Page 30 of Life, Love and the Pursuit of Happiness

Already having put the dog subject aside, Maggie asked, “Can you drive a car, Gramma?”

“Of course I can drive a car, sweetie!” Even though I haven’t driven one in ten years. But a person never forgets how. Right? Like riding a bicycle. Right? Which I haven’t done for fifty years, except for that brief stint of madness when I joined a gym on my fiftieth birthday and fell off a stationary bike. Never again!

“But you ran over the curb at the car lot and almost knocked Honkin’ Harvey on his ass.”

“Magdalene Jones! We do not use words like that.”

“But that’s what Honkin’ Harvey said. ‘That crazy broad almost knocked me on my ass.’ And he stuck his finger up in the air when you waved at him.”

“I’ll be fine once I have a little practice. Besides we’ll be driving real slow on this trip. Maybe stop at a few places along the way. Aunt Phyllis has been inviting me to come for years.”

“Doesn’t Aunt Phyllis live in a place for old farts? I don’t think I’d like visiting a farty place.”

Sal rolled her eyes. Her granddaughter heard way too much that wasn’t meant for little ears. “Aunt Phyllis lives in a very nice active senior village in Maryland. They even have a swimming pool.”

“Yippee!”

“We might even stop in Virginia at Busch Gardens.” Actually, there was a regional convention of Avon collectors being held in Richmond, Virginia, that Sal would love to attend. Maybe she could talk Maggie into making a pact, several hours with a herd of Avon Ladies for several hours at Busch Gardens.

“Gramma! I don’t want to go to no gardens.”

“It’s not that kind of gardens. Busch Gardens is a huge amusement park, like Six Flags. Remember when your nursery school took a field trip to Six Flags?”

Maggie smiled. “Can we go on a roller coaster?”

Sal groaned. She was getting too old for the raising of a child, and that was saying a lot. Salome Jones never admitted to being too old for anything. “We’ll see,” Sal lied.

“Promise?”

“I promise we’ll go to Busch Gardens. That’s all I’m promising. But remember”—she pretended to zip her lips—“our secret. No one should know about our secret trip.”

Maggie pretended to zip her lips, too. But she couldn’t keep quiet for long. “Mommy will be so surprised to see us.”

“That’s for sure,” Sal muttered.

Everybody plays the fool sometime . . .

After sharing a few beers at The Live Bass, Merrill decided to drive by Delilah’s diner on his way home to the Patterson Home for Overage Dodobirds.

And, by the way, wouldn’t Delilah’s Diner be a better name than Rock Around the Clock Diner? Not that I’m going to suggest that anytime soon. My interference factor is through the roof already, according to Delilah.

Passing through the business, then residential sector, he saw evidence of the huge Fourth of July celebration the townfolk had recently engaged in, which had carried over to the Rutledge wedding on Saturday. Flags. Red, white, and blue banners. Sprays of fake stars on the brass, bell-shaped streetlights. Betsy Ross sitting on a rocker in the town square gazebo sewing a flag. Several yard flamingos wearing Uncle Sam hats. Every kind of kitsch imaginable and then some.

Supposedly, the powers that be, i.e. the town council, had decided that the Grinch contest and its related festivities in December, followed by a massive Independence Day celebration, had brought in so much of the desirable pass-through tourist traffic they wanted that they were saving the decorations for some kind of Labor Day Lollypalooza, or some other bat-ass crazy idea. If anything else came into their radar, like Ethan Rutledge and Wendy Patterson’s wedding, well, hey, they already had the ideas and decorations available. He could only imagine what they’d do when Delilah had her diner grand opening.

You had to love small towns!

He revved the engine on the Harley as he neared the diner, just because he could and because, in his newfound immaturity, he wanted Delilah to know he was out there at midnight. He spotted the twenty-foot neon Elvis standing by the front steps, unlit at this point, but, hey, it would be cool when “The King” welcomed folks to the eating establishment. God bless eBay. You really could find anything there. Not that he’d been looking for a neon Elvis. He’d actually been scoping out boat fridges when Elvis popped up.

That was his story, anyhow, and he was sticking to it.

But then, as Merrill was about to cruise around the corner, he couldn’t help but notice something else. A huge pile of mattresses and box springs had been stacked next to the Dumpster.

In an instant, Merrill’s good mood turned bad. In fact, he was suddenly so mad he could spit nails. Well, frustrated would be a better word, he supposed.

He just knew that Delilah had done all that heavy work herself. In fact, it was a logical conclusion after having talked to the contractor, Mike Somers, at the bar tonight. Mike told him that he and his men had started on the electrical and plumbing work late that afternoon, and the whole time they were there, Delilah had been scrubbing the walls and ceilings with some kind of bleach solution. So much for Merrill’s suggestion of a cleaning service!

What was it about the woman that made her so stubborn, so insistent on doing things herself? It wasn’t just poverty, he knew that. She could have asked him or any one of a dozen neighbors who would be more than willing to lift a hand. A strong work ethic was one thing, unbendable pride was another. Stupid! On the other hand, maybe it was some secret in her past that made her untrusting of even the smallest gesture of help.