Last Known Address

CHAPTER THREE C.C.

The small restaurant was dimly lit, but warm and cozy. Just what they all needed, C.C. decided. But she was worried when Meg and Shelly headed toward one of the three small booths along the wall. She didn’t think she’d fit. But, happily, the benches slid out. C.C. decided two things on the spot; one, that, like Meg was always telling her, she was not as fat as she thought she was; and two, that she liked this little place.

Two hours after the tow truck had rescued them, they were sitting in Purdy’s Restaurant and Bar in the tiny burg of Tupper, Illinois. Showers in their motel room (number three, like the three of them–a good omen!) had taken the worst of the chill out of them. Now, as dusk fell outside, they were warming their insides with what Shelly called Sleeping Irish–Irish coffees made with decaf. C.C. was so tired that she hadn’t realized till two sips into her very strong drink that they were staying at Purdy’s Motel, and just down the road was Purdy’s Grocery. Purdy himself had checked them in to their room. There were only four rooms; one of these Purdy had indicated he lived in (‘should you need anything, night or day’). Then he had insisted on carrying all their luggage from Mick’s Garage and Auto Sales, across and down the dirt Main Street to their room. By the time all of their luggage, mostly C.C.’s, had been delivered, the portly Purdy was red-faced and puffing, but strangely beaming. C.C. had tried to offer him a tip, but he had refused, just stood there, looking every which way but at her. Finally, he’d said that maybe they’d like to freshen up and then come over to his restaurant for dinner. Slightly embarrassed at the looks the other two gave her, C.C. had replied yes, they would probably do that. She refrained from pointing out that there didn’t seem to be anywhere else in Tupper that they could get dinner.

Purdy now appeared at their booth, bearing a small cast-iron pan of hot cornbread, and three small plates. ‘The bread’s on the house, ladies. Sorry your trip down south got detoured, but we’re very glad to have you here.’ That’s odd, thought C.C., as Purdy set everything on the table. They hadn’t mentioned anything about their destination when they’d checked in. Evidently Mick had told him. Mick and Purdy probably constituted the entire business district of Tupper.

‘S’cuse me, uh, ma’am…’ Purdy reached across the table and picked up a squeeze bottle of honey from between the napkin holder and a small glass pitcher of syrup. C.C. felt her cheeks redden, though she wasn’t sure why. He held the bottle up so they could all see the label:

Minding Our Bees’ Nests

Fresh Illinois Honey

‘I can personally recommend this honey for my cornbread,’ he said. ‘We–uh, I, tend the hives myself.’ He looks like a TV pitchman, thought C.C., quickly hiding her smile. Not quickly enough, she realized when Purdy darted a quick smile back at her, then looked away.

Not that kind of smile. Was it? No, of course not. She looked at her hands, wrapped around the ceramic mug. The warmth on her palms matched the warmth in her cheeks. Oh, she was just being silly, was all.

‘This’s real good on the cornbread,’ said Purdy. C.C. glanced up, relieved to see he was looking at Meg. His ruddy cheeks formed small balls under his blue eyes, a disarming dimple in his left cheek. He turned toward her again. Dimples in both cheeks, she saw. He held the honey before her like a maître d’ holding a bottle of wine for inspection. ‘See, it’s got a touch of cinnamon in it,’ he said, tapping his finger on the label. ‘But you got your syrup too,’ he added, pointing it out on the table, next to the napkin holder. ‘If you prefer that route. My wife, may she rest in peace, was partial to syrup. But I myself like the honey. Ma’am?’ He offered C.C. the honey, his eyebrows held aloft expectantly, wiry white caterpillars stopped mid-march.

C.C. looked down again, gingerly touched her hair. She then looked at the honey, keeping her eyes focused on the little bees on the label. ‘Well, being from the south originally, I do like syrup on cornbread. But I’ll give the honey a try. The cinnamon sounds good.’ She couldn’t help a quick glance across the table. Meg was doing that cheek-chewing thing she did when she was trying not to smile. Shelly was not so restrained; she had a smirk a mile wide and was staring right at her. C.C. was deathly afraid Shelly would make some wisecrack. But, bless her heart, she kept mum.

Oh, you’re acting crazier than a sprayed roach! It was all C.C. could do not to slap herself. Mum about what? Really. C.C. took the bottom of the honey bottle in her hand, looking at the cute illustrations of happy bees on the label. But Purdy still held the top of the bottle, his eyes locked on hers.

‘Thank you,’ said C.C., pulling slightly on the bottle. Purdy didn’t let go. ‘Um…’

He must have thought she didn’t remember his name, because he stuck out his free hand, still holding the bottle in the other. C.C. gave him her free hand, not releasing the bottle either, since he hadn’t. It was an awkward shake, her hand too warm from being wrapped around her coffee mug, his cool and a little clammy.

‘I’m Purdy. Everyone calls me Purdy,’ he said, still holding her hand.

‘C.C.,’ said C.C., wondering what in the hell was going on. They sat there, neither letting go of the honey, and Purdy not letting go of her hand. The bell on the front door rang and two men, laughing loudly, stepped in. Purdy startled visibly, and gasped. He let go of her hand, but appeared not to realize he still held the honey.

‘S’okay, Purdy. Just us,’ said a tall, thin man dressed in overalls, a younger man with him, who had to be his son, dressed alike, hair combed with grease alike. They quieted immediately and looked contrite. Purdy gave the men a slight wave. C.C. saw that Meg and Shelly were also looking back and forth between the men and Purdy. Those men acted as if they’d walked too noisily into a library, rather than a restaurant.

She looked at Purdy. He was pale. He slowly turned his attention back to the table, his face quickly pinking. But he still hadn’t let go of the bottle of honey. In fact, if anything, he had a tighter hold on it. And now C.C. too had been holding on for so long that she wasn’t sure how to let go. Plus, she wanted it. On her cornbread. She was feeling rather possessive of it.

Not knowing what else to do, too embarrassed to look at either of her friends or this odd, jumpy man standing there at the other end of her honey bottle, she studied each letter of ‘Minding Our Bees’ Nests’. She smiled, realizing for the first time the pun in the name. ‘That’s a cute name,’ she said, still mulling over her options–letting go of the honey bottle that had been, after all, offered to her. Or pull again, harder. But she immediately felt the blush rising in her cheeks as she realized with a cringe that the last thing spoken before she’d made her comment, was Purdy telling them his name. Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph! She’d just sounded like she’d said Purdy was a cute name! She saw Meg and Shelly stifling laughs.

‘I, I mean the honey. “Minding Our Bees’ Nests”‘,’ she added hastily, adding too many Ss at the end. She had a bit of a lisp, which seemed to be getting worse in the past couple of years (she’d even wondered if her tongue had gained weight). But it was a hard combination to say. Suddenly the bottle was in her hand.

‘I hope you enjoy it, uh…uh, ma’am,’ Purdy said kindly.

‘Yum,’ said C.C., setting the honey down close to her. Was he asking for her name again? It would be so embarrassing if she gave it to him, and it wasn’t what he was stuttering about. She felt like she was thirteen! But Purdy nodded and, if she wasn’t mistaken, gave a slight wink. Not in a flirty way, C.C. was sure. Just excited about his honey. She was glad she hadn’t blurted out her name.

He gestured toward the pan, still steaming on the table. ‘Lemme know what you think. That’s my own cornbread recipe. Secret ingredient.’

C.C. feigned adjusting the band of her watch.

‘Just wave if you need anything,’ said Purdy.

C.C. nodded without looking up, not until she heard the other two say thank you and Purdy’s footsteps heading off.

‘Well!’ exclaimed Shelly. ‘My, my. My, my, my, my, my!’ She lifted her mug toward C.C. ‘Ya still got it, babe!’ Meg giggled and lifted her mug too, clinking against Shelly’s. C.C. felt herself turning about four shades of red as the two intertwined arms and gave each other doe eyes, then sipped their drinks.

‘Oh, now, stop that. What!’ They were just being silly. What man would choose to flirt with her over the other two? Of course he wasn’t flirting. He was just…odd, frankly. And he just really believed in his honey. And cornbread. She shook her head dismissively and sipped her drink. ‘Wow! These puppies are strong,’ she said, desperate to change the subject. Shelly and Meg both set their mugs on the table, doe eyes gone, puzzlement in their place.

‘Mine sure isn’t. Is yours?’ Shelly asked Meg.

Meg shook her head. ‘No. In fact, I was just going to say that I’m not sure there’s any kick in there at all. It’s good coffee and all, but—’

C.C. shoved her mug across the table. ‘Here. Taste this.’

Meg took a sip, recoiled. ‘Holy cow!’ She handed it to Shelly.

Shelly sipped, then slapped the table. ‘Hee-heeee! Either he’s trying to get you drunk on your first date or he’s so distracted by your beauty that he poured all three shots of booze into your mug!’

‘Oh, please. You’re nuts, Shelly,’ said C.C., batting the air between them dismissively, and trying hard not to look as embarrassed as she felt.

‘No, I think she’s right,’ whispered Meg, leaning in, smiling. ‘The man is obviously smitten.’

‘And you’re the kitten with whom he’s smitten!’ said Shelly, too loudly.

‘Shhhh!’ hissed both Meg and C.C. Shelly slapped her hand over her mouth, but snickered underneath it. Removing her hand, she turned to Meg, whispering now, but with just as much animation. ‘Hey! I guess we each get our own bed tonight if Purdy makes his move on C.C.’

C.C. kicked her under the table, feeling Meg’s foot doing the same.

‘Ow! OWW!’ yelped Shelly.

‘I’m not you, Shelly,’ said C.C. ‘I don’t sleep with every Tom, Dick and Harry. Now, give me your mugs.’ She poured the three drinks back and forth from mug to mug, till they were mixed, giving the lion’s share to Meg and Shelly. She figured she was several sips ahead of them. She pushed their mugs across the table. ‘Besides, I’m sure it was just an accident. The booze, I mean.’

‘Of course it was,’ said Shelly. ‘An accident caused by your bewitching beauty.’ Grinning, Shelly served them each a thick slice of the cornbread.

C.C. couldn’t help the small smile that slipped across her own lips. Could it be? Really? She hadn’t had a man flirt with her in a long time, maybe even since…When? High school? Lenny had certainly not been the flirty type. She wondered if he had ever flirted with her. Surely he must have when they’d met. But for three years he was just the guy at Byrd and Franholz, doing her taxes. Unless asking if she had a receipt for the high-school band wreath she’d bought was flirting. Come to think of it, his laborious explanation had grown longer and more cumbersome each year: that she ‘could only deduct the amount over the cost of an average Christmas wreath because the wreath itself was considered a benefit of having bought the wreath and only the remainder could be considered a charitable deduction to the band’. Was that flirting? She’d thought at the time, and still thought, that if a tax guy wanted to impress a girl he probably shouldn’t even tell her that he was a tax guy, much less go on and on about the tax code. But from the beginning, Lenny was always polite, albeit quiet, and somewhat narrowly focused. If he was reading an article in a magazine, she could walk into the room naked, with a bowl of fruit on her head, and he would not notice. And that wasn’t just a guess; she had tried it. But when he was focused on her, it was all about her. And Len didn’t have a dishonest bone in his body, unlike her first husband, Billy, whose entire skeletal system was the lying bone connected to the deceitful bone connected to the cockamamie bone (Shelly would say ‘the bullshit’ bone). There had been something so fresh and clean and, all right, maybe boring, about Lenny. But thank God by the time he’d gathered his courage to ask her out, she’d gotten past the stage in her life when she found ‘bad boys’ attractive. (Kathryn was still in that phase, she thought morosely, picturing Jordan.) But C.C. had been much younger than Kathryn was now when she’d finally learned that hard-won lesson, that the other side of a dull, black piece of glass was the shiny, beautifully reflective mirror. The flip side of boring was sincerity. Right after Lenny’s third explanation about the band wreath, on his third year of doing her taxes, after he’d spent ten minutes telling her about 501Cs and benefit versus cost versus donation, he had nervously asked her out. Six months later, she’d become Mrs Leonard Byrd.

Now Billy, on the other hand, was a world-class flirt. He was a charmer, that boy. A constant flirt. And what good had come of that, in the end? None. None at all. Except Kathryn, of course. Who had Billy’s genes, but Lenny’s fathering.

C.C. finished her drink and took another slice of cornbread from Shelly, and the honey from Meg.

But this man–Purdy. Was it his first name, she wondered. He was just being kind to them. All of them. And even if he had sort of singled her out, and even if she did find him charming, jumpiness notwithstanding, what could possibly come of it? They’d be back on the road tomorrow, gone for good, heading south again.

She stared at her breasts. Heading south, indeed. Shelly and Meg must be wrong about Purdy. If he was looking for a woman to–well, date–he would certainly be more attracted to one of them, not her. Meg was almost eight years older than she was, but Meg was so trim and petite, an impeccable dresser, right out of J. Crew. And perky breasts, too. Even though she was too thin now, and her hair mostly gray. But it was an attractive silver on her. And Shelly, so funny and wild and seductive, with her sexy thick, red hair, though now with that troubling gray, unlike Meg’s attractive silvery hair. Back in the day, a man might have preferred C.C., when she was young, blonde and her body unaltered by either calories or gravity. But what man would be attracted to her now? Maybe a dairy farmer. She was a cow. She stared at her hands, her chubby fingers, especially her left ring finger. The indentation from her wedding ring still deep. She’d removed the ring not because she was a widow, or because it ‘was time’, but rather because she’d gained so much weight that she was worried they’d have to cut it off her.

She sighed, picked up the bottle, and squeezed a generous stream of cinnamon honey back and forth over her second slice of cornbread.

After they’d finished all the bread (they agreed, it was exceptional, deep and nutty-tasting, especially good with the honey), they’d decided to go ahead and order dinner, then get to bed early. C.C. stared at her menu: Meatloaf? Fried chicken? Maybe chicken fried steak.

‘Ahem.’

She looked up. Mick stood at their table. He’d pulled off his grease-stained cap, holding it to his chest, as if about to deliver a eulogy. ‘Evenin’, ladies.’ All three women put down their menus. ‘Well, I’ve got good news and bad news’. The good news is it’s just the alternator. Oh. And battery. I tested it and it’s pretty low on juice. If I was you, I’d replace it too. ‘Specially before a road trip. Now, it’s easy enough t’plop another of each in there. But the bad news is that I don’t have the right kind of alternator in stock. That’s a pretty old model car you got there. But the other good news is that I found one in Sash County, and it’ll be here tomorrow morning first thing. I can prolly get you ladies on the road again before noon. You’re headed down south, right? Kentucky?’

‘Uh, Tennessee,’ said Meg. ‘Can you tell us about how much this will cost?’

‘Well, I’m gonna give you the battery and alternator at cost, and a discount on the labor.’ He put his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Dad’s orders.’ They all glanced at Purdy, who, his complexion suddenly ruddier than ever, was wiping a spot on the wooden bar with such vigor one would think he held sandpaper, not a clean white towel. Then he disappeared below the counter, and they heard glassware being moved around.

‘Well, isn’t that lovely of him!’ said Shelly, clasping her hands together and grinning. Meg discreetly smiled at C.C. C.C. fidgeted with her watch again.

‘So, it’ll be around two fifty, maybe three,’ said Mick. ‘I’ll have to pay Kirby for bringing it over here.’

The levity was suddenly gone from the table. C.C. added it up in her head: that plus the motel bill would wipe out most of what they’d allotted for their entire travel budget to Tennessee. They’d each pooled all they felt they could afford to the Dogs’ Wood Investment Group, the name they’d given themselves, and had agreed to scrimp and save so that they could afford materials and the unexpected. They hadn’t planned on the un expected being the first day of their trip.

This was another sign. This trip was a mistake. They should probably just head back home, once the car was fixed. C.C. hung her head. The other two wouldn’t be in this mess if not for her.

‘Well, if you ladies will excuse me now,’ said Mick. ‘I gotta get Joe Spurn’s truck off the blocks.’ He nodded to one then the next, bobbing his head like a pigeon. ‘G’night, ma’am. Ma’am. Ma’am.’ He put his cap back on, pulling it snug with both hands before he turned and walked away. C.C. watched as he reached up and held the little bell quiet as he opened and closed the door.