss. “I’ve got a catalog you can page through. My company will put a Rebel flag on everything from beach towels to underwear to throw pillows.”

“Indeed.” Mrs. Tobias squared her shoulders. “Don’t you know it’s inappropriate to display flags on underwear or throw pillows? If you’re so enamored of the Confederate flag, young man, you should treat it with more respect.”

Attalee seized Mrs. Tobias’s elbow and steered her away from the booth. “Whatcha trying to do, get us kilt?”

“‘Heritage not Hate’ my foot,” Mrs. Tobias harrumphed. “What kind of individual displays his so-called heritage on a beer mug?”

“The same kind of yahoo that gets his kicks from lynching loudmouthed little old ladies,” Attalee hissed. “Let’s move along.”

They meandered through a labyrinth of booths, but Mrs. Tobias didn’t hold much hope of finding a decent gift for Mavis. The vendors sold drib-drabs of the worst kind of kitsch imaginable. What possible use would Mavis have for a feathery dream catcher or a silkscreen portrait of a sad-eyed coyote?

“I declare,” Mrs. Tobias remarked after they left a booth called Kountry Kreations, which carried a collection of driftwood eagle wall clocks and oil paintings of elks on saw blades. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many lighthouses, unicorns, and American flags. Everything here is so...”

“Classy,” Attalee said with a nod. “How can we narrow it down to just one thing? Ye gods and little fishes! We don’t have to go any further.”

They were standing in front of a vendor called “Everything Elvis.” “Blue Suede Shoes” blared from the speakers inside.

“Mavis is a huge fan of the King,” Attalee said. “We’re bound to find something good here.”

Mrs. Tobias followed Attalee into a narrow stand cluttered with a jumble of Elvis geegaws, ranging from Return-to-Sender key chains to polyester replicas of his famous sequined white jumpsuit. Attalee homed in on an object in small glass box. “Have a Hunk of Elvis” read the sign affixed to the container.

She squinted at the price and said, “Three thousand dollars! That’s as high as the hair on a cat’s back. What is that thing?”

A lumpish woman with brittle black hair glanced up from her copy of True Crime magazine. “That’s Elvis’s toenail. I found it in the Jungle Room when I visited Graceland just after it opened.”

“How do you know it ain’t the Colonel’s toenail, or Pricilla’s?” Attalee asked.

“My hands tingled when I picked it up,” the woman said with a zealous look in her eye.

“Dang, I sure wish we had more money,” Attalee grumbled.

“Enough,” Mrs. Tobias whispered. “We’re not getting Mavis a toenail, Elvis’s or otherwise. Surely there’s something else...”

“The Elvis nesting dolls are a popular item,” remarked the woman. “So are the King’s gold replica sunglasses.”

“Real gold?” Attalee asked.

“They’re $15.99 a pair. You be the judge,” the saleswoman said.

“Fresh little cuss,” Attalee said in an aside to Mrs. Tobias. “So what do you think? I’m eyeing those Elvis toilet-seat covers by the door.”

Mrs. Tobias sighed and addressed the saleswoman. “Do have anything that’s a little less commercial?”

“I’ve got pen-and-ink drawings of Elvis that I’ve done myself.” She pointed to a wall lined with framed art.

Mrs. Tobias edged past an Elvis beanbag chair to examine the drawings. “These are beautifully rendered,” she said after taking a look. “And the price is right as well. Attalee, why don’t you choose one you think Mavis would like?”

Attalee waffled between Vegas Elvis and Jailhouse Elvis but finally chose the drawing of the King garbed in prison attire, saying it would go best with Mavis’s striped couch.

“Good,” Mrs. Tobias said as she waited for the saleswoman to wrap up the package. “Now we can head back to the civilized world.”

“We gotta eat lunch first,” Attalee protested. “There’s a cold collard sandwich calling my name.”

“Must we?” Mrs. Tobias’s shoulders drooped. “This shopping trip has exhausted me.”

“But you promised you’d have lunch with me and Dooley!”

“Yes, I did, didn’t I?” Mrs. Tobias pulled a sterling-silver compact from her purse and glanced at her weary face. “Onward, then.”

The two women weaved through a maze of vendor’s booths until they arrived at a stall called Knives and Things. An angular white-haired gentleman and a woman with a brown cigarillo dangling between her rubbery lips were chatting inside.

The woman leaned close to the man and whispered something in his ear. He let out a whoop of laughter, and she reached over to give him a sound pinch on his denim behind.

Quick as a bullet, Attalee was at the woman’s side with balled-up fists.

“If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a hundred times. Keep your paws off Dooley, or I’ll clean your clock!”

The woman, who was an Irish wolfhound to Attalee’s Chihuahua, glanced down at her with hooded eyes.

“You and what army?” she said.

“Ladies.” Dooley slipped between the two women. “No call to tussle. Minnie, looks like you got a customer. You might ought to see to her.”

Minnie meandered out of Knives and Things, trailing ashes as she went. She manned the booth next door called Heav’nly Treasures, which sold ceramic angels and nativity-scene snow globes.

“How’s my gorgeous girl?” Dooley planted a noisy kiss on Attalee’s withered cheek.

“Sweeter than a suck of sugar,” Attalee said.

“You got that right,” Dooley said with a low growl.

Mrs. Tobias cleared her throat.

“Dooley, this here is Mrs. Tobias. Mrs. Tobias, Dooley. You probably remember seeing him at the Sweetheart Dance.”

“Charmed.” Mrs. Tobias extended her hand to him. Dooley was thin, almost to the point of being skeletal, save for a paunch that protruded over the top of his Levi’s like a half-deflated bike tire. His blue eyes, round as gumballs, stared out from behind a pair of trifocal spectacles.

“So, what do you think of his spread?” Attalee said.

Dooley sold knives of every description, from pocket knives emblazoned with John Wayne’s image to elaborate daggers with lethal blades. In addition to knives, there was a table littered with cell-phone covers, doo rags, and fuzzy dice, hence the “things” in the name of the booth.

“Pick yourself out a little something,” Dooley said to Mrs. Tobias, indicating the “things” table. “On the house.”

Since she didn’t own a cell phone or have any occasion to don a doo rag, she selected the fuzzy dice.

“They glow in the dark,” Attalee said with a grin.

“Y’all ready to get a little greasy around the mouth?” Dooley asked, thumbs in the belt hoops of his jeans.

“I know I am.” Attalee rubbed her tiny pooch of a belly.

Dooley fastened a padlock to his stall, and the three made their way to a corner of the flea market where a diner had been set up. After choosing a booth in the back, the group studied menus encased in yellowed plastic. Mrs. Tobias winced at the vase of dusty flowers in the center of the table and the flimsy, discolored flatware. She glanced at the menu, hoping to find something safe to order.

“Broiled squirrel?” she gasped as she read the blue-plate special.

“I’m generally drawn to that, too,” Dooley said to Mrs. Tobias. “But Hazel cain’t offer squirrel no more. Turns out there’s a law against serving customers meat that you’ve shot in your own yard.”

“Hey, ain’t that Rusty Williams over yonder?” Attalee pointed at a man in a black leather jacket hunched over the diner’s counter.

“Sure as heck is,” Dooley said. “Hey, Rusty, come on over, why don’t ya?”

Rusty waved and sauntered over to their table. From his perch on the stool, Mrs. Tobias had imagined a much younger man, but as he got closer, she noticed threads of silver weaved through his heavy dark hair and deep furrows etched in his forehead.

“What a co-winky-dink. Rusty’s here eating some lunch, and so are we,” Attalee said with such exaggerated cheer that Mrs. Tobias raised an eyebrow.

“Why don’t you join us?” Attalee continued. “Skooch over some, Mrs. Tobias, so Rusty can have him a seat.”

From across the table, both Attalee and Dooley grinned at her like a pair of chimpanzees.

“Certainly, Mr. Williams.” Mrs. Tobias shot Attalee a questioning look as she slid closer to the wall.

“I’d be honored to join you,” Rusty said. His accent sounded like he came from the deepest southern region of Georgia. Valdosta, or maybe Albany. “Let me tell Hazel I’m moving to your booth.”

After he’d departed, Mrs. Tobias spread her napkin on her lap.

“Attalee Gaines, why do I get the impression that running into Mr. Williams was no accident? And that this little lunch is, in fact, a set up?”

“I got no idea what you’re talking about,” Attalee said, blocking her face with the menu.

“Now dumpling,” Dooley said. “I believe Mrs. Tobias is on to our little scheme.” He smiled at Mrs. Tobias, revealing a set of poorly fitted dentures.

“We didn’t mean no harm, ma’am,” Dooley continued. “When Attalee told me she was bringing a lady friend to the flea market, I thought the two of you might hook up. Rusty’s single and has a booth catty-corner from mine called Leather Expressions.”

“I’m sure Rusty’s a wonderful man,” Mrs. Tobias said. “And that many women would be delighted to—”

“You bet their britches they would.” Attalee yanked down the menu from her face. “Minnie’s been buzzing around him like a bee ever since he opened a booth here. Luckily for you, he don’t cotton to smokers. Heck, Rusty is the best catch in Aiken County, except for my Dooley of course.” She squeezed her boyfriend’s arm. “But he’s taken.”

“Attalee, I wouldn’t care if Rusty was Prince Charles himself. The truth is—”

“Shush now,” Attalee hissed. “Here he comes.”

Mrs. Tobias studied Rusty as he strode toward their table. He was uncommonly handsome, reminding her of a weathered Rock Hudson. And he carried himself like the CEO of a Fortune 500 company instead of the proprietor of a booth at a roadside flea market. But it didn’t matter if Rusty was a prince or a pauper: She simply wasn’t interested in having a paramour.

The vinyl of the booth creaked as Rusty sat beside her, bringing with him the pleasant scents of leather, cedar, and green apples.

“I hope this isn’t an intrusion.”

“Not at all.” Mrs. Tobias kept her eyes fastened on the menu. “I still haven’t decided what I want.”

“The oxtail soup’s delicious,” Rusty said. He must have noticed the nearly imperceptible wrinkle of her nose, because he laughed.

“That’s what I thought the first time I heard of it, too. But I promise, it’s delicious.”

A female server, her hair sheared into a raggedy bowl cut, approached the table.

“How you folks today?” she said. “Hope yer hungry, ‘cause we’ve been cooking up a gracious plenty in the kitchen.”

She set down a large, fragrant basket, which spilled over with buttermilk biscuits, corn bread, fritters, and hush puppies.

“What can I get ya?” she asked as she wiped her hands on a dishrag that hung from the pocket of her blue jeans.

“I usually ask Hazel here to bring out whatever she thinks is good today,” Rusty said. “Would that suit?”

Everyone nodded, and Rusty collected the menus, handing them to Hazel.

“Don’t forget my oxtail soup, sweet pea,” he said with a wink.

Hazel lit up like a sparkler, displaying a mouth full of misshapen teeth. She rearranged the condiments on the table and scuttled back to the kitchen.

Across the booth, Dooley was nibbling on Attalee’s ear as if it were an appetizer. Embarrassed by their public display of affection, Mrs. Tobias picked up her fork and examined it for cleanliness.

“Are you a country line-dancing fan?” Rusty asked her.

“Pardon me?” Mrs. Tobias asked.

“The Country Strut, the Watermelon Crawl, or the Tush Push?” Rusty asked.

“No, Mr. Williams,” Mrs. Tobias said. “I can safely say I’m completely unfamiliar with the Tush Push.”

“It’s all new to me, too,” he said. “I went to a honky-tonk the other night for the first time in years, and that’s the kind of dancing all the kids were doing. It looked so much fun I decided to sign up for some lessons. Do you like to dance at all?”

There’d been a time when she’d been an accomplished ballroom dancer. She and her husband Harrison would waltz with the best of them during Augusta’s cotillion season.

“Now and then,” Mrs. Tobias said.

“It’s not much fun taking dance lessons on your own,” Rusty said. “I don’t suppose—”

Hazel arrived at their booth with a tray as wide as a raft. She set it on a collapsible portable stand and plunked down a hot tureen of soup at each place as well as several bowls of steaming food.

“Is sweet tea okay with y’all?” she asked. Hearing no objections, she set down a clear plastic pitcher brimming with beverage and ice. “Holler if you need anything.”

Just as Mrs. Tobias was about to dip her spoon into her soup, Dooley removed his cap.

“Shall I say the blessing?”

“By all means,” Mrs. Tobias said, bowing her head.

Dooley cleared his throat. “Bless the food and damn the dishes. Let’s all eat like sons of—”

“Amen,” Mrs. Tobias interrupted.

The oxtail soup was hearty with morsels of silken meat, barley, carrots, and parsnips. At Rusty’s urgings, Mrs. Tobias had a nibble of every dish on the table. There were tender crowder peas enlivened with a few shakes of Texas Pete’s Hot Pepper Sauce, plump pole beans seasoned with pork, gooey, deep-dish macaroni and cheese, fried chicken that crackled under the teeth, and black-eyed peas tarted up with jalapeños and red wine vinegar.

“Georgia caviar,” Rusty declared, as he spooned another helping of black-eyed peas on his plate. Mrs. Tobias sampled a cathead biscuit with layers so light they melted on her tongues like snowflakes.

“Did ya know,” Attalee said, spearing a candied yam with her fork, “that Rusty here is a doctor?”

“Really?” Mrs. Tobias cast an intrigued gaze at her dining companion.

“Now, Attalee,” Rusty said. “You gotta quit saying that. I’m not a real doctor.”

“Are you a Ph.D.?” Mrs. Tobias asked.

“He’s an honest-to-goodness doctor,” Attalee insisted. “Says so right on his truck.”

“Just a little gimmick of mine,” Rusty explained. “I clean air ducts in homes and businesses. So I call myself the Duct Doctor.”

“I thought you rented a booth here,” Mrs. Tobias said. She took a sip of her tea, and a cluster of ice chips bumped her nose.

“I do, but the flea market is only a weekend sideline,” Rusty said. “During the week, I clean dirty ducts.”

Hazel appeared at the table and surveyed the clutter of scraped-clean plates. “Who’s up for a little dessert?”

Dooley groaned. “My belly’s tight enough to crack a tick on.”

“Then you best have something sweet to fill in the chinks,” Hazel said, balancing a row of dirty plates along her pale, skinny arm.

Shortly after, coffee arrived steaming and served in thick-lipped cups. Despite their straining stomachs, they all tucked into the stiff meringue and vanilla wafers of Hazel’s banana pudding.

Attalee swiped at her mouth with a napkin and slung her legs into the aisle. “I need to visit the powder room. Maybe you’d like to show me where it is, Dooley?”

“Just go all the way to the back and take a left,” said Dooley as he jiggled a toothpick between his teeth.

Attalee cut her eyes at Rusty and Mrs. Tobias. “I need you to show me.”

“Oh,” Dooley said, taking the hint and sliding his lanky frame out of the booth.

After they left, Rusty chuckled over the rim of his coffee cup. “Attalee’s not exactly the most subtle of women.”

“No, she’s not.” Mrs. Tobias folded her napkin and placed it beside her dessert plate. “Mr. Williams, I understand what Attalee’s trying to do, but I’m sorry. That part of my life has been closed for a long while now.”

“Understood,” Rusty said with a nod. “I wasn’t too keen on this meeting myself. I’ve never thought much of blind dates.”

“Thank you for understanding.”

“You’re welcome, ma’am.” He studied her with eyes the color of coffee beans. “You’re different from the other ladies I’ve been introduced to lately.”

“Oh?” Mrs. Tobias said.

“Don’t know what it is,” he said as he opened up his wallet and laid a fifty-dollar bill on the table. “But I’m downright enchanted.”

He stood and smiled down at her. “Tell Hazel to keep the change.”

A stunned Mrs. Tobias watched him stride out of the restaurant area and when he was out of sight, she peeked at the check on the table. The bill was twenty-eight dollars plus tax for that prodigious feast. Normally Mrs. Tobias thought overtipping was vulgar (her late husband Harrison always tipped precisely fifteen percent no matter what the service), but Rusty’s generosity to the odd-looking little waitress seemed somehow more endearing than crass.