Texas Tee: (a Tee Travis novel)

By D J Merritt

Theresa Travis uses her unfortanate name and single mother status as an excuse to insulate herself from the world. Only son, Mason, and best friend, Cyn, enter into her bubble. Can fireman Frank Severino break down Tee's defense in time to save her, and can they solve a fifty-year-old mystery together?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 25, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483513867

Book preview

Epilogue

Chapter 1

Hey, Tits! A deep, breathy exclamation followed the greeting, the kind of sound that would be described as oomph in a comic book.

Sorry, I mean Ta-ree-sa, the same voice added, amending himself and accentuating each syllable of my real name phonetically, like he was just learning English, his voice a half-octave lower and with a little less volume than before. I rolled my eyes when I recognized my greeter, mostly due to his slightly nasal tenor and heavy Brooklyn accent.

When I left work at 10:30, running late and feeling a little down after a bad morning, my boss Eileen had prophesized, Relax, Tee, your day’ll get better. I had wanted to tell her it couldn’t get any worse, but now I was glad I hadn’t. It might have been a lie.

I held up my hand to shade my eyes from the bright morning sun, which was just cresting the corrugated metal buildings that could once again be white, with a little power washing. Even though it was late October, in north Texas the fall temperatures could still reach 80 easily, and today threatened to top that. I had just stepped over the threshold that separated the storage area from the Main Street Laundromat, and was standing in the shady gap between units eighteen and twenty. I pivoted my head, scanning left to right, like the old Indian Scout statue back home in Kansas City, trying to follow the sound of the voice luring me from between the cool walls, into the sun, and away from the clean scent and rhythmic melodies of washers and dryers. But the voice echoed, momentarily confusing my senses.

The group shouldn’t have been hard to find – Frank in his pink and yellow flowered Hawaiian print shirt, khaki shorts, and brown OP flip flops would stand out anywhere, like a giant-sized Japanese tourist. All he needed was the camera hanging around his neck to finish the look. His six-foot five-inch frame and dark chocolate hair, molded into a perfect wave breaking away from his forehead, put him a head taller than most people I know, nearly a foot over me. Two normal sized people could hide behind his yard-wide frame, like characters in a cartoon behind a tree. From a distance, his heavy brows and mustache were just dark stripes on pale skin, like black masking tape on the face of a mannequin.

For his day job, Frank Severino is a firefighter in the mid-cities area of Dallas. He relocated from NYC to Texas a few years ago for reasons unknown. Because of his accent, Frank’s buddies call him Brooklyn, which he seems to like. So, I insist on calling him Frank. Tat for Tit, so to speak. He has a square, masculine face, perfectly straight white teeth, and three dimples. I am sure long ago he was told of his passing resemblance to Tom Selleck, which he consciously capitalizes on with his brightly colored Magnum PI shirts and shiny red convertible. Frank’s nasally New York voice stung my spine like a swarm of bees, the same feeling I got when Cyn made me watch John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever, a movie I hated. I thought it was an unrealistic depiction of American life, but my friend Cyn said I just didn’t like it because I was clumsy and couldn’t dance. Back in elementary school, my little brother had a lunch box that looked a lot like Frank.

I stepped from the shadows and angled right, up a slight grade, to meet with the group waiting near the end of the row, at unit number three. Forty years ago someone had a stroke of brilliance, building the laundry/dry cleaner facility next to a retirement village, Mansbury Manor, and putting two rows of 5X5 and 5X10 storage lockers on the back half of the lot. The retirement home provided a built-in clientele. Octogenarians squirreled away the last vestiges of their former lives, and wandered back to walk down memory lane while their clothes tumbled dry.

I sauntered toward the small group standing in front of the unit up for auction, already exhausted from a full morning’s work. But Frank’s indiscretion had torqued my attitude up a notch, and my walk showed it. My light brown hair, what Gram Irene called dishwater blonde, swished gently across the back of my neck. My behavior was spiraling toward out of control right now, and I wasn’t really doing anything to change that. I had what my little brother Tyler called a walking towards you body – all the good stuff up front, not so much going away. I was working it this morning, every step a semaphore signal spelling out in your dreams, Frank.

Frank rubbed his abdomen and watched me intently, having moved a half step farther away from my best friend Cynthia, standing to his left. She was giving me a half smile and a little finger wave with her left hand, the white tips of her French manicure catching the light, while her right elbow extended towards Frank like she was going to launch into the chicken dance. Cyn gives new meaning to the term wing man, or is that wing woman? Chuck, the facility owner, rounded out the group, peeking out from between them and trying to look patient.

You might think that, by now, I would be immune to the jokes, but I wasn’t. Yes, all my life I have endured teasing about my name from the people around me. Adulthood hadn’t really slowed the jokes down, most people just whispered the hated nickname behind my back now, but of course, I can still read their lips. What really makes my butter churn is when transplants like Frank pick up on the nickname, and use it thoughtlessly.

What my mother had intended to be a loving tribute to my two grandmothers had turned into a curse. It was in first grade, when a well-meaning teacher asked everyone to place their initials on their supplies, to help keep things organized, that my initials first came to the other student’s attention. I’m not even sure if my anal retentive mother had even noticed the gaffe before; if she had, she had surely ignored it. After one of the boys in my class noticed the acronym my initials made on my pencil box and began to tease me, Mrs. McCanless changed her policy, but the damage was done.

My mom told then six-year-old me, Don’t worry Theresa, the new will wear off and they’ll forget about it soon. When it continued, mom then told me I should Ignore them, they are only doing it because they know it upsets you. And, when all else failed she would exhort me to Let it go, and be the bigger person. My mother repeated all the clichés that mothers have repeated to their daughters for centuries. She never understood the damage her lack of foresight has caused.

But the kids didn’t forget. In fact, the problem of my name grew in middle school, when I hit puberty, and it became obvious I was going to be the bigger person. Literally. Some of the boys felt it was ironic; they were also the ones that failed eight grade English. For years I defended myself verbally and physically, and spent more than my share of days in various forms of suspension and detention.

When my family relocated to Texas, my mother was sure it would be the perfect opportunity to Put that all behind me. But, when I made the freshman volleyball team, a well meaning booster mom destroyed that chance before first quarter grades were out. All the girl’s full names were printed on a newsprint banner, with each name capitalized in blood red foot-tall letters stacked in a neat vertical row. Thirty seconds later, two thousand of my fellow students were laughing hysterically, and I was just as miserable as I had been in Missouri. Luckily, I had made one friend who stuck by me then, and still did today.

Finally, at the end of my senior year, at the end of what seemed like an endless stream of parent teacher conferences, another adult, in fact my high school principal, had the huevos to tell my mother that all the issues I had had in my long school career were Her damn fault. She was the one that had named me Theresa Irene Travis.

Too bad Dr. Manning forgot there was still one more Travis to pass through Mansbury High School, and that meant two more years of my mother, the lawyer, as President of the PTA. She assured everyone Dr. Manning’s early retirement the following year was just a coincidence. But we never believed that.

Right now I was trying to ignore both my well-honed fight and flight instincts. Fifteen years ago I would have kneed Frank in the nuts and looked forward to the parent conference and probable suspension afterwards. What teenager wouldn’t want a three-day video game break? The modern me was tempted to spin around and return through the cleansing air of the launderette, jump into my hand-me-down Silverado, and lay some rubber on the pavement using all eight cylinders. But today I chose to take the high road, the more mature path (just like my mother always wanted) and ignored the Magnum wannabe. As I approached the group, I dropped the aviator-styled sunglasses that were perched on my head to the bridge of my nose, covering my blue eyes before he could see them roll, again, a habit I have never outgrown, much to my mother’s consternation. Sunglasses were my best defense against revealing emotions, exposing eye-rolls, and the bright Texas sun.

Looks like you lost a food fight, Frank said, his bushy mustache continuing the harangue, chuckling to itself, teeth glittering between his smiling pink lips. My replacement at Jim’s Family Restaurant had been late, so I didn’t have time to change out of my uniform of black jeans and white polo, now tastefully decorated with leftovers. My sun-streaked, shoulder blade length hair was still pulled up high on my head in a pony tail of convenience, stray hairs blowing here and there in the slight breeze. I was sporting a minimum of makeup, which is all I could manage at the butt crack of dawn, but most of that I had sweated off about half way through my four hour shift. On the drive over I had managed to kick off my black Nike running shoes and matching tennis sox, in favor of a pair of comfy black Skechers flip-flops. I believe it should be a crime to cover a perfect pedicure. I’m thinking of starting a petition.

Weekdays I work the breakfast shift at Jim’s, a local family-friendly eatery. The food was simple, service was fast and friendly, the coffee was fresh and your cup was always full. A steady stream of regular customers assured my tips were usually enough to cover my household expenses, and since they were mostly men, it meant they were more likely to overlook the occasional mishap, like this morning. I liked to think this was what Sookie Stackhouse would look like if she was real, and was really a waitress. It’s hard to balance food on the plates when you can’t see what you are carrying past your own boobs. Waiters have it so easy. I’m not really complaining, though. In the restaurant business, bigger, you knows, often means bigger tips.

Hi, Tee. It must be Monday. Biscuit and gravy special today, right? Smellin’ y’all is makin’ me hungry, Cyn greeted me, the smile in her voice matching the one on her face. I leaned over so she could give me a quick hug, one that wouldn’t transfer evidence to her clothes. Besides, she had earned it by using my preferred nickname, giving me a much more welcome, welcome. I was careful to keep my friend between me and Frank. I would pretend it was for his safety after his initial address, or because I found him in general repulsive, but really it was because standing next to him made my skin tingle or itch, or something. But, it wasn’t just Frank. Almost every man not old enough to need Viagra started my motor, lately. So, after two years without a date, even Chuck, who was in his seventies, pot-bellied, and balding, was starting to look good.

Really, because all I can smell is your perfume. Is that Eternity? I asked. I spent a lot of time browsing and testing, but not buying perfumes. I had to keep my son in giant tennis shoes, instead.

Standing next to Cynthia, Cyn to her friends, often made me feel inferior, even with the four inches of height I had on her. She was freshly showered, and her short auburn hair was perfectly coiffed in the latest trendy cut, make-up meticulously applied like she was sitting for a glamour shot, and her white Capri slacks and sleeveless denim button-down blouse looked crisp and new. Her heart-shaped face had fewer wrinkles than her perfectly pressed clothes. Cynthia looked like central casting’s idea of a lawyer’s wife, always ready to mix cocktails and pass out hors d’oeuvres. She was a modern-day Scarlett O’Hara, all lace and grace on the outside, but leather and brimstone underneath. My friend was a walking away girl, according to Tyler, one that could hypnotize you with her hips. Cyn spoke with that twang commonly associated with Texas, even though most people in Dallas today sound more like Midwesterners, like me.

Cyn and I have been friends since we were both compelled to move here, under protest, in high school, her from the Texas panhandle and me from Missouri. Even though we were complete opposites, more Odd Couple than Bobbsey Twins, being the new kids in town together forged a friendship that has lasted nearly twenty years. But today we were actually competitors, which explained why we were squeezing into the shady side of the row, trying not to ruin our perfect summer tans, attending this auction along with Frank at Main Street Storage.

Now, buying the contents of abandoned storage units is not an exact science, it’s more like playing the horses. You can evaluate them from the outside, but won’t know for sure if you’ve picked a winner until you pony up your money and watch them run. Once, when we were kids, my family visited Omaha for a short vacation. My brothers liked the zoo, but I fell in love with Ak-Sar-Ben. Daddy let me choose his horses when my mother wasn’t looking, and we doubled his money; Mom went bust.

Most storage units are filled with the mundane detritus from people’s daily lives (a decent payday, if you don’t invest too much). Sometimes units are empty, and some are filled with things that can be truly horrifying. I have heard stories about people finding drugs, snakes, alligators, severed body parts, and stolen property. Before most auctions the rental agent will inspect the unit, and if the contents are obviously questionable they will call the police, who will confiscate any illegal items before the sale begins. Of course, if they are unscrupulous, the agent also gets the first crack at the contents, and the internet abounds with rumors about this, too. Chuck at Main Street Storage didn’t usually bother to do an inspection, given his clientele of mostly old, retired people. But, in other parts of the Dallas-Fort Worth area owners could be counted on to check them first. Storage units make great meth labs, and convenient places for prostitutes to ply their trade, or so the internet says. Either way, this job is always an adventure.

I have not been unlucky enough to uncover anything more heinous than dead rats. On the flip side, I haven’t found anything truly valuable, yet. There are rumors of people really cashing in on big finds, like unknown paintings by Picasso and letters written by Abraham Lincoln. The biggest bargain I have witnessed was a car, covered in a tarp so the make and model could only be guessed. The winner’s $5,000 bought an early 1960’s Mustang, in mint condition, which he was able to drive away in. Sweet.

The smile I had forced on my face for Frank evolved into a real one for Cynthia. That is, until Frank reached over her shoulder to pluck a sliver of glass from my shirt, chasing my smile back into its shell. I shivered, probably from the chill of the shade. He held the small shiny object up into the light for inspection in his long, thin fingers - the kind you expect from a piano player, not a blue collar guy.

Not only does she bring breakfast, but the dishes to serve it on as well, Frank said, inspecting the glass fragment like he was a diamond broker with a rare gem. This elicited more eye-rolling. At the rate I was going, I was going to get a migraine.

I collided with the new bus boy this morning. I was backing away from a table, he was walking down the aisle, and boom. Believe it or not, Frank, I won, I responded grudgingly, tipping my shades up toward my hairline to glare at Frank openly, peering over Cynthia to make unimpeded eye contact. He had deep, green eyes, the color of old turquoise, and they twinkled back at