Pat not only didn’t tease me about the fortune-teller, though, he surprised me by buying what he said was the perfect souvenir for me. He’d spotted a crystal ball in a store window earlier and went back for it while I finished my coffee at Du Monde’s. “Can you read it?” he asked when I unwrapped it. Despite his twinkly-eyed curiosity, I believed he was more intrigued by the occult than he professed. “No, but I can read the tarot cards,” I retorted, then braced myself for his derision. Instead his face lit up. “No kidding! Will you read mine?” Sure would, I told him, soon as we got back to Gadsden. I didn’t tell him that I’d almost brought my cards with me, just in case I needed to pick up some extra spending money on the Square.
Our last night we decided to eat at the Windsor Court Hotel restaurant again. Instead of the oysters, Pat wanted us to try the chef’s signature dish, lobster on some kind of creamed spinach. It sounded like the least appealing way to do lobster. Instead, it was absolutely amazing. I spooned foie gras on a cracker without knowing what it was until I’d taken a bite and Pat, laughing, told me. After years as a vegetarian, I’d started eating a little meat again, but goose innards was a bridge too far. Suppressing my gag reflex, I boldly took another bite in a pathetic attempt to reclaim my thin veneer of culinary sophistication.
I convinced myself that I’d fully recovered my cool after the humiliation of getting passed-out drunk on oysters, never suspecting that our last morning would be my downfall.
Ordering room service breakfast one morning earlier in our visit, Pat was genuinely surprised to find that I’d never had bagels and lox. I enjoyed them so much that he requested a double portion for breakfast for our final meal at the Windsor Court. It turned out to be way more food than either of us could finish. After breakfast, Pat suggested that I do my primping while he went down to check out and get the car. He’d send a bellhop up for our luggage.
The nice young porter from our first day pretended not to recognize me when he came to get the luggage. I was following him to the door when my eyes wandered wistfully back to our breakfast leftovers. It was too much to leave behind. With a smile I said casually, “Ah, I need to get a few more things. You go on and I’ll be right down, okay?”
I’m notoriously tightfisted, something that Pat didn’t know about me but was soon to find out. I’d already stuffed my suitcase with shampoo, soap, lotion, and several bottles of condiments from previous orders. No way could I leave the remains of such a fabulous breakfast behind! We can have it for lunch and won’t need to stop, I told myself. How pleased Pat would be that I’d planned ahead.
I realized with a groan that I had nothing to put the leftovers in since the bellhop had taken the suitcases and tote bags with him. The dry-cleaning bags were already loaded with dirty clothes and packed. I wasted precious minutes—they’d be wondering what on earth happened to me—looking for something to use. Finally I found a Styrofoam box from the day before, which I’d brought back my leftover lunch in. It’d been tossed in the trash, but fortunately had landed on top. Though not very big and pretty flimsy, it’d have to do. I dumped the stale po’boy and fries in the trash can, washed out the box, then dried it with a washcloth. Carefully I arranged several toasted bagel halves on its now-clean bottom. On top of them I piled slivers of smoked salmon, squares of cream cheese, finely diced tomatoes, purple onions, and capers. When I got the top closed and started toward the door, I did my best not to think about the half dozen or so miniature jars of strawberry jam left on the table. I could eat those for a month.
With a sigh, I went back to the table to retrieve the jam. This time I had to force down the top of the Styrofoam box. Or rather, it refused to cooperate with my efforts to close it, so I held the top down with one hand while balancing the bottom with the other. I was almost to the door when the box collapsed in my hands and spilled its contents all over the floor. Staring at the mess in horror, I played with the idea of tossing the box and making a run for it.
With jars of jam rolling around my feet, I was down on my hands and knees scraping up bagels, cream cheese, tomatoes, onions, and capers when I heard a key in the door and my heart sank. I knew without a doubt who it was. Sure enough, I looked up from my unladylike squat to see the bellhop and Pat standing there staring at me in wide-eyed astonishment.
He’d waited for me in the car, Pat explained, avoiding the bellhop’s eye, then decided that I must’ve been waiting for him to escort me down like a proper gentleman. Since he’d already checked out, he had to enlist the services of the bellhop to open the door. Eighteen stories up, and he finds me on my hands and knees stealing food. I quickly finished cleaning up then followed the two of them down, silent and shamefaced. In the car, I saw that Pat was struggling to keep a straight face, and when he burst into laughter, I did too. As I’d feared, he had finally seen the true me.
Chapter 5
Where Do We Go from Here?
After our trip to New Orleans—a special place for us that we’d return to many times in the years to come—I packed up for a writers retreat in Black Mountain, North Carolina, and Pat headed out to a cousin’s wedding in Florida. On his drive down, he did something that both surprised and touched me. I’d answered the phone to hear his voice even heartier than usual. “King-Ray! You’ll never guess where I am.”
“Uh . . . your cousin’s wedding in Orlando, where you’re supposed to be?”
“Nope. I’m in your hometown of Pinckard, Alabama.”
“You are not.”
“I’m across the street from First Baptist church, calling you from a pay phone by the Shell station.”
“Now I know you’re lying. Pinckard doesn’t have any pay phones.”
“They’ve obviously come up in the world since you left.”
“Tell me what you see.”
There was a pause and I pictured him stepping away from the phone booth and looking around. “Nothing. There’s nothing to see,” he said.
I conceded defeat. “How on earth did you find Pinckard . . .” I began, then stopped myself. “Or more importantly, why?”
“I wanted to see where you were raised. Where’s your daddy’s farm? I might pay him a visit.”
I smiled at the thought. “I wouldn’t recommend it. He’s half deaf and might mistake you for a revenuer.” I’m sure Pat thought I was kidding, but a sign at the entrance to the King farm says this property protected by smith and wesson. In case trespassers don’t get the message and enter anyway, there’s another one closer to the house: never mind the dogs—beware the owner.
“Tell me about Pinckard.” Intrigued as always with the prospect of a story, Pat thankfully forgot about the surprise visit to the farm. Of course, neither of us could’ve imagined then that had he done so, he would’ve met his future father-in-law—even if at the other end of a shotgun.
* * *
Years later, I found an undated letter I’d sent to Pat and was able to place it as written shortly after that conversation. The mention of Black Mountain helped me date it, as did the reference to his diabetes. He’d been diagnosed with type 2 diabetes before our trip to New Orleans, but he wisely waited to tell me until we were heading home so he could eat all the rich food he wanted. He’d told me that a friend of his had suggested it might turn out to be the best thing that could happen since he’d always been so careless with his health. (As for the letter’s salutation, I sometimes referred to him as Conrack, which was what his students called him in The Water Is Wide.)
Dear Conrack,
Something told me you might need one of my warm, supportive, witty, fun letters on your return. I’m anxious to hear how it went but not sure when I get back from Black Mountain. By the way, I love your honey-toned voice calling me from exotic places like Pinckard. I still can’t believe you found a pay phone there. What’s the world coming to? Next thing you know they’ll have an ATM machine.
The purpose of my writing is to discuss a subject dear to both our hearts—food. I’ve told you that my friends used to
hate me because of my metabolism. Then I hit middle age and they had to find other reasons. But I was determined to stay slim. So I got on a vegetarian / health-food kick for a while and eliminated fats, sugars, etc. If you’re into cooking like the two of us are, it seems like all the fun’s gone, but the challenge can be kind of fun too. (I can see you rolling your eyes, but bear with me.) Tackling the new diet like everything else I do—by reading everything I can get my hands on—I got interested enough in nutrition to consider going back to school for a degree. So I wasn’t just running my mouth when I said I could help you with your new diabetes regimen. Well, maybe I was. But I still think it won’t be as bad as you fear.
I agree with your friend who says that this will turn out to be a good thing for you, though it may not seem so now. Wait and see—you’ll get healthy, live to be an old codger, and turn out many more fabulous books. I’ll stick some of the notes from my reading on nutrition in here, along with a picture of the man I ran off to New Orleans with. He’s precious, just precious, a broad-shouldered, blue-eyed Irishman. I’m so grateful to him for such a fun and fabulous escape.
And I’m grateful to you, dear friend, for encouraging me to stay home and work on my book this summer instead of teaching the second term. Taking your advice has made me realize how my depression is linked to my frustration over not having time to write. Time to write is a luxury, which I’ll try not to get too used to before classes start back in September.
I’m looking forward to your upcoming visit, but don’t forget your swimsuit this time. The little old ladies at the pool have yet to recover from you floating around in your drawers.
Take care of your fool self,
King-Ray
Looking back over old letters and notes and remembering how crazy things were at the beginning of our relationship amuses me, and I find myself either groaning or chuckling. Although my breezy note clearly reveals a deep fondness for its recipient, it can hardly be called a love letter. That would come later in the summer. The only letter that I got from Pat during this time contained a poem; he preferred to call in response to my notes. I know when our friendship changed but doubt I’ll ever know why. If love is truly a mystery, as I believe it to be, then that’s as it should be, I suppose.
The light tone of my letter verifies what I recall most from the early days of our courtship, how playful our relationship was. Evidently we were both desperate at that time in our lives for a bit of plain old fun. I found Pat hysterical, and we spent most of the time together cutting up and acting the fool. Pat joked so much, and his wit was so deadpan, that it was hard to know when he was serious. Some folks never got it. I did, and in the early days we concocted some really silly games. He joked about being diabetic (nothing was ever sacred to him) and how all his appendages would eventually fall off. Initially I was horrified, then proceeded to beat him at his own game. I’d make up scenarios where I had to help him into the pool because he’d lost his limbs. He’d bob around like a cork, I said, and occasionally I’d have to nudge him into an upright position so he wouldn’t drown. Then I’d pull the poor limbless thing through the streets in a wagon so he could enjoy the sights. I cringe now remembering such carrying-on, but that was the kind of dark humor we both had. Until I met Pat, I’d had sense enough to keep that part of myself well hidden.
Looking back, it’s obvious that such foolishness was a much-needed emotional release for us. Each of us had come from situations that had left us wrung out, depleted, despondent, and hollow-eyed with despair. Pat’s depression was so extreme that he’d later describe it as a mental breakdown. He wrote and spoke freely about his suicidal urges, and how “surviving” a divorce took on a whole new meaning for him. He was in such a bad way after his last marriage that suicide felt like the only relief from the mess he’d made of his life. It’s no wonder that gallows humor became one of the ways he coped during his recovery.
It’d take me much longer to write about my own suicidal thoughts. (The first reference I can find is in an essay I published fifteen years later.) As hard as it is for me to open up, I’d been proud of myself for telling Pat about the depression I’d battled for years. I knew that he’d understand, more than anyone. At times it’d gotten so bad I no longer connected with anything that had once given me joy, even my writing. I functioned mostly on autopilot; placid on the surface while beneath I was a seething cauldron of anguish and self-loathing. I had yet to learn that keeping everything bottled up, as I’d always done, was the worst possible way of coping. I would only discover that later, when I began to work my way out of the misery my life had become by embarking on a feverish journey of self-discovery and recovery. I didn’t purposefully set out on such a journey; it came about when I began to write again, and only when I began to write about my inner turmoil and struggles instead of denying their existence.
That journey began a few years before I met Pat, when I’d turned to my journals to record the difficulties I was dealing with in my marriage. But putting my feelings in writing was such a difficult and painful process that I could only endure it a little at the time. Disclosure didn’t come easily to me, so I would put my journals aside to write an article, or a light little short story. (It was during this time that I published “My Life Is a Country Song,” a vapid story about a good old girl whose cheating boyfriend wins her back with classical music.)
The summer of ’97, my and Pat’s first summer together, was one of those times when I had turned from my journals and toward easier endeavors. Ever since Making Waves came out I’d been half-heartedly working on a novel about a preacher’s wife. But revisiting that part of my life had depressed me so much that I’d put it aside. So I went back to the novel I’d started about a female rodeo rider. As a girl, I had loved riding and adored my horse whom I’d unimaginatively named Black Beauty. A rider himself, my father encouraged my hobby and took me and my little sisters to rodeos in Florida. My sisters weren’t particularly into it but I was enthralled. I idolized the rodeo riders, especially the sequined cowgirls who led the parades. So the idea of writing such a novel wasn’t totally out of nowhere for me, and the research was a helluva lot more fun than reliving a pain-filled past. That fall when the rodeo came to Birmingham, I was the first in line.
* * *
During our courtship, Pat was honest with me, in his fashion. Although the relationship I’d gotten myself into had come to its inevitable end, Pat was still in the process of breaking free of his. He told me about it one night over supper at my place, after I’d had to take the phone off the hook when my former “friend” kept harassing me. Avoiding Pat’s eye, I gave him the short version, saying only that I’d unintentionally gotten myself into a bit of a mess. At first Pat teased me, which was his knee-jerk response to everything. “Aw, poor bastard,” he said with that wicked grin of his. “He must be an idiot not to have seen it coming. I pegged you as a heartbreaker the first time I laid eyes on you.”
When I shot him a look of exasperation, he got serious, confessing that he’d done a similar thing. The problem he had in terminating his relationship with the “other woman” was guilt. “Because you’ve strung her along?” I asked suspiciously.
Pat shook his head. Although I wasn’t about to let him off the hook, it was obvious that he truly felt bad. “It’s not that,” he said. “She’s a wonderful person who’s had a sad life and deserves more happiness than I can give her. According to my shrink, I have a knight-in-shining-armor complex and go into full rescue mode when I perceive a damsel in distress. Goes back to me trying to rescue my mother from my father’s wrath as a kid. Show me a woman with a sad story and I fall in love. It’s my siren song and my curse.” He grew pensive then said, “It’s one of the things I like about you, King-Ray. You’ve worked out your shit and are more together than anyone I know.”
I let out a shout of laughter. “If that’s the case, your other friends must be serious nutcases.”
Pat admitted that he’d always been attracted to chaos, which
had almost ruined his life. “I’m a jaded old man who’s made a mess of my life and everybody’s I’ve ever been involved with.”
“Remind me why I should be with you, then?”
He threw back his head and laughed, his mood suddenly lighter. “That’s another thing I like about you, the way you always cut through my bullshit.” He reached across the table for my hand, serious again. “King-Ray? What I’m saying is, I need someone to rescue me for a change.”
It would only hit me later that was the most profound insight I’d heard from Pat, not to mention the heart of our relationship, but at the time I treated it lightly. Giving him a sugary smile, I squeezed his hand. “Aw, that’s so touching. But it’s also the worst line I’ve ever heard. Surely a hotshot writer like you can come up with something better.”
Pat sighed in exasperation before agreeing to give it another try. Then he drew back in the chair, his eyes narrowed. “Wait a minute! I’m getting the short end of the stick here. From now on you’ll think anything nice I say to you is nothing but a line.”
“Naw,” I assured him. “I can tell when you’re sincere.”
“How?” he demanded.
“Where would the mystery be if I told you all my secrets?”
Pat studied me for a long moment then said, “Let’s put it to a test. I’ll say something and you tell me if I’m sincere, okay?”
When I agreed, he took both my hands and stared deeply into my eyes. “King-Ray, I say this with complete sincerity and from the bottom of my heart. You’re as bat-shit crazy as I am.”
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