Genevieve
Page 7
Rain. Highways. Everything I fear greets me.
Genevieve is tense, staring at the city, posture tight, as if her heart is heavy, sighing off and on, as if this were land she had never intended to see again.
She frowns upward, mumbles, “She knows I’m here.”
I swallow my own fear and ask, “Who?”
No answer.
She clears her throat and says, “Driver, can we get some more air back here?”
“Yes, ma’am. How’s that, ma’am?”
“Better.”
“Got some cold water up here, if you like.”
Genevieve says, “Please. Thank you.”
He passes Genevieve two bottles.
I say, “Could you not drive… you don’t have to rush.”
“Yessir.”
Genevieve takes my hand again, squeezes it as if to say everything will be okay.
Lightning illuminates the sky as soon as we get off 1-20 downtown, thunder booms as we drive by the lights of the Sheraton Hotel toward the courthouses. The driver is lost, the way his face is tense and his lips twist speak of confusion, but he is not saying. He’s not a city-dweller. Probably drives in from his own poor white ghetto to clock in. His teeth have a smoker’s stain and his hair is greasy. Moustache crooked, slants down to the right. I don’t care. The longer we drive down this maze of one-way streets, the more I get to see of Genevieve’s old world.
I say, “So this is Birmingham. Wonder why Europeans moved here and named the cities after the cities in England. Seems like they would’ve come up with new names.”
Genevieve frowns, thinks I’m making a statement about her changing her name.
The driver responds, “There is another Birmingham over in England?”
I clear my throat, “Yep. The original one, as far as I know.”
“You don’t say. That’s strange. I knew Alabama got its name from an Indian word, means to clear the thicket, if I remember correctly. Assumed Birmingham was Indian too.”
“Wasn’t aware of the etymology of Alabama.”
“You wasn’t aware of the which-a-what?”
“The origin of the word Alabama. Didn’t know it was Indian.”
He asks, “Tall been over there? To England?”
I answer, “Twice. Once for our honeymoon. My wife has been several times. You?”
“No sir. Ain’t never been on a plane. My wife’s always getting on a plane. I ain’t getting on one. And don’t plan on getting on one. More people get killed by donkeys than die in plane crashes, but I’ll stick to a donkey just the same. Just like I ain’t getting on the Internet. She’s always on that too. Had to get an extra phone line because she’s on the doggone Internet all the time. Last week she was up every doggone night going to all those Internet Web sites looking at pictures of some ten-year-old grilled cheese sandwich that’s supposed to look like the Virgin Mary. Can you imagine what a ten-year-old grilled cheese sandwich looks like? All that mold.”
Genevieve shifts, shakes her head.
I ask, “What’s your name?”
“Smith. Bubba Smith.”
“Like the football player.”
“Only I can’t play football. Yessir, Alabama is the reason God invented football. I can’t play, but I love to watch it. Yessir, Bubba Smith. People used to tease me about my name, especially when them Police Academy movies was on, but I likes it.”
Bubba Smith talks on and on, asks me if I’m a college football fan. I tell him I’m a die-hard Raiders fan, not big on college ball. He tells me that he only watches collegiate football games, favors Auburn over Alabama, the latter being the extent of his political concerns.
Bubba Smith starts to smile, says, “I met Dale Earnhardt.”
“Who?”
“Dale Earnhardt. You know. Dale Earnhardt. You not up on NASCAR, are you?”
“Oh. Dale Earnhardt. Did you?”
“See my moustache? I done cut mine just like Dale Earnhardt’s moustache.”
“Is that right?”
“Took some trying, but I did it.”
“And you met him.”
“Sure did. Was a volunteer at Carraway, saw them wheeling Dale into the hospital after his wreck at Talladega. Had cut my hand and was down there getting stitches.”
“Is that right?”
“Waved at ‘im with my left hand. He stared at me and blinked two times, which is the same as waving back. Wish I could’ve got his autograph or something. Or taken a picture with him all banged up. Yessir, met Dale Earnhardt. And my wife got yelled at by Loretta Lynn.”
“While you were meeting Dale Earnhardt?”
“That was a different time. Yessir, she met somebody famous too. Got yelled at.”
“For what?”
“Being too loud at a concert. She looked right at my wife and told her to shut up.”
“Is that right?”
“Made her day. Yessir, Loretta Lynn told her to shut her trap.”
“What happened after that?”
“Oh, the missus got put out of the concert. Yessir, they carried her out kicking and screaming. She was Loretta Lynn’s number one fan, now she has started up an anti-Loretta Lynn Web site. Obviously Loretta was not amused at her jabbering and yelling, none at all. My wife has an oral problem. Don’t know how to shut her trap, if you know what I mean.”
I say, “Most women have that in common.”
“Don’t they? No offense back there, ma’am.”
Genevieve shifts. “You two good old boys go right ahead with your misogynistic chatter.”
“Just running my mouth with your husband. Man talk. Don’t mean no harm by it.”
Genevieve groans.
I smile and stifle a little laugh, one directed at my wife.
Silence covers us followed by more lightning, then more thunder. Rain starts to fall in pound-size drops. The windshield wipers screech back and forth, struggle to slap water away.
I ask Bubba Smith, “What’s a good place to eat around here?”
“Milo’s, now they have the best hamburgers. Remember Milo’s. If you lucky, you get a good-sized extra meat chunk hidden underneath the patty. Now that’s a good day. Get one of them burgers then go on over to the Nick and get a beer, that’s what a lot of people likes to do.”
The driver turns, sighs, looks like he has his bearings and turns right by the Alabama TelCo Credit Union and the Greyhound station. A park and a library appear when we cross Twentieth Street. Then we are at the Tutwiler. Bubba Smith pulls into a U-shaped parking lot that is tiny and stacked with cars. Hotel looks full. A young bellman runs out with an umbrella, another runs out to get our luggage, both black. We wait for Bubba Smith to let us out.
He says, “If you need a driver tomorrow, be sure to ask for me.”
I say, “Not sure. We might get a rental car. Haven’t decided.”
“Be careful in this weather. My cousin wasn’t paying attention and the car tumped over.”
“Tumped over?” I smile, having no idea what he means. “Is that right?”
“It sho did. Tumped right on over.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“If you need to know the hot spots to go have fun, everybody goes to the Blue Monkey and Bell Bottoms. I hear Workplay has good music, that’s over on Twenty-third Street.”
“Thank you.”
“Some people congregate by the water fountain over at Five Points. You eat Thai food?”
“Yeah.”
“Gives me gas. But there is a good Thai food place up there in Five Points, Surin West.”
“Thank you.”
“The missus loves to eat there. She likes that place and Ruby Tuesday’s real nice too.”
I give Bubba Smith a tip, then shake hands and we go our separate ways.
As soon as we get inside the Tutwiler, the thunder and lightning increase. Rain falls in sheets, like the sky has been cut open. Still I look around at its history, all of it rooted in either Southern or European de
sign, dark woods and golds and deep-colored leathers. There are three people in front of us, all checking in or trying to extend their stay due to the pending weather.
The slim blond girl behind the counter is busy giving a middle-aged couple directions, telling them to “Take 31 to 459 to 280 to 76 to 21 and you’ll be there.”
“Uh-huh. We from Little Rock, honey, so we’ll be needing to write that down.”
Genevieve clears her throat, her message that she is tired and wants them to hurry up.
The wife in the couple is doing all the talking, overweight and tight-fisted, dressed in Wal-Mart. She knows people are in line waiting yet she continues, “Where is the Statue of Liberty?”
“Across the street on Liberty Parkway. It’s nice.”
“Is it like the one in New York?”
“Not as big.”
“This is ridiculous.” Genevieve sighs, shakes her head. I hold her hand. She tells me, “Sorry. If I had known I would’ve made reservations at either the Sheraton or the Pickwick.”
Genevieve does not whisper. Her irritation sounds out in bold letters that have been underlined three times. Everyone in front of us turns and looks at us like we’re strange and rude visitors from another planet, with patience and tact below those of mortal men.
That is what Genevieve wants, for them to challenge her. The tourist looks at my wife. Genevieve stares her down despite her size. I expect Genevieve to hold her hands out, to make herself look bigger, the way you’re taught to do with animals in the woods. The woman’s lips curl in, veins pop up in her neck, but all she wants to say is kept on the other side of her lips.
I have been here two minutes and a race war is about to start. One call from that woman and Bull Connors, the police, and fire departments will be outside with water hoses and dogs.
The woman makes a huffy noise and goes on. “Like I was saying, can you tell me how to get to the Last Chance Barbecue? And do you know exactly where Courteney Cox grew up?”
I rub my eyes and look around, my own impatience rising, damn near matching Genevieve’s. I drift away from the counter, leave her to go it alone, walk up the three or four steps to the next level. The lobby is small, marble and chandeliers and gold trimmings, leather high-back chairs, a piano to the left of the front entrance on the library side of the hotel, everything very aristocratic. I feel too hip, too California for this room. Genevieve handles checking in while I head for the men’s room. It’s across the marble floors to the left.
I hear her first, her voice is lower, her whisper rugged.
“Fuck you, Deuce. Fucking fuck you. Why did I? Because I had to see for myself.”
Then I see her.
She is in the hallway, in a leather chair, her head down, cell phone up to her mouth.
“What did you do to my charge card? Don’t act stupid. I told you I have not seen no damn U-Haul truck. If somebody stole your truck it ain’t my fault. Maybe your friend took it for a ride. You’re unreal. Do what? You expect me to come back after that shit? You fucking freak.”
She hangs up her cellular and stands up.
Light-blue faded jeans, fitted and low-rise, black belt, green and white sleeveless T-shirt that has been cut to stop right below her breasts. Red letters across her breasts read i’m a screaming orgasm waiting to happen. She has on lace-up sneakers, bangles on the right arm, stud earrings. Light gloss on full lips that remind me of Lauryn Hill. A sorority umbrella is at her side, but she is soaking wet from her waist down. She is not dressed for this weather. She stands there with her arms folded beneath her breasts. Trembling. The downcast eyes, the knitted brow, the fretful countenance—all the body language of a wounded heart.
I say, “You okay?”
Her eyes carry pain and dried tears. She’s been crying for days. For miles. She looks at me but gives no answer. Bad time to speak to her. She is riled, used to men in a bad way.
Dark skin. Tall and lithe, with distinct feminine curves that are generous, but not excessive. She looks directly at me in a way that is pointed, yet far away, like she can see what I am thinking. It is the kind of look that gives hope and, at the same time, takes it away. I should have paid more attention to her hair. She was Medusa, hair of snakes and evocative stares.
She shakes her head. “No, I’m not okay.”
She sees me. Pauses with her destructive thoughts putting lines in her face. Sees this tall and gangly older man, skin that could use some sun, sees this short curly hair that needs trimming, sees me dressed in sandals, not close to being trendy, yet far from being bohemian.
When her mouth opens her tongue ring shows itself. Tattoos decorate her skin: a raging leopard on her right shoulder, a blazing sun on her belly, a shiny navel ring in its center.
I ask, “Anything I can do?”
Her head tilts back, gives her an air of haughtiness. “You kill people?”
She looks like she is suffering from insomnia, an aching back, and a fractured heart. Hard and fragile all at once.
Then I say, “Afraid not.”
“Know anybody who does?”
“What’s wrong?”
I ask that, not knowing why, more out of awkwardness than true concern.
Her head tilts forward, a quizzical and defensive expression. “You ever look at the people in your life and ask yourself, where did these people come from? These are my friends? This loser is my fiance? You think you know what you want then wake up one morning and you don’t want any of it. Your life. You hate everything about your life. You just hate it.”
“Hate is a strong word.”
“And it’s in the dictionary for a reason.”
“Can’t be that bad.”
“How the fuck would you know?”
I let her words settle while my mind rotates. It is time for me to walk away, but I stand where I am, stare at her full lips, ripe lips that curve up even when she is living in anger. I imagine kissing her would be like eating ripe chilies, the kind of kisses that take time to burn.
She turns to walk away.
I ask, “And what do you feel when you feel that way?”
My own voice surprises me. It’s strained. Somewhere between my heart and my lips most of my voice has evaporated. My lips move but my words are like shadows in the light. Throat feels dry and I expect dust to fly out in the place of each evaporated word.
She stops and looks back before she turns and faces me.
I’m nervous. My insides become tumbleweeds.
She is tall with keen features. The hips of a goddess. Aphrodite in brown skin, a soft voice that is like the whispering of girls. She has the kind of beauty that is disturbing, the kind that can cause misery and bloodshed for anyone who tries to possess what they see.
She takes a cigarette out of her purse, lights it, inhales deeply, blows smoke out of the right side of her lips, fans the fumes away from her face, puts her free hand on her hip, legs almost in a ballet dancer’s first position, some classical training beneath that hard exterior.
She takes another pull, blows smoke away.
We stand in the hallway, regarding each other. I struggle to keep my eyes away from the letters on her T-shirt. She knows that and smiles, understands her power as a woman.
She motions at my wedding ring. “I was supposed to get married next month.”
“What happened?”
“Well, when you witness your man fucking somebody else…”
Lightning flashes.
Again her eyes go from my face to my wedding ring, then back to my face.
She skips answering my question and asks, “How do you like being married?”
Her voice, the way she says that is so simple, makes truth rise.
I shrug. “Sometimes… sometimes I miss being single.”
“Same way I feel when I’m in a relationship.”
“We always want what we don’t have.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
I nod. “We all want an idyllic existence.”
I swallow, resisting an urge to look behind me. “Around the corner, checking us in.”
She almost smiles. “You’re bold.”