Only the aroma from the kitchen, spicy and pungent, transported my thoughts from my head to my stomach. After ordering the shrimp quiche, Elizabeth and I flared into conversation.
Eager to turn my lunchtime thoughts to pleasantries, I asked, “Is Felicia seeing anyone? I hesitate to ask at home. The last I remember she was heartbroken over the Canadian boy.”
“Not anymore. He calls occasionally. I think she’s resolved that she’s not moving to Canada. And what would he do in Delta Ridge? He came down for a few days at Christmas and remains interested, so her ego’s intact. She has her friends here from high school. Right now her job as assistant manager at the country club is still new and challenging. That seems to be enough. She’s only twenty-three, and I doubt she’ll marry before she’s thirty.”
“Like me.”
“Yes, like you, and that’s a good thing. I’m proud of both of you. You’ve gotten your educations and established careers before you committed yourselves to marriage and family. You got to be people first and foremost. I think that’s important.”
“You mean, unlike you and Victoria.”
“Holly, your mother and I are products of a different age. In those days, that’s what southern girls did. We never knew we had other options, so in a way, we didn’t. We weren’t fully formed. Our identities came from the husbands we were able to attract and later, from our children.”
“But you’ve had your career, too.”
“Yes, the hard way. Three husbands who wanted me to live through them while they lived off Carter money? No, thank you. I’ve married my last son-in-law.”
“Was my father a ‘son-in-law’?”
“You know he wasn’t. Tom, your father I mean, had an opportunity for an executive position with a petroleum company in Oklahoma City, but your mother couldn’t wait to get back to Delta Ridge. Tom was an asset to the firm and an excellent prosecutor, one of the most honest men I ever knew. The house we’re living in is the only thing he ever took from Ham, and he didn’t want that. But what could he say? It was a wedding present. He finished law school in May; they married in June, honeymooned in Bermuda, and then came back to Delta Ridge.”
My thoughts settled on my father. I miss him.
“Good grief, it’s almost 1:30. Where am I going?” I asked Aunt Elizabeth as I pushed my chair up to the table and leafed through bills for a tip.
“Simon’s in Sally’s old shop, on the other side of the square. Do you remember? Just walk in and ask for Simon.”
I noticed the changes in the square, the new dress shops, the patisserie, the pizza places, as I shuffled into the shop that used to be Sally’s. But now, SIMON’S in white caps rippled across a green canvas awning over the door. Once inside, I was transported to a big-city salon of chrome, glass, burgundy walls, and art deco mirrors.
“Yes?” The blonde girl with blue eye shadow at the counter asked as she appraised my clothes. She seemed to resolve that I was in the right place, that nobody in Delta Ridge sold bronze, sheer-wool Donna Karan suits or soft chestnut leather bags like the one on my shoulder. Passing muster, I was promptly escorted to the private shampoo sink where another blonde, this one a boy with slicked back hair, spiked on top, introduced himself as Dennis. Ten minutes later, I was emerging from the chair with what Dennis called a vegetable pack, and was seated under the dryer. In the mirror, I observed that under a plastic bonnet, my hair was dark green. Thirty minutes and a second shampoo later, I sat towel-headed and no longer green as an overwhelmingly red-haired girl approached and said, “Follow me.”
I began to think Simon was another Delta Ridge myth and wondered if I would get back to the office in time to do any work.
“Simon, your 1:30 is ready,” the escort said.
I looked up through my towel at the GQ model above me. Blonder than Adonis, taller than God. The blue eyes, the bronze face, the sharp chin were all entrancing. And I had always been more of the Daniel Day-Lewis type.
“Have a seat, Holly.” He toweled my hair carefully, in caressing circles. “Lovely hair, beautiful—enough for a pony. Virgin. Your hair has never been permed or stained.” Did that mean colored? Don’t tell him about the adulterated blonde streaks you once wore. He must not know you’d fallen. I was sure he must not look so adoringly at women who had lost their “virgin” hair.
“And the cut’s magnificent. It suits you. We’ll go back on the sides a bit. We can’t hide that face. And you need just a little off the length.”
Nearly an hour of meticulous fawning later, in post-coiffured bliss, I watched as a hunched man with graying hair swept my fallen red tresses from Simon’s parqueted floor. “A face that toils so close to stone is already stone itself,” my mind recalled the quote from Camus after looking at his face. I felt sad that the man was relegated to sweeping hair salon floors. His presence did not flaw the salon’s perfection, but instead, created authenticity. I was thankful. This place needs a dose of reality. My respect for Simon increased. He must be more sensitive to the plight of suffering humanity than his looks and surroundings would indicate. I left the shop feeling less vain than when I entered.
When I knocked on Elizabeth’s door, it was 3:30, but I would have willingly stayed for days, had Simon asked me.
“Holly, your hair is gorgeous. And that shine.” She sighed adoringly. “I swear the man’s an artist.” Elizabeth complimented herself on the recommendation.
“It’s the vegetable pack,” was all I could say. I hadn’t been able to stop gazing at myself in Simon’s many mirrors, as the Simon lookalikes and wannabes surrounded me and praised his work as if I were a Madonna on the Sistine Chapel ceiling and Simon, Michelangelo. “Who’s Avon Wallace?”
“Why do you ask?” Elizabeth looked surprised.
“Simon said she had the best head of hair in Carter County.”
“That’s ironic considering Avon Wallace is the Carter County cyclone. That woman has caused some of the worst devastation here recently since the tornado hit in ‘73.”
“Sounds interesting. Fill me in on her tonight?”
I worked until 7:00 with no interruptions. I had no clients of my own, so my phone hadn’t yet begun to ring, and the other partners and office staff left me alone to find my way through the mounting stack of law books on my desk. Since the cases were not mine, and I knew none of the principals involved, I worked more from discipline than true interest, although the files themselves taught me about parts of the county and the way people conducted their lives that were alien to me. My work with legal services had prepared me for the local poverty, but my clients had been mostly the elderly who were trying to survive on social security. Their problems were limited to difficulties with other family members, the state, or shysters who preyed on them and sold them fictional cruises and Winnebagos.
But as I prepared trial briefs, I saw the prosecution files were riddled with incest, child abuse, neglect, and sexual deviance as a family tradition of generations. The cases involving battery and murder of children sickened me most. In one, a sixty-five-pound boy had been his father’s punching bag for years, until the last lick caused brain hematoma and death. He was nine years old. In another, the babysitter’s boyfriend strangled an infant for crying and then stored him in an Igloo cooler for a week until the mother returned home and found him when looking for a six pack of Bud Light in the garage. Petty thievery, armed robbery of convenience stores, and drug use and distribution permeated the files. Most of the twenty-seven files on my desk, Michael told me, would be plea bargained. Too many cases and too few judges to try any but the most serious or heinous.
In my first year in legal services in Little Rock, I had had to learn detachment, to leave the files on my office desk, to keep the clients separate from my personal life. Otherwise, I would dream about their problems and awaken sharply to ancient, pitiful faces begging me to act quickly, to save them from their troubles and their pain. Once awake, I realized that I couldn’t even save them from the bureaucracy which frustra
ted me every day. I learned to work hard for my clients during the day, and I tried to detach from them at night, even though bar hopping and beer drinking were occasional catalysts. My pseudo detachment enabled me to stay in legal services far longer than necessary. I should have left sooner.
Now in Delta Ridge, things were different. Once home in the evenings, I was eager for food and family. The brain swelling of my monthly menses behind me, I looked forward to dinner table conversations with Elizabeth and Felicia. It was amazing to be near two of the family members I loved the most, the ones closest to normal. How good to be in the company of smart, pleasant, funny women who understood the world, at least better than I did.
I was amazed at how quickly I settled in. I thought without regret of all the years I had lived alone, but doubted if I could ever endure that solitary life again. I now realized that except for those times when I had been in love or in anguish over love, I had been lonely. I still doubted that I would ever be totally contented until I had a husband like my father, whom I both loved and liked—if such a man existed—and a child. But, at least for now, I was not lonely, did not experience that silent empty feeling. Somebody cared how my day went, wanted to spend time with me, missed me, wanted to know me again.
After dinner Aunt Elizabeth and I took coffee into the library to sit by the fire. Felicia returned to the club to assist with a private party. The black dog Victoria sent me, as both a gift and a stand in for her own presence, lay beside my chair near the fire. He greeted me with enthusiasm each night when I returned from work. I was beginning to wonder how people lived full lives without animals to love them. He seemed to understand my conversation. By the end of the week, I found myself thinking about him often during the day and worried that he was becoming my best friend.
“Holly, I need to discuss a problem,” Aunt Elizabeth said quietly.
I looked at her with dread. Everything is beginning to go so well. Don’t marry again and leave me, I thought.
“It’s Blue.”
I laughed involuntarily.
“No, I’m serious; he’s really becoming a problem lately. Twice this week he’s committed deliberate acts on the living room rug. They were not accidents. There’s also a hole in the carpet. Either Mr. Blue, Jigger, or a giant moth has eaten the yarn off a corner of the living room rug, a hand tied $10,000 rug. Not mine, your mother’s.”
I was worried. Did this mean I would have to give Jigger up? No, take up the rugs, we’ll live with bare floors. I hated the thought of parting with that dog.
“I think it was Mr. Blue. Cat shit ain’t dog shit, a wise man once said, and it doesn’t take a wise man to smell the difference,” Elizabeth admitted, her fingers tracing the rim of her mug, wearyingly. “Jigger has settled in. He seems calm and happy. I think he’s too old to be destructive. He’s the best trained dog I’ve ever been around. I’ve almost become a dog person myself. Blue is jealous, but I can’t let him destroy the house. I wonder if I should start looking for another home for him.”
I looked at the fat blue point Siamese cat on the couch beside her. He cast back a look of hostility. It seemed his clear blue eyes were slightly crossed. I thought he had a perverse streak, but I hesitated to complain about the fresh muddy tracks on the hood of the new green Bronco Ham had delivered for me Wednesday morning.
“Why don’t you give it some time, and see? Maybe he needs a little time to adjust to Jigger and me.” Enough cat talk. The thing is practically ninety. “Tell me about Avon Wallace.”
“It’s Dr. Avon Wallace—as in M.D.,” Elizabeth’s voice lightened. “She’s reported to have had affairs with half the men in town including several other doctors. So many that they joke about taking a number and standing in line.”
“Who is she? Where’d she come from? What’s she look like?”
“Goodness, Holly. She’s from here, out in the country somewhere. She went to the academy; you might remember. I guess she’s about thirty-five.”
“I don’t remember the name.”
“Wallace is her married name. I think she was divorced while she was in medical school. She kept the name. I gather her own was not one to be proud of.”
“What was it?”
“I’m trying to recall. She’s been back here about six years. In family practice, I think. Anderson. That’s the name. White trash.”
Delta Ridge Academy had been small in those days, and I vaguely remembered an older girl the others made fun of.
“Avon Anderson,” I recalled aloud. “That’s what she was called. A scholarship student. Her uniforms always looked like they came right off the clothesline and she had wild, dirty looking hair and thick old women’s glasses.”
“Not anymore. She wears contacts and starched doctors’ coats and drives a black Porsche. She hangs out at the Highline Club with whoever just left his wife, and some that haven’t yet. One night, two gynecologists, Charley Reams and Sam Oliver, got into a fight over her in the parking lot. They played bumper cars. It was about 3:00 A.M. and they’d been drinking all night. She showed up with Charley, but decided she wanted to leave with Sam, so Charley followed and kept banging into the back of Sam’s Jag with his Suburban. Did a lot of damage to Sam’s car. Somebody called the police, and all three of them cooled their heels in the police station until the chief got there and had them driven home. It was all over town. Three pillars of the medical community disturbing the peace.”
“Did their wives know?”
“Everybody knew. Carla kicked Sam out for a month. Charley and his wife have been off and on for years. I don’t know if they’re together now.”
“When did it happen?”
“Last year, I think. I can’t keep track. These days the Avon stories have replaced the Ham stories.”
“Did Ham ever…?”
“Good Lord, no! He’d given that up by the time she got here. Anyway, she’s apparently only interested in the married ones.”
“So, is her hair really that great?”
“She has lots of it. Dark. Simon gives her a good cut. It must be naturally curly, and thick, but I wouldn’t call it wild. In fact, the last time I saw her it was straight. Simon may be in love with her hair, but the doctors seem to like her body. Long legs, small waist, full bosom, you know, meets all the criteria.”
“I believe I’ve heard all I need to.” I figured feelings of jealousy toward the laughing stock I remembered from the academy must mean I was deliriously tired. “It’s my bedtime. Jigger, let’s go. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Aunt Elizabeth took our mugs to the kitchen, fluffing pillows behind her.
“You know, I seem to always miss Queen Esther. Tell her she left us a delicious dinner tonight. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight. Oh, Holly, I’m thinking about a trip to the farm this weekend.” Elizabeth stood under the archway to the kitchen, dishcloth in hand. “I finish at noon tomorrow, and I want to get away from other people’s problems for a while. Are you interested?”
I paused a moment before I answered. I needed to see Victoria and Grandmother, though I didn’t necessarily want to. Victoria’s moods were never predictable, but I knew the longer I waited, the greater the dread of the first visit would become. I didn’t like the thought of spending the weekend alone. Felicia would probably work.
“I guess I could take some files with me and work at the farm. I think I’m ready to get away too. Sounds good.”
“Oh, another thing, Michael told me today that the police arrested Jimbo Tice this afternoon for the murder of his grandparents. I guess Delta Ridge is safe again, and we can sleep well at night.”
“Was there ever any doubt?” I asked, not sure of the answer to the question. But, why hadn’t Michael told me yet? Or at least Ham could have told me. Information is power, and I don’t have any.
8 Weekend At The Farm
AUNT ELIZABETH AND I arrived at the farm Friday in time for dinner. Jigger seemed glad to see his grandmothers again, but he eyed their other hou
se guest suspiciously after my reprimand for nipping the man’s ankles. Alistar “Binky” Stewart was introduced as a friend who lived over at Eden Isle on Greers Ferry Lake. A dapper, tweedy man in his sixties, Binky was pleasant enough, smiling considerably more than he talked. I wondered whose friend he was or how close he was to them. He paid equal attention to both Victoria and Charlotte and called them both by their given names. A widower who had retired to the lake from his farm near Helena five years before, Binky seemed very much at home in Charlotte’s kitchen. I suspected that his presence contributed to my mother’s cheery mood.
“I thought you’d like Jigger.” Victoria glanced down at the dog now chewing at my feet to gain attention.
“He’s a full jigger.” I reached down and picked up the fat black animal who, having sniffed out the house, was now ready to leave it and wished me to have the sense to open the door for him.
“I think he’s a Heinz 57 Terrier, half-breed,” Victoria interjected, “but somebody in Hardy told me he’s a Pulie. I volunteer at the Batesville Humane Shelter once a week, and when he was brought in, I knew you had to have him.”
“I know. When Aunt Elizabeth surprised me with him, I said, ‘My God, it’s Posey come back to haunt me for leaving.’” The family cocker-poodle-Schnauzer-duke’s mixture for most of my childhood had been dead for ten years. Felicia diagnosed that she died of a broken heart after I left home. To assuage my guilt and doubting Felicia’s intimate knowledge of Posey’s feelings, Aunt Elizabeth surmised that old age and heartworms were the more likely culprits.
“Doesn’t Elizabeth look wonderful?” Victoria asked. “I think she’s lost at least twenty pounds in the year you’ve been away.” Studying Aunt Elizabeth’s face, the dark blue eyes, the fair skin and dark hair, I thought, how different we all look, yet how alike we are.
Victoria, I noticed, was thinner too, more fit; but, unlike the rest of us, myself, my grandmother, and my aunt, she’s not small boned, but rawboned. The features that appear aristocratic on Ham and delicate on Garland on Victoria are strong, almost masculine. The wide high brows, the straight noses, the square jaws that make the two men handsome make her the same. My grandmother, my Aunt Elizabeth, Felicia and I all have features that others would describe as soft, delicately pretty; but the fragility of spirit that made life difficult for Victoria is not betrayed by her face. Even her current handsomeness is nature’s concession to time and a strong personality.
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