pooped a dribbly grayish blob onto her new green shirt. Shelly screamed and Tweety tried to take flight but became momentarily tangled in her long, curly hair. In her preadolescent panic, her brain locked up and all she could think of was the fire-safety lesson they’d all received at school the day before. So she’d stopped, dropped and rolled, with Tweety flapping madly to free himself through the stop, drop and half the roll. In the nick of time, he liberated himself from Shelly’s long locks and flew around the kitchen vocalizing his outrage as Shelly continued to roll. Tweety was completely unharmed. Shelly was not so lucky. She rolled into the corner cabinet of the Gold-mans’ brand-new kitchen island and cut her forehead, requiring three stitches. After that day, Tweety squawked loudly every time he saw Shelly, till Rachel fed him a bird cookie of some sort to calm him down. Shelly felt she deserved a cookie, not the damn bird. But all she’d gotten from the incident was a scar on her forehead, the humiliating nickname of ‘Drop and Roll’, which lasted all through junior high school, and a phobia for birds that had lasted her whole life.
Shelly quickened her pace down the road into a near-jog, till she came to a white clapboard house. She slowed, caught by its simplicity. It was a little box of a house, with a small cement front stoop, two aluminum lawn chairs on it, their webbing frayed and stringy. A thigh-high, white picket fence rimmed the tiny side and front yards. The ordinariness of the house was somehow extraordinary.
She strode on past two more houses and a one-pump gas station with an unmoving white and red barber pole outside the door. Funny little town, she thought. Not much to it. But thankfully, everything they’d needed yesterday after they’d broken down: a mechanic, a restaurant, an inexpensive but safe place to spend the night. And if any of them were interested in a quick trim, she wagered they could get it while someone filled their gas tank. She wondered what a haircut at the barbershop-cum-gas station might cost. Probably ten or fifteen bucks. Maybe less. A little thrill rippled through her, immediately followed by a horrific image of what a ten-dollar haircut might look like. She’d always gone to the most expensive hair salon in Cedar Rapids, just because she could afford it. She made a little ‘tsk’ sound. It pained her again to have to think about what everything cost. Like when she was in college or something, for crying out loud. She thought wistfully of her gleaming Italian espresso machine, enough to make any barista drool, and the imported biscotti she had nearly every morning with her first cup. Like so many other things, the machine had been sold, the standing biscotti order cancelled. She jerked open the big glass door to the restaurant, feeling angry about life in general, and birds and budgets in particular.
‘Good morning, ma’am,’ Purdy said, seeming to hold himself and the coffee pot in his left hand with undue grip as the little bell announced her entry. The aroma of coffee all but physically embraced her. Purdy was already pouring a cup, which he then offered to her, smiling. ‘You slept well, I hope?’
‘Thank you,’ she said, taking it, mustering a smile, leaving it at that. He seemed like a genuinely nice man, but if that little bell bothered him so much, why didn’t he just take it down? ‘You have no idea how much I have been looking forward to this.’ She took a sip. ‘Ahhh,’ she said, eyes closed. Yes, she would make it.
That’s how coffee always made her feel, especially lately. That caffeine alone would somehow propel her through one more day. There was no doubt that this was a drug, and she was addicted. Her new ‘budget’ (thinking the word nearly made her gag on her coffee) demanded that she forgo the double-shot lattes she’d grown accustomed to.
Still standing next to Purdy, she cupped both her hands around the mug, sipped again, and gave another satisfied sigh. She had to admit, there was something to be said for a regular cup of coffee. And in a ceramic mug, not a paper cup with a plastic lid. ‘That’s pretty good Java, Purdy.’
‘Thank you, ma’am.’ He had the most adorable smile. If smiles could be marketed, she could make some money on his.
‘I’m Shelly,’ she said, extending her hand.
He switched the coffee pot to his other hand, shook hers, gripping her whole hand, but gently. Old school. ‘Good morning, Shelly. Do you want to wait for your friends, or…?’
‘They’re both still asleep.’
He looked slightly crestfallen, but recovered quickly, then pointed to the wall. ‘Booth?’
‘Sure. Thanks.’ She slid into the same booth from dinner. Purdy, thankfully, stayed behind the bar. She needed a minute. She sipped her coffee, then picked up a menu. Grits. Yuk. Who ate corn mush for breakfast? She read on. Bacon and eggs. Waffles. Pancakes. French toast. C.C. would be in hog heaven here. But Meg was going to have a hard time. Let’s see…Shelly scanned the columns, found there was both a fruit bowl and cereal listed under ‘Side Dishes’. She doubted Purdy had soy milk to go on Meg’s bran flakes, but Meg would probably just peck at whatever food she ordered anyway.
Ahh. Lookee there, also under ‘Side Dishes’. Perfect. She set the menu down and suddenly Purdy appeared tableside, bearing the coffee pot. He was good. Been at this a while, no doubt.
‘And what can I bring you this morning?’ he asked as he refilled her mug.
‘You know, Purdy, a lightly toasted bagel with a shmear, uh, cream cheese, would absolutely light up my life right now.’
‘So be it! The light-up-your-life bagel with cream cheese.’
She wanted to reach up and pinch those bulbous, cherry cheeks. With his belly, and those big graying eyebrows, if he just had a beard and wasn’t bald, he’d make a perfect Santa. But he could grow a beard, wear a hat…
Purdy headed to the kitchen, leaving Shelly thinking about Santa. And suddenly she was thinking about Nina again. She had battled this in the car yesterday too. She knew why, though she tried to forget it. It had been her one reservation about coming on this trip. She sipped her coffee. As long as she kept her mouth shut, didn’t let anything slip to Meg and C.C., she could deal with it. But every thought of Nina stirred that deep well of anger, grown black and thick and viscous after so many years. Talking about it would be that much worse. She picked up the menu and read every word on it till her bagel arrived.
She was washing the last bite of bagel down with her third cup of coffee, when the black wall phone at the bar jangled loudly, an old-fashioned ring. Shelly noted curiously that Purdy didn’t seem so jumpy today. He strolled over and picked it up. Being the only two in the place, Shelly couldn’t help but listen.
‘Purdy here. Mornin’, son. Yes. Well, one of them is. Why?’ He glanced her way. She watched Purdy’s face registering confusion. ‘Wait. Who?’ Another long pause. ‘From where?’ Pause. ‘Kirby? Well, where’d he come across her?’ Pause. ‘Well, how’d she get there?. Never mind, I’ll just have Shelly come over.’ Another short pause, then Purdy turned toward the wall and added quietly, ‘No. She’s the tall, redheaded one. No. She’s not up yet.’ He turned, more red-faced than ever and clapped the phone back onto the wall base. Shelly picked up her menu again, using it to hide her smile.
Purdy walked back to the booth. ‘My son asked that one of you ladies come over as soon as you can. The part’s already been delivered and the guy who brought it, well, he somehow…eh, something about a runaway? Not sure what it all has to do with the alternator.’ He shrugged, then smiled. ‘Well, I’d better let Mick explain it. I don’t understand, myself.’ He shook his head, shrugged his shoulders and smiled his adorable smile again.
Intrigued, Shelly paid for her breakfast–they were keeping their food separate, but splitting all other bills–then headed out the door, the sound of the tinkling bell in her wake. She fished her large, white sunglasses out of her purse, squinting in the bright light till she had them in place. She unzipped her jacket as she walked across the road. It was warming up nicely. She passed another little Mayberryesque house as she walked toward the mechanic shop. But Mayberry turned Hitchcock as she passed by several rusting hulks of cars, and heard a soft but distinct clucking sound from somewhere within. Shelly quickened her stride, then, hearing or imagining little chicken feet pounding the road behind her, she began running to the door of the shop.