American Pop

by Snowden Wright

  * * *

  “So, the thing’s called the Mockingbird, right? It’s a figurine from Houghton Forster’s soda fountain,” Robert told Molly over drinks three weeks later, “and somehow, after being lost for years, it wound up sitting on my shelf! I mean, can you believe?”

  “Talk about freaky.”

  They were at Robert’s favorite bar. Zebra Stripes was a juke joint of the first water. Built in a former dry-cleaning facility on Bridge Street in Yazoo City, Mississippi, “the place where nothing’s black and white” served coffee for a quarter in the morning, screened cult films for fifty cents in the afternoon, and, at night, poured dollar beers for a sundry clientele, including southern apologetics and southern sentimentalists, northern trash looking for the “Real South,” blues musicians, country musicians, folk musicians, and certain unlawful types who’d migrated north from Tangipahoa Parish. The Rotary Club once destroyed half the barstools in a brawl with the Knights of Columbus. Although it was lit with old railroad lanterns, used a hokey-pokey cart as a beer cooler, and featured signs for such obsolete brands as Old Settler tobacco and Tube Rose snuff, Zebra Stripes was a relatively new establishment, owned and operated by Hank Collingham, the photographer best known for his black-and-white shots of run-down liquor stores, compiled in a popular coffee table book, Packie, published by Blue Highway Press in 1972.

  The evening Robert brought Molly to the bar, Collingham, sitting by the door with his double-plaited beard hooked behind his ears, looked as anachronistic as his surroundings, mute except for the occasional “You broke-dick motherfucker” grumbled at friends asking if he’d had too many.

  “This place is absolutely insane,” Molly said, her elbows on the bar top. She turned to Robert and added, “Thank you for bringing me here.”

  “You sure? We could still catch the nine o’clock Killing Mr. Tiffee.”

  “Screw Burt Reynolds. This is the real shit.”

  That night was their fourth date in half as many weeks. On the first three, Robert had kept matters typical, taking her out for dinner around the Jackson metropolitan area. Tonight, though, he had suggested they drive up U.S. 49, where, in a small town called the Gateway to the Delta and said to have a witch problem, they could drink cold ones next to addlepated septuagenarians dealing freezeout poker, use the bathroom behind doors labeled pointers and setters instead of men and women, stand on stray bits of silage, and, if they felt the need, soak up the beer with a few tamales kept steaming hot in a Playmate behind the bar. He ordered two Budweisers at the place he had promised Molly was like a movie poster by Jack Davis sprung to life.

  “Heard any more from the long-lost relative who may or may not be trying to con you out of your vast fortunes?”

  “We’ve talked a few times,” Robert said. “Guy seems kind of lonely.”

  In fact, over the past month, he had not only talked to but seen his supposed grandfather, and more than a few times. They had taken to meeting for coffee at a gas station in Duck Hill, a town almost exactly halfway between their two homes. Aside from their favorite topic—whether the town had a hill shaped like a duck or one where ducks had a fondness for congregating—the two of them spoke most often about the Forsters, who they were, what they did. Any question Robert asked about the family Harold would answer. It didn’t matter how personal, which was to say, it didn’t matter how utterly sad. The old guy was the only one left.

  Robert was most curious about this grandmother. Apparently, she was a “dear, sweet” woman who worked as a housemaid for the family and with whom Harold and his brother Lance were “hopping mad in love.” Lurlene ran away in order to keep the peace between the two brothers whom she loved equally. Nobody knew she had been pregnant. When Robert asked how Harold knew that he, rather than his brother, had gotten her pregnant, Harold mumbled, “Lance said he ‘always used lambskin with the help,’” and even though that answer seemed to hint at darker, untold elements of the story, Harold gave it with a look of affectionate nostalgia.

  “Of course he’s lonely. Why else would he reach out?” Molly finished her beer and ordered another round. “So I take it there’s no inheritance coming your way?”

  “Not a single red cent,” Robert said. Aside from his Social Security benefits, Harold had told Robert, he lived on the small amount of proceeds from the Panola Cola Historical Museum, housed in the A-frame built by Robert’s great-grandfather, the contents of which Harold said would be left to Robert when he was “on the other side of the grass.”

  “Nothing? Then why the hell am I sleeping with you?” Molly asked, putting on a show of flabbergast.

  “But we haven’t yet.”

  “We haven’t?”

  “Think I’d remember.”

  She gently chucked Robert’s chin with her fist, saying, “Guess I figured I probably wouldn’t.”

  He smiled at her. It was true. So far they hadn’t done anything but kiss. Still, that had been enough for him, her floral scent, as though they were lying beneath a shade tree on a warm summer day, combining with her taste, honeyed and delicate, so that he could not keep from thinking, Jane who? Robert remembered that look Harold had when talking about Lurlene, and wondered if he, Robert, were already feeling nostalgic for Molly, a woman he still barely knew. That’s what nostalgia does, he supposed, warp the present and shatter the past.

  On their fifth round Robert considered asking Molly about her parents. What had the two of them been like? How did she manage without them? Ever since she mentioned their deaths the first time he talked to her, brushing it off as carelessly as the salt joggled from her fries, he had been wondering about that aspect of her life, a curiosity compounded even more when he learned about his mother. Robert was an orphan the same as Molly. It felt like some kind of bond between them, a connection by way of disconnection, solving the problem by making it a paradox. Two people couldn’t be alone together.

  Before he could ask Molly about her parents, though, a crunching sound came from the front door. The sound was as loud and metallic as it was quick. Everyone at the bar turned in unison to its source. “Here we go again,” muttered one person. “Third time this month.”

  “What happened?” Molly asked Robert.

  “Are you ready to leave?”

  “No.”

  “Good. We’re going to be here awhile.”

  A woman prone to drink, jealousy, and innumerable acts of rage, Hank Collingham’s wife, Margot, had recently taken to suspecting him of “stepping out in his own joint.” Thus, on the frequent occasion she had a few under her belt, she would drive by the bar and, convinced whatever car parked in front of the door belonged to her husband’s mistress, ram it from behind with her own car until the door was blocked shut. Due to a zoning irregularity Zebra Stripes had no other means of egress.

  “Sigh,” said Molly, propping her temple against her fist. She looked at Robert with a half-smile slivering the corners of her green, green eyes. “Thank God I’m having a great time.”

  Those words sent a pleasant jolt through the stripped wires of Robert’s nervous system. “The nice thing is we’ll get a free movie out of the whole ordeal,” he said. “They always put on a movie till the fire department gets here.”

  The films screened at the bar over the past month included Drop-Top’s Last Rodeo, Zardoz, Dark Star, The Alabama Switchblade Murder Gang, Pink Flamingos, Two-Lane Blacktop, Golem 4, and Sic ’Em with That Crisp Wit, Mark Twain! the titles of which were scrawled in chalk on the back wall. That evening the crowd temporarily held captive at the bar was treated to the exploits of a knife-wielding rabble of nuthouse escapees on a rampage in a small backwoods township.

  Although he did not know it yet, Robert would learn, during his research over the coming weeks, that the film they watched that night, The Alabama Switchblade Murder Gang, had been partly financed by his cousin, one of the many poor investments made by the man who, according to most historians, was the linchpin of the Forster family’s rapid fall from prominence.
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  4.3

  Can’t Never Could—News from Connor Rolph Is Seldom Good News—A Secret Proposition—The Cola Wars Begin

  Years later, a Harper’s Magazine review of her famous autobiography would describe Imogene Forster as “fearless and indomitable,” but on May 8, 1956, she lay in the bathtub on the second floor of her family home, crying into the lukewarm water, afraid to get out because she had no idea what to say in the eulogy for her grandfather, Houghton Forster. The funeral was scheduled for that afternoon. Following the death of Imogene’s father when she was ten, Houghton had raised her as if she were his daughter rather than his granddaughter, acting the part of a much younger man. He took her for piggyback rides and taught her how to play catch. He helped her with homework and never missed a single recital. In those years, he often said one important thing to her. “Can’t never could.” Whenever Imogene felt helpless, saying she just couldn’t reach the jar of preserves on a shelf, or she just couldn’t make it to the end of the driveway in time to catch the bus, or she just couldn’t go to the school dance with the other kids, her grandfather would respond with those three words. “Can’t never could.” Now, soon to graduate at the top of her class from Radcliffe, Imogene knew she had her grandfather to thank for everything she’d managed to accomplish in her life, which made her fear about giving his eulogy all the worse. She unplugged the bath, waited for the water to drain, grabbed the pulley above her head, and, lifting herself in one smooth motion, sat down in her wheelchair.

  Imogene recited possible openings in her head—“Stories are the ultimate retribution of the powerless,” “Stories are the ultimate crutch of the powerful”—while she dressed in her bedroom. I’ve heard it said that the difference between the past, present, and future is merely an illusion. Ugh. The South isn’t real. America isn’t real. There’s just the world. And my grandfather was a man of it. Nuh-uh. Imogene’s black dress made every sentence she thought of seem too bleak.

  Downstairs she was greeted by a sound typical of the past few days, her grandmother saying into the telephone, “No, he did not tell anyone! Please don’t call here again. Secret ingredient? Grow up, you fool,” and slamming the receiver on whatever reporter had most recently procured their number. Annabelle turned around and took notice of Imogene. “I swear,” she said, “if one more of them calls, just one more, I’m involving the authorities.”

  “It’ll taper off. People don’t care anymore.”

  But Imogene did. Later that day, shortly after the burial, she was scheduled to meet with Connor Rolph, the company’s chief in-house counsel and the executor of her grandfather’s estate, who would inform her, she knew, of what her grandfather had promised years ago: that she, Imogene Forster, had inherited control of the Panola Cola Company. It felt only proper that the new CEO should know the “secret ingredient” for the company’s main product. Her grandfather had never told her before he died.

  “Darling, have you seen your brother around?” Imogene’s mother, Sarah, asked while pushing Imogene’s wheelchair past her grandmother and into the kitchen. Imogene hated it when people pushed her chair without permission. Her arms worked just fine, thank you and good day.

  “He was following Susannah like a puppy earlier.”

  “That boy will be the death of us all. He’s got ten minutes to get his suit on.”

  Without further explanation, Sarah left the kitchen yelling, “Niiiick!” leaving Imogene alone, as though in a holding pen. Imogene had no clue how that woman could possibly be her mother. She was the epitome of a Southern Frantic. Sarah Forster laughed when she was upset, cried when she was happy, was constantly saying she was at her “wit’s end” despite the obvious lack of a beginning, and had not once, to her daughter’s knowledge, allowed a beverage to sit on a dinner table, side table, or coffee table without a coaster.

  Then again, being a single mother certainly hadn’t made things easy for her, Imogene thought as she looked out the window. The odd configuration of panes split the light so that two sun dogs stood vigilant on both sides of their source. From her chair, Imogene calmed herself by studying the light as it reflected off a metal bread safe, lit up a row of cruets, ewers, vases, and flagons in a cellarette, and reflected again off a display of apostle spoons. She watched dust swirl through each beam, creating paisley patterns in the air. It felt as if she were looking at the bubbles in a glass of soda. Everything these days reminded her of the business. Imogene had big plans for PanCola. In the kitchen, she was thinking about the sugar problem, how constant fluctuations in the price of sugar destabilized their profit margin, and about a conversation she’d recently had with a chemistry major at school, who mentioned it might soon be possible, even scalable, to change the glucose from corn starch into fructose, the result of which, a sort of corn “syrup,” could potentially replace sugar in certain products. Imogene was considering the costs and benefits of funding a research institute to investigate such a possibility when she was interrupted by the sight of Branchwater standing at the door.

  “Come on in, you big oaf.”

  Branchwater entered the kitchen, hat clenched in his giant hands. “Thought I’d check on y’all before I head to the church.”

  “Mother’s about to wring Nick’s neck and I’m about to wring Mother’s neck. That sound about typical?”

  “Suppose I’ll just mosey on then.”

  They both laughed, naturally at first and then awkwardly, as the purpose of the day, the weight of the occasion, sank in. From the second floor came the sound of Sarah Forster yelling at Nicholas Forster that it wasn’t her fault nobody had ever taught him how to tie a tie. “Branchwater?” said Imogene.

  “Yes.”

  “Will you drive me to my grandfather’s funeral?”

  “Don’t you want to ride in the limousine?”

  “No.”

  Throughout Imogene’s childhood, her grandfather used to spend at least one Saturday a month with her and her alone. Each time, he’d start by asking, “Want to act rich today?” She always smiled rather than nodded. The two of them would then head to Memphis, where they’d have steak for lunch, shop at dozens of stores, get tutti-frutti ice cream, and listen to blues music on Beale Street. Imogene’s favorite part was always the ride back, sitting next to her grandfather in his car, drowsy and content, packages jostling in the trunk. Sometimes, when they were getting close to home, he’d yell, “Tree bear!”

  “I’ve been thinking,” Imogene said, neither drowsy nor content, sitting next to Branchwater in his pickup truck. Its recently simonized paint job shone blue as Barbicide.

  “So that’s what you’ve been up to at college.”

  “I’ve been thinking about the future. I know the kind of things you did for my grandfather. Things that required, let’s say things that required a forceful hand.”

  “Imo, that was a long time ago.”

  “Save it,” she said, less gently than she’d intended. “I’ve got plans for the company, now that I’m in charge. And I need your help. I don’t like that Coke and Pepsi are so close to us in sales.”

  “We’ve always been number one.”

  “Present perfect doesn’t last forever.”

  “What’d you have in mind?”

  She wasn’t sure yet, but it didn’t bother her. Somehow being the one chosen by her grandfather made her feel capable of anything. He’d picked her! From all the possible choices—Annabelle or Sarah; Lance or Ramsey or Harold; Susannah or Nicholas—her grandfather had picked her, Imogene. She wanted to flip somersaults down the road. She wanted to do high-kicks on the sidewalk. So capable did she feel that not even the church up ahead could lower her spirits, or the fact she still had no idea how to eulogize the man who’d raised her.

  * * *

  After the funeral Imogene skipped the reception and went directly to Panola Cola’s central office. She’d thought it would be closed that day, out of respect for the passing of the company’s founder, but the place was as busy as usual. She enter
ed the nineteen-story building at One PanCola Square alone that afternoon, having refused Branchwater’s offer of assistance, and nearly tripped an electrician as he hurried to fix a flickering light above the entrance’s revolving doors, which had apparently replaced the doorman Imogene’s grandfather had hired for aiding visitors in wheelchairs. At the front desk, Imogene said to the severely eyelined receptionist, “I’m here to see Connor Rolph.”

  “And do you have an appointment with Mr. Rolph?”

  “He has one with me, yes.”

  The receptionist asked for Imogene’s name, didn’t blink a demarcated eye at it, and ran her finger down a sheet of paper, stopping a third of the way from the bottom. She turned to a gray-suited man who it seemed to Imogene had nothing more productive to do than sit in a club chair, staring at a closed folder. “James, will you take this young woman to Mr. Rolph’s office?”

  “That’s all right,” Imogene said. “I know my way around.”

  Exploring the building had been one of her favorite pastimes as a little girl, discovering closets full of office supplies that were more fun to play with than any dress-up doll, eavesdropping on gossip whispered among the secretaries. She first learned about sex after hearing how so-and-so had gotten tight and spent the evening with you-know-who after the office party last week. In the cafeteria she had drunk her first cup of coffee, and when a busboy warned it could stunt her growth, she’d laughed, saying she didn’t have to worry about getting taller.

  On the top floor, Imogene exited the elevator. She took a moment to assess her bearings, looking both ways down the hall. Connor’s office was at the end, if she recalled correctly, across from a small kitchenette. Her wheels made chipmunk sounds against the linoleum as she made her way down the empty hall.