Long Black Curl

by Alex Bledsoe

  “Dammit, Tain!”

  “What was the shouting about?” Tain asked coolly.

  “He’s got a little cabin fever. Maybe you should go in there and take his mind off it.”

  “You’re not my pimp, Bo-Kate. I fuck who I want, when I want.”

  “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

  “My shift’s from five to one.”

  Bo-Kate’s expression changed as something occurred to her. “Tell me something, then: Who have you been fucking since I got back?”

  “What difference does it make? I haven’t touched your British boy toy, or that lummox in the guest room.”

  “Makes a big difference if you’ve been pillow-talking about me.”

  “You’re not that interesting,” Tain said with a humorless grin. As she started to walk past, Bo-Kate suddenly grabbed her by the hair and slammed her face-first into the wall. She twisted one of Tain’s arms behind her and pushed it up painfully until Tain let out a cry.

  “Your arm may break, or just come out of its socket, I don’t know which,” Bo-Kate hissed. “And I don’t care. Answer my question.”

  “Fuck you!” Tain said, and struggled to escape, but Bo-Kate pulled her head away from the wall and then slammed it again. Blood trickled from her nose.

  “That’s not the answer I’m after, Tain. Try again.”

  “Let me go!”

  A door opened, and Byron stepped out. He was shirtless, and seemed larger than a human man should be in the old house’s corridor. “What the hell’s all the caterwauling about?”

  Bo-Kate released Tain with a final shove into the wall. “Nothing. Just cousins being cousins. Go back inside.”

  “I will when I feel like it,” he rumbled. To Tain he added, “Are you all right?”

  “Why? What do you care?” She wiped the blood from her nose, leaving a smear on her arm. “I hope you rot in hell, Bo-Kate. I hope you get buried up to your neck and covered with honey near an anthill. I hope you live to see your children die.”

  Bo-Kate smiled. “I had no idea you had such strong feelings for me, Tain.”

  Tain’s eyes grew wet, but she turned and stomped off downstairs before she actually began to cry. Bo-Kate crossed her arms and considered going after her, but figured the results wouldn’t be worth the effort. Whatever Tain might’ve passed on, it couldn’t possibly upset her plans at this point. It might even help.

  “That how you all treat each other?” Byron rumbled. “All you Wisbys?”

  She faced him. “Shut up, Byron. Get back in your room and wait for me.”

  He looked at her steadily for a long moment, then went inside his room and closed the door.

  * * *

  Snowy was asleep on his couch when the doorbell rang. He sat up and looked at the clock; it was barely eight thirty. Who would be at his house on such a cold, miserable evening without calling ahead?

  He opened the door. Tain Wisby stood at the bottom of the steps, a battered old suitcase in her hand. She’d been crying, and her nose was swollen and bloody. “What happened?” he said in alarm.

  “Bo-Kate beat me up,” she said. “Want a roommate for a while?”

  He stepped aside so she could enter. While she sat at the kitchen table, he got some ice in a sandwich bag and wrapped it in a dish towel. She put it on her nose.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “So why did she beat you up?”

  “Because I wouldn’t tell her about you.”

  “Tell her what about me?”

  “That I’ve been telling you about her.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “You want a beer?”

  “Good God, yes.”

  He got them each a bottle, opened them, and handed one to her. He leaned against the wall beside her as she drank. She asked, “So can I stay here?”

  “For how long?”

  “How long do you want me?”

  “Are you proposing to me?”

  She shook her head. “No. But…”

  “What?”

  “I like other men a lot, Snowy. I like the variety, and the adventure, and the sense of new countries to explore. I’m not going to give that up just to keep a roof over my head.”

  “Yep, that’s definitely not a proposal,” Snowy agreed.

  “No, let me finish. I … I’ll live with you, and I’ll help you, and I’ll—” She took a deep breath to muster her courage. “—I’ll make you first choice. But if you’re busy, or working, or not in the mood…”

  “How hard did Bo-Kate hit you?”

  She laughed and clinked the beer bottle against her teeth. She put it down, and the laughs morphed into tears and from there to hard sobs that started her nose bleeding again. Unsure exactly how much comfort to offer, Snowy got her some tissues and waited until she calmed down.

  “I’m sorry,” she said at last, holding the blood-soaked tissue to her nose. “It’s been a stressful day.”

  “Just so I can be clear … you’re asking me if you can live with me despite us being from two different groups, but still go out with other men when they attract your attention.”

  She nodded.

  “Why? I mean, I know why you’re here right now, and of course you can stay until this blows over, but why turn this into something semipermanent? Why not just say you need a few days to get back on your feet or something?”

  Her look didn’t waver. “Do you remember that day in the motel?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “You know what the hardest thing was that day?”

  He laughed. She realized what she’d said, and she laughed, too. “No,” she said, “not that. It was not telling you I loved you. And that I’ve loved you since the day we met.”

  “We met when we were seven.”

  She nodded. “Yep. I know.”

  He couldn’t look away from her piercing, steady gaze. She normally looked straight at you, but that was always with a kind of superior amusement, as if she knew exactly what you were thinking. And she usually did. But this time, there was an openness and vulnerability that he found impossible to resist.

  The Wisbys and the Rainfields were from opposite groups. Just like Bo-Kate and Jefferson had once been. In fact, this happened fairly often, since people never wanted anything so badly as something they’d been told they couldn’t have. Usually it ended with the partners realizing it was only a temporary infatuation. Occasionally, as with Bo-Kate and Jeff, it left a trail of death and destruction.

  He nodded and said quietly, “It was hard … difficult for me not to say it, too.”

  She smiled, then turned serious again. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  She stood, left the ice pack and tissue on the table, and came into his arms.

  29

  Jeff looked up at the ten-foot cutout of dice atop the Pair-A-Dice’s roof. The sign was faded, and the lights that once glowed in the dice’s holes were out. Still, the parking lot was half-full even on a cold winter afternoon, which said something about its popularity among the Tufa.

  Although bars in Tennessee were supposed to be off-limits to those under twenty-one, in Cloud County the rules were a bit difficult for the state to enforce. For one thing, simply finding the place could be impossible for the average non-Tufa officer. As a result, Jeff, like every other child in the county, was brought to the Pair-A-Dice as soon as he became proficient on his instrument of choice, the guitar. He was eight, and he’d been so nervous, he’d almost been unable to move his hand along the guitar neck. But before the night was over, he was totally at ease, and totally aware of what music really meant to a Tufa.

  He put his gloved hand on the door handle, but had to take a deep breath before working up the nerve to push it open.

  The smell of the place instantly brought back memories he’d long since suppressed, since not doing so would have made his banishment that much worse. But now he luxuriated in it, momentarily forgetting the reason he was here and just letting the memories flow over h
im.

  There weren’t many people here, and most of them just glanced up and then returned to their greasy burgers or bottles of beer. He walked over to the bar and took a seat on a stool. A beautiful girl in a tight tank top that accented her broad shoulders said, “What’s your pleasure?”

  He gave her a blatantly appreciative look, but said only, “Miller, on draft if you got it.”

  “We run out of Miller, we might as well close the doors,” she said as she poured.

  “My name’s Jeff.”

  “I’m Rachel.”

  “Always loved that name.”

  She smiled with just enough shyness that it made her adorable. “So you from around here?”

  “Originally, yeah.”

  “You don’t live here now?”

  “No, I haven’t for a long time.”

  “That must be why I don’t remember ever seeing you before. Where do you live?”

  “New York, but I get back … whenever I can.”

  She put the glass before him and then almost knocked it over when she started. Almost whispering, she said, “Wait … you’re Jefferson Powell, then?”

  “Yeah.”

  She looked as if something had punched her. “I…”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not here to cause any trouble.”

  She genuinely looked terrified. “I don’t … I didn’t mean to insult you, I hope you won’t take it personally.”

  “Rachel, please. I did some regrettable things when I was younger, and I do regret them. I’m certainly not going to repeat any of them today. I’m just going to sit here, drink my beer, and wait for my friend. Okay?”

  “Well … I mean, yeah, of course.”

  Jeff smiled. If nothing else, he knew how to smile in public and make it look sincere. He’d used the talent on venue owners when musical acts were too stoned or drunk to appear, on musicians when they were being overruled by their record companies, and on wives and girlfriends so dumb or naïve, they were surprised by what their men got up to on the road. Now he used it on Rachel, and saw the tension leave those gorgeous shoulders.

  “Sorry, Mr. Powell.”

  “No worries, Rachel. And call me Jeff.”

  She smiled again, then scurried off to do whatever else she had to do.

  Jeff turned and surveyed the room. Conversations murmured all around, and he caught no one stealing glances at him. Maybe they didn’t recognize him after all this time? No, he knew better than that. One Tufa never forgot another Tufa’s face, even after eons. More likely, they knew why he was back and didn’t want to get into the middle of it.

  His gaze fell on the small stage in the corner. It was completely bare except for a microphone stand. He smiled at the memories of all the great musicians who had graced that wooden platform over the years. If Bo-Kate took over, then this place would likely wither and die. Then the chain of greatness that twined around that stage would be broken, never to be restored.

  He swung back around and rested his elbows on the bar. Rachel watched him surreptitiously from the other end, and he smiled when he caught her doing it. By the third time, she smiled back, shy and embarrassed.

  Inwardly, Jeff laughed. He knew all about young women from his time on the road, and even though he was considerably older, with a little effort he could probably seduce that tank top right off her. But whom would that help? Not him, not really. Certainly not her. At this point in his life, seduction was like camping: The best you could hope for was to leave as little trace of your presence as possible.

  “What it is, what it was,” a new voice said at his elbow.

  He turned. Junior Damo sat there with the kind of quick insincere smile Jeff knew very well. “You again,” Jeff said.

  “Me again.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  Junior leaned close. “Well, your old girlfriend has been saying some interesting things, you know. Real interesting.”

  “Like what?”

  “She wants us to change the name of the town, and open the place up to anyone who wants to come here. She’s talking about building studios and turning us into a new Muscle Shoals. A lot of people don’t like that.”

  Jeff wasn’t surprised. He knew Bo-Kate’s plan had to be suitably epic. “I bet a lot do.”

  “That’s true, that’s true. But things worked for an awful long time the way they were, and some of us don’t see the need for change.”

  “Does this change what you want me to do?”

  “Naw, but it does kick the mule a little harder. You might need to deal with her sooner than you thought. Don’t you think?”

  Jeff took a swallow of his beer. Junior was really bad at the kind of phony confidence Jeff saw every day, and it was hard for him not to smile. The main reason he didn’t was that, beneath the phoniness, there was sincere element of danger. Junior might be slow and unsophisticated, but then again, so were brown recluses, and they could sure fuck you up. “Junior, what I think has nothing to do with you.”

  “Well, that’s true right now. But when you take Bo-Kate out, that’ll leave a vacuum, just like it did for her when Rockhouse died. I figure I’m as good a person as any to step into it.”

  Before Jeff could reply, a cell phone rang. The ringtone told Jeff it wasn’t his. Junior fished it from his pocket and said tiredly, “Yes, honey?” He listened for a minute. “Okay, fine. I’ll get it on the way home. Well, I’m talking to somebody about something important. Yes, of course I think you’re important.” Jeff could hear the shrill voice, if not the exact words, at the other end. Junior listened for a moment, then whisper-yelled, “I will get … your goddamn chocolate … when I get done here!” Then he vehemently pushed the END CALL button.

  “It was always more fun to slam down those old-fashioned phones, wasn’t it?” Jeff said.

  “Ah, the woman is eight months pregnant, and it’s doing bad things to her temper, which wasn’t exactly great to begin with.” The phone rang again, and this time Junior just turned off the ringer before stuffing it back in his pocket. “So—where were we?”

  “You were telling me why you were the logical successor to Rockhouse. And I was telling you I didn’t care.”

  “Well, it ought to be clear that—”

  “Oh, fuck,” Rachel said, louder than she’d probably intended.

  Jeff and Junior turned. A tall, elegant black man stood just inside the door. It had to be Bo-Kate’s assistant, the Englishman named Nigel. But why was he here?

  And then everything, every sensation in Jeff’s body, every thought in his head, even the beating of his heart stopped. The moment froze, suspended like a fly in amber.

  Nigel had moved aside, and now Bo-Kate stood in the door.

  Looking right at Jeff.

  30

  Jeff wondered if all over Cloud County people stopped what they were doing and glanced in the direction of the Pair-A-Dice. Certainly if anything could cause that level of psychic disturbance, it would be the convocation of the only two people to ever be excommunicated from the Tufa.

  Bo-Kate looked just as surprised to see him, which he guessed was roughly equivalent to the look the captain of the Titanic gave that iceberg. She also looked beautiful, and he couldn’t repress the memory of the body beneath her heavy winter coat. And there it was—that lone, long black curl that always fell in her eyes, the one that transfixed him with its trespassing from the first day he saw her when they were children.

  Bo-Kate glided through the tables with a grace that he recalled from their dances together. Those watching, many of whom had been there for her prior visit, couldn’t believe the look on her face. All the arrogance and certainty had fallen away, leaving a look of such longing that even those most terrified of her felt a deep pang of sympathy.

  She stopped before him. “Jeff,” she said. She didn’t whisper, but the word came out on a single choked breath.

  “Hello, Bo-Kate.” His deeply ingrained manners tried to force him to stand, but he couldn’t move.
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  She looked beautiful. There were other words that could describe various aspects of her appearance, but the totality of it could only be expressed by that one, lone word. Her black curls fell around her face, which still had the high cheekbones and full lips she’d had when they’d both lived here. Beneath the heavy coat, he could tell that her body was still as exquisite as it had been when they’d been awkward teenagers first learning how the other sex felt beneath their hands.

  “I heard you were coming back,” she said.

  “And I heard you were making waves.”

  “I have some ideas that might help drag this place into the twenty-first century, yeah.”

  Jeff got to his feet and gestured to the empty stool beside him. “Will you join me?”

  Still looking nowhere but at him, she slid gracefully onto the barstool. Rachel appeared, and her voice trembled as she asked, “C-can I g-get you something, ma’am?”

  Bo-Kate looked at her and smiled a little. “Did you hear that? ‘Ma’am.’ Could make a girl feel old.”

  “I’m sorry, I—”

  “She’s just yanking your chain,” Jeff said gently.

  “I’d like a Goebel. Do you still have those?”

  “We d-do.”

  “Put it on my tab,” Jeff said. Rachel scurried off.

  “Thanks,” Bo-Kate said.

  “Least I can do.”

  “That’s probably right.”

  They both chuckled. Rachel delivered Bo-Kate’s beer, then rushed away to wait on people at the tables.

  “So,” he said. “I guess you know they asked me back to put a leash on you.”

  “Oh, you have to buy me dinner first if you want to do that.”

  “What’ll that beer get me?”

  “You can scratch behind my ears and I’ll kick my leg.”

  They realized no one else was speaking. In fact, everyone in the place studiously looked the other way and pretended they weren’t listening, when obviously they were. Bo-Kate said, “Want to go for a ride?”

  “With you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  “Why? Don’t you trust me?”