Deep Fried and Pickled (Book One - The Rachael O'Brien Chronicles)

by Paisley Ray

  Inside the lights were off, but I could see an eclectic mix of southern inspired paintings, sculpture and pottery. The backlit window display illuminated an oil painting called, Baptism, by Clementine Hunter. Patsy offered me a cigarette. I declined. I’d resolved not to smoke until I had a buzz. Pointing to the painting, I told her, “My dad is restoring some of her pieces for a museum in New Orleans.”

  “Cool,” Patsy said, more interested in her drag than the art. Happy to lean against the brick exterior, Patsy waited while I read a framed biography that rested on a plate-sized easel.

  Clementine Hunter, a self-taught artist specialized in African American folk-art. Born outside of New Orleans in 1886, Hunter was the granddaughter of a slave. Having never learned to read or write, she didn’t sign her paintings but instead overlaid her initials. She chose to paint simple landscapes of early 20th century plantation life, depicted in bright colors on scraps of wood, doors, and even fabric blinds. Once established, she transitioned to canvas as a medium.

  I loved her primitive style, the free-whimsy, the layered colors. I couldn’t stop staring at the creativity behind the raw talent. Then it hit me. Halloween. I honed my eyes on the signature. Shadows cast on it, and I wished I was on the other side of the glass. The insignia rested about four inches up from the bottom right, the same as the one I saw in Stewart’s frat loft. Why did he have a copy of a Clementine Hunter and all those other artists? Could there be a clear explanation?

  Stomping out her ciggy, Patsy retrieved it and placed it in a baggie before turning her attention back to the small, unframed painting. “Eight-thousand dollars. Hell, I’ll paint something like that for a quarter of the price.”

  “Patsy, painting a work of art isn’t easy. If it were, we’d all be doing it.”

  BOAT SLIPS JETTED OUT from the pier, and at the end rested an oasis, the Marina Supply Store. Weathered, wide-plank siding gave the building vintage appeal. A briny film clung to the windows and I could barely see inside. As far as I could tell it was an overpriced 7-Eleven. In addition to selling a vast selection of candy bars, beer and cigarettes, the store also sold fresh and frozen bait.

  Beyond the dock, a fishing boat churned a chop. On it’s way out of the harbor, it puttered past Patsy and me. She led the way around the perimeter of the building. Behind the store, there was a set of dumpsters, piled high with cardboard boxes, and a staircase that spiraled up to Jackson’s second story deck where smoke billowed up and out to sea. Halfway up the steep climb I leaned back against the wood rail and strained my eyes in the late afternoon sunlight. A snow-white seagull squawked as he hovered above the tin rooftop where the rest of a flock rested with their beaks facing the wind.

  Mitch and Clive and some forty others I didn’t recognize were already inside. The nautical location was killer, an island oasis with a three-hundred-sixty degree view of the water. Jackson’s décor was less astounding, and more of what I’d call beachy-bachelor mix and match. I never knew lobster traps were multifunctional as end tables. An old buoy, rigged with a yellow flashing emergency light added an alternative whimsical touch to one of the corners. Only a guy would have a plaid sofa piled with Mexican blankets instead of cushions. And, only a guy would set up a clambake on a deck just outside his living room.

  In the center of the deck, six knee-high, Smokey Joe charcoal grills snaked like a Matchbox track. The foil-lined grill tops heaved with piles of mussels, clams and fish fillets. Plumes of fish smoke wafted through every apartment door and window, permeating my hair and clothes with ode de’clam.

  “Where is Jackson?” I asked Patsy. “And does his apartment always smell like this?”

  Patsy curled the corners of her mouth. “Jackson’s tall, thin and always has a pinch of Copenhagen under his lip. You met him at Billy Ray’s on your last visit.”

  “Pre or post bathtub dew?”

  Patsy giggled. “Pre. I introduced you. When I see him, I’ll tell him he should bottle the scent and call it clambake.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “Are you going to eat any?”

  “The clams are amazing, but don’t open closed shells, or you’ll be hugging the porcelain all night.”

  “Who are all these people?”

  Patsy pointed at the doorway. “Two of my brothers are over there.” I hadn’t met Patsy’s parents, but from what I saw they carried an extraordinary gene pool. She told me she was the only girl and second youngest of eight.

  “Isn’t there a fable about seven brothers with supernatural powers?”

  “If the superpowers involve burping and farting, I’ve had seventeen years of practice in survival and self-defense.”

  Patsy and I secured spots on the Mexican blanket sofa, and I asked, “Are you and Clive an item?”

  “He hasn’t made a move, and it’s starting to annoy me. I think he’s worried if we fool around, one of my brothers may kick his ass. I can’t wait until next year when I go to university. I’ve got to get away from The Bern.” Without a pause, Patsy asked, “Do you like Mitch?”

  “Of course I like Mitch. What’s not to like?”

  “Romantically? Because he likes you.”

  “Patsy, the age difference flips me out. Besides, I like hanging out with the McCoys too much to screw things up.”

  “That’s too bad cause he’s a terrific guy.” Leaning into my ear, she whispered, “My favorite brother.”

  I heard familiar voices from outside the open windows before I saw the Grogan girl’s faces. Katie Lee led Macy and Bridget into the apartment. There was a brief delay, and then I spotted Nash, Stewart and two more people I didn’t know beyond the glass slider deck doors. If Katie Lee knew that Bridget slept with Nash, they all were acting very adult about it.

  Patsy leaned in. “Looks like the mischief makers have arrived.”

  Bridget spotted some guys holding a beer bong and asked, “Can I try?” It was then that I knew I’d misunderstood her conversation with Katie Lee. She hadn’t revealed ‘the favor’ she’d done for Katie Lee. I broke my self-imposed rule of not smoking until I had a buzz, and bummed a lit one from Patsy. Rewinding my memory, I pondered what I’d overheard. Had Bridget confided having sex with someone other than Nash? I inhaled deeper. Busy night. It was petty, but it irked me that even Bridget had slept with a guy or two before I had. Not that I wanted to sleep with Nash —- ‘cause I’d stay a virgin if he were my only option.

  While demon eyeing Bridget, I exercised my thumb on my beer can pull-tab. She was no southern delicacy. This beer bong connoisseur had a naughty habit of luring her friends’ men into bed. Her competitiveness, especially where Katie Lee was concerned, had to be stopped. Unfortunately, no one else seemed to notice her frenemy tendencies. Her candy-coated, five-foot blonde exterior was a deceitful illusion that hid rancid liquid goo. The game she played didn’t have rules, but I knew one thing: Bridget Bodsworth wasn’t going to win, as long as I was around.

  Red nails dangled two frothy cups of beer in my face. “Hold these,” Macy instructed. Resting her backside on the sofa arm next to me, she said, “Stewart Hayes doesn’t know it, but he and I are going to finish what was started last night.” Steadily downing liquid bravery, Macy prepared for a pounce, but she didn’t swallow fast enough. Another cat, with a southern meow moved in. Bridget ran her finger around the rim of her beer cup. “Hey Stewart. Wanna join me in the back room for a game of foosball?”

  Macy abruptly stood. “Fucking-A.” She grabbed me by my arm and pried me from my prime viewing spot. Leading me down a hallway, she halted short of a bedroom where Bridget and Stewart had disappeared. “You and I are joining them.”

  “Macy, I don’t foos.”

  “This’ll be a quick intervention. I just need to send Stewart some signals.”

  I waved my hand at the smoky air that stung my eyes. “I hope you know Apache. In here the only signals you’ll be sending are smoking ones.”

  Before I stepped into the bedroom, Mitch handed me a clambake plate of assorted se
afood. I would’ve stayed to chat, but Macy wouldn’t let go. In passing, I told him, “Thanks.”

  A maroon sheet secured with duct tape hung over the only window. In addition to the budget conscious window-treatment, the bedroom also featured three pieces of furniture: an unmade corner mattress, a wooden stool, and a foosball table.

  Since when had Bridget become interested in Stewart Hayes? If she had targeted a spot for him on her “to do” list, she wasn’t going to get far. Macy knew what she wanted, and her moussaka was a force bigger than anything I’d ever cross. I wasn’t a betting girl but would double my odds on Macy any day.

  Macy twirled a wisp of dark hair around her finger and transformed herself. “Stewart, can we play?”

  Palming a white ball Bridget said, “Foosy is a two-person game. You and Rachael can have a turn when we’re finished.”

  Stewart pulled a wad of cash from his pocket. Selecting a twenty, he suggested a wager. “Macy and me against Bridget and Rachael.”

  “Perfect,” I said, and moved next to a soured Bridget who pouted her lips at Stewart.

  “How do we play?” Macy asked.

  Stewart reviewed the game rules and demonstrated everything from the proper stance to a wrist rotation technique for moving the rods that held the plastic blue and red players.

  As I set the plate of clams on a wooden bar stool, my brain did a cartwheel. Stewart’s team idea was brilliant since I wanted to have a word with Bridget.

  Stewart personally attended to Macy, helping her get a feel for their blue men. While they practiced toggling, I finished my beer, and whispered, “Did you confess?”

  She picked at a corner of toasted bread from the plate I’d set down. “Confess what?”

  I took a long hard look at Bridget, gritted my teeth, and unintentionally added squeak to my voice. “You screwed Nash.”

  Bridget cleared her face of expression. She handed me an extra beer cup that she’d brought in. “I’d never do that.”

  Stewart stood at the end of the foosball. “Which of you ladies is first?”

  “I am,” Bridget said. She took her time, challenging Stewart’s toggle rods as she knocked the little white ball around his plastic players.

  To settle my fury, I drank half the beer I held even though it tasted like a bitter microbrew. When Bridget finished her turn, I turned my back on the foozy game. “If you don’t tell Katie Lee,” I threatened, “I will.”

  Bridget poked at the clams with a dull edged knife that rested on the plate. “What are you going to tell? How you stakeout bedrooms at parties.”

  Flames leapt inside of me. Her daggered threat immobilized my reflexes. “Pry the closed shells apart,” I slurred. “They’re fresher.”

  “Your turn, Rach,” Macy said.

  Motioning to move forward, my feet stumbled backward, and I knocked into a stool. Bridget laughed. Pointing my finger at her like a gun, I clucked my tongue, puffed air in her face before snaking out of the room to clear my dizzy head.

  I didn’t go far. Weaving through a crowd, I leaned against a wall in the hallway, and closed my eyes. My insides were in motion, and I concentrated to find quiet. Spider legs brushed against my cheek. When I opened my eyes, Billy Ray’s finger nail drew an imaginary line to my forehead. “Your cheeks are the color of a rose petal and your eyetooth makes an endearing smile. Has anyone ever painted a portrait of you?”

  I made a raspberry. “I’m no masterpiece.”

  “Let me paint you before you decide.”

  My brain was fuzzy, and my responses slow. Billy Ray’s face took on a striking resemblance to Elmer Fudd, and I jeered, “You paint?”

  Billy Ray sipped a beer and looked across the crowded room. Nash stood behind Katie Lee and stared in my direction.

  “I been paintin’ since before I walked.”

  “All kids finger paint?”

  Billy ray finished his beer and reached across the hallway. Sliding a closet door open, he motioned me toward him. “Wanna see my work?”

  I tripped on my feet, and Billy Ray caught my arm. “Did you paint Jackson’s place?” I giggled.

  Billy Ray steadied me, looked right then left and reached into the back of the closet. He slid a canvas out of a cardboard sleeve and held the edges in his palms.”

  “Damn,” I shouted.

  Billy Ray shushed me.

  “You paint folk-art?”

  “I’m in business with my cousin in New Orleans. If you’re good to me, I’ll paint anything you want.”

  My ears stretched his words, and they muffled in my head. Someone opened the deck slider-doors. Thick smoke began to fill the apartment, and I heard screams. Billy Ray handed me the painting. “Put this back,” he said and ran toward the front door.

  I dropped to the floor and fixated at something familiar in the painting, until someone from behind took it from my hands.

  I’ll take care of that, a southerner I’d never seen said.

  “What are you doin’ down there?” Mitch asked.

  A red life vest and an oar caught my attention, and I crawled into the closet. “Just hanging out.”

  “Who is she?” the man holding the painting asked.

  “That’s Rachael, Katie Lee’s roommate,” Mitch said.

  “She’s toast.” The stranger said.

  “I’ll keep an eye on her while you call the fire department.”

  “Why would I call the fire department?” The southerner asked.

  “Jackson, your deck’s on fire.”

  NOTE TO SELF

  Bridget is an uberbitch with a short memory.

  Tell or don’t tell? Neither option is going to earn friendship points.

  21

  Clearing Cobwebs

  Hazy gray cluttered my brain, and I’d have sworn cat whiskers sprouted in my dehydrated throat. I had no recollection of how I landed under the covers with Mitch. His soft arm hair wrapped around my shoulder, and he smelled of sweet cologne. His wristwatch glowed, three forty, a.m. Outside the room, someone hacked, and liquid splattered. Beyond Mitch waves of breath pulsed. Crimping the eyelet comforter tight under my chin, I found the courage to roll out from under his arm and sit up on my elbows. Beyond Mitch, a woman wearing a stain eye-mask lay motionless. Waves of her hair fanned across a pillowcase. Macy!

  Processing the three of us in bed, I drew a blank. Had I launched into a hidden stratosphere with these two? I whispered, “Macy.”

  She slid her mask onto her forehead, and yawned. “Hey Rach,” she said as if we’d bumped into one another on campus.

  I sunk back into the pillow, pinched my eyes shut, and concentrated on making this delusion disappear. I could hear breathing. The two didn’t vaporize, and now Mitch was awake. He stretched his arms above his wispy blond head. “Hey y’all.”

  This was no dream, but an unsettling reality and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know how I ended up in a threesome. Digging deep, I asked, “What happened last night?”

  “I knocked Stewart’s ball across the table after you left. He was surprised at how quickly I toggled all the sticks.”

  “Macy, I don’t need to know what happened to you, I need to know what happened to me. The last thing I remember is foozball.”

  Mitch sat up. He leaned into me and ran his finger under a strand of my hair that covered my eye. “You remember leaving with me. Right?”

  Debating the legitimacy of ignorance is bliss, I cleared my throat and opened a packet of bravery. “That part is a bit fuzzy.”

  Mitch smiled. “Are your underpants on? That’s usually a tell tale sign.”

  I’m a dot the i’s, cross the t’s kind of girl. So naturally, I peeked under the covers. “Very funny. They’re on.”

  Hesitantly I asked Macy, “Are yours?”

  Macy rolled onto her side, slid a hand across Mitch’s chest, and whispered, “Unfortunately.”

  I breathed relief. Mitch McCoy was a treasure that made me sizzle on the inside. Because he was still in high scho
ol, I wasn’t prepared to have sex with him. But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I liked having his attention for myself.

  The three of us listened to convulsing, and consecutive toilet flushing. Mitch said, “Someone’s going to break the handle.”

  Even though I knew, I asked, “Who is that?”

  “Bridget,” Macy said. “She said she felt sick at Jackson’s.”

  Darkness veiled the satisfaction that I’m sure showed on my face. Burying my head in my hands, I pushed my fingertips against my eye sockets. “Jackson’s party is a blur. I think someone drugged me.”

  Mitch checked his watch. “Don’t look at me.”

  “Come on, Raz. What fucker would do that?”

  Climbing over me, Mitch made apologies. “I hope y’all don’t think I’m rude, but my mom‘ll skin me if I’m not back before sunrise.”

  “That’s it?” Macy asked. “Love us, and leave us in the dark of night?”

  He pulled on a worn shirt-jacket with a coast guard patch and slipped on his shoes. “Ladies, it was a pleasure.” Squeezing my toes from the foot of the bed, he whispered, “See ya around.”

  I scoured through the parts of the evening I found in my head. The only one who could’ve drugged me was Bridget. She must’ve slipped something she got from Nash into my beer. I remembered confronting her, catching an incredible buzz, and getting trapped by Billy Ray.

  With Mitch gone, Macy, not exactly sober herself, filled me in on portions of the evening. “Rach,” she told me, “you walked out midway through the foosy tournament.”

  “Did you follow me?”

  Macy shook her head. “Bridget said you went to the bathroom, but you didn’t come back.”

  “Where was I?”

  Macy giggled.

  “Oh God, was I naked?”

  Gripping my arm she regained herself, “Rach, your clothes were on. On my way to get a beer, I noticed a glowing light in the hallway closet. Behind sliding doors, I heard clunking. You came out wearing a red life vest and gripping an oar. Mumbled some shit about the oil on the hunter being wet. Before I knew it, you stormed off. You said you needed to collect squirrels. Mitch followed you.