I locked the door, stripped and raced to the mirror. I looked disappointingly like myself. The swollen lip felt worse than it looked. The red slap marks on my cheeks simply gave me a healthy glow. My mouth felt stretched all out of shape, but the skin wasn’t broken. My hair hadn’t all come out in Roy’s hands. As he’d said, it hadn’t hurt me much. At least as far as you could see. There was a hidden wide river of humiliation running from the top of my head where he’d yanked my hair down through my gut where he’d knocked the wind out of me, way past that little corner where all the shame was stored. This was new shame, requiring new storage units and more space. It went down even deeper, deep in my bowels causing my stomach to turn. I swallowed hard to keep from throwing up again and to get the taste of him out of my system—I could still smell him. I could actually taste disgrace. It was the nastiest taste of all. But not as nasty as fear. Roy’s threat was as real as the bruises on my face. He said he meant what he said and I didn’t doubt him for an instant. Life for a life. He’d take mine without batting an eye if I deprived him of his. His new life, his new-found happiness with Aunt Dell he’d searched for all his life. My sense of fair play made me accept his threat as reasonable. Accepting it, made it even more real. He hadn’t hesitated to knock me senseless. He’d forced me to perform that act. If he could use and abuse my body the way he had, he wouldn’t hesitate to carry it a few steps further. Oh my God. What in the world was I going to do? How in God’s name was I going to convince Sister it was a misunderstanding, a joke, anything before she told Aunt Dell what I’d said? If Aunt Dell ever had so much as a hint of what I’d said, I was as good as dead.
In clean neat short pants, scrubbed almost to the bone in an attempt to cleanse my soul, I started wandering around the upstairs of the house. I didn’t quite know what for. Searching for a way to clear myself with Sister and Roy, I guess.
I stood stock still in the hall and offered up yet another prayer for Junior’s recovery—God’s batting average had been pretty high when I’d called on him seriously before. I hoped He realized this one was a matter of life and death. Junior’s life and my death. If Junior were well, we could get the hell out of here and maybe the whole thing would blow over. For the first time I thought Arkansas might not be all that bad. At least it was a good distance from here. As usual, everything depended on Junior. Things didn’t go this wrong when he was here with us where he belonged. We all needed him.
Aunt Dell’s room told me very little—the back braces and orthopaedic shoes and bandages in the closet were innocent enough and even pathetic unless one knew that they were used for fraud. The word hit my brain like a gong. Fraud. Fake. Liar. Cheat. Criminal. Each word bonged until I shook my head to clear it. Roy was in this with her. He was just as guilty as she. What did she think when she opened the closet door and saw those things? They must be a constant reminder of the years she’d been living lies—swearing false statements, insisting to doctors of non-existent pain, remembering which foot to limp on, keeping track of where it was supposed to hurt. Didn’t seeing the evidence hurt? Perhaps the corsets, crutches, girdles, braces and bandages were all labeled and dated with careful bookkeeping—“Zest-O, 14 June 1937, $1500.” “J.C. Penney’s, 5 September 1938, $750.” “Sinclair Filling Station, October 1939 …”—creating a little horror museum of fake injuries. She stored her shame in the closet. At least she could close the door on it.
Sister’s room was stifling. No wonder she napped downstairs with Becky. Her suitcase was open on the floor beside a dresser, with bras, stocking suspenders and “half-slips” trimmed with lace frothing up over the edges. I dropped to my knees beside the suitcase. The exotic underwear was as transparent as cellophane and so light you could wad a slip into a small ball in your hand. Even my smallish hand which was now sporting a silver and turquoise ring I’d just found on top of the dresser and put on. The stone was cracked, but the color—it was the color that mattered—held me transfixed. Ever since I’d first seen the Arizona Indian jewelry, I’d longed for a ring. I’d have preferred one a little less damaged—one little silver bead on the side was missing—but it was real silver and real turquoise. It wasn’t fake. Damaged, but the elements were honest and true. I was feeling damaged too. Damaged and desperate. Sister was desperate, but how damaged? I held my hand up and stared at the stone, turning my hand this way and that. I had to have it. It was cracked and Sister was so fussy about what she wore, she’d probably give it to me.
I emptied the suitcase in order to fold the things properly and found the bottom layered with photographs—all the night club sort of flash photos and all with Sister. Sister always flashing those perfect teeth, eyes sparkling, dark hair pulled back showing off her high cheekbones—Delores Del Ozarkio. She really was beautiful. That crazy bartender was right. I remember how funny he’d been when we were there. “I am blinded by the beauty of Ginny,” or something like that he’d said and she’d handed him an envelope. It all came back to me now. She’d come out of the hotel… She’d obviously spent the night there, that’s why she ran across the street and came back pretending she’d just arrived. Why had she spent the night in the hotel? She wasn’t working at the Tucson Bar then, she was still working at The Ship. When she handed the bartender the envelope she’d said, “You take care of me, I’ll take care of you.” Could that mean … Oh damn! Junior! Where are you? You know the word I mean … the word for a man that arranges for men to have girls. The word didn’t matter. It all fell into place anyway. She was “on the game” herself. That was the expression she’d used about the other girl—the one who’d lie to the judge to punish Sister for something in order to protect herself. Was the other girl what Sister had said? If so, what was Sister?
I rifled through the photos again. The backgrounds were similar—always a bar or restaurant with bottles and glasses on the table. The only thing that changed was the men. They were never the same. Always a different man. I dropped the photos back into the case and absent-mindedly folded the gossamer garments.
Could I confront her with what I thought I knew? Could I use that to get myself off the hook with Roy? Make a deal with Sister that I wouldn’t say anything about her if she wouldn’t … The idea was so appalling that my stomach churned. The word blackmail came to mind. That’s what I’d actually been contemplating. Blackmail of any sort was beneath contempt. Could I stoop so low? How far was I willing to go to protect myself?
“Totsy, honey.” It was Sister’s voice from downstairs. “Where are you?” I was still kneeling beside the suitcase, a half-folded slip on my lap. How long had I been like this? The garment on my lap had spots all over it. I blinked and saw more drops hit and darken the sheer fabric—tears were sliding down my face in a steady stream. I wiped them away and stood up. What or who were they for? Sister’s lost innocence? Mine? I held onto the top of the dresser and shook my head from side to side. Could I bargain with my beautiful cousin—my favorite cousin? To even suggest to her that I thought she might be a … I couldn’t even form the word in my mind. What she was doing was her business. Nobody had the right to question her. Bargaining in that way was despicable—the most unmanly thing I could think of. If what she was doing was shameful, it was still her shame. She had to cope with hers like the rest of us with ours.
My own shame was oozing out every pore. There was no more room inside. I’d allowed grown men—granted I hadn’t much choice—to play kids’ games. And now I was a kid trying to play a man’s game. Roy hadn’t been just playing around, he’d been dead serious about everything. Dead being the operative word. Starting with the sex. I hadn’t known how to accept it or handle it on a man’s level and now I was in trouble. Big trouble. Like all of us, he had to do everything in his power to protect himself if caught in an embarrassing or shameful situation.
We were all trying to protect ourselves. Was that what life was about—adult life? Dad was trying to protect himself from disappointment—the dread possibility that Junior might not turn out to be the next
Babe Ruth. I was trying to protect myself from a growing and uncomfortable self-knowledge along with things more immediate like threats on my life. Sister was trying to protect her secret life. That’s what it actually boiled down to; protecting our secrets. Our guilts and our shame. I had almost unmasked Roy, but he caught me—I hope in time—and he had hit me, hit me hard. He got his message across—I was scared shitless and didn’t have a clue how I was going to get my message over to Sister.
“Up here,” I called. “Be right down.” I couldn’t get the ring off. I started sucking on my little finger to get it off as I walked down the hall and slowly descended the stairs.
“Becky’s beginning to stir,” Sister said as I went into the darkened sitting room.
“Uhumm.” I still had my finger in my mouth.
“You still suckin’ your thumb?” She laughed. “Come on over here. I thought I broke you of that a hundred years ago.”
“I got your ring stuck.”
“Well, we’ll just have to cut your finger off. Or better yet, why don’t you just keep it?”
“Can I? Can I really?”
“Sure. I found it. I don’t know why, but it makes me sad. Some young girl lost it.”
I leaned up against her and she put an arm around my shoulders lightly. It was too hot for a real embrace but she had always touched me and caressed me at every opportunity. In spite of myself, I melted with joy. As always. How could I believe what I’d pieced together was the truth? This beautiful creature couldn’t be anything but my beloved cousin. Adored and revered. Even if she had managed to put my neck in a noose and tightened the knot. The word noose gave me an idea and galvanized me into action. I had to do something. And this was my only opportunity. In order to get a head start, I had to bring up the subject before she did. With an inspiration born of desperation and self-preservation I launched into a monologue—talking as fast as I could, it had to be fast if it would work at all. “Hey, delicious Delores, our conversation got interrupted this morning. By a dog turd, if I’m not mistaken …” She was smiling. “Dog turds interrupting queers— whatever that is—or something like that. What I was going to say about Ro … Uncle Roy was that he was such a cowboy he reminded me of that old movie-star cowboy joke. You know it? The one where the cowboy’s so tough that he never even takes the woman’s hand—well, maybe if she’s drowning—or touches her or kisses her.” I started moving around with my legs comically (I hoped) bowed and holding imaginary pistols. “Ah mean, he’s so darned tough and mean and manly that he can spit a mile through his front teeth to put out fires when he wasn’t biting the heads off rattlers. You know the kind I mean? Makes Roy Rogers look like a sissy.” She was laughing now. “Well, since this powerhouse won’t hardly look at the girl in the film, at the very end the … Oh, what’s he called? The man who tells them what to do?”
“The director. Go on.” She seemed to be enjoying my performance.
“Well, the director says to him, ‘Well, Stud, what we’ll do right here at the end is just have you throw your arm over your horse’s neck and sort of lean your head next to him and kinda smile up at the horse like you was cuddlin’ up to the leadin’ lady.’ With that, Stud starts breaking up the joint. You’d think they were shootin’ another barroom fight. He was screaming and hollerin’ and carryin’ on like a pig under a gate. When they finally calmed him down, he was red in the face and sweatin’ and still yellin’, ‘You want me to nuzzle up to this here animal? Is that what you are suggestin’ I do? What the hell is the matter with you, you side-windin’ bastard? Don’t you know I cain’t do that? What in tarnation are you thinkin’ of? Why, this here beast is a stallion. What do you think I am, queer or something?”
I don’t know whether I’d won, but she was roaring with laughter. “Tots, you are kee-raaa-zy. I never heard that before.”
“It’s just that I figured Roy is about as un-queer as that guy in the story—I mean if I understand what queer means. As far as I know, I’ve never laid eyes on one. How can you tell a queer anyway?”
“Oh, honey, it doesn’t matter.” She patted me on the cheek. “I realize that you didn’t understand all of my story. You’re younger than I thought. If you don’t know what a queer is by now, well …” she threw her head back and laughed. “Well, just keep it that way.”
I turned to Becky. She was soaking. My hands were trembling as I changed her. Was I untrapped? Off the hook? Was my head out of the noose? I thought how things seemed to go haywire when Junior’s presence couldn’t be felt. I knew he was up there on the hill and would soon be all right, but I couldn’t shake the thought that he was letting me down somehow. Well, all of us down. He’d revealed a weakness, a physical weakness that wasn’t allowed him. He wasn’t supposed to have weaknesses like the rest of us. That showed him as being vulnerable. The rest of us were the vulnerable ones. He wasn’t allowed to have a flaw. While he was healthy, we stayed healthy. Now that he was powerless against his infections, our own personal infections would grow and fester. He was our medicine, our tonic—more than that, he was our rudder, our ballast, our stabilizer. I knew it couldn’t possibly, but just suppose something serious happened to him? What would become of us? Dad was already reverting to his irresponsible ways— his drinking was increasing daily and the foolish act of quitting his job went on beggaring analysis. And I knew I’d never—without Junior—be able to live within sight of Dad’s reproachful eyes. There was an expression going around, a slang expression that covered almost any situation: Forgive me for living. I’d have to adopt it for my life motto.
Mom’s eyes were depthless wells of pain and incomprehension already. Why was this happening to her? Whatever happened to her children happened to her too. But why was any of it happening—Dad’s behavior, the constant uprooting? Junior’s mysterious illness. If Mom withdrew any more, we’d never be able to find her. With whom would she share books, poetry, those long conversations and deep discussions that were over my head and in Dad’s own words “bored the shit” out of him?
I took a deep breath to dispel the gloomy thoughts. Junior is simply too special to each of us for anything to happen to him. Anything bad. A little sinus attack, for heaven’s sake. About as serious as “dying with a toothache in his heel.”
“Honey, you’re going to clog her up,” Sister said from behind me, watching me dust Becky’s bottom. “Thank God that’s powder and not cement.” Her teeth flashed. “I’d better go get powdered down and everything myself. Where’s Mom and Roy?”
“Went shopping.”
“Milly and Uncle Woody still at the hospital?”
“Yeah. They stay later today. Saturday. Visiting hours till six, I think.”
Sister started for the stairs and stopped. “Isn’t that Roy’s car? Yes, it is. I’ll go help them unload.” She flew past me as I took Becky into the kitchen and put her bottle on to heat. I looked over my shoulder and saw Sister and Roy with their heads together on the far side of the car. They were laughing uproariously. Is that all it took to smooth out the waves? The oldest cowboy story in the world? Mingled with some barely convincing declarations of innocence on my part? I’d been beaten up, terrified, raped, threatened with what could be called terminal punishment, and there they were laughing their heads off. Some joke. Or was it? Why had she gone straight to Roy without waiting for an explanation from me? At least she could have let me try to explain first. I was still faced with a threat on my life no matter how much oil my tired old joke poured on the troubled waters. Roy had said I’d planted a seed. Well, seeds can lie dormant for ages before they sprout. Sister could—as Roy pointed out—get mad at him for something or need to protect herself (now that I knew her own dark secret, the danger was like a time-bomb ticking away) and she could always point a finger at Roy to deflect fire from herself. That could take years or happen any minute. We had to get out of here. I’d never feel really comfortable with any of them again. By a foolish slip of the tongue, my life-long love affair with Sister was endangered. N
ow it could only be a watchful suspicious relationship. She watching me for signs that would verify her suspicions and I watching her for the same reasons. No relationship survives on doubt or suspicion, as Roy said. Not even one of blind worship. Much of the sympathy I’d felt for her dilemma with the Vice Squad evaporated. We were both in trouble and couldn’t help each other. Never would be able to.
I was testing the temperature of Becky’s bottle by squirting a drop on my inner arm when I heard Aunt Dell burst into the kitchen with an armload of groceries. She put them on the table and went back to the door yelling, “Come on, you two! Git the lead out. Git that stuff out of the car! Roy! For Christ’s sake come git us a beer!” She turned to me. “Whoooeee! The heat! Totsy, you never seen nothin’ like that market on a Saturday afternoon. Honest to God hell. An inferno!” She sank down into a kitchen chair and bawled over her shoulder, “Goddammit, Rooooy! Beeeeeerrrrr! I’m dyin’, I tell you.”
Roy came in, followed by Sister, both obviously still sharing a joke. I assumed my cowboy joke. Roy put an overflowing cardboard box down on the floor and patted Aunt Dell’s shoulder. “You sound like a cow that’s lost her calf.” He headed for the icebox, still smiling and gave me a big wink. I made a point of not noticing.
“OK. Done my chores for the day,” Sister said, putting more groceries on the table. “Off to soak.”
“Go lay that child down, Totsy, it’s too hot to touch anybody. Even that sweet thing.” Roy plunked an open bottle of beer in front of Aunt Dell and she lifted it and drank thirstily. “Couldn’t even wait for a glass. Aaaahhh. That’s better. I may even live.”
In Tall Cotton Page 38