Maybe it was because Milan got busy with her committee work and Mavis was now mostly watching TV alone, but after a while, none of it seemed quite as amusing as it used to. And then it got downright scary when the women weren’t fake anymore, but were real live, flesh-and-blood females on reality crime shows who were just running out to the 7-Eleven for a quick quart of milk and invariably wound up nude, in the surrender position (on their backs with legs wide apart, a final homage to male domination), and left in the woods for wild animals to clean out their skulls. It was enough to keep you from leaving your house for a quart of milk or even chemotherapy. Especially when you added all the dead hotties on cutting-edge crime series (a new addiction), where the bar seemed to be raised each week for edgier and more inventive autopsy reports. (“Are those lab results back yet, Lieutenant?” “Yes, sir. They found playing cards in her uterus and her left breast implant is missing.”)
Some people on a panel Mavis watched had said these kinds of shows could not have an effect on impressionable young boys. But they did seem to be having an effect on Mavis. She had started to actually feel angry and depressed and didn’t know why. It was the kind of malaise that settles on people who’ve had something terrible done to them and can’t do anything about it. She never really connected it to her television. She just knew that there came a time when she couldn’t even remember the titles of the movies anymore. They were all, Who’s in My Damn House Now?, a very special made-for-TV drama. Or they were The Donna Somebody Story, with the plots getting thinner and thinner until finally one night, as she and Rudy devoured another bowl of her homemade wasabi pretzel mix and one of the faceless Donnas was being secretly videotaped by her neighbor while she sat on the toilet, even Chester had started to growl, showing his teeth and inching cautiously on his stomach toward the TV. That’s when Mavis had finally stood up and said, No More. Amazingly, Chester had stood up, too, as though this were a moment he had been waiting for. Mavis picked up the remote and turned “the thing” off, telling Rudy, over his protests, to go home, write a letter to his family in Cuba, practice his verb conjugation, get a life. Mavis and Chester went to bed that night and slept like the baby they were hoping for.
After that, Mavis started to feel better. She now realized that she was tough on the outside, but inside she could be as raw as an old bone and had to be careful about what she took in. But even after she beat her addiction, she was still left with an uneasy feeling about men. Not the men in her own life, the men she knew and loved—like Rudy, who spent almost a whole year before giving up on teaching her to tango, and Brundidge, who never forgot her birthday, and Wood, who had beat the hell out of Russell Pittman in junior high for calling her Miss Piggy, and Jeter, who immortalized her in the Paris Beacon with his “Ode to an Improbable Soufflé.” These were not the men Mavis was mad at. It just seemed to her that men in general caused most of the trouble in the world. It didn’t matter if news announcers said, “Angry soccer fans rioted today” or, “Child molesters are on the rise,” or that some “evil dictator” somewhere had started a war, everybody knew they were really talking about men. It was men who did these things and had been doing them for hundreds and hundreds of years. And you could call them angry soccer fans or molesters or evil dictators, as though men and women were all in this together, but what they really were, was men. And it just seemed to Mavis that, in general, women hadn’t really done much of anything, except maybe look good enough to fight over and, in the end, get the blame for starting stuff.
The more Mavis thought about this, the more sure she was that she really didn’t care to have a man up her own vagina one bit. She had tried it before with Ricky Starkweather, who spilled himself all over her, and with several others, who went on way too long. (Where was Ricky Starkweather when you needed him?) She hadn’t really enjoyed any of it and anyway she was often bothered by a vague feeling, which increased after her addiction, that nobody’s penis deserved to be up there, inside of her, especially not after all the trouble and pain a mere six inches of hard flesh had caused to her own kind.
To tell the truth, she could no longer even imagine receiving the instrument of their kinder brothers between her own legs. Because even the dear ones, who brought you flowers and candy, and held your head when you had the flu (this had never happened to Mavis), even these good men were still trying to be the top dog at the same time they were loving you, pounding you and giving it to you, while you were on the receiving end. They were the objects, you the receptacle. They were the stick, you the hole. Mavis didn’t like any of it. No, thank you. Sometimes you lose the right to go somewhere, because the people who were there before you behaved badly. To Mavis, the female vagina was such a place. Maybe the most special place that has ever existed. The place where human life comes out. And as far as Mavis was concerned, men had lost the right to go there. Even the stellar ones. If other women were open for business, that was fine with her. But she was not. If she needed to pleasure herself, she would do it with her own good hand—not the hand of Jimmy Del Serial Killer or Ricky Starkweather, or Mr. I’m the Other Half of You—but her own good hand, the one she knew was well intended and she could depend on. The one the whole town of Paris trusted to make the best bread they had ever tasted. That would be more than good enough for her.
Wood was sitting at his desk, talking on the phone. “Okay, I sure appreciate your help. We’ll get back to you.”
He hung up and looked at Jeter and Mavis, who were seated in front of him.
After a while, he grinned. “Well…They have it.”
Mavis squealed and then covered her mouth, afraid to call attention to such unaccustomed happiness.
Brundidge, who was leaning against the wall, crossed to Jeter and patted him. “Hey, buddy, what did I tell you? I knew it would still be good. You got some guerrilla fighters out there!”
Jeter said, nonplussed, “Oh yeah. I’m a regular samurai warrior.”
Wood cautioned, “Let’s not get carried away. This is a very old sample.”
Then he turned to Mavis. “And even with a viable specimen, there’s no assurance you’re going to get pregnant. Unfortunately, the age thing is against us, too.”
She nodded, overcome. Jeter said, “I think she wants to go for it.”
Wood asked, “Don’t you think you all should see an attorney first? Have him draw up some sort of agreement?”
Jeter spoke matter-of-factly. “We already have one. We’re trading sperm for food.”
Wood stared at them for a moment. “Okay. Well, we’ve got a lot of tests to run. They’re gonna analyze the specimen right away and then I want to get it here as soon as possible.”
Brundidge said, “How do you do that?”
“FedEx.”
Now Mavis found her voice, “No way.”
“Yes. It’s packed in liquid nitrogen.”
Mavis worried, “What if it gets lost?”
“Then we’re screwed. I’ve never heard of that happening. I’ve heard of a specimen that, for some reason, failed to stay below freezing.”
Brundidge offered, “Well, hey, I’ve got a refrigerated truck. What about that, just to be safe?”
Wood said, “Fine, if you can go today. It’s in Little Rock.”
Brundidge was getting into his coat now, “I’m on my way. I mean, let’s don’t take any chances with this deal. It’s too important.” He pulled on his silk-lined deerskin gloves. “I could be transporting a future president.”
Jeter mused, “Yeah, or a guy who makes little outhouses out of Popsicle sticks.”
Wood turned to Mavis, “Right now, you need to go in there and pick yourself out a pretty little smock.” Mavis stood up, facing the three men. She seemed like she was about to make a speech. But nothing came out.
Finally, Wood patted her and spoke for all of them, “We know.”
CHAPTER 12
Brundidge had just paid his check and was telling Shandi with an “i,” the waitress at Digger’s Truck Stop
& Autel, that if she got any prettier he would have to marry her. He knew it was kind of a corny thing to say, but he also knew that Shandi, who was young and fat, could use a compliment. He looked at the Coors beer clock on the wall and saw that it was just a little past 4 A.M. His two little girls were sleeping at his mother’s because this was the first day of duck hunting season, an almost sacred observance for the men of Paris.
Shandi said, wanting to stretch out his offer, “If you married me, my daddy would come looking for you. He’d think you were too old for me.”
Brundidge noticed Shandi didn’t say she thought he was too old. Now he was confused. He had thought he was just being nice, but here Shandi was acting like she might be interested. Now he was obligated.
“Well, a good-looking girl like you might be worth getting shot over.”
Shandi smiled and started to answer, then thought better of it. It was just as well. Most females confused Brundidge and he certainly didn’t have time to get mixed up with one this morning. He was hunting ducks, not women.
He gave Shandi a wink, picked his coffee thermos off the counter, and spoke to several tables of men on his way out.
Don Tiller said, “Don’t let them ducks get the best of you.”
Brundidge answered, “If they’re smart, their wills have already been written.” He figured these men would have said “wrote,” but bad grammar was one concession he was not willing to make just to be one of them, something he knew he already was.
Then Lee Fowler said, leaning back on the hind legs of his chair, “You know, I bee-lieve that’s about the worst-lookin’ outfit I’ve ever seen you wear. Can’t you get one of them designers to whip you up a good-lookin’ huntin’ on-som-bull?”
Brundidge held his arms out, the thermos dangling from one hand, as he displayed his camouflage fatigues. “I feel sorry for you boys. This happens to be the latest thing for fall. Of course, no way you could know that, sittin’ around here in those sorry shirts of yours that I wouldn’t wear to change my oil.”
Now Shelby Manis, who seldom said anything, was riled. “What are you talkin’ about, you crazy fool? My shirt is made by Arrow! You can’t beat a Arrow shirt!”
Bert Harwell agreed, “That’s right, Arrow’s the best!”
Brundidge headed for the door. “You all are just jealous ’cause you know in your hearts you’ll never look as good as me.” Then he paused solemnly and said, knowing they wouldn’t care that it was dated, “Please don’t hate me ’cause I’m beautiful.”
He exited amid their jeers.
The navy blue night was still crawling with stars when Brundidge pulled out on the highway and headed back toward town. He pushed in a CD and rubbed his hands together, his breath evaporating into small winter clouds as the words began to tumble out of the speakers.
“Suckin’ on chili dogs outside the Tastee-Freez…Diane’s sittin’ on Jackie’s lap, he’s got his hand between her knees…”
Brundidge rolled down the windows and turned up the volume as loud as it would go. As the cold November air struck his face, he increased his speed, feeling happy and free, like he knew he would once he got the right song going. He had to stop by his office and pick up some extra ammo. By the time he exited onto Main Street, his heart was up and racing with the promise of the day. Thank goodness for El Niño—the only worthwhile thing to come out of this year’s flooding was the early, massive migration of ducks southward, pushing up the first day of duck hunting season. This was a real manly-man day, during which males were socially sanctioned to sit together in damp straw blinds for hours on end, drinking liquor, telling stories, and cursing. Nobody had to take out the garbage or apologize for being emotionally unavailable. It was just all guys, all the time, all day long. And Brundidge couldn’t get enough of it. He just hoped Wood wasn’t on call, and would have to bring his cell phone, which for Brundidge ruined the ambience of the entire duck-blind experience. Brundidge was the proud owner of every technological advance known to humankind, but he knew instinctively that a cell phone has no more place in a duck blind than a girl did in their tree house when they were still boys. Of course, that hadn’t stopped Mavis, who had gotten in there anyway and fouled the sanctity of their hideaway with her discarded candy wrappers and empty soda cans and then used a Magic Marker to write her name permanently over the flap of oilcloth that served as their front door. Just thinking about it even now could make Brundidge mad, but something else had drawn his attention as he slowed to a stop at the first blinking signal. In the early morning darkness, the boarded-up buildings looked gray and forgotten except for the occasional bright flash across their facades. But what caught his eye was the reflection of the stoplight continuously strafing the glass-front window of Sidney Garfinkel’s vacant store. Brundidge was thinking that somebody must’ve broken in. The windows, which were usually empty, now featured eight or nine nude mannequins and a lone torso that was lying on the floor. The faces on the mannequins were unfazed and smiling, as if they knew a secret Brundidge would never know. He shivered as the light flickered rhythmically across the lifeless people, illuminating them like discarded stars in an old silent movie. After a moment, he accelerated too quickly, making an absurd squealing noise.
A few miles later, Wood and Charlie were a welcome sight as they lumbered down the McIlmore driveway, wearing their camouflage fatigues and carrying their shotguns. This was a drill they had been a part of many times. They got in the van without speaking and drove away.
Across town, at the Pleasant Valley Retirement Villa, Rudy Castenera stepped back and studied his charge with all the intensity of an artist assessing his work at midpoint. Jeter’s red face shone through a mountain of winter clothing, including an insulated coat, quilted vest, wool scarf, and industrial-strength mittens.
Jeter sighed softly. “Rudy, this vest feels a little warm. Maybe we’ve got too much stuff on me.”
Rudy fussed over him. “No, I listened to the TV. It is very cold out. Anyway, this is an official hunting vest. I asked the clerk at Fed-Mart.”
Now Jeter was upset. “Rudy, I can’t wear this. I don’t shop at Fed-Mart.”
“I am sorry, my friend, but you already have.” Rudy placed a pair of furry earmuffs on Jeter’s head, crowning them with Dr. Mac’s hat. “There you go, Great White Hunter!” He patted Jeter on the top of his head.
Jeter caught a glimpse of himself in the dresser mirror and mumbled, “I look like a damn snowman.”
The sun was edging up on a new pink horizon as Jeter’s wheelchair sailed up the ramp and through the open doors of Brundidge’s van. Wood then closed the doors and jumped back in on the passenger side as they sped away. Rudy stood on the curb waving good-bye like an anxious mother sending her child off to his first day of school.
The van had been moving at a good clip when out of the blue, it shot across four lanes of interstate and exited at the Fed-Mart Superstore off-ramp, turning right, sailing over the empty parking lot and arriving at the massive quarter-mile Fed-Mart Superstore entrance, at which point, without the van’s ever slowing down, an orange quilted hunting vest was thrown unceremoniously out the side door and onto the pavement.
A little later, a thick gray mist was rising off the lake. Two men and a boy lowered a hammock containing the soft, plump snowman figure into the wide, flat boat below. Then Charlie untied the rope that secured the boat to the dock, and Wood and Brundidge jumped onboard behind him. Wood pulled the cord on the old seven-and-a-half horsepower Mercury, starting it up on the second try. The sun had climbed even higher now and felt warm on the men’s faces. Everyone smiled, especially the snowman, as they made their way across the green porcelain lake with the little motor humming and the wheelchair on the dock becoming smaller in the distance.
Mavis was well acquainted with the scene in which Daisy Buchanan gathers up a bundle of Jay Gatsby’s luxurious shirts, holding them to her cheek in wonderment and appreciation as she weeps. During Miss Delaney’s twelfth-grade American Lit class
, Mavis had figured Daisy for a sort of high-class phony, but now she understood the young socialite’s awe over something so ordinary and beautiful. It was pretty much the way Mavis felt every time she looked around the little business she had built from scratch. There were, for example, her shiny stainless-steel bowls filled with freshly kneaded dough and her hand-carved, pine baker’s racks, cracked and faded from cradling thousands of steaming loaves of bread. There were also the long French windows with their leaded panes, the high, engraved tin ceiling, and the enormous glass pastry case that came from the original Doe’s. It was here that Mavis had acquired her passion for food and subsequent skill from an unlikely pair of teachers. Dauphine Doe, who was Cajun, was a master spicewoman, and her daily specials, from jambalaya to andouille sausage with black beans and rice, brought people from miles around. And her husband, Clarence, a quiet, methodical man, was a pastry chef extraordinaire whose beignets and fried pies had achieved legendary status among the locals.
It was also at Doe’s that Mavis became fat and confident. She loved the brazenness of the hotheaded Dauphine (so unlike her own tepid mother, who regularly curtsied to male authority). Dauphine smoked unfiltered cigarettes and unapologetically carried an ever-present stained white dishtowel over her shoulder. But Mavis also blossomed under the paternal eye of Clarence, who spotted her talent right off and had taught her, by the age of twelve, how to turn out a slap-your-mama red velvet cake that invariably earned the prime spot in his spinning glass display case. And besides all that, Doe’s was just an exciting place to hang out. Dauphine often picked fights with Clarence in front of customers, and on occasion had even thrown a knife or two. But the food was so good, people said it was worth risking your life for. And for Mavis, it was much better than going home to a house with bland food and no daddy. Not surprisingly, when the Does retired to Louisiana, they refused to entertain any offers for their business but the lowest one, which came from the person who could least afford it—Mavis Pinkerton.
Liberating Paris Page 12
