Gods in Alabama

by Joshilyn Jackson

  I was surprised by how much ten years had aged him, while Aunt Florence looked just the same. With a shock, I realized that she had looked dried and gaunt and twenty years older than she should have when she first came up to rescue me and drag my mother back to Alabama. She had done all her aging when my cousin Wayne died, and Bruster, who was her senior by several years, was only now catching up.

  Aunt Florence’s mouth was firm and her gaze was hard, unwavering, but her big hands betrayed her. They were clamped together in front of her, and her dry fingers were worrying at her wedding ring. She had long spider-thin fingers with big knuckles like knees, and her band hung loose and spun as she twisted at it. Uncle Bruster was sizing Burr up with cool blue eyes, but Florence barely spared him a glance. Her eyes were fast on me.

  “There you are, then, Arlene,” she said as I approached. “You’re still no bigger than a minute.”

  Burr was coming up behind me, and I felt better knowing he had my back. “Yep, I’m still me.” They came down the steps, and we met on the strip of sidewalk in front of the flower bed. The bigheaded blooms on the creeper were nodding so cheerfully that I wanted to stamp them down and smash them into stillness.

  “This, I take it, is your husband?” said Florence. She nodded towards Burr without looking at him, her eyes steadfast on me.

  “Yes, this is Burr. Wilson Burroughs, I mean. Burr, this is my aunt and uncle, Bruster and Florence Lukey.”

  “Ma’am,” said Burr, politely nodding. He held out his hand to Bruster and said, “Nice to meet you.”

  After a brief pause, Bruster took his hand and pumped it briskly up and back down. “Hey howdy,” he said, in an inappropriately grave tone. I felt a bubble of absurd laughter building in the back of my throat and quashed it. Uncle Bruster let go of Burr’s hand, and Burr put it on my shoulder, anchoring me.

  “Your mama’s up in the house watching one of her shows,” said Florence, her eyes flicking to Burr’s hand on my shoulder and then back to my face.

  “I guess we better go on in and say hey,” I said.

  “Yes, I guess you better,” said Florence. But as I stepped forward, her big hands shot out at me, as if her arms were on springs. I flinched, but she didn’t hesitate, grabbing me and yanking me forward against her. My face was squashed on her unyielding breastbone, and she was pressing her nose into the top of my head, burrowing into my hair, breathing me in. She smelled of waxy, sharp lemons and ammonia, as if she had scrubbed her dry body down with Pledge and Mr. Clean right before we arrived. Her smell was so shockingly familiar and homey that I found myself clutching at her back and squeezing her as hard as she was squeezing me.

  She let me go just as abruptly, and Burr’s hand came back to my shoulder, steadying me. I blinked hard, twice. “Ten years is too long,” she said. “You little turd.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, quavery.

  Then Bruster grabbed me and gave me a great big leathery bear hug, whispering, “Hey, girlie,” in my ear. I had forgotten that, how he always called Clarice and me his girlies.

  “Arleney?” I heard my mother say, and I looked over Uncle Bruster’s sloping shoulder. Mama had come to the screen door. Bruster let me go, and I walked up onto the porch, Burr following close behind.

  Mama had aged, too, hard and badly. Her little pretty face was mired in a lined sea of fat, and her blond hair was stringy and faded to the point of being colorless. She was wearing some sort of awful red-print muumuu with big green fronds and yellow blooms splashed all over it. The muumuu had short sleeves, and her doughy arms quivered as she clapped her hands. “There’s my girl,” she said. She held open the door for us, and we went on in, Mama patting ineffectually at my shoulder as I passed her. “There she is,” she said again.

  “Burr, this is my mama,” I said.

  “Ma’am,” Burr said again, shaking her hand.

  “You’re a lawyer, Flo says?” Mama said, patting vaguely at his shoulder and keeping the hand he’d extended clutched in her paw.

  “Yes, ma’am, I am,” said Burr.

  Mama turned to me and said, “He doesn’t talk very much like he’s black, does he? I mean, if we were on the phone, I would probably guess he was black. He has a black voice, but he doesn’t talk black.”

  “He’s standing right there, Mama,” I said. “You’re holding his hand.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” Mama said. And then to Burr, she added, “I’m just surprised how well you speak.”

  Burr was staring at her openmouthed, not quite sure how to respond. “I’m a credit to my race,” he said at last, very mildly, and cut me a fast, sly look that told me he hadn’t lost his sense of humor or his temper. Yet.

  “Let’s go sit down,” said Florence. “Who wants iced tea?”

  The living room was just as I remembered it, stuffed with furniture from the seventies and dominated by Florence’s squatty sofa. It was burnt orange with a blue and gold paisley print, and when Mama sat down on it in her muumuu, the color clash was enough to make my eyes bleed. Burr and I sat down next to her on the sofa, and then Florence and Bruster perched across from us in the high-backed velvet chairs on the other side of the coffee table. Florence immediately jumped up and went to get everyone tea, and once the glasses were passed around, she reperched, and we all sat there looking at one another in a congealing fog of silence.

  “You aren’t wearing rings,” Florence said.

  “I know,” I said. “Like I said, we only got married yesterday. Kind of spur-of-the-moment.”

  I felt a blush rising and buried my face in my glass. The tea was so sugary that the first sip made my teeth ache, and a sad mint leaf floated hopelessly on top of the ice.

  “One would hope you are at least a Baptist,” said Florence to Burr.

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Burr. “In fact, my father, before he died, was the minister at the Baptist church Lena and I attend.”

  Florence’s eyebrows shot up at the “Lena,” but she shrugged it off and pressed doggedly on. “Southern Baptist?”

  “The Southern Baptist Church is not a strong presence in Chicago. We’re American Baptists,” said Burr.

  “I imagine you could find one if you were looking,” said Florence tartly. “The Southern Baptist Church is everywhere.”

  “Strong presence,” said my mother dreamily, mimicking Burr’s inflection.

  I took Burr’s hand.

  “Are you planning on having children?” said Bruster, leaning forward.

  “I don’t know. I thought I would talk about that with Lena privately before discussing it with you.” I pressed Burr’s hand, hard.

  “It’s not very fair to them if you do, now, is it?” said Bruster.

  Burr was pressing my hand back just as hard, but I did not think he was aware of it. “I’m going to choose to misunderstand that,” said Burr. “That’s the most polite response, under the circumstances.”

  “What?” said Uncle Bruster.

  “Misunderstand,” said Mama, still trying to re-create Burr’s accent. “Circumstances.”

  Aunt Florence interjected, “Sissy Mack from over to Fruiton has a daughter up in Wisconsin going to school, and she found a Southern Baptist church, you know, Arlene.”

  “He really is very well spoken,” said my mother to the air.

  “Well, I done gone to lawyerin’ school,” said Burr in his driest voice, quirking up one eyebrow. “I be making good yipyap wif my mouf.”

  Florence, Bruster, and my mother stared at Burr in varying states of offense and quizzical disbelief. The room felt so hot that I would not have been surprised had I looked up and seen the ugly orange drapes ablaze. The heated silence stretched up, unbearable, and just as it crested, the front door crashed open and everyone jumped.

  “Arlene? Arlene?” I heard Clarice calling, and her beautiful voice came in like a breeze, cooling the room. I heard the clatter of many feet, and then Clarice was in the doorway, flanked by two grinning blond boys and topped off by a pretty, fat g
irl baby perched on one hip. Clarice’s blond hair tumbled around her face, and she seemed lit from within, as she always had. Her simple presence seemed to bathe the room in balm.

  I stood up and she charged at me, practically leaping over the coffee table to get to me, the baby giggling as she ran and the boys surging after her. She clutched at me, laughing. “Oh, Arlene, you came! You really came!”

  Up close I could see the beginnings of crow’s-feet around her eyes, could see she was a bit heavier in the hips after three babies, but it didn’t matter. She was still exactly Clarice. “Arlene, lookit, it’s Bud!” She gestured to where Bud was waving and saying “Hey, y’all” from the doorway. “And you’ve never even seen the kids except in pictures. This is Pete. Petey, give your auntie Arlene a big hug. He’s our oldest, and this mess here is Davey Bud, and this is our Francie. Here, hold Francie, isn’t she a peach?”

  The baby came to me without protest, clipping her fat little legs onto my waist and breathing sweet milk breath up into my face. “Ba,” she said and touched my nose.

  “And you have to be Arlene’s husband, yes?” Clarice turned to Burr.

  “Yes, this is Burr,” I interjected.

  Burr stood up, too, and she grabbed his hand in both of hers, looking up into his eyes and grinning. “I couldn’t wait to meet the man who could catch our Arlene. You must be a fast runner!”

  “Yes,” said Burr. I could see he was still smarting. “My people are notoriously good athletes.”

  “Really?” said Clarice. “Well, you and Bud will sure get along, then. His people are, too. One of his brothers went to college on a football scholarship.”

  Burr searched her face, trying to tell if she was being disingenuous, and I recognized his faint surprise when he realized she wasn’t.

  Within two minutes of entering, Clarice had total control of the room. She started micromanaging, sending her boys with Uncle Bruster to feed the goats across the street. She jump-started Florence into catching me up on all the family gossip, the only topic that could reliably peel Florence off the perfection and wonders of the Southern Baptist Church. Clarice worked hard to include my mother, perching beside her on the arm of the sofa and pulling her into the conversation, giving who’s-who asides to Burr so he could follow Great-aunt Ida’s botched hip-replacement saga and the latest exploit of slutty cousin Cinda. Bud sat in the chair Bruster had vacated, watching his wife work the room with quiet adoration, the same look he’d had when she was just a girl and he’d bought us ice cream down at Baskin-Robbins.

  The baby seemed determined to jam her little finger all the way up my nostril, so Clarice took her back and put her down on the floor with some toys. Francie pulled herself up on the coffee table and tiptoed around and around it, holding on to the edge for balance. She babbled softly to herself while Aunt Florence talked. After a bit, we heard Bruster and the boys come back in the front door. They settled down in the den, watching some sort of cartoon, by the sounds of it.

  Aunt Florence wound down and went to start supper, and Mama wandered off the other way, towards the den. Clarice and I gave Burr the grand tour. The front of the house was built in a circle, with the front hall leading into the living room, and the living room leading into the dining room where Clarice’s older boy, Petey, was setting the big table for all of us. An open archway led into the kitchen, and the back door there led out to the carport. Aunt Florence, cool and unreadable, watched us as we passed through.

  The kitchen had a breakfast nook with a swinging door to the den. Uncle Bruster had talked Davey Bud into changing the channel, and baseball was on. My mama sat in the back corner, overflowing her armchair with her mouth slack and her eyes half closed. Bud had joined his sons and was watching the game. Clarice shooed at him and said, “Honey, go get their things in from the car. You know they have to be exhausted.”

  “Just a sec, it’s two and two,” he said. Clarice shook her head at him in mock exasperation and said, “Well, take the baby for a minute,” and handed off Francie.

  We left the den and went down the hallway, stopping to look at the wall Aunt Florence had coated with family pictures.

  “Is that you?” Burr said to me, pointing.

  “Yes, and that’s my dad, and that was Mama. Mama says I was born pure Fleet. She could never see even a speck of Bent.” My father and I were both small and dark and wiry. We stared solemnly at the camera with identical reserved expressions, almost lost in the sea of tall blond Bents and Lukeys surrounding us. Mama was on Daddy’s other side, pretty and plump, clutching his arm and grinning at him, ignoring the camera.

  The door to the room I had shared with Clarice was shut. We wandered past it, following the line of pictures down the wall while Clarice pointed out all the people who would be at Uncle Bruster’s retirement party.

  “I’m not sure if we’re going, Clarice,” I said, but she ignored me and walked Burr down the wall. We ended up right in front of Aunt Florence’s door at the end of the hall, looking at a recent picture of my great-great-aunt Mag. The lines around her mouth were brown with snuff.

  “That’s Mama and Daddy’s room, and here right next door is where Arlene’s mama sleeps. I guess Bud should put your things in here, as she’s got a double bed. Arlene, your mama can sleep in our old room.”

  We left Florence and Bruster’s door closed and opened the door to Mama’s room. It had not changed. No pictures broke up the industrial flat expanse of the white walls, and a mirrorless dresser squatted lonely near the closet. The double bed was made. Hospital corners—Aunt Florence’s handiwork. The closet door was shut. A basket of magazines sat on the floor beside my dead aunt Niner’s old padded rocker. If the small bedside table had not been littered with crumpled tissues and half a glass of water, you would never guess a person lived in the room.

  “Where’s your old room?” Burr asked me.

  “Back up the hall,” I said. “Past the bathroom.”

  “The door closest to the den?” asked Burr. When I nodded, he said, “Let’s stay in there.”

  “But this has the double bed,” Clarice said.

  “We don’t mind cramming in,” Burr said, and I said, at the same time, “We don’t want to displace Mama.”

  “Allrighty,” said Clarice, shrugging. “If I can ever peel Bud off that game, I’ll have him put the bags in there.”

  “I’ll get them,” said Burr. He headed back up the hall. Clarice started to follow him, but I put a hand on her arm, stopping her. When Burr had disappeared around the corner into the den, I said, “I need to ask you, have you heard from Rose Mae Lolley? From back in high school, remember?”

  “Not me, no. Bud talked to her, though. He said she called the house.”

  “What did Bud tell her?” I asked, a bit more urgently than I had intended. “Do you know?”

  “Not really. You know men, they can’t recount a conversation word for word. They just give you a two-word summary and then go mow the lawn.” I was gripping her arm too hard, and Clarice’s brow furrowed in concern.

  “I thought it was probably about the reunion. We’re coming up on ten years. I know she asked about you, and Bud gave her your address.” Clarice put her hand over mine. “Arlene, it was about the reunion, wasn’t it? Rose Mae Lolley wasn’t . . .” She trailed off and then said, “It was about the reunion, right?”

  I didn’t want to lie to her, so I said, “Clarice, her class graduated two years ahead of us.”

  Clarice pulled away from me. She wrapped her arms around her middle and looked down at the floor. “I should have thought to call you. Warn you. I didn’t think of it that way when Bud said she’d called.”

  I hadn’t meant to get into this with her, but looking at her pale face, I knew I had blown any chance at keeping it casual. I said, “You never told Bud? Oh no, of course not, because if you had, he never would have told Rose Mae how to contact me.”

  Clarice swallowed hard. “I never told anyone, Arlene. You said it never happened. We agreed.�
�� She glanced up at me and then added, “Don’t look at me that way. I would bet money you never told Burr.”

  “He’s your husband, Clarice,” I said.

  “Well, Burr is your husband,” Clarice said.

  “Not exactly,” I said. It just popped out.

  “Oh my Lord!” said Clarice. “Arlene, what the heck is going on? What are you doing? Why are you this way? Why can’t anything ever go in a straight line with you, one step after another, one, two, three, four?”

  “Keep your voice down,” I hissed. “I am going to tell Burr. And we are getting married. Really soon. Immediately. It’s barely even not true.”

  Clarice’s breathing had quickened, and she was spinning her wedding band unconsciously, exactly the way Florence did when she was upset. I opened my mouth to say more, but Clarice gave a barely perceptible shake of her head and cut her eyes up the hall, behind me.

  I looked over my shoulder. Aunt Florence was standing at the head of the hall, holding my suitcases. “Every man in this house is stuck on that game,” she called down to us.

  “I’m not done with this,” Clarice whispered as I turned and went up the hall to help Flo.

  Aunt Florence opened the door to our old room and went on in. I went inside after her, and Clarice stopped in the doorway behind me.

  “Oh my God,” I said.

  Clarice’s side of the room was just the same as it ever was. Her childhood lovey, Mr. Bun, was on the daybed, which still sported the old apple-green checked comforter and green shams. Her cheerleading trophies were still up on shelves, and her school desk still had the horse-head bookends with some of her old Trixie Belden books in between. The daisy decals on the apple-green lamp were faded but still attached.

  My side of the room was gone. Obliterated. An old washstand stood where my desk used to be, and my bed had been replaced with Aunt Florence’s Singer on a sewing table. The rest of the room was dead empty of everything, stripped down and hollowed. It was exactly what Aunt Florence had done to Wayne’s room, only Wayne had died, and I was still breathing in and out.