17. Grady
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Grady
The screen door on Uncle Wade’s double-wide trailer shakes when I pound on it. I know he’s home. His pickup sits crooked in the dirt lane, and the store isn’t open. Still, it takes four knocking sessions before I hear movement inside. The inner door swings open.
“What?” he demands, looking as scraggily as ever.
“It’s the afternoon,” I say. “What’re you still doing in bed?”
“Sleeping, jackass.”
He sweeps his long gray hair back, picks a cigarette from the pack in his pocket, and lights up. “What do you want, Grady?”
Stubborn defiance, a Tripp family trait, rises within me. I don’t want to be here. My father would be pissed. Every family has a black sheep. The Tripps have Wade.
Asking him for a favor goes against everything I know, my very DNA, and all logic.
But I don’t know where else to turn.
He steps out of his trailer—the first in a long string at The Marshes—and blows smoke in my face. “Well? Are you lost, or is someone dead?”
“I need something,” I say, pushing the words out in a breath.
His scruffy, horseshoe mustache bends up in satisfaction. “Hell must’ve frozen over.”
“Feels like it.”
“What do you want?” he asks again, with more irritation.
“A job. For a friend. For Marina. The girl from the?—”
His laughter cuts me off. “Christie! Roy! Get out here! You won’t believe this.”
Shit, I think, as his buddies emerge from their neighboring trailers.
Even so, long-forgotten memories of them kick off in my head. They’ve been fixtures in Wade’s life for as long as I can remember. At the store, Roy used to challenge me and my brothers in hot dog eating contests. He always won—we couldn’t stop laughing at him long enough to eat. Christie taught me to bait a hook on the dock overlooking the swamp, and we’d fish while he carried his young daughter, Wren, around in a pouch against his chest. Once, when things were difficult between Wade and my dad, Christie acted as a calming presence between them and assured me that my uncle was “rough around the edges but soft in the middle.” I only hope there’s still truth in it.
“Oh, hey, Grady,” Christie greets, flashing his hot pink fingernails and pulling the ends of a pink terrycloth robe together.
“Somebody dead?” Roy asks, his basketball belly reaching us before he does. He scratches what little hair he has left and scrubs a hand over his gray stubble.
“No one’s dead,” I try again now that Wade’s advisors have arrived. “But this concerns the G&G?—”
“They help me run the store,” Wade defends.
“ All of you work there now?” I ask. I only remember them hanging out there, not working.
“We’re part-timers. I was a lineman for Duke Power for over twenty-five years, till I fell off a pole. I’m retired. Disability,” Roy says, looking offended.
“My job is life,” Christie says whimsically. “Want to come in for tea or a cocktail?”
“Nope—he’s not staying. Roy, go get a six-pack.” Wade’s gray eyes burrow into me. “As you can see, I’m fully staffed. You’ve got a business. Your dad’s got a farm. Why don’t y’all hire her?”
I wave my hand toward his forgotten business. “This is more her… vibe. I think.”
“Who’s vibe?” Roy asks, his trailer door swinging shut behind him.
“Marina’s.”
“Aw, Valentine’s baby? How is she?” Christie coos. “She wants a job? Here?”
“Are we talking about the chick Grady nearly killed in that car wreck?” Roy clarifies, handing each of them a Miller Lite. They crack the cans open and take long gulps in unison.
“That’s the one,” Wade burps. “We don’t need help, and why would you even bother asking me?”
“Forget it,” I say, heading toward my truck. “This place is a lost cause. And so are you.”
“Grady! Get back here.” Wade’s stern voice sounds like Dad’s, freezing me in place. “You dragged me from bed. At least explain yourself.”
He flicks his cigarette into a puddle.
Christie ushers me into the huddle with an encouraging smile on his long face.
“Give us the full story. What’ve you got to lose?” Christie says encouragingly. Behind him, his daughter Wren exits the trailer and sits on the front steps, holding a book.
“Fine. The car accident not only hurt her but cost her a car, her wedding day, her fiancé, and her job. Now, she’s stuck working at the funeral home, all because of me.”
“Marnie’s at the funeral home?” Wren winces. “That must hurt her positive energy.”
“Definitely,” I say.
“Oh, Marnie’s too cheerful and friendly for that,” Christie agrees. “And too creative. I loved her displays in Sunny’s gazebo.”
“She’s wasting away in a dead-end job because she has no better option. I believe the G&G could give her purpose and hope again.”
“Despite appearances, I ain’t running a rehabilitation center here,” Wade argues. “Take your stray dog somewhere else.”
“Ah, Wade. She’s not a dog,” Christie argues in a hurt tone. “She’s a lioness .”
I don’t know what to say to that. “Um, there is nowhere else. I’ve called every grocery store, retailer, and market within twenty miles. They’re either not hiring or only filling managerial positions from within. She’d have to start at minimum wage, a heinous joke. She needs more and deserves better for the ten years she’s put in.”
“She won’t find better here,” Wade counters, motioning to the G&G down the lane.
The large convenience store looks so rundown that it might as well be abandoned. The outside is littered with nonsensical junk. The large gravel parking lot butts up against the swamp, where a short dock looks more likely to hold sunbathing alligators than people. Since no one’s working there at noon on a Saturday, the only sign of life is a blinking neon sign in the window that says PEN as the O has burnt out.
“Make her manager, and she’ll turn this heap into a profitable business again,” I say, hoping it’s true.
“How intriguing,” Christie beams, turning toward his daughter. “Wren tells me Marnie practically ran Sunny’s. All the beautiful displays were her ideas. Plus, she’s done wonders for Wren’s social skills, though no one should be forced to smile so much.”
“It hurts my face,” Wren says.
“I know, honey,” Christie returns.
“I can’t afford a manager,” Wade snaps after a long belch.
“I’ll fund her salary. She should’ve sued me. At least this way, she’ll get something back for what I’ve taken from her. All you have to do is let her be the manager, put her on your payroll, and give her freedom to change this place.”
“I don’t like changes,” he huffs.
“We like things just the way they are,” Roy tacks on. “We don’t want any lassie coming in here with her curtains, flowers, and girly things.”
“Hey!” Wren groans, glancing up from her book.
“Pretty things aren’t girly , Roy, just like trucks aren’t manly . We talked about this,” Christie pipes in. “Did you see her Father’s Day grill display? It was stunning.”
“Marina turns the mediocre into the magnificent,” I say, using her words. “It’ll be like the old days when?—”
Wade’s finger shoots up, nearly ramming me in the nose. “Don’t you dare say her name.”
I step back, immediately regretting it. I haven’t stepped foot in the G&G in over a decade, but before then, we always visited when Maureen was here. Wade would let us pick one treat from the candy bar aisle after playing hide-and-seek with him, using the store’s round shoplifting prevention mirrors perched in corners to guide us. She’d have pop music playing over the speakers, and we’d perch on the barstools, where she’d feed us hot dogs from the store’s canteen. It was never a bright and shiny place like Sunny’s, but it was rustic, charming, and part of us, like the farm.
Those memories—memories of our family—led me here. To a possible solution that Marina might go for, and that won’t seem entirely like a handout. This place needs help, and she’s the perfect person to turn it around.
But Wade’s old wounds run very deep. Too deep, maybe, to find hope anywhere.
Christie’s soft voice breaks through my uncle’s harsh, angry stare down. “What harm would it do for the place to get a makeover? Huh?” His pink fingernails land on Wade’s forearm, gently lowering it.
“Might help business,” Roy says, his lanky frame bouncing on his dirty slippers. “Be nice to have a new customer every once in a while. Especially the ladies …”
“It’s not my job to ease your guilt, Grady,” Wade snaps.
“No, but if anyone understands guilt, it’s you, right?” I pause as he glares. “I need to help her. It wouldn’t hurt you to help, too.”
“She’ll be like a breath of fresh air,” Christie coos. “Come on, Wade.”
“Give her a chance,” I beg, eyes locked on Wade’s. “And I’ll give you my shares of the place.”
Christie gasps, hand going to mouth. Roy gapes, burps, and goes eyes-wide toward Wade.
Wade keeps his poker face, but his mustache twitches encouragingly.
“You’ll have majority ownership,” I say, “like you should’ve had when Grandpa died.”
“Damn straight, I should’ve.”
“Deal?” I extend my hand.
He grunts, rolling his eyes like he might throw a punch rather than accept it. “One more thing. I want help around here. You’re always doing this or that for my brother?—”
“My father, yeah.”
“I got chores, and my back isn’t?—”
“Fine, whatever.” I push my hand closer to his chest. “Deal?”
Slowly, he shakes it, smirking with devilish satisfaction.
“I’m proud of you two. Such growth.” Christie claps. “When do we get Marnie? I’m going to wear my turquoise blouse.”
“I’ll bring her by later if she agrees. She has to say yes for it to work, so you better make it good,” I warn, dropping my uncle’s hand.
“Should I pick some flowers or something?” Roy scratches his head.
“It’s not a fucking date. Just be…” I glance them over. “…clean and sober.”
Wade grunts.
“Tipsy okay, Grady?” Christie clarifies. “It’s Saturday.”
“I’ll grab the Lysol for the bathroom. And breath mints,” Roy says, rushing to his trailer. “Maybe a candle or two.”
Wade and I share a distressed glare. This is going to be a nightmare.