Once There Were Sad Songs

by Velda Brotherton

  At the table, Lefty sat with his chin propped in his hand and glowered like a sulking possum. If the Cajun didn't stop pouting, he'd come down on him. He was actually looking forward to the woman messing with his hair, so he ignored a situation that usually set him off. Behind him, she shifted, her breasts lightly brushing against his bare back. Damn, she smelled good. Like someone had sliced into an apple. Being this close to her made him feel like he was sitting in a field of wildflowers eating a slice of warm applesauce cake. A kid, waiting for whatever life might bring, but only knowing what he had at the moment. Not having the foggiest what was yet to come. Surely if he did, he'd run like hell.

  There was still time to stop this, but he didn’t. He could endure the ridicule that would follow. “Well, let’s get started,” he said, still not sure she would go through with it.

  The damned hair hanging halfway down his back was heavy anyway. Grown man wearing a braid made him look like some ridiculous, over-the-hill hippie, bopping around trying to set off the establishment. With hot weather coming on, short hair’d be a nice change. Then he could keep it halfway clean, if he were so inclined.

  Shadow returned with a T-shirt that had definitely outlived its worst days. “Tie this around him. After, we can burn it.”

  “Yeah,” Lefty growled. “With his hair stuck to it. Witches burn hair and cast spells. Don’t give her any of your nail parin’s, ole son.”

  Not in the least offended, she retorted, “Don’t be such a sore loser,” and adjusted the shirt around Steven’s neck.

  The remark added to Lefty’s resentment, and he swelled up like a toad frog. Ignoring him, Steven pulled his head down between his shoulders, closed his eyes and let out a pitiful sound.

  “Poor baby.” Her fingers closed around the braid. “Sit up. You look like a turtle with your head drawn in.”

  Steven grimaced. Shadow stomped the ground and cheered. Lefty chortled in spite of himself, then glanced around like he was afraid he would be excluded because of his bad behavior.

  Steven hunched deeper.

  “Sit up straight.”

  For a minute he thought she might box his ears. “Yes, Teach.” He squinched one eye open, saw Shadow’s wide grin out of the corner of his eye. “Please be gentle with me.”

  Everyone laughed, especially her.

  He felt a severe tugging as she sawed away, the blades hacking laboriously through the thick twisted strands. He moaned. Up to that moment, he'd really believed she'd back out.

  “Hush,” she said, without even a pause in the shearing.

  His friends egged her on, yelling in unison, “Cut, cut, cut,” while they stomped the ground and clapped. Lefty appeared to have recovered sufficiently to give him a hard time.

  “Buttheads,” he shouted. “I’ll get you for this.”

  Eyes sparkling, she stepped in front of him, held the severed braid high above her head and did a silly little dance. This was the woman hidden beneath all that prim and proper snootiness. Enjoying the hell out of this, and maybe it was the first time in a long time. Considering what they’d done to her the night before, she deserved to celebrate her clever win.

  “Go ahead, have a ball at my expense. She scalps me and the two of you celebrate. I’ll get you, all of you.”

  Before he could rip the T-shirt from his shoulders and escape, she pushed him back down. “I’m not finished yet.” Draping the braid over the log, she studied him straight on for a moment, then began to cut away. Along one side, across the back, over the other side, until locks of his streaked blond hair lay scattered about on the ground.

  Snippets floated in bars of sunlight, gleamed in the perspiration along her bramble-scratched flesh and worked under the makeshift cape to itch his skin.

  As a final insult, she trimmed the sideburns close. “You might want to shave them shorter. Not all the way, about here.” She lay a finger at an angle to his earlobe. At last she finished, stood there a moment studying her handiwork, then lifted his chin. As their eyes met, big fat tears rolled down her cheeks.

  Damn. Now what’d he done? “Hey, what’s wrong?”

  Slowly, she shook her head, dropped the scissors, and covered her eyes with both hands, shoulders shaking.

  “What’s the matter with her, man?” Shadow asked, keeping a wary distance.

  Lefty attempted to appear unconcerned, but kept darting glances her way.

  Embarrassed and at a total loss, Steven reached out to touch her, thought better of it, and stood there with one hand raised. “Aw, hell, don’t cry. One thing I can’t stand is a woman crying.”

  “Me either," she said. "I hate crying mewling women.”

  “Well, then, why are you doing it?”

  “Your beautiful hair. I’m slmpfry.” The word was lost in a fresh spate of woeful despair.

  She might’ve said she was sorry. He couldn’t be sure.

  “Hey, man, do something,” Shadow sidled nearer. “She sick, or what?”

  “She’s sorry, I think,” Steven ventured.

  “For what?”

  “Said something about my beautiful hair.”

  “Well, do something, man. Hell, it wasn’t all that beautiful. Can’t you pat on her or something?”

  “Pat on her? Pat on her? I never did know what to do with a bawling woman. I’m sure you’re not supposed to pat on them.”

  Lefty made a rude noise but shut up when Steven glared at him.

  She continued to cry into her hands.

  “This is downright pitiful,” Shadow said.

  “Teach, if you’d stop crying, we could maybe help you,” Steven said.

  “Stop calling me that,” she wailed.

  Feeling foolish, Mary Elizabeth peered through spread fingers at the three men, standing before her and gaping. Helpless to do anything but make stupid jokes.

  “Then what should we call you?” Steven asked.

  She tried to stop crying, but it seemed as if every reason in the world to do so had piled onto her at once. Deserting her husband, who had no idea what he might have done wrong, doing such a foolish thing as to run away and leave no return route open. A woman without a home and having a midlife crisis deserved a little cry, didn’t she? It wasn’t his hair, not exactly.

  “Murmple Elispeles umph, slorpy.” She mumbled her name into her cupped hands.

  “Oh, that’s your name? Really. Murmple Elispeles umph says she’s slorpy, guys. Your mother had quite an imagination. Did you get back at her for calling you that?”

  Sucking in a deep breath, she hiccoughed loudly and tried to make herself understood. It was no use.

  “Okay, fellas. I would like to introduce you to Murmple Elispeles umph. Is that right, darlin’?”

  His fingers lifted a lock of damp hair from her cheek and she peered between spread fingers. “Idiot.”

  “Oh. Idiot. It was hard to understand you with your hands over your mouth. I’m sorry, but I prefer Murmple Elispeles to Idiot.”

  “Aren’t you ever serious?” She swiped at wet cheeks with the backs of her hands and choked on a giggle that boiled into her throat. She hadn’t giggled in thirty years or more, she was sure.

  “Aren’t you ever not?” Steven shot back. “You know, I think I remember hearing your name before. Some long drawn-out thing that doesn’t fit you at all. Mary Elizabeth, isn’t it?”

  She nodded. “Yes, fool. You know my name.”

  “Well, while Mary Elizabeth does make more sense than Murmple Elispeles, or whatever, it’s still quite a mouthful. Suppose I want to tell you there’s a bear on your tail? By the time I’ve yelled ‘Mary Elizabeth, there’s a bear on your tail,’ he’d probably have you all et up.”

  Everyone laughed at Steven’s silliness, clearing the air a little.

  “Well, isn’t that all better now?” Patting at his short hair, he tilted a look at her. “I think I like it. Feels like my head weighs forty pounds less.”

  The sketch artist slashed a few tiny crinkles at the corners of e
yes that looked at her rather than past her, brightening the ragged features that had seemed incomplete when she first met this man.

  She gave him back a smile to match and felt the joy of it on this glorious warm morning.

  He took a labored breath and stepped back away from her, eyes darkening to the color of ashes. What had she done or said? Shivers rode through her.

  The sensual expression melted with a shake of his head. “You know, darlin’, a sexy broad like you deserves a better name. I like Liz. How about you guys? It fits better than Mary Elizabeth or even our favorite Mumpsy Ellispelle. Certainly better than Teach, too. And it’s quick to say if a bear ever gets after her, huh?”

  “I wouldn’t advise you to call me a broad again.” Her words were lost in the bout of teasing from all sides. Well, almost all.

  “I like it,” Shadow said, always willing to play along.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” Lefty muttered and stomped away. “Better hide that damned braid. She’ll be burning it and hexing you yet. Mark me, ole son.”

  No one acknowledged the comment. The man was determined to be miserable and do his best to be sure others were too. His brash and sarcastic manner annoyed her, but she decided to ignore it for the time being. He didn’t like her, and she didn’t care much for him, either. If she remained here, sooner or later they would clash. But then, she didn’t intend to stay long, did she?

  The brief time she would spend with these three ragtag biker hippies would certainly not be the new life for which she searched, but rather an interim until she could paste the pieces back together and make some decisions.

  “Well,” Steven said, and picked up the scissors and handed them to her.

  “Yes,” she replied. The haircut had altered his looks drastically, lent a softness to his angular features so that he didn’t appear so wild, so harshly frightening. He needed a shave, but the pale stubble lent only a light shadow to his cheeks. The fun of their little game had added warmth to the icy gray eyes so they were a denim blue.

  He tolerated her stare briefly, then, as if spurred by an invisible command, began to stir around looking for something else to occupy his attention. They appeared to have thought better of cutting the irascible Lefty’s hair, and she couldn’t blame them much.

  “Well,” she said again.

  “Yes,” Steven said.

  “I guess I’ll see you.” She moved away, feeling awkward.

  “I appreciate the haircut, I surely do.”

  She nodded an acquiescence.

  What had happened between all of them was more important than a game and its consequences. She struggled to put it into a proper perspective but without a lot more thought couldn't manage. And maybe in the end all of it would mean nothing, but she didn’t want to believe that. She felt different, changed in some imperceptible way, and not for the worse, either.

  Back at the campsite, she fetched the Stephen King novel, spread a quilt in the shade, and lay down on her stomach to read. But it was no use. Much as she was enjoying this quiet time and the book, her busy mind continued to interrupt the flow of the written words. After she’d read an entire chapter without registering a word, she marked her place and laid the book aside.

  Thoughts of Reudell would not leave her be, and so she let them in. Deal with them now or later. She pictured him finding the note propped on the kitchen table. Imagined him reading the brief words she’d scribbled on the back of the rural electric bill, pointing at each one with the blunt, nail-less tip of his index finger, the one he’d cut off with the chainsaw long before they’d met.

  Reudell, I’m sorry to leave this way, but I have to be alone for a while. I will let you know where I am and what I decide to do.

  No signature at all because she couldn’t think of a way to sign.

  Had he confided in Brother Henry Cahill, whose wife Margery had run off a couple of years earlier with a Goodyear tire salesman from Fayetteville? Looked to him for solace? They’d certainly have a lot in common. But he might not do that, for at the time he’d made a point of instructing Brother Cahill on how to keep a good woman. Now that he had failed to do just that, how would he face those in the congregation? Perhaps he could unburden his soul to Brother Edward, who had so admired her breasts beneath the white baptismal robe.

  Come Wednesday night worship services, women would huddle in their corner of the church, men in theirs. Members of each group locking hands and praying themselves into harsh crying jags that always made her sick to her stomach. Testifying, confessing aloud to their vengeful God. Pleading with the Lord to save Reudell’s wicked wife’s wayward soul. Pleading with the devil to turn her loose, predicting dire punishments for her in the next life.

  And Reudell, standing at the pulpit come Sunday evening, taking his turn at testifying, baring his own tortured soul. Choosing perhaps his favorite sermon on the evilness of sex for anything other than procreation. Abstinence, he would shout. And he could shout that word with such vehemence as to make one and all shudder.

  And the praying. The incessant, self-righteous prayers they would say over her pathetic, martyred husband.

  “Oh, dear Lord, help this poor wretch. Be with him in his time of need. We are all sinners, Lord, and we just ask you, Jesus, to cleanse our souls, and most especially to cleanse the soul of sister Mary Elizabeth and help her see the error of her ways. For as Lot’s wife was turned to a pillar of salt for daring to disobey you, Lord, so shall this evil woman suffer.”

  And Reudell, poor Reudell. It certainly was not his fault that his thankless, godless wife had deserted him.

  She pressed her fist against her chest so hard it hurt. The pain brought her back to the honey-warmth of this perfect place, drove away the ugly daydreaming.

  Her belly growled and rolled over, begging to be fed. The night before, she’d dumped her stew out in the woods, and then, after cavorting much of the night, had eaten no breakfast this morning.

  She opened a can of tuna, spooned a dollop of mayonnaise into it, and ate it with crackers. Carrying a couple of oatmeal cookies and a glass of lukewarm lemonade, she sat on the quilt to eat and drink, then lay down. She must have slept, but she had no idea how long when a most god-awful, unholy noise like the roar of exploding thunder and a hundred kids yelling awoke her.

  Squinting into a bright sun, she dismissed the idea of a thunderstorm. The dreadful racket shook the earth beneath her feet. Muttering under her breath, she started in the direction of the parking lot, from whence the noise came. She stepped on a pine cone and went back to slip her feet into sneakers, and by then was awake enough to realize she wasn’t under attack.

  As she came in sight of a huge black cloud of thick smoke, three glowing eyes emerged from the billowing exhaust and headed at her, silver dressing shimmering in bars of sunlight.

  Horrified, she backed off. What now? The motorcycles halted abreast of one another, roaring like demons. On each one sat a man, wearing a leather vest over a bare chest, ragged cutoffs, heavy boots and expressions that bordered on derangement. It was definitely time to rethink the wisdom of being here, placing herself at the mercy of these misfits. They revved the engines, grinning madly, rocking their bikes backward and forward as if getting set to leap the fence and come after her. Even Steven had gone berserk, short hair and all. Only scant hours ago he’d seemed almost normal.

  Clapping both hands over her ears, she shouted, “Shut those noisy things off, now. Shut them off!” They paid absolutely no attention. This was worse than attempting to deal with a roomful of rowdy sixth graders on the last day of school.

  Of course they couldn’t hear her demand, and probably wouldn’t care if they could. Instead, they laughed and revved those ridiculous engines even louder. One separated himself from the pack and rolled toward her, booted feet balancing the bike on either side, until the wheel bumped the low railing along the edge of the parking.

  She faced up to Steven, planted her fists on both hips, and put on her very best teacher’s glare. How
brave of her, while her insides quivered like yellow Jell-O in a bowl. Yellow Jell-O in a bowl. Despite herself, she grinned, feeling silly.

  He grinned back, obviously imagining she was joining in on the fun. Then he spread his legs even wider and cut the ignition. When he shut off his bike, the other two let theirs idle in a dull rumble that was oddly disconcerting.

  “Care for a ride, Liz?” Mockery distorted his handsome features into an evil leer.

  She had misjudged him. He was truly nothing but a mad savage. “No, I would not care for a ride. What I’d like is for you to stop that infernal racket. This is not a racetrack. It’s supposed to be a place where normal people can get some sleep without rowdies disturbing them. You woke me up.”

  “Sleeping in the daytime is for old folks, Teach.” Leaning backward, he crossed bare arms over his stomach. The movement tightened his thigh muscles, spread the worn denim of the ragged jeans tightly over his groin.

  Her eyes remained glued to that spot just long enough for him to catch her at it and laugh.

  “Aha. For a minute there, I thought Teach had returned, but I see Liz is here after all.”

  Heat flushed up from between her breasts and crawled up her throat. “You are a disgusting man.”

  Palms spread wide, he baited her. “I’m not doing anything.”

  “Just what are you doing, Steven?”

  Abruptly, his mocking expression faded, and he kicked the engine to life, slewed the back wheel in a huge half-circle, lifted his legs and roared away on the beast, spewing gravel that bit into her legs and brought tears to her eyes.

  The other two followed him. Disappointment sharp, she stared after them until they faded into the wavering heat rising from the pavement.

  What had she expected? He was nothing but an arrogant son of a bitch.

  At the wicked thought, she clapped a hand over her mouth. She might have fled her husband’s church, but the Lord wasn’t so easily left behind, and she went back to her tent, stomped inside, and threw herself onto the sleeping bag like a fifteen-year-old. The man had driven her even farther than Reudell had ever managed, and she prayed for forgiveness to the God she’d left behind so casually.