Pistol Fanny's Hank & Delilah (18 page)

They followed Pepsi into the house. Delilah grabbed Hank’s hand again, and he thrilled at the touch. The air was cool inside, and Hank felt a little feverish at first. The screen door slapped shut. The wooden floors creaked under their weight. Hank wasn’t sure if there was anyone else in the house, so he walked gently, just in case they were asleep.

The house was all beige walls, light browns, and white trimmings. Black and white hand-drawn art, mostly flowers, especially roses and cotton plants, decorated the walls. A few of Freud the gentleman dog were framed here and there. It smelled like honeysuckle, magnolia, gardenia, and Georgia pine, the unique perfume strong, like a window was open and the breeze swept it in.

It felt like home, Hank thought.

A woman decorated it, Hank could tell, but it was also a place a man could be proud to call his. It wasn’t demeaning in any way. It somehow incorporated the best of both worlds. The kitchen was a step back in time—the stoves, the counters, even the decorations lining the shelves: an old weight, the kind used for weighing produce and meat, and ceramic dishes that looked homemade. More of those pictures decorated the space, all of cotton plants. There was even a jar with cotton plants in it. Somebody had a thing for cotton.

Hank stared at the enclosed shelves that were built into an entire wall. It was filled with nothing but dishes. They were proudly displayed, all different colors, all different shapes and sizes, some fancy, some chipped and vintage. The counter underneath was lined with candles in the shapes of old glass milk bottles. Their stems were lit and burning dimly, providing the only light in the room. A moth flew too close and was singed, sending a small puff of smoke into the air.

“Have a seat, Hank.” Pepsi motioned to one of the chairs around the table. “Ya’ll must be so tired. Delilah can drive for days, but I fall asleep in cars.”

Delilah started pulling out drawers, taking pots and pans and bowls and silverware out, setting them up on the counter. “Hank’s good company, Pepsi. He kept me awake. And thank Jesus he wasn’t howling the entire time.”

“That girl is just silly.” Pepsi slapped the air as though she was slapping away the moth.

“Hank, you hungry?” Delilah set a hefty iron skillet on the stove, not the slightest bit of noise from the motion. “I’m fixin’ breakfast, if you’re interested.”

“Breakfast for dinner?” Hank smiled.

That caused Delilah to slow down a bit. He heard her whisper “Dear Lord” before she went back to pulling again. “I love breakfast for dinner. I like it better than for breakfast.”

“She’s twisted, that’s why.” Pepsi closed her eyes tight. “She always had her nights and days mixed up. Couldn’t get that child to sleep normally for nothing in this world. She’d sleep all day, wanting to be sung to at night. Her Mama used to have to take her on the porch, freezing cold or hell hot, and rock her just to get her to close her eyes. Then they’d open right back up as soon as the song was done.” Her eyes popped open in shock, and she shook her head.

“You want breakfast, Pepsi?” Delilah said.

“No, baby.” She walked over to Delilah and kissed her on the cheek. “I’m turning in. I had a long day. I spent it with Pearle, and that woman can shop a bunion off anybody.” She walked over and kissed Hank on the cheek. “Night, Hank. Don’t let Delilah twist you up or cut your hair.”

Hank laughed when he caught the joke. Then he turned to Delilah, “Can I help you make breakfast for dinner?”

“I have it. Can you just grab some plates out of the cabinet for me?” She had flour on her hands, and she wiped them on a dishrag as she stood with her back against the counter, watching him.

“Any set? There are so many.”

“You pick.”

Hank could feel her eyes move with him. She was carrying him in that way she had. He searched for a while. He’d never picked out plates before. It didn’t matter much to him, but he figured since they were having breakfast for dinner, why not make it a party and use the real fancy ones? They were white with a creamy brown border, shaped sort of like a cotton flower. He started placing them around the table.

Delilah nodded, turning back around. “Good choice, Hank. Real good.”

That was the first time Hank had ever heard Delilah’s voice break. Something told him then, her voice wasn’t the only thing broken.

“Hank loves my pancakes, pancakes, pancakes…Hank loves my pancakes, pancakes, pancakes…yes, he
do
!” Delilah sang, and then flipped another pancake in the air.

The air was full of the heavy smell of breakfast for dinner. Hank had already eaten five eggs, three buttermilk biscuits, six slices of applewood-smoked bacon, a bowl of grits, and he was working on his second cup of coffee, along with one more pancake.

Outside the earth was still hiding in the safety of darkness, a million stars twinkling above like those diamonds in Delilah’s ears. The radio on the shelf with a bent antenna played old songs in the background. Hot summer nights like these, the food wasn’t the only thing cooking in the kitchen.

Hank took a deep breath in, appreciating the air in that moment like he’d never appreciated the air before. It was like gold to a miner; a heart to a lover; a mind to a thinker. Hank knew it was love at first sight with Delilah, but in that moment—there was more. He couldn’t live one day without her, of this he was positive. The notion seemed to be moving with the oncoming day, brightening his life the same way the sun would be doing to the earth shortly.

He grabbed for the sugar on the table, shaking it into his cup. Delilah smiled and flipped the pancake. She didn’t even have to look. She just flipped and caught.

She laughed and Hank smiled. She turned around and started fiddling with things.

Hank grinned to himself. “What’s the secret to your pancakes? I never remember my mother making them this good.”

“It’s not the pancake. The secret is in the syrup. Pepsi’s won awards with that blackberry syrup. I think she might put Pepsi in it, but I’m not too sure. She swears she’s going to the grave with that recipe.”

“Pepsi, she lives with you?”

Delilah slid Hank’s plate in front him, the pancake still steaming hot, and he started adding his fixings—butter and syrup. She sat across from him, leaning toward him, tucking one leg underneath her bottom.

“Most of the time. She likes it out here. It’s peaceful and quiet. She keeps me company, too.”

“Is she a family friend?”

“Yes.”

“That’s good that she stays with you out here. I’m surprised none of your sisters do.”

“They all have their own places. They think this is too fancy.” Delilah tapped her finger on the table. A few beats went by before she spoke again. “Hank, I know what you think about my sisters. Curly feels the same way, I can tell. You both think we’re gold diggers. I’m not too sure why. They buy everything they have. They depend on no one but themselves. Myself included. My family is not always wrong when they’re right.”

Hank felt like he was losing his mind. Everything was kind of fuzzy and floating around him. He was tired, and eating too much always helped lull him into a good sleep. Hank knew it wasn’t just the food and the lack of sleep that was making him levitate in his seat. It was Delilah. Her proximity, the way she spoke her words, the way she moved. He was hungry for her love. She seemed to want conversation. He wanted action. He just wanted to kiss her lips and hold her close before he fell asleep.

“Gillian, I know she has those places. And sometimes she can’t remember who gave them to her. That’s why, because she doesn’t depend on them. They’re just gifts. Men have been doing the same thing for years—using women. Money is important to men, and it has the potential to be turned into control. We take care of ourselves.”

Hank couldn’t help but wonder what on earth she was talking about. Still, he joined in, putting his fork down. “Not all men, Delilah.”

“No, you’re right. I’m sorry.” She waved her hand in front of her face. “I guess I’m just full and rambling out of my head.”

Hank smiled and took a sip of his coffee. It tasted off. Real tangy like. Delilah started laughing.

“What? Did you do something to my coffee?”

“No, you did. You put salt in your coffee when you thought you were putting sugar.”

“And you didn’t even tell me. You do have wicked ways.”

Delilah gazed out of the window, her voice turning soft. “Yeah, I suppose I do.”

Hank looked out the window with her. They watched as the sun was born again, the first light of day touching earth. There was something Hank always liked about sunrises. Now with Delilah, he seemed to fall in love with them.

She went to stand from the table, taking his plate, but he put his hand over hers. He looked up at her and everything seemed to still—even their breathing, for just a few moments in time. Then she moved her hand and everything started again.

“I have to work a bit.” She blinked, once, twice, three times.

“You haven’t even slept.”

“It’s just for a little while.”

“You know what this means, don’t you? The deal was—any time we spend apart…I get that extra time. Molasses disappears when we’re apart. Those are my rules, take ’em or leave ’em.” Hank moved his eyebrows up and down, a smile on his face.

“One more day, Hank. One. More. Day. Good God.”

The old radio started playing a slow-moving Elvis tune. He knew she loved old music like this. He took his chance then.

“Delilah, will you dance with me?”

There was a moment’s hesitation before she agreed. Hank pulled her close, wrapping one arm around her. Taking her hand in his, he brought it to his chest, right over the beating of his heart. She stared up at him as they moved in a slow burning circle.

Hank wanted to tell her a million things. He wanted to forget about the issues, and for once since he met her, just fall freely in love. Without the chains, without the ghosts and secrets, without the insurmountable amount of want he had for her, and for another he could only speculate was her.

Instead, he kept quiet, letting the song do the talking, and his feet do the moving.

H
ank lay in bed, wanting to shower but too tired to. He would have fallen asleep as soon as his head hit the soft pillow, his body worn and a tad bit shaky, but love continued to stir something inside of him.

Delilah had kissed him on the cheek after their dance and then showed him to his room. It was a gentle blue, with a four-poster bed that was actually four light-colored trees. Hank found himself staring at the trees to give himself something to look at.

He had to calm his mind, placate his heart a bit so he could rest. His thoughts were jumbled, all running together like a bunch of run-on sentences that really made no sense. He would think about Delilah one moment, just to have another thought about Pistollette. Then he would think about Booty and Cray and all that deadly nonsense.

He would think about Curly and whether Tommy had used Barb yet. He knew he had that natural smell that no one wants to call stench, and he had to set into motion some sort of plan. He also needed a shave, he observed after running a hand down his face. He thought about June-bug and her affair with Preacher John.

Other than that, all he knew he wanted to do was spend more time with Delilah.

He heard a quiet knock at the door. He rose up, resting his weight on his elbows, and waited a few minutes. When the door didn’t move, he cleared his throat and told whomever it was to come in. A black nose nudged the door the rest of the way. Freud stood there, staring at him. Hank waved him in. After he entered, the prim and proper bloodhound nudged it until only a crack was visible.

Hank was happy to have company. He patted the bed and Freud didn’t hesitate to jump in next to him. Hank started to pet his head and Freud’s eyes seemed to sag more than usual. Hank looked into his eyes and they were just so…damn understanding. In that moment, he could share any secret in the world with that dog. And he did. Hank started rambling at whisper volume.

“I’m going out of my mind, Freud. I can’t concentrate. You know what I did? I put salt in my coffee. I pickled my coffee. I love two girls, Freud. Delilah, your girl, she doesn’t want me to tell her but I’d really like to. Someday. I can’t now because, well, it wouldn’t be fair. Have you ever loved two girls? What did you do? You gotta understand, don’t you? You’re surrounded by a bunch of them all the time. No wonder you enjoy porkers so much, you’re a stress eater. See how they got you all hemmed up, Freud…”