Mrs. Kimble

by Jennifer Haigh

  “Yes’m,” said Charlie. If possible he was not to say anything about his father. If Dinah asked—and only if she asked—he could say his father was visiting in Missouri and would be back soon.

  Charlie opened the door. Dinah came in holding a grocery bag. Pizzas, he thought. Last time she’d made them frozen pizzas.

  “Hi, buddy,” she said, messing his hair. “Long time no see.” She looked around the room. “What happened to the pictures?”

  “I don’t know,” said Charlie. His mother had taken them down from the wall; the plaster was dotted with bare hooks.

  His mother came out of the bedroom holding a string of pearls. “Can you help me with this?” she asked Dinah.

  She turned her back and lifted her hair; Dinah clasped the pearls behind her neck.

  “You look nice, Mrs. Kimble,” said Dinah. “Is it a special occasion?”

  “I think I hear my ride,” said his mother. She bent to Charlie and Jody and gave them each a kiss. “You be good now. You listen to Dinah.”

  She rushed out the front door, leaving a trail of perfume. Dinah went to the living room window and peered out from behind the curtain.

  “What are you looking at?” Charlie asked.

  “Nothing,” said Dinah.

  THE WIND had stopped; the evening was still and muggy, the sky clouded over with gray. Birdie stood on the front step waiting for Buck Perry. It was the Saturday before Labor Day, the last wearing of the white shoes. She smelled meat cooking, a charcoal fire. The neighbors were having a barbecue.

  Through the open windows she heard the children laughing; they wouldn’t miss her at all with Dinah Whitacre there. Poor Dinah, she thought; poor homely child. She felt bad for the girl, so timid and awkward; Dinah who would have been pretty if it weren’t for her birthmark. It was so ugly Birdie could barely look at her, a jagged purple stain that covered half her face.

  Birdie had called her at the last minute; she’d had the phone reconnected after her first paycheck. She dreaded the obligatory chitchat with the girl’s mother. Married to the president of the college, Grace Whitacre knew all the faculty comings and goings; she would know Birdie’s husband had quit his job and might even know why. Luckily, Dinah herself had answered the phone. She was a mannerly girl, raised properly, not like some others Birdie could name. (That girl on the downtown bus, draped all over the college boy; Moira Snell, braless in her peasant blouse.) Dinah’s shyness seemed appropriate to her age; in her presence Birdie felt like an adult, a sensation she rarely felt.

  She breathed deeply; the yellow dress felt tight across her chest. She’d picked it off a sale rack three years ago when she was pregnant with Jody; that morning she’d cut off the price tag still dangling from the armpit. The dress was a size too small; her breasts had never shrunk back down to their old size. Still, it was the only thing she owned that didn’t hang to her ankles.

  Her hand fluttered to her throat, to the pearl necklace her mother had left her. It was a short strand, meant to fit close around the throat; her father had given it to her mother as an engagement present. Birdie had worn it only a handful of times: her own wedding day, a couple of dinners at the Whitacres’. Her married life had provided few occasions special enough. Then, this afternoon, something had come over her. Why not? she’d thought as she took the necklace from its leatherette case. Birdie Kimble, what are you waiting for?

  A dusty green sedan appeared around the corner; engine rumbling, it pulled up to the curb. Birdie’s legs shook as she made her way down the porch steps. At the curb she waited, but Perry didn’t get out of the car. Finally she opened the door herself.

  He lounged in the driver’s seat, so far back from the wheel that he was nearly lying down. He wore black pants and a pink shirt, open at the throat; his hair, slicked back from his forehead, showed comb marks.

  “Well, look at you,” he said.

  The car was low to the ground; Birdie held down her dress as she slid into the seat beside him.

  “I should have brought my umbrella,” she said. Her heart worked furiously. “It looks like rain.”

  “Nah,” said Perry. “You won’t need it.”

  He shifted gears and backed smoothly into the street. The engine seemed uncommonly loud; Birdie slid down in her seat as they passed the Semples’ house.

  “Did you have any trouble finding me?” Birdie asked. It was the only thing she could think of to say.

  “Hell no,” said Perry. “I’ve lived in this town my whole life.”

  In a moment the neighborhood was behind them. Perry hummed softly with the radio: muted horns, a deep Negro voice. His hands pattered on the steering wheel. Freshly shaved, his skin looked moist and childlike. He smelled strongly of cologne. They drove away from the city, to where the traffic thinned out and bars and storefronts were separated by occasional houses, patches of grass. Perry drove fast and expertly, his left elbow hanging out the window. Twice he reached forward to change the radio station, gripping the steering wheel between his knees. He seemed to have forgotten her.

  The Vets was set back from the road on a wide lot worn bare in places. Perry parked and came around to open Birdie’s door. She heard music in the distance, the silvery hiss of a cymbal. Perry placed his hand at the small of her back. She picked her way across the reddish dirt, worried about her white shoes. The sky had darkened; the air was very still.

  “Storm coming,” said Perry.

  The Vets was loud and dark inside, packed with people and their smells: perfumes, liquor, cigarettes, sweat. Men stood smoking and talking at the entrance. Perry pushed through them, his wide shoulders cutting a path; he took Birdie’s hand and pulled her along behind him. They crossed the dance floor to a table at the back, where a couple sat with their backs to the wall. On the table were cigarettes, glasses of beer, an empty pitcher.

  “This is Lou and Marie,” said Perry. He had to shout over the music. “Everyone, this is Birdie.”

  “Birdie,” said Marie. “That’s cute.” She was a sharp-faced blonde.

  “It’s a nickname,” said Birdie. She eyed Marie’s snug sweater, the silver heart dangling from a chain into the dark hollow between her breasts. In her dress and pearls, she felt like a chaperone at a dance.

  “I’m just Marie,” said the blonde. “I don’t have a nickname.”

  “That’s what you think,” said Lou, winking. He was older and balding.

  “Hey!” Marie squealed, giving him a shove. Her small eyes were rimmed with black liner. For a moment Birdie thought of Moira Snell, the hateful girl who’d seduced her husband. She pushed the thought away.

  “They’re cooking tonight,” Lou shouted to Perry. “They’re really cooking.”

  Birdie craned her neck toward the stage. The combo had four pieces—piano, guitar, drums, and bass. The singer was a colored man in a dark suit.

  “Which one is your friend?” Birdie asked.

  “Drums,” said Perry. He pulled up an empty chair from a neighboring table. “Have a seat. I’ll be right back.”

  She sat, the vinyl seat sticky beneath her thighs. Lou and Marie said nothing; they sat watching the band over her shoulder. Finally she turned her chair a little to face the dance floor.

  Perry returned with a pitcher of beer and two glasses.

  “None for me, thanks,” said Birdie.

  “You sure?” said Perry. “Why not?”

  “I don’t care for beer.”

  “Suit yourself.” He tilted a glass and filled it. Across the table Lou and Marie leaned close together. Birdie sat with her chin in her hand, watching the dancers. When the music slowed the floor filled with swaying couples; afterward the band would pick up the tempo and only a few would remain. The steps were new, nothing Birdie recognized. She had not seen anybody dance in years.

  “How long have you two been going together?” Marie asked.

  “What time is it?” said Perry, and laughed.

  The room was hot, everything—the floor, the chairs, t
he table-top—coated with a sticky film, as if thousands of beers had been spilled there. Birdie blotted her forehead with a napkin. Her nylon slip felt slick against her back; soon she would sweat through the yellow dress. She eyed the pitcher of beer.

  “Look at her,” said Marie, blowing smoke out of the side of her mouth. “She’s dying of thirst. Go get her something to drink, for Christ’s sake. Be a gentleman for once in your life.”

  “All right, all right,” said Perry. He got up and went to the bar.

  Marie leaned forward in her chair. “I’ve known him a long time. Since we was kids.” She stabbed out her cigarette in the ashtray. “You’re in for a good time. Wait and see.”

  Perry returned with a glass. “I got you a rum and Coke.”

  “Thank you,” said Birdie. The drink was cold and sweet; she took half the glassful in one gulp.

  “Whoa,” said Perry. “You are thirsty.”

  The band lurched into a slow song Birdie recognized. She watched the dancers shuffle to the music, clinging to each other like shipwreck survivors. When the music picked up, Perry glanced at her. “You wanna dance?”

  “Buck’s a great dancer,” said Marie.

  Birdie looked out at the dance floor, the dancers twisting at the hips. She’d learned the box step as a girl; she could waltz and fox trot; but this was a different kind of dancing entirely.

  “I don’t know how,” she said.

  “Don’t know how?” said Perry.

  “It’s been a long time.” Dancing was forbidden at Hambley; and after she was married, she hadn’t danced at all. She smiled apologetically. “No, thank you.”

  Perry shrugged. “How about you?” he asked Marie. “Lou won’t mind.”

  She glanced at the bar, where Lou stood smoking. “Mind, hell. He won’t even notice.” She got to her feet. She wore a sleeveless sweater and a short skirt; her bare legs were long and slender. She kicked off her shoes and followed Perry to the dance floor. The music quickened. “ ‘We’re going to wait till the midnight hour,’ ” the Negro crooned into the microphone. “ ‘When there’s nobody else around.’ ” Perry took Marie’s hand and swung her toward him, then away; for a big man he was surprisingly graceful. Marie’s body moved like water, a smooth rippling of hip and shoulder. Only her hair remained still, a firm tower of blond, sculpted as a wedding cake.

  Birdie drained her glass. Perry’s legs were quick and rhythmic; the loose black trousers sat low on his hips. He twirled Marie, then pulled her close, their bodies merging at the pelvis. A Hambley girl had once whispered to Birdie that dancing was nothing but dry intercourse. At the time, the remark had baffled her. Now, watching Perry and Marie, she understood perfectly.

  When the music ended, Perry and Marie came back to the table, laughing and breathless.

  “Whew,” said Marie. “You got me good that time.”

  Perry sat next to Birdie. He was very close; she smelled soap, alcohol, sweat. “Looks like you’re dry,” he said. “Let me get you another one.”

  “Yes, please,” said Birdie. Across the table Marie fanned herself with a napkin. She tugged at the V of her sweater; sweat glistened on her suntanned chest.

  “You’re a good dancer,” said Birdie.

  “You’re sweet.” Marie refilled her glass from the pitcher; foam slipped over the rim. “Oops,” she said. She lowered her mouth to the glass and slurped away the excess.

  Birdie smiled. If Jody or Charlie had done such a thing in public, she would have been mortified; but watching Marie it seemed perfectly reasonable—more logical, certainly, than wiping the glass with a napkin, which would make a sticky mess.

  Birdie giggled. Marie looked at her, quizzically at first; then she too began to laugh.

  Perry returned with two glasses and sat down next to Birdie. “What’s so funny?”

  Marie laughed louder, a shrieking sound.

  “Nothing,” said Birdie.

  “I brought you a spare,” said Perry. “Save me a trip.”

  “Thank you,” said Birdie. She gulped the drink.

  “We’re going to take a short break,” the Negro said into the microphone. His voice was very deep. “Back in ten.”

  “Excuse me,” said Birdie, getting to her feet. She wove her way through the crowd. Her legs felt loose and warm; the drink was stronger than she’d imagined. In the ladies’ room she waited for a stall, her bladder heavy as a melon. Women stood three deep at the mirror, brushing, powdering, fixing lipstick. A short brunette teased her fallen beehive with a rattail comb.

  Some time later she was walking across the room; time had begun to quicken and slow, back to its old tricks. Thunder rumbled in the distance. “It’s raining,” the Negro crooned into the microphone. “Another rainy night in Georgia.”

  Birdie approached the small stage; she stood at the edge of the dance floor, swaying slightly to the music. The singer was young, handsome in his dark suit; his hair was neatly parted, slicked with something to make it shine. He’s about Curtis’s age, she thought. She hadn’t seen Curtis Mabry in nine years, had never seen him as a grown man. He might, she thought, look exactly like this.

  She turned and made her way through the tables, her hand trailing over the backs of empty chairs. The crowd had thinned; couples headed toward the door, hoping to beat the storm. Across the room Marie’s blond hair was bright as a lighthouse; the rest of the room bobbed like a boat on a choppy sea. I’m drinking too much, Birdie thought.

  Perry looked up from the table. “Where have you been? We thought you fell in.”

  Outside, a clap of thunder sounded. The Negro sang: “Seems like it’s raining all over the world.” Then the room went dark. The air filled with gasps, laughter, a smattering of applause.

  “Ooh!” Marie squealed from across the table.

  “Power’s out,” said Perry. Then, without warning, Birdie felt his hand on her thigh, his mouth at her ear, breathing warmly. In the next moment the lights came back; the room filled with groans. Instantly Perry’s hand was gone, so abruptly she could have imagined it.

  Lou got to his feet and reached for Marie’s hand.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” said Marie. “Things are just getting interesting.” She lit the wrong end of a cigarette and tossed it, disgusted, into the ashtray.

  Perry stood. “Us too. Time we hit the road.”

  Birdie rose. She felt unsteady on her feet. “It was nice meeting you,” she said to Marie. She still felt the imprint of Perry’s hand on her thigh.

  “You two be good,” said Marie. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  They made their way to the door. To Birdie the crowd seemed liquid, parting gently to let them pass. Outside it was raining hard, the drops shattering where they hit the pavement.

  “Oh no,” said Birdie.

  “It’s just water,” said Perry.

  He took her hand and they ran across the parking lot, puddles bursting beneath their feet. I’m drunk, Birdie thought. Her foot landed hard in something cold.

  “Wait,” she cried. “My shoe.” She ran back and retrieved the white pump, lying on its side in a puddle. She slipped it back on and followed Perry to the car.

  “Jesus,” he breathed, slamming the door behind him.

  Inside the car was quiet, the clatter of raindrops muted. Birdie raked at her wet hair. She was soaked through, her dress plastered to her skin, the outline of her slip clearly visible through the wet fabric. She crossed her arms over her chest.

  “Don’t,” said Perry. Then he reached across the seat and pulled her close. For a second she panicked; he was squeezing her too tight, her lungs wanted to expand but couldn’t. He kissed her hard on the mouth. His sour breath was oddly fragrant, like swallowing perfume. His cheeks were rough with invisible beard, a blond man’s trick.

  “You’re shivering,” he said.

  “Cold,” she said. Her legs felt heavy and lifeless, like something she’d have to carry. Perry eased her back across the seat and s
lid on top of her.

  “Better?” he said.

  She couldn’t answer him; they were joined at the mouth, an airtight seal. If she wanted to she could blow him up like a balloon; he would float above her, filled with her breath. She closed her eyes. Music in the distance; her body warmed where their chests met, a moist pocket of heat.

  His hand slid between them and fumbled at the buttons of her dress. “I’ve been waiting for this all night.” He pushed her slip aside and lifted out a white breast.

  “Pretty,” he said, and lowered his head to her chest. His mouth was warm; it seemed to pull a string inside her. In a moment she would unravel completely.

  He reached under her dress, rough palms snagging her stockings.

  This can’t be, Birdie thought.

  “Relax,” said Perry.

  The vague thrill of his mouth at her ear. She closed her eyes and thought of him and Marie dancing, hands touching, the proximity of their hips, the colored singer crooning into the microphone. His mouth was suddenly delicious. With her eyes closed the car seemed to spin; she imagined it boring into the earth like a corkscrew, scattering red dirt, screwing them down into the ground.

  She woke to the sound of bells, the bells of the Catholic church on the other side of the river. The sun lit the sky as if nothing unusual had happened. Birdie shifted, a small movement of head and neck. Her mouth was dry; pain covered her right eye and pulsed at the roots of her hair. She had been dreaming of Curtis Mabry.

  She sat up carefully and saw her yellow dress crumpled into a ball at the foot of the bed. Naked, she felt under her pillow for her nightgown and pulled it over her head. Her arms were crossed with sheet marks, her chest red and blotchy, scraped raw by Perry’s beard. She could still feel every place he’d touched her; her skin seemed unnaturally soft, like unbaked dough.

  No, she thought. Usually this was enough, this single word. But this time memory came in a wave. Perry’s mouth against her ear: “I’ll bet you’re a natural redhead,” he’d said, fumbling at her garter belt. “There’s only one way to tell.” His weight on her, pressing her down, slowly rocking. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll be careful.” At the end he withdrew from her, turned away in the dark. A single breath escaped his throat. A sound like raindrops on the vinyl floor mat, heavy as pearls.