by Roscoe James
The house was quiet. She'd been home less than three hours, and her mother had found a way to exclude her. Again. The coffee tasted bitter, and she dumped it in the sink.
Marci came in the back door from the yard. The naked woman was now turned out in something short and summery. A white cotton smock with a small flower print that stopped midthigh and screamed Look at me, ain't I cute? A pair of white sandals trapped red-painted toenails, and wavy mahogany locks framed the woman's face. Jessie pulled her own mousy hair off her back self-consciously and twisted it in her hands.
“They just left. Your sister said we should catch up. Someplace called Millards?”
“Willards. Yeah, I know where it is.” Jessie added, speaking to no one in particular, “Why couldn't they just wait?”
“The car was full. I think your mother said it would be easier this way or something.”
“Right. I bet she did.”
Jessie headed for the stable with Marci in tow. Rusty walked along stealing rubs and pets from both of them.
When she didn't find her father, she checked the barn. The stainless-steel milking equipment was cleaned and put away. The concrete floors were wet, the lights were off, and the place smelled antiseptic.
“Shit.”
Marci didn't comment, and she and Rusty followed Jessie out to the machinery shed where they discovered the battery was down on the old farm truck. She looked around for her father's pickup and couldn't find that either.
“Damn. Did Kimmie bring her car, or did everyone fly in?”
“We flew. Your dad picked us up.”
“Why does she do this?” She decided her mother had lobbed the first volley.
Rusty rolled onto his back, his big ears flopping, waiting to be rubbed. When Jessie looked up, she caught Marci's judgmental stare. Jessie kicked a rock through the tall grass and walked off.
“My mother knew there wasn't any way for me to catch up. She just didn't want me along.”
“The car was full, Jessie. I saw it. Becky was sitting on your sister's lap. They wanted me to squeeze in, but I said I'd come with you.” Marci caught up and was pulling on her elbow.
“Yeah. Well, then how does she expect me to get there? Take the John Deere?”
“Us. She's not excluding you, Jessie. Or me. There isn't anything else we can drive into town?”
Jessie stood and fumed. Marci let go of Jessie's elbow and crossed her arms under her breasts.
Who the hell are you? This is a family fight. Bug off.
She kicked another rock and stared at the toes of her scruffy old boots.
There is one other possibility.
* * *
Jessie looked at the plate. It was current. She dug out the papers and checked the insurance slip. Also current. She looked in the gas tank and found it topped off and smelling fresh. She'd been surprised when she'd seen how clean it was after a year of neglect, but she credited her father for that.
She pulled the key off a nail beside the garage door and kicked the beast to life. She looked at Marci and her long bare legs and short cotton dress, and reached up and turned her Harley off. The woman looked a little green around the gills.
“I can't take you like that. If this thing goes down, you'll tear the hell out of your legs.”
Marci hiked her leg over the seat, and Jessie attributed the act to false bravado. She waited while the woman found the foot pegs and squeezed in between Jessie and the sissy bar. She kicked the beast back to life and rolled out of the garage and down the lane to the county road that would take them into town. Just before they made the turn, Marci snaked her arms around Jessie and yelled over the sound of the engine.
“You won't really let this thing go down, will you?” False bravado had been replaced by a full-on panic.
Jessie just laughed and punched the throttle as she pulled out onto the blacktop.
* * *
The fitting was special only because it was her kid sister's. The dress was beautiful and left Jessie wet-eyed. She ignored her mother, even when the woman came over and offered a peck on the cheek and a welcome home while Kimmie was changing.
Her father arrived for lunch at Leroy's, a local eatery along the river. He smiled extra big for Jessie and said she must have seen his note on the refrigerator.
“I thought you might enjoy a spin on your bike.”
“Thanks, Dad.” Jessie didn't miss the told-you-so look from Miss Cello Player.
They lingered over coffee and dessert and listened to Kimmie gush on about Richard and how they met. Jessie tried not to listen too close. She didn't see any Richards or fittings in her own immediate future.
Marci was talkative, and Jessie learned a little about each of the Gold Diggers from Marci while everyone was distracted with Kimmie's love story.
Becky—Rebecca—was corn-fed country from over Nashville way. A carrottop with an attitude. Charlotte, black and stunning, was quiet and reserved. Quite a contrast to the New York backdrop she'd grown up against.
“Well, till you get a drink into her,” Marci leaned close and whispered. Jessie leaned away but caught the words.
Linda Cheng's father was Chinese, her mother European stock. Jessie didn't know which side of the family was noisy and obnoxious, but Linda got all of it.
“Debbie's a bad girl. She crossed over for a month. But then she saw the light.”
“Crossed over?”
Marci leaned close and whispered again. “She was dating a woman.” Marci took a sip of something sweet and alcoholic that came with the meal and added, “Now she's part of the pack again. That was a while back. She's from Chicago.”
Jessie looked across her soda water and lime and formed a mental picture of the blonde-haired, blue-eyed Debbie rolling around naked between the sheets with another woman. She guessed Marci knew what she was thinking from the sideways stare she got. There was a pregnant pause, but Jessie really wasn't into plumbing the depths of other people's secrets. She had enough of her own. When Jessie didn't say anything, Marci went back to her dessert.
“And you?”
Marci lit up. Joy or conceit? Jessie was having trouble reading Kimmie's friend.
“My father's Greek Orthodox, and my mother was Jewish. That's where I get the ravishing good looks.” Marci turned profile and pointed at her nose before going on. “I was a problem child. I wouldn't eat my peas. I like quiet Sunday afternoons in bed and walking in the rain. Well, as long as there isn't any lightning. I can't sleep if there's a thunderstorm. I can curl my tongue, and I have an apple-shaped birthmark about the size of a quarter very high up on the inside of my right thigh. Oh, and I'm twenty-seven.”
Was that a singles ad? Sheesh.
“What about the music?”
“Oh. That stuff. I grew up in California and studied music back east at Juilliard after high school. I'm proficient with five instruments. You'll have to guess which ones. But I'm considered world-class with the cello and viola.”
“So, I don't get it. You're not a nurse or a doctor. How did you meet my sister?” Jessie felt a little intimidated.
Marci smiled coyly over her drink. “A woman shouldn't tell all her secrets. Not right away, anyway.”
“What about your mother. You said she was Jewish. She convert?”
“She died last year. Breast cancer.”
Jessie had nothing to keep the conversation going and let it go.
By the time the check arrived, it was after five. Her mother wanted to go home and go through the guest list again, and her father had an early day every day. The Gold Diggers wanted to paint the town before the men showed up on Thursday. Jessie tried to beg off, but her father handed her the keys to his pickup and promised to tuck her Harley in.
* * *
Jessie kicked back and balanced her chair on its two back legs. She stuck her feet under the table and dropped her scruffy boots in the middle of a collection of red, white, and beige open-toed pumps and sandals on the ends of smooth bare legs with nice Ca
lifornia tans.
Every man's wet dream. She looked at the scruffy legs of her jeans. Right. It wasn't that Jessie didn't enjoy looking beautiful, maybe even beguiling. She simply felt she had no one to look beguiling for. Another holdover from the early years of the war with her mother.
Red Lawton, the owner of the bar, brought over another round of tequila and more lime slices. The sorority girls, as Jessie had started calling them, thought Red was “jest the cutest thang.” The man weighed in somewhere north of three hundred pounds; nobody called Red cute. But he blushed and grinned like a possum when Becky came up with that little jewel.
“To Cucamonga!” Debbie jumped up from her chair and raised her hornito high. Jessie figured Debbie was already soused, and that was only her second tequila.
The college glee club raised their glasses and chimed in.
“To Cucamonga!”
Welcome to the sorority. Get me the hell outta here!
Jessie tuned them out. Coming home always brought her Aunt Trudy's memory to life. Her favorite aunt and childhood confidant. Also the first person to notice Jessie's affinity for music. Her Aunt Trudy had given her an electric guitar for her tenth birthday to the chagrin of Jessie's mother. Jessie sometimes wondered if her life would have turned out different if her aunt hadn't died unexpectedly the night of Jessie's thirteenth birthday.
A death that to this day held as much mystery as despair for Jessie.
Randy Riddle and his group were up on the stage cranking out country music. The guy was a fair musician and had a great voice, but Red's wasn't about country. Or didn't used to be. She figured things had gone to hell since the last time she'd stopped in.
Jessie glanced at Marci tipping her shot glass back, and her gaze lingered on the woman's long slender fingers. The fingers of a world-class musician. She decided she hated Marci most.
“Jessie. Do you want this thing? You want me to bring you something else?” Red was leaning close so no one would hear.
Jessie looked at the first tequila that still hadn't touched her lips. “You know, Red? Bring me a bottle of water and some ice. I'm driving and babysitting the cheer squad here. I think I'll lay low tonight.”
“Sure thing, Jessie.” Red chuckled and moved her still-full tequila in front of Becky. Then he tried to cut a deal. Jessie figured he would. “Hey, Jessie, how 'bout a number or two for the crowd? Make it three and I'll buy the drinks.”
The last thing Jessie felt like doing was getting onstage at Red's. She was bone tired, and there were too many ghosts lurking in her head and the audience. Too many bad roads taken.
“Tell ya what, Red. You buy the drinks anyway, and maybe I'll get back later in the week. I'll be here till next Monday.”
Red frowned and lumbered off.
She looked at her sister sitting at her elbow laughing at something Charlotte had said about country boys and milking the bull. Short Stuff was all grown up. Another reason for Jessie to feel old and worn out.
The last time she'd seen her sister, she was in college, home for the summer, and in love. Jessie had looked at Kimmie's Romeo and known exactly what the guy was looking for. But this time things were different. Jessie could see it in her sister's eyes. The kid had gotten it all. The ring, the man, the career, and Jessie was sure the house with the white picket fence wasn't far behind.
“Jessie, I wanted to tell you before you find out tomorrow.”
“What's that, Short Stuff?”
“I've asked Becky to be my maid of honor.”
Jessie started to say something but stopped. When she'd finally found the invitation in the envelope and the short note from Kimmie begging her to come and stand beside her on her big day, she'd been touched and scared. There were no additional words. No explanations or forgiveness. None had been expected. Not even any anger. Jessie had put the invitation away but hadn't forgotten about it. She'd tried a thousand times to imagine the scene. She didn't know who would attack first. The mother who hated her or the sister whose summer love Jessie had fucked in a very public way.
Jessie shrugged her shoulders and mumbled, “Whatever.”
“Don't be like that. Did you look at the postmark on that letter? I sent that to you in June.”
“No skin off my teeth.”
“Don't be the psycho bitch, Jessie. You got that letter and didn't even call. You didn't send a card, a letter…I had no way of knowing if you were going to show up or not.”
Which was all true. She hadn't. Not a card, not a letter, and much less a phone call. She'd been afraid to. Afraid of what would have to be said…
“I couldn't leave everything just hanging. It was getting close… I didn't even know for sure where to find you. That Chicago place was just a wild guess…”
Afraid of mumbled apologies. Most of all she was afraid of take-backs. She picked up her glass and hid behind the rim while she took a long drink. Her sister had her dead to rights.
“It's one thing not to call Mom. But Dad? That man lives and breathes for you.”
Jessie put down her drink and stared at Randy onstage crooning some ballad. Kimmie pushed up from the table in exasperation and headed for the ladies' room with a sour expression on her face. Jessie flipped her hair and tried to stop her knee shaking.
No take-backs.
* * *
“Jessie!”
Jessie jerked her head up. She'd nearly dozed off. Kimmie was yelling over the noise of the bar from the other end of the table, and from the looks of things, that hadn't been the first time she'd yelled. Her sister was smiling as if nothing had happened.
“What's up, Short Stuff?”
“Do a song for us, Jessie.”
“That's okay, Short Stuff. I'm really tired. Next time—”
“Come on, Jessie. For me. Pleeeeeeeease?”
Jessie was about to beg off when the entire table chimed in with a whiny imitation. “Come on, Jessie. Pleeeeeeeease.”
It was more than being tired. When she looked around the table, all she saw was everything she wasn't. And wasn't going to be. Ever. Even Miss World-Class Cello Player was a slap in the face.
Juilliard. Well, fuck me.
But there was no getting out of it. After her little sister's performance that morning in the kitchen, Jessie figured she owed the kid one.
Jessie looked around the table at all the doe-eyed Gold Diggers, grabbed her bottle of water, and headed for the stage. Marci slapped her on the ass and yelled, “You go get 'em, girl.”
It took about ten minutes for Randy to finish his number and to get things sorted out with the band. His Peerless guitar felt heavy, but the action was nice. The cheering started as soon as she took the stage. She let them cheer and enjoyed every decibel. It was like a transfusion. Jessie shoved Randy's guitar behind her back and grabbed the microphone.
“Damn, Randy. Looks like you ain't been givin' my people what they want!”
The crowd went wild.
“So let's hear it! Whadda ya want?” Jessie spun the microphone and leaned it toward the crowd.
“Blues!”
“I can't hear you! Ya gotta beg for it!”
Some guy who looked vaguely familiar ran up to the edge of the stage and fell to his knees. The crowd yelled and hollered. Red started ringing the old fire bell at the bar. Jessie egged them on for five minutes and got a kick out of the Gold Diggers slapping hands and generally making asses out of themselves.
She finally swung her guitar around and yelled at the band over the noise, “'Turtle' in G. Slow and easy.”
The deep hungry growl of a boogie in G filled Red's right up to the rafters. Jessie waited for the crowd to get quiet then she leaned into the microphone.
“We got a lotta women here tonight, Red.”
Becky jumped up on her chair and swayed her hips. Red started ringing the old fire bell again.
“Yeah. A lotta women. And I think we got a few men out there too!”
Jessie couldn't help smiling. The love affair between
performer and fan was the only love she had in her life, and she always reveled in it.
“You know what kinda man I'm talkin' about, ladies. The ones where you can hear the brass clinkin' when they walk by!”
Charlotte, the quiet black girl from New York, jumped up and yelled, “Hell yes! That's the one!”
“That's right, ladies. And what kind of woman does a man like that want?”
The crowd wouldn't stop yelling, and Jessie kicked the band in the ass with a riff on the guitar to tighten things up.
“That's right, ladies. A man like that needs just one thing. What's he need?”
Most of the women yelled back. By the third time everyone was yelling.
“That's right.”
The drummer hit a roll and tipped the cymbals. Jessie came down hard and worked her way through the first verse of Janis Joplin's “Turtle Blues.”
“I'm a…mean, mean woman…”
When the group hit the third-verse riff, everyone in the place was on their feet.
Jessie had finally come home.
* * *
Jessie got the sorority sisters back to the house in one piece. Only two fit in the cab. Everyone else climbed in the back of the pickup and clung to a couple of bales of hay her father had back there.
At Red's one song had turned into three, and three got slammed into more than an hour. The place was so packed when she'd finally left the stage it took them another twenty minutes just to get to the front door.
The Gold Diggers sang the first line of “Turtle Blues” all the way home. Jessie was really starting to feel like a mean, mean woman by then. She was physically exhausted, and the Gold Diggers had grown old. But there was no denying the crowd had been great.
Marci and Debbie were sitting in the cab with Jessie and hadn't stopped laughing since they'd left the bar. Jessie didn't share everyone's festive nature. The only thing she had to look forward to was a phone call from an ex-agent, more uncomfortable truths from her sister, and the coming battle with her mother. She slumped against the driver's door and watched the road.
