Yankee Doodle Dixie by Lisa Patton Page B

give us a better look. “See this hidden hood concealed in the collar? For added comfort, it’s got a vented yoke and mesh upper lining. They come in sizes wanging fwom small to double X large.” He turns his glance toward Kissie. “Or, if you’d rather have a bowling shirt, you can get that, too. Ah you a bowler?” he asks her.
    I’m looking at Kissie out of the corner of my eye. Although her butterscotch face doesn’t get red, I know it is anyway on account of her pursed lips and squinty eyes. Riley has her completely unnerved.
    “We’ve got a stellar ladies’ team.”
    At this point, she’s glaring at the poor thing. “ Hm, hm, hm . Do I look like a bowler to you? Hm, hm, hm . Hm, hm, hm .”
    “You’d be surprised at the vawiety of women on the Tuppa’ware team.”
    “I’m goin’ back to the kitchen,” is Kissie’s response to that. “Either there or Bolivar,” she mutters up under her breath as she’s walking off.
    Bolivar is home to an old Tennessee mental institution. You can’t grow up anywhere near Memphis without hearing about how so-and-so is going to end up in Bolivar if they aren’t careful. Anytime I’d get in trouble Mama used to say, “You’re gonna send me to Bolivar.” The funny thing is Bolivar is just the name of the town that houses the Western State Mental Hospital. Everyone has just shortened it to Bolivar.
    Riley never stops talking. Instead of helping me unpack he strolls around my house analyzing every piece of furniture I own. Since I don’t know him all that well, I figure I better stay right with him. I mean, who’s to know? When he walks through the dining room he halts in front of my antique sideboard. “Wow! That’s an expensive piece. Where’d you get it?” He runs his hand over the top and examines his fingers for dust.
    “That came from my grandmother,” I tell him.
    “Pwetty darn nice. I tell you what, though. It could stand a good coat of polish. I’ll be wight back.” He heads out the dining room door that leads through the kitchen where Kissie is, and sprints right back through holding my housewarming present. “This is a bwand-new bottle of Owange Glo wood polish and conditioner. ‘It’s got a bwilliant luster that fills the air with the natural scent of fwesh owanges.’” He holds up the bottle, squirts a bit into the air and sniffs.
    As soon as the words leave his lips, Kissie’s hm, hm, hm ing again. I can hear her all the way in the kitchen. “No, Riley.” She’s in the doorway now with her hands on her hips. “I ain’t puttin’ no Orange Glo on Miz William’s mother’s sideboard. We’ve been usin’ Harrell’s Paste Wax long as I been workin’ here.” She strolls over to her stash of cleaning supplies and brings over her own can of Harrell’s to show Riley. “I’mo do it myself. Hm, hm, hm .”
    Riley says, “How much did you pay for that Hawell’s?”
    Kissie says, “Something like twenty-three dollars.”
    Riley says, “This Owange Glo retails for six ninety-nine,” and an ear-to-ear smile spreads across his face.
    She squints her eyes again and pops her hand on that big hip of hers. “That’s cuz it’s so cheap !”
    “It’s even cheaper if you buy it by the liter.” Riley chuckles and snaps his fingers in the air, completely clueless to Kissie’s dismay. “It cleans and shines wood finishes thwoughout your home in one easy step. It contains pure Valencia owange oil to wevive your wood, westore its luster, and wemove dirt, gwease, and wax buildup. It’s also gweat on stainless steel, cewamic tile, and fiberglass to wemove gwease, soap film, gum, and stickers.”
    Kissie is so quiet, she’s seething through her teeth—I know she’s mad when her voice drops low, “Who are you anyway? A salesman for Orange Glo?”
    “Not at the moment. But I can’t say it won’t be in my future!”
    “ Hm, hm, hm, ” Kissie chants, loudly. “ Hm, hm, hm . Hm, hm, hm .”
    “You are wight about one thing, though. I