by Cynthia Webb
“Dammit, Laurie. Let me do something for you. Don’t make me go on remembering that the last months between us were so bad. You’re right, I did some awful things, and that’s all I can remember when I think of you, and I can’t quit thinking of you. So let me do something for you. Come on. Please?”
I felt like I’d been hit upside the head with something hard. All those years we’d been apart, he’d been blaming himself? Part of my self-righteous rage every time I thought about our marriage had been my certainty that he blamed me. Not that there wasn’t enough blame for both of us, with a good helping left over.
“Okay,” I said, and we sat back down, and I told him why it was that I’d come back to Port Mullet. I figured he wouldn’t be surprised about the relationship between Sammy and me, given some of the things that happened during our short, but very eventful, marriage. I’d always been grateful that certain allegations hadn’t turned up in his divorce papers among all the other charges he’d made against me. And if he had told anyone else, not a word of it had gotten back to my brothers or my parents, or I was sure that I would have heard of it.
He listened, breaking in only to ask good questions. When I was finished, he sat back in his chair and drained the last of his bottle, then set it back on the table.
He looked calm, authoritative, in control. He didn’t look like a man who had been eating his heart out for twelve years anymore. “We can do it,” he announced.
“Who’s we, white man?”
“You can’t do it by yourself. You’ve been out of touch around here too long. And besides, you’ve got a reputation. Me, I’m the law around here. I can talk to the old-timers, find stuff out. No problem.”
He made it sound easy. Too easy. He said “I” as though he was my partner. He thought I needed him. Or his protection. He was taking over already. I might as well go home and deal with my family if I wanted this kind of grief.
“Forget it, Johnny. I don’t need you. I don’t know what I was thinking. Police Chief in a town where the Klan adopts a highway. That sounds like someone I sure as hell don’t need.”
He started to say something, but I was already on my way out. I was nearly to the door when I heard the wolf whistle. I turned, smiling, warmed by the thought that the locals had finally come to appreciate my charms. Then I saw who my admirer was. The years had not changed the smug grin, nor improved the mean features of Wallace Montgomery’s face. I’d gone parking with the asshole out of pure pity one Friday night in tenth grade, and he’d paid me back by informing the whole homeroom on Monday morning that I wore a padded bra.
I whirled around, stuck out my backside and wiggled it for him, then shot him a bird over my shoulder. When I pushed open the door and left, it was to the sound of raucous laughter, this time directed at old Wallace.
Chapter Five
When I got home and walked into the kitchen, Momma was standing at the counter fixing a tray of sandwiches. She looked up just long enough to penetrate me with the hurt in her eyes. Those baby blues were saying that it was my first day home, and already I was taking off for hours at a time, Lord knows where, doing Lord knows what. What she said was, “The boys are watching the ball game in the front room. You ought to say hello to your father. He’s been waiting for you. He was worried sick about you.”
I couldn’t decide which message to respond to, so I said nothing. I walked on to the living-room. Six examples of Southern manhood were sprawled around the room, watching some sort of game involving a ball on the large-screen TV. All four of my brothers were accounted for, across the couches and chairs, along with a man I’d never seen before. And, of course, Daddy, tilted back in his Sears recliner, holding a beer can and looking mighty well for someone who was worried sick. All of them were staring intently at the screen. Empty beer cans and peanut shells littered the coffee table.
When the exertions in pursuit of the spherical object were interrupted by a commercial, my father looked up at me. “Well, look who’s here. Come give me a hug round the neck, Baby Sister.”
My brothers looked up then. “Hi, Baby Sister. Good to see you.” “Howya doin’, Baby Sis.” “Look who finally paid us a visit.” “Baby Sister, meet my good ol’ pal here, Josh Livingston.”
I was surprised that Josh stood up. He was tall and fit and dark. He offered his hand. We shook. He was wearing a baseball cap, like most of the others.
Walter said to Josh in his most artificial southern accent, “According to Seth, Baby Sister Laurie is here investigating something, but he won’t say what.” He drawled the sentence out for everything it was worth giving it the full measure of ridicule.
Josh looked interested. “Investigating what? Are you a c… a police woman?”
My brothers all howled with laughter. “A cop? Laurie? She hates guns, don’t even get her started on that. The only way she could get a criminal to surrender would be to argue him into submission. And believe me, once she got started talking, it’s the criminal I’d feel sorry for.”
My father chuckled. “Sounds about right.”
The commercial was over, and their attention was immediately focused on the screen. Momma sailed in with her tray, handing out sandwiches, careful not to get in their line of vision. They grunted acknowledgements.
Next commercial, Josh asked me what it was I was investigating.
Before I could answer, Walter spoke for me. “She writes something for some little newspaper. I bet maybe its drugs, right? The Florida-New York drug pipeline?”
My father said, “They wouldn’t send a secretary down on something like that.”
I forced myself to let it pass, and turned to Walter. “What made you think of drugs? Guilty conscience?”
“See, we warned you about her,” he said to Josh. Then he said to me, “There’s been a whole lot of stuff in the papers about all these drug investigations lately. We’ve just had a couple of big-time busts around here, too.”
“You mean to tell me people are still doing drugs around here?” Somehow I thought the flourishing drug trade had been limited to my own high school and college years.
“You thought you were the entire market, Baby? Sure. The coastline is still here, and law enforcement can’t keep their eyes on every single fishing boat. And we’ve still got all that flat pasture land a few miles inland, perfect for landing small planes. And there’s not the federal presence here that there is over in Miami.”
Daniel broke in, “What, you think New York has a monopoly on everything, Baby Sister? Anything you got up there, we got better right here. Am I right, Seth?”
Seth was the only member of my family who had ever been to visit me in the city. He gave a good-natured grin. “I don’t know, boys. I told you about that Halloween parade she took me to. In Green-witch Village. Don’t think we’ve got anything that can compete with that.”
The others laughed. Daniel jumped right in. “Ooo-wee. That’s right. That’s one thing they got up there in the big city that we don’t. All them queers. I don’t know how you could walk around up there with them all around, Seth. Weren’t you afraid you’d get raped or something? Goddamned perverts. Be afraid to bend over and tie your shoe, place like that.”
Seth gave me a look that meant he was sorry he’d brought it up. I shrugged. In another moment, the commercial was over and they were all staring again, transfixed, at the screen.
Having thoroughly reacquainted myself with the male side of my family, I stood up to leave. As I walked out, Daddy said, without taking his eyes off the screen, “You know, Baby Sister, we’ve got a fishing trip leaving out of here about daybreak tomorrow morning.” For a moment I thought he was going to invite me to go fishing with him. There was a time when my brothers got old enough to enjoy sleeping late more than fishing, that Daddy would take me with him on his Sunday morning fishing trips. We’d leave the house before dawn, come back a few hours later with a stringer full of fish, have fried fish and grits for breakfast. Instead, he said, “Your momma, bless her little he
art, is gonna be up early fixing us breakfast and sandwiches to take along. You know, that woman works so hard I worry about her. I’d sure appreciate it if you could get up and give her a little help. Your momma would love it if you’d spend a little time with her.”
He didn’t seem to be waiting for an answer, so I kept walking.
In the kitchen, Momma was pouring Crown and Coke over ice into highball glasses and putting them on a tray. I made myself a sandwich and got a beer out of the refrigerator, and took them both to the breakfast table. I like a drink or so now and then; occasionally I like a whole lot of them. But I haven’t overindulged on what you’d call a regular basis in a long time. No, I’d done that mistake up the way I like my mistakes: good and outrageous, and then put it behind me. Which is all to say that I no longer relied on alcohol as a part of my daily routine. But there’s something about being home that makes me keep reaching for the booze.
I ate, and tried to figure out what my next move should be. One thing I knew for sure was that I was starting to drift. My so-called quest was starting to seem silly, even to me.
I chewed my food, not tasting it, thinking hard. I had scratched Johnny Berry off my list, that was certain. I might as well try visiting Mr. Miller. He had lived in Port Mullet since way back, knew everybody who was anybody. He was on every important committee, his support was essential in every local election.
Susan Miller had been my best friend from kindergarten to high school graduation. My parents had been happy about that, always hoping that one day her sweet normality would rub off on me. She was as wholesome and practical and law-abiding a girl as a family could wish. I personally had believed that she was the one who would profit from our association. I had hoped it would loosen her up. And for a while there it seemed to. She had been my companion on a couple of adventures that I remembered fondly. But in the end she had gotten in trouble and married Tom, one of the most insubstantial and boring of the football, sock-hop, and steady job types. What had really amazed me was not what happened to her. Getting knocked up could happen to anyone, I figured, and, once it did, a girl’s options were limited. No, what took me by surprise was that she had seemed really happy that it had happened. She had been glad that she was getting married, she had actually looked forward to being a mommy.
Her father, Forrest Miller, was a tall, thin man. Faintly aristocratic-looking. I thought he was the only man in Port Mullet with any sense of style. He dressed elegantly. Around the house, he would wear a cashmere cardigan sweater over a beautiful shirt, instead of a t-shirt and a cap. You would never catch him in a recliner, wearing his undershirt and drinking from a can of beer. He would sit in his study and listen to music. I never knew any other person in Port Mullet, male or female, to sit absolutely still and listen to music. Outside of church, of course, where you didn’t have any choice. Mr. Miller had been demanding of his wife and daughter. Even then I saw that his insistence on standards in dress, behavior, and demeanor were a burden to Mrs. Miller, and to Susan. But he wanted life to be something beautiful, something more than the shoddy, tacky affair everyone else was content with. And I thought that a man who played such music would understand passion, and longing, and desire. All the things I had struggled with while my classmates had been tortured over which class would win the spirit trophy.
How Susan felt about the way I worshiped her father was something I was never clear about. I didn’t want her to think I was friends with her just because of her father and her house. Still, I’m sure she couldn’t help noticing how much I envied what she had. The ballet lessons, the piano lessons, the charm school. Susan was more popular at school than I was. But I was the only friend she invited home regularly. I had never thought to wonder about the reasons for that.
My own father was pretty important around town, too, in a different way. He was the football coach at Port Mullet High School. If you don’t know how important it was to the citizens of Port Mullet to have a winning football team every year, then you still don’t have a clue about Port Mullet. Daddy coached winning teams for nearly forty years. He could have pressed for promotion to athletic director, and then later to the county school administration. Momma would have liked that, him having a job that didn’t keep him out nights so much. But that wasn’t what he wanted to do. He wanted to keep right on coaching high school football. And, if you can’t tell by now, then you need to hear it flat out. My daddy did just about whatever it was he wanted to do. So I guess he and Forrest Miller did have something in common.
Sometimes Daddy would wonder out loud how his own daughter had turned out so contrary, so set in her ways. I wondered how he could miss the fact that I had inherited his own stubbornness, his own wretched addiction to independence.
Not that I don’t have some fond memories of Daddy from early in my childhood. It’s just that they didn’t feel like memories. They’re more like scenes from someone else’s childhood. My father had teased and flirted and fawned over his pretty peaches-and-cream baby daughter with the curly blond hair. He had shown me off to everyone who would stand for it. He had doted on me to the point of provoking my mother’s jealousy, something I had sensed, but had been too young to understand.
I had been both proud and ashamed of his favoritism, and its shadow has remained between me and my mother ever since. Even her fretting over my developing flaws—the button nose growing big, and the eventual refusal to wear pink—had something in it of gloating. As to my relationship with Daddy, I was never sure what had come first, his failure as a father, or my own as a daughter.
It happened just about the time Daddy and them realized just how willful I was fixing to be. There’s a type of Southern girl, the apple of her daddy’s eye, who’s indulged and petted. That type can get away with murder, and they do. But they don’t get away with flouting certain rules of Southern womanhood, and certainly not with flaunting their sexual freedom. Oh, there’s a subtext of sexuality in everything they say and do, and in all that flirting with their daddies, too. But everything about them—their clothes and hair and make-up and mannerisms—says they are buying into the rules. They know they have a privileged position, but it’s still playing by the rules that gets them their rewards.
Sitting alone there at that table where I had eaten thousands of meals with my family, I finally saw it. Those rules were what made the flirting safe, what allowed the father and daughter to carry on that way, him showering her with gifts and attention, her giggling and batting her eyes. But if she was to throw the whole thing over, if she was the kind of girl, just to take an example, who felt herself free to screw whomever she wanted, just because she felt like it, well then nothing was safe with her. I thought about that for a while.
I wasn’t even sure Daddy saw that what we had was a failed relationship. Maybe this was exactly what he thought a father-daughter relationship should be, if the daughter happened to be a wanton hussy.
I was thinking about this, hunched over the table, biting my bottom lip, when I felt my skin crawl the way it does when I’m being watched. I looked up.
Josh was standing in the doorway, staring at me without a smile. He didn’t betray any embarrassment at being caught. “Working hard on your investigation? I hope you’re getting paid time-and-a-half for overtime.”
I didn’t answer, just stared back, hard, directly into his eyes.
He didn’t look away and he didn’t say anything. He was letting me see that there was a whole other side to him than that good old boy act I’d seen in the other room. He wanted me to see it. It was a threat of some kind.
I kept staring at him, and licked my lips. I ran one hand through my hair, and arched my back slightly. Acting like I thought he was there to admire me, hoping to hell I was bugging him. When I have to react fast, I tend to rely on my old habits; sex as a shield and a weapon is a deeply ingrained one. I guess it’s something I need to work on.
We could hear the heavy steps of one of my brothers walking into the kitchen, and then Walter’s voice, �
��What’s going on out here?”
“I’m watching your sister investigate.” Now Josh’s drawl was exaggerated.
“Damn right,” I said. “And I’m watching him watch me.” Just so he had that straight.
Later, when the television was finally turned off, and the house silent, I snuck into the kitchen to call Sammy. It was late; I was afraid I’d wake her up because she usually went to bed pretty early, to save her energy for catching babies. But I needed to talk to her. I had to talk to her.
Her voice, while sleepy, was as warm and comforting to me as cinnamon toast on a cold morning. As I sank into that feeling, I knew my emotional balance had moved, some weight inside me had shifted. I had had an inkling of this when I found myself on the plane headed south on my quest for Sammy’s sake, but now I felt the true consequences of that change. Sammy wasn’t just my partner in fun and carnal pleasures, I knew that now. She was becoming part of my life. But that didn’t quite cover it, that made her sound like a job or an apartment, something easily exchanged. She was becoming more like a part of me, like my voice, or my eyes, or my heart.
I described my visit out to Piney Woods Road. Pleased with my own bravery and ingenuity, I tried to seem modest, while also seeking to ensure that she recognized my stellar qualities. In her reply to me, I recognized the technique she used when reviewing Annie’s homework. First, she praised me, “Laurie, I really appreciate what you’re doing for me.” Then she moved on to the next stage, “You know, Laurie, I wonder about the rest of the black community in Port Mullet.” She was pointing out what I could have done better. She was being tactful, but I got the point. Only a handful of the most pathetically poor lived on Piney Woods Road. I’d acted like the entire black population of Port Mullet was clustered in what Momma had called “the quarters.” I was ashamed to admit that I didn’t know a thing about the lives of the rest of the black community. I didn’t even know what had happened to the black kids I’d gone to school with. I knew, basically, nothing.
