July 7th

by Jill McCorkle

  “All right by me.” Fannie sticks that dessert in the refrigerator and slams the door harder than she means to.

  “Are you okay, Fannie?” Mrs. Foster stirs her drink around with that olive on a pick that Fannie had fixed for her; she must have stuck a hundred of those, too, and Mrs. Foster wanted so many done in each color pick, like people notice that kind of thing. Well, maybe they do, but Lord knows, they ain’t got a thing in their mind if they do. “Oh what about your son? I completely forgot to ask you.”

  “What are you doing in here?” Mr. Foster comes into that kitchen sour as ever. “People are going to wonder what you’re doing.”

  “I only came in to check on things,” Mrs. Foster says and smiles at Fannie. “I don’t know what we’d do without her.”

  “I know,” Mr. Foster says hurriedly, without even giving Fannie a glance. “Where’s Billy? Ted Miller wants to speak to him, says he might hire Billy to look after his boat since Billy is so interested in sailing.”

  “That would be marvelous. I think Billy should think about working, the way that he spends money. Fannie, have you seen him?”

  “Out by the pool,” Fannie says, and refills another tray with some of those little rolled up sandwiches. Everything’s got to be complicated; can’t just make square sandwiches and cut off the crust, gotta layer them and roll them up, stick ’em together with some more colored picks. All them colored picks, and where do they wind up but on the floor and strewn on every table, in the ashtrays, in the candy bowls. Mr. Foster calls to Billy from the door and he comes slouching in.

  “I don’t want to go in there,” Billy whines and plops down in a kitchen chair.

  “Get up. Don’t act this way.” Mr. Foster pulls on that boy’s arm and he glares back at his Daddy like he could spit on him. “Come on, Billy. Ted Miller is trying to do something nice for you and you’re not going to act this way.”

  “Oh no, I can’t disappoint one of your friends, now, can I?” Billy goes over to the refrigerator and gets a beer, opens it and stands there drinking it in front of his parents. Fannie would like to slap him down herself, but it is sort of pitiful the way that that boy just don’t seem to fit in with his own folks. “Oh hell, no! Not one of the friends.”

  “I think you’ve had enough beer, Billy,” Mrs. Foster says and he starts to put the can down until his Daddy says the same thing. Then he takes another great big swallow. Well, Fannie knows one thing for sure and that’s that she’ll get herself a taxicab home, cause she ain’t about to ride with that drunken boy.

  “Please, Billy, go speak to Mr. Miller,” Mrs. Foster puts her hand on Mr. Foster’s arm, but he doesn’t even look at her. “Your father only wants to help you.”

  “Yeah, maybe if you work you can keep your nose clean,” Mr. Foster says.

  “Hey Dave, I like the way you mix a drink!” That fat old Mrs. Stubbs’ husband sticks his head in the kitchen door. Lord have mercy, he’s got on the reddest pants that Fannie has ever seen, looks like he just jumped from a frying pan or hell, one. Mr. Foster grins great big and waves and then cuts it off like a light switch.

  “What do you mean, keep my nose clean?” Billy Foster backs up when his Daddy steps toward him, and now he looks like a pitiful scrawny chick instead of the bantam rooster with that hair sticking straight up in front.

  “You know good and damn well what I mean.” Mr. Foster is speaking like Fannie might not even be there, like she might be a fly on the wall. She’d just like to know where they expect her to go while this fussing is taking place. She ought to go on out in that living room and stir herself up something with a colored pick. It’s a funny thing how people who can act so proper will up and show their tails.

  “Please, Dave, let’s not get into that right now.” Helena Foster looks like she might cry any second, and Fannie sure would like to bring a stop to all of this, call attention to the fact that she is standing here and hearing every single word, just in case somebody might care. “Mrs. Foster, my son didn’t kill that man,” Fannie says loud enough for all three of them to hear. “I knew my boy wouldn’t kill a person.”

  “I’m so glad, Fannie.” Mrs. Foster looks like she just let out a ton of air, and Fannie is certain that that air wasn’t let out for Thomas McNair but for her own self; she wanted that fussing to stop, too. “Fannie and I had quite a scare today when we heard her son was in jail.”

  “I’m sure I wouldn’t know how it felt.” Mr. Foster glares at Billy again, and if Fannie didn’t know any better, she’d think they’d break out into a fist fight any second.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Billy is moving around that kitchen now like he might have ants in his pants. “I’ve never been to jail.”

  “And don’t I know why.” Mr. Foster pulls out a wad of money from his pocket like Fannie has never in her life seen. God knows, if they weren’t fighting, she might ask for a raise. “You suppose you’ll ever have any of this, Billy? Any of your own?”

  “Oh Hell-eena! Everything is wonderful! Absolutely marvelous!” Mrs. Stubbs steps into the kitchen and it is a funny thing to see the way that Mrs. Foster smiles and sticks out her hand to that woman. Lord God, Fannie thought those shorts were something, but tonight she’s got on this bright-colored dress with little old straps cutting into those round shoulders. It makes Fannie hurt to look at that tight dress. “I didn’t get the chance to tell you that I have a grandson!” Mrs. Stubbs claps her hands together and smiles.

  “Oh, how splendid.” Mr. Foster goes over and hugs and kisses Mrs. Stubbs. “You look marvelous, Kate, simply terrific!”

  “Why thank you, Dave. Ernie was just now saying what a great drink you mix and after having two, I’m inclined to agree!” Mrs. Stubbs just laughs and laughs and then kisses Mrs. Foster on the cheek. Fannie never has been able to stand the way these people hug and kiss one another all night long at these parties; the men stand around with their arms wrapped around one another, kissing every woman they see and the women go around kissing both women and men. Fannie has imagined that this is what one of those orgies would look like, except that people probably wouldn’t have nothing on. “Did I interrupt something?” Mrs. Stubbs asks, and Fannie is tempted to say, “Yes, ma’am!” but Mrs. Foster knows just how to handle it.

  “Billy needed to speak to us in private for a few minutes.” Mrs. Foster pushes Mrs. Stubbs toward the hallway and whispers. “You know how these teens are. When they want to talk, they want to talk right then.” Mrs. Foster keeps smiling until Mrs. Stubbs pushes her bright-colored self back into that smoky crowded room. Fannie can’t help but feel a little sorry for Billy right now, the way he’s all hunched up in that chair, looks like he’d blow sky high if you touched him.

  “They didn’t find the real person that killed that man, though,” Fannie says. Mr. Foster is clicking his fingers on that table; he’s about to blow himself. “It was a nice old man that was killed, too. Man that runs that little Quik Pik store right near where I stay.”

  “Oh my, Fannie, I didn’t know it happened in your neighborhood!” Mrs. Foster puts her hand on her chest. “How frightening for you!”

  “It doesn’t surprise me,” Mr. Foster says. “No offense, Fannie, but that’s a mighty rough section once you get to the end of Main where you live.” He eats his olive and drops that colored pick right there in a clean ashtray.

  “How was he killed?” Billy Foster crumples up that beer can with his hand and sits there working it back and forth, trying to break that can in two.

  “He was snuffed out. His head was wrapped up in plastic so he couldn’t breathe.” Fannie goes and gets that pick out of the ashtray. “I declare, I can’t believe they’d have thought that Thomas would do something so mean.”

  “Maybe it was an accident.” Billy Foster puts that bent-up can in the trash and goes and stands at the sliding glass doors. “Maybe they didn’t mean to kill him.”

  “Well, dead is dead,” Fannie says. “And whether they meant to or not don’t
count in the Lord’s eyes. That person will suffer one day whether they find out or not.”

  Mr. Foster drains the last bit of drink from his glass. He raises those eyebrows at Fannie and stares at her like she might be a cockroach. “Come on, Helena. We don’t want people thinking that we’re rude. Billy? I’ll expect you out here soon.”

  “Oh my, no, we don’t.” Mrs. Foster looks at Fannie. “I’m going to float around a little and see if everyone is about ready to eat.”

  “Wait!” Billy turns from that window and steps toward them. His face is white as a sheet. “I did it,” he whispers and stares down at the floor.

  “Did what, Billy?” Mr. Foster shakes his head and makes a humming noise. “You would do anything to mess up our party, wouldn’t you? What did you do? I know you took that twenty off of my dresser, but what else?”

  “Oh no, honey, I took the twenty.” Mrs. Foster laughs. “I didn’t have a cent in my purse when Betty Booth came by with raffle tickets.”

  “I killed that man at the Quik Pik.” Billy stares at them, the shocked look on his mother’s face. He feels down in the back pocket of his jeans where he still has the rolling papers. And just last night he had laughed about it all; just last night. God if he could do it over, if he had asked some girl to the movies, if he had stayed home and watched T.V. “I didn’t mean to do it.” Billy is talking fast now, moving around the room, crying, his fist in his pocket, clutching those rolling papers.

  “Billy, do you expect us to believe that?” Mr. Foster laughs great big, and then his face goes as solemn as Billy’s. “This is for attention, right? The doctor told us that you’d do anything for attention, to hurt us.”

  “Fuck that doctor!” Billy screams, and Mr. Foster slaps his face and pushes him against the refrigerator right there in front of Fannie, but Billy doesn’t stop. “The doctor is your friend, not mine! I did it, I tell you, but I didn’t mean to!”

  “Oh God.” Mrs. Foster feels her way around and into a chair like she might be blind. Fannie steps backwards slowly. She’s going to get her stuff and she’s going to walk out that back door, going to walk to the nearest phone and get herself home.

  “I’m sorry, Mama. I didn’t mean to do it. I was just going to scare him, you know?” Billy slumps over and Mr. Foster lets him slide right on down to the floor. Fannie gets her purse and loops it over her arm.

  “Fannie, you stay right there,” Mr. Foster says, and Billy stretches out on the floor with his hands over his face. “I’m going to go in there and I’m going to tell everyone that dinner has been delayed, that there has been an emergency involving Helena’s parents and that we’re waiting for a call, and please to drink all they want and that dinner will be coming soon.” He nods his head up and down while he talks; he is cool as a cucumber and Fannie doesn’t know how he can be so cool. Every bone in her body is shaking. “By the way,” he turns at the doorway. “Where is Parker?”

  “At a friend’s,” Mrs. Foster whispers. Now she is crying, and Fannie feels completely helpless. Nobody says a word while Mr. Foster is out of the room. The voices in the living room die down to soft whispers when he starts talking and then the voices build right back up to a loud murmuring buzz.

  “Okay, let’s hear it.” Mr. Foster comes back and goes to stand over Billy. “Get up off of the floor.” He raises his voice but Billy doesn’t move. Mr. Foster reaches down and pulls him up by the arms.

  “I think I better go on now,” Fannie says, her voice quivering with every word.

  “You may as well hear it all, Fannie. You’re family and anything that you ever hear in this house goes no further, do you hear?” He turns on her now and she doesn’t know what on earth to do. “I said, do you hear me?”

  “Dave, please leave Fannie out of it,” Mrs. Foster whispers. Her face is pale white.

  “Leave her out of it? How can we leave her out of it when she’s heard as much as we have?” He faces Billy now, a vein in his forehead bulging and buckling like it could pop right out of his head. “If this is a joke, if this is your way …”

  “No, it’s true. It’s true!” Billy opens his mouth to cry but nothing comes out.

  “Well, I don’t know what we’re going to do.” Mr. Foster pushes him up against the refrigerator again. “I mean, what in the hell do you expect me to do this time?”

  “Nothing, just don’t do anything!” Billy starts to slump back down but Mr. Foster snatches him back up.

  “Do you know who just paid to have that church recarpeted and repainted? Do you know how much that cost?” Mr. Foster is right in Billy’s face now, and Billy’s eyes are blinking like he is expecting a punch any second. “I did, and why? Why did I do that? To save your lousy ass!”

  “You did it to save your own,” Billy murmurs.

  “What?” Mr. Foster has Billy by the collar and is shaking him, hitting his head up against the refrigerator. Fannie can’t hardly bear it. She picks up the phone and is about to dial 911 when Mrs. Foster jumps up and stops him. Fannie is standing there holding the phone, listening to that buzz. This is like a nightmare; everything is getting blinking and twisted like a bad dream.

  “I said you did that for yourself.” Billy steps back from his father and it looks like his whole body is trembling. “You did that so that you wouldn’t be embarrassed by me.”

  “Oh yeah, just like Ron told me you believe. It’s all our fault.” Mr. Foster is talking a funny way now, laughing, and patting his chest, but that vein is still bulging. “It’s all my fault, right, Billy Boy? Every time that you’ve gotten in trouble it’s been our fault.” Mr. Foster steps toward Billy with Mrs. Foster right behind him, clutching his sleeve. “I mean hell, why wouldn’t it be my fault? You’re my son. All that I’ve ever done is taken care of you, patched up your mistakes to give you another chance, thinking that some day you’d amount to something, not that I have real high hopes for you, especially not now, but I always thought that maybe you’d pull through. You know, I thought you deserved to get away with a childish prank here and there.”

  “Okay, Dave.” Mrs. Foster steps in between her husband and Billy. “Just stop for a minute, hold it.” She holds her hand up to her husband and then puts her other hand on Billy’s shoulder. “Why, baby? Why?” she cries and Billy latches onto her and stands there crying in her arms like a baby.

  “Put the phone down, Fannie.” Mr. Foster comes and takes the receiver out of her hand. “Everything is going to be fine. Now, you go right ahead and do what you have to do for dinner.”

  “It’s done.” This time Fannie stares right back at him and she feels like she has every right. Family member, foot; he wants her to keep her mouth shut, pretend like she’s heard none of this. What Corky Revels had heard about the Baptist Church was true after all, and it didn’t sound like no childish prank. Corky hadn’t even been able to tell Fannie what was done up on that altar, said it would make Fannie sick on her stomach. Fannie has thought all along that they probably collected some dog mess or dead animals or such. Um urn, it makes her ache inside to think of what Helena Foster must be feeling right now. Fannie feels it bad enough but Lord, if it had been her Thomas or worse, if it had been M. L., she doubts that she could live with herself, cause she’d have to tell the truth; she’d have to send her baby to his death, she reckons, and that would be sending her to her own.

  “Fannie, why don’t you begin serving the salads?” Mr. Foster doesn’t even look at her. He lights a cigarette and stares out the window. “Tell our guests that I will join them in a second.” Fannie gets up and starts taking the chilled salads out of the refrigerator. It’s a blessing that she went ahead and made them up individually, cause there’s no way that she could’ve managed dishing them out, with these hands of hers like putty.

  “Well, Fannie, I see you made it after all,” Mrs. Stubbs says. “I do hope that Helena’s parents are okay. Has she heard?” Fannie shakes her head. “Oh what a shame, and here this party going on.” Mrs. Stubbs follows Fannie all t
he way around the tables. “Please tell Hell-eena that I’ll do anything. I’ll be glad to go and sit with her or I can mingle out here and act as hostess.”

  “I’ll tell her.” Fannie places the last salad and turns to Mrs. Stubbs, who is squinting one eye and looking around the room. Fannie reckons she is looking for her husband, and that woman must be blind if she can’t spot them red britches in the far corner talking to Mrs. Ted Miller. “Mrs. Stubbs, would you please tell all these people their salad is ready and that Mr. Foster will be here directly.”

  “Well, I doubt if I say ‘DI-rectly’ but I will tell them, yes.” She laughs great big and then clinks a spoon against one of the iced waters. “May I have your attention, please?” She calls in a sing song way. “Before we begin this scrumptious salad, I want to announce for those of you who haven’t heard that Ernie and I are the proud grandparents of a simply perfect little boy. He is more adorable than Prince William and no doubt has a better background!” She bends over and laughs, that blonde hair not moving a speck. Fannie doesn’t know which is the worst sight to be seeing and hearing, this spectacle or the one in the kitchen. Mrs. Stubbs is so drunk from having been waiting all this time and drinking. “By the way, where are our honored guests? There you are little bridesy, come on up here. None of us are familiar with you and yours, so do step forward and introduce yourselves.” Mrs. Stubbs motions with her hand. “Where’s that handsome groom, now? Come out, come out, wherever you are!” This tall dark right handsome boy steps up, nods his head, laughs a little. Fannie ought to walk right out that front door is what she ought to do, and if it weren’t for Mrs. Foster she’d do just that. “Oh give me a kiss, you.” Mrs. Stubbs hugs the groom and then faces the bride. “We all love Justin so much. I just hope that you and yours can love him half as much! You are getting a real prize!”

  “So am I,” the groom says.

  “That’s right,” this man says, and Mrs. Stubbs immediately turns to him.