Driving Lessons

by Curtiss Ann Matlock

  He thought that most definitely Ruthanne was more in her right mind than any of them. Everyone sought happiness their whole life, but few could figure out how to just let themselves be happy.

  Stamping his cigarette butt in the damp soil, he got to his feet and helped her up. As they came into the kitchen, Ruthanne said she felt a little woozy.

  “Well, you are probably goin’ to have heatstroke,” Mildred said, speaking in a loud voice. She was in her customary place at the table, eating a fat sweet roll. “You had better get out of that coat. Why in the world are you wearin’ a coat?”

  “I wanted to be ready,” Ruthanne replied.

  Winston wasn’t going to question that. He tossed aside the newspaper, plopped the roses in their vase of water, and left the women to their nonsense conversation, going off to hang Ruthanne’s coat in the hall closet. As he shut the door, his gaze swept the hall and living room, and he realized the house had gotten pretty messy since their housekeeper had skipped the previous week. He needed to make a stab at straightening up.

  Then he went to the front door, opened it and looked across the street. Northrupt still had not hung his flag.

  He slammed the door, rattling the glass pane.

  The City Hall thermometer reads 80°

  Vella filled in the holes the armadillos had dug with composted zoo manure she had ordered from her gardening catalog. The manure from wild predators, animals such as lions and tigers, was supposed to both fertilize and keep away annoying critters. Vella wondered if armadillos unfamiliar with lions and tigers might not simply ignore the strange smell.

  Finished with the last bush, she got stiffly to her feet, stood back and surveyed her plants with frustration. Even though the extreme heat had abated, the blooms on her bushes were puny and scant compared to Winston Valentine’s.

  She looked in the direction of the Valentine house, at the rosebushes that were overflowing with big, bountiful blossoms, more than ever, if that was possible. Feeling defeated, she went inside and took a couple of Pepto-Bismol tablets.

  The City Hall thermometer reads 84°

  Mason telephoned at ten-thirty. Oralee answered, then called Charlene to the phone.

  “It’s a man for you,” she said, her hand over the receiver. “If it’s your husband, he sounds good, so get prepared.” She handed Charlene the phone and then stood at her elbow to listen.

  Charlene, thinking surely it was Mason but now worrying about Joey, took the phone. “Hello?”

  “Hello, this is Mason. Are we on for lunch?” He sounded eager.

  “Yes,” Charlene said, relieved it was Mason. Glancing at Oralee, she refused to call him by name. Oralee frowned and went back to her customer.

  Charlene squeezed up to the counter and spoke so low that Mason had to ask her to speak up. They arranged to meet at the cafe at noon. “I might be a few minutes late, if I get delayed here,” she told him.

  “I could come by the shop and wait for you,” he said.

  “I’ll meet you at the cafe,” she said quickly. “That way you can save us a table.” The idea of him coming to the shop unnerved her. It made her feel pressed, as if it was a date and he was picking her up. Since waking up in the clear light of day, she had begun to have doubts about seeing him at all. There was not only the technicality of her marriage, but she simply did not feel up to a relationship with a man, no matter how wonderful his kiss. The very wonderfulness of his kiss at this precarious time of her life was frightening. She thought meeting him at the restaurant would help to put them more on the scale of two friends simply having lunch together. And she would pay for her own meal, too.

  Fridays were normally busy days at the Cut and Curl, and on this particular one they were taking care of the bridal party for a big wedding to be held at the Methodist church. They were doing not only hair but nails and facials. They also had the mothers and the pastor’s wife and a number of relatives and guests. Charlene was kept booked all morning with appointments and walk-ins, and in between nail jobs she helped Dixie and Oralee by welcoming customers, passing out ice tea and shampooing hair. It was by far the best morning she had had thus far, and her spirits were up with hope for enough money to make headway on her bills.

  Into this full shop arrived Muriel Porter, a middle-aged spinster and the domineering owner-publisher of the Valentine Voice. Ms. Porter, as she made certain everyone knew to address her, had a standing appointment with Dixie each Friday at eleven to have her hair done to her exact specifications, which left her hair looking the same when she went out, mannish, as when she came in: with three waves on top. This Friday she surprised everyone by wanting a manicure, too.

  “I’m going on a cruise,” she said. “I think I should like to try to have something new done.” She wanted the manicure while Dixie was doing her hair, so as not to waste time.

  “Don’t waste Ms. Porter’s time,” Oralee said in a whisper as Charlene passed to get her tray of supplies. “She’s liable to cut off your head.”

  Raising even Oralee’s eyebrows, when Charlene had just about finished shaping the cuticles and filing the ends and was about to apply lotion and massage, Ms. Porter said she wanted color on her nails. “Think you got a color that I could wear and not look foolish?”

  Charlene said, “I don’t think you could look foolish at any time, Ms. Porter.”

  That comment didn’t seem to please the woman. Charlene hurried to choose colors and brought them back for the older woman’s inspection. Ms. Porter looked at the colors and then gave Charlene an assessing eye. “You think about it, don’t you?” she said with a faintly approving tone.

  “I think the color of the nails should represent the woman,” Charlene said.

  “I’ll take that one.” Ms. Porter pointed to a muted rose color that Charlene thought would go with most shades of blue and brown—the colors the woman was wearing at the present.

  Charlene carefully applied the polish and the glaze, and when she had finished, Ms. Porter examined her nails thoroughly. “I like them,” she pronounced and paid Charlene, including a generous tip.

  Then, with her handbag still open, she said, “Would you be willing to go out to the nursing home and do my sister’s nails?”

  “Well…” Charlene said, taken by surprise. “Is that all right, Dixie?”

  “Yes, I think that would be okay. Charlene’s working toward her license,” she said to Ms. Porter, who waved such a technicality aside.

  “How about fifty?” The woman held forth a fifty dollar bill.

  “Oh, no, that’s too much. Twenty is sufficient,” Charlene protested, and Oralee poked her in the back.

  Ms. Porter said, “Sister’s nails may be work. I’m sure no one has touched them except to cut them in years. Take the fifty and do what you can. Can you go tomorrow afternoon? It would be nice for her, since I’ll be missing my normal visit with her.”

  Charlene said she would go tomorrow, and Ms. Porter nodded and stalked out of the shop in her heavy shoes.

  Oralee shook her head, “Umm-um, I cannot picture that woman on a cruise.”

  Charlene, who had kept one eye on the clock, jerked off her smock, dabbed on lipstick and grabbed her purse.

  While she was at this, Oralee said loudly, “Uh-huh, the girl is seein’ a man.” As Charlene raced out the door, Or-alee called, “Don’t you forget to come back, girl, and bring me a fountain Coke.”

  He was waiting for her, his eyes on the door, and when they saw her, they jumped with pleasure in the manner that every woman dreams of. Charlene’s eyes met his, and she felt herself gliding across the room. His expression one of pure gladness, he rose out of the booth and greeted her, then waited for her to slip into the seat before he sat back down.

  Charlene sat, and had to catch her breath. They gazed at each other for a minute in which Charlene was remembering his kiss and wondering if he was remembering it, too. If he was, he seemed happy about it. Then Fayrene appeared with two moist glasses of ice tea, bringing them ba
ck to reality when she thrust out her hands to show how long the color Charlene had put on her fingernails was lasting.

  “They keep on goin’, through all I do here,” Fayrene said, thoroughly pleased. “You-all ready to order?”

  Charlene ordered a hamburger, and Mason had a cheeseburger with fries. Fayrene said, “Have a good time, kids,” winked at Charlene and left.

  Again the two stared at each other.

  “Thank you for coming,” he said.

  “Thank you for asking.”

  She wondered what they could talk about and tried to think of some safe, friendly topic. What she came up with was, “Well, how was your morning?”

  “Long,” he said, his blue eyes on hers. “How was yours?”

  “Busy,” she said, and happily.

  With him sitting there listening intently, even when Fayrene slipped their hamburgers in front of them, she went on to tell him about her encounter with Muriel Porter, and how Ms. Porter had engaged her with the exorbitant sum of fifty dollars to go tomorrow afternoon and give Ms. Porter’s sister a manicure in the nursing home.

  “Larry Joe is probably working all afternoon,” she said, suddenly thinking of it. “Well, I can go any time. I’ll have him drive me over before he starts work, or on a break. If I have to, I can get Daddy to drive me. That’s what I should do,” she said, although hesitant to encourage her father to more driving. “Daddy goes out there to visit friends anyway. He can have one of his visiting days.”

  “I’ll drive you,” Mason said.

  “Oh, no, I can’t ask you to do that.” The idea perturbed her. First she was having lunch with him, and then she would be riding around with him. It was much too close, too fast. When a man started driving a woman around, he tended to think he had some sort of control. The thought made her a little annoyed at him. She stirred her ice tea briskly, sending the ice chunks into a spin.

  “I would be glad to drive you, Charlene.” Mason watched her face, and saw her guard come up.

  “I could probably drive myself,” she said. “I can drive,” she added, not wanting him to have the idea she was a helpless woman. “At least, I did drive, and then I had a wreck with Rainey that caused her to lose her baby. After that, I kept putting off driving until I felt enough courage to tackle it, and before too long it was easier just not to try. Joey could always take me, or Mama or Daddy, and then Larry Joe. I know it seems silly now, but it just happened.”

  “I don’t think it seems silly. There are some people who never drive. Muriel Porter doesn’t drive.”

  “She doesn’t?” This was a surprise; the woman didn’t seem the type to rely on anyone for anything.

  “She has someone, usually her secretary, drive her around. I’ve never seen her behind the wheel of a car.”

  “Well, I can’t hire a secretary,” Charlene said. “I’ve got to begin driving again. I didn’t think it would be so hard to pick back up. It probably wouldn’t have been, but I put the Suburban in the ditch twice while tryin’ to get out and in the driveway, and it’s ruined my confidence.” She could not tell him about the panic attacks.

  She thought about the driveway, and how the Suburban had looked in the ditch. She would hate to let Ms. Porter down because she went in the ditch again.

  Seeing her discouragement, and the way she was now preoccupied with driving, annoyed Mason, who had been enjoying her attention and sparkling eyes.

  “I’ll come over tomorrow, and if you want to drive, I’ll ride along with you. How about that?”

  She blinked and looked up at him, saying earnestly, “Thank you. That really would be better than having Daddy drive with me. I’m a little afraid that if I have an accident, it’ll cause him to have a heart attack or something.” She turned to motion for Fayrene, calling for a fountain Coca-Cola to go.

  He had solved her problem, and that made him feel good. But he wished she sounded a little more enthusiastic about seeing him tomorrow. He was disappointed, too, when she insisted on paying for her own lunch.

  The City Hall thermometer reads 76°

  Charlene sat on the side of Jojo’s bed and bowed her head, while her daughter lay on the pillow, folded her hands and said her nightly prayers.

  “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray thee, Lord, my soul to keep,” Jojo said in her little voice. “If I should die before I wake, I pray thee, Lord, my soul to take.”

  Charlene’s eyes popped open. That really was such a morbid prayer, she thought, gazing at her daughter, who was now praying, “God bless Mama and my daddy, wherever he is, and Danny J. and Larry Joe, and my grandpa and our horses, Dog and Bo and Lulu, and…”

  Charlene ran her gaze over Jojo’s pale, angelic features, the long eyelashes, creamy cheeks, flaxen hair, and her heart swelled and tears threatened. Jojo finished her blessing, and Charlene said, “And thank you, Lord, for sending me Jojo.” She smiled at her daughter and bent to kiss her cheek.

  Jojo looked up at her with a solemn expression. “Mama, I did something today.”

  “What did you do?”

  Jojo got out of bed and slid down on her knees and reached under the bed, pulling out a pile of papers. Pieces of papers. “I tore them up.”

  Charlene’s heart thudded. “What are they, honey?” She took the pieces of paper to look at in the lamplight. They were schoolwork papers, done in Jojo’s neat little handwriting, marked all over with slashes of red.

  “They are all bad grades,” Jojo said then, beginning to cry. “I didn’t want to show you.”

  Charlene’s heart cracked, and she swept Jojo into her arms. “Oh, honey, it’s all right. You don’t have to hide the papers from me.”

  “I just got so mad, I tore them up.”

  “That’s okay. It’s okay to be mad. It’s okay to be upset.” She held Jojo and tried to put her love into her daughter by touch and kisses. Jojo cried, and Charlene made herself not cry.

  After a few minutes, when Jojo began to sniff and Charlene felt she could talk normally, she said, “Okay, let me see.”

  Matching the pieces of the pages with Jojo’s help, she scanned them. They were mostly English papers. The red marks seemed to carry screams. She looked over at Jojo, who sat beside her small and hurt, with hanging head and slumped shoulders.

  Gathering the ability of all women who are naturally born mothers to say exactly what needs to be said and with exactly the right assurance, she said, “I’ll tell you what. I will take these papers and tape them back together, and you and I will go over them this weekend. Honey, bad grades are nothing but bad grades. We’ll fix everything. Don’t you worry.”

  She soothed Jojo with more caresses and kisses and tucked her into bed, closing her eyes and saying, “Thank you, God, for always taking care of Jojo.” Turning out the lamp, she sat there and smoothed Jojo’s hair off her forehead in rhythmic motion until her daughter drifted into sleep. Then she took up the torn pages of schoolwork and left quietly.

  In her steps somewhere between the bed and the hallway she became highly irritated. She would teach Jojo a different bedtime prayer straight away. Why had she ever taught her that traditional bit of Puritan morbidity? She did not remember having gotten it from her mother, so she could not lay blame there.

  It was a little startling to realize she was having such new and rebellious thoughts. Questioning things she had never before questioned.

  The door to Danny J.’s room was open, light falling out into the hall. She stopped and looked in. Her son was at his desk, tapping his pencil on his knee. Charlene went in and asked him how school was going. She asked him about each course in turn and about each teacher. She talked to him about the bronc riding and about the possibility of going to a college with a rodeo team. He seemed to have looked into this, and she was thrilled at his interest.

  “If you have any problems at school,” she told him, “I want to know, so that I can help.”

  He looked at her as if she had gone off the deep end and said, “I will, Mom.”

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sp; Then she did what she probably wasn’t supposed to and caressed his hair and told him she loved him, receiving a shy grin and mumble in return, which she could clutch to her heart.

  Passing Larry Joe’s dark bedroom, she sighed, reminding herself that her son was grown, as was supposed to happen. On impulse she went back and entered Larry Joe’s room, turned on the bedside lamp and folded down the covers and plumped the pillow, thinking, “Mom loves you, Larry Joe.”

  In the kitchen, she spread the pieces of Jojo’s schoolwork on the table, got invisible mending tape from the drawer and carefully smoothed and taped the pages back together.

  Twenty-Nine

  The City Hall thermometer reads 79°

  Saturday was the third day that Everett Northrupt did not hang his flag. Winston had not seen hide nor hair of the man, either. At mid-morning, he marched himself across the street and rang his neighbor’s doorbell.

  Doris Northrupt came to the door. “Hello, Winston.” She folded one hand over the other and regarded him through the screen. She wasn’t known for hospitality, but this was generally excused because she wasn’t from this part of the country and didn’t know any better.

  “I haven’t seen Everett hanging his flag for a few days now,” Winston said. “I was wonderin’ if something was wrong.”

  She pursed her lips and then opened the screen door. “Come in.”

  He stepped into the entry hall. It was bright and gleaming, like a picture in a magazine, and smelled faintly of lemon wax. Doris told him, with a surprising bit of desperation, that Everett had “taken to bed” at the sight of Winston putting in a flagpole. “He says he doesn’t feel well, and I can’t get him out of bed. Since you started this, maybe you could talk to him.”

  Winston did not see that he had started anything, but she was already heading up the steps before he could say yes or no.

  Everett was propped up on a bed in a large front bedroom, watching television. The man was twelve years younger than Winston, but at that moment he looked at least five older. Doris said, “Look who’s come to visit,” and left Winston standing there. Everett didn’t appear very thrilled.