Revenge of the Kudzu Debutantes

by Cathy Holton

  Bentley had been up since sunrise getting the pack animals loaded. He came up on the veranda to join the others around eight o’clock.

  “When do the girls get here?” Redmon whined, reaching for another piece of toast.

  Ramsbottom had promised the wives he wouldn’t let the husbands catch sight of the girls until Thursday evening at the earliest. They needed the week to plan whatever it was they were doing to punish the husbands, and he needed the week to watch Nature whittle the husbands down to his satisfaction. He’d make excuses and string them along until then. “The girls have been delayed,” he said, tapping the edge of his coffee cup with his spoon. “They had another show to do, so they’re probably not even going to get in until Thursday night. But that’s okay, because that’ll give you boys time to get some hunting in before the female entertainment gets here.” He winked at Charles who scowled and looked out at the distant Gallatins. Their luggage had still not arrived and the men were wearing a mishmash of hunting gear, whatever Ramsbottom had been able to dig up for them from the lost and found he had collected over the years. Charles was wearing a khaki army jacket and a furred hat with earflaps. Redmon had on a camouflage jumpsuit and matching stocking cap. Leonard wore a field coat that hung nearly to his knees, a pair of ear warmers, and a baseball cap that read Gun Control Is Hitting Your Target.

  “We’ll get an early start,” Bentley said, brushing the dust off his knees, “and be at Big Nose Pass by noon. We should reach the Boot by five o’clock, with any luck.”

  “Good,” Ramsbottom said, rubbing his palms together. “The weather should hold until the middle of the week. You’ll be back before then.”

  “We’ll be back long before then,” Charles said, looking from one to the other. “I don’t plan on being caught up above tree line in a snowstorm.”

  Ramsbottom laughed as if Charles had said something funny. Bentley grinned and poured himself a cup of coffee. He passed the pot to William, who stood sucking his toothpick and gazing at the blue cloudless sky, his black face inscrutable. Ramsbottom and Bentley looked at each other and giggled like a couple of teenagers. Charles wasn’t sure what they were laughing at, but he found their behavior extremely unprofessional. He looked from one to the other, scowling his displeasure. If the foreboding William hadn’t been standing right behind Ramsbottom’s shoulder he would have berated Ramsbottom for his behavior and the fact that the girls hadn’t shown up as scheduled, but something about the big black man made him nervous. Charles sat there and didn’t say anything at all.

  BY MIDAFTERNOON THEY were up in the high country. The sun was warm against their backs, but from time to time a damp wind blew from the north, bringing with it the scent of snow. They followed a trail beside a splashing stream lined with cedar and willow, the sound of their horses’ hooves deadened in the thick carpet of moss and pine needles. The sun could not penetrate the trees in some places and the air here was as cold and prickly as the inside of a freezer chest. Bentley led the way, followed by Leonard, who rode Big Mama and, as the most inexperienced rider, was having trouble keeping the horse on the trail. Redmon followed him, then Charles, and William came up the rear dragging the pack mules, their packsaddles clanging and rattling like ball bearings in a washtub.

  About half a mile up the trail, Bentley’s horse picked up a stone and went lame. From that point on, things began to go steadily wrong. The sky, which up to now had been blue and clear, began to darken and fill with gray clouds. A cold wet wind blew in from the northwest. Big Mama tried to dislodge Leonard by running him into a tall pine, trying to scrape him off in the branches and managing to pin his knee while Leonard screamed in pain. Bentley shouted and jumped into the thicket to grab her bridle, and Big Mama rolled her eyes and stamped her feet and shook her skin like an elephant trying to shake a tethered monkey.

  Redmon, who seemed oblivious to what was going on around him, said, “Time to drain the snake,” and fell off the side of his horse. He was having trouble breathing in the high altitude and his face was the color of oatmeal. He stumbled off into a stand of wild raspberry and was sick. The mules put their ears back and showed their teeth. Charles scowled at the overcast sky. Redmon came out a few minutes later, wiping his face on the sleeve of his jumpsuit.

  “I hope you remembered to pack that tequila, Uncle,” he said to William.

  William took a toothpick out of his pocket. “Who you calling ‘uncle,’ motherfucker,” he said.

  THEY STOPPED FOR lunch around three o’clock and ate pimento cheese sandwiches washed down by cold beer. The sky had darkened and the wind had picked up, moving through the tall grass and the tops of the trees, and bringing with it the scent of snow. No one said much. Huddled in their odd clothes, their fingers stiff with cold, Charles, Leonard, and Redmon clustered along a fallen log like fungi, watching William as he cleaned up and repacked the basket with the leftover beer.

  “You boys get off your asses and go out and get them horses,” William said.

  “Yes, sir,” Redmon said.

  Sensing the change in the weather, the horses grew restless. They threw their heads up and stamped their feet, blowing out their bellies so it took the men several tries to get the cinch straps tight.

  It was dark by the time they reached the Boot and took the left trail toward camp. Bentley led the way, with Charles bringing up the rear. A slanting, sleeting rain fell, stinging the men’s hands and faces and stiffening the horses’ manes and tails. They followed the trail through thick stands of alder and willow where it diverged in a stand of wild raspberry into two trails, and then back into one, and up into a wide flat meadow. The creek skirted the meadow, a pale ribbon in the moonlight. Beyond the meadow they could see the camp set up in a stand of cedars. Two canvas tents had been set up on wooden platforms raised several inches above the ground.

  “Jesus Christ,” Redmon said, as they reined up in front of the tents. “Is that where we’re sleeping?”

  “This is a wilderness trip,” Charles reminded him. He’d had just about enough of this whole experience. He was cold and he was hungry and he was tired of trying to keep his mouth shut around the big black man who was obviously a serial killer in waiting. He made a mental note to add this to the lawsuit he planned to file against Ramsbottom. “This is a hunting trip, not a country club jaunt,” he said harshly to Redmon. “What did you expect?”

  “For what we paid, I expected a goddamned heated cabin with clean sheets and a warm bath,” Redmon said.

  Leonard laughed nervously.

  “This is the kind of trip that separates the men from the boys,” Charles said.

  Bentley looked at William. William sucked his toothpick. Far off across the meadow beyond the trees, it began to snow.

  RAMSBOTTOM LIT HIS cigar and leaned back in his leather chair with his feet stretched to the fire. “How long do you think the snow will fall in the high passes?” he asked Bentley on the mobile phone.

  “Hard to say.” Bentley’s voice was scratchy with static.

  Ramsbottom took a drink, swished it around in his mouth, and swallowed. “I expect you’ll have sun by morning,” he shouted, grimacing as he eased his legs over. “The storm’s supposed to move on sometime tonight.”

  In the bunkhouse across the way he could hear the “girls” dancing to the soundtrack of Saturday Night Fever. He had lied when he told the tenderfoots the girls weren’t coming in until Thursday. He yawned, looking at the fire. “You think you can keep those churnheads from killing themselves before Thursday?” he shouted into the mobile.

  “It’s not the churnheads I’m worried about. It’s William. He’s got an awfully big bowie knife strapped to his waist. The dude’s scary, man.”

  Ramsbottom hoped William wasn’t close enough to hear what Bentley was shouting. “Remind him those boys are to be whittled down some but not killed or permanently maimed.”

  “I best take the bowie knife away from him then.”

  Outside the window the snow fell stead
ily. The cheerful fire hissed in the grate. The room was warm and fragrant with the remains of supper. “You doing any hunting tomorrow?” Ramsbottom said, drawing on his cigar.

  “I guess. They want to go up to the aspen meadow in the morning, but I told them we’d have better luck up higher.”

  Ramsbottom chuckled. “Did you tell them why?” Normally, they fed the elk at the aspen meadow for several weeks before a big hunt to get them used to coming there to feed, but this time, of course, they hadn’t bothered. It made Ramsbottom sick, thinking about all the times he’d had to practically truss an animal and leave it staked in a field just so these banty-rooster lawyers could take home a trophy.

  Outside he heard the clatter of high-heeled shoes on the wooden porch and the door burst open with a gust of snow. Stella, wearing a faux leopard fur coat, stepped inside, and closed the door behind her. She stood for a moment, brushing the snow out of her long red wig. “Hi,” she said, smiling.

  Ramsbottom swished his brandy. “Hi, Stella,” he said.

  She had her coat opened in the front, revealing a black miniskirt and the longest legs Ramsbottom had ever seen. He got a boner just looking at her legs. It was amazing that a girl that looked that fine could not be a girl. It was amazing, and it was scary.

  “Do you have any fingernail polish remover?” Stella said.

  “Nope,” Ramsbottom said. “I’m fresh out.”

  “Damn it,” she said, waving her big hand in front of her face.

  “I’ve got some paint thinner in the shed,” Ramsbottom said, grinning.

  “Shit,” Stella said, splaying her fingers so he could see the chipped nail. “I need a touch-up.”

  “How about a drink instead?” Ramsbottom said.

  “What you got?” She walked over and picked up the bottle. “Ooh, Courvoisier. Very chic.”

  “So how about it?”

  “Let me get the other girls. I’ll be right back.”

  “It’s a party, then,” Ramsbottom said.

  Stella grinned and raised her eyebrows. “Honey, it’s always a party,” she said. She wrapped her coat around herself and hurried out.

  “You still there?” Bentley shouted.

  “Just tell me this,” Ramsbottom said, clearing his throat. “Are those bastards sitting up there talking about how they’re going to sue my ass?”

  “They did mention it a couple of times,” Bentley said.

  “Motherfuckers.”

  “Yep,” Bentley said.

  Ramsbottom raised his glass and drained it, looking at the video camera resting on the bookcase. The fire crackled merrily. He grinned and set his glass down. “When I get through making my little movies, they won’t be suing anybody,” he shouted, and clicked off.

  Sleet scoured the window and distantly, faintly, he could hear Sambo howling at the storm. Ramsbottom poured himself another drink, stretched his feet to the fire, and settled down to wait for the girls.

  CHAPTER

  * * *

  SIXTEEN

  TUESDAY MORNING NITA rose early, saw her children and her parents off to the beach, and went over to Jimmy Lee’s. The sun shone brightly on the tree-lined streets; the day seemed fair and full of promise. She had lain awake most of the night, worrying, but today everything seemed better. By two o’clock tomorrow afternoon she would have closed on the Deuce and would have enough money in her bank account to raise her children without ever having to take another penny from Charles. The power and confidence she derived from this thought amazed her. She had never had money of her own, she had never really cared about it, but she could see now why people went to such lengths to have it. Money gave you the power to make your own decisions without having to be dependent on anyone else. On Saturday evening Charles would be home from Montana and she would tell him she knew about the women. She would tell him she had sold the Deuce, and they would have to agree to forgive each other and move on from there for the children’s sake. If he bullied and threatened her she would, God willing, have photographs sure to silence him. And once she and Charles had decided what to do about their faltering marriage, she could decide what to do about Jimmy Lee. The plan, which in the dark closed bedroom last night seemed doomed to failure, seemed now, in the bright clear sunshine of a new day, fail-proof.

  Jimmy Lee was back in his garage working on his entry for the Kudzu Festival recliner chair race. The Kudzu Ball was held every year in a vacant lot beside the Wal-Mart. Over the years it had evolved from a dance celebrating single, married, widowed, divorced, or soon-to-be divorced women, to a daylong Kudzu Festival celebrating Southern culture, in general, and white-trash culture, specifically. It had been started originally by a group of college professors out at the university, people who in their professional lives wrote articles like “An Empirical Analysis of Price Dispersion in the Automotive Industry,” or “Environmental Assessment Using Bayesian Inference,” but whom, in spite of all that, still knew how to plan a pretty good throw down. The Kudzu Festival was held on Saturday and included games such as the Hubcap Throw, Bobbing for Pigs’ Feet, Possum Toss, Hillbilly Jeopardy, and Name That Hick; a Beer Can Art Exhibit; the ever-popular recliner chair race, dubbed NASCHAIR by the festival organizers; and several cooking contests including the Betty Cracker Cook-Off and the White Trash Iron Chef event. The Kudzu Festival culminated Saturday night in the Kudzu Ball, complete with live music and a deadly alcoholic concoction known as Kudzu Koolaid that was guaranteed “to take the chrome off your bumper.”

  Jimmy Lee was putting the final touches on his recliner, a blue velour Barcalounger he had mounted on a pallet with wheels and decorated with NASCAR decals and a giant number 3 painted across the back in honor of Dale Earnhardt. He was calling the chair The Intimidator.

  “Hello,” Nita said, stepping into the garage.

  “Hey.” He leaned and kissed her. He tasted of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and Nita took her time kissing him. “You better stop that,” he said. “Or things might get out of hand.”

  She walked around The Intimidator admiring his work. “That’s a real work of art,” she said. He tried to grab her but she moved out of his way.

  “Come on, baby, be my copilot,” he said, grinning.

  “I can’t. I’ve got things to do on Saturday.” She looked at the Barcalounger and said, “How do you make this thing go?”

  “Someone pushes me. If you won’t be my Pusher, I’ll have to get someone else.”

  “You think you have a chance of winning?”

  I’m gunning for the Pickett boys,” he said, wiping his fingers on a rag. Floyd and Lloyd Pickett had won NASCHAIR three years in a row. “They win every damn year, but this year I’ll give them a run for their money, so to speak.”

  The recliner race was a big favorite with everyone, and consisted of teams of two, the Pusher and the Pushee, who maneuvered wheeled recliners through an obstacle course for the prized Kudzu Kup. Teams were judged not only on speed, but on the creative concept of their recliners. The Pickett brothers’ creation last year was a faded plaid La-Z-Boy that had been outfitted with a beer cooler, a remote control carry case, a crude steering wheel, and a drop down table tray onto which had been glued a plate, a NASCAR beer coozie, and a fork on a chain.

  He leaned back against the tool bench with his arms crossed over his chest. “You should come with me to the festival,” he said. “It’s a lot of fun. Last year I won second place in the Betty Cracker Cook-Off with my entry—Elvis’s Fried Nanner Samich.”

  She laughed. “That sounds awful,” she said.

  “Hey, I beat out the Ho-Ho Log and the Twinkie Torte in the Best Sweets category.” He took a recipe card out of his pocket and handed it to her. “Here’s my entry this year.”

  The card read, Heart Thumper Breakfast Shake. It called for a handful of ground coffee (not brewed); 2 cigarettes (remove the casings and drop the tobacco in the blender); 1 can of Mountain Dew. Across the bottom it read, This one’ll put the hair on your chest, by God. Any yuppie Hilfi
ger can drink a Starbucks Latte but it takes a real man to keep this one down.

  “Very nice,” she said, giving him back the card.

  He slipped it into his pocket. “You’ll have fun. I promise.”

  “I can’t.” This time she let him grab her and pull her into his arms.

  “At least go with me to the Kudzu Ball.”

  She shook her head slowly. “You know I’m meeting with Charles Saturday night,” she said, not really wanting to talk about it. She had thought about it last night until she felt sick to her stomach.

  “I feel like a condemned man waiting for a call from the governor.” He frowned and ran his finger along her cheek.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s the best I can do for right now. I won’t know until Saturday night if the Deuce sells, if Charles still wants to stay married to me, if I still want to stay married to him. It’s all complicated and it makes me sick to have to think about it, but there’s nothing else I can promise right now. Either things will work out or they won’t. I just can’t do better than that.”

  Seeing her distress and not wanting to get pulled into this argument again, he kissed her lightly on the forehead, and let her go.

  TREVOR HAD MOVED out of the apartment he shared with Tonya, and he was staying out at the Holiday Inn. The day he got home from the hospital after having his head stitched up, he spent all afternoon planning how to make Eadie take him back. It would take longer, probably a lifetime, to make her trust him again, but Trevor was willing to do whatever it took. He had never been so committed to anything in his whole life as he was to making his wife love him again.