Home In The Morning

by Mary Glickman

  As soon as his parents were gone, Jackson warned her that Bubba Ray was a holy terror. He’s so close to evil, I can’t think around here when my parents are gone. The girl laughed and slammed a fist into an open palm. I’ll take care of him, don’t you worry. Jackson was much relieved. Well, then, if you think you’ll be alright, I’ll go on to the library.

  Jackson stuffed deep in his pants pocket the five dollars he’d saved over two weeks along with a condom that Buck Deaver had slipped him at school for fifty cents. Conspicuously carrying a pen and bound notebook, he bid Rebecca Headly a pleasant evening and slipped out the door to run like heck into the woods that led to the village. Luck was with him. He’d had visions of tripping into a ditch in the dark, breaking a limb to lie there nibbled by bugs, gnawed by bobcats, but the moon was full and there was plenty of light, or at least plenty enough for him to wend his rapid way with safety. Somewhere along the path he dropped both pen and notebook and didn’t care.

  He was nearly there, panting, out of breath before the disgrace, the indecency of what he was about to do ravaged his tender side and slowed his progress. How exactly does your desire, however strong, bestow upon you the right to buy a woman’s dignity? his better self asked. He took one step forward, turned, and took two back. Then he answered himself: They don’t have dignity! They’re whores! He turned again, stepped forward. But his conscience pestered him. He wondered what it was that made a woman a whore, whether nature, necessity, or despair. He stopped, stepped back, considering. At last, he raised his arms to the heavens as if at prayer and rationalized. My lust will put food on someone’s table, he told the moon, some little child who’d go hungry will not because of me. It’s alright. It’s alright. Dropping his arms, he marched on with the gravity of a soldier entering battle.

  And immediately froze.

  For a cloud had covered the moon and in the darkness the strangled cry of a creature unknown to him rang out. It was high-pitched, a shriek of inconceivable pain, the sound of a death struggle. It dried his mouth. A shiver afflicted his spine. Someone’s eating someone else, he thought. Eating ’em raw, still living but with its guts falling out. And he thought about innocence and victims and whether or not a man could be better than an animal and he shouted out: Alright! Alright! I won’t do it! At that precise moment, the cloud over the moon parted and he found himself smack in the center of a broad shaft of silver light that made his very clothes sparkle along with the leaves of the trees and the grass at his feet.

  A miracle has saved my soul, thought Jackson, and he muttered a blessing Rabbi Nussbaum taught him for the sake of the creature that was eaten, nature’s consecrated offering made to rescue him from sin. He resolved then and there that no matter how hard up he got in life, he’d never ever seek the company of bought women. Still, he figured he was out in the night with time on his hands and it wouldn’t hurt to just continue on his way to the whorehouse and observe as part of his general education what went on in such a place.

  The shack he sought was unmistakable, set off from the rest of the village by a long dirt road, draped from its tin roof with a string of Chinese lanterns that lit up the place brighter than neon. Over the front door, which was painted haint blue, a mess of chicken bones tied together and hung with string clattered in the night’s soft breeze to keep bad juju away. There was a little cleared yard surrounded by underbrush behind which Jackson crouched to study his surrounds. Two pickups and a Chevrolet sedan were parked along the road next to trees disguised in kudzu bordering the woods. There were smells, too, wafting toward his hiding place, the scents of strong perfumes, liquor, and what seemed to him to be fresh biscuits and gravy, eggs, and bacon. He checked his new Timex watch, a gift from Aunt Gertrude Ann for his sixteenth. It was eight o’clock. He guessed sex made men hungry, and they cooked up light suppers within so the clientele could fortify themselves.

  A new terror set in. There were men in there, real men, having their needs satisfied. What if they came out and found him? What if they laughed at him hiding there or, worse, what if the gals laughed? How exactly was one supposed to behave while spying on a whorehouse anyway? He began to sweat crouching there in the brush when a whooshing noise not three yards away nearly startled him into a yelp. He flattened himself against the ground in a heartbeat and there was a pounding as of heavy feet chasing the whoosh, following its path exactly, then all came to a sudden halt. Slowly, Jackson picked up his head to peer over the top of a bramble of thorny branches bursting with thick, waxy leaves. He gasped, then held his breath.

  It was L’il Bokay and a young woman he was certain was Katherine Marie. Jackson’d had even less to do with Katherine Marie than he’d had to do with L’il Bokay in recent times, but he’d seen her around town all these years, watched her grow into a lithe beauty, and always with a proud stab of fondness.

  L’il Bokay had her by the forearm. She winced and struggled but he gripped it in his strong right hand and twisted. He spoke fiercely to her, quietly but with command.

  You are not going in there.

  Lemme go, lemme go, I’ll do what I want.

  L’il Bokay twisted harder.

  No. You won’t.

  Katherine Marie whimpered, gave up the struggle, and collapsed onto L’il Bokay’s chest long enough for him to relax his grip and then quick as a cat she scrambled away from him, crouching in the pose of a defensive tackle while she stretched out her throbbing neck and pointed chin in a mad, angry taunt.

  You don’t own me. Ain’t nobody owns me. It’s kitchen help they want. No one’s going to touch me in there. I won’t let ’em. And Mama can’t work no more, the twins need medicine and clothes. What exactly do you expect me to do about that? What? It’s not like I haven’t tried for other jobs, you know that. There’s nothing else I can do and stay in school.

  With that, she gave him her back and marched slowly toward the shack’s back door with the same determination and pride Jackson remembered from their original encounter.

  He was on the verge of jumping up and saving her himself, although how he could he had not the slightest idea, when L’il Bokay called out: Stop. I’ll take care of you all. I’ve got a strong back. I don’t need school like you do. I’ll get two jobs and I’ll take care of all you all.

  Katherine Marie stopped and turned. In the moonlight, the tears streaming down her cheeks were like ropes of jewels loosely strung.

  And why would you do that, Bokay? Why?

  The big brute of a man fell to his knees and held out his arms.

  Because I love you, Katherine Marie. Because I love you.

  She went up close to him then and he wrapped his arms around her legs and she bent down and covered his head with kisses, telling him things Jackson could not hear. Eventually, she helped him up off his knees and the two of them walked down the dirt road past the two pickups and the Chevrolet sedan all bundled up in each other.

  When he was sure they were gone, Jackson got up. He was moved beyond words by the sights he had seen, and all the long walk home he considered the nature of love. He discovered that he envied L’il Bokay, envied his apparent possession of a woman like Katherine Marie whose naked breasts he had managed to half-glimpse during their struggle, an image he simultaneously locked away in a secret place and attempted to erase from his mind.

  When he reached his house, he wanted to go straight to his room and be alone with his thoughts, but Rebecca Headly lounged on the living room couch in front of the television and gestured to him. Her shirt was unbuttoned one or two notches more than necessary for comfort on a hot night. Come set with me, she said, moving her feet to give him room. I’m all bored. That li’l brother of yours sure is a pistol, but I got him tuckered out. He’s sleepin’ now, up the stairs. I’ve just been all alone forever with nothin’ to do. Your folks won’t be home for what? Two more hours at least. Good thing you showed up. I welcome the company.

  Never one to offend a lady, Jackson did as he was told, and before he knew it, he was rub
bing Rebecca Headly’s tired feet and then her calves and then her thighs. When he got to the upper portions of the latter, they were both breathing heavily, but he wasn’t sure what he should do next. Rebecca Headly took over and covered him with kisses and sly embraces until he thought he would pop off fully clothed right there on the couch. Then her hands were on his pants zipper and, sighing and giggling, she took him out and put him in her mouth and then he did pop off in a way that made him groan out loud in a deep, rumbling man’s groan and she put her hand on his and guided him to the place she needed and he rubbed and rubbed like she told him to until she too groaned only in a light, high-pitched lady’s groan and then they were done.

  Jackson fell back on the cushions stunned and amazed. He couldn’t believe his delight, his exhaustion, or his good fortune. He could only conclude that Rebecca Headly’s randiness was a divine reward for his act of moral courage in rejecting the idea of buying flesh. Over the next few days before she returned to college, Rebecca and he met in the woods or she picked him up in her daddy’s car and the two of them investigated all the possibilities of each other with barely a conversation they were that bothered. Then Rebecca went back to school. Although he wrote her letters, she never responded. In fact, he never saw her again. He’d hoped that during the summer Mama might use her as a babysitter, but when he casually asked whatever happened to Rebecca Headly and why was she not invited to sit for Bubba Ray, Mama replied: That gal was a filthy little thing. She spilled something on my best slipcovers and denied it. All I know is there was a wet stain there as big as Texas, and nothin’s ever got it out.

  In college, Jackson learned how to court a woman properly, meaning he could flirt and flatter his way into favors of all kinds. Yankee coeds practically threw themselves at his feet, because, as one of his conquests told him, he was an exotic. He knew that meant he was Southern, recited Kipling, Poe, and Dylan Thomas in his smooth, dark drawl, knew good music when he heard it, and was willing to listen to them talk, run their errands, and help them with their assignments. They called him handsome, a gentleman, and he gladly accepted that exalted mantle as his due. Stella was the only one who’d given him more than a month’s worth of trouble before satisfaction. For her reluctance, he thought her wise, decent, worthy of the greatest respect. In fact, he respected her more than any other woman he’d ever lusted after with the possible exception of Katherine Marie.

  FIVE

  Spring, 1995

  JACKSON PULLED UP TO THE country club behind the great snake of cars waiting their turns at the valet station and frowned. This is the price of being late to your own party, Stella. Weren’t you supposed to be in a receiving line or some such? Stella rolled her eyes. Yes, I think I was, but I thought it was a stupid idea. I’m very glad we’re late for that particular foolishness. She flipped down the vanity mirror to check her hair and face. Satisfied, she flipped it back up then gripped his wrist with such force he winced.

  Look, look, it’s her! Oh my Lord, it’s her.

  It was a misty night. Jackson squinted to peer through its veil. Who? he asked. His wife punched him in the shoulder. Katherine Marie, you big dunce! Katherine Marie. Oohh, look at her. I can not believe what she’s wearing. Do you see what she’s wearing? Jackson could barely make out more than the outline of the woman in question: tall, thin, hair pulled back and twisted in the French style, which accentuated even in the fog the long, sleek slope of her cheekbones and the point of her chin. As to what she wore, her dress seemed entirely appropriate for a gala evening. She had on something sheathlike, with high-heeled shoes. A formal jacket of some kind. What are you talking about, darlin’? he asked, sincerely confused about what was riling his wife. His shoulder suffered another assault. I swear, Jackson Sassaport, you have blinders on when it comes to that woman. She’s wearing fur. Fur! That is a fox fur draped around her shoulders, I’m sure of it.

  What Jackson wanted to say was: Now, Stella. Katherine Marie is a country woman at heart. You can’t expect her to view the animal rights movement the same way you do. If her people didn’t hunt, they likely didn’t eat when she was a girl. What he said was: Imagine that. For his delicacy, his wife wound herself up into a huff.

  I don’t have to imagine anything when it’s right there in front of me. What I can’t imagine is that little miss PC’s got innocent animal blood on her hands. Her ethos has suffered out of my influence, that’s certain.

  Jackson wouldn’t be able to tell if what he said next was meant to defuse Stella’s temper or to vent his own anxiety over the imminent reunion of Stella and Katherine Marie. Certainly, had he time to think about it he would have put his commentary in the Cautions column of his usual list, and found the most diplomatic way to express himself, but he had no time for the luxury of contemplation. It all came tumbling out.

  Look. It’s not that I don’t fully empathize, don’t fully understand and support your side of what happened with Katherine Marie. I do. If you’ll recall my very first, instantaneous reaction, you’ll agree about that. But, honey, a lot of time has passed. And all of those dire predictions we had, all of those fears of what she might do, of what Bokay might do, why, not one of them came true. Not a single one. And surely that must have been hard for her.

  Then he added a thought he immediately regretted when it met his own ears. It sounded dyed-in-the-wool paternalistic once it was out there. As soon as he was done, he mouthed “fuck” to himself, so certain was he she’d pound him for it even though her original comment was mind-thumping paternalism itself. There were two standards of judgment in Stella’s world when she was riled up, one for herself and one for everybody else. What he said was:

  Think about it. She held back. She didn’t tell him. That counts for something not insignificant. So you can say all you want about her ethos, yet I cannot help but think your influence over her continued from that day to this uninterrupted. Her reluctance to carry out her threats should prove that. You shouldn’t feel all your work was for naught. Not by a long shot.

  To his surprise, Stella swayed her head back and forth as if ruminating on his words quite seriously and said, Well, maybe.

  So he moved in for the kill.

  Then it’s likely a little forgiveness is in order, darlin’.

  But all he bagged was: Hmm.

  She changed the subject: I hate all this fuss. They could’ve mailed me a nice plaque, and I would’ve been happy.

  But they wouldn’t have raised any funds.

  Still. They could’ve found any number of ways to do the job. I could’ve given them thirty ideas just as profitable.

  Perry used to say sometimes it’s a mitzvah to let people do something for you.

  Perry! Poor Perry. Look where all his mitzvahs got him.

  The two of them fell into a saddened mood then, thinking of Perry Nussbaum. To comfort himself, Jackson reached over to squeeze her hands. He glanced sideways and noted the tears welling in her eyes. He picked up her hand then and brought it to his lips.

  Her words still hurt, don’t they.

  She nodded and brushed a tear away before it could ruin her makeup: And you want me to forgive her.

  It’s not ... it’s just ... he floundered, then gave up, inching the car forward in a deflated state until the valet arrived to deliver him from his discomfort before his wife commented on it. Another, seeing who sat in the passenger seat, rushed to Stella’s side of the car, swung open the door, and held an umbrella over her head against the drizzle. Jackson joined them under the country club canopy, shaking hands while Stella put on her confident public face to greet the attendees gathered around her. You look fabulous, they said. So wonderful to be part of your celebration. It’s a privilege. An honor.

  Stella glanced over their heads to her husband. Although her mouth was stretched into a wide smile, her eyes said: This is ridiculous, isn’t it? He gave her a look of agreement in return, shrugging his shoulders a little by way of punctuation. Inside, he was bursting with pride and happiness that a
t last, after thirty years, Stella was receiving acknowledgment from her peers for all her good works, works largely performed without fanfare, undercover you might say, with wisdom, strength, and courage. For all everyone had to say about her temperament, it was part of what made her what she was: passionate, determined, unrelenting in the service of those who could not speak for themselves. Yes, her tongue was sharp, but so were her wits. Yes, she was a bulldog in petticoats as Mama had once famously called her. But in the old days, only a woman who chomped at injustice with the jealous concentration of a bulldog gnawing at his bone could do what she did and live.

  A voice reached through the night to disrupt Jackson’s loving reverie. Jackson! it called out like a horn blown at midnight. Jackson! Get on over here! I require assistance. Yes, Mama. Yes. Steeling himself, Jackson turned toward the car from which Missy Fine Sassaport struggled to extricate herself while her sister and driver, Aunt Beadie, struggled equally to extricate her walker from the backseat. Mama’s thick ankles spilled over the orthopedic shoes planted on damp concrete, her arms held on to either side of the car’s open door while her hips twisted from side to side shimmying her massive rear off the passenger seat inch by treacherous inch. Hold on, Mama, wait for me. No, no, no don’t even try that, Mama. Wait for me.

  Of course, she did not listen and it was in the nick of time that Jackson arrived to grip her forearms and prevent her from tipping forward to fall flat on her face. Oh, thank you, son. That was a close one. Beadie, go on in and get us a good table. Now, where’s that wife of yours. I must congratulate her. Jackson searched for his wife under the canopy where he’d left her, but she’d disappeared. I guess she’s gone in, Mama.