Fannie Flagg - I Still Dream About You

She calculated that two trips from the car and back should do it: one to get the weights and one for the raft. Today, she would just check to make sure that the spot was still here and as perfect as she remembered. It was, and on her next trip down, she would hide everything in the bushes and be ready to go.

Coming up with a method had been difficult, but surprisingly enough, figuring out the logistics had been the most difficult part. She couldn’t drive down on the third and leave the car parked up in the clearing; she had a responsibility to Steel City Leasing and would feel terrible if someone were to vandalize it or steal it. She couldn’t leave a note saying where it was, because if her car was found anywhere near the river, there was sure to be a search, the very thing she wanted to avoid. She couldn’t just ask a friend to drop her off. There were no buses she could take, and she certainly couldn’t walk. She finally realized there was only one solution. She hated to do it, but she was going to have to take a cab to the river. It would be tricky, of course; the last time she had called a cab, it had come an hour late. This was one of those times that, just like Hazel, she was going to have to depend on people and hope for the best.

But this decision, like every other, entailed having to make yet another decision. Should she call City Cab, Yellow Cab, or Veterans Cab? Her plan had been to call the cab company from a pay phone so there would be no record of the call on her phone bill. She would order the cab a few days before she was leaving, give the dispatcher a false name, and have the driver meet her at another address, up the street from her complex. Later, she realized that to be on the safe side, it would be best to order a cab from one of the independent cab drivers listed. They drove their own cars, so later people wouldn’t be so likely to remember a cab being in the neighborhood on Monday morning. Nothing was simple. You had to think of every little thing.

When she got home from the river, she stopped and checked the mail: nothing but junk and another flyer from Willow Lakes Retirement Community. Before she threw it in the trash can, she happened to glance at it. She was glad she did. Written in big bold letters across the top of the page was this phrase: SOME PEOPLE SLIP INTO RETIREMENT, OTHERS JUMP RIGHT IN. And if that wasn’t a sign from the universe that she was doing the right thing, she didn’t know what was.

That night, as Maggie was eating another bad TV dinner, she spied something in the kitchen and realized she didn’t need to buy a new watch to time the twenty minutes for the glue on the Velcro to dry. She would just take her rooster egg timer and use it. She spent the next few hours packing most of her clothes for the theater and the Salvation Army, and it wasn’t until after she finished that she realized that she needed to keep one casual outfit to wear down to the river. She rooted around and pulled out a nice powder blue matching outfit and put it alongside the egg timer.

At two A.M. that night, Maggie sat straight up in bed. Good Lord, what was she thinking? She couldn’t wear an expensive workout suit to jump in the river! People in Alabama were serious about their fishing, especially down at the river. They didn’t fish in designer clothes, and if for any reason someone were to see her, it might arouse suspicion. She had to be more careful than that. What she needed was a good red herring outfit: something that would throw people completely off the track. After racking her brain, she suddenly came up with an idea for the perfect thing. She was glad now that she had watched all those Agatha Christie English mystery shows on PBS.

THE NEXT MORNING before work, she wandered around a few sporting goods stores, looking for some kind of man’s sweatshirt or T-shirt in an extra large that she could wear with a pair of jeans. She hit pay dirt out at Sportsman’s World. There were all kinds of fishing T-shirts to choose from:

BORN TO FISH, MADE TO WORK

REEL MEN EAT TROUT

CHICKS DIG ME, FISH FEAR ME

KISS MY BASS

She was not sure which to get and kept looking until she found the perfect shirt hanging on the last rack. It was so crude, so crass. Something she would never be caught dead wearing:

FISHERMEN DO IT WITH A BIG POLE

She found one in an XXL, but the problem was paying for it without having someone notice. She managed it by sticking the item in the middle of a pile of WOMEN FISH TOO, GET OVER IT T-shirts and, luckily, the girl at the checkout counter never looked.

Maggie had to admit there were times when it was best that salespeople didn’t get personal. She was halfway out the door when something else hit her. What shoes would she wear? Her workout shoes were far too nice. Should she pick up a pair of cheap flip-flops? No, too many rocks; she might trip on the way down. She turned around and headed to the back of the store. She would buy a pair of large men’s boots. It would be just another red herring, in case anyone found footprints. For someone who had always felt stupid, she was surprising herself with how clever she had turned out to be. Then again, she had always loved Nancy Drew mystery stories. It was too late now, of course, but she wondered if she should have become a detective. She might have been very good at it, if it didn’t require a lot of paperwork.

M AGGIE WAS STILL IN A FAIRLY GOOD MOOD WHEN SHE GOT TO the office, until Ethel said, “The Beast just called and said she’s coming to see you at eleven. Happy Halloween.”

“What? To see me ?”

“Yes, lucky you.”

Maggie moaned, “Oh, no.” Babs was the very last person in the world she wanted to see, but she knew that Babs had shown her condo at Avon Terrace a few days ago, so she was probably bringing in an offer on the two-bedroom unit that was just like hers. That was the good news; the office could use the commission. The bad news was that Brenda had gone to another political rally, which meant that Maggie was going to have to deal with Babs all by herself. Babs would fight you down to the nub on every point, so she braced herself for a bumpy ride.

At eleven A.M. on the dot, Babs arrived and as always, forgoing the customary friendly “hello”s and “how are you”s, she sat down and pulled out the papers and pushed them across the desk. “It’s a good offer, no contingencies, and they qualify.” Maggie looked it over, and Babs was right; it was a good offer. But when Maggie read the buyers’ names, Tom and Carole Troupe, she realized they were the same couple Dottie had shown the unit to a few times before, most recently on Monday. Babs had a nasty habit of stealing clients by cutting her commission, and she was obviously trying to do it again. Oh Lord, Maggie didn’t want to get in a fight with her, but she felt she had to say something. So, she asked as pleasantly as possible, “Is this a co-listing?” Babs looked straight back at her and without blinking an eye said, “No.”

“I see, but… what about Dottie Figge?”

“What about her?”

“Aren’t these her clients?”

“No.”

“Ah well, I don’t know if they told you or not, but she showed them the same unit at least three or four times.”

“So?”

“Well, she did spend a lot of time with them, and I think she was sort of counting on this commission.”

“That’s not my problem.”

“Oh, I know, but in all fairness, Babs, she did show it to them first.”

“What’s your point?”

“Well, couldn’t you see your way to at least giving her two percent?”