Big Cherry Holler - Adriana Trigiani [55]
By closing time, we are exhausted. Fleeta locks the door behind Reida Rankin, who bought the last few boxes of Christmas lights. “She’d stay all the night if I let her,” Fleeta says, lighting up a cigarette.
“What a day!” Pearl says as she emerges from the office.
“Who’s hungry?” Fleeta wants to know.
“I’m gonna head out,” I tell Fleeta.
“No, not yet,” she tells me firmly.
There is a knock at the front door. “Tell ’em to drop dead,” Fleeta hollers, walking back to the Soda Fountain. But it’s Iva Lou, so I let her in.
“Did you save me the cards with the Delacroix snow village on them?”
“I put the last three boxes behind the register.”
“Good girl.”
“Are you hungry?”
“Twist my arm.”
If the sales staff (Fleeta and me) is half dead, the Soda Fountain staff is worse. Otto pours himself a Coke. Worley, who ended up waiting on customers because the Future Business Leader girls got flustered, sits in a booth with his feet up.
“I’m telling ye, people was so hungry, they’d have eaten a dead rat,” Otto tells us.
“The sale made them hungry,” Pearl says.
“What are ye talkin’ about?” Fleeta asks, biting into a stale doughnut.
“When there’s a sale, folks literally salivate, their mouths water at the possibility of a bargain. They have a physical reaction. It’s exciting to get a deal, and the human body knows it.”
“That’s just fer women,” Worley says.
“No, it’s all people. Watch the men when Legg’s Auto gets the new trucks in. You’ll see,” Pearl promises.
“I thought we was gonna have a full-out fistfight ’tween the Baptists and the Methodists over them religious cards you had out two for the price of one,” Otto comments.
“The Baptists took ’em. Everybody knows the Baptists got more bite.” Fleeta puts out plates. “Well, come on, y’all. It’s buffet-style.” Fleeta has displayed all the food that is left in the Soda Fountain. There are four wedges of pie, coconut or cherry (“Yer choice,” Fleeta grunts), a plate of oatmeal cookies, two croissants with cheese, and several individual servings of Jell-O with a small star of whipped cream dead center on the squares. “The coffee’s fresh,” Fleeta says, apologizing for the hit-and-miss eats.
“You kept me hanging around for this?”
“Not exactly. This meetin’ is hereby called to order. Now, who’s gonna tell Ave what we heard up in Coeburn?” Fleeta announces. Iva Lou looks at her like she wants to throttle her.
“What did you hear?”
“Now, Ave, don’t git pissed at the messenger is all I’m a-gonna say.”
“I won’t, Fleeta.”
“All right. Here’s what we know and when we knowed it. Pearl sent me up to Norton to check on a couple of things fer her at the new store.” Fleeta looks at Pearl, who nods. “And when I was up ’ere, I done heard something. But as my mama used to say, you can put what I heard and what you heard together and hear nothin’.” I nod at Fleeta. What she says makes absolutely no sense, but it seems like she rehearsed it, so I don’t interrupt. “I got me a cousin up ’ere. I think you’ve met her. Veda Barker. Small woman. Vurry Christian woman. Well, she was over to the Coeburn town meeting, where they was talkin’ about renovations and such of the town hall up ’ere, and they announced that MR. J’s won the bid.”
“I know they won the bid on a job in Coeburn.”
“Yeah, but what you don’t know is that Kurr-en Bell got up and spoke on behalf of MR. J’s.”
“She vouched for Jack’s company. So what? She manages Luck’s Lumber; they supply MR. J’s with their materials.”
“Kurr-en Bell is after your husband. And you need to wake up.”
“Fleeta. Your tone,” Pearl says to her gently.
“What do I need to wake up about?” I ask innocently. Suddenly, I realize how wives have done this for centuries. We buy time, pretending not to know what folks are talking about when they’re talking about our husbands and how they spend their time and with whom. This pretend act will get me out of here so I can breathe and think.
“Karen Bell is going around telling folks she’s in love with your husband.