It had seemed so real. She put her hand to her chest and felt her heart beating arrhythmically. A silly nightmare, she told herself, because no way in hell would Eric tell Shirley; he’d be putting his own life at risk.
Shirley would click, go absolutely ass-kicking berserk. She remembered when Shirley and she were waiting in the ER with six-year-old Paul, who’d broken his arm in a fall out of a tree, sitting on Shirley’s lap, whimpering.
As a nurse periodically called other patients to a room, people who looked in far better shape than Paul, Ruth Ann tried to make small talk, sensing Shirley was getting hotter by the minute. After the nurse called a man exhibiting no visible ailment whatsoever, Shirley stood up, gently put Paul in the adjoining seat… and exploded!
“You sumbitches!” she shouted. “My boy has been out here in pain for more than an hour!”
That said, the television was snatched off a stanchion and hurled across the room, landing with a thunderous crash near the entrance. A metal chair flew into the receptionist’s cubicle—the woman had fled before the television landed. The three people, a man and two women who were also waiting, ran out through a side exit… and Ruth Ann ran behind them.
In the parking lot she heard another thunderous crash and sprinted faster to her car. Three days later she saw Shirley and Paul, his arm in a cast, at Wal-Mart. Of course, she wanted to know what had transpired at the hospital, but didn’t think it wise to ask someone who’d clicked, and who in all likelihood would click again, “What happened?”
Ruth Ann sat up in bed. “Lord, what have I done? What have I done?”
There was a knock at the door. “Ruthie?” Lester said.
“Yes.”
“Someone here to see you.”
“Who?”
“Sheriff Bledsoe.”
Chapter 13
A special report interrupted the soap opera. Shirley lowered the volume by remote control. A short, fossil- looking man dressed in an ill-fitting suit, thick glasses, and thin silver hair above a wide forehead, flanked by a stone-faced Air Force general, talked for a few minutes.
The general pointed to a black-and-white video screen depicting a bomb destroying a row of buildings.
“Turn it up,” Eric said. “I want to hear it.”
“Eric, there were people in those buildings. People, human beings. All they give a damn is the bomb hit the target. The people don’t mean nothing. Go in the bedroom and watch.”
Her very voice pissed him off, something in the timbre that irritated him. The special report ended and the soap opera resumed. Shirley increased the volume and stared raptly at the television.
“I’m hungry,” Eric said.
“Hush!” Shirley snapped. “I’m trying to hear this.”
“I’m hungry.”
“Go to work and buy something to eat.”
“The truck broke. Can’t work till I get it fixed. You want me to push the lawnmower house to house like a bum?”
Shirley nodded.
“Why don’t you put some clothes on?”
“Why don’t you get the air conditioner fixed?”
“You still intend to buy that rich redneck woman a car?”
“Mrs. Avery, her name. She’s not rich anymore, and yes I do.”
“Woman fired you and you wanna buy her a car?”
“She didn’t fire me. She couldn’t afford to keep me on.”
“Same difference. Tell her buy her own damn car!”
“She has to walk to work.”
“I do, too! Give her some orthopedic shoes. Why you gotta be the one buy her a car?”
Shirley didn’t answer.
He stared at her sitting on the couch, chunky legs propped up on the coffee table, attired only in a large pair of pink panties.
She reminded him of the cartoon who pitched tires on the TV commercial. Tires for a belly, chest and legs.
“Shirley, what if the boy comes in? You want him to see you naked, do you?”
“The door is locked,” not taking her eyes off the soap opera.
Not able to stomach the sight of her any longer, he got up, crossed into the kitchen and looked into the fridge. Nothing but diet food.
He slammed the door shut and picked up a box of Corn Flakes and a box of low-fat powdered milk. He rinsed out a bowl and spoon, shook out a cupful of powder, added water from the tap, and then, without stirring the lumpy concoction, poured in the flakes. He sighed and sat down at the table.
“Look, Eric! Come here, hurry up!” Shirley said. “Come quick, Count Monie just gave Lila a diamond ring.”
Eric remained in his seat. “I sure hate to miss that.”
“C’mon, hurry up!”
“Naw. My gourmet dinner might get cold.”
“Count Monie sure knows how to treat a woman. You could learn a thing or two watching him, Eric.” She paused, and then asked the question Eric knew was coming next: “How come you never romance me?”
Eric, a spoonful a few inches from his mouth, froze. Slowly he turned and gave her a hard, long look, starting first at her feet, talon-like toenails, to her linebacker-size calves, to her stomach, a series of rolls and folds. Above a double chin were thin lips, a small nose, brown marble-size eyes. Her short light-brown hair sprouted in different directions, a style Eric secretly dubbed Electric Buckwheat.
“Why you looking at me like that?” Shirley asked. He put the spoonful in his mouth and returned his attention to the bowl. “When are we getting married, Eric? When?”
He swallowed a lump of powdered milk. “Whenever you want.”
“I’m serious.”
“I’m serious, too,” and forced down another spoonful.
She stepped into the kitchen and stood behind him. He focused intently on the bowl. “Eric, why won’t you marry me?”
“Good grief, woman, I’m trying to eat here! I said I would.” She caressed his neck. “Shirley, please, you’re disturbing my digestion!”
“I need stability in my life. Daddy’s death, you know what I’m saying? I’m almost thirty-six-years old.” She kissed the top of his head. “Paul will be ten next year. He knows we’re not married.”
“When we get the money we’ll get married. Then we can have a decent wedding and honeymoon.”
Shirley pulled out a chair and sat beside him. In his periphery he could see her large breasts spilling onto the table like two water balloons.
“I’ve been doing some thinking,” she said. “If we wait till we get the money to get married, my family will think you only married me for the money. They’ll say you’re using me for the money. They’ll say you wouldna married me if not for the money. You see what I’m saying?”
“I don’t care what your family thinks. They don’t pay our bills—who cares what they think?”
“I do! I care a lot. We’ve been together the last thirteen years, then—Pow!—when I get some money we’re walking down the aisle. You see how that looks?”
