ODD NUMBERS

by M. Grace Bernardin

  Chapter 8

  Sally’s built in radar was well known around Camelot. It allowed her to detect movement out in the hall from within her apartment. Like some unseen burglar alarm, a footstep in either the upstairs or downstairs hall was all it took to trigger it. Once the radar was triggered, she’d poke her head out the door and do a quick inspection, first looking to the left then to the right. If there was someone she wanted to talk to out there, she’d step into the hallway and form an invisible gate in front of the unfortunate passerby, so they couldn’t get around her no matter how hard they tried. This radar worked no matter where Sally was in her apartment. Even in the shower, Allison suspected, as she once came to the door in her robe with a towel wrapped around her head, water still dripping from her face. She wondered, in fact, if Sally’s radar even worked while away from her apartment. Because of this, Allison tried to be vigilant whenever she descended the stairs of her upstairs apartment. She’d brace herself as she got to the bottom, scurrying around the corner past Sally’s downstairs apartment as quickly as possible. But of course, she couldn’t always have her guard up, and that’s when Sally was most likely to catch you.

  Allison was on her way to Vicky’s place one September evening with a bottle of red wine in one hand and a loaf of French bread in the other. When her right foot stepped down on the second to last stair the door to Sally’s apartment opened.

  Damn! Allison thought as she looked up to see Sally standing there with her crazy Elton John glasses and her big hair forming a plaster helmet around her head.

  “Hello, Sally.” Allison was surprised at how lackluster her greeting sounded. Even for a Dale Carnegie graduate, she just couldn’t feign enthusiasm and good cheer around Sally. It was too tiring and made her face muscles hurt.

  “Allison dearest,” Sally said her eyes wide and her head poked through the opening of the door like a snapping turtle straining to be released from its shell. “You wouldn’t happen to be taking those goodies to our new neighbor, would you?” she said stepping out into the hallway, her oven mitted hands holding a large casserole dish covered in aluminum foil. “I just baked some lasagna for her.”

  “Oh, how nice. Well, yes, as a matter of fact, that’s where I’m headed right now.” She tried to step around Sally but it was no use; an invisible gate had gone up.

  “What do you say we go together?”

  “Oh, um, well. All right.” What else could Allison say? Besides, maybe it was better this way. She might be able to steer Sally out of Vicky’s apartment before midnight. They knew Vicky was home because they could hear her music, some country rock band hollering out proclamations of love over their steel guitars.

  “I haven’t met her yet, but I understand she’s different,” Sally said in a hushed voice so that Allison had to strain to hear her over the loud music. Allison looked away from Sally and focused her eyes down the hall toward Vicky’s apartment. Just a few simple steps, yet she felt completely helpless to get there. Sally’s short round body effectively blocked the hallway, causing Allison to feel claustrophobic.

  The funny little woman blocking the hallway in her bright purple sweat suit with matching purple eye shadow looked like the grape from the Fruit of the Loom commercial only more formidable. Allison knew she would be trapped there indefinitely until she gave Sally the information she desired. She didn’t want to get sucked into Sally’s gossip game, but it was far too powerful of a vortex to resist.

  “I heard she’s different,” Sally whispered. “That was Tim’s impression of her anyway. You’ve met her. What do you think?” Allison had no idea how Sally knew.

  “I like her. I guess she is a little different, but not in a bad way.”

  “Tim says she’s rough; says she’s pure Kentucky white trash.”

  “Not pure exactly. I think she has some Indian blood.”

  “Tim says she has a lot of biker friends.”

  “So?”

  “So she doesn’t sound like your typical Camelot resident.”

  “And what exactly is the typical Camelot resident?”

  “College educated. You know…yuppie.”

  “Oh, c’mon, Sally! There really is no such thing as a real yuppie in Lamasco. Just a lot of wanna be yuppies.”

  “Oh? How do you figure that?”

  “Young Urban Professionals? You can hardly consider Lamasco urban.”

  “I thought it stood for Young Upcoming Professionals.”

  “Whatever. Vicky is a professional. She’s a bartender. She had to go to school to learn to be one.”

  “And just how does bartending school compare with college?”

  “Well, bartending’s both an art and a science. You have to know which ingredients to mix and how much. That’s a science. Like chemistry. And yet getting the drink to taste just right, now that’s an art. Not to mention you’re dealing with people, so you have to know something about psychology. That’s a social science. In fact she even knows a little something about the fine arts. Wine tasting for example. She told me herself she had to take a course on it. All in all I’d say she knows just about as much as us college educated folks.”

  “It figures you’d think that. You’re an IU grad. You can probably major in bartending at your alma mater. In fact isn’t that one of the tougher schools to get into at IU–the School of Bartending?”

  “Oh, yeah, I thought they called Purdue folks ‘boilermakers’.”

  “Very funny! Seriously though, I just hope she won’t be a problem. She sure plays her stereo loud.”

  “Maybe it comes from working in bars.”

  “But she’s not in a bar. She’s in an apartment with neighbors. It’s inconsiderate.”

  Sally had a point. Not that Vicky was the first person to play her stereo loud. Everyone did from time to time. Frank was one of the worst perpetrators, though his was usually classical music or opera. But Vicky’s stereo went on the moment she entered the apartment and usually stayed on until she left. Even in the middle of the night when she returned home between three and four o’clock in the morning after River Inn’s last call. Allison figured she probably turned it down a little to go to sleep, but it was still loud enough to hear out in the hall when she passed by her apartment in the morning.

  “I guess we should say something to her about that.” Hospitality and nosiness were all mixed together with Sally, but Allison felt strange about welcoming the new neighbor and scolding her at the same time. The imaginary sign read in Allison’s mind: Welcome to Camelot. Please accept these small tokens of our warmth and hospitality. By the way, no stereos or TVs after eleven p.m. Absolutely, positively no Hell’s Angels on the premises. Thank you for your courtesy. Allison blinked her eyes and refocused on Sally.

  “So what else do you know about her?” Sally asked.

  “Not much really.” Allison shrugged, hoping Sally couldn’t read the hesitancy in her tone. Sally seemed satisfied that she was not withholding any information. The invisible gate vanished, and once again, Allison was allowed to move. The two made their way down the hall to Vicky’s door.

  “You’d better knock,” Sally said, motioning to her oven mitted hands. Allison rapped her knuckles hard on the door so that Vicky could hear the knock above her music. The door opened wide and fast. The music filled the hall with its coarse romanticism. The rough hard sound that bounced off the walls between the vibrating bass and twanging strings contrasted with the lyrics, which Allison was always able to hear as separate and distinct from the music. The lead singer cried out words of heartbreak, longing, and the sweet pain of lost love. It distracted Allison who stood there stunned staring at Vicky. She was barefoot, clad in blue jeans and an oversized black Jack Daniels tee shirt. Her sleeves were rolled up with what appeared to be a pack of cigarettes tucked into the one sleeve. Allison noticed for the first time a tattoo on Vicky’s upper left arm just below the protruding rectangular box. It was a heart with thorns wrapped around it and flames pouring forth from the top. A deep gash
cut into the heart with a large drop of blood dripping out.

  “Impertinent,” Vicky blurted out, as Allison stared at the tattooed drop of blood as if it might actually roll down her arm. “ ‘Exceeding the limits of propriety or good manners. Ill bred. Disrespectful. Saucy.’ Well, hell, Allison, I thought you was using that word in reference to you. Not me. Hi, nice to meet you. Vicky Dooley’s the name,” she said suddenly shifting her attention to Sally. She extended her hand toward her then quickly withdrew it upon observation of the oven mitts and the casserole dish.

  “You must be the lasagna lady.”

  Allison winced at Vicky’s remark.

  “This is Sally,” Allison interjected as quickly as possible. “She lives down the hall from you.”

  “Welcome Vicky. I hope you like lasagna,” Sally’s remark sounded more like a question than a statement.

  “As I told our friend Allison, here, I like anything that ain’t still twitching, or got something twitching on it.” Sally’s face curled up in disgust. “Thank you kindly,” Vicky said reaching for the casserole dish.

  “Careful. It’s still hot.” Sally cautioned.

  “Hot don’t bother me none,” Vicky said taking the casserole dish from Sally’s hands. “My hands are all calloused up. Bartenders use their hands every bit as much as auto mechanics. Most people don’t realize that. Lots of grabbing and twisting in my line of work. And you gotta do it fast. Grab and twist. Grab and twist. That’s all I do of a night. C’mon in.” Sally looked at Allison and shrugged. They followed Vicky into her apartment.

  “Mmm. This smells good,” Vicky leaned her long straight nose over the aluminum foil of the casserole dish as she made her way into the kitchen.

  “Excuse the stereo,” Vicky hollered emerging from the kitchen, her long legs doing a quick jog over to the machine to turn the volume down. “My fuckin’ ears are shot. Have a seat.” The two dazed women merely stood there in response to Vicky’s request.

  “Looks like you’re already settled in. I still had boxes in my living room for over a month after I moved in. And you have more stuff than me. A lot more stuff!” Allison said looking around at all the clutter. The kitchen table was covered with paper: stacks of envelopes, bills, newspapers scattered and strewn. A card table and a TV tray were set up in the middle of the living room, the tops of which were littered with more paper.

  “Early American Yard Sale,” Sally nudged Allison in the ribs, and said in a tone that may have been hushed for Sally, but wasn’t for any other ordinary human being.

  Their gawking had struck a nerve with Vicky, and Allison realized it. With all the finesse of James Dean, Vicky whipped out her pack of Marlboros, stuck a cigarette in her mouth, and defiantly struck a match. “So I’m a fuckin’ pack rat. You got a problem with that?”

  “None whatsoever,” Sally blurted out.

  “I’m sorry if we offended you somehow,” Allison said apologizing more for Sally than for herself.

  “No big deal,” Vicky said letting it go with a wave of dismissal and exhalation of smoke.

  Allison smiled sympathetically at Vicky and Sally laughed nervously.

  “Have a seat y’all,” she commanded more resolutely this time. “Make yourselves at home. I’ll be back in a jiffy,” she said her long legs and agile bare feet carrying her out of the room in one quick stride. “I got to go to the can,” She hollered down the hall.

  As soon as they heard the bathroom door close, Allison and Sally popped up again and resumed their snooping. The sight, smell, and feel of the place had the musty smell of mothballs mixed with cigarettes. A brightly colored afghan hung over the back of the old beat up sofa that was so worn that its stuffing hung out in places. Above the sofa hung a velvet painting of a Native American warrior wearing only a loin cloth and feather headdress. He stood with spear in hand poised for battle, war paint smeared across his cheeks as the wind blew back his long black hair.

  “Nice Hummel collection,” Sally chortled as Allison turned around to see a curio cabinet filled mostly with cheap souvenirs and mementos. Allison stepped closer to it to get a better look.

  “My memoirs,” Vicky said startling them both as she suddenly reappeared in the doorway. “It’s okay, y’all can look,” she said inhaling from her cigarette then popping her jaw three times fast, producing three perfect smoke rings.

  Allison’s eyes fell on an assortment of plates, cups, salt and pepper shakers from Graceland, Lookout Mountain, and Vegas. Elvis memorabilia lined the rows of the cabinets, along with small figurines of Indians, airplane bottles of booze, roach clips, a pipe, and a wilted corsage. There was also a picture of Vicky standing in front of the Grand Canyon, one of chief Bobby, and one of a kindly looking older lady.

  “My grandma,” Vicky said pointing to the picture. “She’s gone, but I still got my memories and some of her memoirs.”

  “Memoirs? She wrote her memoirs?” Sally asked.

  “No, you know, memoirs–treasures. That’s her hope chest over there,” Vicky said pointing to the antique treasure in the middle of the room which served as a coffee table. Allison thought it truly a beautiful piece of furniture, marred only slightly by the bumper sticker plastered on the side proclaiming, “Real Women Ride Harleys”. On top was a pickle jar filled with matchbooks, and a brown glass ashtray piled high with cigarette butts and ashes. A bottle of beer sat on a cork coaster. Allison remembered from before that Vicky was careful about using the coasters. What a contradiction, she thought, that the same care that went into protecting the top of this extraordinary piece would allow a gummy and adhesive bumper sticker to be placed on the side. Everything in Vicky’s world seemed to be in conflict. Her memoirs were neatly dusted yet her table tops were piled with junk. A burning cigarette hung precariously on the edge of the brown glass ashtray, threatening to burn a hole in the hope chest.

  “Oh, I almost forgot. I got you a little house-warming gift too,” said Allison, presenting Vicky with the bottle of wine and the loaf of French bread.

  “Thank you, Allison Brinkmeyer. I was going to grab it out of your hands but I thought that might be impertinent.” Allison watched as Vicky surveyed the bottle. She held it like someone who knew what they were talking about, carefully supporting the neck with one hand and the bottom with the other. “Merlot. A fine selection. A good year and a good brand. I’m proud of you, girl. I know you was wanting to buy that Boone’s Farm instead,” she said smiling at Allison, then looking at her quizzically she added, “How’s come the French go and stick ‘T’ at the end of a word if they don’t expect you to pronounce it?”

  “Pardon me,” Allison said in reply.

  “As in Merlot. Made from a grape around the region of Bordeaux; or should I say Bordooks?”

  “I understand you know something about wine tasting,” Sally said.

  “I ain’t exactly an expert, but in my line of work you got to know a little something about the fruit of the vine.”

  “Could you give us a demonstration?” Sally asked.

  “Allison here lived in France. I’m sure she knows more than I do.”

  “Not necessarily,” said Allison.

  “I didn’t know you lived in France,” said Sally.

  “Just for a year. As an exchange student in college. But as Vicky knows, I never acquired a taste for the good stuff. Maybe you could give us a little crash course, Vicky.”

  “To tell you the truth, I was hoping to share this fine beverage with some neighborly folk. Wine is the one drink you should never drink alone. Just give it a few minutes to cool,” Vicky said walking to the kitchen. Fifteen minutes in the refrigerator is about all it needs. Most folks think you got to serve these dry red wines at room temperature but that ain’t the case. It’s much better slightly chilled. Not as cold as the white stuff mind you, but still, slightly chilled. Somewhere between 60 to 65 degrees. Remember, it’s supposed to be sitting in a dark cool cellar, but since most of us don’t have a dark cool cellar, the refrigerator for ten
to twenty minutes will do.

  “Now you ladies know always to store wine on its side. You don’t want that cork drying out on you. Cork dries out you got yourself a nice bottle of vinegar is all.” Sally and Allison stood at the entrance of the kitchen watching Vicky, by the light of the refrigerator place the bottle carefully on its side.

  Vicky turned to face the women. There was something about her presence that commanded such authority that it rendered even Sally silent. “Now as every good Frenchman knows, you got to have some bread and cheese with your wine.”

  Vicky presented the loaf of French bread to her guests. She raised it to her face and took in the aroma with great pleasure. “I’d say this here’s a notch or two above a loaf of Wonder bread I might pick up at the A&P. Unfortunately, all I got in the way of cheese is this,” she said opening the refrigerator and pulling out a package of American sliced cheese. “We got something for everybody. Something a little classy for you ladies,” she said lifting the loaf of bread with one hand. “And something a little tacky for me.” She lifted the package of American cheese with the other hand. “You all have a seat in the living room and I’ll fix us up a little spread.”

  “Can we help?” Allison asked.

  “No! Now go on and have a seat. Today’s my day off. Can’t hardly stand going a whole day without serving someone. I start sitting around too much. Start getting lazy. My feet start to wither.”

  Allison quickly complied, surrendering herself to the old beat up sofa, claiming a spot on the far right corner. “What do you mean your feet wither?” Allison called out.

  “My grandpa used to say that. Not only do you get a fat ass from sitting around all the time, but your feet wither. Feet were meant to be stood upon, he’d say. Meant to carry you from place to place. You don’t use your feet the way they was intended and the muscles start to go weak. But he also used to say, there’s a time for sitting and a time for standing. It’s time for me to stand and you to sit.” Vicky directed her statement to Sally who remained standing by the entrance of the kitchen.