The Honk and Holler Opening Soon

by Billie Letts

  “Now, you did not hear it from me.” Wanda Sue pointed her finger at Quinton to place blame where it belonged.

  “Hear what?” Hooks asked.

  “That Big Fib’s having an affair with Frances Dunn.” Then, to make sure everyone present realized the significance of the revelation, for which she would later blame Quinton, Wanda Sue added, “Mrs. Luter Dunn.”

  Soldier checked his pocket watch and held up two fingers. “Yes sir, if there’s anything I admire, it’s a woman who can keep her mouth shut.”

  Just then Big Fib Fry’s pickup came flying in, and as it circled the lot, the newspaper sailed out and landed on the concrete strip that fronted the Honk.

  “About damned time,” Soldier said as he pushed his chair back, but before he got to his feet, Caney opened the door, and to the astonishment of all those watching, he wheeled himself outside.

  “What’s he doing?”

  “Why, he—”

  “Went right out the door!”

  “Never seen him—”

  “Outside!”

  “What the hell is going on?!”

  “See where those branches fork?” Caney pointed to the bois d’arc tree out back.

  Bui leaned across Caney’s shoulder and peered through the kitchen window.

  “I believe you can hang a chain from each of those branches, then wire the bar to them.” Caney kept his voice low. “You think you can manage that?”

  “I can fix, Mr. Chaney,” Bui whispered, clearly pleased to be a part of Caney’s secret.

  “I’ll call the lumberyard and have them put the order together. You think you could go in and pick it up this afternoon?”

  “Yes sirree!”

  Caney glanced into the dining room to make sure Vena and MollyO were still busy, then he refolded the sheet of paper with the sketch he had drawn and handed it to Bui.

  “Two chicken strip baskets,” MollyO called as she slid a ticket onto the pass-through.

  Caney winked at Bui, then headed for the grill.

  Bui had just walked out of the lumberyard carting Caney’s order when he noticed Sam Kellam and two other men hunkering against the front of the building.

  As Bui loaded the materials into the trunk of his car, the men started laughing, but he didn’t look up.

  When he slid beneath the wheel and reached for the key in the ignition, he heard a sound like the rustle of dry leaves just seconds before he noticed the burlap bag in the seat beside him. And though he had never heard the sound before, he knew what was convulsing inside the bag even before the snake began to slither toward him.

  His first impulse was to yell and pull back in fear, the same cold fear that had gripped him each time he came upon a python or cobra in the jungles of Vietnam where he had felled trees for wood.

  But he remained perfectly still, breath suspended, eyes unblinking as he fought to find control.

  Then, moving imperceptibly, he inched his left hand toward the door and eased it open, never taking his eyes from the snake as it disentangled itself from the bag and slid over his thigh, moving toward heat.

  Bracing himself for what he was about to do, Bui drew a silent, even breath, felt the fingers of his right hand tingle as he drew it slowly and steadily into position, then, with startling speed, lunged, grabbed the snake just behind the head, hurled himself out the door and in one smooth motion flung the rattler into the air—five feet of twisting, contorting snake soaring in an arc toward the building.

  The two men, one on each side of Sam, saw what was coming in time to scramble away, while Sam, still locked in a crouch, holding a match to a cigarette, looked up, too late, as the rattler slammed into his chest and fell squirming into his lap.

  “Goddamn!” he yelled as he struggled to rise, but, unbalanced, fell back against the building, hands clawing at the agitated snake writhing against his belly. Then, frantic, Sam managed to roll away and bound to his feet, dropping the rattler to the ground where it began to coil between his boots.

  By then, his two companions, well out of the way, were hooting with laughter while Sam danced a wild fandango—whirling one way, then the other, frenzied and furious as he stomped and hopped until the snake slithered across the sidewalk and into a grate in the gutter.

  Bui, unhurried, crawled back into his car and started it up. But for one brief moment, he and Sam locked eyes before the car pulled away.

  When Vena got the call she’d been waiting for, her skin turned clammy and roughened with goose bumps. But she didn’t know if what she was feeling was relief or dread.

  “Oh, Carmelita. I’ve left messages for you from San Antonio to Portland,” she said.

  “Well, one of them just caught up with me. A doctor I worked for in Phoenix. He said when he saw a slip of paper with ‘Carmelita’ written on it, he knew it had to be me even though the last name was different.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I got married. But when the husband walked out, the name walked with him, so I’m back to Sanchez again. Didn’t Helen tell you?”

  “No.”

  “Vena, where is that girl? I haven’t heard from her for months. Can you believe that?”

  Vena felt suddenly so light-headed she leaned against the wall for support. All this time she’d waited for Carmelita to fill her in on the last two years of Helen’s life. But now, it seemed, she had waited for nothing.

  “You know, we talked almost every week, sometimes for two hours. My husband, well, my ex-husband, complained about the phone bill all the time.”

  “Carmelita—”

  “But the last time I called her, her phone had been disconnected, so I figured she’d moved. Then I called for her at the hospital, and they said she’d quit, which just didn’t make any sense.

  “So I waited for her to call me, but she didn’t. And I tried to find you, but you left a cold trail. In the meantime, I made a couple of moves myself and—”

  “Carmelita, I have some bad news.” Vena could hear a sharp intake of breath on the line. “Helen’s dead.”

  “Madre de Dios.”

  “I… I thought you might have heard.”

  “No.” Her voice breaking, Carmelita said, “Vena, I just can’t—”

  Vena could picture her there at the other end of the line. Small, dark-haired Carmelita, her beautiful face distorted with grief.

  “I don’t know what to say.” Carmelita fought for breath. “She was the best friend I ever had. I loved Helen like a…”

  “Sister.”

  “Vena, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry for you.”

  “I’m okay.” Vena felt far from “okay,” but sometimes the biggest lies slipped out easier than the truth.

  “When’s the funeral? I’ll be there, you know that.”

  “She was buried eight months ago.”

  Vena fought against the image of Helen’s grave, a still-life—one spray of yellow roses atop a fresh mound of earth—but the picture was too vivid, like a framed painting she looked at every day.

  “Vena, what happened?”

  “I got a call from a sheriff in south Texas. He said she died in a fire. He seemed to think she might have set it herself.”

  Vena could hear Carmelita crying again.

  “Apparently, she was living in some abandoned place in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Why? What was she doing out there?”

  “I don’t know, but something happened to her in San Antonio, something that made her snap. And she ran.”

  “I don’t understand any of this, Vena. The last time we talked, I guess it was last spring, she sounded so happy. She’d met a guy she was crazy about and…”

  “Did she tell you who it was?”

  “I asked her, but she said it wasn’t anyone I’d know. He didn’t work at the hospital.”

  “But you think they were serious?”

  “Helen was serious. No question about that. She was already talking marriage and they’d only been seeing each other for a few
weeks.

  “I told her to slow down, but you know how she was with men. She tried too hard to be what they wanted. And every time one of the bastards walked out on her, she’d get so depressed she scared me.”

  “You think that’s what happened, Carmelita? You think this guy dropped her and—”

  “Pushed her over the edge? It’s possible, I guess. She was so desperate to find someone to love, someone who’d love her. You know, all she ever really wanted was a family.”

  Vena lost her breath for a moment, then closed her eyes.

  “Vena, did you ever talk to Helen after…”

  “After the mess I made of things in San Antonio? No, I wanted to, but…”

  “Don’t do this to yourself, honey. She wouldn’t want you to.”

  “I let her down so many times, Carmelita. And I thought now, even though it’s too late, I might be able to make it up to her somehow. I know that doesn’t make any sense, but—”

  “Look, why don’t you come to Chicago. I’m at Cook County Hospital, settled in and planning to stay. Come up here and stay with me.”

  “I don’t think so, Carmelita. But thanks.”

  “Will you at least call me? You’re the closest thing I have to Helen and I don’t want to lose you again.”

  “Yeah, I’ll call.”

  “Vena, Helen always loved you… more than anyone in the world. I hope you know that. She worried about you, but she said you’d find your place someday.”

  “Well, I haven’t found it yet.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  MOLLYO HAD been in bed for nearly an hour before she heard Brenda and Hamp go outside. As they talked quietly on the front porch, she lay very still, trying to make out what they were saying, but she couldn’t pick up a word.

  Ten minutes later, when she heard Brenda come back in, she got up, pulled on her robe and padded down the hall to the kitchen.

  “Have a good time?” she asked, hoping she didn’t sound too interested.

  “I guess.”

  “Thought I’d have a glass of milk. Want some?”

  “No.”

  While Brenda put her guitar in the case and gathered up sheets of music, MollyO poured her milk and carried it into the living room.

  “You two sound so good together. Better than most of the singers I see on the TV.”

  Brenda rolled her eyes.

  “I mean it. What was that last song I heard you all sing?”

  “Something new.”

  “Is that the title?”

  “No, I mean it’s a new song. I just finished it today.”

  “And Hamp’s already learned it?”

  “Well, there’s not much for him to learn. He just harmonizes with me on the chorus.”

  “He’s good, though, isn’t he?”

  “He’s okay.”

  “I’m so glad he’s going to sing with you at the concert because he—”

  “Don’t call it a concert!”

  “Why?”

  “Because it sounds so stupid. It’s not a real performance, like for a real audience.”

  “Oh, you’re going to have an audience, all right. Everyone I know is going to be there. And I’m going to ask Danny Starr to come and take some pictures.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Soldier’s grandson. He works for the newspaper.”

  “I don’t want any pictures in the paper.”

  “Why not?”

  “Look. You asked me if I’d come down to the Honk some night and sing. Four or five songs, you said. Now, all of a sudden, I’m going to give a concert and you’re doing publicity, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Well, honey—”

  “I can just see it. A front-page story in the Sequoyah Weekly Ledger. ‘Brenda O’Keefe appearing in concert at the Honk and Holler Opening Soon.’ God.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Mom. Wake up! It’s not the Grand Ole Opry. It’s the Honk.” Brenda plopped down on the couch. “I wish I’d never said I’d do it because this whole idea is stupid.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “That’s because you’re my mother. But what do you think those freaks I went to school with would say? Oh, Phyllis Ford would love it. She was always hoping I’d be a flop.”

  “Honey, you’re not a flop. You just—”

  “I just came crawling back to Sequoyah the same way I left. A nobody.”

  “Brenda, you’re seventeen and—”

  “Oh, God. Please don’t give me your ‘you’ve-got-your-whole-life-ahead-of-you speech.’ I’ve heard it so many times, I know it by heart.”

  “But things are looking up for you now, Brenda. You came home sick and confused, but now you’re better. You got rid of that Travis… and now you’ve got Hamp.”

  “Hamp’s just a friend. Don’t try to make something more out of that.”

  “But he’s a good friend, Brenda. And because of him, you’re writing music again. Great music. And in a few nights, you’re going to give a con—”MollyO slapped her hand over her mouth.

  “I’ll tell you what, Mom. You rent a place with a stage and lights, bring in some backup musicians and some sound equipment, and we’ll call it a concert. Okay?”

  “Well, Miss Smarty Pants, I remember when all you needed for a concert was a spoon.”

  “Not the spoon story again,” Brenda wailed, but she wasn’t very convincing. She loved to hear the story as much as MollyO loved to tell it.

  “Your daddy used to dress you up every Saturday in jeans and a fancy western shirt, put you in your cowboy boots and cowboy hat and take you all over town to sing. And you were just barely out of diapers.

  “He’d take you to the barbershop, filling station, the VFW. The pool hall. Wherever he could find you an audience.

  “And he’d put you up on a counter or a table and hand you a spoon and you’d pretend it was a microphone.”

  Brenda giggled and covered her face in mock embarrassment.

  “You’d tap your feet, shake your little butt and belt out ‘On Top of Old Smokey’ or ‘Honky-Tonk Angel.’ Oh, you knew two or three dozen songs.

  “You weren’t shy about singing, either. You didn’t have to be begged. You knew how to work a crowd, too, ’cause you knew if you put on a good show, the audience would pay up. And they did. Why, some Saturdays you made three or four dollars.”

  “Not bad. You think I might pick up a little change at the Honk if I sing into a spoon and wiggle my butt?”

  “Why, I’d pay fifty cents to see that myself.” MollyO put her arms around Brenda and pulled her close. “Might even go a dollar.”

  Shifting in sleep, Vena rolled to her side, one hand coming to rest in the crook of Caney’s arm. As she pressed her cheek into the pillow, she cried out, a strangled sound that woke her.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah.” She propped herself up on one elbow and rubbed her hand across her eyes. “What time is it?”

  “Twelve-thirty.”

  “Is that all? Feels like it should be morning.”

  “That’s because you’re having a bad night.”

  “Am I keeping you awake?”

  “No.” Caney ran his finger around the curve of her jaw. “What’s wrong, Vena? You got demons chasing you?”

  “More than you can imagine.”

  “Tell me about your demons.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to know everything about you.”

  “Oh, I don’t think you do, Caney. I don’t think you’d like it.”

  “Everything. Your favorite color, how old you were when you learned to tie your shoes, who your first boyfriend was. I want to know where you got the scar on your calf and why you had a skull tattooed on your arm. I want to know it all.”

  “Green. I like green. And Helen tied my shoes until I was seven. My first boyfriend was Richard Bearpaw, a boy in second grade, but I dumped him when I found out he was scared of spiders. The scar came fr
om a barbed-wire fence, and I got the tattoo the last time I ran away from home.”

  “The last time?”

  “Yeah. I took it up as a hobby after Inez came to live with us.”

  “Who’s Inez?”

  “The woman Dad married two months after Mom died. He said me and Helen needed a woman to look after us, but that was just an excuse. Mom had been in and out of psycho wards for two or three years and we’d managed all right on our own. We needed Inez like we needed gangrene.”

  “The wicked stepmother, huh?”

  “Three days after she moved in, she burned every picture of Mom we had. Said it was best for us. Told Dad she was only trying to help us get through our grief.

  “I think he felt bad about it, but he didn’t say anything. That wasn’t his way.

  “The damage was done, though. Once Inez discovered she had the upper hand, she made our lives miserable.”

  “And you ran?”

  “Found out I was good at it, too. But Helen wasn’t. We wouldn’t be gone more than a few hours before she’d start worrying about her animals. Back we’d go. I went without her a couple of times, but I never stayed away long. I couldn’t leave her there by herself.

  “So we stuck it out until the day Helen graduated. By then, she’d found homes for the few animals Inez hadn’t killed or run off, and we left for good.”

  “Where’d you go?”

  “Austin. Helen got a job in a bank and I started my sophomore year in high school. We lived in a crummy little apartment, didn’t have a car, shared a bed and what clothes we had, but we were happy.

  “I got a part-time job waiting tables and we saved every dime we could because we had this dream that we’d both go to nursing school after I graduated. Something we’d talked about since we were kids.

  “Then Helen started dating a guy I couldn’t stand, a know-it-all who wanted to tell everyone what to do. Nagged me about my grades, told Helen how to fix her hair, how to dress. Said we’d be stupid to go into nursing because it didn’t pay anything.

  “But she was in love, wanted to please him, I guess. Before long she enrolled in night courses at a business college—his idea, of course. She began to ride me about studying, threw a fit when I made a D in math. She started to sound just like him.