Southern Fried Read Online Free PDF Page A

of.
    I grabbed Mom and scooted out of the meeting as quickly as we could.
    “Sure you can borrow the van,” she said. “Just drop me by the house. Oh, and can you take those aluminum cans by the fire station? For their burned children project.”
    Bags of empty Coke and beer cans collected from Tap’s filled the back of the van, rattling every time we stopped, started, or turned a corner.
    “I probably should put those things in your dad’s truck. They do get a little pungent, don’t they?”
    “You can’t very well have Dad riding around with his truck full of beer cans. What would First Baptist’s board of deacons say?”
    Mom laughed as she parked the van in front of the house. “It’d be almost worth it to find out. Good luck. See you for supper?”
    “Sure. Thanks.” I crawled over behind the wheel, then wrestled my skirt back where it belonged. The matter-of-fact way my parents handle the most dramatic upheavals amazes me. Then again, they tend toward a flair for the dramatic in the most ordinary circumstances.
    Garnet Mills sat a couple of blocks off north Main Street, nestled into a neighborhood of small mill houses, a scattering of house trailers, and a few large old white clapboards, two that offered rooms for rent.
    The grounds looked unkempt and unprosperous. Rust pocked the chain-link fence surrounding the parking lot. Grass sprouted through the cracked asphalt. Paint peeled from the metal doors of the loading dock.
    Inside, two green vinyl chairs sat on either side of a dusty plastic fern in the makeshift waiting area, and ancient gray-green metal desks furnished the business office. But the receptionist, who probably doubled as office manager, didn’t park me there. She immediately ushered me past a half dozen desks; three women of assorted ages talked on phones, typed on an old Selectric, or pushed papers around.
    Mr. Garnet’s office walls were painted a rosy taupe, and the cherry furniture hadn’t come fromthe same army surplus sale as the desks outside. The subdued good taste evidenced Sylvie Garnet’s hand at work here. Not flashy, not new, but it clearly drew a line between out there and in here.
    While Sylvie Garnet and her decorating taste had remained the same, Mr. Garnet had changed. I remembered him as a small man, slightly shorter than his wife, with a fringe of bright white hair circling his shiny head. I’d never seen him in anything but a dark gray suit, exuding an air of authority, a masterliness. None of that had changed. What had changed was the wheelchair he swung around his desk to greet me.
    “Mr. Garnet It’s so nice to see you again.”
    “Avery. My, haven’t you grown up. Your dad keeps us posted on you and your sister, at the Rotary meetings. Despite all his bragging, he didn’t tell us how pretty you were.”
    Feeling awkward, I fought the urge to bend over to address him and gratefully sank into the chair he motioned me toward.
    “Thanks for stopping by. Sylvie told me you were in town. You may be just our answer for this little matter we’re facing.”
    “I certainly hope I can be of help.” I pulled out my leather notepad and Waterman pen, for some reason needing the comfort of the familiar tools of my trade. “Perhaps if you could give me some background.”
    Mr. Garnet rolled behind his desk. Seated behind the protective barrier of his walnut fortress, with thewheelchair out of sight, he looked more like the successful businessman I’d known all my life. Garnet Mills produced cheap upholstered furniture, a low-end operation with the kind of jobs that now often move to Mexico.
    “In a nutshell, Avery, I’ve got some environmental boys coming tomorrow to audit my records. And they want to know,.while they’re here, if they can look around the plant site.” With thumb and forefinger, he lined up his desk blotter precisely with the edge of his desk. Other than a brass lamp and a mahogany in-box—which sat empty—the desk lay clear of clutter. Either