Getting the Important Things Right

by Padgett Gerler

  After eating we had to rest and could not return to the ocean for forty-five minutes. Not forty. Not fifty. Exactly forty-five minutes. Percy was the time keeper.

  I loved those forty-five minutes between lunch and ocean. I would lie on the quilt next to my mother—careful not to touch her with my sandy, sticky, salty body—and listen to her and Aunt Tots giggle and gossip like high-school girls. I would pretend to be sleeping but would peek through my sunglasses at my beautiful mother. One summer she had a two-piece yellow gingham bathing suit with a halter top and boy legs. She wore a wide-brimmed straw hat and large Jackie Kennedy sunglasses. She was sitting on her quilt, leaning back on her elbows, her tanned legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. Perfect hot-pink toenails waved in the air. She was so beautiful and so happy there on the beach at Pawleys Island. She was so petite that I felt oafish next to her. I so wanted to look like and be like my mother—but only the Pawleys Island mother, not the Waynesville mother. I figured even Ma’am didn’t want to look like and be like the Waynesville mother. I wanted to reach out and touch her soft tan skin, but I knew I mustn’t. I wanted her to hug me and tell me she loved me, but I knew she wouldn’t. Instead, I dreamed of looking like my beautiful mother and enjoyed the closeness of her until, after forty-five minutes, I heard Percy scream, “Last one in is a Scrabble word!”

  Ma’am would say, “Dear, what does Percy mean when he calls us Scrabble words?” I would shrug my shoulders, and Tots would pinch her lips together to keep from laughing.

  Big Lydia brought Minnie along every summer to cook and clean for her family. Each afternoon we’d return to the house, ravenous from our day in the sun and surf. Minnie would be waiting for us with platters of fried chicken or flounder or shrimp and oysters or spaghetti. After supper the cousins would take turns cranking the churn, making ice cream with the peaches Ma’am had bought at a road-side stand in the sand hills of North Carolina.

  We’d play a different game every night, but our favorite was charades. Ma’am always jumped up and yelled, “Me first!” Then she’d drag her performance out as long as she could, dancing and spinning and gyrating, making us laugh and laugh.

  One night as Ma’am mugged for her family, Percy elbowed me and said, “Isn’t it comforting being in a room where everyone is wearing your nose?” I laughed, but I knew what he meant. Once when we were visiting Big Lydia in Wilson, a total stranger approached me on the street and said, “Lord, child, you have to be a Carlyle. You have Jim Daddy’s nose and the nose of every other Carlyle who has ever lived in this town.” I was startled by the stranger but tickled that she could identify me by my nose. It is rather distinct: somewhat larger than normal, with a bit of a hump at the bridge and a smallish ball at the end. And as I looked around the room at my Carlyle relatives, I felt the comfort, too. Percy, Oops, and I had been dragged from Army base to Army base, never feeling like we truly belonged in any place. And even though we had always lived with our parents, we never quite felt like we belonged to them either. Being with our Carlyle relatives, all of them wearing our nose, said, “You belong to us. You belong here.” When I looked from our family back to Percy, I found him smiling and shaking his head in a “See what I mean?” sort of way. I smiled back in a “Yes, I do,” sort of way. Then we returned our attention to our mother, who was still entertaining her audience, all the while wearing Percy’s and my nose.

  Once I woke late at night because I had to pee. I tiptoed down the stairs, hoping no one was using the one and only bathroom. As I passed the living room, I noticed a soft light glowing. I peeked in and saw my mother with her head resting on Big Lydia’s shoulder. My grandmother had her arms around Ma’am, and she was rocking her back and forth, with her eyes closed and a smile on her face. Big Lydia was comforting her little girl. Why, then, didn’t Ma’am know how to comfort her little girl? I’ll never know because that’s one of those things I could never discuss with my mother.

  The day before we were to return home, Aunt Tots would cram all of us twelve cousins in her beat-up old Plymouth station wagon and haul us over to Frankie Marlowe’s general store out on Highway 17. There she would give each of us a small brown paper bag and instruct us to fill it to the brim with Mary Janes and B.B. Bats and Tootsie Rolls and Red Hots and Double-Bubble Bubble Gum. While we were candy shopping, Tots would get sparklers—one box for each of the kids and one for Ma’am. Ma’am loved sparklers.

  On our final night on Pawleys Island, we’d take our hand-churned ice cream, our bags of penny candy, and our sparklers down on the beach. We’d eat our ice cream until dark, when Tots would hand out the sparklers and coax her cigarette lighter out of her shirt pocket. We’d line up with a sparkler in each hand, waiting our turn at the flame. Then Ma’am and all us kids would run and twirl in the sand, making sparkler figure eights in the dark until our boxes were empty and our last sparkler grew short, pricked us on the backs of our hands with hot stars, and died. Then we’d all join hands and race down the beach, kicking up sand, watching the phosphorus make a spray of glittering pixie dust in the night air. Then the adults would relax in beach chairs while the children sat on towels at their feet. One by one we’d recount our favorite Pawleys memory of the week. We’d eat our penny candy and put off going to bed just as long as we could.

  The following morning we would pack the car in silence. Once we had hugged Big Lydia and the aunts and uncles and cousins and said our good-byes, all the Albemarles, including Ma’am, would burst into tears. We just hated seeing our stay on Pawleys end. Still crying, we’d get in the car and begin our long drive back to Waynesville.

  And as we rode, I’d watch the crinkly little smile lines disappear from the corners of my mother’s eyes. The sparkle faded from her huge, animated blue eyes as they became expressionless and fixed. The corners of her mouth slid down her face.

  Mint juleps were just two states away.

  Ten

  When The Colonel left the military and we settled in our university town, Colonel Tom and Ma’am had their own living quarters, a bedroom/sitting room combo and private bath, away from the main house. It was situated above the garage where Colonel Tom kept the family cars. It had its own staircase, rising from the back of the house. Colonel Tom said that once night fell, he wanted a little privacy with his bride, away from a bunch of knuckleheaded yay-hoos. Those knuckleheaded yay-hoos would be his own children.

  Once Colonel Tom and Ma’am retired to their quarters, Percy and I had the run of the main house. We’d wait until we were sure Oops was asleep; then we’d get up and do just about anything we damn well pleased all night long. Sometimes we’d just watch TV until we passed out on the sofa.

  But our favorite activity, of course, was playing Cuss Scrabble.

  Once we ate an entire chocolate cake that Ma’am had just bought from the bakery and left on the kitchen counter. Next morning she couldn’t figure out where it had gone or if she had actually bought it. Sometimes Ma’am’s clumsiness made her a little forgetful. We felt guilty but didn’t dare tell her that we had eaten her cake. We were afraid that she’d tell Colonel Tom, and eating a whole cake was the kind of thing that would make Colonel Tom do a number on your ass. And, believe me, you wouldn’t have wanted Colonel Tom doing a number on your ass. Colonel Tom’s numbers were pretty painful.

  Once the novelty of staying up all night wore off, I got pretty tired of it—and pretty tired. Percy seemed to be able to stay up for days, but I needed my rest. My school work was suffering, and I was losing interest in being tired all the time. Percy called me one of his favorite Scrabble words and said he’d just find himself somebody else to play with all night long. And along came Rod.

  Rod and Percy had been good friends since we had moved to town, so Percy figured he could talk Rod into staying up all night with him. And Percy was right. Only Percy was no longer interested in TV and Cuss Scrabble and chocolate cake. He wanted more excitement out of his all-night forays. Percy wanted to steal a car.

  As soon as all
the parents were asleep, Percy would sneak outside (which wasn’t hard at our house) and wait for Rod by our garage—yes, the same garage that was under Colonel Tom and Ma’am’s bedroom. Percy didn’t want to steal just any car; he wanted to steal The Colonel’s car—right out from under his nose!

  Percy and Rod would take about an hour lifting the garage door a fraction of an inch at a time, so as not to make a sound. Once they’d finally gotten it opened all the way, one would get in the car and put it in neutral while the other would push the car out of the garage, down the driveway, and up the street. When they were clear of the house, they’d start the engine and head off for a night of cruising. They’d race around the countryside all night long, making sure to have the car back in the garage before Colonel Tom’s five o’clock reveille. I don’t think they did anything but drive around all night, though Percy said they went so fast sometimes that they were airborne. Percy’s joy, though, came from pulling one over on The Colonel. He said that he felt the greatest rush the morning he put the car away and was climbing the front stairs to his bedroom as Colonel Tom was descending the back stairs from his and Ma’am’s bedroom.

  One night Rod and his parents came to dinner. After we had eaten, the guys asked Colonel Tom if they could have the car to go shoot pool.

  Colonel Tom reached in his wallet, pulled out some bills, tossed them at Percy, and said, “Sure, boys, but you’d better put a little gas in her. I think you drained her tank the last time you stole her.”

  Speaking of draining, I could feel the blood draining from my face. I shot a glance at Percy, expecting to see a look of fear. Instead, I saw a look of anger. He was so pissed that The Colonel had, once again, gotten the best of him. He thought he had been so clever, but The Colonel proved that he was always one step ahead.

  Colonel Tom pounded his fist on the dining table, threw his head back, and let out a laugh that rattled the chandelier.

  Then he said, “Now, you little girls run along and have a good time.”

  And I thought, “You might as well give it up, Percy. You’re never going to get the best of him.”

  Eleven

  For some reason, we decided it would be a good idea to take a bath in the river—the we being Suzanne, Mary Sue, and I. Once I moved to Waynesville, the we was always Suzanne, Mary Sue, and I. I knew they liked me, but they also loved hanging around Percy, my oh-my-god brother.

  Anyway, somebody—and I’m betting it was Suzanne—said, “When we go swimming, let’s take our soap and shampoo and bathe and wash our hair in the river, sorta kill two birds with one stone.”

  Even though the campus pool was just about a block from our house, we liked going to our swimming hole at the river. It was quiet and peaceful, and we didn’t have to put up with squealing kids and screaming mothers. We’d take our beach towels, and after bobbing in the cool, rushing water, we’d lie on our towels in the sun and talk—about boys, mostly.

  So there we were in the river with our soap and shampoo, and somebody—and, once again, I’m guessing it was Suzanne—said, “We can’t bathe with our swimsuits on. Let’s take them off and throw them up on the bank.”

  That was the day I learned the joy of skinny dipping. We shampooed, we lathered, we squealed. We were free—until Percy and his friends, Greg and Rod, appeared out of nowhere. We looked up and saw them standing on the river bank, each one holding a swimsuit.

  And Percy said, “If you girls want ‘em, you gotta come get ‘em.”

  Well, Suzanne and Mary Sue started squealing and begging and giggling, but I knew damn well Percy wasn’t going to let me come out of that water so his friends could see me naked. But I didn’t want to spoil everyone’s fun, so I squealed and begged and giggled too.

  After much threatening to fling our suits in the bushes and come in the water after us, the boys tossed them to us and turned to leave, but not before Percy gave me a you-better-put-your-clothes-on-young-lady look.

  Once they had left, we lost interest in swimming and sunning. We struggled back into our wet suits, swam to shore, collected our towels, and headed for home.

  I had invited Suzanne and Mary Sue to spend the night at our house, though I hadn’t cleared it with Ma’am and The Colonel. But what difference did it make? Once my parents retired to their quarters, they had no idea what went on in the rest of the house. We could have burned the house down around their bedroom, and they wouldn’t have suspected a thing until emerging in the morning to find the kitchen missing. They did say that it was amazing their children weren’t obese, considering the amount of food they ate at night. They just didn’t realize how much help we had eating it.

  We were planning to walk over to Buddy and Sonny’s for a hotdog with chili and slaw and some crinkly fries, so we had to get ready to be seen. That meant lots of primping and perfect outfit coordination.

  While we were in my bedroom dragging outfits out of the closet, Mary Sue said, “What’s that smell?”

  We all started sniffing the air and agreed that there was some sort of weird smell coming from somewhere. We sniffed and sniffed and followed the odor till we all ended up in a tight circle with our noses in each other’s hair.

  “Eeeeeeuuuuuuwwwwww! It’s our hair!” we all screamed, in unison.

  We smelled earthy, loamy, organic—as if we had washed our hair in a river!

  Suzanne—and I know it was Suzanne—said, “What the hell! Why does it smell so shitty? Pioneer women always washed their hair in the crick!”

  And I said, “But all the pioneer women washed their hair in the crick—not just three of them! I guess if everyone smelled like moss, it wouldn’t be so bad.”

  And with that we all ran screaming to the shower, where we Prelled our river experience from our heads.

  Once we were sure we no longer smelled like pioneer women, we pressed our madras shirts and khaki bermudas, polished our Weejuns, and set out for Buddy and Sonny’s.

  Buddy and Sonny’s drive-in restaurant had been on the same site since the early 50’s, and it hadn’t changed much. Sonny was long gone, but Buddy was still behind the counter every night. There was an old Wurlitzer juke box standing in the corner, and it played non-stop. Buddy left the coin box open, and when the records ran out, someone would grab a handful of coins and recycle them, refilling the box with music. Buddy kept the juke box supplied with the latest hits, but he never removed the most popular songs from the past. The old music kept his old customers coming in. When we got there, Red Sails in the Sunset was playing, and a couple about Ma’am and Colonel Tom’s age was on the small dance floor, slow dancing. We found an empty booth by the front window and scooted in.

  Bertha, our favorite waitress, came over, pad and pencil poised, and said, “Well, if it ain’t the Rah Rahs. Lemme guess: three hot dogs with chili and slaw, three crinkly fries, three Cokes. Now, go feed the juke box while I’m gone.”

  And she was off to get our order without our having said a word. Bertha had been at Buddy and Sonny’s since the day it opened. She knew every customer, every order, and every word to every song that had ever been on the Wurlitzer.

  By the time we had returned from feeding the juke box, our order was waiting for us at our booth. We had just bitten into our hot dogs when we heard a familiar sound in the distance. Greg’s mufflerless car was headed our way, and we were betting Percy and Rod were passengers. In a matter of minutes, Greg’s red Mustang came careening into the parking lot, spewing gravel and screeching to a halt right at the front door. Buddy was standing behind the counter drying glasses, and he suppressed a smile and just shook his head. I’m guessing that in his day Buddy had done his share of careening and screeching in a mufflerless car.

  It was against the law to take the muffler off a car, but there wasn’t a lawman in the county who would have written Greg a ticket. His father was an attorney and the mayor of Waynesville. Enough said.

  Percy, Greg, and Rod strode in like they owned the place, made a bee-line to our booth, and said, “Skootc
h over.”

  We skootched, and they plopped down and started eating our fries. Suzanne would have given Percy her kidney, so she was delighted to share her fries with him. I was not.

  Bertha came over and said, “Lemme see if I got your order right. You three Romeos don’t want to buy anything; you just want to mooch fries off the Rah Rahs.”

  Percy winked at her and said, “You got that right, Sugar.”

  Bertha smiled at him and said, “Percy Albemarle, if you wudn’t so damn cute, I’d toss you out of here on your ear.”

  And, with that, Percy jumped up, grabbed Bertha around her ample waist, and started dancing with her to Willie and the Hand Jive. The two of them had the whole place screaming and clapping—even Buddy—by the end of the song. Then Percy escorted Bertha to the counter, returned to our booth, and resumed eating Suzanne’s fries like he hadn’t done a thing out of the ordinary.

  Then he said, “You girls want to go to the drive-in movie?”

  Three guys and three girls looked like a date to me, but I wasn’t allowed to date. Sensing my discomfort, Percy said, “Sis, don’t worry. It’s not a date as long as you’re with me.”

  So Mary Sue and I said, “Sure,” while Suzanne screamed, “Hell, yeah!”

  Once the guys had finished our fries, we headed for Rod’s Mustang. I was certain that both Suzanne and Mary Sue wanted to hook up with Percy, but Suzanne would have scratched Mary Sue’s eyes out if she had made a move in that direction. Mary Sue knew that, so she latched on to Rod. That left me with Greg. I’d always liked Greg; I could have done worse.

  Suzanne, Percy, Mary Sue, and Rod squeezed in the back seat, while I had a bucket seat up front all to myself. We rolled down the windows, and Greg turned the radio up real loud. The Top 40 was playing, so the six of us sang all the way to the drive in.