Hard Luck Georgia Girl

By Katherine Fuoco Fairchild

Follow the path of Ardith Evans, a young woman whose mantra is: "Hard luck, bad luck, or no luck at all-I'll make my own good luck!" 

This fast-paced novel invites you to experience Ardith's journey from an impoverished Southern Georgia mill town to big city Atlanta. Ardith seeks her fortune, meets daunting obstacles, and

• Language: English
• Publisher: Katherine Fuoco Fairchild
• Release date: May 17, 2022
• ISBN: 9798986298405

Book preview

Part I

Pegram, Georgia

1999

Chapter 1

Ardith Evans—head down, lips pursed, absorbed in the task—ran hemstitching along a velvet pillow top, the rickety kitchen table shuddering as the old Singer sewing machine sped along.

And a line of sticky notes, penned in bold and colorful calligraphy, flapped in time to the rhythm of the machine. They read:

Kill Billy Everett Evans

Back his Big-Ass Truck over his Dead Body

Shoot out all the Windows and Tires

Light a Match and Roast Marshmallows

~ Or ~ what-the-hell ~ Just Divorce the Jackass

At the bottom of the note, she had sketched a tiny cartoon of a pickup truck—its chassis full of holes, much like a wedge of Swiss cheese.

Gathering gray clouds outside and a flickering mute television inside provided scant light for Ardith’s sewing. She hunched over the old portable, her long sandy hair falling forward, heavy bangs only slightly above her lashes. She whipped the royal-blue fabric to the right, and right again, until three sides were finished.

When working, time eluded—eating and sleeping forgotten. No dwelling on the idiotic Billy Everett and the pain he’s causing, no worrying Aunt Helen will fall and break a hip, no frantic thoughts about flunking a math exam. Replace the negative with manic creative energy.

Just knock out this contract sewing for Mr. Sydney and get paid!

Leaning away from the machine, she straightened her back and examined her stitching, clipped threads, and added the piece to a stack of finished decorative pillow covers. She reached for a square of watermark linen.

The phone jolted her deep concentration. She stood and stretched tall to ease tension in her neck and slim shoulders. Billy Everett actually off his ass and calling?

Ardith, come quick! Need you! Aunt Helen was breathless, anxious.

What, Auntie Helen? You fall again?

Need you! Come quick!

Ardith grabbed keys and a jacket and flew out the door into the gloomy autumn afternoon. Her beat-up ’87 Taurus sputtered and groaned. Come on, Ol’ Trusty, she urged. The old sedan, once a shiny maroon, was now a flat brown. Rust crept up the tire wells. A V-shaped crack etched the windshield.

Aunt Helen’s a crazy junebug. What now? she asked the rattling car. The Taurus idled to a plunk-plunk sound; dashboard lights flickered.

You remember last time, Trusty? She was counting her underwear and decided someone stole her underpants. Time before, she fell down trying to booby trap the back door. Ardith pressed the accelerator; the car lurched forward. Sweet as pie, but nutty as a Christmas fruitcake…

Ardith held the ancient Taurus to Pegram’s in-town speed limit. Speeding ticket’s last thing we need with all Billy Everett’s stupid bills he’s run up. The car responded with a sputtering sound.

"Hang together, Ol’ Trusty, till we get to Auntie Helen’s. What if she’s fallen down, hurt herself?" Ardith gripped the steering wheel, heart pounding as she passed the Piggly Wiggly on her left and turned down a street passing the complex of empty textile mill buildings where her father, her Uncle Horace, and most of Pegram’s population once worked.

When the mill closed and the good jobs ended, the small town suffered. Too many—workers, foremen, managers—now worked fast food and odd jobs. Once a stalwart complex of red brick and stone, the dilapidated buildings loomed empty hulks against the gray sky. Where machines hummed 24 hours a day producing fabric and thread, weeds grew as high as small trees.

Remind me not to go this way anymore, Trusty. Depressing. All those mill folks worked hard, deserve better. She glanced one more time at the derelict buildings. Wonder what’ll happen to those old wrecked buildings? Sad.

She turned into her Aunt Helen’s neighborhood. The Taurus clunked to a halt in front of her aunt’s millworker cottage, now listed as a historic home. The small homes, originally built for workers at the textile mill, were prized—oddly enough, while the recession raged on. Some parts of the neighborhood were undergoing gentrification.

Ardith’s Uncle Horace worked at the textile mill for forty years before his death five years earlier. Now, Helen owned the old shotgun house free and clear and received a small pension—just enough to meet the old lady’s day-to-day expenses. Horace, a complicated and parsimonious man, spent little on repairs. The cottage needed major refurbishing.

Ardith hurried up the steps to the narrow porch, hopping over the split third step. Hand-turned railings held redwood flower boxes planted with dusty autumn gold and bronze mums. Two Boston ferns hung from the porch overhang in testimony to Helen’s green thumb. Today, an overcast autumn day, a dry breeze blew the ferns this way and that. The plants sagged, needing water.

Ardith tried the door, its blue paint weathered and peeling. Locked. She pounded on the door. Auntie! Auntie Helen! She could hear slow shuffling. Auntie! You okay?

It seemed an eternity until Helen opened the door. A startled look on her face, she wore a faded flowered dress and open-toe sandals with blue socks. She crossed her arms and held a threadbare sweater tight to her bosom. She peered at Ardith through oversized lenses, white hair framing her face like a giant cotton ball.

You okay, Auntie? You didn’t fall, did you?

Helen shook her head no. Her blue-veined hands tugged again at her sweater. What’d you come here for, honey?

You called me, said you needed me to come. What’s wrong, Auntie?

Helen looked away as if trying to recall.

Your heater not working again, Auntie?

Helen’s eyes widened. She blurted, Real cold inside! Somethin’s on the fritz. You fix it? That’d be real nice.

Ardith sighed, relaxing somewhat to know her aunt was physically all right, had not fallen or worse. Ardith entered and stepped on to what seemed a carpet of scattered newspapers. Auntie, why are all these papers on the floor?

They stood together in the space Helen referred to as the parlor—a tiny room with a small sofa and a rocking chair with a padded seat, tattered and worn. An ancient floor lamp, its shade yellowed, listed to the left and hovered over the rocker. A cluster of dusty figurines, anchored by a round lace doily, huddled on a side table.

A tinted photograph of Helen in her early years hung on the wall. The young Helen, wearing a pale rose dress with a lace collar, smiled sweetly; blonde curls framed her round face. On the opposite wall hung an antique school clock Ardith had always liked. As a child and often in Helen’s care while her mother worked, Ardith loved to watch the pendulum swing and to hear the clock’s soft bong on the hour and the half hour.

Helen peered through her glasses at Ardith then stared down at the scratched heart-of-pine floor littered with newspapers. Why I don’t rightly know, she said, looking perplexed. Guess I was seein’ ’bout Piggly Wiggly coupons. I don’t git ’round to readin’ papers. They just tend to pile up, you know.

Well, first things first. Let’s pick up the papers and put them in recycling.

Oh, no, honey. I gotta read ’em! Might be somethin’ important I might need to know. Might be some of them coupons for the Piggly Wiggly.

Ardith suppressed the urge to scream, to ask why she was saddled with this dear, but mentally declining old woman. She gritted her teeth, drew up all the patience she possibly could. I’m all she’s got. I gotta take care of her.

"Okay, Auntie, tell you what. Let’s pick up and stack them on the back porch. Then you can read them when you get time. How does that sound?"

Well, I guess so. That’d be right good.

Got to do this, Auntie. You might trip-slip. Can’t chance you’ll take a hard fall… so help me, now. Let’s pick up…

Ardith moved quickly to gather and stack the papers. Most were on the floor, but she found more on Helen’s small kitchen table. She registered alarm when she discovered the local newspaper, spread open to Piggly Wiggly grocery ads, covering the narrow gas stove and Helen’s ancient percolator. The pot was still warm. Oh my gosh! She could just burn this old cottage right to the ground!

Ardith placed the papers in a haphazard stack on the back porch. Helen obediently followed. Okay, Auntie, you go through the papers, look through and take out grocery coupons, if you see something you can use. She’s not paying attention! Does she understand or even hear what I’m saying? Ardith sighed and turned to look at the gas heater.

Helen, clearly confused, whispered. Yes, okay… Marie.

Ardith stopped in her tracks. Auntie, I’m not Marie. Marie was my mother, your niece! I’m Ardith! You are my great-aunt! Ardith sighed, regretting scolding Helen; she realized the futility of the effort. At least she knows I’m family.

The old woman showed no expression. Yes, honey, she whispered and shuffled to pull forward a weathered chair from a corner of the porch. She sat gingerly one frail hip at a time as if, as she often expressed it, Mr. Arthur Itis has come callin’. With squinted eyes, she stared at the stack of newspapers, confused as to where to begin or what to do.

Ardith, shaking her head in frustration, returned inside and checked the controls on the gas heater. The switch was on off. She turned the heater on. Working fine. She just can’t see the tiny lettering on this old ratty piece of outdated equipment. Uncle Horace! You worthless old cheapskate! This obsolete piece of crap shoulda been replaced twenty years ago… She took a moment, inhaled deeply, gathered all the calm she could muster.

Fixed the gas heater, Auntie. Ardith opened the screen door to see her aunt still sitting and looking at the papers. Helen looked up at her with a sweet but vacant smile. All good, honey?

Come with me, Auntie, and I’ll show you it’s working good. Ardith, resolving to be more patient, held open the door for her beloved aunt.

Helen, still smiling, shuffled back into the house and followed Ardith to check the heater. With two arthritic hands, she adjusted the clear plastic frames of her thick glasses and peered at the controls. Oh, that’s workin’ right good now. Isn’t it?

Yes, ma’am. I’ve set it to 68 degrees. If that’s not warm enough, I’ll adjust it tomorrow. Okay?

Helen smiled. All good, honey.

Ardith, as she always did when visiting Helen, surveyed the small house to ensure the stove was off, there was nothing Helen could trip over. She queried Helen if she’d taken her medicines, checked and re-checked the medicine bottles, and loaded her pill reminder box.

What are you eating for dinner tonight? she asked. Helen’s refrigerator held a piece of roast chicken, a biscuit, and a tomato. Taking you to Piggly Wiggly tomorrow to get groceries, Auntie. Be ready early, eight o’clock, because I have lots of work to do later in the day, and I have class at ten o’clock, so we need to shop quick.

Helen followed her to the porch. Ardith repeated, Be ready at eight tomorrow.

Thank you, Marie, Helen said.

Auntie, I’m not…

Oh, silly me, Helen said suddenly, as if awakening from a nap. I called you your mama’s name. Her laugh was a phlegmy cackle.

Ardith did not respond. Her mind was racing. There was little or no money to get daycare help for Helen. With Helen’s rapidly advancing memory problems, she could no longer be safe by herself. Ardith resolved she’d have to visit Helen several times a day, and how to do that when she needed to work to pay the ever-growing stack of bills plus repairs to the old Taurus? When was there time to finish coursework at Pegram Community College?

Ardith drove away, worried, reflecting on her short temper outburst, her impatience. She glanced in the rear-view mirror to see her aunt sweetly waving from the porch. Dear, dear Auntie Helen. She’s always been so kind to me. She took good care of me when I was little—when Papa died and Mama worked and struggled to make ends meet. My Auntie Helen—she’s a good and wonderful human being. But now she’s worrying me to death… and driving me absolutely nuts!

The Taurus stalled. Oh, come on! Not you too! She pumped the gas pedal, and the car revived. Okay, ol’ pal—that’s good—get me home…

Ardith, her mind spinning, abruptly sensed a flash of lights following her. She glanced up at the rearview mirror. A police cruiser stalked.

Oh my gosh, what now? I wasn’t speeding! She pulled over and waited. The policeman exited the cruiser and strolled to the side of the car. His demeanor was neither pleasant not kind. All business and seriousness. Please don’t let him give me a ticket. Please. Please.

What’s wrong, officer?

License, registration, ma’am.

Ardith, her hands shaking, fumbled through her wallet. The cop, his dark glasses reflecting her image, studied her license. Crack in the windshield’s an offense, ma’am, he barked. Rear brake light’s out.

But sir, this is my only transportation, and money’s tight…

The officer scrawled the ticket in a rapid flash and handed it to her. Safety first, ma’am. He returned to the cruiser and drove off. Ardith held the ticket in two hands and burst into tears.

Exhausted, still tearful, she returned to her dreary apartment and threw the car keys on the kitchen counter. She fingered a stack of bills—electric, cable, Billy Everett’s truck payment. She slapped the traffic ticket on top of the pile.

Barely getting by here. Ol’ Trusty needs new tires, and now a windshield! What to do about my dippy, dear old auntie? How can I take care of her and work and get money to pay all these shitty bills… including Billy Everett’s credit card bills from all the beer and booze joints he hangs out in?

Lousy Billy Everett. Doesn’t carry his load at all. Stupid son-of-a-bitch. I’d like to take his daddy’s old shotgun and make Swiss cheese of him and his ridiculously-overlarge pickup truck! He HAD to have that truck—and why? Must be for no other reason than as an extension of his… masculinity. Whatever does he haul in that thing? Cases of beer, regularly, for sure.

Billy Everett Evans—world-class asshole.

Chapter 2

Exhausted from designing and sewing complicated ruffled bedskirts, Ardith fell into bed after midnight. As tired as she was, she slept fitfully and arose at dawn to study for her math exam. At 8 a.m. sharp, she escorted her aunt to Piggly Wiggly, saw to it her cupboard and refrigerator held healthy food. She raced to her ten o’clock class then returned to the bleak apartment. Feel like I’ve done a day’s work, and it’s only 11:15 in the morning.

In spite of fatigue, she settled at the sewing machine and seamed gold cording to edges of blue velvet. She needed to work, to bring in money, and to devise a plan for caring for Helen before she fell and broke a hip or burned down the cottage.

As usual, she battled back worries and concentrated on work. She fell into her creative space and took up an elegant pillow cover she’d finished earlier. She stuffed a soft pillow form into the cover and threaded a needle to hand-sew details—her favorite part, the finishing work. Once again, she was completely absorbed in the work itself, loving the artistry, enjoying the creating of a unique hand-crafted item.

As a ten-year-old, she sewed clothes for her Barbie. Best-dressed doll in town, her daddy said. In high school, she advanced to fancy prom dresses. Billy Everett, his six-foot-five-inch lankiness leaning near, whispered, You’re the prettiest girl at this prom, and you got the prettiest dress. And you’re gonna marry me soon as we graduate.

Her mother, who spent years away from Pegram and attended design school in New York, taught her to seam drapes and coverlets, to draw garment patterns. Ardith inherited not only her mother’s talent for sewing but her eye for color, style, and fit. She loved the hours at her mother’s Singer; most of all, she loved the finished product, compliments it brought, sense of accomplishment. As a teenager, she could take a sewing project from sketch to finished product in record time. She could do it all and do it well: concept, exact measurements, selection of fabric and trim, machine sewing and hand detail stitching. Now, when she bent over the sewing machine or worked on an item requiring precise handiwork, it was if her mother were standing there—over her shoulder—coaching, instructing, and guiding her to the finished product. She could hear her mother’s voice encouraging her, Oh, good work, girl… now try this… oh, that’s perfect!

And from the time she was very young, her mother had instilled the value of education. Sewing’s one thing—when you’re really good at it, that’s a means to earn money. But need to know other things—so when there’s enough money to take some courses, to learn new things, to advance, take that opportunity. Need to know more than just cooking and cleaning house. Ardith’s mother said this often and more and more after Ardith married Billy Everett. You’re both so young, her mother said. I hope you’ll not forget about completing your education. Look at your great-aunt Helen who married at age fifteen—her life is an example of having no education and making no effort to get one. Lately, Ardith wished she had paid more attention to her mother’s cautionary tale. Mama said marrying at eighteen was too young. Shoulda listened.

Today she had completed about half the order she’d promised to complete for Mr. Sydney, Pegram’s one and only interior designer. To rest her eyes from the close needlework, she glanced across the room at the wall. She was getting her second wind, would maybe complete the work by evening. She could then deliver finished goods to Mr. Sydney at his studio tomorrow. And get paid.

The phone, once again, jolted her from her dream-like concentration. Billy Everett Evans. He worked on an oil vessel off the Georgia coast and was rarely home. When he was, he preferred drinking with old town friends and spending nights out cruising Pegram’s bar scene.

Ardie, it’s Bill…

You sending rent money? I’m running really short, she said. Your truck insurance is due. There’s not enough in the bank account to cover it.

Well, if you weren’t stupid, maybe you’d still have that job at the old people’s place, he snapped. Maybe you woulda put some money in that checking by now. Know what, you mess up ever’ time. An’ I’m out here on this rockin’ oil boat, losin’ my mind with noise and hard work—bustin’ my ass.

Ardith held the phone away from her ear and stared down at the worn kitchen linoleum. She had told herself she would not lose her temper with Billy Everett; it did no earthly good to do so, and making a case that he should conduct himself more responsibly accomplished nothing. A rational discussion with Billy Everett Evans was futile and a colossal waste of time and effort. He seemed incapable of understanding the right and wrong behavior of an adult, let alone a husband.

Today, however, Ardith—overwhelmed by worries and fatigue—allowed absolute fury to take hold. She slowly and rhythmically pounded her fist on the cracked Formica counter and yelled into the phone, I lost my job at the old folks’ home because they cut back! I was laid off! I wasn’t stupid, Billy Everett! They no longer had a job for me! Why can’t you understand that? I did not ‘mess up’—as you put it! Jobs are scarce in Pegram right now, and I’m doing the best I can! And I’m taking college courses so I can get ahead…

No time for your sob stories, Billy Everett interrupted. Yeah, college courses? And what’s art history gonna buy you? Some art? Nothin’ but a big waste of time when you could be workin’ in a store or something.

Ardith sucked in breath, resolving to no longer fight the fight. I want an education, Billy Everett. I want a real career.

An’ I s’pose you’re still sewin’ stuff for that ‘queer-as-a-four-dollar-bill Sydney.’ You got any idea how much shit I take from the guys out here about you workin’ for some kinda fag?

Ardith took a moment to catch her breath. Mr. Sydney is a talented and artistic man who is teaching me the design business. Call him all the despicable names you can think of, but he is a true gentleman and a fine man.

Yeah, right. You’re just wastin’ time… hell, one of us has gotta get back to doin’ real work…

Where are you? Why aren’t you here? Don’t you have two weeks off? Two on, two off. That’s the way it’s always been.

Pickin’ up ever’body’s slack.

Billy Everett, I don’t believe you. You’re partying, out drinking with worthless wildcatters, hanging out with losers and idiots—while I’m trying to get along on no money! Enough of your excuses, Billy Everett! Show some responsibility! Be an adult!

Look, sendin’ a check… make it go the distance, you hear?

The dial tone buzzed. She held back tears. She imagined him—out on the oil vessel—his long, lean muscular body bending and turning valves, lifting heavy cables—his suntanned skin shiny with sweat. She remembered happier times when he returned—he’d be worn-out tired. She loved to watch him scrub grime from his nails and listened while he whistled in the shower—long showers to wash off the petroleum scum, he’d say.

What happened to us? In earlier times, when they’d disagreed, she wished he would call back. If only—just once—then—he’d say he was sorry, he missed her, they should remember why they fell in love in the first place, because they had been happy—once. The early years were an extended honeymoon, but Ardith was ambitious while Billy Everett was not, and the past five years had been miserable. He told her on several occasions, Just shut up and keep the house for us an’ then go get you some kind of clerk job… for your own spendin’ money.

As infuriating as Billy Everett’s attitudes and behavior were, Ardith was determined to no longer respond, to cease trying to get him to understand her ambitions. She was utterly convinced Billy Everett would never change, but she always knew she could do better. She knew she could do other things, creative things. She had marketable skills. Working in a convenience store was not what she had in mind for her work life. There was something out there that was better, and she would find it. And she would find it without Billy Everett Evans and the burdens he placed on her.

Kill or divorce him—one of the other. If I find that old shotgun, I’ll make Swiss cheese out of him.

Chapter 3

Ardith, lost in thought, pressed seams on a heavy taffeta coverlet she’d completed. The phone interrupted . She waited to answer. Not Billy Everett calling to say he’s sorry. Forget it. That’s never gonna happen. Her next thought: Auntie Helen. She answered with trepidation.

Come to the mall with me, Tanya’s low, sultry voice ordered. I need a new outfit. And I need you to help me—you always pick out things that look good on me.

Can’t. Got a ton of sewing. Lotsa work to do.

Put down the needle and thread and get your ass ready to go out.

"Really, Tanya, I have so much to do, and right now I’m really worried about my Auntie