The Gardens of Digby Green: Bubba’s Fish Fry
Digby ripped the duct tape off the funnel, crumpled the length into a wad, and stuffed it into his jeans pocket. The hose and funnel, he carried several yards away and concealed in separate places.
There wasn’t more than an inch of chemical in the jug, so he got the pump from his tool box and sprayed the liquid over the miniature roses. They deserved a chance. He tossed the jug into the bed of his truck, where it landed with a hollow clunk against the shovel blade.
Humming “Red Roses for a Blue Lady,” he closed the truck door and turned the key in the ignition. The pressure, the anger, had eased again and he could stay in this area for a while. His budget could use a little padding.
He chose the route back to town that ran past mom-and-pop party stores, Quick Cash franchises, and small engine repair shops, until he reached the corner where Bubba’s Fish Fry thickened the neighborhood air.
Digby parked, wiped his hands on his jeans, and entered the shop, where four people were fidgeting ahead of him.
“What you want, white boy?”
Gardening woke Digby’s appetite. “Ah’ll have me a pound of catfish, and a pound of them hushpuppies. And a two-liter Coke.” He dug out his wallet.
“You from Alabama, ain’t ya?”
Digby blinked. No one had mentioned that since he’d left his home state.
“Well, ain’t ya?”
A nod in response seemed safe enough, but the man behind the counter slapped his grease-spattered apron, and laughed out loud.
“I knew it. My wife’s from Hazel Green, Alabama, and she sounds just like you do.” Deftly the man scooped Digby’s fish and hushpuppies from the fryer and boxed the order.
Digby handed over the price.
“Wait, wait. Don’t rush off. Keziah, come on out here. We’ve got a customer from Alabama.”
“What you want, Bubba? You know I’m makin’ hush puppies.”
Digby knew a Keziah. She’d been married to old Will Adams, then, but nobody had ever called Will, Bubba. Digby grabbed his boxes, and turned, but six more people had crowded into the small space, blocking his path.
A woman stepped through the door, her fingers coated in cornmeal batter. “Why, Digby Green, what you doin’ up here? Did you know your mama Hazel ain’t been seen since last September?”
Digby jostled the customers between him and the door, and fled to his truck.
The Gardens of Digby Green is a serialized story that posts on Fridays.
Next week, part seventeen, Three Smooth Moves.
Find a link to purchase Heartland Treasures anthology here.
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