Page 5 of My Redneck Baby Daddy

"Uh huh," I said.

"My knees feel loosey goosey..."

"Give me your keys, Rue."

She handed them over with the dignity of a woman surrendering a small country. I told her Hamilton would run her car up to her place in the morning before work. She seemed satisfied with that, mostly because she was drunk as a skunk and she knew it.

She looked even smaller in my truck. My passenger seat seeme to swallow her whole. Poor thing had had to hold the door handle to pull herself up into it. She’d pretended not to struggle with. The dash lights caught her skin and the gold in her earrings, and she kept pushing her glasses up with one finger even though they hadn't moved.

Turned out tipsy Rue was a little talker. "Why do you have tattoos?"

I glanced over at her, my hands still on the wheel. "Got most of 'em young and stupid."

She was thoughtful only for a moment. "What are they of?"

My shoulders eased themselves up by my ears before dropping softly. "My mama's birthday. A set of praying hands I regret. Some stuff I got covered up."

She considered that for about half a mile. "Why concrete?"

"Because a man named Delbert Yates gave me a job when nobody else in this county would. Then he retired and sold me his trucks." Carefully, I turned onto Route 11. "It's honest work, and it's mine. Nobody can fire me from it."

Another beat passed. "Why’s your middle name Jo?"

"It ain't a middle name. It's just my name. My granddaddy was Bobby, and my mama's daddy was Joseph, and neither side would back down."

She laughed at that, and it was a real laugh, loose and unguarded, nothing like the polite one she had given me when I first sat down.

Then she went quiet.

"Can I ask you something else?"

"You been asking me things for twenty minutes."

"Did you..." She stopped. Her hands twisted in her lap. "Never mind."

I knew exactly what she almost asked, because everybody in Irondale eventually asks it, and most of them don't have the decency to stop themselves. I kept my eyes on the road and let her keep the question.

"You can ask me that one sober too," I said.

She was still thinking about that when I pulled into her driveway.

The house was a little brick ranch with a porch swing and a flowerbed somebody actually took care of, and I walked her up even though she told me twice that she was fine. She dug through her purse for her keys, which I had. Her head snapped up when she remembered I had them and held out her hand.

I put them in her palm, and she went after the lock with a determination that was not producing results.

"Here." I took them back, finding the right one, and got the door open. Standing that close, I had to look almost straight down at her, and she had to tip her head all the way back to look at me.

For about two seconds I thought she was going to ask.

Then she smiled, soft and sleepy, and said, "Goodnight, Meth Bobby Jo."

I went completely still and Rue’s eyes went huge behind her glasses. "Oh my God."

I laughed so hard I had to put a hand on the door frame. She was already backing into the house with both hands over her face, apologizing into her palms. I heard the lock turn before I even made it down the steps.

Meth Bobby Jo.

Twelve years and that one still had legs.