I Scream, You Scream

by Watson, Wendy Lyn

  “So, Tallulah,” she said, spearing a grape tomato on the tines of her fork, “I would ask how you have been, but I am afraid your private business has been splashed across the front page of the News-Letter all week.”

  Heat burned my face and the sound of my own heart beating pounded in my ears. I was so rattled, I stabbed my grilled chicken breast with unnecessary force, and droplets of sesame dressing—cast off from my culinary crime—spattered across my chest.

  Honey pursed her lips and fluttered her hand dismissively while I dabbed discreetly at my mess with my napkin. “You mustn’t let it bother you, dear. It will all blow over.”

  I snorted. Hand to God, I sat across the table from Honey Jillson, the mayor’s wife and the most prim and proper woman I knew, and snorted.

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “No, ma’am,” I stammered. “I mean, yes, ma’am, I believe you.” I took a drink of my water. “I just worry it’s going to blow over and take my good name with it.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she scoffed. “Wayne Jones’s name may be ruined, but not yours.”

  “Problem is,” I said, “we have the same name. I’ll be painted with the same brush.”

  A bemused smile teased the corners of Honey’s coral pink lips. “Ah, I know that feeling. The feeling that everything you have, everything you are, is all wrapped up in a man and might fly out the door on his shirttails at any minute.”

  I must have looked skeptical, because she laughed sharply. She leaned across the table and raised one eyebrow. “You know, I wasn’t born to money,” she said.

  “Really?” Everything about Honey Jillson screamed privilege, from the cut of her coat to the cut of her jaw. She didn’t wear wealth like a costume. She was wealth, bones and blood and skin.

  Her smile widened and became more wry. “I heard an expression at a Zeta luncheon last year. ‘Fake it till you make it.’ That’s what I did.” She leaned forward and her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “I went to Dickerson on a full-ride scholarship; wrote papers for football players to earn the money for fancy clothes and sorority dues.” She uttered a short crack of mirthless laughter. “I even managed to catch Dub’s eye and get a ring on my finger before I ever let him meet my mama and daddy.”

  “No way.”

  “As it happens, if you fake it long enough, you really do make it.” She sighed mightily. “But when I was your age, I lived every day in fear that someone would realize it was all just an act. I would use the wrong fork, or some folksy adage would slip from my lips and expose me as some dustbowl Okie right out of a Steinbeck novel.”

  “Would that have been so bad?” I asked softly.

  She exhaled with a sort of resolute finality. “At the time, it seemed like the worst thing in the world. I remember the fancy ladies my mama cleaned for giving me their children’s cast-off clothing and toys, hiding their distaste behind tight smiles, careful not to touch me lest they soil their gloves. But when I married Dub, all those fancy women fell over themselves to invite me to lunch or to have me on their favorite charity committee. I couldn’t imagine losing that.”

  “But why would you? Wherever you came from, being married to Dub Jillson guaranteed your place in society.”

  “Exactly. Everything I had, I had because I was Mrs. Dub Jillson. If I lost Dub, I lost it all. Without children to bind us together, it would be easy for Dub to walk away. He might even get the marriage annulled.”

  “I thought—” I stopped, aghast at what I’d almost said. I was in eighth grade the year a drunk driver struck and killed Miranda Jillson, a high school senior, as she walked home from a babysitting job.

  I expected Honey to wilt, but instead her lips compressed into a thin line and her spine somehow became straighter. “Yes, we had a child. But I didn’t have Miranda until I was thirty-six.” She huffed, a short, humorless laugh. “I had friends knitting booties for their first grandchildren while I was painting Miranda’s nursery.

  “Until the moment I heard her draw her first breath, I spent every day holding on to my life by sheer force of will.”

  I poked at my chicken salad with my fork and swallowed back sudden and unexpected tears. “I guess maybe I just didn’t hold on hard enough,” I said.

  Honey reached across the table to rest a knobby hand on one of mine. “My dear, if anything, you held on too hard for too long.” She gave my hand a reassuring pat that didn’t jibe with the firm certainty in her voice. “That Wayne Jones, he isn’t worth your tears, believe you me.”

  “Wayne’s not that bad,” I protested.

  She harrumphed. “Seems every time I see the man, he’s drunk as a skunk.”

  Wayne had been drunk at the luau, but I couldn’t think of any other time Honey would have seen Wayne loaded. After all, Dub Jillson was old money; Wayne was new. They didn’t really run in the same social circles, and Wayne usually stayed sober at business-related events.

  My confusion must have shown on my face, because Honey explained. “Last year, just after they broke ground on that new shopping center out on Farm Road 410, Dub and I had the board of directors for the chamber of commerce to our house for dinner.”

  Of course. I was supposed to attend with Wayne, but Bree’s fifth husband gave her and Alice the boot that very day, and I had to beg off. Wayne had been hoppin’ mad that I’d chosen Bree over him.

  Honey wrinkled her nose, as though she’d caught a whiff of something foul. “Wayne Jones got completely sauced. His face turned the color of Texas red clay, and he started slurring his words.”

  She clucked in prim disapproval.

  Before I had a chance to defend Wayne’s honor, someone called Honey’s name from across the dining room. I looked up to find Deena Silver bustling our way, layers of ocean-colored chiffon billowing in her wake.

  Deena, the owner and creative genius behind Dalliance’s most exclusive catering company, the Silver Spoon, embraced her artsy nature, playing up her quirkiness whenever she could. An earth mother with a bit of Texas gloss, she dressed her voluptuous body in flowing, ankle-length skirts and sumptuous sari-print tunics. Her wrists dripped with silver bangles, and earrings like delicate wind chimes dangled from her plump lobes. She might have passed for a true Bohemian if her clothes weren’t quite so scrupulously new, if her makeup weren’t quite so perfect and pink, and if her hair weren’t set in stiff, Texas-sized curls.

  She didn’t slow her energetic, rolling gait until she practically tripped into Honey’s lap. They managed to exchange welcoming embraces and busses on the cheeks without actually touching each other, their hands held so flat and stiff, their fingers bowed backward.

  When she straightened, Deena hitched the strap of her leather satchel more securely on her shoulder. “I’m so glad I ran into you, Honey. I’ve got a menu for the November Zeta luncheon that will knock their socks off, but I always like to get your blessing first.”

  “Deena, dear, do you know Tallulah Jones?” Honey looked pointedly in my direction.

  Deena laughed, a full-throated sound without a trace of artifice. “Oh, my, I got so carried away about my pumpkin-ginger soup, I completely forgot my manners.” She thrust a hand in my direction, and I grasped it in greeting. The skin on her plump hand was fine and soft, the babylike skin of a woman who gets regular manicures, yet her nails were unpolished and close cut.

  “It’s nice to finally meet you in person,” I said.

  “Exactly. A face to the name and all that. I was sorry not to come talk to you at the luau, but it was such a zoo. Besides, when I serve pork, I have to supervise the preparation very closely. I don’t want some stressed-out minimum-wage worker infecting half of Dalliance with trichinosis.” She laughed at her own whimsy. Without breaking contact with me, Deena rested her left hand on Honey’s shoulder. Honey flinched almost imperceptibly, but her polite smile never faltered. “How did the plating go?”

  “Smooth as silk,” I said. “I can’t thank you enough for your advice. With
all of the topping individually portioned ahead of time, the serving was a breeze.”

  Deena gave Honey’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Tally here called me for advice before her big debut at the Weed and Seed luau. Always happy to help a member of the sisterhood of the traveling pots.” She laughed again, and I found myself inordinately pleased to be included in her circle.

  I looked at Honey. “Deena gave me the best suggestions. Wayne has allergies, and Deena’s the one who suggested using a special colored container for the servings that were allergen free.”

  Deena blew out a dramatic breath of air. “That’s a lesson learned the hard way,” she said. “Nothing like having to stick a customer with an EpiPen because you gave them the wrong salad dressing. Now I always keep a stock of red containers.” She patted Honey’s shoulder. “Like for that girl Marlene, the one with the egg allergy.” She leaned in close, as if she were sharing a trade secret with me. “I usually serve Caesar salad at the Zeta luncheons, because it’s one of Honey’s favorites, but I have to make separate dressing for Marlene.”

  I glanced at Honey and saw that her smile had stretched to a thin, tight line and she was looking off into the middle distance. I was sure we were boring her to tears.

  Deena glanced at Honey, her lips trembling in amusement, before winking conspiratorially at me. She patted Honey’s shoulder once again and gave my hand a gentle squeeze. “Well, I’ll let you two lovely ladies get back to your lunch. Honey, I’ll drop the menu off at the Zeta alumni office. And, Tally, we’ll have to get together to trade secrets soon.”

  She turned and bustled away, heading in the general direction of the bar. I watched her go with a pang, fearing that Honey would want to talk about me and Wayne again.

  I admit I was relieved when Honey glanced at her watch and then threw me an apologetic smile.

  “Speaking of the alumni office,” she said, “I hate to eat and run, but I have a meeting with the Zeta board at one. We have to revise the scholarship application. Every year we try to come up with a timely essay question, and every year the meeting gets ugly.”

  Our waitress must have seen Honey’s check of the time, because she scurried over with the check.

  “Ugly?” I asked, settling my hand on the bill and tugging it gently in my direction. “How so?”

  She sighed. “The usual social violence that occurs when too many women try to work together. Last year, JoAnne Simms suggested an essay about loyalty and fidelity. She talked about the rash of political figures who stepped down after being caught cheating and became quite indignant about the whole thing. Completely ridiculous.”

  I hummed noncommittally. “I don’t know,” I ventured. “Loyalty seems like a pretty important issue.”

  Honey looked momentarily flustered. “Well, maybe not ridiculous. It just didn’t seem appropriate to ask a bunch of seventeen- and eighteen-year-old girls to discuss marital infidelity. And Br—”

  She paused, her mouth set in consternation. I felt a twinge of guilt. Apparently conversing with me was like tap-dancing in a minefield.

  “Brittanie Brinkman said that we ought to pick a subject a little more relevant to a college student’s life. It’s what we were all thinking,” Honey continued, “but JoAnne didn’t take it well. She’s always been a bit unstable, you know. She sulked and pouted and shot down every other suggestion.”

  “Sounds like fun,” I said, trying to lighten the moment.

  Honey smiled. “Fun or not, it must be done. As you might imagine, the Zeta scholarship program matters a great deal to me. For years now, Dub and I have been on the panel to select the Regents’ Scholarship, which is certainly more prestigious and more lucrative. But my cohort endowed the Zeta scholarship, and so it’s quite sentimental to me.”

  She turned a full ninety degrees in her chair. Then, resting one hand on the table and one hand on the chair’s back, she levered herself slowly to her feet. She tottered for an instant before steadying herself.

  I scooched back my own seat, grabbed the bill and my purse, and scrambled around the table to lend her my arm, but she declined my offer with a curt shake of her head. Together we walked out to the brick-floored entryway.

  I handed our ticket to the hostess and began digging in my purse for my wallet. I expected Honey to make at least a show of offering to pay, but she didn’t even glance at the check. Instead, she clutched her pocketbook to her chest and stared out the front window of the restaurant.

  The hostess ran my debit card, and I made a mental note to shift a little cash from my pitiful savings account to my more-pitiful checking account the minute I got home.

  I held the door for Honey. As she passed, I couldn’t help but notice that she seemed somehow diminished, less starched and stalwart than she had when she arrived. It was almost as if she had aged during the hour we’d spent together. I hoped my mention of her daughter hadn’t thrown her into a funk.

  “Miz Jillson, thank you for joining me today,” I said when we reached her pristine white Lincoln Town Car.

  “The pleasure was all mine, dear. Let’s do it again soon.” I held my breath as she wrestled open the car door. She paused before she climbed inside. “Tallulah, I would not presume to mother you, but I hope you will take the advice of someone older and more experienced than yourself. Don’t waste another second worrying about Wayne Jones.” She narrowed her eyes and looked at me hard. “Cut him loose before he drags you down with him.”

  chapter 11

  “So, how was lunch at the grown-up table?” Bree dunked a dirty scoop into a well of warm water on the counter behind the display freezers as I pulled an apron over my head.

  “Scary.”

  Alice slouched at the cash register, ringing up the waffle cones her mother had just prepared. Whatever weekday lunch traffic we had had was winding down. Soon Alice would take off for class, and Bree and I would spend the afternoon cleaning.

  Bree laughed. “Come on, it couldn’t have been that bad.” She leaned back against the counter, propped on her hands, one ankle crossed over the other. “Spill it. What happened?”

  “Well, let’s see.” I began ticking off gaffes on my fingers. “I snorted, I cried, and I dribbled dressing on my shirt.”

  “Wow. Way to go.”

  “Oh, and I accidentally brought up the woman’s dead daughter.”

  Bree sucked in a pained breath through her teeth. “Boy, I remember that. It was horrible.”

  Bree was two years ahead of me in school, so she would have been a sophomore the year Miranda Jillson died.

  “What was horrible?” Alice asked as she sidled up to her mother and neatly picked her pocket.

  “When Miranda Jillson, the mayor’s daughter, was killed by a drunk driver.” Bree snatched her wallet out of her daughter’s hands, selected a couple of bills for Alice, and tucked the rest into her front pocket.

  “She had been nominated to homecoming court just the week before,” Bree continued. “The student council decided not to elect a queen that year, to just set the crown on an empty throne in her memory.” She shuddered theatrically. “And everyone wore black mums to the dance. It was all very creepy, if you ask me.”

  Homecoming mums are a peculiar Texas tradition. Instead of wearing a simple, tasteful corsage, Lonestar high schoolers wear elaborate arrangements of silk mums, ribbons, plastic doodads, and even little stuffed animals, some nearly a foot in diameter with a lush trail of ribbons that hang almost to the floor. When it comes to these miracles of crafting architecture, bigger is always better. Mums can cost more than the party dress they’re pinned to. I tried to imagine a herd of girls in hairspraylacquered updos and pastel eveningwear, with explosions of black ribbon on their chests. Bree was right: creepy.

  I grabbed a box of paper-wrapped drinking straws and began shoving handfuls of them into metal milk-shake tumblers.

  “Creepy, horrible, awful, and sad,” I agreed. “And I brought it up over plates of chicken salad.”

  “You have to
cut yourself some slack,” Bree said. “You’ve been having a tough week. Your etiquette engine may not be firing on all cylinders.”

  “My ‘etiquette engine’? Is that another selfhelpism?”

  “No, smarty-pants, that’s a Breeism.”

  Alice made a sound of disgust. “Mom, you’re such a dork.” Still, she pecked a quick kiss on her mother’s cheek before tugging the straps of her backpack over her arms and heading for the door. “I’ll be home for dinner,” she called over her shoulder.

  “Speaking of my tough week,” I said as the door drifted shut behind Alice, “Honey said something at lunch that got me thinking.”

  Bree bent down to open one of the oak cabinets that lined the wall behind the counter and pulled out a bottle of Irish cream. “First, I’m making myself an adult milk shake. I was working my hiney off while you were lunching with the mayor’s wife.” She started scooping dark chocolate ice cream into a silver tumbler. “Care for one? Or are you too snooty now for a Black Irish in the afternoon?”

  “Are you kidding? Make mine a double.”

  She grinned as she added more ice cream to the tumbler and actually chuckled as she eyeballed a few ounces of Irish cream on top. While the milk-shake machine whined, I got two glasses, spoons, and straws, and set them out on a café table. The customers Bree had been serving when I came in had taken their cones to go, so we had the place to ourselves for the moment.

  When Bree poured our shakes and settled into her chair, I explained. “Honey was off to a meeting with other Zeta alums, to discuss this year’s essay topic for the alumni scholarship. She said that last year, JoAnne Simms and Brittanie got into a tiff after JoAnne suggested loyalty and fidelity as a topic. Sounded like JoAnne had more than an academic interest in the subject.”