Page 1 of Endless Southern Love

one

wade

The hot Alabama sun beats down on me. Sweat soaks through my T-shirt. It’s my third one of the day and by the time I’m finished with work, I’ll have gone through five or six. It all depends on if I’m willing to peel off the last one or not.

My booted foot rests on the kickplate of my shovel while my arms drape over the wooden grip, as if it’s meant to hold me. It teeters, and instead of giving up, I lift it and slam it back down into the still solid portion of Ms. Linda’s flower bed with an exasperated groan.

As soon as the air escapes my lungs, I immediately regret it. Ms. Linda may be elderly, but the woman can hear for days. And that’s not always a good thing. In fact, apart from her stellar hearing—and listening—abilities, she has a yap that goes a mile a minute and in all my years of living in Magnolia Grove, she has yet to fail having an opinion on something or someone.

“What’s wrong?” she asks as she comes around the corner of her house, toward the side where she had an urgent request to plant an entire house length of red buckeyes, but because I am not an Ohio State fan—Roll Tide—I refer to them as firecracker plants. They’re actually shrubs or a small tree. The point is, Ms. Linda didn’t need them in August and could’ve waited until the darn southern sun went dormant for the season.

Everyone in Magnolia Grove knows that whatever Ms. Linda wants, Ms. Linda gets.

Ms. Linda carries two glasses of what I can only assume is sweet tea, with her lawn chair tucked under her arm, wearing hot pink pants to go with her hot pink toes, sandals, and the pink in her blouse that outlines white flowers. I asked her once why she wears so many clothes in the summer—because let’s be honest, summer here is brutal—and she said she was born and raised in Alabama and the heat doesn’t bother her.

Her words, not mine.

I hate the heat, but yet I stay.

“Nothing at all, Ms. Linda.” Absolutely everything. In an hour, I’m supposed to meet my old college buddy, Jed, who lives in Mobile, down at River’s End for some burgers and beer. By the look of things, if I don’t finish in the next few minutes, I’ll either have to cancel on Jed or I’ll have to let Ms. Linda down.

The thing is, Ms. Linda doesn’t really appreciate being let down, and she’s been really good to me.

She hands me the tall, ice-filled glass of sweet tea. I down it in one giant, mildly refreshing gulp and let the ice rest on my face until it begins to melt. It feels good and has me considering a dip in the river, even though it’s like bathwater these days.

“Let me go fill that up for ya,” Ms. Linda says, taking my glass from me and ruining what little air conditioning I’ve had all day.

“It’s good, Ms. Linda. I really need to get finished here,” I yell as she makes her way into her house. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been in her home. My days with her go way back to when I was a little guy, screaming through the neighborhood. When my grandma didn’t watch me during the day, Ms. Linda did. She has, what my mom refers to, as a “don’t touch” home.

“Don’t touch this. Don’t touch that,” is all my mom would say when she’d drop me off for the occasional babysitting.

Ms. Linda returns, but this time with a pitcher of ice water. “Here,” she says, handing it to me. “This ought to cool you off.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I drink about a third, set it in the shade, and get back to digging my next hole.

Ms. Linda sets her chair up near me, poised to watch me work.

“When’s Ms. Goldie coming back?” she asks after my fourth or fifth heave of earth.

Marigold “Goldie” Jenkins is my seven-year-old daughter who lives with her mother, Anastasia, in Jacksonville. Ever since Goldie started school, I’ve only had her part-time during the summer and every other holiday. Every time I have to take her back to her mom, I think about uprooting my business, selling my home, and moving to Florida so I can see Goldie whenever I want. And each time, I find every reason to stay in Magnolia and far away from Ana and her husband Franco.

In Magnolia, I own and operate a successful landscaping business. I even have a catchy name: Jenkins Landscaping. When you’re twenty-two and facing fatherhood, you do what you need to do to take care of your child. I wasn’t exactly thinking when I turned my childhood mowing job into a full-fledged business. Mostly, it was just easy.

Landscaping pays the bills and then some, but only thanks to the people of Magnolia Grove. Outsiders have tried to come into town, but they never seem to stay around. People here are loyal. We’re all family.

Even those of us who don’t get along.

“Uh, not until October,” I tell her as I drop to my knees and set the next firecracker into the ground. After I work the soil around the root loose, I fill the hole with feed and then topsoil, packing it down.

“What? That is just blasphemy.”

I don’t have the heart to tell Ms. Linda her use of blasphemy doesn’t really work in this situation. I’m sure she knows, and embarrassing her isn’t high on my list of things I’d like to do.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Ms. Goldie needs to live in Magnolia, among her people.”

Her people would be my parents and a slew of great-aunts, uncles, and cousins, as well as every honorary family member out there. While I don’t disagree, Franco has a big family and, according to my daughter, they treat her well. As much as I’d love for Goldie to live here full-time, it’ll never happen unless her mother moves to Alabama, and since our drunken hook-up ruined her chances at the University of Alabama, she’s sworn the state off.

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