Chimes from a Cracked Southern Belle

by Reinhardt, Susan

  He shrugged his shoulders, giving his ribs a more gaunt appearance.

  “I have been wondering about this for quite a while,” I said, picking a rose out of the vase and working it like a prop. “Remember when we dated earlier this summer? You know, I don’t understand and you’ve never fully explained why you didn’t call for three whole weeks.”

  “I did call. I sent flowers.”

  “That was the day after,” I said, twirling the rose absentmindedly. “You never called again until I ran into that trouble at the station. Even after the oyster bar, you didn’t call.”

  He sat in my vanity chair, crossed a leg and picked at his blue jeans. “It’s a long story,” he said.

  “I’ve got nothing but time, 45 minutes until the bell goes off and says my Parmesan chicken is cooked to perfection.”

  He decided to stand, then changed his mind and sat again. No wonder he was thin—all that motion he put into his regular daily moves. My mother used to say he was wired all wrong. “Too many volts give a man the wiggles,” she’d said.

  “I was dating someone else.” The words fell out of his mouth. They floated from his face and sailed toward my heart, ready to spear me. I wanted to inhale and blow them out of the room. “It was a mistake,” he said. “I met her about a year or so after Shannon died and thought I liked her enough to pretend to be happy and give my son stability. Sam never grew close to her. Neither did I, really. I guess it wasn’t meant to be.”

  “I’d say not.” I tried to process this information but was having trouble. “How long did you say you were with her?”

  “Nearly three years. Right up until you went to the hospital.”

  “Oh, so my going to the hospital is what lit the fires of your heart,” I said. “Got those ventricles pumping.” My voice was stern and the stem of the rose snapped in my hand, but I kept holding on, feeling the flower’s sharp thorns digging into my palms.

  “It was the night at the bar. Before then, really,” he said. “I’d already broken it off, told her I was moving back to Spartanburg. I wanted to be near you. I swear, Prudy.” His eyes were so big and sad they would have sunk had I put them in water.

  “Then she was your transition woman?”

  “My what?”

  “Cushion. Rebounder. I don’t know. The relationship people always say a person has betweeners. The warm-up woman, the filler, the pinch hitter, the sub.”

  “More or less.” He saw my unsmiling face. “Yes. She was my shock absorber. I felt kind of bad about breaking up with her, but I could sense she wasn’t fully invested in us either.”

  I broke the limp portion of the stem off the flower and reinserted the rest in the vase, trying to rearrange the petals so everything was even and balanced. Croc put his hand on my neck and the warmth of it sent me spiraling into him, holding and kissing his face, his hands, his forehead.

  When we kissed, I tasted all the flavors of love, the spearmint gum, the nerves behind it, the future ahead of it.

  Suddenly, I had a crazy thought. “Oh, no, Croc. I haven’t had my in between, my rebound person yet.”

  “That’s okay. Maybe not everybody needs one.”

  “I guess the fact I’ve had 14 lovers, you being the first and hopefully the last, counts for a good deal of cushioning and rebounding.”

  “Fourteen?” He was grinning. “You sure it was only 14?”

  I reached for the pillow and threw it at him. He caught it and we both landed on the bed, falling into the soft down comforter, the bed my mother had made for me when we’d moved into the apartment. He pressed his body into mine and I realized the signs were there. He wanted me. His heart, his hands, his body.

  “Purrrrrrdy,” he whispered into my ear and neck. “Sweet Purdy.”

  “Umm . . . let’s wait,” I said, as he continued his moves, a hand slipping into my jeans. “I want to pretend to be a virgin. Let’s wait till our wedding day. Want to? I mean, we could at least try, given the fact I’ve gone way over two years without sex. Also, I need to let you know right now I’ll do it with you any day of the week but Sundays. I’m not ever having Sunday sex again.”

  “I’ll bet you will,” he said, putting a hand on my breast, giving it a gentle squeeze.

  “Don’t count on it.”

  “When do you want to run off?”

  My romantic veil vanished. “Excuse me? Did you say run off?”

  “You don’t want a big old wedding do you?”

  “Does a Dachshund bark? I sure do want a big giant wedding. With friendly guests and a band, not some harpist and non-alcoholic punch.”

  He raised his shoulders in an I-give-up pose.

  “Miranda will make an adorable flower girl. Jay and Sam junior groomsmen.” The plans swirled in my mind, and I jumped from his arms and dashed into the kitchen and called Mama right away. Even though it was Croc I was marrying and she’d have preferred almost anyone but him, she’d grown tired of worrying about her newly-single daughters and shouted, “Thank you, Jesus,” when I told her the plans. “Tell him no more shenanigans. You know what I mean. My yard?”

  “I’ve already picked out my dress, and it’s as white as when snow first falls.”

  “Prudy,” she said. “You absolutely cannot wear white. Everyone and his brother knows you’ve had relations.”

  “I sure will wear white. The whitest I can buy.”

  “But you’re not a . . . a . . . you’re not a virgin, Prudy.”

  “I believe I am, Mama. About as close as you can get. Kind of like those Chanel watches you get in New York and those Gucci bags. They aren’t exactly real, but they’re close enough.”

  ***

  After running out of gas at Weepie’s and walking a mile or so, I arrived at my mother’s slightly out of breath, hot enough that I decided to cool off in the pool before going in and announcing I’d need some petro from the lawn mower. The parents were never thrilled when I’d done the irresponsible, and I wasn’t big on telling them. Maybe a good swim before the colder weather arrived, a last swim before fall became official would be nice. A hearty lap swim. Good for the fanny. Good for the mind. I saw my mother’s Town Car and my dad’s van, but Amber and her brood weren’t there, and I didn’t want to ring the bell in case my parents were napping.

  It was Saturday afternoon and odd that I didn’t hear a TV, only the music from the outside speakers aimed at the pool. I entered the combination on the gate, fumbling then remembering the last number. I took a chaise lounge under the cabana my father had built and removed my clothes down to bra and panties, which could have passed for a swimsuit should a repairman or delivery truck arrive.

  I was about to step into the cold water when out of the blue, the clear blue of a painted sky and the quiet-as-a-tomb house, I heard a noise that was unmistakably that of a woman having delicious and riveting relations. I bolted from water’s edge, grabbed a towel, my skin rising with chill bumps. I waited. Then heard it again.

  “Ohhhhhhh, my Loooooooord . . . Crank it up, crank it up! Myyyyyy, Sweet heavenly daaaaaaaaayyyyys. Yesssssssssss! You are the kiiiiiiiiiiiing! The man!”

  I froze with mortification. The screams of pleasure belonged to my mother. My frigid, un-horny, proper and stiff mother was having a wild romp, the ride of her life.

  I couldn’t help myself and moved closer toward my parent’s bedroom window at the back of the house. There was laughter, more sounds of hot sex, followed by a squeal a pig couldn’t have matched and then a high-pitched, “V FOR VIC - TOR - Y!” bellowing from the screen of the open window.

  I rushed back to the pool, cheeks red, the unsettling reality that my parents had sex and had enjoyed it running through my fuzzy head. I dressed as quickly as I could and practically jogged all the way back to Aunt Weepie’s to fetch a gallon of gas so I could go home and
pretend none of this had happened.

  By the time I stopped by the pizza place and Blockbuster, preparing for a night of lovely solitude, a message flashed on the answering machine.

  MAMA: Prudy, this here’s your mother. I’m more than a little concerned that you and Amber are living with men and don’t have marriage licenses and the bands of gold around your fingers. I know you’re both planning to get married, but it’s not good for your reputations to have taken up with men. Shacking up is what you’re doing. Everyone knows you’re having relations. Prudy, call me. I know you and Amber get the itch. I think Pauline’s getting it, too, ’cause Weepie said she flirted at the last funeral with a man who had two teeth in his entire head. She told Weepie she never wanted to see another perfect mouth in her life. Prudy, sex isn’t good before marriage. Remember that, hon. It’s a service to the man, a duty and chore for the woman. Don’t service him without the legal documentation.”

  I picked up the phone and dialed my parent’s number. I was mad that she’d pretended all these years to be such an ice queen. She answered on the third ring.

  “Don’t you go telling me about your ‘pretty patch’s’ dreaded duties and everyone else’s having itches and urges,” I said, hearing a squeaking sound from her throat. She tried to speak but nothing emerged from the tightening vocal cords. “I know you got a wild what-not in your panties so please, please quit trying to pretend you don’t heat up for relations. Why, everyone in Spartanburg heard your zest for the wand this afternoon. Wifely duty? You always made it sound worse than scrubbing toilets.”

  Mama gasped, finding her voice. “How dare you talk to me like that? I’m your mother!”

  “Well? Isn’t that what you’ve been doing all day?”

  “I’ve been cleaning and getting ready for Monday’s bridge group. It’s my turn to host and I had to steam clean the carpets, polish the silver, make a pie . . . ”

  “Be sure and tell the bridge biddies how much you enjoy it,” I said, feeling naughty but justified. For years I’d had to listen to her lectures on morals and chastity, but after today, the cat was finally out of its howling, horny bag.

  “Enjoy what? What is wrong with you, Prudy?”

  “Tell them you are one hot mama. If today’s any indication, sounded to me like you chased and hog-tied a suitor to the bed. Why, between you and Annie Sue and Aunt Weepie, every mattress coil ever made is getting the workout of a lifetime.”

  She sucked at the air, tried to form a word, then gave up and slammed down the phone.

  I ate my pizza and stayed up late watching movies, followed by listening to my favorite Dixie Chicks CD, Fly, and singing out loud the words to “Goodbye Earl” and “Sin Wagon.” At 2 a.m., pumped up and still not tired, I ran a tub of hot water and lit a few candles, the smoke rolling toward the ceiling as the fan tried to stir the night. I thought about Croc telling us all that everything would be all right, his favorite saying in the world.

  At 3 a.m., relishing in the thought that my mother was normal but trying hard not to replay her delight in my head, I forced myself into a bed that had all but sucked me in like quicksand for a year.

  The fact was, I didn’t want to go to bed tonight. I was afraid I’d miss out on something. Anything. After a while, I gave up fighting the cotton sheets that were twisted in fitful bunches around my legs. I got up and found my blue jeans, reached into the pocket and took out the check from Pauline Jeter. One Hundred Thousand Dollars! Oh . . . my . . . God. I held onto the bedpost to keep from falling to the floor. I was expecting a lot, but this was twice as much as I’d bargained for.

  I rummaged through my Goodwill nightstand for a pen and paper, locating a few sheets of blue-lined loose leaf from one of Jay’s many packages. I grabbed a thick-tipped marker. “One Hundred Ways to Spend $100,000” I wrote across the top of the page.

  Private School.

  College.

  Ballet School.

  Genius School.

  Graduate School.

  Medical School.

  Nursing School.

  This time next fall, I wrote in the margin, I’d be a student in the RN program, studying to take care of the world’s tiniest and sickest newborns, the premature infants in the neonatal intensive care units. And those at the opposite end of life’s journey—the white-haired men and women at Top of the Hill or any other nursing home. I’d usher new babies into a world that stretched and loomed endlessly, and then I’d lead the elderly out of a world that had held onto them as long as it could.

  I thought about this, my daydreams so real I could feel the two-pound babies in my arms, wires and tubes sustaining their breath and bodies. I thought about Annie Sue and her new boyfriend and how they were the talk of the home, inspiring others to seek companions, or, as in her case, lovers.

  I thought about Croc and how good he was to the kids and me, and then I thought about how all those women looking for sizzling nights under the Laura Ashley’s were missing the whole point.

  The next thing I knew there was a dull thud at the side of the house.

  The newspaper. The Sunday paper. I believe this is what I’ve stayed up waiting for. And here it was—downstairs, in the dewy grass of what was almost another morning.

  Final Chapter

  The Sunday paper, even in small Southern towns, weighs more than most full-term babies. Every major advertiser stuffs the paper like a Christmas turkey, and it can take a good while to dig through the insides to find the Lifestyles section.

  Could it be in there, already?

  There on double pages in black and white, stood all the beautiful brides and brides-to-be in poses of innocence and expectations, thinking the moment the camera clicked, the flash popped, their lives were going to be a series of rising pedestals on which their husbands were sure to place them.

  They have no idea as they grin into the future that the man by their side could end up one of the thousands like Bryce Jeter. Never satisfied with the meat loaf you make, the hips you’ve tried to tame and tone, a man who doesn’t want to see your morning face. A man who builds a barricade with Chex and Raisin Bran boxes so he can eat in peace.

  For these women’s sake, for the sake of honesty and accuracy, most men aren’t like Bryce Jeter. Many are good and decent, as much so as Croc Godfrey or my daddy or other men who bend over backwards with kindness and respect. Otherwise, you wouldn’t see so many brides with optimism shining on their faces, white picket fences reflected in their eyes.

  There is hope. Like my mama said, 50-50. If a girl doesn’t get it right the first go-round, here’s to the next, Aunt Weepie always said with a martini toast. And I fully believe a lot of second marriages work because they’re not solely built on a pyre of lust. A good many of the same women who once equated heat and passion, pain and anguish with real love, have learned differently. We’ve got the bruises on our hearts, the dents in our chests to prove it. All we want is someone to love us, treat us with a few ounces of compassion and be good to our kids. That’s really not much to ask.

  And all those “nerds” we tossed out in our youth, as if they were the amoebae of the men-pool . . . well . . . we know better now. Those are the ones we should have hooked in the beginning. Look around. The girls who married the nerds, chances are, they’re in the 50 percent who don’t have to spend years in court arguing over who gets the Oneida and who gets the Mikasa, who pays support and which child sleeps with which parent on what nights.

  I pondered all of this as I flipped through the various sections of the paper, ads and inserts flying out and fluttering to the floor. I wondered as I saw all those brides and brides-to-be in those glorious photos, if they had that ache-and-hunger kind of love, or the slow mellow version that lasts. As I hurriedly scanned pages, my stomach twisted into a jangle of nerves and noises. And then . . . then . . . I saw it.r />
  The photo. Our engagement announcement.

  I began to laugh, picturing sweet Mama drinking her Maxwell House Lite, trying to cop a java high off the reduced caffeine while peering into her favorite section of the Herald and seeing our huge announcement, which she had no idea was running. I paid big money to have the picture blown up, a beautiful photo of Croc and me not as we appear now, but as we were then, senior year in high school.

  I had an enormous pair of Farrah Fawcett wings going, and Croc was wearing a blue tuxedo from our Homecoming Court picture, same one that appeared in the yearbook. The photo was a perfect backdive through the decades, straight into my virginity, which I’d managed to hang onto for eight additional months after the flash popped and mottled.

  I pried myself from the floor and hauled the newspaper to my big comfortable bed and climbed in just as the sun stuck its first morning fingers through the mini-blinds, giving me enough light to read the words I’d chosen so carefully the week before.

  Mr. and Mrs. Parker Millings unofficially and unknowingly announce the engagement of their daughter, Prudence “Dee” Faith Millings to Edward Brooks “Croc” Godfrey, son of Mrs. Barbara Louise Godfrey and the late Edward Brooks Godfrey, Sr.

  The couple were high school sweethearts, reuniting after two decades. Both have baggage to bring into the future marriage, but none is expected to pose problems for a long-lasting union. They both like a lot of luggage, anyhow.

  As for setting an official date, this is still under a considerable amount of fair and gentle debate. Be sure of one thing, the bride WILL wear white and the reception will feature delicious food and spirits. Both parties firmly believe buttermints and 7-Up punch aren’t going to cut it. In addition, the bride and groom are educated and have degrees, but won’t bother readers with that overdone piece of information. It may be worth a note to say that the couple, while living together, is abstaining from “relations” until their wedding night, firmly believing virginity is a commodity as recyclable as paper and plastic.