Читать книгу Some Go Hungry - J. Patrick Redmond - Страница 8

Chapter Two

November

As I walked toward the restaurant’s office, I thought about Rosabelle. Both her manner and her style were very dramatic. I always thought she was the embodiment of theater living in a thee-ater town. Thee-ater is how she pronounced it. She was whip smart and quick-witted. And I loved her southern accent. Her voice was vodka and cigarettes whispered in your ear. High kicks at dinner. Reason at lunch. Her sentences sifted, drawing her words out between breaths. To me she was Bette Davis, Marlene Dietrich, with a dash of Mae West.

Rosabelle was my touchstone, the voice of Fort Sackville reason. She knew the community, what people were capable of. She understood their humanity and their brutality—I learned all of it from her. She often tried to save me from myself. And even though she’d gone to high school with my dad, she and I were friends. I’d known her all my life. Rosabelle was the first friend I told I was gay.

For almost thirty years, she’d lived with Mae MacIntosh. Rosabelle had met Mae on a buying trip in Chicago at a quarterly trade show for retailers. They now operated Bonhomme’s Apple Orchard and its only remaining profitable business, Rosabelle’s, a gift shop and general store housed in the orchard’s former roadside market. Everyone said they were just roommates. I’d learned long ago, however, that in Fort Sackville two women could live together without folks taking issue. But when two men lived together, eyebrows were raised and voices were lowered.

When I was in high school, Rosabelle and Mae sold parcels of orchard land for commercial development, and it was on former orchard property bordering Highway 41 that Daniels’ Family Buffet had been built after Grandpa Collin shuttered Daniels’ Diner, our family’s first restaurant located near Main Street on Fairground Avenue.

Rosabelle’s phone calls were always the highlight of my Sunday afternoons at the restaurant. I walked into the office and closed the door behind me, sat down at the desk, and picked up the receiver for line one. I could hear Rosabelle talking to someone—I assumed it was Mae.

“Well, you’re gonna be disappointed,” I said. “I only got home yesterday and spent my Saturday night unpacking.”

“Mae, he’s there, you were right.” There was a pause. “Welcome back, sugar,” Rosabelle said. “I wondered if you’d make it to work today.”

“And miss feeding the Sunday Christians? Are you kidding me? It’s the highlight of my week.”

“Mae and I just drove by a half hour ago. The parking lot was full. I couldn’t tell if that snazzy sports car of yours was there or not,” Rosabelle said.

“I parked behind the restaurant. And yes, we are wall-to-wall up in here.”

“So did you have a nice time in South Beach?”

“Of course! Are you kidding? In fact, I figured I’d stop by this week and give you the scoop. Do you want to do dinner one night?

“Things are crazy with the holidays ramping up, but let me talk to Mae. Maybe we can all go to the Executive Inn one evening in the next couple of weeks. Wednesday is prime rib night. Otherwise, I’ll be at the market every day this week. Stop by sometime.”

“Perfect. Hey, I almost forgot . . . did you know Daryl Stone has moved back to town? He was in here earlier with his wife and kids. Can you believe he has a wife and kids?”

“I heard he was coming back,” Rosabelle said. “I bet his daddy’s happy, him takin’ a preachin’ job at the Baptist church. That kind of prestige is right up Farmer Stone’s alley.”

“How’d he ever get the nickname Farmer Stone?” I asked. Having known Farmer Stone for most my life, I had never heard how he’d earned the name.

“Lord, folks around here’ve been calling him that since Jesus was in diapers. It’s said that when he was a boy working his daddy’s melon fields south of town, he’d come to a dead stop, whatever he was doing, and begin searching for old river stones. Apparently he had one hell of a collection. His daddy would tell anyone who’d listen that the only kind of farmin’ his boy did was for stones. Ain’t nobody made a living selling stones, he’d say. I guess since his last name was Stone, it all just kind of stuck. Farmer Stone did prove his daddy wrong, though. Ain’t nobody around these parts made the kind of living Farmer Stone has. Of course, his trucking and shipping business has made him a pretty penny too. It’s paid for everything Daryl and his older brother ever wanted, even though, Lord knows, he’s a hard man. Set in his ways.”

“See, that’s where I thought they made their money. I always thought farming was sideline.”

“It’s hard to tell. Farmer Stone’s daddy told everything he knew. Whereas Farmer Stone wouldn’t say shit if he had a mouthful. I suspect Daryl’s the same way.”

“I don’t know. Daryl used to talk. I remember he told me back in high school that his dad always hated the nickname. Daryl kind of implied that his dad and grandpa didn’t get along. Anyway, I just wonder who Daryl thinks he’s fooling coming back here. It sure isn’t me. He said he expects to see my face in the pew next Sunday. I suppose Liberty University made him a straight, born-again Christian, and now he’s going to do the same for me,” I said.

“Honey, we all know that dog won’t hunt.”

“I am going at Christmas, though. Trace is real excited about Daryl taking on the youth choir. Says Daryl is making all kinds of changes, and rehearsals have never been better.” Just then, I saw the Wabash Valley Baptist Church’s ancient organist, Myrna Boil, shuffling her way across the dining room, her plate heaped high with fried chicken. Enough fried chicken for an entire football team.

“Myrna’s got her plate full, and I mean that in every sense of the word,” I told Rosabelle. “You should see her coming off the buffet line.”

“You’re terrible,” Rosabelle said.

“She wobbles around town giving everybody orders like she’s some sort of bacon-eating, Bible-thumping Baptist star or something. Anyway, I have to say I was shocked to see Daryl. I don’t think I’ve seen him since high school, since after the grand jury investigation into Robbie’s murder.”

“Wasn’t Daryl a part of that?” Rosabelle asked. “I remember someone coming to the orchard and saying Daryl had been called to testify, that he was one of the guys at the party when Robbie disappeared.”

“Those were the rumors, but I don’t think so. He and Robbie didn’t really have anything to do with one another, unless it had something to do with Harrison’s golf team. Daryl was always nice to him, kind of like I was. But Daryl being the jock and all, well, he had to keep some distance from Robbie.”

“I don’t know. I seem to remember some scuttlebutt about Daryl and Robbie at that party. I recall someone saying that’s why Farmer Stone got Daryl the hell out of town. He called in a favor with some buddy of his, the golf coach at Liberty University,” Rosabelle said. “I just can’t shake the idea that Daryl is a lot like his mamma: self-serving and manipulative. Oh, the trials and tribulations she put upon her husband! Yep, when it comes to Daryl, I bet dollars to donuts that apple didn’t fall far from the tree.”

“I suppose so,” I said. “But I don’t remember Daryl and Robbie ever hanging out—at least not in public. Daryl wouldn’t have risked it. Anyway, it sure is going to be interesting to see Daryl about town. I gotta tell you, he looks pretty damn good.”

“Forbidden fruit always does, sugar.”

I laughed. “You said fruit.”

Rosabelle giggled.

“I should probably get back out on the floor.” I said. “I’ll pop by this week. Let me know about dinner.”

“Okay, sugar. I’m glad you’re back, and I can’t wait to hear all about it.”

“Only the PG stuff,” I said.

We hung up, and I sat a moment thinking about what Rosabelle had said, about Daryl and that party. About Robbie. I began to wonder: In high school, had Daryl ever shown up at Robbie’s bedroom window like he had at mine? Had they fooled around too? Nah. I would’ve known about it. I knew Daryl too well; he’d come back to Fort Sackville to prove something. He had reinvented himself as a man of God, and now, I suppose, he had to convince people.