Windchill Summer

by Norris Church Mailer

  A woman staggered up to the altar and went down on her knees. A skinny boy with big ears followed, and then a man in overalls. Brother Dane knelt down to pray with them, and most of the other women and some of the men in the church came up and joined them, to pray them through.

  Then the woman being saved got up and started to shout and jump around, clapping her hands and yelling, “Hallelujah.” That led to six or eight others jumping around, too, trying to out-shout each other and speaking in tongues. It sounded like, “Elisob annodovich, umma umma lodano dibbabollo suba,” and a lot of other sounds that make no sense at all, but it is a special language sent from God. I have never been graced by tongues myself, and have absolutely no idea what they are saying, but there are people who say they know. It’s usually something like “God is sending down blessings to you.” Never anything too specific, like “You are going to be in a major car wreck on September ninth.” That would be really creepy.

  Finally, the frenzy died down, and everyone hugged. Brother Dane is a most enthusiastic hugger. He just about cracked one of my ribs. He hugged me for quite a long moment. I could smell his aftershave. Canoe, it was—I can tell them all—and if I didn’t know better, I would swear I felt something as he pressed against me. But, no . . . it couldn’t be that. There was that old Devil putting evil thoughts in my head again. It must have been his car keys.

  He walked back up to the podium, mopping his face with a white handkerchief.

  “All minds clear?” Nobody said anything. “Then, Brother David, dismiss us in prayer.”

  Daddy said a short prayer. He always says the same one if he has to pray out loud—“Heavenly Father, as we come before You today, we thank You, dear Lord, for the many blessings You have bestowed upon us. Guide us and keep us safely as we return to our homes, and forgive us of our many sins. In Jesus’ name we pray, amen.”

  “Amen,” everyone said. I bent down to pick my purse up off the floor, and as I straightened up, I looked toward the back of the house. Tripp Barlow was standing beside the back pew. I went stone cold.

  He just stood there watching me with this stupid grin on his face. I know I was red. When I get embarrassed, all the blood goes right to my face. It felt like it was on fire. He watched and grinned while I maneuvered through the crowd.

  “What are you doing here?” I didn’t mean to be rude, but I was.

  “I came to service.”

  “You’ve been here this whole time? Where were you sitting?”

  “In the back, with all the other good sinners. I came in when you were down washing that woman’s feet. You didn’t see me. That was some show.”

  He looked at me with that little smile. I was horrified. He must have thought we were all a bunch of crazies.

  “You didn’t have to come here to make fun of us.” I could tell he thought the whole thing was one big joke.

  “I’m not making fun of you. I meant it was an interesting experience.”

  I tried to push past him, but he took me by the arm.

  “Not so fast. It took a lot of doing to track you down. Let’s go get a Coke and talk. Then I’ll take you home in time to get ready for work. I promise.”

  I looked over at Mama, who was trying to figure out what was going on. I called out, “We’re going to get a Coke. I’ll see you at the house.”

  She nodded. I could see she was curious. So was everyone else. As we made our way out to the parking lot, I could feel all their eyes on us.

  —

  Tripp’s car was a 1957 Chevy painted a rich candy-apple red—the twenty-one-coat kind of custom paint job that looks so deep you could put your arm up to the elbow in it. On the right tail fin was written, in flowing butter-yellow letters, Ramblin’ Rose.The ’57 was one of the most coveted cars on the road. I knew that much from Baby’s brothers Denny and J.C.

  I got in, shut the door, and sank down into the custom burgundy-velvet seat covers as Tripp revved up the motor and threw it into first. With a loud vrooom, we peeled out of the church parking lot, slinging gravel. My head jerked back, and I grabbed for the door handle. The whole congregation stood together, eyes wide, watching us leave. I promised God that if I lived, I would never get into this car again. Gingerly, I tried to rotate my head. It wasn’t too painful, so I probably didn’t have whiplash, but I was really P.O.’d.

  “You didn’t have to burn rubber back there. I think everyone could see what a hot car you have without you showing off for them.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to. I guess it was just all that pent-up emotion from the sermon coming out. Wow! I could get into this church thing. It was weirder than an acid trip!”

  “Acid? You’ve taken acid? Stop right here and let me out of this car.” I didn’t know who this guy was, but he was scaring me.

  “Who, me? Acid? No way! Just read about it.”

  “You read a lot of good books.” I was still a little discombobulated. What was I getting into here?

  “Look, let’s start all over.” Tripp pulled off to the side of the road, killed the motor, and turned to face me. “I’m sorry if I muscled in on something I shouldn’t have. I’m new here. I was asking about you, and somebody told me you were at church tonight. I just wanted to see you. I thought I’d surprise you. But if I made you mad or something, I can take you home and that will be the end of it. You never have to see me again.”

  He had this way of looking up from under his eyelashes with those aquamarines. Like a naughty little boy. For some reason, I wasn’t mad anymore. But I pretended.

  “Oh, now you’re trying to get out of buying me a Coke? I don’t think so, buddyruff.”

  He grinned and started the car, pulling carefully back onto the highway, and I relaxed a little bit.

  9.Cherry

  The Freezer Fresh was the only place to hang out in Sweet Valley, except for the Deep South on Route 66 and the Town Café on Main Street, where the farmers went to drink coffee early in the morning on their way to buy feed or whatever. But no kids would be caught dead at the Town. It wasn’t cool. And everybody, not just kids, went to the Deep South. But the Freezer Fresh was ours.

  A couple named Millie and Herman ran it. He was a big fat guy with hairy tattoos of hula girls over both his arms, and Millie was skinny, with a frizzy perm and bad teeth. They were good-natured, though, and they gave huge orders of curlicue french fries for a quarter, and shakes so thick that the straw stood straight up—reason enough to go there.

  It was a low white building situated a mile and a half outside of town, in the center of a big parking lot, where everyone congregated, had a Coke and a burger, and then piled into each others’ cars to go riding around—the main social activity in Sweet Valley. From there, you’d either go out to the lake (to watch the submarine races, of course) or up on the mountain, to the bluffs under the red airplane-warning lights (to look for UFOs). That’s why there were so many young marriages in Sweet Valley—there wasn’t much else to do but park.

  Four or five kids were lined up at the take-out window waiting for their orders when we pulled up. All eyes took in the car as I waved to them.

  The place was packed, and we had a hard time squeezing in. The air was thick with smoke and hormones. “Wooly Bully” was playing on the jukebox, as loud as it could go. That was Ricky Don’s favorite song, so I knew he had to be there, as indeed he was, shooting pool with a couple of girls I didn’t know, who were wearing hip-huggers and belly-button-baring tops. He gave me and Tripp a long look, then went back to his game.

  Baby and Bean were at the corner table. She was sitting in his lap drinking an orange-vanilla milkshake. She waved for us to come over.

  “Hey, Cherrykins, I see the salt boy found you. Where y’all been?”

  “You know exactly where, Baby. Brother Dane’s revival.” I couldn’t believe it was Baby who’d told Tripp where I was. Actually, yes I could. I would have done it for her.

  “You went to church, Barlow?” Bean was surprised. It seemed like he already kne
w Tripp. He fished out a cigarette and offered one to Tripp, who took it and bent over for the match Bean struck with his fingernail. Then Tripp turned a chair around and slung his leg over it, just like he’d done at the pickle plant. I wondered if he ever sat in a chair the regular way.

  “Quite an experience. I can see why people get into the church thing. As the man said, ‘Religion is the opiate of the masses.’”

  When he took a drag on the cigarette, his eyes squinted up in a way that made him look really sexy. Somehow, I didn’t think he would ever be too religious.

  Ricky Don kept looking at us with mean little eyes the whole time we sat there. One of the girls in the hip-huggers sat on the edge of the pool table to make a shot and leaned her boobs right under his nose. He didn’t even notice. I pretended not to see him.

  “Ricky Don’s drilling holes in you, Barlow. You’re with his girl.” Bean was clearly enjoying the idea of the two of them maybe fighting.

  “I am not Ricky Don Sweet’s girl, Bean, and you know it.” I looked pointedly at Tripp. “I’m nobody’s girl.”

  “Let’s get out of here and go for a ride.” Baby got up and pulled Bean to his feet. We started to follow, and as I passed Ricky Don, he motioned for me to come over.

  “Y’all go on out. I’ll be right there.” I went over to the pool table.

  “Who’s your new friend, Cheryl Ann? I ain’t seen him around here before.”

  “His name’s Tripp Barlow. He’s from California. Why are you so curious?”

  “He looks like trouble to me. Long-haired hippie. You better watch yourself.”

  “It seems like you watch me enough for the both of us.”

  Ricky Don picked up the chalk and squeaked the end of his cue with the blue cube. “I mean it. I don’t like that guy. I got a sixth sense about these things. Just watch yourself.”

  I turned and left without another word. He drove me crazy. He had to butt into everything I did.

  We got into Ramblin’ Rose, with Baby and Bean in the backseat, and headed up the mountain road.

  —

  The dashboard lights made Tripp’s face glow, and the car radio was blasting “Honky Tonk Women.” Another great song. The Stones just can’t make a mistake. Tripp took out a pack of cigarettes and offered me one. I shook my head. Now, don’t get the wrong idea. Just because I have never drunk or smoked, plus still being a virgin and belonging to the Holiness Church, all that doesn’t mean that I am a square or anything. I could do any of it if I wanted to. I just don’t want to. Cigarettes and liquor give you really bad breath. But I don’t get all weirded out if somebody else smokes or drinks around me—not too much.

  The three of them lit up Marlboros, and Tripp reached under the seat and pulled out a can of beer. I have to admit that didmake me a little nervous.

  “I’m not trying to tell you what to do, Tripp, but if you get pulled over with an open can of beer in this county, they don’t look too kindly on it. They can arrest you, and us too.”

  For a minute, he acted like he was going to open it anyhow, but then he put it back under the seat. I let out my breath, which I wasn’t even aware I had been holding. It would be just like Ricky Don to follow us. He would have loved catching us with beer, would probably take us all down to spend the night in jail. I would be dead for sure if that happened. In a dry town like Sweet Valley, even if you are over twenty-one, it’s against the law for you to sell or buy liquor, or drink it in public. Certainly not in a moving vehicle.

  I looked in the rearview mirror, pretending to fix my hair, but there was nothing behind us except black road and the glow of our taillights.

  We wound around the hairpin curves, practically taking some of them on two wheels. I clung to the armrest, gritting my teeth to keep from saying something about his driving. He probably thought I was enough of a baby as it was. But it did seem like he was trying to see just how far he could go.

  As we went higher, my ears popped and I swallowed, trying to unpop them. The headlights bounced off the tall, thick trees that had probably been there since the Caddo Indians used this road for a footpath. A possum moseyed out, its eyes wide and glowing green, and just missed becoming roadkill. It was apparent that Ramblin’ Rose didn’t slow for wildlife.

  “Turn here, Tripp.” We had come to the turnoff to the airplane lights.

  “I know.” I guess one of the first things you learn when you move to Sweet Valley is where the best parking places are. I wondered who he had brought up here before.

  Like a native, Tripp pulled up and stopped under the red signal lights, high on poles, that warned airplanes of the mountaintop. Baby and Bean were already lying flat out across the backseat, going at it hot and heavy, and didn’t know we were in the world. Tripp looked at them for a minute, then opened his door.

  “Let’s go for a walk.”

  The moon was beginning to go on the wane, a slightly lopsided ball, but there was still a good amount of light. We made our way over the flat rocks to the edge of the bluff and looked out over the valley. It was like fairyland, all lit up by the streetlamps and the lights from the houses. It seemed unreal that behind each of those little golden glows people were washing their supper dishes and putting the kids to bed, maybe watching Gunsmokeor Perry Masonbefore they turned out the lights and went to bed themselves. From up here, the lake was a giant pool of dark liquid silver, attached like a balloon to the shiny ribbon of the Arkansas River.

  Seeing Tripp in the moonlight, I imagined that if he stepped off the rock, a pair of white wings would sprout from his shoulder blades and lift him right up to the stars. He had pulled his hair back in a ponytail for church, but now it was loose and wavy. A breeze blew up, and I shivered.

  “What’s the matter? Cold?”

  I tried to laugh, but it never got out of my throat. “It must be the windchill,” I said, remembering what Baby had said at the pickle plant. I also remembered what Linda Sue and them had said about guys lying. I didn’t know which had made me shiver.

  Tripp put his arm around me and rubbed his hand over my bare arm. Hard. The skin warmed up, but I trembled. Not from the cold; from nerves. He turned me to face him and leaned in to kiss me.

  It was too soon. I wasn’t ready. As his mouth came close to mine, I drew in my breath and turned my head. It was a near miss. The heat almost blistered my lips. It was hotter than any real kiss I had ever had. But then, most guys don’t have a clue how to kiss. They either try to swallow your head and gag you with their tongues or they make their mouth into a little round O and plant it on you so it feels like you’re taking a swig from a Coke bottle. Then there’s the weird ones, like the guy who latched on to my bottom lip like a snapping turtle before I had a chance to pull away. It made a hickey, and I had to wear red lipstick for a week. Needless to say, that first kiss was the last for him.

  But Tripp . . . he was at another level. He didn’t give up so easy. He looked right into my eyes, put his hands on either side of my head, wound his fingers into my hair, and kissed me for real. It started soft and gentle, gradually gathered heat, and turned my whole body into a limp noodle. My heart and stomach seemed to melt and run right down in a puddle into my you-know-what. My knees started to buckle.

  “Let’s sit down here for a minute.” I managed to get the words out and sit down before I fell. We sat in silence on the edge of the rock, his arm around me, and dangled our legs over the side of the cliff. He kissed me again, and then started to lean me back onto the rocks. If that happened, it would all be over, I knew. What was wrong with me? I didn’t even know this guy. I had just been to the revival. Where were my Christian values?

  “No. I can’t take another one of those.” I pushed him back up. “Let’s just talk.” He leaned back on his elbows, like he had all the time in the world.

  “Why did you come hunting for me tonight? I hardly said a thing to you at the plant.”

  “I think that question just answered itself.” He smiled. White teeth in the moonlight. “
I liked your looks. I liked your . . . whatever it is that people like about each other. Chemistry, I suppose. I never met anyone like you.”

  I didn’t really know what he meant, but I think it must have been a compliment. He put his hands behind his head and lay back on a patch of grass that grew between the rocks. It smelled like it had been freshly cut. Or maybe it was him that smelled that way—the clean smell that makes you think of Saturday morning and wet wash pinned on the clothesline, blowing dry in the sun. I was tempted to stretch out there right beside him, but something held me back. I didn’t need Ricky Don to tell me Tripp was trouble. I knew it. What was worse—a part of me didn’t care.

  “You really have taken acid, haven’t you? Don’t lie.”

  He looked up into the black, bottomless sky full of stars. Considered.

  “Yes, I have. A lot of times. Does that bother you?”

  “I don’t know.” We sat without speaking for a minute. “Is that how you got your name?”

  He laughed. “My mother was a Tripp. Emily Gibson Tripp. She was a southerner, actually, from Mobile, and you know how southern women like to give their family name to the boys. My whole name is Randall Tripp Barlow. Anything else you’d like to know?”

  There was a lot I’d like to know. “What was it like? Taking acid?”

  “Hard to describe.” He thought about it for a while. “It makes everything more.”

  I looked at him; waited. He seemed to be having trouble. “More what?”

  “I mean . . . okay. Say you’re looking at a light. A little green light, like on the radio dial. You drop some acid, and it gets brighter and brighter, until you have never seen such a bright light in your life. You need to get sunglasses to look at it. The very air glows—every molecule vibrates with shimmering green light. The light pulsates and envelops you and becomes the whole world, and you look at it for hours. It is the most incredible, wonderful, fascinating, groovy thing, and you can’t take your eyes off of it.