by Julia Watts
Deb must be happy because the next song is Bob Seger’s “Katmandu.” Mom has found a dance partner—well, sort of a dance partner—and is springing around, beer in hand, like a little kid running through a sprinkler. Her new friend, beer-bellied and wearing a gimme cap, limits his dance efforts to the white-boy shuffle.
I try to ignore Mom and focus on Tara instead—the way she kicks down the mic stand and kicks it back up to catch it, the way she gets down on her knees in front of the guitarist when he does his fair-to-middling solo, the way she pumps her fist in the air. On the inside of her right forearm is a tattoo of a star. How old is she? Where does she come from? Could a girl like this possibly be from Vermillion?
Once the band winds up “Katmandu,” the guy who’s with Mom hollers, “Freebird!” which a bunch of people in the audience seem to find hilarious.
Tara shakes her head, grins, and says, “Okay, buddy, you asked for it.” The band lurches into the opening chords.
It’s weird—even songs I don’t like, when they come out of Tara’s mouth—I like them. Somehow I hear them in a new way. They’re about escape, about getting out, about freedom, like the feeling I had riding with Rufus with the windows down, like it would’ve felt if we didn’t have to turn the car around.
When the first set is over, Mom comes over to the table, her face flushed as pink as her dress from the beer and the dancing. “Hey, Buttercup,” she says, giving me a tipsy grin. “You’re off Didi duty tonight if you want to be. Calvin says he’ll give me a ride.”
I bet he will, I think, but I say, “Is Calvin sober?”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
“Well, if you change your mind and decide he’s a serial killer or something, just let me know. I think I’ll stick around for the second set.”
Mom’s face lights up. “Oh, did we see something we liked up there on that stage? That long-haired guitar player’s pretty cute, huh?”
My face heats up again, and I know Mom thinks I’m blushing because she’s right, not because I’m freaked out by how wrong she is. “I think I’m gonna go out and get some air for a minute,” I say.
“You do that, Buttercup.” Mom laughs. “You look like you’re fixing to pass out.”
I step outside and almost bump right into Tara, who’s leaned against the building smoking a cigarette, one Converse high-topped foot resting against the concrete block wall. For some reason I feel like throwing up.
“Hey,” she says, nodding toward me. “Come over here and smoke a cigarette with me.”
I manage to get out “I don’t smoke.”
She grins. “Well, I guess you’re smarter than I am, then. Will you at least come here and talk to me while I pollute my lungs?”
I take a step forward, my heart hammering.
“I saw you out there,” Tara says. When she smokes she squints like James Dean. “You don’t look like a Vermillion girl.”
“I’m not. I moved here from Kentucky.”
She laughs. “You don’t look like a Kentucky girl either. But moving here, you and me got that in common. I lived here when I was real little, but then Daddy got a job at one of the plants up in Detroit. We lived there until I was fifteen and the plant closed down. Then we moved back here. Is this the worst shithole in the world to move to, or what?”
“Pretty much,” I say, laughing through my nervousness. “Did you go to Vermillion High?”
She drops her cigarette butt and grinds it out with her shoe. “For a while I did, but I hated it so bad I dropped out. If I had stuck it out, I would’ve graduated two years ago. But instead I got my GED, like the dummy I am.”
“You don’t seem like a dummy to me. By the standards of this town, you’re probably a genius.”
She grins again. “By the standards of this town, my damn dog’s a genius. I’m just biding my time here, trying to save up some money, doing bar gigs and working on cars. I want to move to Atlanta, get some gigs there, see if we can get a record made.” She gets more animated as she talks about her plans. “We’re not just a cover band doing moldy oldies, you know. We do classic rock because that’s the only thing besides country that gets you gigs around here. But the songs I write, that’s our real music. I don’t sing those songs in places like this, though, ’cause they’re a little personal. It wouldn’t feel safe, know what I mean?”
I nod, wondering if she’s trying to tell me something or if it’s just my imagination.
“Duh,” she says, hitting herself in the head. “I’ve been talking your damn ear off, and I never even asked you your name.”
“Syd.”
“No shit, really? That’s an awesome name.” She holds out her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Syd.”
I put my hand in hers, hoping I’m not sweaty or clammy, thinking she’ll give it a firm shake. Instead she lifts it a little, leans down, and brushes her lips against it. A shock runs through me like I’ve been hooked to an electric current.
When I open my mouth to say “you too,” a giggle bubbles out of my throat. Since when did I become the kind of girl who giggles?
“Listen,” she says, digging in the pocket of her Levi’s. “Here’s my card. Give me a call sometime if you want to hang out or listen to the band practice or something.”
“Okay.” I take the card, wondering why my usual powers of conversation are failing me.
“I’d better go round up the boys for the second set. They’re around back getting high. I’ve got to save that for after the show, or I forget the lyrics.”
Once she’s gone, I read the words on her card:
Tara Stone
rock ’n’ roll singer auto mechanic outlaw
THIS MORNING I didn’t mind waking up in an empty house. My mind was too full of what happened last night and what was going to happen this afternoon. I figured Mom would find her way back eventually, like the cat we had in Kentucky who’d get a wild hair and wander off for a day or two but would always come home when he was ready for a meal and a warm place to sleep.
And now I’ve wandered off myself to Josephine’s, where the lemon cookies are already on the table in front of the couch, and she’s serving everybody glasses of iced coffee with long spoons for stirring. Today everybody isn’t just Josephine and Rufus and me. It’s also Cole McWhorter, the owner of Famous Florists. Cole has definitely put more effort into dressing for the occasion than Rufus and I have. He’s wearing linen pants that are almost blindingly white, a salmon-pink silk shirt, and matching pink tasseled shoes, which I called loafers but Rufus says are opera slippers. Regardless of what they’re called, where in the world does a person buy a pair of salmon-pink men’s shoes?
“Thank you, hon,” Cole says when Josephine hands him his drink. “I don’t remember the last time I had iced coffee. With me it’s usually sweet tea all day long, but I cheat and sweeten it with Splenda on account of watching my girlish figure.”
Josephine settles into the armchair opposite Cole’s. “Well, watching your figure is certainly paying off. I don’t think you’ve put on a pound since you were twenty-nine.”
Cole laughs. “And I was twenty-nine for years! Jojo, I don’t know if your eyesight’s what it used to be, but if you’re dishing up compliments, I’ll take a double helping!”
“I’ve known Cole since he was a baby,” Josephine says. Today she’s wearing a yellow scarf to accessorize her black dress, which makes her resemble a queen bee. “One summer when I was home from college I worked as Cole’s babysitter.”
“It’s true,” Cole says. “She changed my diapers, if you can imagine that. Though you might not want to.”
“And then, when you were Rufus’s age, you were running around with his mama the same way he runs around with Syd.”
“Now that, I can’t imagine,” Rufus says.
It is hard to picture Rufus’s mom as a teenager, let alone a teenager who would keep company with somebody as flamboyant as Cole.
“Time changes some people more than others,” Col
e says, with a trace of sadness in his voice. “But Jojo,” he says, brightening, “Jojo’s not changed a whit since she was going to the Women’s College of Georgia.”
Josephine laughs. “Then I must’ve been the world’s oldest-looking college student!”
“You know that’s not what I mean,” Cole says, stirring his coffee holding his spoon between his index finger and thumb. “I mean you’ve stayed young on the inside. That’s what matters.” He looks over at Rufus and me on the couch. “Not that I wouldn’t give my eyeteeth to be as skinny as you are again, Rufus. Or to have your dewy complexion, Syd.”
“Thanks,” I say, “but your complexion’s nice too.” It is, though it has a slightly orange glow that doesn’t seem quite natural.
“Oh, you’re sweet, but under all this concealer, my skin’s as rough as a cob. I started wearing concealer to cover up the scar on my forehead, but then I discovered it hides a multitude of sins. I practically dunk my whole head in the stuff as soon as I wake up in the morning.”
Even though I enjoy makeup, I’ve never liked the idea of concealer. I’d rather wear makeup as decoration, to enhance what’s really there instead of hiding it. “Maybe you shouldn’t cover your scar,” I say, noticing the way his hair has been styled over half his forehead. “Scars add character.”
“Not this scar,” Cole half whispers. His eyes look far away, and I can tell I’ve said something wrong.
“Well!” Josephine says brightly, rising from her chair. “I thought a screwball comedy might be just the thing for us this afternoon. And Cole”—she puts her hand on his shoulder and leaves it there until he returns from wherever he’s been and looks up at her—“since you’re such a big Katharine Hepburn fan—”
“Oh, I love Kate,” Cole says, back to his smiling self. “Rally, I do!”
“Which is why I thought Bringing Up Baby might be an excellent choice.”
“With Cary Grant—be still, my heart!” Cole says, placing a well-manicured hand on his chest.
For the best view of the movie, all four of us sit on the couch, so it’s pretty cozy. Rufus and I are together in the middle, with Josephine on Rufus’s other side and Cole next to me. It seemed like Cole almost made it a point to sit beside me instead of Rufus, and for a second I wondered why. But as a gay man of his generation living in Vermillion, he must be used to exercising extreme caution. Sitting thigh to thigh with a fifteen-year-old boy could be misunderstood. It makes me sad to think of such a sweet man having had such a hard life.
But the movie’s so funny my sadness can’t last, especially with Rufus and Cole and Josephine laughing beside me. The thing that makes Bringing Up Baby so hilarious is that there are these beautiful, dignified-looking people intentionally making total fools of themselves. When Cary Grant, dressed in a negligee, leaps and shouts, “I just went gay all of a sudden!” we all whoop with laughter.
Once the movie’s over and we’ve had our hugs and good-byes, I offer Rufus a ride home. When we’re a little ways from Josephine’s I say, “Is it okay if I pull over and park the car for a few minutes?”
“Why? Do you have a sudden urge to make out?” Rufus wiggles his eyebrows.
I pull over in the Gas ’n’ Go parking lot, nervous to talk about this but sure that Rufus is the only person I can talk to. “Well… not with you. I… I wanted to ask you… you remember what you asked me when we went to Dothan? About if I was gay?”
You can’t say Rufus doesn’t look interested. “Yes.”
“Well, I don’t know if that’s what this means or not, or at least if that’s what it means all the way. But last night I was playing Didi for Mom, and we went to Buckner’s. There was this band, and the lead singer was a girl. Not a girly girl, but a James Dean kind of girl.”
Rufus’s smile is a mile wide. “And?”
“And I don’t know. I can’t really explain it. When she was singing, it was like she was singing to me, and I felt these… these feelings—”
“Sexy feelings?” Rufus asks, still smiling.
“I guess so. I mean, I felt excited and alive, but I also felt terrified, and like I might puke.”
“Syd!” Rufus says, grabbing both my hands in his. “I think you just went gay all of a sudden!”
It feels good to laugh. It lets out some of the nervousness. “So I talked to her—”
“You talked to her? Really? What did you talk about?”
“I don’t know. About her music, about how bad Vermillion sucks.”
“Wow, you’re a fast worker,” Rufus says.
I’ve definitely blushed more in the past twenty-four-hour period than I’ve ever blushed in my life. “Not really. But she gave me her card and told me to call her sometime. Oh, and she kissed my hand. But I don’t think she meant anything by it.” I hand him the card, which I’ve been carrying in my pocket all day.
“Oh, I think she did.” Rufus looks down at the card. “Tara Stone—rock ’n’ roll singer, auto mechanic, outlaw! Syd, even this girl’s business card is sexy. You’ve got to call her!”
Syd
TODAY’S MY birthday. Rufus let this fact slip this afternoon when we were drinking coffee. Mr. D disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a plate of gooey pastries. “Baklava for the birthday girl!” he said and then he asked me how old I was. When I told him I was seventeen, he said, “A beautiful birthday for a beautiful girl” and started singing. It was pretty embarrassing, but the baklava was delicious—flaky and nutty and sticky with honey.
At home, the way I can tell it’s my birthday is that Mom is cooking supper instead of me. It’s the same birthday supper I’ve had every year since I was six years old: spaghetti with jarred sauce mixed with browned ground beef and a loaf of Pepperidge Farm garlic bread, followed by yellow cake with chocolate icing. When I was little, Mom would make a big deal out of taking me to the store and letting me pick out the box of cake mix and can of frosting I wanted. But after years of me hemming and hawing for half an hour, only to choose yellow with chocolate again, she let this part of the tradition slide.
When Mom calls me to supper, I laugh when I see the kitchen table. She’s put a red-checked vinyl tablecloth on it and a little glass cup holding a lighted candle. There’s also a bottle of sparkling grape juice and two plastic wineglasses. “Pretty,” I say. “It looks like that scene in The Lady and the Tramp with the spaghetti and meatballs.”
Lady and the Tramp was the only Disney movie I liked when I was little. I had no use for princesses, but I loved talking dogs.
Mom laughs. “You wore that movie out when you was little. Any time I needed to take a shower or make a phone call, I knew I could buy myself some time if I plopped you down in front of Lady and the Tramp. Sit down, birthday girl, and let me wait on you.”
I sit and Mom pours me a glass of the sparkling grape juice. “Champagne,” she says, like saying the word will magically transform it. “This looked so fancy I couldn’t resist getting it. You only turn seventeen once.”
I take a sip. “It’s good.”
“It probably tastes better than champagne, to tell the truth,” Mom says, pouring herself a glass. “I’ve only drunk champagne once, at a wedding. It gave me gas.”
We laugh, and she brings us each a plate of spaghetti and garlic bread.
“Happy birthday, Buttercup,” she says.
“Thanks.” I shake Parmesan cheese over my spaghetti sauce.
“You wanna watch a movie later?” she asks.
“Lady and the Tramp?” I say, grinning.
“Hey, if that’s what you want,” Mom says. “It does seem like a shame, though, a pretty girl sitting home with her mama on her seventeenth birthday.”
“Well….” I’m not sure what I’m going to say, but that doesn’t stop me from talking. “I might go out tonight. I kind of met somebody who asked me if I wanted to hang out…. I’m just not sure if tonight’s the night.”
“Well, well, well,” Mom says, her eyes shining, “who did you meet?”
“You remember the band at Buckner’s on Friday night?”
Mom squeals like a twelve-year-old girl. “The guitar player! Ohmygod, Syd, he’s soooo cute!”
I can’t bring myself to correct her. Rufus’s parents think I’m his girlfriend, and my mom is going to think I have a boyfriend who’s really some guy who doesn’t know I exist. Life is complicated. “I think I’ll call after we have cake,” I say.
“Well, I’d better fire up the candles, then.” Mom grabs her cigarette lighter and gets up from the table.
The cake is kind of a mess, lopsided and with crumbs stuck in the frosting. Seventeen blue birthday candles are scattered over its top. “If you get much older, we’re gonna burn the house down,” Mom says, setting the cake in front of me. “Make a wish.”
Even though I appreciate Mom’s kindness, when I close my eyes, I still wish that I’ll be celebrating my eighteenth birthday somewhere else. I blow out the candles.
“Did you wish to get something or to lose something?” Mom says, smiling.
“What do you mean?”
“Well… I was thinking about that guitar player. I wasn’t a virgin when I was seventeen.”
“You were a mother when you were seventeen,” I say.
“I was, but you don’t have to be. Just use protection. Of course, I’m glad I had you when I did. You’ve always been there for me, even when nobody else was.”
She looks like she might start crying, so I say, “Cut the cake, Mom.”
“I know… I’m getting sappy,” Mom says, taking out a candle and licking off the frosting. “It’s just when I see you all grown up, I can still see you on your first birthday when you slammed both your fists into the cake.”