Carbs & Cadavers Read online

  Brinkley puffed out his chest. “For most touchdown passes thrown? No way. No one’s going to do that, but hopefully some Cougar necks will get broken!”

  The men at the countertop applauded. The one sitting in front of James reached around and enthusiastically clapped him on the back, pinning him in place. James was contentedly stuck in the midst of the townsfolk’s camaraderie and anticipation. Normally, he would be uncomfortable being in the middle of the crowd, but everyone seemed to accept his presence as natural. James smiled shyly at the men and women seated around him. Then Whitney returned, bearing plates of meatloaf with sides of mashed potatoes swimming in brown gravy for all. Brinkley once again tried to get her attention, but she continued to ignore him.

  “So you think we might win tonight?” a woman asked Brinkley as she waited for her meal to cool.

  “Yes ma’am,” Brinkley nodded and then smiled and raised his voice, his eyes boring into Whitney’s turned back. “I’ve been looking forward to this game all season. I think we’re due this game. Sometimes it’s just time to pay the piper, know what I mean?”

  The woman beamed at him. “So you think our boys are going to get lucky?”

  “Sure.” Brinkley shrugged. “I plan to get lucky pretty soon. Right, Whit?” He laughed.

  The sexual implication was lost on the woman, but several of the men at the counter guffawed heartily and exchanged high-fives with one another. The pleasant spell James had been under was instantly broken by the men’s coarse response. He felt embarrassed for Whitney and gave Brinkley his most disapproving stare. The young man turned and returned James’s look with a flippant grin.

  As Brinkley passed James, he leaned over and spoke so that only James could hear. “I bet you’ve never had a girl like that. Maybe it’s because you look like you swallowed a few watermelons.” Then he gave James a patronizing pat on the belly and moved back toward the booth where the football players and his meatloaf waited.

  Trembling with anger, James watched as the boys held out a playbook for Brinkley to examine. They had obviously asked the former player to join them in order to review their plays for the night, and anyone could see that the boys viewed Brinkley as a living legend.

  More and more people crammed themselves into the diner. James had had enough of both the crowd and of the gross display of hero worship for such an obnoxious young man. By the time James could finally squeeze himself out the door, with people pushing past him to get in, every seat had been taken. He suddenly noticed that there were no children present at Dolly’s, but once he stepped outside he realized why. All of the children and their parents were continuing to march down Main Street. Curious as to their destination and seeking something to buoy his spirits after Brinkley’s disparaging remarks, James followed alongside them.

  At the edge of town, one of the side streets had been blocked off and a miniature amusement park had been erected. James spotted a petting zoo, pony rides, popcorn and cotton candy machines, as well as several thrill rides, including a tiny roller coaster and a spinning ride that was guaranteed to make the kids who overindulged on cotton candy good and sick. There was also a row of carnival games where parents could spend inordinate amounts of money in order for their child to win a stuffed animal worth a fraction of the cost of the game.

  James watched a little girl run up to a female clown wearing an enormous blue and white polka-dotted bow tie and floppy pink shoes and politely ask for a balloon animal. The clown smiled silently, nodding in agreement, and then made a grand show of blowing up and twisting a yellow balloon into the shape of a poodle. The little girl was thrilled and James watched her run back into her parents’ arms with a tinge of envy. He wondered if he would ever have the opportunity to experience fatherhood.

  James lingered around the children a bit longer, not wanting to return to the quiet of his house and the grumblings of his father. Finally, he strolled back down Main Street toward the parking lot where he had left his car. The street was littered with a variety of small trash from bubble gum wrappers to cigarette butts, but James knew that the town’s maintenance crew would restore cleanliness and order before the day was out. After all, weekends meant the arrival of horse people and tourists, the main economic infusion for Quincy’s Gap. The horse people would compete in local shows or purchase animals from one of the Quincy’s Gap horse farms while the tourists would visit the Civil War sites, historic homes, and apple orchards, or simply drive through the countryside in order to view the vibrant foliage. With the golden sunlight streaming through the pear trees and the carnival atmosphere pulsing in the air, James was feeling more at peace with his hometown than at any other time since his return.

  Back at home, Jackson had locked himself in his shed as usual and had closed all the shades so that James had no idea what he was up to. James didn’t even bother telling his father that he was home. He doubted the old man would even notice until dinnertime. He fixed himself some decaf, settled on the davenport to read, and then briefly considered attending the football game. James wasn’t very interested in sports, but it might be a topic of conversation at tomorrow night’s supper club and James didn’t want to appear uninvolved in one of the autumn’s biggest events. Then again, he decided that since he was almost done reading his book and that it was sure to be cold at the game, he might as well stay put.

  After a peaceful afternoon reading and munching on cheese puffs—he easily polished off a jumbo-sized bag—James decided to cook a hearty pot of stew for dinner. As he was peeling carrots his father shuffled wearily in the back door. Ignoring James, Jackson fixed himself a cup of coffee and headed into the den. The sound of the television filled the silence. After some channel surfing, Jackson found a rerun of Family Feud.

  James sighed in annoyance. When the stew was ready, he brought a bowl in to his father and placed it on a TV tray. Jackson never turned his face away from the screen. His eyes were red and puffy as if he had not slept well recently.

  “What are you doing out there all day, Pop?” James asked in concern.

  Instead of answering, Jackson pointed at James’s shirt. “You got orange stuff all over you again.”

  James looked down at the familiar orange dust. “It’s from the cheese puffs. It was my last bag. I’m going to start a diet on Sunday.”

  His father shook his head in disbelief and then focused on the television once more. “Stupid, stupid,” he muttered, and James didn’t know whether he was referring to the contestants, who couldn’t seem to get any of the answers right, or to his son, who couldn’t seem to get anything right either.

  James went to the early church service. He hadn’t been to church in years and he felt like an imposter sitting in the polished pews among the genuinely devout members of the congregation. At least they all appeared to be genuinely devout. None of them seemed to have James’s problem of being distracted from the droning words of the sermon by the scenes of the apostles depicted in the glorious stained glass windows or by the coughing of the man in the front pew. It was a wet, racking cough, filled with phlegm, and James was certain that at any moment, the man’s entire lung would be deposited in the hand that he was using to cover his mouth while he coughed. The sermon was entitled “How You Can Be More Giving,” and James thought he really should pay attention, but he had already given up so much in order to care for his father and he felt that the level of gratitude being shown to him by his remaining parent was greatly wanting.

  As the sermon wore on, James felt the roof of his mouth grow exceedingly dry. He slid down the pew so that he could reach a hand into his pants pocket without obviously doing so. Deep inside that pocket, nestled in a collection of loose change and keys, was a mint. Just as James began the agonizingly slow unwrapping of the mint, pausing each time his fingers created too much noise in untwisting its crinkly casing, the minister paused for a moment of prayer.

  James stopped working at the mint’s stubborn wrapper and instantly sat up, afraid that the worshippers seated beside h
im would realize that he had been caught unawares that the sermon had concluded. As he jerked his body upwards, the loose coins in his pocket spilled out onto the pew and rolled on the floor. James thought that the echoed tinkling of his falling coins could surely be heard in China. Several of the old ladies seated in front of him slowly pivoted around in order to give him reproachful glances.

  Stooping to collect his change, not because he wanted the money but because he wanted to hide the red flush of embarrassment that had crept up his neck and covered his fleshy cheeks, James was prevented from seeing that the collection plate had arrived at his pew. Just as he straightened up, his fist closed around the wayward coins, his neighbor held out the large brass plate to him.

  Here is my chance to redeem myself, James thought, smiling. He would put a generous contribution into the offering plate and then no one would pay him any more attention. He pulled out his wallet from his back pocket and opened it hastily, aware that his neighbor was still holding out the heavy plate. Her friendly looks soon rearranged themselves into confused ones, and these would soon make way for looks of irritation if James did not produce some money quickly. To his horror, only two singles lay tucked in the folds of his wallet. James had forgotten to go to the bank! And naturally, his checkbook was at home. He only used checks to pay bills, so he never carried it on his person.

  Looking around wildly, he finally accepted the plate from his neighbor, who continued to pointedly wait for James to place his money in the plate. In fact, James had taken so long that people all around his pew began looking at him. The hymn, which was usually repeated three times during the collection, had now begun its fourth repetition. Whispering began. In a panic, James pulled out the two singles and folded them into a roll, hoping that his neighbors would be fooled into believing there were bills of a higher notation within the roll. At the last second, he unceremoniously plopped in his loose change as well.

  As he handed the plate off, he felt as if the skin on his face had caught fire. The man he handed the plate to shook his head in what James felt was a very un-Christian display of disgust, and the service mercifully continued. James was so flummoxed during the final hymn that he sang louder than he should have and continued to attract odd glances from those seated nearby.

  When the service finally ended, James decided to make a hasty break for the door and vowed to wait to until at least Christmas, or possibly not until Easter, before returning to church. Just when James thought he might safely reach the exit doors, Dolly appeared out of the blue and hooked her arm in his.

  “Why, Professor Henry!” she exclaimed as if she hadn’t seen him in years. “I don’t think I saw you at the game last night.”

  “No, I didn’t make it,” James stammered.

  “Oh! You missed quite a show! Blue Ridge won, don’t you know? And guess how close the score was?”

  “I can’t imagine. One touchdown?” James asked, looking longingly at the front door, which was receding as Dolly tugged him in the opposite direction.

  “Not even! There was only one field goal separating us from glory!” Dolly gushed as she cut a swathe through the group of parishioners with her protrusive bosom and maneuvered James toward the refreshment table where several ladies were removing coffee cakes from white bakery boxes and cutting them into neat squares. “Now, Professor, you’ve just got to try Megan’s coffee cake. It is simply out of this world!” Dolly collected a plate and fork and handed them over to James. “You know, Megan owns the Sweet Tooth, the candy store and bakery. I don’t think it was open yet when you were visiting last Christmas. And,” she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “she’s single, but she’s got a daughter,” Dolly plowed on. “Not to worry, the girl’s out of high school. Should be living on her own by now but . . . do you like kids?”

  James cut off an enormous piece of coffee cake with his plastic fork and hastily shoveled it into his mouth, guaranteeing that he would be unable to reply without illustrating bad manners. However, he was unprepared for the savory sensation of that bite of coffee cake. All at once, he tasted brown sugar, almonds, vanilla, and a powerfully strong jolt of sugary icing. Relishing every chew, he had to close and re-open his eyes for a moment to make sure that he hadn’t actually died and been sent straight to coffee cake heaven.

  “Good, huh? I told you, honey.” Dolly punched James playfully in the arm. “That woman can bake!” She lowered her voice again. “Now I hear she can’t actually cook worth a damn—just sweets—but you two could work that out. Lemme introduce you.”

  James finished his coffee cake in three bites and then made a big show of checking his watch. Thankfully, it was 11:45, time for him to head over to Lindy’s.

  “I can’t right now, Dolly,” he pointed at his watch. “I’m actually supposed to meet someone at noon.”

  Dolly was immediately interested. “Oh ho! And who is this someone?” she demanded, refusing to release his arm.

  James did not want to offend Dolly, and he could hardly drag himself away while she physically restrained him, so he looked around for a distraction. Not seeing any behavior worthy of repetition at the diner tomorrow, James had to make up something on the spot.

  “Is that Clint over there, talking to Luanne Lovett?” he asked slyly.

  That did it. Dolly swiveled her head back and forth like an owl. Luanne Lovett was a celebrated flirt. Having just divorced her third husband, she was said to be on the prowl for number four. With a Rubenesque body and a pretense of girlish naivety, which women could instantly see through but men somehow could not, Luanne had become a threat to marriages throughout the county. James hadn’t actually seen either Clint or Luanne, but he knew that Dolly would forget about her matchmaking the second she heard the vixen’s name. Dolly dashed forward into the mingling crowd and James was free to make his escape.

  Driving to Lindy’s, he reflected that he was lucky to have eaten that wonderful coffee cake before officially starting his diet. From now on, he would stick to whatever foods his new friends determined they could all eat and still lose weight. At the next red light, James checked his reflection in the rearview mirror. He brushed some coffee cake crumbs from the front of his shirt and chuckled. He would never succeed in losing weight if he were involved with the owner of a bakeshop.

  Lindy’s house was a small gray bungalow within walking distance of Blue Ridge High. The yard was colorful, with a square of green lawn, neatly trimmed shrubs, a bed bursting with raspberry asters, and a grouping of ochre-colored chrysanthemums set in purple and red ceramic pots astride the front door. Several other cars were parked along the curb in front of Lindy’s house, and the sight of a tan Jeep and a mail truck made James nervous for a moment. Lindy seemed nice enough, but what would the other members of the group be like? Would they like him, a divorced librarian?

  Suddenly, James felt like retreating. He had never been very good at making new friends. In Williamsburg, he had left his social life in the hands of his capable wife. Most of his friends were just spouses of her friends, but they had all gotten along just fine. Now that he was on his own, he worried that he had little to offer this group of strangers.

  Before he could entertain any more second thoughts, a car pulled up behind his truck. The car’s front bumper was so close to the back of his Bronco that he was effectively boxed in. There was no turning back now. A woman with what James could only describe as a bird’s nest of orange hair stepped out of the compact sedan and waved at him.

  “I’m Gillian!” she called, walking up to him with hurried steps. “You must be James Henry.”

  They shook hands. Gillian ran her fingers through her tangled locks and gestured toward the house. “Shall we?”

  James followed behind, noting that Gillian had a barrel-shaped torso carried about by a pair of trim and shapely legs. Her billowy tent shirt and tight purple leggings emphasized the fact that she was as wide in the waist as she was in the hips. On top of the oversized shirt, Gillian had arranged two flimsy sha
wls in bright purple and blue with strands of sparkling silver threads running through them. These hung far down her expansive back and followed in her wake like two kite tails. Gillian was like a walking rainbow with her orange hair, aquamarine eyes, sapphire shirt, and purple leggings. James had never seen anyone like her before. She reminded him of pictures he had seen of hippies dancing at Woodstock, except that all of those hippies were waif-thin and Gillian, with the exception of her legs, was not.

  Gillian rang the doorbell. Inside the house, Lindy called out, “Come on in!” so James and Gillian obeyed. Lindy met them in her tiny front hall carrying a bowl of potato chips. James eyed them hungrily.

  “Chips?” Gillian immediately frowned. “I thought we were starting a diet.”

  “These are baked, not fried. And anyway, we haven’t decided which diet we’re doing so we’re just having sandwiches for lunch.” Lindy turned her friendly smile toward James. “Lucy and Bennett are already here. I’ve just laid out bread and lunch meat on the kitchen counter, so we’ll fix ourselves sandwiches and then get down to brass tacks.”

  As James walked into the kitchen, a short and stocky black man with a toothbrush mustache and close-cropped hair stopped spreading mayo on his bread and held out his hand to James. “Bennett Marshall, U.S. Postal Service carrier. Pleased to meet you.”

  “You too. James Henry, uh, librarian.”

  Bennett cocked an eyebrow. “But some of your mail reads ‘Professor,’ doesn’t it?”

  “Ah . . . yes it does.” James looked over Bennett’s shoulder at a pear-shaped woman wearing a plaid flannel shirt over black pants, which were clearly straining against her wide hips and thighs. Her shirt looked oversized, as if she were trying to hide a large chest, but the shape of her ample breasts was as apparent as two loaves of bread extending out of a plastic grocery bag. She was busy folding three slices of turkey on top of a piece of bread and did not notice James studying her. She had shoulder-length hair the color of melted caramel and when she eventually raised her eyes to meet his, James was rather astonished by their unusual shade of blue. They reminded him of bachelor’s buttons, his mother’s favorite flower. James felt the something stir inside as he gazed at Lucy, but he quickly looked away so that she would not know what he was feeling.