Chapter 6 - THE GATHERING AT THE VARSITY: HOW A BOWL OF CHILI DOGS AND A WISE SISTER CAN HEAL A BROKEN HEART
By the following Tuesday afternoon, the Atlanta heat was radiating off the asphalt like heathens dancing on an iron skillet.
I parked my sensible silver Honda Civic in the sprawling parking lot of The Varsity—that legendary, neon-lit neon landmark on North Avenue that had been serving up chili dogs, onion rings, and frosted orange shakes to generations of Atlantans since 1928.
Brenda was already waiting for me at one of the bright red metal outdoor picnic tables under the shadow of the massive glowing sign that flashed WHAT'LL YA HAVE? WHAT'LL YA HAVE? with hypnotic rhythm.
She was wearing her favorite crimson linen sundress, a wide-brimmed straw hat, and oversized sunglasses that made her look less like a retired school principal and more like a retired Hollywood starlet on her way to a clandestine meeting with a studio executive.
As I walked across the pavement carrying a red plastic tray piled high with two chili slaw dogs, a side of french fries, and two frosty FO shakes, she slid her sunglasses down her nose and grinned from ear to ear.
“Look at you,” Brenda announced loudly as I set the tray down on the laminate table. “You look ten pounds lighter and twenty years younger. Is that a new haircut?”
“It’s the same haircut I’ve had since 1998, Brenda,” I laughed, sliding onto the metal bench across from her and wiping a bead of condensation off my cup. “Though I did treat myself to a lavender-scented shampoo at the beauty parlor yesterday.”
“Well, it suits you,” she declared, picking up a chili dog with surgical precision and taking a generous bite. She chewed thoughtfully for a moment, swallowed, and dabbed her mouth with a paper napkin before leaning across the table. “So. The grapevine in Marietta has been buzzing all weekend. Word is, Kevin and Lorraine spent the entire Fourth of July weekend holed up in a Marriot suite near Perimeter Mall ordering room service and arguing about property deeds while their kids watched cartoons on a twenty-four-inch hotel TV.”
“It wasn't quite a Marriott,” I corrected mildly, unwrapping my own dog. “It was a Holiday Inn Express off Interstate 85. And according to Lorraine when she called me crying on Friday, they spent most of Saturday arguing about whether to sue their own divorce attorney.”
Brenda let out a cackle that caused two college students at the next table to turn around and stare. “Oh, lord in heaven, Dot! You are a cold-blooded assassin wrapped in a grandmother's apron, and I love you more than life itself.”
“I’m not an assassin, Brenda,” I said, taking a sip of the frothy, orange-flavored milkshake that tasted like childhood summers and county fairs. “I’m just a woman who decided she was tired of paying rent in a house she built with her own sweat.”
“And how is the young princess taking her demotion from estate manager to ordinary mortal?” Brenda asked, her eyes sharp behind her dark lenses.
“Quietly, for now,” I replied, looking out over the busy stream of traffic crawling down North Avenue. “She called me yesterday afternoon. No shouting, no demands, no corporate jargon. Just... asked if she could come over for Sunday pot roast this weekend. Just her and the kids. No Kevin.”
Brenda stopped chewing, her fork hovering halfway to her mouth. Her expression softened into something tender and knowing. “And what did you say?”
“I told her the roast would be in the oven at one o'clock,” I said simply. “And that she was welcome to bring a salad, but she wasn't allowed to tell me how to season the gravy.”
Brenda threw her head back and laughed, the sound ringing out clear and bright against the roar of downtown traffic. “Oh, Dot. You’re a marvel. Samuel knew what he was doing when he married you.”
“Samuel was a good man,” I whispered, looking down at the red plastic tray. “He taught me how to be patient. But he also taught me that patience isn't an excuse for letting people walk all over your soul.”
We sat there together in the humid Atlanta sunshine, eating chili dogs and drinking FO shakes like two young girls who didn't have a care in the world.
For the first time in thirty-four years of marriage and six years of widowhood, I didn't feel the phantom tug of obligation pulling me toward a lake house that wasn't mine. I didn't feel the guilty ache of a mother who had failed her child by saying no.
I felt grounded. Like the deep red Georgia clay that lay beneath the asphalt, steady, enduring, and entirely unmovable.
“So,” Brenda said, wiping her fingers with a napkin and leaning back against the bench with a satisfied sigh. “Now that you’re a woman of leisure with a bank account full of waterfront cash and zero property management responsibilities... what are you going to do with yourself?”
I smiled, taking one last sip of my milkshake as the neon sign above us hummed to life against the darkening evening sky.
“Well,” I said, looking out at the glittering lights of the city where I had lived, worked, and loved for nearly seven decades. “I’ve been thinking about taking a trip.”
“Oh? Where to? Paris? London? Hawaii?”
“Nothing that dramatic,” I laughed, shaking my head. “I was thinking about driving down to Savannah for a few days. Staying in a small bed-and-breakfast near Forsyth Park. Walking under the moss-draped live oaks. Eating fried green tomatoes on a shady porch where nobody knows my name, nobody asks me to check their blood pressure, and nobody expects me to stock the refrigerator.”
Brenda smiled, reaching across the laminate table to squeeze my hand with fingers that were strong, warm, and familiar.
May you like
“Sounds perfect, Dot,” she said softly. “Just make sure you don’t let anyone talk you into sharing your suitcase.”
“Oh, don't worry about that,” I said, my voice steady and clear as a bell. “My suitcase is small. It only holds my own clothes. And I hold the only key.”
