Sitting in the car now, Meg realized she should have looked at whatever it was he was writing. Probably his own list of things to take. He had known. Even then. Maybe he’d been planning to leave her for months. Years.
She gazed out at the expanse of emptiness again. She looked at the barbed-wire fence across the road, looking sharp and certain of its responsibilities. On one post was a small, metal ‘No Trespassing’ sign, a bullet hole just above the circle of the o. She wondered if the shooter had been aiming for the o, or had just taken a pot shot.
Sitting there, just past mile marker 32, Meg stared at the sign through the wet glass, and wondered if, in the end, aiming made any difference.
The small restaurant was dimly lit, but warm and cozy. Just what they all needed, C.C. decided. But she was worried when Meg and Shelly headed toward one of the three small booths along the wall. She didn’t think she’d fit. But, happily, the benches slid out. C.C. decided two things on the spot; one, that, like Meg was always telling her, she was not as fat as she thought she was; and two, that she liked this little place.
Two hours after the tow truck had rescued them, they were sitting in Purdy’s Restaurant and Bar in the tiny burg of Tupper, Illinois. Showers in their motel room (number three, like the three of them–a good omen!) had taken the worst of the chill out of them. Now, as dusk fell outside, they were warming their insides with what Shelly called Sleeping Irish–Irish coffees made with decaf. C.C. was so tired that she hadn’t realized till two sips into her very strong drink that they were staying at Purdy’s Motel, and just down the road was Purdy’s Grocery. Purdy himself had checked them in to their room. There were only four rooms; one of these Purdy had indicated he lived in (‘should you need anything, night or day’). Then he had insisted on carrying all their luggage from Mick’s Garage and Auto Sales, across and down the dirt Main Street to their room. By the time all of their luggage, mostly C.C.’s, had been delivered, the portly Purdy was red-faced and puffing, but strangely beaming. C.C. had tried to offer him a tip, but he had refused, just stood there, looking every which way but at her. Finally, he’d said that maybe they’d like to freshen up and then come over to his restaurant for dinner. Slightly embarrassed at the looks the other two gave her, C.C. had replied yes, they would probably do that. She refrained from pointing out that there didn’t seem to be anywhere else in Tupper that they could get dinner.
Purdy now appeared at their booth, bearing a small cast-iron pan of hot cornbread, and three small plates. ‘The bread’s on the house, ladies. Sorry your trip down south got detoured, but we’re very glad to have you here.’ That’s odd, thought C.C., as Purdy set everything on the table. They hadn’t mentioned anything about their destination when they’d checked in. Evidently Mick had told him. Mick and Purdy probably constituted the entire business district of Tupper.
‘S’cuse me, uh, ma’am…’ Purdy reached across the table and picked up a squeeze bottle of honey from between the napkin holder and a small glass pitcher of syrup. C.C. felt her cheeks redden, though she wasn’t sure why. He held the bottle up so they could all see the label:
Minding Our Bees’ Nests
Fresh Illinois Honey
‘I can personally recommend this honey for my cornbread,’ he said. ‘We–uh, I, tend the hives myself.’ He looks like a TV pitchman, thought C.C., quickly hiding her smile. Not quickly enough, she realized when Purdy darted a quick smile back at her, then looked away.
Not that kind of smile. Was it? No, of course not. She looked at her hands, wrapped around the ceramic mug. The warmth on her palms matched the warmth in her cheeks. Oh, she was just being silly, was all.
‘This’s real good on the cornbread,’ said Purdy. C.C. glanced up, relieved to see he was looking at Meg. His ruddy cheeks formed small balls under his blue eyes, a disarming dimple in his left cheek. He turned toward her again. Dimples in both cheeks, she saw. He held the honey before her like a maître d’ holding a bottle of wine for inspection. ‘See, it’s got a touch of cinnamon in it,’ he said, tapping his finger on the label. ‘But you got your syrup too,’ he added, pointing it out on the table, next to the napkin holder. ‘If you prefer that route. My wife, may she rest in peace, was partial to syrup. But I myself like the honey. Ma’am?’ He offered C.C. the honey, his eyebrows held aloft expectantly, wiry white caterpillars stopped mid-march.
C.C. looked down again, gingerly touched her hair. She then looked at the honey, keeping her eyes focused on the little bees on the label. ‘Well, being from the south originally, I do like syrup on cornbread. But I’ll give the honey a try. The cinnamon sounds good.’ She couldn’t help a quick glance across the table. Meg was doing that cheek-chewing thing she did when she was trying not to smile. Shelly was not so restrained; she had a smirk a mile wide and was staring right at her. C.C. was deathly afraid Shelly would make some wisecrack. But, bless her heart, she kept mum.
Oh, you’re acting crazier than a sprayed roach! It was all C.C. could do not to slap herself. Mum about what? Really. C.C. took the bottom of the honey bottle in her hand, looking at the cute illustrations of happy bees on the label. But Purdy still held the top of the bottle, his eyes locked on hers.
‘Thank you,’ said C.C., pulling slightly on the bottle. Purdy didn’t let go. ‘Um…’
He must have thought she didn’t remember his name, because he stuck out his free hand, still holding the bottle in the other. C.C. gave him her free hand, not releasing the bottle either, since he hadn’t. It was an awkward shake, her hand too warm from being wrapped around her coffee mug, his cool and a little clammy.
‘I’m Purdy. Everyone calls me Purdy,’ he said, still holding her hand.
‘C.C.,’ said C.C., wondering what in the hell was going on. They sat there, neither letting go of the honey, and Purdy not letting go of her hand. The bell on the front door rang and two men, laughing loudly, stepped in. Purdy startled visibly, and gasped. He let go of her hand, but appeared not to realize he still held the honey.
‘S’okay, Purdy. Just us,’ said a tall, thin man dressed in overalls, a younger man with him, who had to be his son, dressed alike, hair combed with grease alike. They quieted immediately and looked contrite. Purdy gave the men a slight wave. C.C. saw that Meg and Shelly were also looking back and forth between the men and Purdy. Those men acted as if they’d walked too noisily into a library, rather than a restaurant.
She looked at Purdy. He was pale. He slowly turned his attention back to the table, his face quickly pinking. But he still hadn’t let go of the bottle of honey. In fact, if anything, he had a tighter hold on it. And now C.C. too had been holding on for so long that she wasn’t sure how to let go. Plus, she wanted it. On her cornbread. She was feeling rather possessive of it.
Not knowing what else to do, too embarrassed to look at either of her friends or this odd, jumpy man standing there at the other end of her honey bottle, she studied each letter of ‘Minding Our Bees’ Nests’. She smiled, realizing for the first time the pun in the name. ‘That’s a cute name,’ she said, still mulling over her options–letting go of the honey bottle that had been, after all, offered to her. Or pull again, harder. But she immediately felt the blush rising in her cheeks as she realized with a cringe that the last thing spoken before she’d made her comment, was Purdy telling them his name. Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph! She’d just sounded like she’d said Purdy was a cute name! She