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Last night, driving down Main Street, she squinted in the darkness noting a number of improvements in the downtown area.
The sign over the double doors of Timmon’s Hardware Store had been repaired and no longer hanging askew and slightly to the right. Farther down Waylon Street, she saw the diner had been updated with a new storefront facade with the name Wayward Diner in large letters splayed across the front. She wanted to further investigate, but in the light of day and when she was fully rested, and alert.
Slipping her feet in a pair of Rothy’s and grabbing her oversized sunglasses and tote, she descended the staircase, hearing voices in the parlor where other guests were likely breaking their fast.
The smell of coffee and maple bacon lured her toward the room from whence it came. As soon as she approached the arched entryway, she came to an abrupt stop. For sitting at the oblong table was none other than an older version of what she remembered as the Pinkie Posse.
The grandmothers and mothers of the high school students Birdie had, at one time or another, pissed off.
Among other things of a questionable nature.
Conversation halted as the women stared daggers at the intrusion. Birdie. Also known for being the town’s mayor-drugging harlot.
Swallowing and lowering her chin, Birdie surreptitiously made her way to the sideboard. “Excuse me for the interruption.” She pointed at one of the chafing dishes. “I’m just going to grab a couple pieces of bacon and be on my way.”
“You missed breakfast,” Erma Jeffries said harshly, appearing to enjoy her place at the head of one side of the table, Pinkie sitting at the other.
Also present was Cora Leigh Simmons, a comparatively introverted member of the age-old clique. Her granddaughter, Mavis, also a bit of a wallflower who, in seventh grade, owned a fake fur-lined jacket that Birdie had to have.
So she took it.
Willa Mae sat on Pinkie’s left. A warm, kindhearted woman, except when it came to Birdie. Willa Mae had her son, Fisk, late in life. Fisk was a football player who was tall and muscular, his dark skin and infectious smile making all the girls stare with open mouths when he passed them in the school hallway, his letter jacket covered in athletic patches.
Supposedly, Fisk lost his virginity to Birdie. In truth, they made out in a coat closet during a house party, during which, he only made it to second base. Apparently, his side of the story made for a far more popular version, as opposed to, say, reality.
Again, Birdie went with it, refusing to deny his rendition of events when his girlfriend at the time, Sara-Lynn, called her out. Whereby Birdie had shrugged with a yawn, stating that, “She’d had better.”
Then there was Pinkie Wallensky.
Due to some unspoken understanding, to which only the Pinkie Posse was privy, she was their hallowed and revered Queen Bee. Her word was law and the others followed with unwavering loyalty.
Ironically, Birdie had admired Pinkie. Wielding so much power in such a small town, you’d think she would have used her influence for evil. She didn’t. Rather she was funny and full of hijinks. Birdie couldn’t remember the lady ever having an unkind word to say about her or to her.
Then again, she and her husband never had any children. Maybe Pinkie gave her a pass because she didn’t have any offspring who Birdie had stolen from or allegedly defiled.
Birdie’s eyes hopped between the bacon and the table full of women, whose glares dared her to touch the tongs hanging on the side of the chafing dish.
Dang it.
She couldn’t help but notice the heaping dish of bacon drizzled with what she was sure was maple syrup from Henley’s Maple Farm, just north of I-95.
Word in Wayward being that Mr. Henley had a few choice words about the elder Wellborn daughter, who had allegedly suggested sharing an illicit activity with his chaste son, Bubba Ray.
Total lie.
Bubba Ray was known as a pathological liar, pointing his pudgy finger of blame toward others when caught red-handed stealing from the Tractor Supply or the local bait store.
In one instance, he claimed it was her inappropriate gestures that had him so discombobulated, he walked right out of the bait and tackle shop in a frantic effort to salvage his innocence. He did so with a Black Bart, heavy tackle, breakfast lure in his front pocket, worth about a hundred bucks, allegedly forgetting to pay for it.
Well, how could he be punished, all things considered?
Which resulted in a late-night dare where Birdie, and some other more troublesome Wayward youth, trespassed onto the tree farm property and turned on all of the maple tree spigots.
Mr. Henley woke up the next morning to overflowing buckets of syrup, translating to several hundreds of dollars of lost revenue.
Erma arched an eyebrow. “Breakfast ended ten minutes ago.”
“But there’s a full pan of bacon…”
“Cora Leigh takes the leftovers to the Whispering Food Kitchen every Sunday. Are you seriously going to eat food meant for the poor and deprived?”
Birdie pulled back her hand as if bitten.
“Oh, no,” she said. “Of course not.”
She backed out of the room. “I’ll just get breakfast at the diner,” she said, shooting her thumb over her shoulder.
Turning and speed walking toward the door, Erma called out, “You do that. While you’re there, be sure to tell my niece, Sarah-Lynn, I said hello. She’s the owner.”
Shit.
