by Lisa Howorth
Four thirty. Eliza had drama and William had soccer practice, so she didn’t need to pick them up until five thirty, giving her a few minutes to herself before she ran by the Bear to talk to Teever at five. Charles would be home around six, and she’d made a Dutch oven full of chili for him and the children to have while she was gone. A little cast iron was good for them. Iggy was bunting against her legs seductively. She wanted to pretend that he was trying to comfort her, but she knew he was just hoping for a treat. Her hands shook as she picked him up and hoisted his fat, tailless body over her shoulder and began petting his sleek black and white fur, which calmed her, and he purred loudly, pulling out all the stops. “You’re just a selfish slut like everybody else, Iggy,” she said. “You just want what you want, and don’t really care about anybody else.” She kissed him deep in the fur and fat around his neck, and with a finger tinkled the little cowbell she’d put on him because he looked just like a miniature Holstein. “Yep, you’re just a slutty old heifer, Ignatius,” she said, dumping him to the floor. “It’s not dinnertime yet.”
She was afraid Teever hadn’t gotten her message and wouldn’t show. Maybe she should call Ernest and see if he knew where Teever was. She had to find Teever, and she would like to have some nerve pills for the trip. That couldn’t hurt, could it? It wasn’t like she had to have them, but it was nice to know they were there. She swigged a little Chianti out of an unfinished bottle from the previous night and, seeing only an inch left, glugged it down for courage. Ernest’s number was written on a ten-dollar bill, still rolled in a tube, at the bottom of her purse. Mary Byrd didn’t fully understand why she was attracted to him, or vice versa. His inappropriateness was a big factor. She knew that he knew that she knew the allure of sex that was wrong. He had the preppy pretensions some Mississippi country boys affected, mostly in dress. He always had a gun, but not the kind that a farmer or hunter would have—he had some scary military stuff and pistol things like gangsters would carry. Ernest was kind of good-looking but in a hillbilly-come-to-town way. Not inbred, exactly, but without even a drop of any kind of non-WASP blood to fortify his watery gene pool (not too different from Charles’s, really, but without any money), too many generations of hookworms, poor diets, hard drinking, and smoking had given him a slightly sickly look. His blond hair was slicked back like it was still the eighties, although at least it wasn’t a frat-boy Tuscaloosa Swoop. A soft, dissipated bod. Not her physical type at all. She liked long and lean and medium-well. Fair-skinned blonds with alcoholic bloat were kind of a turnoff. Sexy shadows under his eyes, though, and great wrists, and she loved men’s wrists. His looked strong with pale, thickish hair curled around his Rolex. Wrists that seemed like they had character and competence. She knew it was just a mirage. Her friend Lucy had heard that he had what she described as “a smushed Coke-can pecker.” Not good. She just had a thing for misfits and fringe people to whom conventional rules and situations did not apply. Flattered by the attention, she knew that Ernest wasn’t someone you would leave home for, or fall in love with—Mary Byrd got that. He was a poor risk for a thing, perfectly likely to challenge Charles to a duel or a showdown. Discretion was not the better part of his valor.
Nobody much liked Ernest. She’d heard him described as “an asshole’s asshole.” But he cultivated his assholeness as a way of distinguishing himself from his slacker barfly friends who were amateur assholes. He loved to fight over bar tabs, girls, the state flag, literary heroes, whatever. Don’t ever tell him Chinatown was not the best movie ever made, or that Gun Club’s Fire of Love wasn’t the best record. But in his too deeply set pale blue eyes, Mary Byrd thought there was often a demented twinkle signaling his amusement and the knowledge of how cartoonish he was, but the entertainment value made it worth it. If he took a notion, at the Bear he’d scoop a woman up like a fireman and carry her down the stairs, managing to slip a hand under her skirt before she knew what was happening—a redneck satyr in a blazer. Or he could pick up and go to the Bosnian front in his khakis and tweeds without a word to anyone. He was funny, which counted for more with her than anything else. He was smart in an idiot savant way; he’d read some books, and he and his pals had started a literary rag and had big plans for it. Unplugging the stupid current that buzzed between them, Mary Byrd had asked him to back off, but when she was blue or bored the flesh was weak. She hesitated, and dialed the number on the bill.
The ring was hollow and rattly. Wallett was way out in the country. “Hello!” said a loud, happy voice.
“Hello,” said Mary Byrd. “This is a friend of Jack’s. Is he around?”
“Why, I believe he is,” the man said in mock surprise. “Just a minute, please, ma’am. Jacky!
“What Pothus?” Mary Byrd could hear Ernest respond in an annoyed voice she’d never heard. He was hard to annoy.
“Tel-lee-phone,” came the now-amused singsong.
“Hello?” said Ernest, businesslike.
“Hey, Ernest,” Mary Byrd said. “What’s up? Just checkin’ in on you. And I wanted to run something by you.”
“Well, hey, darlin’! How are you? I was just thinking about you.”
“I’m sure.” She already regretted the call. “Who’s that who answered the phone?”
“Pothus, my uncle, my dead aunt Aleda’s husband. Quite a character. He puts on a blazer just to answer the phone. Not even four o’clock and that knucklehead’s already three sheets.”
“And you’re not? By the way, it’s nearly five.”
“I, as you know, have been working on my novel all day. I lose track of time.”
“And you haven’t had a drink?”
“Maybe just a drop,” said Ernest. “To grease the wheels.” They laughed a little. “So, what-all have you been up to?”
They chatted casually, staying in shallow water, giving each other a little more shit. She told Ernest that she was about to go to Virginia, hoping to get in front of the weather. Realizing it would not be smart to give Ernest any extra personal info that he could parlay into an advantage, she said she needed to “see about her mother,” who “wasn’t doing well.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Ernest lied back, as if he cared about her mother, and as if he hadn’t already heard from a girl who worked in Charles’s gallery what was really up. Did she think there were any secrets in town? “How’re you getting there? I know you hate to fly,” he said.
“Well, I was thinking about asking Teever to drive me,” she said. She waited for the silence.
“Girl, that is suicide. I ain’t lettin’ you do that. Are you on crack?”
“You’ve got nothing to say about it, do you?” she taunted.
“I can make sure Teever’s in no condition to walk to the square, let alone drive to Virginia,” he said.
“He’s never in condition.”
“What if I take you? If you’re going to take chances, why not me? I’m going to be in town anyway tomorrow for that Lords of Chevron party. I was hoping you might be around.”
Mary Byrd laughed. “What, drive to Virginia in an MG? If it’s icy? It’s supposed to precipitate big-time.”
“We’ll take your car. I’ll be a perfect gentleman, I promise.”
“My husband will be happy to hear that plan. Who’s on crack now?”
“That storm is supposed to be a motherfucker, though. My grandmother won’t shut up about it.”
“I might just try to drive myself. I’ve done that drive a million times.”
“If you wait ’til Sunday, I’ll take you,” he said.
“I just can’t quite conjure up that image: you and me in your clown car, going to Virginia.”
“But yet you can picture yourself driving with Teever,” Ernest said.
“Teever is at least … you know perfectly well what I mean.”
“I haven’t seen that old boy in a while now,” he said. “But you should seriously consider going on Sunday instead and showing up at this party.”
“Okay, I will
,” she said. “But I’ve gotta run. I’ll talk to you later.”
“No you won’t.”
“Did you call me here last night?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Ernest, I asked you to please not do that. Please.”
“Why not? We’re just friends, right? Aren’t you allowed to have friends?”
“Can we please not drag this old dead horse across the road again?”
“Hey, you called me, darlin’.”
“I know,” said Mary Byrd. “But it’s an informational call.” She shouldn’t have called him. Stupid.
“Well, here’s some information, M’ Byrd: I love you. I miss you. I miss you hard.”
“There’s nothing to miss, is there?”
“I liked it when I thought I was going to have something to miss,” he said. “When I sell my novel, I’ll give you twenty-nine thousand dollars to run off with me. No—make it thirty-five thousand. Don’t go to Virginia tomorrow. Meet me at this party. You can go the next day. If you can tear yourself away from me.”
She laughed. “You are nothing but trouble, and I don’t need any more of that right now.”
“I’m a wonderful guy upon whom you can pin all your hopes and dreams, girl.”
“What you are is a grenade with the pin half pulled.”
“C’mon now, M’Byrd. You’re too hard on me.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Not. But I do hate to miss that party; the Lords of Chevron are always so fun.” What she really hated to miss was some medicine.
“So I’ll be lookin’ for you, then?”
“Look, I’ve got to go, okay? Bye.” You could lie and hang up on Ernest; it had no effect. Five minutes after five. She grabbed her purse and keys and ran out of the house, almost tripping over Irene, who rushed up behind her to take advantage of the open door.
Late as always, Mary Byrd took the stairs in twos up to the Bear. It was deserted; at this hour the students were taking naps, resting up for the night. It was just a couple lawyers having a few after work and Teever and Chip, the adorable bartender who was Mary Byrd’s favorite of the many adorable bartenders in town. They were silently watching some game on ESPN.
“Ayyy, Mudbird!” Teever said in his loud, gravelly voice. She gave him a hug. He always looked pretty dapper somehow, and today he had on a slightly too large tweed sport coat, expensive-looking weave, over a Greek black T-shirt.
Chip was drinking coffee and leaned over the bar to give her a kiss on the cheek. The Bear guys were well trained to make the of-a-certain-age ladies feel loved and wanted and in the mood to give tips.
“Teever’s already running you a tab,” Chip said with a grin. “Beefeater ’tini straight up?” He reached for the shaker. He was sort of unbelievably precious, Mary Byrd thought.
“You know what? I hate to be a pussy, but I think I’ll just have whatever red’s open,” Mary Byrd said. “I’m only here for a minute.” Turning to Teever, she asked, “So, how are you?” She lightly punched his arm.
“I’m cool, baby,” said Teever. “Wassup? You seen Ernest?”
“Nope, but I talked to him. He says he’s coming up here for that birthday party tomorrow.” She made sure to add, “I haven’t seen Ernest in weeks, though, maybe even a month. Guess he lowered his profile.”
“Yeah, I might go to that party,” Teever said, thinking that if Ernest was going to be there, he’d be holding all kinda shit, no doubt.
“I need to ask you something. Would you be interested in driving me to Virginia? Pay will be good.”
“Virginia? Virginia? No way. No way. That is too far away,” Teever said, lifting his beer and shaking his head. “Why you got to go there in such a big hurry?”
“Some family business came up all of a sudden that I have to take care of,” she said. “You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” said Teever, thinking of Ernest’s certain stash in his near future. “’Sides, already told Mr. Johnny I’d bust up some ground for him. He won’t call on me no more if I don’t show up, hire some Mexicans instead. Sorry, Mudbird. That is too far off.”
“That’s okay,” she said, not too disappointed. “I’ll figure out something. I might just drive myself.” With Teever out, it was down to driving solo.
“Charles won’t go? Can’t fly?”
“Nah. He’s so busy. And he needs to be here to see about the kids and stuff. And I’m not crazy about flying.” She lit a Camel Light and offered one to Teever. “But here’s the other thing. What about Angie Bon? Do you know what happened? With Rod?”
“Sure do,” he said, shaking his head again. “Sure do. That somethin’.” He made a face at the smokes. “Why can’t you smoke real cigarettes? Lights cut with arsenic, what I heard.”
He expected her to beg a little. “Well, come on, Teever, tell me, please? I went to see Evagreen and L. Q. but it had just happened, and it was too awful and crazy over there. Ken said he’d call me but he hasn’t.”
“Well, the usual. The usual. Rod running ’round, getting up with the wrong people, usin’, sellin’, steppin’ out.” He signaled Chip, who was setting up for the evening. Chip brought another Bud. “Might a beat on her a little, what I heard. You know—ramshacklin’ her.”
“A little? What does ramshackling mean?”
“You know.” Teever looked away. “Cracked up, slappin’ her around.”
“Jesus.” Mary Byrd could not picture either of those kids in such a life. “How badly did he beat her?”
“Well, never put her in the hospital, I guess.”
“God, Teever. Like that’s not so bad, or something?”
“Didn’t say that, Mudbird,” he said. “You want me to tell you what I heard, or not?”
“But I mean what—how did she kill him? I don’t even know that.”
“Shot him in the gut.”
“Where would Angie get a gun?” She knew it was a dumb question. This was America.
“You kiddin’? I’m the only guy I know who don’t have one, and I did, ’til I pawned it, back at Christmas, buy some Christmas presents.”
“Damn,” sighed Mary Byrd. She had rolled her cocktail napkin into a ball and she tossed it into the trash can behind the bar. Christmas presents, my ass, she thought.
“She shoots, she scores,” said Chip. He reached up and changed the channel to the evening news, which was all about the approaching storm front.
She swallowed a gulp of wine and put down a twenty, then added a five.
“Okay, I’ve got to get home to my tribe.” Pointing a finger at Teever, she said, “You behave and take care of yourself. Are you going to be all right in this weather?” She had no idea where he was staying but didn’t want to embarrass him by asking.
“I’m always all right, Mudbird. Hey, can I have them smokes?” Teever asked, pulling Mary Byrd’s unfinished wine in front of him. “You just a bar puffer anyways.”
Mary Byrd tossed the pack to him and clattered quickly down the stairs. She wondered what it would take for her to be mad enough at Charles to shoot him.
Seven
It had been surprisingly easy for Mary Byrd to arrange the improbable trip with Foote Slay, one of the truckers for Valentine Chickens. It was easier than booking a flight, and possibly less risky than a long-distance drive by herself or with Teever. Mann set it up, saying, “You’ll have a good time. He’ll seem completely insane, but he’s a pussycat, I promise. Just don’t bring up politics.”
Mary Byrd knew a little about Foote from Mann; they’d stopped by his lovely, decrepit family home once to drop off some papers. Mann was intrigued by him because he was that complicated Mississippi hybrid of redneck and blue blood—as blue as blood got in Mississippi. Mann said Foote might use the n-word, but more as a challenge than a slur: he dared you to call him any more of a racist than you were, you white liberal poser, deep in your most secret, elitist hearts of hearts. Firmly rooted, or rooting, in the nineteenth century, Foote believed in white supremacy
, the right to bear arms, and the sexual superiority of black women, but Mann swore that he could be a gentleman, and was shy and sweet and honorable in his own dishonorable way. Kind of a Rhett Butler in an XXXL Lions of Tsavo T-shirt. He lived alone with a big black cat named Mr. T, a creepy pit bull–bassett hound mix named Frank Booth, and a parrot named Virgil Caine, who, if Foote said to him, “Virge, what were all the people singing?” would answer, “Naaaa, na-na-na-na-na-na-na, na-na na-na, na-na-na-na-naaa.” The inside of Foote’s house, Mary Byrd had noticed, had been unchanged since who knew when. Heat seemed to be gas space heaters; creaky, spider-webbed ceiling fans the AC. Foote existed there in comfortable, regal squalor—king of his own castle. Empty Ben and Jerry’s tubs (their ice cream was the only thing Yankees had ever gotten right, according to Foote) and beer cans crowded his living room, peacefully coexisting with a computer, stacks of history books, and his .44 Magnum he called “the Tabletopper” that was always at the ready in case any of them came around unbidden.
Of course Mary Byrd was drawn to it—its wantonness and neglect and one-time glory. She’d perversely had the urge to clean his house and fix it up and get his teeth fixed and cook healthy meals for him and do his laundry. He was handsome in spite of some pudge and poundage, smart, and way funny. His thing was to defy you to like him, Mann said, and Foote saw no reason to lie about anything; he was what he was and you could take it or leave it. But could she actually drive a thousand, maybe two thousand miles in a truck with him? Better that than a trip on Flaming Cartwheel Airlines. Charles wasn’t happy about it, but tough for him, and Mann interceded for her. Foote could barrel up there in no time, and weather would not deter a Peterbilt. She could sleep or read. This trip didn’t have to be totally a drag. It could be an adventure and a distraction from what awaited her at the end of the line.