by Newall, Liz;
“Anyway, T.J. moved out and Little Red came up the same day. I wouldn’t have taken him in, but he was just a puppy and he looked so lonely.”
“So where is he?”
“Dead,” she said, no change in expression. “I ought to be relieved. That damn dog cost me a fortune. First it was puppy shots, then worming, not just capsules but this $2-a-pill stuff you’ve got to cram down their throats every few weeks. Then distemper and rabies shots, neutering, flea dip.” She was counting on her fingers and running out fast.
“Goddamn UPS truck!” Kate slammed both hands, palm down, against the table. The noise startled me. I felt its echo in the pit of my stomach.
“What?” I asked.
“The UPS truck ran over Little Red.” She buried her face in her palms. “And it wasn’t even my Goddamn package!” I’d never seen Kate cry before. But she was crying now, soft and low and as sad as I’d ever seen her. I helped her to bed. She didn’t even fuss, just let me lead her like a sleepy child. Maybe I should have gotten drunk too. Instead I lay awake all night, thinking about mothers and sisters and little stray dogs.
This morning hasn’t been any better. All these people crowded in the sanctuary. Jack’s here. I didn’t see him come in but I know he’s behind me. You live with somebody that long, you don’t have to see their feet to know where they’re standing. I can feel his breath on the back of my neck. Hot like the rest of the church.
The smell of gardenias is stifling. But Mama always loved gardenias, their glossy green leaves and cotton white blossoms. Daddy has the place loaded with them. Donna couldn’t stop him. Pretty, but the smell is nauseating like Aunt Kate’s smoke last night.
Aunt Kate looks at me. Her eyes are red and puffy. “Are you all right?” she asks.
I nod but don’t mean it.
Reverend Pierce finally starts. “Vivienne Crawford has overcome this world,” he says, “… good mother … worked hard … loved her family …” His words come and go like a buzz saw. Now Donna looks at me, says something. Jack’s breath burns my neck. The choir goes into “Amazing Grace, how sweet …”
I wake up, cooler, in the dark. I’m home. The whole room is black dark but I know where I am, unless I’m dreaming.
I’ve almost forgotten the feel of Jack’s arms around me, his chin against my cheek, our bed. He holds me as though he could turn it all back in one night. Grief, love, sadness, and wild regret—all layered together and arced like a rainbow at my feet.
Jack makes love to me, while my mind shouts over and over, “Oh, Mama! What have I done?”
PART III
REUNION
JACK
Sarah is sleeping. I push back the hair from her forehead. She’s still warm but not feverish like she was when I carried her in. I slip off her jacket and skirt. Then fold one side of the bed covers over her. I stretch out beside her, just to make sure her breathing stays normal. She doesn’t seem to notice. She looks like she’s taking an afternoon nap, the way she did sometimes when I’d come home for lunch. We’d end up in bed, then I’d leave her napping while I went back to work.
I want to say, “Why? Sarah? Why did you leave me? What did he do to make you stay away from me?” I feel tears thick behind my eyes. Our bedroom is quiet, too quiet, like it’s been for over a year now.
I haven’t slept here in a long time. I’ve spent most nights on the couch at the office. Eaten breakfast there too, if you want to call it that. I’ve had every flavor of Pop Tart there is. Nine in all, counting vanilla creme with chocolate glaze, which I don’t like to think about. Ate them raw for awhile, then I took the toaster to the office. There are certain advantages to having your own business. Like sleeping there when you want to.
Guess this is the first time I stretched out on my own bed in six months or more. Feels good.
When Sarah left I stuck pretty close to home at first, thinking she might escape or call or something. After a while though, I just stayed at the office. The couch is short but I can sleep on my back with my feet hanging over. It’s not too bad if you have a six-pack first. When I can’t sleep, I go over inventories, sales figures, quotas. Caught a few errors. Guess the boys wish I’d go back home. But hell, nothing there except Bilo. I wouldn’t go at all if it weren’t for him. But I keep thinking he might take off too.
I’ve eaten with Tommy some. Usually at Wayfarer or the Hungry Bull. All the waitresses know him. He says he quit cooking the day I left home.
I hadn’t tried to talk to him much about Sarah. Except right at first when I thought she was kidnapped. He never brought her name up, not directly. He’d ask about business or Bilo or we’d talk about the Cowboys or Falcons—whoever’s in season. Tommy’s easy that way.
One night about two months ago we were at the Hungry Bull. Steaks hadn’t come yet. We were still working on our salads. “Sweet tea?” a waitress asks, a pitcher in each hand. “You know it is,” Tommy said, “just like you, Marlene.” Marlene faked embarrassment, giggled, and poured tea out of the side of one pitcher without spilling a drop. Then she moved on to the next table.
“Tommy,” I said, “why didn’t you ever get married again after Brenda left?” Funny thing is, it never occurred to me until that moment of tea-pouring.
He didn’t say anything for a minute. Just kept staring at a cherry tomato like it was part of the answer.
“I could of, I guess,” he said, not looking up. “At first, anyway. There were plenty of girls who remembered me on the football field. That’s what brought me and Brenda together, you know. She was a baton twirler. Gridiron was our common ground. But that was all. Excepting you.”
He looked up. “She was a pretty little thing, I tell you, she was. Long brown hair, wavy like yours, and the cutest little figure you ever saw. Even after she had you, her waist went right back down. Didn’t look like she even thought about having a baby.” He laughed and looked back at the tomato. “Course I guess she really didn’t think about it. Neither one of us did. We were too busy being teenagers.
“She could twirl a baton, though. Best one the high school’s ever had, if you ask me. Nowadays a gal could probably get a scholarship twirling like that.”
Marlene reappeared with our steaks. “I’ve got a medium-rare T and medium-well sirloin tips with peppers,” she said, sliding the T-bone in front of Tommy. “Watch it, guys, the plates are sizzling.”
Tommy speared the tomato and slid the salad bowl away. Marlene grabbed it and disappeared. Neither of us said anything for a couple of bites. Then Tommy spoke up again. “I just wish you could have seen her twirl that baton. She could throw it up so high you’d think it was gonna get caught in a cloud. It’d get small as a needle.” He looked out across the restaurant like one might be sailing through. “Then the thing would arc and come falling down. But Brenda, she’d hold out one hand, the other behind her back, and catch it like it was just floating.” Tommy looked back at me. “It sure was something.”
“What happened to you and Brenda?” I asked. It was the first time I’d ever asked, man to man, and my voice shook a little.
“We were just kids,” he said, lifting his knife. “A quarterback and a baton twirler. Take away our toys and we were lost.” He cut a bite of T-bone. “That’s why I never wanted you to depend on basketball too much,” he said in between chews. “I was proud of you in high school, one proud daddy, but they were just games. I wanted you to have a real occupation when you got out of college. Not reliving some game all the time when you were a hero, you know, good memories that make you sad. Does that make sense?”
I nodded. He cut more steak. “As for Brenda, I blamed her a long time, but she tried. She tried playing wife and mama. A real husband and a real baby were too much for her, though. And she was still in love with the sky. Guess being an airline stewardess was like being that baton. She just never came back down, not to me anyway.” Marlene reappeared with more tea. We both worked on our steaks a while.
Then Tommy swallowed hard, looked me righ
t in the face and said, “She missed out on one hell of a fine son.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. My throat lumped up and I couldn’t say anything for a minute. I just looked back and nodded.
“But hell!” Tommy said, his voice almost back to normal, “that’s women for you. Some of them just don’t never realize what they’re missing!” He pushed his steak plate away and grabbed for the bill. I beat him to it. “Basketball players have quicker hands,” I said. We both laughed, but inside I marveled at the strength of this man I’d known and not known all my life.
Now, looking at Sarah, I wonder if she’s that much like Brenda. “What was it, Sarah?” I say out loud. “The sky? Drugs? That horse guy? Or just plain tired of me?” I lie there wishing I had Tommy’s strength. At the same time I wonder what he’d have done if Brenda came back. Surely not all women are like this, I tell myself. Then I think about Joanne. Joanne McJunkin and the night I had with her.
She caught me one day coming through her checkout line at the Dixie store—“10 items or less.” I mean, it doesn’t take much for a man and a dog—a bag of Jim Dandy, suitcase of beer, few boxes of Pop Tarts, a can or two, some chips. I was going through Joanne’s line like I always do because I never have over ten items, and she was friendly like she always is. “How’s it going, Jack?” she said.
“It’s going,” I said.
She ran a can of spaghetti over the bar code sensor. No beep. She turned up her nose and ran it by again. “You shouldn’t be eating this stuff,” she said. “You need a real meal.” Then all in the same breath she said, “Why don’t I fix you one? Tomorrow night.”
I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t even know her last name. I looked at her name tag. She had on a store smock like they all do but her name tag was right on the end of her left breast. I stared at it but I forgot to read it.
“Well?” she said in a little-girl voice. I looked at her face and she was smiling. A really sweet smile. I hadn’t seen a woman smile like that in a long while. I looked at her name tag again and then back at her face.
She flipped her hair off the back of her neck and said, “I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.” She wrote her address on the back of my receipt and dropped it into the bag. “See you around 7:00,” she said.
I kept thinking about it all next day. Joanne McJunkin and dinner. I didn’t even go over the inventory. I liked the idea of going and I didn’t like it. I’d had it with women, if you know what I mean. If she’d written her phone number on the back of the receipt, I’d have called and canceled, told her we had a late shipment or something. But then I thought, what the hell! I could use a decent meal. Wonder what she looks like underneath that smock. I had the boys in service wash my car.
Before I knew it, I was standing at the front door of 114 Chateau Apartments feeling like a fool. I rang once. The door eased open and there stood Joanne. She was wearing this red sweater. A long sweater or a short dress. I’m not up on women’s fashions. Whatever it was, it was tight. She held two glasses of wine, a shade darker than her sweater. “Come in, Jack Brighton,” she said, not in her little-girl voice this time. She stepped back.
Her living room was done in Mediterranean or Spanish, I’m not sure which. I never worked in a furniture store but I could find out. The whole set matched, even the TV console, Sears I’d guess. Dark wood with red fabric. Over the couch hung a pair of—I don’t know if you’d call them prints or paintings. One was a matador with his cape straight out and a bull curving around behind him. The other was a dancing woman, her arms raised and castanets on her fingertips. Her skirt swirled out like the matador’s cape exposing a pair of perfect thighs and frilly red panties. Both the matador and the dancer were on black velvet. They matched the decor.
“Nice apartment,” I said.
“Thanks,” she said, handing me a glass of wine. Little bits of something swirled around in it. “It’s paid for, the furniture. Furman picked it out. And I paid for it. Can you believe that?” She swayed slightly and took a sip from her glass. “But I liked it too. Still do. It’s lasted longer than Furman. Have a seat and I’ll check on dinner.”
“Who’s Furman?” I called as she disappeared into the kitchen.
“My ex,” she called back. She reappeared with a fresh bottle of Gallo. “Can you get the cork out of this thing? I’d rather have screw-off lids but when you get the best the Dixie store has to offer, you have to fool with a cork. I made a mess with the first one. Furman used to get the cork out.”
“So tell me about Furman,” I said, twisting the corkscrew straight down.
“Nothing much to tell,” she said. “Met him at the Wayfarer, the lounge. He was driving for the Dixie store at the time, so we had something in common. We got married and saved up for him a rig of his own.” She turned up her glass and finished the last sip. If her drink had cork crumbs she didn’t seem to notice. “Then ole Furman drove away with my heart and kept going.” She wiped her lips. “Guess he was in love, like the song says, with the white line.”
The cork popped out and I poured Joanne another glass. “Not too much,” she said after her glass was full. “Got to save room for dinner. You like lasagna?”
“Sounds good,” I said, “and it smells good.” She laughed. A sweet laugh. I did too.
“Then welcome to my table, Jack Brighton.” She led me into the kitchen. It smelled like Pizza Hut. She slid two salad bowls from the refrigerator. “I tear the lettuce,” she said, “so it won’t get rusty. They say you can slice it if you’re going to eat it the same day but I’d rather tear mine.” She reached back in the refrigerator. “What kind of dressing you want?” She pulled three bottles, each a different color. “Take your pick. I grate my carrots too. Don’t you just hate it when they give you those big chunks of carrots that you can hardly chew? Really ruins a romantic meal. I won’t eat mine.” She took a sip of wine. “Those cherry tomatoes are from California, but they’re fresh. Just came in this morning.”
“The salad looks really good,” I said, shaking out a blob of Thousand Island. Joanne turned off the kitchen lights except the oven hood. She lit two candles and put them on the table. “Make a toast,” she said.
“To a good dinner,” I said lifting my glass.
“For a good man,” Joanne added, looking from me to the candles and back to me. We both drank. It felt good.
By the end of the lasagna and the second bottle of wine, we pretty much covered the grocery business and world of automobile sales. Joanne produced another bottle of wine. It had a screw-on cap. “Didn’t think we’d do in both bottles of Gallo,” she said, giggling a little. “This is my spare. It’s white but I guess it’s okay to mix colors.”
“Guess so,” I said, pushing back from the table but not ready to leave.
She wrung off the lid and refilled our glasses. It mixed with the last of the red in each glass and turned pink, pale like pink champagne. “Follow me,” Joanne said, leading me back into the living room. I sat on her couch underneath the matador and castanet player with the swirling skirt.
“How do you stay in such great shape?” Joanne asked, sitting beside me, almost touching.
“I’m not, not like I used to be,” I said.
“Bet you played sports,” she said, leaning closer. “Basketball? You’re tall enough!”
I nodded.
“I was a cheerleader,” she said, “Made the uniform myself, royal blue and canary yellow. The skirt had little box pleats that kicked out when we jumped.” She smiled that really sweet smile again and I could almost see her in one of those little short skirts, legs like the castanet player, jumping up and down in front of crowded bleachers.
“Still have it,” she said, “packed away in my hope, uh, cedar chest. Right underneath the silverware I got for my wedding. Four forks, three knives, seven spoons, and a serving fork. It’s sterling. Never got the complete set.” She stared at her pink wine. Then she looked up, smiling again, but not the same. “Tell me about your basketball days.
”
“Nothing much to tell,” I said, and before I knew it I was reliving my entire memory of close games, bad calls, tournaments, and scholarship offers. I couldn’t believe how interested Joanne was. I even promised to dig out my old scrapbook of press clippings and let her see them. She seemed pleased.
“We need some music,” Joanne said, “some classic rock.” She jumped up, steadied herself with one hand on my shoulder, and walked over to a huge stack of album covers. Then she collapsed on the carpet and folded her legs, Indian style. “I’ve got the Beatles, the Stones, Neil Diamond, Johnny Rivers, mystery music, and a whole lot more. Good ole 33-and-a-thirds. Request line is open, Jack Brighton,” she said, smiling up at me.
“Surprise me,” I said. She closed her eyes, chose four albums, and pulled out the records without looking at the covers. Then she opened her eyes and dropped them on the turntable.
“I’ll surprise us both,” she said, easing back onto the couch beside me, this time closer. Her thigh touched mine.
The first album dropped. The song was vaguely familiar—“magic moment … sweeter than wine.” I couldn’t believe I was listening to the lyrics. Sarah always did. If she liked a song, she could just about quote it, word for word. I never paid that much attention. She’d say, “How can you like a song if you don’t know what it’s saying?”
“Know who that is?” Joanne said, interrupting my thoughts. I didn’t answer. “Jay and the Americans.” She shifted slightly. Her skirt caught on my thigh and slipped up a little. The song was soft and sweet. I put my arm around Joanne and touched her hair. Bright blonde but softer than it looked. She leaned against my chest. We stayed that way through two more songs, both love songs. Then I reached around with my other arm and pulled her to me. She slipped her arm around my back and laid her head against my chest. I couldn’t believe how good it felt to hold a woman, smell her perfume, feel her arms around me. It’d been so long. Too long. I didn’t even care about kissing her, not yet, I just wanted to hold her and to be held.