Drowning in Gruel

by George Singleton

"She lives in a town a little east of Charlotte. She got a job up there after our divorce."

  When Wanda Styles turned thirty she went and got a tribal tattoo around her ankle. She makes a point to wear shorts or leggings, the occasional dress. "I guess I've been noticing you for a year coming out here. Rhyme! Ha-ha."

  "It's been about a year."

  "You're the only man with custody, I guess."

  "I guess," Jerry says. He thinks about how his name rhymes, how this might be something to bring up. Wanda sports a hairstyle that isn't twenty years out of style. She doesn't wear a mouthpiece of teeth whitener in public. "Be careful over there, Henry," he calls out, even though Henry still stares at the stovepipe.

  Wanda sticks her right hand out and introduces herself "I live in Athens, and my ex-husband lives in Columbia. He's the one who doesn't drive a pickup truck. My ex always says he's a little uncomfortable with everyone waiting around. He feels like he doesn't belong. Last week I told him to think about how you must feel."

  Jerry shakes her hand and says, "My name's Jerry McCrary. It rhymes."

  Wanda points to a first grader doing cartwheels near Henry. "That's my Flannery. She's named after Flannery O'Connor, who was this great southern writer who died too early."

  Jerry unfolds, then refolds his arms. He says, "I know Flannery O'Connor." He's amazed that anyone in the parking lot would know the writer. "I'll be damned. My boy Henry's named after O. Henry. I mean, I know that O. Henry wasn't the writer's real name. That's how much I know. But it's better. It's better that I named my son what I named my son."

  Wanda stretches her back. She wears a loose-weaved blue-gray sweater. "I'm betting that we're the only literati here in Gruel."

  Jerry looks at the horizon. He thinks, When's the last time I heard a person use the term literati? He says, "Flannery."

  "I confess to teaching college English," Wanda says. "My ex-husband used to, too. Now he doesn't. That's that. What do you do that's so great you get custody?"

  Jerry McCrary sticks his hands in his pocket. He looks over to find his ex-wife entering Gruel BBQ^s parking lot. "Henry, here's your mother!" he yells out. "Get your bag out of the car."

  Henry stops staring at the stovepipe. He says, "I forgot to bring my book."

  "Your mother will buy you a book, I bet."

  Jerry walks in the direction of Terry's car, then leans down into her open window. He retrieves his wallet, hands her a twenty, and says, "Take him to that Borders, or there's a Little Professor closer to where you live. He forgot his book."

  Terry says, "Don't think I don't have books for Henry at home."

  Henry gets in the car, and Terry leaves without saying good-bye.

  Jerry walks back to Wanda. He says, "I make documentaries."

  Wanda's ex-husband takes Flannery away soon after Terry takes Henry back to North Carolina. The cars and trucks streaming into Gruel BBQ^now come only for food, not children of divorce. Jerry and Wanda both have found ways to stick around: Jerry pretends to check his oil, a fan belt, his windshield wiper fluid. Wanda fiddles with her sunroof. They finally emerge from their cars, parked three spots apart. Jerry says, "So, you teach at the University of Georgia?"

  "I wish. No. I went there, but I teach at the community college. I teach football players who couldn't get in to the university because of their scores."

  Jerry says, "Huh."

  "What kinds of documentaries do you make?" Wanda scratches her left ankle with her right big toe.

  Jerry says, "How long have you had that tattoo? I got a tattoo once. It's a chameleon." He pulls up his shirtsleeve to show nothing but bare skin. "Damn, it must've camouflaged itself again."

  Wanda says, "I'm not exactly a vegetarian, but I can't eat a pig I might've pet. There's a great little pool hall in downtown Gruel called Roughhouse Billiards. You want to go over there for a beer or something before driving back?"

  Jerry thinks about meeting Terry for the first time, in Atlanta. She had helped him gain access to Ted Turner's list of employees, from lawn maintenance man to manicurist to mechanic. Jerry wanted to film a documentary on the men and women behind Turner called Behind Every Successful Man There's a Debtor. It won a prize at the Gulf Coast Film Festival. Terry came to Jerry's rented office in Buckhead one morning, then they drank beer at a Virginia Highlands joint from lunch onward. Terry had graduated the year before with a degree in communications. She wanted to work for the networks eventually, unless it meant doing weather. She had a friend who was developing the Obituary Channel for cable, and she wanted to sit in a chair and read aloud everyone's funeral plans for the upcoming week.

  She said she didn't have time to ever have children.

  Jerry says, "I'm starving," to Wanda. She reaches down and unsmudges the ashy spot on her tattoo where she's been scratching. Her breasts hang out like two filled pastry bags. Jerry says, "I'll follow you over there," and tries to remember the rules of eight ball.

  "You're not some kind of mass murderer or anything, right?" Wanda says. She doesn't smile. "What kinds of documentaries have you ever made? You don't spend all your time in prisons talking to mass murderers, do you?"

  Jerry shakes his head. "I've made three that have been shown on the Weather Channel. One about Hurricane Hugo's effects on the lowcountry of South Carolina, and one about a tornado that hit Commerce, Georgia. Another one's about drought in the southeast, but it's pretty dry. Get it?"

  Wanda says, "My ex-husband is obsessed with mass murderers, that's why I ask. Back when he taught college, he'd find a way to stick In Cold Blood into the syllabus. When I said I wanted to name our daughter Flannery, the only reason he agreed was because of that Misfit character in her story."

  Two men get out of a blue Ford short bed and yell over, "Is today the two-for-one day?" Jerry shrugs his shoulders. He says to Wanda, "I did a documentary one time where I asked people on the street to tell me everything they knew about Henry Kissinger, but that's as close as it comes. Oh. And I did this other one about men and women who kind of worked as character actors."

  They play two games of pool. Jerry wins both games only because Wanda scratches on the eight ball. They order hot dogs. Jeff, the owner of Roughhouse Billiards, says each time, "I'm Jeff, the owner. How do y'all want those? I'm Jeff, the owner."

  "Mustard, ketchup, and relish for her, mustard and onions for me. No chili," Jerry says.

  "Y'all don't want no buns?" says Jeff.

  "You should do a documentary on this place," Wanda says. "I didn't see any camcorders or anything in the backseat of your car. I'm surprised you don't carry one around with you at all times."

  Jerry racks the balls for a third game. He plans on missing as many shots as possible only to watch Wanda bend down and show off her boobs.

  "Y'all ain't from around here, are you?" Jeff the owner asks. "Let me guess: Y'all are some them people come up to Gruel BBQ_to let off kids. I know. I can tell. Two, three year ago the same thing happened—people hooking up, only thing they got in common is one bad marriage and a Rand McNally. They married now together—living over on Old Old Greenville Road."

  "Jerry, if you're a filmmaker, why don't you wear clothes that are a little more artsy?" Wanda says right before banking the one ball in the side pocket. "I thought all filmmakers wore paisley shirts with big collars, you know." She's drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon from longneck bottles, which Jerry admires.

  "I wear blue jeans. So what? I'm not interested in the camera turning toward me, Wanda."

  She says, "What is it, exactly, that your wife does now? And tell me again why you got custody of Henry" Wanda bends down and shoots the six ball into a corner pocket.

  "She's the PR director of a big zoo. That's true. She didn't get custody, because she doesn't like children. That's that, plain and simple."

  "It can't be only that. I don't want to contradict you or anything, Jerry, but it has to be something more than that." Wanda circles the table. She looks over at the jukebox and frowns when a Merle Haggar
d song comes on. "It has to be more than that." She shoots at the three and misses. It careens around the table, then knocks in the eight ball. "Goddamn. I'm too drunk to play anymore." She throws her stick onto the table and opens her arms wide. "Whoooo. I might just lay out here until Sunday when I have to pick Flannery up again."

  Jerry looks at the owner of Roughhouse. Jeff shakes his head sideways. There is no motel nearby.

  Wanda says, "I don't know how your bladder can handle all of this. I got to take myself a pee."

  Jerry bends his face down, and in a lowered voice says to the owner, "There's not a motel or hotel nearby?"

  "The best thing you can do is pretend to be married. Old Paula Purgason runs a so-called real estate office, and she'll let prospective buyers stay in one of her houses for sale. I can call her up if you want, and then she'll come over here and take you to one of the antebellum places she has. Oh, they're furnished and everything. People died off in Gruel and left their estates to loved ones, but loved ones don't seem to care about either moving back here or selling off what they now own. You can get a good two-story Victorian for ten grand, I swear to God. Furniture and all included."

  Jerry slides a ten-dollar bill across the marble-top bar. He says, "Give her a call when you get the chance."

  Wanda looks through her purse in the one-toilet stall. She looks for a prophylactic, her old diaphragm, a sponge, anything. She looks for a dental dam, in case Jerry's of that persuasion. She doesn't think of Flannery, or Henry, her students, or ex-husband. Wanda flushes the toilet and checks her teeth in the mirror for hot dog remnants.

  "I have a student in my English 101 class who thinks he wants to make movies. He's older than I, something like forty years old, and used to play in one of those Athens bands that didn't make it as big as REM or the B-52s. I believe he said his band was called the Jungsters. Anyway, he wants to follow bands around and film what they do first thing in the morning."

  Jerry looks at the restroom door. He holds the cue stick's handle against his toe. "It takes some luck, more than anything, to become a filmmaker. You got to find people who'll invest money. They have to be stupid enough to only want to break even, or maybe make a dollar over a two-year period. Say, would you like to do some shots of bourbon or tequila or rum or schnapps, or all of the above?"

  "You're trying to get me drunk," Wanda says, coming out of the restroom. "You're trying to get me all fucked-up so I can't leave Gruel. There's no hotel in this town, you know. We'd have to sleep in our cars."

  Jerry looks at Jeff the owner, who stares at a ten-gallon pickle jar. The television's turned to a documentary on Hollywood's fallen women. Jerry says to Wanda, "You have beautiful legs." He wants to know exactly what would be the best thing to say. "You have legs that could be used for two sides of a sturdy kiosk."

  More men walk into Roughhouse Billiards. They nod at the owner, order Budweiser, and head toward the other tables. They look at Wanda and know that she's an outsider. "Climp-son'll beat shit outta Florida State," they say. "Climpson gotta defense kill them boys." They wear orange. They say things about what life was like when they went to Clemson: frat parties that drifted to Tigertown Tavern or Nick's, the Esso Club or Sloan Street Bar.

  Wanda says, "I don't want to sound easy, but I think I can't drive back to Athens tonight. There's got to be a motel in this area."

  Jerry racks more balls. "If you don't mind," he says. "If you don't mind, this woman is going to show up. We only have to pretend like we're married. We have to pretend like we want to buy one of her houses. And then we can stay there." Jerry points to the owner. "He promises."

  Wanda says, "This is some kind of joke."

  "No. Nuh-uh. It's not a joke. Believe me when I say that I'm honest, more than anything else. It's the truth." Jerry doesn't mention how he wants to make a documentary on headwaiters working fancy restaurants located inside airport restaurants. He fails to bring up his latest project: a six-part made-for-A&E documentary that concerns southern primitive artists who claim that God tells them secrets.

  Paula Purgason, amateur real estate agent, walks into Roughhouse Billiards wearing a muumuu, a headband, bare feet. She says, "Who's it wants to buy 103 Old Old Greenville?" The owner points at Jerry. "This your wife? You think you can handle Gruel, honey? I care, I really do. It's tough living here unless you hiding out from something. Or someone. And if you planning on selling houses and land, forget it."

  Wanda places her cue stick on the table and takes two steps in Paula Purgason's direction. She says, "What?"

  Jerry sticks out his hand and takes a set of keys from Paula. "Yeah. Well, we're just normal people looking for a place to get away from the big city, you know. We can't take the traffic anymore. We can't take the tension."

  "Well we ain't got no racial problems here if that's what you mean. Everybody gets along fine. Look at them boys there." Paula points at the other pool table. Both men stare down, as if mesmerized by the arrangement of balls.

  Wanda shifts her weight from one foot to the other twice. She says, "What?"

  "Well that's exactly what we're looking for," Jerry says. "We'll get back to you in the morning and talk money. But I can tell you right now that we're pretty interested in moving here."

  "There are clean sheets and all." Paula juts her chin at the owner of Roughhouse and says, "I guess he told you that I plain let people stay in the house to get a feel for it and all. Trust is number one with me. It's location, location, location, and then trust."

  "Okay. Hey, do you want another hot dog, Wanda?" Jerry says.

  "She appears to be vegetarian," Paula says. "I can't believe you'd eat hot dogs. Welcome to Gruel! You'll do fine here. Unless, like I said, you want to sell land or houses."

  Wanda lifts the left side of her mouth in a slight smile. "We have two children. That's what concerns me most. What're the schools like here? I know you're going to say that the/re perfect, seeing as that's your job. But honestly. We have a couple kids who might be worthy of skipping ahead a few grades. What're the public schools like here?"

  "Gruel Normal's the best. It's private, but it's not white flight, I promise. Otherwise, the public schools are thirty miles away over in Forty-Five. You probably don't want your kids going over there." Paula Purgason sticks her pinkie into her left nostril and flicks it. Jerry wonders if it's some kind of local sign.

  Wanda curls her toes and says, "Well that sounds about perfect." She looks at Jerry. "That sounds about perfect, doesn't it, sweetie pie?"

  He says, "Perfect."

  "There you go," Jeff the owner says. "Take the keys, figure out the room, buy the house. Hey, who wants a hot dog?"

  Paula Purgason says, "Give me four to go."

  "How you want them?"

  She shrugs. "I know that trick. I want all of them on buns, first off. And then mustard, onions, chili. What else? Hey, put some ketchup on those things, too. I wish you'd cave in to sauerkraut."

  Jerry says, "How do I get in touch with you tomorrow?"

  Paula Purgason reaches in her pocket and extracts a business card. She says, "Don't think I don't know what's going on. This ain't the first time this has happened." She puts the card back in her pocket. "Leave me some money on the nightstand. You look like a respectable couple, generally speaking."

  Wanda smiles. She curtsies. "We're freaks," she says.

  They leave their cars parked, walk to 103 Old Old Greenville Road, a half block up, then a half block over from the poolroom. They don't hold hands. Jerry brings along a six-pack of Pabst. "I've never heard of a place where people will let you stay in their abandoned houses. It seems like there would've been some kind of background check," Wanda says. "I feel like I'm on Candid Camera or something. Did you arrange this little situation some time ago?"

  Jerry shakes his head. He hopes that the sheets weren't washed in too much bleach. He's gotten a sty at every hotel he's ever stayed in. "You and I should move here and not tell our ex-spouses. Then we'd only have, what, a two-mile
drive every weekend?"

  Wanda takes his hand. "Maybe my ex-husband and your ex-wife are doing the same thing. Maybe they've hooked up and stay across the street." She points at a two-story house, the porch sagging, a pergola off to the side in disrepair. "This could end up one of those towns. Wouldn't that be weird?"

  Jerry thinks, Someone should make a movie, but says nothing. He creaks open an iron gate for Wanda, then follows closely behind her. "This could be some kind of setup. I mean, we didn't bring a change of clothes, or toothbrushes, or anything. Tomorrow morning we'll have to go back to the square and find a place that sells such. They kind of have a monopoly on everything, I'd imagine."

  He turns the key and walks in. Wanda turns on the lights. Both of them feel as though they've stepped onto the set of a 1950s movie or sitcom. In the kitchen, there's a squat refrigerator, a metal table with four yellow cushioned chairs, even a turquoise hand-cranked ice crusher the size of a napkin dispenser. Jerry sets the beer in the fridge. Wanda says, "If there's no toilet paper in here we'll know it's a setup."

  There's no television set or radio. But everything's perfect. The beds are turned down. Fresh towels hang from heavy racks in the bathroom. There's even a scale that works, and all three guest bedrooms have single iron beds.

  The master bedroom's got a canopy, of all things.

  In the parlor there's a table, two hardback wooden chairs, and a game of Monopoly set up. Jerry says, "Monopoly! I haven't played this game in a hundred years."

  Wanda sits down. "There's a theory about two strangers sitting down to play Monopoly. It's kind of like the zodiac, you know. Like how two people with different zodiac signs will either work out or not."

  Jerry says, "You lie."

  She says, "I'll write it all down if you want. I've memorized it. That student of mine who used to play in the Jungsters told me all about it. It makes sense to me."

  Jerry sits across from her. He says how she doesn't have to write anything down. He does say, "It's hard to play Monopoly with two people, though. Neither player wants to sell off one piece of property when the other player has the other two or three."