CHAPTER SIX
STERLING
I’ve been trying to figure out how to compare downtown Fall Springs to New York City. Momma and I walk a few blocks, and I don’t see one yellow cab amongst the sprinkling of art galleries, restaurants, and locally owned shops. No one is yelling. No women are teetering in stilettos. There are no three-piece suits. Of course, there aren’t any hot men in sight, either. I wonder if Rorke Weston is the last hot man in south Alabama.
My momma knows me too well, so she knows when a man is on my mind, saying, “Haven’t seen Rorke hanging around the past few days. You scare him off?”
“Rorke and I are just friends.”
“I saw the way he was looking at you the other night. That boy loves you, Sterling Grace.”
Good God, she’s pulling out the middle name. “He hasn’t seen me in like ten years. He doesn’t love me.”
“I swear, you ain’t got the good sense God gave you when it comes to men.”
“And you could start an argument in an empty house,” I say, smiling that I thought of a good southern comeback. She laughs, her red hair whipping up in the breeze. “Now, come on. We’re supposed to be shopping for something for Daddy for your anniversary.”
We wander in and out of the various shops and stores, have lunch, laugh, and have some long-needed mom and daughter time. Momma doesn’t find anything for Daddy, and I try my hardest to get her to let me buy her something new to wear. I’ve got my big gift planned, but she doesn’t have a clue.
“That man is so hard to shop for,” she says. “Maybe we should’ve driven to the outlets or into Mobile.”
“What about new fishing stuff?” I suggest.
“I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“Hmm, Daddy only likes fishing and you,” I say, laughing.
Her eyes light up, pulling me by the hand and stopping right outside a clothing store. “They have lingerie.”
“Oh no,” I say. “You’ll have to do that one alone.”
“It’s all very tasteful. None of that trashy stuff—although your daddy likes the . . .”
“Gross!” I cry, plugging my ears with my fingers.
“The best way to inspire a man is with leather or lace,” she says. “Whenever I have bad news to give your daddy, I wear a sexy little number. Makes it go down easier.”
“Dear God, stop!” I cry.
Rolling her eyes, she steps inside. I look around, seeing a familiar bookstore across the street. It’s one of those fabulous old stores that always have hidden gems. It’s the perfect place to wait.
I wander in and let my fingers crawl over the old spines. I don’t know what I’m looking for. I’m just letting the book find me. My hand stops. A Good Man is Hard to Find.
A truer thing has never been spoken or written. Pulling it out, I skim through the pages. It’s obvious Rorke is on my mind. This was the assignment he gave his class. Maybe I should buy this for him. Quickly, I put it back. Am I crazy? Buying him a gift would encourage him, and I don’t want that. I know he thinks there’s something between us, and maybe there is, but I don’t fit into his life, and I never could.
I continue my hunt, but keep getting distracted. Each book I come across seems to take me back to a different time, like old songs do. You can remember where you were, what was going on in your life when you heard it or read it. My fingers graze Ferdinand the Bull. Momma must have read that to me a thousand times when I was little.
The Outsiders. That was my favorite in junior high. I pull out Wuthering Heights, one I must’ve read three or four times my freshman year. Then there’s Sylvia Plath’s A Bell Jar. Read that one during a breakup. Not the best idea.
“Perhaps you need something with a happy ending, dear?” a voice full of wisdom says, holding out a book to me.
She’s standing right beside me, but at least seven inches lower. She’s a tiny little thing, barely five feet and probably not even eighty pounds. Why do wise people always seem to be short? I mean, there’s Yoda and Jiminy Cricket.
“Ms. Mirabelle,” I say, recognizing her. “It’s Sterling, Deacon and Mrs. Jamison’s daughter. I used to come to your puppet shows when I was a little girl.”
“Oh, my goodness,” she says, taking hold of my hand, her skin feeling thin, like a really old t-shirt worn too much. “You grew up.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say. “I live in New York now. I’m just visiting for the summer.”
“Oh, I know,” she says, leaning in and whispering, “I have that little doohickey you invented. I got the pink one.”
Okay, so senior citizens aren’t my biggest demographic. But they are growing in sales. Still, I didn’t need to know that the lady who used to read me The Little Engine that Could—now can!
“Thank you,” I say politely.
“Have to support our local daughter, that’s what I say.” She pats my back, and I start searching the shelves for a book.
Frankly, her store is a disaster. There’s no order at all. And you can forget the Dewey Decimal System. I think that was invented after Ms. Mirabelle. “You should come to book club next week,” she says. “It’s a nice group of women.”
“What’s the book?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” she says, laughing. “We never actually discuss the book. It’s more about the wine, the food, the gossip.”
“Sounds fun,” I say, worrying I might be the gossip.
“We’d love to have you,” she says. “How are your folks? It was a shame the way they treated your momma and daddy over at the church. They should be ashamed of themselves.”
I raise my brow. “What happened at church?”
She points out to the store across the street. I can see my momma through the lingerie store window, her hands moving around. I’d know that jerking hand movement anywhere. She’s letting someone have it.
“Thank you, Ms. Mirabelle,” I say, rushing towards the door.
“Let me know if you want that happy ending!” she says, shaking the book at me a little.
Nodding and giving her a little wave, I fly out the door. Dodging a car, I cross the street, pulling open the door to the store.
“You bitch, talk about my daughter again, and I’ll rip every cheap extension out of your head!”
“Momma!” I cry.
As a hairdresser, there is no greater insult for Momma to give than to dog someone’s locks. Putting my arm around her, I glance over at her victim, recognizing her from the ball game. She’s dressed impeccably in what looks like something out of the latest preppy catalog. Has this woman not heard of leggings or yoga pants? Her hair is perfect, but someone really ought to tell her that orange lipstick is not her color.
“Mrs. Jamison, perhaps it’s best if you go,” the store owner says.
Momma looks down at the counter. She had all kinds of stuff picked out.
“We’ll just pay and then be on our way,” I say.
“I think you both should just go,” the preppy lady says, with a look and tone I’m all too familiar with. The we don’t want your cheap kind here attitude.
Enough with the judgments. I mean, men judge us on the size of our boobs. Society judges us left and right. Women judge each other based on our clothes, how we raise our children, our bodies. But everyone can just stop because no one is harder on a woman than she is on herself. A woman is the single most self-deprecating creature God ever created. We can beat ourselves up for a decision we made a decade ago. Hell, we even blame ourselves for things that had nothing to do with us.
For the life of me, I can’t figure out why we can’t lift each other up, especially woman to woman. But this woman doesn’t have a positive intention in her body. And she messed with the wrong woman when she messed with my momma.
Turning to face her, I hold her cold eyes. “I could buy this whole damn town ten times over.”
“I know who you are,” she says. “This is my sister’s shop, so you should go.”
I turn to the shop owner. “Is my money not good here?”
“I think it’s better if you go.”
Pulling out my phone, I dial my attorney. “I need you to find out if a building is for sale. I want to buy it.” I give him the address then hang up with a smug smile. Now the truth of the matter is, Alabama has had a long and litigious history with sex toys. Back in the late nineties, the state passed a law banning the sale of vibrators. Apparently, the Constitution of the Great State of Alabama does not protect our right to orgasms. Seriously, it’s the world’s first selfie stick. What’s the problem?
“I suggest you pack your shit,” I tell the owner.
The preppy bitch steps up. “You don’t want to do that.”
“I don’t know who you are,” I say, “but you shouldn’t have messed with my mother.”
“I’m Mrs. Quaid,” she says like I should’ve known.
The name is familiar. Those must have been her boys that Rorke had trouble with. Runs in the family, I guess.
“I’m on the school board, the church board, and my husband sits on the city council.”
“And someone needs to take a board and shove it up your ass,” I say.
“Sterling, let’s go,” my momma says.
“How dare you speak to me like that!” she cries.
“Oh honey, I bet you enjoy taking it up your ass,” I snark.
“You got a toy for that, too?” she asks smugly.
“Thanks,” I say. “I’ll make a few million off that idea.”
“If you don’t leave,” she says, “we’re going to call the cops.”
“And my crime is?”
“That’s between you and God,” she says.
“Sterling,” Momma says. “You deal with clits, not cunts. Let’s go.”
Mrs. Quaid absorbs my momma’s words and looks like she’s about to pass out.
Laughing, Momma and I waltz out of the store arm-in-arm. “So why didn’t you tell me the whole town thinks we’re a bunch of pervs?”
“They’re just jealous you’re living in high cotton.”
“What did she say in there?” I ask. “You don’t get like that for no reason.”
“She was whispering trash about you.”
“That much I got. What did she say exactly?”
“It’s not important,” Momma says. “I can handle the whispers when it’s about me, but not about my daughter.”
Right then, a police officer steps in front of us. “Would you ladies mind coming down to the station with me? I’ve got a few questions.”
*
So we weren’t actually arrested, but I think that’s only because the Sheriff is my old cheerleading stunt partner. Guess he figured he’d give me a pass since I’d regularly caught him sneaking looks up my skirt. Still, we’re sitting in the police station after being warned about creating a public disturbance. Apparently, Mrs. Quaid took it upon herself to remind the Sheriff of that local anti-vibrator law that’s still on the books. Good thing he knows there’s not enough jail space to ever enforce that one.
Momma’s not handling the big house so well. She thought she was only getting one phone call and called Daddy. And from the look on his face right now, he’s blaming me for our close call in the joint. Disappointment doesn’t begin to describe the look in his eyes. For a deacon, he sure can give a death stare.
“Daddy, let me explain.”
“Home, right now!”
“It’s not her fault,” Momma says. “It was that God-awful woman, Mrs. Quaid.”
“I heard all about it. I also heard she didn’t say one cuss word. That was left to my wife and daughter.”
“Daddy, she started in on Momma.”
“I know that. But you have to be better than that, Sterling. I raised you better than this. And with what you do, people are looking for a reason to call you trash, and you just gave them one.”
The air leaves my chest like he just hit me. I guess he did. He’s a man that doesn’t usually say much, but when he does, it’s usually important. I decide to let my silence speak this time, walking straight out the police station. They try to stop me, but I tell them, as usual, it’s best if I’m alone, and I’ll see them at home.