by Cynthia Webb
Mr. Pannell had always seemed like a nice enough man. Why had thirty years of living with him suppressed so much in his wife? Because only many years of serious containment could have caused an explosion like the one I saw in front of me.
I couldn’t just ask her right out for what I wanted, of course. I had to inquire after her grown children, and her cats, and her garden. And she had to exclaim over how I’d grown up, and what lovely people my parents were, and how they all missed me so, and wasn’t I just the bravest thing anyone had ever heard of, living up there in that big city by myself? “I see your brother Paul quite regular, and I always ask after you, so I keep up a little with your doings that way,” she said. But there was a little pause just then, and I looked at her funny. Surely Paul and Mrs. Pannell weren’t...? No, I quickly decided, it just wasn’t possible. Finally I got a chance to tell her the dates of the back issues I wanted to look at. She brought me file boxes of those years and sat me down in a quiet table in the back next to the photocopier.
I found the short piece easily enough. The body of an Elijah Wilson of Piney Wood Road was recovered from under Deadman’s Bridge. He’d fallen off the bridge and drowned. That was it. It wasn’t going to do me much good. Still, it was all I had, and I copied it, stuck it in my backpack as I went to thank Mrs. Pannell for her help.
As I walked out towards my car. I glanced at my watch. It was eleven-forty. Bobby D’s was a two-block walk. It wouldn’t hurt just to talk to Johnny, to see if he’d asked around, if he had any information for me. This was Sammy’s quest I was on, and I couldn’t let the fact that I’d once been stupid enough to marry the guy who eventually became the chief of police in this God Forsaken place interfere. If he tried to take over, I’d just put him in his place.
I stopped myself just as I was putting the key in the lock of my car door. That was one of the things I hated about this place. Nobody ever walked. Everybody drove even the shortest distance. Well, I wasn’t one of them anymore, and I was walking. That would show them.
My bodysuit was glued to me and sweat was running down my sides, down the back of my neck, and dripping between my breasts by the time I reached Bobby D’s. My hair was plastered to the top of my head. I felt weak and I was seeing spots dancing over my field of vision. I understood what sun stroke was all about.
I forced myself up the steps to the restaurant and opened the front glass door. A wave of cold air hit me; the shock of it on my wet body made me shiver. I stood still for a moment, trying to regain my equilibrium.
Bobby himself came from behind the cash register. “Chief Berry’s waiting for you over here, Laurie Marie,” he said. He was clearly anxious. I’d kept the chief of police waiting right there in Bobby’s place.
He led me to a booth next to a window overlooking Main Street. Johnny was sitting across from another man in uniform who I didn’t recognize. When they saw me, they finished their conversation quickly, and then the young officer slid out of his booth. He put on his hat, touched the brim, said “Ma’am,” in my direction, and left.
Johnny looked at me. He didn’t stand up. I slid in across from him.
“Have a good morning?” Johnny inquired in an even tone.
I shrugged, looking through the menu. The waitress arrived. I ordered chicken-fried steak, and mashed potatoes, and gravy, and biscuits, and fried okra, and black-eyed peas. If I had to be here, I figured, I might as well enjoy myself. I also ordered a large iced tea.
Then I turned my attention to Johnny. I looked at him a minute, trying to decide. Sometimes you have to do business with the devil, I decided. He wasn’t saying anything, and I wanted to show him that I’d been busy. I pulled my copy of the newspaper article out of my backpack and pushed it across the table in Johnny’s direction.
The waitress arrived just then with my tea. I nearly gagged at the sight of what she put down in front of me. A gigantic, fake mason jar with a handle, full of ice and tea and lemon. “Shit,” I said. “What the hell has happened to Bobby? What did he do with all the normal iced tea glasses?”
Johnny didn’t answer. He was looking at the copy of the newspaper clipping in his hand. When he finished, he handed it back to me and took a sip of his coffee. He looked preoccupied. “Okay,” he said. “I see what you mean.”
“Great,” I said. “I’m glad you’re seeing things my way for once.” I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about.
Johnny looked at me funny. Then he said, “Ever been out to Deadman’s Bridge?”
“I don’t know,” I answered. “Probably. I don’t recall it in particular.”
“I’m taking you there as soon as you finish eating,” he said.
There he went again, trying to take charge. Big man in control. “Well, I have some things I want to do this afternoon. Maybe we can get together later in the week.” The waitress put down a big platter with my chicken-fried steak, and then littered the table around it with little dishes. One for the potatoes, one for the gravy, a separate one for each side dish.
“The fiesta starts this weekend, Laurie. I don’t have the time to be sitting here with you right now. I’ve got a lot to do to get ready. This town is going to be flooded with thousands of tourists. Keeping the order around here is my responsibility.”
“Well, excuse me, Mr. Policeman, Sir. Don’t let little ole’ Laurie Marie get in your way.”
Johnny’s face turned red. He brought his fist down on the table just hard enough to jiggle his coffee cup. I watched a little slop over the edge. “Dammit, Laurie, don’t you see a problem with the story? That he drowned in Deadman’s Creek, under the bridge?”
I was surprised. “How come?”
“That’s what I’m going to show you. Hurry up.”
I was torn between the desire to drive Johnny nuts by eating as slowly as possible, and my intense curiosity.
The food didn’t taste the way I’d remembered it at Bobby D’s. The potatoes were instant. The gravy was floury and too salty. The black-eyed peas were oily, but tasteless. And the fried okra consisted of uniform puffed-up balls of batter, with tasteless gray vegetable matter inside. I took just one bite of each item. “What’s wrong with Irene?” I asked, in disgust. Irene was Bobby’s wife. She’d always been the cook, and she’d made good, plain food. This stuff was obviously pre-packaged and frozen.
“Irene? She and Bobby split years ago. He’s married to Rosemarie, now, one of the aerobic instructors at the Cleopatra Spa.”
“Three-hundred-and-fifty-pound Bobby, peddling all this high-cholesterol food, and he’s married to an aerobic instructor?”
“Quit talking and eat.”
“I can’t eat this stuff. Let’s go.”
“Well, your’s is the minority opinion,” said Johnny. “Bobby has opened three more Bobby D’s, and he’s raking in the cash. Getting rid of Irene was great for business.”
We argued over the check. Johnny wanted to pay for my lunch, of course, and I wasn’t having any of it. When we got to the front steps of the restaurant, he said, “I think it will be better if we take your car.”
“Fine.”
“Well, where is it?” he asked, looking around the parking lot.
“Over at the Port Mullet News,” I answered.
“How’d you get here, then?” he asked, sounding perplexed and irritated. Before I could answer, he said, “Come on, get in, we’ll drive over there in mine then.”
I started to argue, but thought better of it, and climbed in the patrol car.
We switched to my car—or rather, Momma’s—in the parking lot of the newspaper office. I let him drive.
He knew the short cuts all right, and was still a zippy driver. It wasn’t long before we were out in the sticks. We had gone inland, I knew, because the land wasn’t as flat as the coast. Not that you could call it hilly. The tepid swells of land resembled hills about as much as my chest resemble Dolly Parton’s. Which is to say, no comparison.
Anyway, the ride was peaceful. I took off my boots a
nd propped my feet up on the dash board. Riding around with Johnny. Something I hadn’t done in forever, but it felt so familiar. Like being on a bicycle again, after a long absence.
We were way out in the middle of nowhere when Johnny pulled over to the side. I didn’t ask him what he was doing when he opened the door and got out. I just climbed out, too.
He walked through the live oak trees dripping with Spanish moss until we reached a shallow creek lined with weeds. He walked alongside the clear, gently flowing water. Less than half a foot deep. I followed him, carefully picking my way through the bushes and weeds, until we reached a ratty-looking wooden bridge, just wide enough for one car to cross. There were signs at both ends, forbidding trucks. We climbed up the short bank and sat on the edge of the bridge, our legs dangling over the side. Our feet didn’t touch the water, but almost.
“Deadman’s Bridge?” I asked finally.
Johnny nodded. I sure couldn’t imagine anyone falling off this low bridge into that quiet, shallow water and drowning. Maybe if he was drunk. Maybe if the stream was swollen with heavy rain. But I didn’t think so.
The heat, the insect noises, the soft sounds of the water all made me feel sleepy. I looked over at Johnny to see if he felt the same way. He was looking at me. But it wasn’t sleep his eyes were lusting for.
I couldn’t help remembering how good Johnny was in bed. Well, actually, he was pretty good in the backseat of a car, or the front seat of a car, or sometimes in the sand beside a car. Couldn’t remember trying it under a car.
I also couldn’t help wanting him at that moment, and I was determined not to give in to that wanting. That was a rare state for me. Was it Sammy that did that to me, or just late-blooming common sense?
I started back to the car, and he followed. We reached the car about the same time.
“How’d you ever miss coming out here before?” he asked, sliding in on the driver’s side.
“Oh, I’ve been here before. I just didn’t remember that it was called Deadman’s Bridge. Good name for it,” I added.
Johnny nodded and started the car.
My boots were damp and sandy. I slid out of them again and stuck my feet back up on the dash, where the air-conditioning could blow up my mini-skirt and cool things down a bit.
Johnny slowed down as we approached the bridge. I tried not to hold my breath. I didn’t want him to notice how nervous I was as we began to bump-bump across the wooden planks.
About halfway across, Johnny put his hand between my legs. He just rested it there for a moment and then he gently undid the snap at the crotch of my body suit.
My body remembered Johnny inside me a thousand times. It remembered what it felt like the first time I came with Johnny inside me, when I thought that feeling was my secret and the secret of the universe, the thing that would save me, would save us all. My body was remembering all that, reading all that in the movements of his fingers. Then my brain was remembering the pain, and all the years I’d tried to forget him and all things I’d done trying to forget him.
Sammy was there, suddenly, inside me, as real as if she’d been there in the car with us. I felt shame, then, and I’d never felt that way about sex before. I knew—and was surprised by the depth and certainty in me of the knowledge—that the theme of my life was not sex of every sort, at every opportunity anymore. And that there were things and even people who were more important to me, and provided more satisfaction.
“We’re not going to fuck,” I said.
Johnny’s hand left me. He said nothing. Not a muscle moved in his face.
“I’m not gonna fuck you,” I repeated.
No answer.
Frustrated by his silence, I asked sarcastically, “You understand what I’m saying?”
“Yeah. I got it. You fuck everything else that moves, but you’re not gonna fuck me.”
“I guess you got it,” I said.
The car was stopped in the middle of the bridge.
“Let me drive,” I said.
Johnny shrugged, got out, and walked around to the passenger door, while I was scooting over to the driver’s side.
We drove in silence for a long while until we pulled up to a stretch of grass by the side of the road.
Finally, Johnny said, “We’re not going to fuck but were going to swim?”
“Yes,” I said. “Monkey’s Hole.”
I got out, and ran through the grass to the woods. Then down a narrow path between the trees. I remembered the way, but the distance was shorter than I had thought, so I nearly ran right into the spring. It was a deep, clear pool of cold water. The white sand bottom glimmered as if through glass in some places, while dark green weeds swayed in the center, and fish darted.
I stripped off my clothes. That was easy enough, since I hadn’t re-snapped my body suit. Then I ran out into the cold, cold water, up to my shoulders.
Johnny took longer to get undressed. He had to untie his shoes. There were all those buttons on his shirt, and the buckle on his belt. But he was finally naked. The sight of his body in that harsh sunlight was a shock to me. It wasn’t that I was repulsed. Actually, I found his pot belly, and all the little sags and imperfections of time, endearing. The boy I’d married, and left, and who was gone for good now, was not the same as the man he’d ripened into, this middle-aged small-town guy with love handles. I didn’t even know this guy. Not really.
Johnny gave a familiar yell—our football team had been the Port Mullet Rebels—and plunged into the water, diving under and resurfacing at the other side.
“You have to be so noisy?” I asked.
“Sure do,” he called back. “You want the water moccasins and the alligators to keep their distance, don’t you?”
I’d be damned if I was going to give him the pleasure of seeing me act scared.
Johnny disappeared underwater again. I felt something brush against me. Then my legs were pulled out from under me, and I was going under.
After a moment’s panic, I realized it was Johnny. I kicked him away, and swam out deeper, where I treaded water until he walked up to the sand at the edge of the spring and threw himself down.
He rolled onto his back, propped himself up on his elbows, his body half-in, half-out of the water. He looked comfortable, so I joined him, but at a distance just out of touching range.
“You have to be more careful of the alligators these days,” Johnny said.
The part of me in the water was tingly cold, and the part of me out was baking in the sun. The combination was great.
“Hmmm?” I said.
“They’ve been protected so long, and the damned Yankees feed them marshmallows, believe it or not. A lot of the gators have lost their fear of man.”
I turned over on my stomach and put my head down on my folded arms. The wet sand felt great against my breasts while the hot air was drying and warming my back.
Johnny turned over, too.
“Fear of man?” I asked. “Just men?”
“Well, I don’t know about women in general,” said Johnny, “but I bet even the meanest old gator is afraid of you.”
I ignored him.
We lay that way, together and yet apart, for a nice long time. “What about the Klan?” I asked suddenly. I guess I hoped I was going to catch him off guard.
He waited a moment and then said, “You mentioned the Klan the other night, too, when you left me so abruptly at the Pirate’s Den. What’s this about?”
I still didn’t turn my face towards him. I kept my cheek pressed against the sand. I couldn’t bear to look at him, I was so afraid of what I was going to find out. “The Ku Klux Klan, Johnny. You know what I’m talking about. The sign out on Night Lake Road.”
He sat up. I felt him looking at me.
“Hell of a note, them adopting a road, isn’t it? The county didn’t want to let them, but the lawyers said they had to. They pay to keep that stretch of road maintained. They filled out the forms. They wrote a check for the fee. Can’t discrimin
ate. The other clubs get to, have to let them. Free country, you know.”
“Discrimination. Free country.” I let all my bitterness show in my voice.
“I don’t like the Klan anymore than you do. But one of the regional big-shots lives here, so the idiots from all over come here for the rallies. They’ve got good lawyers, fill out all their forms, even get bonfire permits from the fire department. What are we going to do?”
“How long has this been going on, Johnny?”
“Well, let’s see. I think there was a Klan here when we were little kids, like in lots of places. Then it kind of disappeared for a while. No need for it. Small black population, and no trouble when the schools were integrated. All those Yankees moving down here, and all the tourists visiting. Until right recent, the economy here was booming. Guess no one saw the need, when times were good.”
“Isn’t that nice,” I said, as sharply as I could.
“Why are you being mean to me about it?” he asked. “Just like the other night... Wait a minute! You’re not blaming me for this, are you?”
I didn’t answer.
“That doesn’t make any sense, Laurie. Anymore than if I blamed you for those black kids getting beaten to death up in New York City! You can’t blame all of us for what a few weirdos get involved in.”
He was right. I had been blaming him, and yet I hated it when I met some ignorant Yankee who assumed I was a racist because I had a southern accent. I turned over, and sat up facing him. “Johnny, about me fucking everything that moves...”
“What a provocative opening. Do go on.”
“I don’t. Not really.”
“You used to.”
“I had to.”
“You don’t say. Nymphomania? Maybe I can sell my story to the Enquirer. ‘I Was Married To A Nymphomaniac.’”
“You know how my Dad screws around. How most men around here screw around. How the wives hold on to their meal ticket by keeping their eyes and legs closed. I couldn’t live like that. You know I couldn’t. I had to prove to myself that I could screw around as much as the guys. And that it didn’t make me a bad girl.”
