Dodging and Burning Page 12

  “It’s me.”

  “So you’re calling me at work now.”

  “Please, don’t.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I needed to hear your voice. I miss you.”

  “We’re finished. You made that clear when you ordered up the divorce papers.”

  “If you ask me to forgive you, I will. We could start over.”

  “I don’t want you to forgive me. Why should I? I’m not sorry.”

  “I’ll be rich soon. Lousy rich. We could build a new life together.”

  “I don’t care about your money, She.”

  “Is that tramp really going to make you happy?”

  “We plan to marry.”

  “Already?”

  “Good-bye, She.”

  The line went dead, and she just sat there, numb, for a time. Did she mean nothing to Kenneth? How could he be so cold? She thought back on that happy weekend in the Adirondacks—but she caught herself, peevish tears forming, then stood up and stamped her foot—once, twice, beating away the emotion like a child. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. She wanted to think about something else. She wanted something to look forward to. The future was out there. Kenneth was the past. Damn him to hell.

  9

  CEOLA

  Mama had been waiting for me. Her hands were folded over the wool blanket she had been making, her needles stabbed into its scratchy pink web—she was always knitting something, always.

  Papa stepped around the corner, bracing himself against the living room wall, drunk as a skunk. His cheeks were red, and his whiskey-glazed eyes were loose in their sockets. He steadied himself and, for the longest time, stared at me. Slow, like demons out of a pit, his thoughts climbed out of his soupy mind, and with a hiccup, he started.

  “I met some of the men for refreshments after work, and we got to talkin’.” He was slurring his speech. “Sam Sprinkle tells me he was out making deliveries in Jitters Gap today. He said he saw the damnedest thing. The damnedest thing. He said he saw Jay Greenwood and Bunny Prescott and you in a slick green Oldsmobile. Yes, ma’am, that’s what he said. And I thought to myself, how could it be that my daughter was with a Prescott and a Greenwood? It didn’t make one bit of sense.

  “So I asked Sam if he had made a mistake. I told him my daughter knows how I feel about both of those families, she wouldn’t be driving around with them. He said he was making a delivery to Glade’s Dine-In, and he saw you and Bunny walk out of the place and get into the car with the Greenwood boy. There was no mistakin’ it, he said.” Papa dropped his heavy hand on my shoulder and bent toward me, his 100-proof breath made my eyes sting. “Out with it! Why were you with them?”

  Mama’s lips twitched and tightened as if she was about to speak, the birthmark on the side of her face blazing bright red like the scorch on a freshly branded cow.

  “Why were you driving around in that fancy car with that queer boy and Princess Prescott? It was embarrassing for me. Goddamn humiliating.”

  “Bob,” my mother said with caution.

  “I wasn’t there,” I said. Papa’s grip on my shoulder tightened. His face was close to mine, his eyes like licks of blue flame. I thought about Billy’s vicious mug as he beat the side of Bunny’s car. I was more afraid of Papa.

  “Tell the truth,” he demanded.

  “They’re my friends.”

  “Your friends?” He let go. “Your friends!”

  “We’re a club.”

  “How could you be friends? Why would you want to be friends with either of those two?”

  “I missed Robbie, and Jay was Robbie’s friend. They were best friends. He loved Robbie. Robbie loved him too.”

  That’s when Papa hauled off and hit me.

  His hand clipped the side of my face, and his garnet-studded Royal Oak High ring bit into my cheek just under my eye. I can still remember the twinkle of gold before the pain, like light flashing through that prism Mama had hanging in the kitchen window. He had done it to me only a few times before and never before you died, Robbie, so I didn’t expect it. To this day, I don’t like it when light catches my eyes.

  I stumbled, slapping the wall with my back. The shock of it brought tears, and I cried into my hands, easing my body to the floor. I heard the front door swing open, then the flop of the screen against the doorframe and Papa’s feet pounding the wood slats of the porch. Soon he would be breaking ground and tossing dirt, planting trees like a man possessed, building a forest to hide us in.

  Mama stood up, her blanket spilling from her lap. She didn’t say a word. Her eyes were as blank as polished stone, like a zombie from one of your scary comics. Did she want to help me? Did she care? Hell if I knew. I couldn’t take my sticky, snotty hands away from my cheeks. I retreated like a turtle into its shell, and my thoughts—like many times before and after—turned to you.

  You were sitting on your bed and it was the afternoon—one of those chilly fall afternoons where the world is dark at its edges. I had just been playing outside, racing my bike down the hill, jumping in the leaves, tunneling through the tall grass, all the things a young girl isn’t supposed to do. I wasn’t ready to settle down to finish my arithmetic or my book report on The Red Badge of Courage or whatever schoolwork I had to do.

  On your lap, in a jumble, were sheets of notebook paper, curled at the edges and scrawled with your messy handwriting like some loony’s graffiti. For a minute or two, I leaned against the doorframe and watched you read, your long fingers fidgeting with your pants pocket and your lips pressed together as if giving the air in front of you a little kiss.

  I cleared my throat, and without looking up, you said, “What do you want?”

  I came into the room and sat on the opposite end of the bed from you. “What you working on?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Is it good?”

  “I guess. I don’t know.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “Don’t be so nosy.”

  I leaned toward you, being as nosy as possible. “Why don’t you read it to me?”

  “It’s not finished.”

  “What kind of story is it?”

  “It’s scary, but it’s not ready. Go away.”

  “Come on. Read it to me.”

  “No—you’re bugging me.”

  “Read it to me, pleeease.”

  “No.”

  “I’ll tell Mama about it!”

  You rolled your eyes. “Okay, okay—but you have to sit there and be quiet. Not a peep.”

  You cleared your throat and breathed in and out like you were about to sing high opera. When you read scary stories to me, it was like being on the deck of a ship in a storm. I could hang over the edge and stare at the dark, bubbly waters below, imagining what it might feel like to let go and take the plunge and be sucked under, but all the time knowing you had your hands around my waist and would never let me go.

  Annoyed with your main character, I blurted out, “Why is she doing that? Going there alone? Shouldn’t she know better?”

  “You want me to stop? I’ll stop right now. I swear.”

  “Sorry, sorry. I’ll be quiet.”

  As you read on, I forgot you had written this story. It was professional, official, like something in one of your magazines. It was so much better than the last one you wrote, “The Case of the Creepy Cradle.” Do you remember that one? It was about a policeman who falls for a woman who ends up being the mama of a vampire-monster with bat wings, red eyes, tusks, and fangs. The mother gets angry with the cop and feeds him to her baby. Now, mind you, my tastes weren’t terribly sophisticated at that age, but I knew a good story when I read one, and “Creepy Cradle” was not good. You had become a much better writer since then.

  “Stories need to hold together,” you told me, like you had read that somewhere. “Everything should click into place at the end. The endings are so important.”

  Your new story had me hooked. It was damn good. Being the excitable
girl I was, I interrupted you again, and again you threatened to stop reading. I begged and apologized, and you gave in. As the story reached its climax, I was on the edge of your bed, my knees pinned to my chest by my crossed arms. Would you reach the end before Mama called us for dinner? Oh please oh please oh please! I could hardly stand it. Then you stopped, and I let out a scream—more of a squeal, really. I leaped toward you and hugged you, the pages falling to the floor. “It’s too much!” I said. “I want to know how it turns out!”

  “It’s just a story, Cee!” you said, laughing.

  “I have to know now!”

  “Mr. Spade,” you said, assuming an aristocratic posture, your voice low and feminine. I released you, and we assumed our carefully studied roles. “I’ve a terrible, terrible confession to make. That—that story I told you yesterday was all—a story.”

  “Oh, that—” I said, doing my best tough guy, putting my hands on my hips. “We didn’t exactly believe your story, Miss—Miss—is your name Wonderly or Leblanc?”

  “It’s really O’Shaughnessy, Brigid O’Shaughnessy.”

  “We didn’t exactly believe your story, Miss O’Shaughnessy. We believed your two hundred dollars— Wait a second,” I said, breaking character. “You’re not fooling me. I still want to hear the end!”

  You smiled and shrugged. I knew the answer was no.

  I loved acting out those scenes from The Maltese Falcon. You did all the voices so good. Spade, Gutman, O’Shaughnessy. Cairo was the funniest, in that squeaky, high-pitched voice of his, like an evil chipmunk—You … you imbecile. You bloated idiot. You stupid fat-head, you.

  I wish you were here to remember those old times with me. We’d have so many stories to tell each other. We could sit in my kitchen where the light is good in the winter, sip coffee, smoke, talk about our favorite mystery novels, and quote our favorite movies. You were my best friend, have always been my best friend. I even named my first son after you. Hell, it was your namesake who helped me track down a copy of Weird Stories, July 1943, on eBay, the issue with “A Date with Death” in it. I wish you had seen it published, even if it had to be under a pseudonym. If you’d lived to be a writer, I wonder what sort of stories you would’ve written. Can you imagine what Mama and Papa would’ve thought? You, a real short story writer!

  But I’ve gone off course.

  I was telling you I was there, bunched up on the floor, hiding in my hands. Once my crying mellowed, I took my hands away from my face. I noticed a pattern of blood in the grooves of my left palm. Papa had got me good. I wiped it on my skirt and stood up.

  I wanted Mama to come and put her arms around me. I wanted her to bandage the scratch or rub my shoulders or just say a few kind words. I needed her to do something. But she had already left the room. So I went upstairs, cleaned my face, treated the cut, and barricaded myself in my bedroom by wedging a book under the bottom of the door. I took your journal out from its hiding place and curled up on my bed.

  Before I began reading, I hesitated for a second, a little afraid I might be breaking a sacred oath that would conjure up your ghost. But that was the point—I needed you. I wanted your ghost. On the inside of the cover, you had written:

  DO NOT OPEN!!! TOP SECRET!!!

  That means you, Cee!

  Property of: Robert H. Bliss III

  Date: June 20, 1941 to __________________

  The pages inside were cluttered with notes, sketches, crossword puzzles, lines of dialogue from movies, and even several of your favorite quotations: “I dare not tell it in words, not even in these songs—Here I shade and hide my thoughts, I myself do not expose them, and yet they expose me more than all my other poems.” Walt Whitman.

  Although there were fragments of several stories, most of it was your personal diary. Some entries I’ve returned to again and again throughout the years, hoping to get closer to you with each read, like the way I go to pictures of you and just look and look. I suppose there’s only so much you can get from a few words, but still I hunt for you in them, harder than I ever searched for Lily Vellum.

  1941

  September 29th

  Today Mr. Martin was lecturing about the sex organs of flowers, droning on about stamens and anthers, when my lab partner Jay opened to the glossary of my Bio book. He took his pencil, circled HOMOSEXUAL, and put a question mark beside it. I looked at him, and he gave me the Charlie Chaplin eyebrow wiggle and wagged an invisible cigar in my face. Then he scram scribbled something else in the margin of the book. Mr. Martin snapped at us, and Jay slapped the book closed. We didn’t look at each other for the rest of class. When I got home, I opened it. In the margin it read, MARTIN HAS A BIG STAMEN.

  September 30th

  Jay wrote another note today. It said, “Don’t be scared. Want to be friends?” I quickly wrote back, “No.” He wrote back, “Please.” I wrote “No” again and then again. He replied with “Please” and “Why not?” Finally I wrote, “Yes, but I’m no fairy.” I was scared Mr. Martin would catch us.

  October 18th

  Jay and I explored Hardy’s quarry today, walking along the cliffs, squeezing ourselves into the mouths of caves, pretending to be spelunkers searching for hidden treasure, but we’d always chicken out after a few feet in. It was as black as tar in there—and there were bats. We also played this great game. We’d each find the biggest rock we could carry, haul it to the edge of the quarry, yell, “Bombs away,” and toss it over, counting how long it would take for each stone to hit the water. The fastest one won.

  I told Jay I liked detective stories and ghost stories and would he like to hear one, so I made one up about a haunted cave with an evil witch in it and the two boys who defeat her. It made Jay laugh. That’s all that mattered. Maybe if I get good at stories, I can do it for a job someday.

  He told me he liked taking pictures with his father’s camera. I told him he’d have to show it to me one day. He said he would, he’d like that.

  Nov 2nd

  I asked Papa if Jay could come for dinner and listen to The Shadow on the radio with us, and he told me Jay wasn’t welcome at our house. He said he was still mad at Mr. Greenwood for selling the company to Mr. Prescott years ago. I got hot with him, but he just steamed and told me I can’t be Jay’s friend and he didn’t approve of him or his grandma. The end. He told me I should look for other friends, boys who liked to play sports and go hunting and not the sort who toy around with telling stories, playing pinochle, and doing crossword puzzles.

  Dec 15th

  In the newspaper today, I read a story about a man who was beaten to death at a bar in Roanoke. A group of five men took turns hitting him with a tire iron fifty-six times. He was only twenty-one. Although there was nothing in the article about why they did it, when I mentioned it to Papa, he said it was because the man was an invert, hanging out at a fairy bar, and probably deserved it. He said I had to read between the lines. The Times was being tasteful and just implying the truth. They didn’t want to burden young minds like mine. He told me if one of those queers was to ever get his hands on me, I should just sock him as hard as I can. Any decent person would understand that.

  The thought of doing something like that made me sick to my stomach, but I lied to Papa and told him I would do just that, right in the fella’s kisser.

  1943

  May 14th

  I want to tell Jay about what happened at Hersh’s Pharmacy, but I don’t know how. I don’t have the nerve, but I got to—I just got to tell somebody.

  It was about closing time, and I was there flipping through magazines. Mr. H came up to me and asked me if I wanted a soda before he went home. “A Snap Cola float with vanilla ice cream,” I told him. He said it was on the house, but he wanted to talk to me. I thought, okay.

  After he handed me the float, he led me into his back room and told me to sit on a stool in front of his desk. He took off his lab coat and leaned against the wall, trying to be suave like James Cagney or something. He smiled at me, rubbing the s
tubble on his chin. He’s a handsome guy, but he had a few teeth missing at the left side of his mouth, making his smile a little lopsided. I sipped my float and watched the ice cream foam and melt.

  Then he started asking me about what I was studying in school, and he told me he had noticed that I liked reading magazines. I told him I liked Dime Detective and Weird Stories, because I liked writing those kinds of stories, and I wanted to be a writer someday. He smiled like that was all okay by him. Then he said, “Any other sorts of magazines you like?”

  I said, “I don’t know.”

  And he said, “I keep a good eye on my store, son. You’ve lifted a particular magazine from the rack twice. Be honest with me.”

  I shrugged, trying to hide my nerves.

  “It’s called Phsy Physique,” he said. “I’m sure you remember.”

  So I fessed up and told him I’d pay for what I took.

  He said, “You don’t look like much of a body builder. If you were only interested in bodybuilding, I don’t think you would’ve stolen those magazines at all. No sir. You certainly paid for all that detective pulp, didn’t you? I’m thinking you like looking at those men. That’s what I’m thinking.”

  I was shaking. He reached over and took the soda glass from my hand and placed it on the desk. He knelt on one knee in front of me, putting one hand on my thigh and another on my shoulder.

  He said, “I’m no muscle man, but may I kiss you?”

  I was afraid, but I nodded my head. As he leaned toward me, his hand slid up my leg. His big, cigarette-smelling mouth pressed hard against mine. I kissed him back. It was deeper and messier than I’d seen done in the movies. It felt so good and awful at the same time—that’s the only way to describe it. Good and awful.

  I said, “I’ve got to go,” and pulled away.

  He said, “You’re a good kisser. A real natural.”

  I stood up, knocking the stool over like an ass.

  “Don’t tell anyone,” he said. “This needs to be between us, hear? Only us. And if you ever want to drop by after I close up, there’ll always be a free float for you.”