Page 8 of They Call Her Dirty Sally

I make a mental note to start digging around first thing tomorrow morning. “Well, I need someone to talk to. My boss wants the first story by the end of next week.”

“I don’t like to talk about it, but I can tell you everything I know.” Mr. Bailey offers, waving a finger in Billi’s direction. “After that, you should let her help you. Everyone in this town likes Billi, and you won’t find anyone more helpful. Sit here for a few minutes, and you’ll see. There’ll be a steady stream of people walking through that front door asking for her advice.”

I raise an eyebrow at Billi, waiting for her to dismiss the claim. But then I remember the woman wearing tattered clothes who wandered in not ten minutes ago to refill a tumbler with coffee. She then walked out without a word. Since Billi is in charge of the motel, I waited for her to say something. To kick the woman out or tell her to leave money on the counter. But Billi sat quietly, staring straight ahead and watchingBuffylike that sort of thing happened often. Even Mr. Bailey kept quiet, though I did notice the man’s worried glance in the strange woman’s direction.

Even now, Billi says nothing as a pink stain creeps up her neck.

“People tend to trust me,” she says sheepishly, a woman embarrassed by her own positive character trait. “But I like to help out if I can.” She plays with the shoelace of a worn black Converse tucked under her thigh. “So, do you need any?”

“Help?” At first, the word doesn’t register. “From you?” And then it does, and I sound like an ass. Of course, she’s offering to help me. This is a small town, and isn’t that what everyone in Mayberry does? Silver Bell, Arkansas, is about as small-town Americana as they come. So far, I’ve only seen one stoplight to match the single fast-food joint, and I drove in on a one-lane road. One lane. I doubt anyone here has a car phone or—God forbid—a computer with internet service. And it hits me.

How will I find out the information I need without a working computer?

“It was just an offer,” Billi says with an eye roll, making it clear she also thinks I’m a jerk. Even Mr. Bailey huffs a bit from his spot on the couch. Here an hour, and I’ve already made two enemies out of the only two acquaintances I have. First impressions are usually my strong suit.

The bell over the door rings as another guest bangs through the front door. “Billi, can you watch Jason for me for fifteen minutes while I run across the street to buy groceries?” Not a guest after all, but a frazzled woman wearing pink sweatpants and a matching scrunchie, breathing like she ran a mini-marathon to get here. Her red hair is piled haphazardly on top of her head and flopping sideways, and a smear of what looks like blood is slashed across the front of her shirt. Or maybe it’s ketchup since there’s an exact replica of the red mark streaked across her wailing child’s cheek. “He’s so sleepy, and you know how he is when it’s bedtime. We ran out of milk, or I wouldn’t ask. He won’t go to sleep at all without a full sippy cup, and water won’t cut it.” Without waiting for an answer, the woman practically shoves the kid in Billi’s arms. He goes willingly and tucks his face into Billi’s neck like this is a regular occurrence.

“Fifteen minutes?” Billi asks skeptically, adjusting the boy higher on her hip.

“Twenty, tops.” The girl has one foot out the door already.

“See you in half an hour,” Billi quips.

“Thank you, I’ll hurry.” And just like that, the door falls silent right along with the now slumbering child. It’s almost like Billi is his mother, or at least his favorite source of comfort.

“Is he your…?”

“Godson,” she answers. “And this happens at least a couple times a week.”

“And you just watch him? At work? Doesn’t that make working…difficult?”

Billi shrugs as much as she’s able with what appears to be a thirty-pound toddler in her arms.

“Not as difficult as having a baby at seventeen or being a single mom of three by the time you’re twenty-five.”

I look around the empty room, but there’s no one else around. Billi manages to read my mind, probably not too difficult since I’m making my thoughts obvious.

“On Monday night, the other two stay at their grandparents’ house so that Susie can sleep in. She works late most days. Tuesday is her day off. They won’t take Jason overnight until he’s two, and that isn’t until next month.”

“She’s twenty-five?” The woman looked at least thirty. Responsibility ages some more than others.

“No, twenty-seven now. A year younger than me, but I’ve known her all my life.”

“Their dads were fishing buddies and on the same relay team in high school.” Mr. Bailey pipes up, and honestly, I’d nearly forgotten the man was here. “Coached them both, I did.”

I blink. It’s true what they say; people are only a few degrees of separation from everyone else in the world. It’s even more true when your world exists inside a population of three thousand people. “My dad grew up here,” I say, suddenly filled with an irrational need to fit in and make my own ties known in a town I’ve visited only once before.

Mr. Bailey frowns. “Who was your dad? If he went to the public school, I probably knew him.”

“Jack Hardwick.” Maybe it’s my imagination, but I think I see Mr. Bailey flinch just the slightest. He clears his throat and transforms his face into what seems like a strained smile.

“I knew your dad. I did. He and Paul were practically joined at the hip. Along with Sally, of course. That was before he started dating your mother, though…” Mr. Bailey visibly slides into a memory, reflecting backward on two people I’ve never heard of. I want him to pull me inside it, to tell me stories from a childhood I rarely heard about that starred the father I miss more every day.

But just when I start to ask, baby Jason starts to stir.

“Shhh…” Billi says, beginning to pace, working to quiet him. “Can you get me his pacifier out of the diaper bag?” she whispers to me, nodding toward a small black backpack discarded by the door.

I oblige, unzipping the bag and digging through diapers, a towel, a box of paper clips, a stuffed monkey with a torn left arm, and a plastic sleeve of baby wipes. I finally locate the pacifier. I pull it free and hold it out to her, feeling oddly triumphant. Who knew one small child required this much gear? Mothers everywhere, no doubt, but I’ve never spent any time around kids.

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