So I learn to wander off.
I let the night take me where it wants. When I’m not being led onto the dance floor, I’m being led into another hometown story; soldiers don’t like to talk about the war but they love to say they’ve got the best hometown sweetheart and the best mother. Sometimes I believe them.
“Hey Pinocchio, what’s your sweetie’s name?” I ask Sam.
“Cinderella.” He gives me his grin and I roll my eyes.
“No, really,” he says, handing me a beer. I guzzle it like a man; that last jitterbug took us flying around the floor and somehow Sam flipped me over and landed me on my feet like we’d been rehearsing all our lives. I still haven’t figured that one out.
“Her name is Cindy but she works in my place in Pennsylvania’s Mather coal mine. She’s so brave to go down there, even though she knows my dad died down there in an explosion about fifteen years ago. Ever since I saw the soot streaks and those downcast eyes that first day she came up out of that hole, Cinderella’s been her nickname. She burst out crying cause she’d never been so dirty before, she said. I reached down into the fireplace and rubbed some coal ash on my face and got down on one knee and asked her to marry this handsome prince.”
“And?”
He took a long swig and then grinned and winked. “She will.”
A couple of Sam’s buddies join us for a few laughs and then meander off. The tempo of the band starts winding down for some slow time and one of my mama’s pet songs begins. Bye-bye Blackbird makes me homesick and I begin to sway back and forth with my eyes closed, letting the melancholy take me over.
“Well, we might as well dance this one, too,” Sam says, rather too nonchalantly.
I hesitate; some unwritten code tells me I’m stepping over a line with William. I’ve danced the slow ones with him only, even when the song isn’t that slow, since that’s all he knows how to do – that and sing the words in my ear (Heart of my heart/I love that melody/Heart of my heart/Brings back a memory, oh that crooning voice of his! Even after all that he had done afterwards, this memory still sings so sweetly to me!)
But this is silly so I shrug it off and set my bottle down hard to indicate acceptance.
Sam’s a little stiffer in such a close hold. Cindy had been his only sweetheart, this I knew from our few nights of talking, and I can tell that his experience is limited. He goes from being a limber puppet to a wooden stick. I laugh, he grins and we’re both relieved to hear the song ‘bye-bye’ for good and get back to our bottles. I excuse myself to go to the toilet and the one tiny room is tucked beyond the u-shaped bar. Guys and girls that sit on this side of the bar are in the dark and are either serious sots or smooching. I glance over to see William sitting there as I stand in line behind other girls waiting to get into that stinking hole. I can hear him talking to his high school buddy, a guy who recently enlisted and had the fresh-shaved head to show for it.
“Yeah, you may be right, but she’s a bitch.” William sounds angry, his voice amplified by the three empty beer bottles in front of him.
“Hey, they’re all a bitch but what can you do?” says what’s-his-name. I’d been introduced but he has an undistinguishable face.
“There’s things I can do.” William twirls his bottle, looking deep in thought.
“Without your daddy’s help?”
William snorts and gives his buddy a sarcastic smile. “Yes, without my daddy. He doesn’t run my life you know.”
His buddy gives him back a mocking grin. “Right,” he says slowly, nodding his head. “Just askin’. Then what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to puncture that prized cherry of hers, that’s what.”
What’s-his-name whistles a long low sound. “With or without her consent?”
“What do you think I am – some kind of animal?” They both chuckle. “What better place to get her consent than here? Some of these drinks work as better panty-strippers than I do.”
By that point, I’ve moved far enough in the line that I can’t hear much beyond their chortles. I’m feeling sick to my stomach. Who’s William talking about? I have a sinking feeling that I know.
I return later to Sam, nervous and edgy. I had remembered while in the toilet that William has the car keys and I’m stuck with him and his plan. I can’t keep quiet about it but I don’t know Sam well enough to confide. “I have a friend who knows this guy,” I begin, and then tell him what this guy has planned.
Sam looks so serious and concerned, I want to hug him. It’s not until that moment that I realize how alone I feel, like I’m an island surrounded by sharks called Uncle Joe and William.
“One thing I’ve learned in this war is,” Sam says pensively, “you’ve – a person’s got to go on the offensive. You don’t wait around for your enemy to attack; all you have to know is: Who’s your enemy.” He bangs his fist on the bar with each of these last three words. “When you know that, then you go in for the kill.” He leans toward me, his reserve gone, and places his hand on my shoulder. His sea-blue eyes are deep, fathomless. “This friend has got to give this guy some of his own medicine. Get him drunk.”
I see the sense of it right away. Once William is drunk, I can get the car keys and skedaddle.
I nod and tell him I have to go and he nods understandably. “I’ll be here for an hour or so more,” he says casually, intently eyeing his bottle.
I wind my way back around through the clusters of people, through another crowded night, and find William where I saw him last. Four empty beer bottles now line up in front of him and he’s nursing another. I come up behind him and place my hand on his shoulder - imitating Sam’s gesture gives me strength. “You going to go bowling with all those pins?” I ask, jerking my head toward the bottles.
He looks up at me with bloodshot eyes and I’m thinking this won’t take long. “Buy me a drink, will ya?” I say.
That’s his buddy’s signal and he salutes us soldierly and walks away with such a creepy grin, I almost lose my nerve.
William gives himself away with a “Sure, doll!” but then as if he remembers something, he straightens his expression. He orders me a whiskey sour - whatever that is - and I insist that he drink the same. I take a sip, he drinks half the glass, and then his previous beer drinking kicks in and he goes to “drain a snake”. I pour part of my drink into his glass and pour out the rest onto the floor next to my bar stool. No one notices, there’s so many mugs and glasses sloshing around. He comes back and drinks his down and orders another round. He lights a cigarette and hands it to me. He squints through the smoke I blow toward him. “I don’t like you dancing with other guys.”
“Friends don’t care who I dance with, as long as we’re friends,” I say. “Your buddy is over there trying to get your attention.” He turns and looks off into the crowd and I pour my drink into his glass and onto the floor again.
I’m able to get by with drinking only a few sips through four glasses of whiskey sours, while I watch William sway and wave like he’s under water. I’m feeling quite clever. Except that William is feeling quite cocky.
“Would you like to dance?” he asks with a slur.
I nod, not quite knowing what to expect – the band is playing Boogie-Woogie Bugle Boy, requiring fast kicks.
“Then I hope somebody asks you,” he says. He snorts like he thinks he’s funny, but I’m starting to see a mean drunk come out in his squinted eyes and dead stare. I’m hoping I haven’t taken on more than I can handle.
The crowd is beginning to thin out and the bartender is watching William. “Last call,” he says to William, in response to William moving his finger in a sloppy circle for another round.
William smirks and gives him the middle finger. “Fuck you.” He leans toward me and almost falls off the bar stool. He catches himself by throwing his arms over my shoulders. “And fuck you.”
“What did I do to deserve that?” I ask calmly, even though I’m ticked off by it.
“It’s what you’
re going to do,” he answers slowly. He lays his head on my shoulder. “You’re going to ride me hard, a-a-a-all night,” he says in my ear.
I’ve had enough. I pretend to hug him, while my hands search his jacket pockets and find the car keys. I clutch them tightly. Boy, what a relief!
I push him back up into his seat and prop his elbow onto the bar to steady him. I whisper into his ear, “Wait for me. I’m going to go water the lily.” I head toward the toilet and then lose myself in the crowd and turn back to the front doors. I’m outside in a foxtrot for the car when I hear someone call my name. I freeze in fear.
I turn around and see Sam. It looks like he’s been waiting, watching. I give him the thumbs-up and he grins and returns the same and heads back inside. He grabs hold of William just as he stumbles out. I hear Sam saying, “Whoa, fella, slow down!” William swings at him but Sam easily ducks and William falls. Sam gives me the bye-bye of the hand to get moving while he’s bent over William. I start the engine of my Duesy and I ride her hard, just as William planned.
Christmas has come and gone and I got new fishnet stockings and a shirtdress. I guess the New Year’s resolution is to pretend Jesi doesn’t wear an ugly leg brace. I don’t get it. In 1963 I’m five years old; in 1964, I’m twenty-five? When did My Mamas decide I’m all growed-up and haired-over?
And more and more, it’s not just Mama avoiding me. Like we all have the cooties. The four of us are writing more and more from our bedrooms, as if we’re all getting to the hard parts. I walked by Mama’s partly opened bedroom door last night and like always, her lights are on – she always sleeps with a light on, like she’s afraid of the boogey man. I looked in and there she sat with paper scattered around her, shrunk by her fluffed-up feather mattress that she “can’t live without”, looking like she’s sinking into snow, her face looking so miserable you’d think she’s coming down from an LSD trip.
But not me, no way, man. I have to say that I’m writing the best part. I had a blast with Isaac last night. I thought Mama would go ape-shit this morning when she saw my hickey but she hung loose and asked me if I wanted to go on The Pill. I had to remind her I already was. Not that I need it with Isaac. We don’t go All The Way. He’s the sweetest lover and we just make out mostly. He doesn’t even cop a feel unless I want him to. It’s all upfront and giving. Love For Real.
Why don’t I just quit being a candy-ass and write about it? You know I want to talk about it and I know you want to read about it. I think I’ll treat this like a diary, since I never got one from Mama. The tradition of mother-to-daughter diaries stopped here for some reason. Maybe Mama thinks I don’t have a life.
He’s got bucket seats in his car that he calls Birth Control Seats. It’s really hard to make out there. So we drove to City Hall Park and walked to that big white gazebo. So Romantic in the dark there, like on our own planet. Everything around us was dark with little pinpoints of light in the distance, so I started making the doo-da-doo-doo sound in the opening of Twilight Zone, my favorite TV show. But then we hear voices.
“Follow me,” he said in a whisper. He ducked behind the gazebo, pulling my hand in such a squeeze, you’d thought I was his five-finger discount (who would steal a cripple anyway?). We crouched low and headed into the field of high grasses. The full moon made his white shirt glow ghostly that moved in the dark by itself, the rest of him disappearing into murkiness. We were also stepping over that murky line we had drawn between us in the name of friendship and race. Our black and white disappeared and we mingled as gray as he sat me down in the grasses and the moon watched him give me the sweetest kiss I have ever known. His breath hot on my cheek, he rocked me then, stroking my bum leg in a comforting way. No other dude had touched my brace before; they pretended it wasn’t there, so I had pretended too, ignoring the elephant in the room. This moved me, man, in a new way. I clung to his sleeves like he’d just pulled me up on shore, safe from drowning. Fingers unbuttoned my blouse while I listened to our air hurriedly rush in and out of our bodies. Time stood still, or more like, we had run out of time and we had no time to lose. Once upon a time, I imagined I would stop him when it came to this, but no way now. When his hand slid inside my blouse, it was freaking amazing and I sought his large lips all on my own. I’d never felt turned-on before, not like this, it was just make-believe before this, trying to make-up big time for my deformity (how bummed out is it that I was like saying, here, take this part between my legs, it’s not messed up?). I opened up, even opened my eyes and looked straight into his, dark depths like eternity. Gently he pushed me back, and I found myself lying on my back and him above me, the moon now a halo around his head, the grasses circling us, rustling with our secret. It was as if he had found the switch to a motor and I heard a tiny hum release from my lips. Like a mushy movie love scene, I was tempted to say, where have you been all my life? But it sounded damn corny so instead I wrapped my arms around his neck and rocked against his hand; I couldn’t stop now, the urge took me over. His hip and its clothed hard spot moved against my thigh. We soared to the moon together, gasped at the dizzying heights, and fell lightly back to the earth, now lying on our backs weak from the flight. This was my first orgasm, the first time I got off. What a rush.
And we didn’t even do IT, man, no intercourse. How cool is that?
I reached for his hand, now lying limp by his side.
“I’d follow you anywhere,” I said.
“Then follow me to Nashville.”
Summer’s Growth
Today is the convention. Those were my first thoughts as I laid there in the early morning in total terror. Too early yet to get up. My mind began its journey yet again of reciting the words of my poem, memorized by now, but like reaching for the hand of your mother, I was comforted.
Then I prayed, but I couldn’t even imagine what to ask for, what the day would hold. Of course we discussed this at length at our last tea, but once I told them I’d written a “silly” song, I was asked to teach it to the others and now it will be part of our entrance into the park, and Oh My Lord, I didn’t know where to begin!
My little inner voice said, Then begin where you know. Yes, of course, I would take this one step at a time. Arise. Move about my kitchen. Light a fire in the stove.
By the time the others came thumping, mumbling down the stairs, I had prepared their breakfast and started dinner. I was a mess, my apron showing every ingredient, so much my shaky hands had dropped or spilled, and a blister had formed on my finger. I couldn’t seem to focus on one task for very long; the cornbread was missing some ingredient, my crust too brown, my poem too long, too many eyes I imagined on me, Robert’s eyes on me.
Robert’s eyebrows raised in question when he saw my disheveled appearance but he said nothing. He ate little and his only words were a request for apple cider vinegar mixed with water to settle his upset stomach. He seemed as distracted as me; that should have been my first clue.
I wasn’t so naïve to believe he didn’t know about the Women’s Rights Convention; the ladies had posted signs around town stating so. Cady’s husband, Thomas, had announced it in the newspaper. Carrie Chapman Catt’s planned attendance, as president of the National American Woman Suffrage Association, had added credence to the convention, and I was certain the topic had come up in Robert’s shoe shop, but he made no mention.
Nor did I. We had not spoken about women’s rights since the morning after the preacher’s visit. Nor had he made any more physical demands, as if his emotion was all spent. His non-intrusiveness had allowed me to move him into the background, becoming part of the furniture I must wash and care for. Now for the first time since then, I wondered what he was thinking. By the end of today, would I find myself without a home again? There was enough to be terrified of, without thinking of his reaction. That I would deal with after the convention. I couldn’t back out now.
As if this wasn’t enough, Bess gave me a scare. Robert had only departed for his shop a moment before and just as I felt some r
elief, Bess cried out “Mama, come upstairs, I’m bleeding!”
I sat down heavily on her bed at the discovery. “Oh my little Bess, you are not so little anymore,” I said sadly. I felt I had lost my little girl in that very moment.
“What is wrong with me?” Bess sounded frightened.
“Nothing ... and everything,” I answered, wishing I had warned Bess sooner; I’d seen woman’s signs during Bess’s Saturday bath. I, who wanted more freedom to speak openly, didn’t wish to do so with my own daughter.
I sighed like the coward I was. “Well Bess, some call it a woman’s curse, but I say you will be happy to see this, more times than not.”
“I am supposed to bleed?” Bess asked, looking incredulously at her spotted pantalets.
“Sorry, Bess, Mama is talking in riddles. Yes, you are supposed to bleed every month, and will do so, unless you are married and with child – carrying a child in your stomach – well, actually the word is pregnant, although you are not to say that in public, though only the Lord knows why, since women have loads of babies. You won’t bleed when you are pregnant. But otherwise you will for many years. So let us start your womanhood off by showing you how to layer rags and cotton and pin them to your pantalets. I’ll prepare you a cup of lavender tea to ease your tummy.”
Somehow she sensed the change immediately. When she came downstairs for breakfast, her hair was not braided; instead the top half was pulled back into a barrette, its long brown length meeting the tied waist in the back. She wore her longer white-laced church dress and stockings. Somehow Bess looked much older, her lips more pronounced, her cheekbones more defined, her face more drawn. It would not be long before I must introduce Bess to another curse – the corset. I didn’t ask Bess why she was dressing up. She was a woman now and women didn’t discuss such things.
But I could take her to the women’s convention; what better way to introduce her to the world of women?
Four of a Kind: A women's historical fiction Page 33