“Edsel?” said Angie.
“Yeah?” he said, from under the Oldsmobile.
“Dinner is served.”
“Aw, Angie, you shouldn’t have done that.”
“Well, what I’m I supposed to do? Let you starve?”
Edsel and Angie went through this at least two or three nights a week. He normally walked over to Angie’s restaurant for dinner. But some nights he’d lose track of time.
Angie’s Country Fried Two-Step served man-sized homestyle meals. And incredible desserts. People would drive all the way from Deweyville, about twenty-five minutes north of Orange, just for a taste of Angie’s cherry pie—topped with Blue Bell ice cream, of course.
Her father, Herman Mayberly, had done nothing but gripe since he retired and let Angie take over the restaurant. She had spent thousands of dollars renovating the place, adding a small dance floor and a little stage. And he could not understand why she had to change the name. Mayberly’s. It was the family name. And—it sounded like neighborly. How could you go wrong with a name like that?
A local country band provided live dance music every Friday and Saturday night. The youngest band member was 48. The rest of the week, people had to make do with the jukebox.
She had tried to explain her reasoning to her father. Angie’s was to remind everybody that she was now running things. Country Fried let people know that they were still serving homestyle food. And Two-Step was, of course, short for Texas Two-Step, a popular country/western dance. Herman thought the dance floor was a particularly stupid idea. It’ll cost too much, he said, and it’s a waste of space. If she was going to enlarge the building, it should be to accommodate more tables.
“Come on, now,” said Angie. “It’s after 8:00.”
“I’m coming.”
He stood up, walked over to the sink, grabbed the bar of Lava soap, and began to lather up his greasy hands and arms.
Angie liked to stay and talk with him while he ate. They had been friends since she was in high school. He was eight years older than her. And even at 42, she still looked like a teenager to him. He figured her curly brown hair would never turn gray. His, on the other hand, was beginning to.
He was about to sit down when he noticed that something was not right. “What’s this? Where’s my chicken fried, chick-chicken fried, chicken fr-fried steak?”
Usually, Angie’s mere presence was enough to calm his stuttering. But not if he got upset.
“You shouldn’t be eating fried food every night, Edsel. It’s not good for you. This grilled chicken is healthy. Try it.”
He sat down at the little table, cut a piece and put it in his mouth. “Yeah, that’s pretty good.” Then he noticed that something else was missing too. “But what about the gravy? That’s my favorite part, Angie.”
“No, you see, you don’t need gravy with grilled chicken.”
“Maybe you don’t.”
“I’m just looking out for you, Edsel.”
“I know. And I appreciate it. Sorry for being grouchy about it.”
He took a bite of green beans, and some corn. Then he washed it down with iced tea.
She sat down across from him. “Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask you—did you get an invitation to Ralph’s birthday party?”
“Yep.”
“Are you going? You know it’s his 75th.”
“I know. Yeah, I’m planning to.” Then he remembered. “And Greg’s coming!”
“Really? How do you know?”
“He called me today. And that boy hasn’t stepped foot in Orange in—I don’t know how long.”
“Well, that’s going to be… quite a reunion.”
“I know. There’s gonna be fireworks. He and his daddy are both so bull-headed.”
“Edsel… do you have a date for the party?”
“A date?” She might as well have asked if he had a million dollars in his pocket.
“Because… I don’t.” She smiled.
“Oh. I see. You want to go together. Okay.”
It seemed like a good time for Ed to tell Angie how he really felt about her. How he wanted to take her into his arms. How he wanted to marry her.
But, no, he thought, not while he was wearing greasy work clothes.
Ed was almost always wearing greasy work clothes.
*
“Sondra,” Val called out. “There’s someone here to see you.”
“Who is it?”
“What did you say your name was?”
“Mitch,” said the young man.
“It’s Mitch,” she yelled.
Sondra didn’t know any Mitch.
When she reached the front door, Val gave her a look that said, don’t invite him in.
“Hello, Sondra,” said Mitch.
“Do I know you?”
“No. But I know you. And we need to talk.”
Sondra wanted to tell the punk to get lost. But she was curious. She opened the screen door and walked out onto the porch. “What’s this about?”
Mitch stepped closer to her and whispered, “I live across the street from Jason.”
She gave him a blank stare.
“You know—Jason. The man you killed in Houston.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never killed anybody.”
“I saw you come home with him Friday night. Then, a little later, I saw you leave.”
“That wasn’t me.”
“And then, on Saturday night, some of his friends showed up at his house for their poker game. But he didn’t answer the door. And they couldn’t reach him by phone. Yet his car was in the driveway. So, they called the police.”
“Well, that’s a shame. But it has nothing to do with me.”
“Look,” he said, grinning slyly, “I know it was you. I overheard one of the men saying that Jason had planned to go by Joe’s Bar on the way home from work Friday night. So, I went to the bar and asked a few questions. Joe, himself, told me that you performed there on Friday night, and that you left with Jason.”
“Oh—that Jason. Yeah, I remember him now. He seemed pretty depressed. But I didn’t go home with him. We just walked out of the bar together. Then we went our separate ways.”
Now Mitch didn’t look as confident.
“So, what were you going to do?” said Sondra. “Why didn’t you report me to the police?”
“Well, I… “
“You were planning to blackmail me, weren’t you?”
Mitch stammered.
“How old are you?” She asked the question as though she were a schoolteacher talking to a third grader.
“Twenty,” he answered dutifully.
Sondra smiled. “Well, you’re a good-looking 20 year-old.”
“Thanks.” He nearly blushed. He had not anticipated this kind of attention from the hot blonde.
“You want to go get a cup of coffee or something?”
“Sure.”
“Where’s your car?”
“Repossessed. I took the bus.”
“You live you with your parents, don’t you?”
He hesitated. “Yeah.”
“No problem. We’ll take my car.”
*
“Yeah, you’re right, Sondra.” Mitch laughed. “This tequila is much better than coffee.” He stumbled across the uneven parking lot, kicking a few loose shells, nearly falling down.
In Southeast Texas, shell is often used for driveways and parking lots, as a less expensive alternative to asphalt or concrete.
He stared into the darkness. It was nearly midnight. “Where is the boat? I can’t see any boats.”
“That’s because you don’t have the flashlight. Come over here,” said Sondra. “And keep your voice down.”
“Why? There’s nobody around here… Is this the one? It doesn’t even have a motor.”
“We don’t need a motor. We’ve got paddles. See?”
“Aw, man. I don’t want to paddle. I just want to drink some more of this stuff.” He held up the bottle of tequila. “And make sweet, hot love to you, Baby.”
“I’ll do the paddling. Get in.”
“And I’ll do the making… I mean the loving… I mean, yeah, I’ll get in.” He nearly lost his balance before sitting down. “I’m ready to shove off, Captain.” He saluted her forcefully, accidentally poking himself in the eye with a finger.
“Are you sure you’re seaworthy?”
He obviously was not.
“Sir, yes, Sir. I am, Sir.” He saluted again.
As she rowed the little boat out into Sabine River, Mitch continued to guzzle the alcohol.
Finally Sondra pulled the paddles into the boat.
“Come here, Baby. I’ve got a big surprise for you,” he said.
“Oh, really,” she said playfully, as she approached him. But instead of sitting in front of him, she slipped past him and sat down behind him, facing his back.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m about to make your dreams come true,” she said.
“Yahoo!”
“Shush!”
He lowered his voice. “Wow. The sound really echoes out here, echoes out here, doesn’t it?”
She reached around from behind him, and unbuckled his belt.
“Okay. I like it so far.”
Sondra took the empty bottle out of his right hand, and set it down. Then she gently pulled both of his hands around to his back. He could feel her inner thighs with his fingertips.
“Very nice,” he said.
He couldn’t tell exactly what she was doing with his belt, but suddenly he realized that his hands were tied together. He could no longer touch her legs. “Hey, why did you do that?”
“Be patient.” She began to massage his chest with both hands. He seemed to forget that his hands were tied.
She worked her fingers downward and unbuttoned his jeans. Then she unzipped them.
“Oh, Baby.” He was hyperventilating with excitement.
“Now, stand up—very carefully, so I can pull your pants down.”
But he did not follow her instructions. He jumped up, immediately losing his balance.
All it took was the slight nudge of her left elbow to send him overboard.
“Help! I can’t swim—my hands are tied!”
“Maybe this will help.” She picked up the tequila bottle and threw it at him. When it hit his skull, it cracked. Not the bottle—the skull.
His cries for help ended abruptly, and he disappeared into the dark water.
Lucky throw, she thought.