Nancy Bartholomew - Stand By Your Man

"Why are you looking for Vernell?"

" 'Cause I got paid to look for him."

"By who? You can tell me that," I said. "What harm can that do?"

He shrugged. "I don't like to violate my code of ethics."

The bacon hissed and popped. "Yeah," I said, "like you have one. You work for the Redneck Mafia, don't you?"

That stopped him cold. He reached out, grabbed my arm and turned me toward him. "What do you know about that?" he asked. His eyes darkened and the look in them frightened me, but I wasn't going to let him know that.

"Nosmo King a friend of yours?" I said, letting my voice drop down to a near whisper. His grip on my arm tightened and I winced.

"How do you know about them?" he growled.

"The bacon's burning," I said, and jerked my arm away. I turned my attention back to the stove, knowing he wouldn't let it drop.

"Maggie, answer me. You can't drop a name like that and then stop talking. It's too dangerous."

"Who do you work for?" I shot back.

It was a standoff. I pulled the bacon out of the pan and slipped in the eggs. Over easy. I wouldn't look at him and he wasn't volunteering a thing. I poured grits into the boiling water and stirred them. The words Redneck Mafia and Nosmo King sure seemed to hit a nerve.

By the time the eggs were ready and the grits almost done, I had a plan. Mama always said, "A critter'll always come to sugar, long before he'll lick salt."

"Breakfast is on," I said. I pasted a stupid smile on my face and gestured toward my dining room. "You go sit down, let me tend to things."

Apparently he'd taken lessons in the same school of common sense. "Let me help you."

"I wouldn't dream of it," I purred. "You're a guest." Like hell , I thought, but swallowed it.

Tony picked up the coffeepot, filled our mugs, and then carried them into the dining room. Butter wouldn't have melted in his mouth.

I set his plate of food down in front of him, then added a huge bowl of grits. I just couldn't help myself. Then I went back for my plate.

"Umm, umm," I heard him moan from the dining room.

"You know, Maggie, where I come from, we don't eat grits, but these are delicious!"

I know a liar when I hear one. I stuck my head around the corner and stared at him. He was shoveling plain grits into his mouth as fast as possible, ignoring the bowl of red eye gravy, and ignoring the pepper. What was wrong with him? It could only be one thing. He had Yankee written all over him.

"Glad you like 'em," I said, breezing past him to my seat. "Where I come from, grits just ain't no good without gravy and pepper, but I'm so happy to see you love them plain. What a tribute!"

Tony shot a longing glance at the redeye gravy, realizing his error, and knowing he couldn't switch over now.

We would've continued like this for I don't know how long, but Sheila saved me. The front door latch clicked, the door swung open, and my teenaged daughter faced down Tony Carlucci with a haughty glare.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded. "Mama, that's him! That's the guy that was watching Daddy's house!"

Sheila marched through the living room and straight up to the dining-room table. She was wearing a little plaid miniskirt, black knee-highs, and pigtails. She looked like a Catholic schoolgirl.

"Baby, this is Mr. Carlucci," I said. "He's a private investigator looking for your dad."

"No you're not," Sheila sneered. "Private investigators don't wear black leather jackets and ride motorcycles."

"Sheila, where are your manners? And why aren't you in school?"

Sheila gave me a pitying look. "Mama, I am trying to save your life!"

"Cutting school again, huh?" Carlucci said, grinning.

"Shut up!"

"Sheila!" I swung back to face Carlucci. "How do you know she cuts school?"

"Doesn't everybody?" he answered.

"Well, I didn't."

Now Tony and Sheila both favored me with a pitying glance.

"I just stopped by to pick up a book I forgot," Sheila said, taking my side. "I do not cut school!"

"Stand by it if you want," Carlucci said, still smirking. "But I bet you wouldn't want your mama to check up on you." Sheila's face said all I needed to hear. I'd deal with her later.

Carlucci's plate was nearly clean. "I guess you'll be going now, huh?" I said, snatching the plate away. "I know you're busy with your investigation."

Sheila had stalked off to her room and was rooting around in search of something. I doubted it was a textbook. In this one instance, I figured Tony was right: Sheila had planned on cutting school and not getting caught.

"I'm not so busy that I can't help you do the dishes," he said. "My mother raised me right and I've got all day." He leaned back in his chair and stretched his long legs out in front of me. When he smiled, as he was doing now, without the smirk, he seemed almost human.

"You're not from around here, are you?" I asked.

"Philadelphia," he said. "South Philly." He shifted in his chair and I stared at his shoes. He wore motorcycle boots, rounded toe, black, scuffed leather. His arms were crossed, the muscles cording like thick bundles of wire. I thought I caught a glimpse of a tattoo peeking out from his shirtsleeve, but when he moved, it vanished.

"Mama!" Sheila said, sticking her head into the dining room. "I'm leaving." Her backpack was slung across her shoulder and she was moving fast toward the front door.

"You are going straight to school?" I asked, ignoring the smirk that had returned to Carlucci's face.

"Bye, Mama!"

"I'll be talking to the attendance officer later," I warned.

Sheila spun around, glowered at Carlucci, and took a deep breath. "You see what you've done?" she asked him. "Making my mama doubt me!" She straightened her shoulders and looked right at me. "Mama, in psychology class they say that if you let someone come between you, it's called splitting. Mr. Carlucci is trying to split us. He should know better than to try and corrupt our relationship!"

She was gone without another word, stomping off down the front porch steps. I went to the living-room window and watched her hop into a car full of her girlfriends. She was gesturing wildly, obviously filling them in on the ruination of her day and the realization that now she had to report to school. Carlucci was right. I kept my eyes on the street in front of the house, not wanting to turn around and face him.

I heard him get up and take the dishes out to the kitchen. Then the water started in the sink. The domesticated biker-private eye was cleaning up. First he threatened my family, then he invaded my home, and now he was doing my dishes. What in the hell was going on?

I stayed there for a few minutes, just staring out the window at the college students walking by and the cars that jockeyed for a parking place within a mile of the campus. It all looked so normal, but my world was going crazy a piece at a time.

I didn't hear the water cut off. I was lost in thought, figuring out how I was going to get to the bottom of things, when I heard Carlucci's voice behind me.

"I said it was a woman."

I didn't turn around. I didn't want to give him the satisfaction.

"A woman what?" I said finally.

"That hired me. That's all I'm gonna tell you. I shouldn't even have told you that much, but I'm starting to feel sorry for you. You got a teenager out running the streets, a husband leading a life you don't even know the half of-"

"Ex-husband," I snapped.

Carlucci ignored me and went on. "-no money and two black eyes. Somebody oughta take pity on you."

That got me to turn around, but he was watching the street, his eyes narrowed to wary slits. I opened my mouth to tell him he didn't need to feel sorry for me, but how could I? Everything he'd said was apparently true.