by Helen Ellis
Maybe the spots were Sarina’s young blood. Maybe there’d been an accident and Mrs. Summers had hidden the ax in the trunk for safekeeping. Nicole liked the thought of mixing her O-negative with Sarina’s A-positive. No matter the method. No matter the pain. Within her hands, Nicole squeezed the metal head firmly. She watched the dark liquid slide out of her skin and coat the brown spots like paint.
Every night since she’d found it, she had polished the ax with rocks from the woods. The grating sound was soothing. The tip ever so bright. With every stroke, the blade got thinner. Nicole’s own destiny, razor sharp in her mind.
Nicole had tried everything to be with Sarina. She’d made the high school cheerleading squad. She’d flunked out and sabotaged the index-card war. She’d tried Tri Delta. She’d lived in Ree’s house. She’d shadowed her and studied her and been her companion. Her island. Her rock. But at the coronation, the crown would go down onto Sarina’s scrubbed scalp and, with it, the relationship for which Nicole worked so hard.
Unless Nicole made one last effort.
The lie she’d told Bitty Jack had been a good one. That they were the wronged trying to set their lives right. The truth was Nicole needed Bitty Jack for one reason: to help her hide Stewart after they’d gotten his costume. He was too heavy for Nicole to move alone. They could each take a leg. Work together as a team.
At halftime, Nicole would pull the ax from Big Al’s sleeve. She would hack Sarina in the throat, along her arms, across her face. Hopefully someone would shoot her to stop her. They’d have to kill her to stop her. They’d have to cut off her arms.
In heaven, Sarina would realize that Nicole’s love was what she wanted. She’d be willing and waiting. She’d wave at the gate. Nicole would come running and never have to let her go. She could hold on forever. Kiss her lips and brush her hair.
Sarina
BY OCTOBER, Sarina had done what no other Homecoming candidate had done in Bama history. While the Greek party had slated the queen slot for a perky Phi Mu, Sarina had spent September drawing an independent sympathy vote to go against the Machine.
She spoke in classes, at women’s groups. Anywhere people wanted to hear about the beautiful girl who had been damaged as a child in that Chickasaw toilet stall. It was amazing how the lie became more true each time she told it, with each detail she chose to add. Jack’s muddy boots. A broken blood blister on the tip of his thumb.
Some GDIs appreciated her struggle. Some simply savored Sarina turning on her own, standing up to the front-running Phi Mu who drank so much she puked at gymnastics meets. Sarina was a woman who could handle her liquor. She could handle most anything. Anything that came her way.
The Machine recognized this and, one week before elections, put their support behind the outspoken Tri Delt who’d split the vote. The Phi Mu was crushed, but Sarina didn’t care. She’d fought and she deserved it. She couldn’t wait to take that crown.
When Sarina rode the royal float into Bryant-Denny Stadium, ninety thousand faces would see her time had come at last. The day would mean more than a new dress for another special occasion. Her life would change forever. New doors open. Old challenges pass.
Bitty Jack
HOMECOMING DAY, Bitty Jack watched the parade on the TV in Stewart’s guest room. From those early mornings at the bakery, Bitty Jack knew that the participants had been lining up before dawn. Pledges and drum majors and all sorts of people would buy dozens of pastries for 5:30 feedings. Bitty Jack always imagined them there, backed up through downtown, warming their hands with hot chocolate she’d made.
Bert Hicks and his co-anchor were covering the parade from atop the roof of the Bama Theater. Although the marquis was lit up behind their shoulders, the commentators looked cold: Bert Hicks in orange hunting gloves and a sports coat, asking the weekend weatherman to come forward and show himself. “ ‘Mild and sunny,’ that’s a laugh!”
“Oh, Bert, buck up,” his co-anchor elbowed him. Half his age, she had been pulled in from the traffic helicopter as soon as Bert’s usual partner tossed her thin mints on a Brownie troop during the preshow. She’d told the producer, Morning sickness gets ’em every time. Barbara Bush pearls secured, she was raring to go. “Ready or not, here come the Shriners!”
Yes, there were the Shriners who were always in front. Turning circles for the crowd on their mini go-carts, their fez tassels twirled like pinwheel beanies on little boys. The Shriners was the oldest men’s club. For every parade, they deserted their lodge to lead hundreds of marchers, control their pace, and leave time to show off their motor skills through the minor twists and turns of the Tuscaloosa route.
The parade went down Greensboro Avenue or “First Street” as the yocals called it. All the big churches sat side by side: First Baptist, First Methodist, and First Presbyterian. Every weekend there was a wedding, rice strewn haphazardly along the edges of tar.
The parade took a right onto University Boulevard, which led into campus, most notably the Strip. As Bert Hicks and his co-anchor, who had started to wink as if they’d been partners for years, faded out for commercials, news cameras scanned the Strip restaurants and bars, freshly decorated during Paint the Town Red.
PTR was as traditional as Sing Night. Homecoming week, sororities painted business windows with red-and-white “Roll Tide”s and “Go Bama Go”s and “Welcome Home”s and portraits of Big Al, wild with excitement. The Booth, the Brass Monkey, and the Ivory Tusk oozed with Bama spirit, but Gallette’s was the most popular bar with the Greeks. Even the sidewalk out front was painted. There was a line to get in. It looked like a blood bath.
The Shriners were making so much noise gunning their engines and blowing their horns, the Central High School marching band was thrown off rhythm. County High’s band wasn’t too far behind. Tubas collided. Cymbals were dropped. “Baby Elephant Walk” sounded like “Drunk Baby Elephant on Big Elephant Tranquilizers.”
But the Million Dollar Band could always be counted on. With 330 members, nothing could distract them. They were a loud musical robot led by the beautiful Crimsonettes.
Bert Hicks said, “Ah, the beautiful Crimsonettes.”
“You know, I was a Crimsonette, Bert.”
“Really? How marvelous.”
In simpler terms, Crimsonettes were baton twirlers. With names like Chastity and Brandy and Coco Clementine, they filled out their uniforms before they even got dressed. White plastic boots zipped up to their knees. Shiny silver fringe swung from cleavages to meet the waistlines of their satin leotards. They wore rhinestone earrings and great big smiles. Sometimes they set their batons on fire. But not during parades. In the past, too many spectators were singed.
The Color Guard followed, each member carrying six-foot “Alabama” banners, the poles secured in small cups on their belts.
Bert Hicks said, “Note the recently added Rifle Line.”
“Ooo,” wink, wink, “I’d love to get my hands one of those. I bet I could flip it twenty feet still today!”
Bert Hicks seemed to shudder at the thought of his co-anchor with a big white shotgun and her assertiveness training.
Bitty Jack sat up in bed to get a closer look. Were those guns loaded? Were the girls who carried them more fierce than their long white dresses implied?
Bert Hicks said, “Looks like they’ll give the Crimsonettes a run for their money.”
His co-anchor pointed out that, in certain circumstances, batons could be considered the most brutal of lethal weapons.
Bert Hicks said, “Let’s hear that Alabama Fight Song.”
As if taking his cue, the Million Dollar Band burst into: “Yea Alabama! Drown ’em Tide!”
“Yea Alabama,” his co-anchor winked with the left eye this time. “Vanderbilt hasn’t beaten Bama in over twenty years.”
Bert Hicks said, “Well, let’s be honest here. You don’t schedule a Homecoming game with a team you’re gonna lose to.”
“Poor old Vanderbilt. You wonder why they keep showing up
.”
Bert Hicks loosened up a little. “With such a high level of academic excellence, you’d think they’d be smart enough not to come here and get their brains beat in.”
“Oh, Bert.” His co-anchor swatted his shoulder. “You are too mean.”
The Greek floats came next. Cross-dressing seemed the popular theme. Every house thought that they were the first to put girls in football jerseys and guys in cheerleading uniforms padded with Kleenex. When the Alpha Chi Omegas started to sing, Bert’s co-anchor joined in, bobbing in her seat every time she clapped her hands.
“Your sisters?” asked Bert.
“My sisters!” she signaled.
The Alpha Chi’s signaled back. The ATO men tried to steal the camera’s attention by doing stripteases and hanging upside down off the side of their float.
“They’re crazy,” Bert’s co-anchor said with a giggle.
The black fraternities were something else. They walked like soldiers, but dressed in crisp tuxedo shirts, tuxedo pants, and patent leather shoes. Accessories were simple: suspenders, cummerbunds, and magician-like canes. They stopped at every block and performed excerpts from their Homecoming step-shows. Their feet kept a beat apart from the band’s.
The law school float followed.
Bert Hicks said, “Now that’s what we all get out of bed to see.”
The law school float was a fifteen-foot flatbed covered in drunk third-year law students screaming crude remarks. They wore frock coats and plastic bowler hats. Groucho glasses, mustaches attached. There was no other sign of decoration. Not one crepe paper pomp stuck to a shoe.
Dorm floats came after. Then honor societies: Mortarboard, Jasons, then Thirty-One. The grand marshal was near the rear. Some alum Bitty Jack had never heard of. In past years, she’d recognized Jim Nabors from Gomer Pyle. She’d eaten at Joe Namath’s restaurant. She’d known Sela Ward.
But the Homecoming court was what the crowd had been waiting for.
Bitty Jack raised the volume as if it were a zoom control. The Channel 5 camera focused in on a trail of convertibles. Homecoming runner-up. Runner-up. Phi Mu. Then came Sarina. The winner. Machine Queen. She sat in the backseat, her butt on the boot. She wore a pink wool suit and black patent heels. On her head was the crown from the pep rally last night. The former queen had passed it on, on the steps of Gorgas Library, in front of the bonfire, on the center of the Quad. On the convertible, Sarina looked happy. Happier than Bitty Jack. The happiest one there. She waved to everyone as if everyone were waving back.
Bert Hicks said, “Isn’t she a sight for sore eyes?”
Bitty Jack wondered if she would be for long. Nicole had never told her what she had in store for Sarina. What her great plan was. What would be done. Maybe Nicole would dump the classic bucket of pig’s blood à la Stephen King. Maybe de-pants her. Could she have rigged Sarina’s dress? Maybe Nicole would just steal her crown. Maybe beat her up. Coldcock her. Snatch her bald-headed. Maybe she would scar Sarina’s pretty face for life. Whatever it was, was okay by Bitty Jack. As long as Nicole got onto that float. As long as Nicole got to Sarina.
Behind the court the cheerleaders followed. The girls hung on to the sides of the campus fire-truck. The boys held megaphones and shouted from the seats. The station was thirty feet from Bryant-Denny Stadium, where the parade dispersed. The cheerleaders cheered all the way there.
With them was Big Al, the much anticipated caboose. He straddled the firemen’s ladder, which jutted out from the back of the truck. His big feet dangled. From his over-the-shoulder bag, he tossed Dum Dum Pops and Now & Laters. To grab the candy, Stewart sported his white polyester gloves. They were stretched across his hands, his fingers stubby at the tips.
Bitty Jack worried that, during the football game, the coach or cheerleaders might recognize those hands. Nicole’s were half the size of Stewart’s. The gloves would be loose. What if they realized that Stewart wasn’t in there? What if Nicole didn’t move like Stewart’s Big Al? Stewart bounced and prounced and dove. He wore that costume like those gloves fit his hands. He was comfortable inside. The weight of the elephant head as light as a cap.
When the parade ended, Bitty Jack went to the stadium to find Stewart.
At 11:00 A.M., the campus was crawling with all the people who were going to fit in that stadium, which, when full, constituted the fourth largest city in Alabama. Most everyone was dressed in red-and-white combinations. Men wore boutonnieres. Women’s dresses and sweaters sagged from the weight of grapefruit-sized mums, with pipe-cleaner-made “A”s glued to the petals, pinned above their hearts. The saying was “You got to have a shelf to hold the books.” Without a C-cup or better, Homecoming chrysanthemums hung from clothing like tired, hungry children.
Kick Off on the Quad had started right after the parade. Bitty Jack parked the Taurus behind Gorgas Library. Before she walked around it, she heard music from a radio station broadcasting the pregame show from a stage on the steps.
Tents and booths covered the lawn. There was one for every school: Engineering, A&S, Business, you name it. Alumni had a tent. Bama Boosters had a tent. Alabama Power had one with a ten-by-twelve dance floor. The Waysider dished out their secret recipe biscuits. The smell of Jimmy Dean sausage filled the air like napalm.
Bitty Jack moved on. No one paid her any mind. She was just another student with a canvas backpack. A young woman on her way to the game of the year.
Bryant-Denny Stadium was so big it looked like the flying saucer that so many residents had spotted for generations had finally quit teasing and landed smack dab in the middle of town.
RVs surrounded it. Portable TVs lit up the windows. Mini-grills warmed all sorts of cured meats.
Fraternity pledges in khaki pants and navy blue sports jackets staggered past the ticket takers. It was their job to arrive early, save Actives seats, and keep their intoxication at a respectable level. Except for inside the president’s box, alcohol was illegal within the stadium. The frat boys’ pants always bulged in weird places. In their briefs, they hid flasks filled with Jim Beam or Crown, Canadian Mist or Southern Comfort.
Known to stadium security as Big Al’s girlfriend, Bitty Jack passed through the player’s entrance with no trouble at all.
The locker room was empty as Bitty Jack had predicted. An hour and a half before kick-off, the players, still in suits, walked the field from end zone to end zone. It was a Homecoming tradition. A psych-up for them. A psych-out for the opposing team.
As Bitty Jack approached Stewart’s dressing room, she pulled her copy of his key from her pocket. She knew that he would be there soon. He never missed a chance to wash up between extended performances. She put the key in the lock, but found the door already opened.
Inside Nicole was waiting, the small of her back against the utility sink.
“I picked the lock.”
Bitty Jack said, “You did more than that.”
Helmets, kneepads, and footballs covered the floor. The four lockers stood open. Their ancient contents laid out and rooted through. Nicole held the overhead lightbulb in her hand.
Bitty Jack said, “What were you looking for? We’ve got to put this away.”
Nicole and she hurried, shoving stuff into lockers, anxious with the certainty that Stewart was near. Bitty Jack remembered to secure the door from inside. A few minutes later, Stewart’s key slid in the lock.
Bitty Jack and Nicole moved quickly for cover. Each fit her body between the wall and a locker, the utility sink between them, barely visible to the other.
Bitty Jack whispered, “What’ll we do?”
Nicole hissed, “Be quiet! Just do what I do.”
Big Al’s head under his arm, Stewart lumbered in and yanked the overhead string to turn on the light. Jerk. No light. Jerk, jerk. Not a spark. Stewart looked up to find the bulb was plum gone. He looked left, he looked right, turned around to face the door. Bitty Jack got worried, but Stewart shrugged. The janitor probably took it. He’d knock on the door
soon enough with a replacement.
Stewart put Big Al’s head onto the wooden crate. The combination lock hung undone. There was nothing to protect. Everything in the crate was on Stewart’s body. But not for long.
Stewart started to undress. He stood between Bitty Jack and Nicole. When he bent down to take off his elephant feet, Bitty Jack looked across his back and saw Nicole’s eyes, bloodshot and wide, carefully, consciously watching him too. Bitty Jack was surprised at how possessive she felt. She didn’t like Nicole seeing what only she was once privy to see.
He stripped down to his boxers, laid his costume in pieces across the crate to air out. He slid off his shorts and Bitty stopped breathing. She had seen him do this at least a hundred times, before games, in her dorm room, under the bleachers, by Chickasaw Lake. Every time he did it, Bitty got a little thrill. To see him naked, crouching over, coming toward her, hands outstretched.
Bitty Jack had not seen Stewart this way for a very long time. She liked what she saw. She thought about calling the whole damn plan off.
Stewart rolled a bar of Irish Spring under the running water. He soaped his pits and his privates, his face, ears, and hair. As he reached for a sponge, Bitty Jack saw Nicole move. She edged down the wall and, in her hand, Bitty saw something large, round, and white.
Nicole stepped out of the darkness. Stewart heard her and turned.
Before he could wipe the soap from his eyes, Bitty Jack saw Nicole hike a football helmet high in the air. The spit-tarnished face guard was caught in her grip. She swung it full force across Stewart’s wet face.
He fell and Nicole jumped on his back. Stewart had no time to react. He looked shocked in his circumstances: no clothes and the white-and-crimson helmet coming down out of nowhere.
Nicole hammered his head. She pummeled him. She was determined.
When Bitty Jack saw blood, she said, “Nicole, that’s enough!”
“He’s not unconscious.”
“He is. Look how slow he’s breathing. It’s like he’s asleep.”