Clarice leaned back into the worn vinyl chair. She said, “I’ve loved Richmond since I was a little girl. Even when I hated him, I loved him. I don’t want him to die thinking that I don’t still love him just because I don’t want to live with him.”
Ray and James returned with cups of thick, bitter coffee for all of us. They saw Clarice crying and sprang into action, offering their own words of comfort.
We didn’t stay in the emergency room area for long. Even at zero dark thirty, the presence of Barbara Jean, whose charitable giving had rebuilt so much of the hospital, prompted special treatment. A heavyset man wearing a well-made black suit hurried up to us. His sleepy eyes oozed sympathy as he ushered us into a lushly upholstered room, away from the harsh fluorescent light and drunken university students.
We had just settled into the brocade furniture in the warmly lit private waiting area when a doctor in green surgical scrubs stepped through the door. I tried to gauge the severity of the news he was about to deliver by his expression, but his face was unreadable.
He approached Clarice and said, “Mrs. Baker, could we have a moment in private?”
Clarice reacted as if she had just been slapped. She shivered and grasped Barbara Jean’s hand and mine again. She said, “No, I think I’d like to have my friends with me.”
The doctor said, “Really, I think it would be better if we spoke in private.”
At not quite a shout, Clarice said, “Doctor, I don’t have any secrets from my friends. Please just tell me how Richmond is.”
The doctor was clearly reluctant to give Clarice an update with the rest of us around. But Clarice’s insistence and the fact that she was there with Barbara Jean won out.
He said, “Mr. Baker did not have a heart attack. Our concern is that he needs to be persuaded to avoid continued self-medicating. The pills he has been taking can be quite dangerous.”
In a tone of voice borrowed from her imperious mother, Clarice proclaimed, “You are mistaken. Richmond has never taken drugs in his life.”
“I’m not talking about anything illegal,” the doctor said. “What he’s been using can still have dangerous side effects, though, especially when taken along with Mr. Baker’s diabetes medication.” He reached into the pocket of his pants, produced a small amber-colored glass bottle, and handed it to Clarice. “This belongs to Mr. Baker. He told me that he has been taking twice the recommended dosage for several weeks.”
Clarice held the bottle out at full arm’s length and still couldn’t read the lettering on it.
Barbara Jean retrieved a pair of reading glasses from her purse and passed them to Clarice, who began to read aloud.
“Nu-Man. Extra-strength potency-enhancement supplements. The natural remedy for male erectile…” Her voice faded as understanding sank in.
The doctor suddenly became downright chatty. In a clinical tone, he said, “From the frequency and intensity of the activities he described to me, it isn’t surprising that a man of Mr. Baker’s age might have some difficulty matching his youthful level of performance. But these supplements aren’t the way to go. As you saw earlier this evening, they can have side effects that mimic a heart attack.
“We have counselors here who specialize in mediating intimacy disputes between couples. Perhaps we could put you and Mr. Baker in contact with one of them.”
Poor Clarice. She had changed a lot over the past five or six years. But underneath, she was still the same good Baptist girl I’d become friends with in kindergarten. Hearing a stranger explain, in front of all of us, how her insatiable sex drive had put her husband in the back of an ambulance was too much for her. While the rest of us struggled not to laugh and make her embarrassment even worse, she slumped down in her bathrobe and sexy negligee, looking like she wanted to crawl under the sofa.
The doctor said, “Mr. Baker is already feeling much better, and he’ll be fine when he stops taking those pills. He should probably avoid any strenuous activity for a couple of days.”
Clarice cut the doctor off before he could start listing the specific activities Richmond should avoid. “Can I see him?” she asked.
“Of course. He’ll be out in a few minutes, but you’re welcome to go back and be with him.”
Clarice thanked the doctor and then followed him out of the private waiting area and down the hallway that led to the examination rooms.
Barbara Jean, Ray, James, and I were so relieved that Richmond was all right that we didn’t laugh or make any of the nasty jokes that the occasion cried out for. It wasn’t easy. As Mama used to say, “When shit is funny, it’s just funny.” And this was the funniest shit I’d heard in a long time. But we came to an unspoken agreement to celebrate Richmond’s recovery by holding off on our mockery until we could tease him directly to his face.
* * *
CLARICE TOLD ME later that Richmond’s proposal came when she entered the examination room. He had just finished dressing and was kneeling to tie his shoe. When he didn’t rise, she thought that maybe he was having another sick spell. After she rushed to his side, though, she saw that he had a small, dark purple velvet box in his hand. The jewelry box contained a ring with a diamond that was the same cut as the engagement ring he’d given her in 1970 but was four times the size of that stone. When he asked her to marry him again and come back home, all she could think about was the way she had felt when she thought he was dying. She couldn’t bring herself to say no.
CHAPTER 22
Since the Simon Theater’s reopening, Audrey’s following had grown steadily. She made enough in tips that she was only half a month behind on her rent. As she had walked to work earlier that day, it had struck her that in a few weeks she would likely graduate from dirt-poor to flat broke. That realization brought her out of the funk she had been in since Odette had called with the news that Audrey would soon become an orphan. Audrey’s thoughts had gone back to Plainview, but the memories that came to mind onstage that evening were mostly happy.
She leaned into her microphone and said, “After my mother, the first person I told about how I liked to dress in women’s clothes was my friend Odette. It took me a while to work up the nerve to say it. We were good friends by then and I knew she had a gay son, but people can surprise you when it comes to what they’re a hundred percent cool with and what makes them freak out.”
To the amusement of her audience, she began to play the disco classic “Le Freak.”
“We were in Odette’s kitchen when I told her, and I was shaking so bad I could barely get my words out. She led me to the mantel over the fireplace in her family room and showed me a framed picture of a muscular man with a shaved head holding a trophy. Odette said, ‘That’s my aunt Marjorie after she won the arm-wrestling contest at the county fair thirty-five years ago. If you think being somewhere between a boy and a girl is gonna shock me, you’re mistaken.’
“I never met Odette’s aunt, so the one person in Plainview who I knew was like me was my grandparents’ bloodhound.”
She played two phrases of “Hound Dog” while her audience laughed. A few of the more inebriated patrons howled.
“People never believe me when I tell them that, but it’s the truth. That bloodhound was my inspiration. I was a sissified child, but I didn’t get the idea to dress in drag until that dog did it.
“Daddy decided Grandma and Grandpa needed company and protection after the pointer they had died from old age. He bought a bloodhound for them, and my grandparents named him Pal.
“Pal was a natural guard dog, but he couldn’t have been worse company. He wasn’t even a year old when Daddy bought him and he was already mean as hell. Even Grandma and Grandpa took care not to aggravate him for fear they’d lose some fingers.
“Pal was a foul-tempered son of a bitch. But once he was finished barking and snarling at everyone and everything in his path, he was the best hunting animal in the state. Grandpa and Daddy went hunting every weekend, and they always took Pal.”
She plinked ou
t “A-Hunting We Will Go.”
“Pal got meaner after Grandma died. It got so bad that Grandpa had to slide Pal’s food dish across the floor to him and jump back so he wouldn’t have to go near Pal’s teeth.
“Then Grandpa had a brainstorm. He remembered how Grandma’s mood always improved when she put on an accessory that made her feel pretty. So he went up to Grandma’s closet and found her best hat, a red satin pillbox that I would kill to have now. He put that hat on Pal’s head, and it was like night and day. The snarling stopped, and Pal just wanted to snuggle and have his tummy rubbed.
“At first, Grandpa figured it was hats, in general, that Pal liked. He put one of his baseball caps on Pal, but the dog bared his teeth and growled at Grandpa till he brought back the pillbox. From that day forward, Grandpa dressed up that nellie dog in the nicest hats in Grandma’s closet. After a while, he added scarves and ribbons for extra splashes of color. Grandpa turned out to have quite an eye for fashion.”
The audience chuckled. Audrey played “Who Let the Dogs Out?”
“The trouble started when hunting season rolled around again. Daddy and I went to Grandpa’s house early one Saturday morning, like usual. Daddy just about lost his mind when he saw that formerly vicious dog curled up on the couch next to Grandpa with lavender painted nails and a pink Little Mermaid tiara that Grandpa’d bought for Pal’s birthday sitting on top of his head.
“Grandpa warned him not to, but Daddy snatched the tiara off the dog’s head. Next thing we knew, Daddy was on the floor and his hand was inside Pal’s mouth. Daddy punched the dog in the head once or twice. But each time Daddy hit him, Pal bit down a little harder.
“Daddy started screaming for me to go to the truck and get his shotgun, but Grandpa told me not to move. He said to Daddy, ‘Son, he’ll give you your hand back once you let go of his tiara and tell him you’re sorry.’
“Daddy dropped the costume jewelry onto Pal’s head and tried to pull his hand away, but the dog still wouldn’t let go. Grandpa said, ‘Apologize, Wayne.’
“Sure enough, as soon as Daddy said he was sorry, the dog let him go and settled in on the couch like nothing had happened.
“Daddy’s hand was scratched up some, but not actually bleeding. He went to the bathroom to put some antiseptic on it. By the time he came back to the living room, looking like he still wanted to go after Pal with his shotgun, Grandpa had adjusted that pink tiara the way Pal liked it and the two of them were as happy as could be.
“Great hunting dog or not, Daddy wasn’t about to be seen with a bloodhound in drag. I’ve told you about my father before, so you know that he wasn’t much for letting folks be who they wanted to be if it wasn’t who Daddy wanted them to be. Grandpa didn’t give a damn what my father thought, though. He took Pal hunting on his own, and Pal kept on being the sweetest dog in the world, as long as he had his ensemble the way he liked it.
“I was about ten when Pal started doing drag, and it made perfect sense to me. I couldn’t imagine anything that could make me feel happier than polishing my nails and throwing on a cute hat before heading off to school. So that’s what I did. The school and Daddy put a quick stop to my early experiments, though. I had to start doing my dressing up in secret. But you know what? Pal was right. Every day is a little better if you feel prettier by lunchtime than you felt at breakfast.”
Audrey had just begun to sing “How Much Is That Doggie in the Window?” when someone shouted out from a table in the rear, “What happened to Pal?”
Because it was Audrey’s nature to tell the truth, she almost told the story of how Terry had shared his bedroom with Pal for the six months between his grandfather’s and his mother’s deaths. She nearly related how Pal, like Terry, hadn’t lasted long under the Robinson roof without the protection of Terry’s mother. Terry had come home one afternoon exactly one week after his mother’s funeral and found that Pal was gone. The look on his father’s face told Terry that he’d better not ask for an explanation.
That story was too heavy for tonight, though. Audrey wanted to begin her set with everyone smiling. She said, “Pal was my dress-up partner until he was called home to doggy heaven.” She reached up and tapped the black sequined beret that sat atop her head at a coquettish tilt. She said, “This was one of his.”
In honor of Pal, Audrey sang, “I Feel Pretty.”
CHAPTER 23
Throughout the ride from the hospital to his temporary digs in a pale green clapboard house down the street from the Pink Slipper, El caressed the butter-soft leather upholstery of Barbara Jean’s Mercedes. It was the most luxurious car he’d ever been in that wasn’t following a hearse. Forrest had provided the house for El’s use during his recuperation, more evidence of his post-salvation generosity. He had also, El found once he got inside, stocked the kitchen cupboard with a bottle of excellent whiskey.
Because Barbara Jean and Forrest had been so good to him, El felt guilty about what he was planning to do. Not so guilty that he changed his mind, but guilty enough to hope that it would be neither of them who found him.
When he’d awoken in University Hospital after his first surgery, he’d made the decision to shoot himself. Then he’d remembered that, like nearly everything he had once owned, the gun he’d kept for protection for fifty years had been swept away by Hurricane Katrina. Later, he had given some thought to gas. But he didn’t own a car that he could leave idling inside a closed garage. He also had no garage. He had learned from a conversation with a talkative and equally depressed fellow hospital patient that modern stoves weren’t efficient for gassing yourself. They were likely to blow up before they killed you. Even if some fool could have been persuaded to sell or lend a pistol to a downhearted old man freshly out of the hospital, or if he could somehow manage to fill the kitchen with cooking gas, he wasn’t low enough to repay Forrest’s generosity by leaving him a bloody mess to clean up or by blowing the roof off his house.
Drugs it was. El had gritted his teeth through his post-surgical discomfort and squirreled away half of the pain pills Darlene Lloyd had brought him each afternoon. Stockpiling the drugs had been easy, and doing it had filled him with excitement and nostalgia. It had been years since he’d last been high, but hoarding those pills was just what a junkie with access to opiates was meant to do.
El was relatively sure that he had enough of the precious white tablets to accomplish the job, especially if he washed them down with the whiskey Forrest had left for him. If the pills and booze weren’t sufficient, he had a plastic bag to pull over his head to guarantee the proper result—another tip from that sad patient he’d met at University Hospital.
He sat at the chipped Formica kitchen table and took inventory of the items in front of him. The whiskey bottle—opened, but still full. Pills piled to the right of the bottle, alongside a plastic garbage bag. Spotted guitar in his lap. It would feel good to play for as long as he could. He attached a strap to the guitar and looped it over his shoulder to keep Ruthie from falling to the floor at the end.
El grabbed the whiskey bottle, tipped his head back, and took a swig. No reason to dirty a glass. His mouth filled with whiskey until his cheeks bulged. Then he reached for a handful of tablets.
It was then that he saw it. He caught just a glimpse of it in the corner of one of the kitchen windows. He thought his mind was playing with him at first. But after it disappeared from one window, it reappeared briefly in another. His eyes darted back and forth between the windows, waiting to see if he might spy it once more. His heart beat a tight, staccato drum roll. He saw it again. It was at the door that led from the kitchen to the backyard. El swallowed the mouthful of liquor. He inhaled with a whooping gasp and sat still, shocked into immobility.
Raja, his father’s leopard, was prowling the back porch, searching for a way in.
El watched as Raja came closer to the glass panes of the kitchen door. The knob turned, and the door creaked. El’s throat clogged with silty river mud, and he found himself unable to breat
he as the door swung open and the leopard entered the house.
Raja crept across the kitchen floor toward him. The animal stopped just a few feet away from its prey. El watched as Raja transformed from a leopard into his spotted guitar, and then into a woman in a leopard-skin coat.
The leopard woman spoke to him. “I’m Odette. I’m married to James. We need to talk.”
* * *
ODETTE SAT DOWN across the table from El. She had planned to begin by telling him what she thought of him, a listing of his offenses. But now that they were face-to-face, she hesitated. This was the first time she had seen him up close, and she couldn’t help noticing traces of James. El was certainly the source of James’s height. Miss Ruth had been five foot three, the same height as Odette. Like James, El’s long appendages made it look as if he were sprawled out wherever he sat. Though James had inherited his mother’s amber-and-silver eye color, the shape of his eyes and brow came directly from El.
She stopped herself before she saw too much of James in El. She had arrived at the house propelled by anger and a duty to fix what was wrong with James. Sympathy could interfere with her mission.
When Odette had talked with Barbara Jean that morning and discovered that El had been released from the hospital, the path forward for James, and for herself, had become clear. She’d learned where El was staying from Barbara Jean and then hopped into her car. First, she intended to tell El that it was time he apologized to James. Then she would explain to him that he owed James some hard truths. If El could show pictures to Barbara Jean and bring her mother back to life with stories about long-dead folks, El could tell James exactly what had caused him to twist the course of James’s life with the slash of a blade. She would see to it that El explained to James just how he could have left him and Miss Ruth to suffer through hunger and poverty while El was off doing whatever the hell he was doing.
The Supremes Sing the Happy Heartache Blues Page 17