by Lynn Pruett
Heather came in from the garden, a hand behind her back. “I didn’t find your shoe but I’ve brought you a present.”
She held out a small very red tomato, the first of the season. It was misshapen, a deep seam creasing the blushed flesh. “It’s a heart,” she said. “Can I have some ice cream?”
I took the warm tomato heart and placed it in the pocket of my apron. “Ice cream for breakfast?” I said. Her small face flushed and wisps of her hair clung to her chin. “What a grand idea,” I said.
And then I had another thought that was even grander. They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. I happen to think that’s also true of the ladies.
“Today there’s going to be a parade at the truck stop,” I said to Heather.
“Can I be in it?”
“No,” I said. “But if you can’t join ’em, you can beat ’em.”
DARLA BOHANNON
Darla limped along in the hot sun. Only a couple more miles to reach home. That stupid trucker she’d hitched a ride with in Gadsden hadn’t told her he was going to Chattanooga via Highway 11 to avoid the weigh stations on the interstate. He wasn’t even a licensed trucker. She should have known from his tight Levi’s. When he backed the semi into the greenhouse at the Etowah Garden Center, it was all too clear. She’d hopped out of the seat so fast, she’d hit the pavement running and hadn’t looked back. Now she panted. God, if anyone saw what sorry shape she was in, they’d think Coach Hiler was right about cutting her from the track team. The white pavement of the interstate baked hot as a deep fry. She slung the sweat off her forehead. If she wasn’t so close to home, she’d hitch. Then Mama would scold her. Not the kind of homecoming she expected. But nothing was turning out as she expected. That stupid trucker.
Things had gone much better at the recruiting office. A clean-cut soldier with sparkling eyes had spent a great deal of time looking at her. He’d wanted to know what her interests were. She could talk to him as long as she avoided his face. Her eyes traced the tailored line from his shoulders to his waist. Not a wrinkle for an extra ounce of flesh. Did she want to fly? Hadn’t thought about it, she said. She was more interested in intelligence. Yes, he could see that. She blushed against her will. It was so cool in the office, her sweaty shirt dried. She’d forgotten she was wearing yesterday’s clothes. He talked to her for a long time. He never quit looking at her. At odd times, she felt her blood race from her toes to her neck. She signed the papers. The next eight weeks would be torture. But she had direction now, and she’d taken the first step in finding Daddy.
She kicked at loose gravel. Maybe she should go to the truck stop without showering so they’d be real sympathetic. No, that would just give Connie a chance to talk about stinks. She fixed her eyes on the exit sign and marched woodenly, as she imagined a soldier would. Lots of cars were parked along the exit ramp. Mama’s business must be booming. She hoped Mama wasn’t too busy to notice she was home. A growing cloud of dust sped down the ramp beyond the sign. When the dust lifted, a vehicle took shape and headed the wrong way up the highway toward her. It was Troy Clyde’s jeep. She waved hard and began to run toward it.
“You better get in here, you little weed. I ought to tan your backside for all the grief you have caused your mother,” he said. After she climbed in and shut the door, Troy Clyde jammed the wheel to the left and they spun in a roaring circle.
“It’s great to be home,” she said.
“Your mother should have spanked your fannies all the way up until you were ready to leave home. If she had, she would have spared herself a lot of heartache in these trying times.” Sweat dripped from his forehead. He got the vehicle back on the road and started toward the exit ramp.
“Don’t you have airconditioning?” She hung her head out the window, hoping to dry the top layers of her hair.
“Hah!” He snorted. “You’re spoiled rotten. Let me tell you, you picked a hell of a day to run away.” He wiped his face with a handkerchief, then offered it to her.
Darla turned up her nose at the damp cloth. I have run away and joined the Army.
“If nothing else, clean your face.” He tossed it onto her lap. Then he combed his hair down.
Darla took the handkerchief and tied it to the mirror outside her window. She bent and wiped her head on her jeans.
“That’s barely tolerable,” Troy Clyde said. “Now get a load of this.”
A line of women and children trudged up the cracked earth next to the exit ramp. “Just look at them fools. It must be a hundred and two in the shade.” Troy Clyde slowed the jeep to a crawl until he caught up with Gert Geurin wearing an undulating flowered pant suit.
“Oh, Gert, it’s you. For a minute, I thought it was the Garden of Eden out for a stroll. Watch out!” He waved at her back. “There was a damned bee going for them jumping tulips on your backside.”
She breathed too hard to make out what she said.
He kept pace with her. “You sure are walking a long mile for a Camel.”
“What is going on?” Darla said. The walkers had to be dying. She’d barely been able to keep going on the flat part of the highway. Gert Geurin should be working.
“Craziness, just damned craziness. Hold on to your hat!” He sped up to a clump of younger women whose makeup had begun to run. Two carried children, while the third dragged a toddler through the red sand. “Heydee, y’all. It sure is hot.”
One flipped him the bird as she adjusted her sunglasses.
“Is the truck stop so busy customers have to park on the highway?” Darla said. She suddenly wished Mama was rich and could get her out of the Army and into the Guards. She shook her head. Mama to the rescue as usual. No. She was going to find Daddy.
“Nuts,” Troy Clyde said. “Poor little tykes. They don’t know why they mamas dragged them away from the television. This is too much torture for a man to see before lunch.” He shifted to second, then whistled. “They even got the wicked witch of the south out of her exercise suit for this one.” Melanie’s mother marched along in a broad straw hat, a violet skirt, and matching tennis shoes. “Oh, the Lord is good to me,” Troy Clyde sang. He inched the jeep up behind her and tooted the horn. She jumped. Her shoulders drew together and rose to protect her neck.
“Hey, Miz Polk Killian, I didn’t know you from the back, what with your skirt clinging to your bony heinie like a kid sucking a tit.”
Darla shaded her face. Maybe she should jump out right here. She looked at the yards and yards of hot blacktop with its shimmering mirage. No way. She’d survived one weirdo already today, she could put up with Troy Clyde.
Pudge Polk swung her sign up to screen herself.
“CARNAL KNOWLEDGE IS A SIN,” Troy Clyde read. “Oh, Mother-in-law, is that based on your own experience?”
“Quit calling me mother-in-law!” Her nostrils flared and sucked in a good snort of dust. She began to cough. Troy Clyde leaned out and offered to pound her back. She held up the sign to ward him away.
“Hey, I read it the first time. Saw the movie, too. Movie’s a hell of a lot better.” Their skirmish had slowed the marchers who, eager for an excuse to rest, formed a circle around Pudge.
“You just angry ’cause you know I have carnal knowledge with your daughter ever’ night of the week and twicet on Sunday.”
Darla slid below the dashboard and thought, Nothing will ever change.
Pudge’s bun leaked hair and she wobbled while her audible sniffs rapidly approached hyperventilation. Her lids stretched tight over her bug eyes; she slowed her breath and began to chant, as if casting a spell that would drive him from her sight. “Understanding will watch over you; delivering you from the way of evil, from men of perverted speech.”
“Thanks for your concern, Mother-in-law, but if I was you I’d head right home to my airconditioning. I ain’t never seen no one hyperventilate through their nose. Where is your minister anyway?”
Others joined in the chant, the smarter ones sliding into the scragg
ly shadows cast by tattered leaves.
“My engine light’s on. You better watch yourself, Mother-in-law, you just got my jeep all hot.” The jeep charged up the hill, raising dust clouds that hung in the air, trapped by the humidity.
“All right, girl, get your ass out of my jeep and go help your mother.”
Help with what? Darla thought. She saw a refrigeration cart under the awning out front and Connie waving an ice cream scoop at Heather. I’m supposed to be in school. On the other hand, what was the point of taking another multiple-choice test on the habits of fruit flies? She was going into the Army. “I’ll take a shower first.”
“Suit yourself, but if you take too long, you’ll miss one hell of a show.”
She slid to the ground and slammed the door.
“Hey, Darla, you’re welcome for the lift.”
“Thanks, Troy Clyde.” She grimaced. Damn it. She was acting like a kid. She crossed the lot and wished for a heavy downpour that would wash Troy Clyde and the ladies off the face of the earth, one that would cool her through her clothes, a flood where she could rescue only the people she liked—but here her thoughts stopped. Few people would be worth saving.
“Well,” Connie said. “Look who shows up.” She laid row after row of plastic spoons on the table next to the cart.
“Just in time for dessert,” said Heather. “That’s not fair.”
“What’s with the ice cream?” Darla patted her face with a paper napkin while Connie explained Mama’s plan to disrupt the march.
“Um, I hate to be obvious, but there are no prostitutes working here,” said Darla.
“Watch your mouth,” Connie said, and nodded at Heather. “This is an end-around rather than a straight up the middle.”
“Oh,” said Darla. “A reverse when they expect a power play.”
“Yes,” said Connie. “Automatic touchdown.”
“Go left, Bo,” said Darla.
Connie nodded and licked a scoop of lemon sherbet. “I’m betting on Gert to break down first.”
“Just don’t yell anything, Darla. Mama said.” Heather gave her a cone.
“Yeah, yeah.” Darla’s cone cracked at the rim. She’d been overly generous with the mint chip.
“How does the sign look?” asked Troy Clyde, who’d just shot staples into a cloth banner above their heads.
The sisters tortured themselves to walk in the sun and glare up at the sign. FREE FROZEN YOGURT. FREE ICE CREAM.
“Perfect,” said Darla.
“A little higher on the left,” said Connie.
“Here they come.” A song wafted along first. The signs, uplifted, were hard to read. Some had moistened and bent. Most were coated with a fine layer of red dust.
“What’s a pervert?” said Heather.
“Troy Clyde,” Darla answered.
“No, he’s a pig.”
Troy Clyde carried a mixing bowl half full of ice cream. He ate with a serving spoon. “I tell you what, sherbet wouldn’t melt in the old bitch’s mouth.”
“Troy Clyde!”
“I wasn’t talking about your mama, now. I was talking about my mother-in-law. How she ever got Melanie, I’ll never know.”
“I’m sure she says the same about you,” Connie said.
The picketers moved closer, a circle of pairs, walking slowly.
“There’s Chase Logan. I bet he’s the first to get ice cream.” Heather stuck her tongue out at him.
“God, I hope those little kids are big enough to read.” Darla shaded her eyes. “If not, this isn’t going to work.”
“They probably left the ones who can read at home. Look at their signs: PERVERT, CARNAL KNOWLEDGE, THE BREAD OF WICKEDNESS, LOOSE WOMAN, ADVENTURESS.” Connie waved her spoon as each sign took a turn facing them.
“I’m about sick of ice cream,” Darla said.
“Keep eating,” said Troy Clyde. “Them little kids may not read but they can see.”
“No, there’s Dinky Taylor. He’s blind and he’s carrying a sign. BE NOT WISE IN YOUR OWN EYES.”
“Maybe it won’t be a kid. Maybe it will be a hot, hungry, humongous lady like Gert,” Darla said.
“She looks terrible.”
“She shouldn’t be out in the heat.”
“Look at old Pudge. She must have hernia of the nostril,” said Troy Clyde, as if this was the first time he’d laid eyes on her. A red-orange trickle wet her upper lip.
“It could be a bad lipstick job,” Connie said.
“It’s not the right color for a bloody nose,” Heather said.
“Cocaine,” said Darla. “It rots your membranes.”
Connie looked at her, annoyed. Just because she’d been out all night didn’t mean she could just drop all this knowledge of cool stuff. She’d only been home half an hour and she acted like she knew about everything that was in the papers: country music and AIDS, cabdrivers and cocaine.
THE LADIES OF THE CHURCH OF THE HOLY RESURRECTION
The marchers had jostled for spots in the inner circle. The distance to cover was not as great as that on the edge.
“Gert Geurin, you should lie down,” said the ladies. “Are you sure you haven’t perspired too much?”
“I can wait on Reverend Peterson.”
“Where is he? I thought he was going to march, too.”
“No, you may not have any ice cream. I should have left you at home.”
“I left my purse in the car. Do you want to walk all the way down there and back and get my purse? I didn’t think so.”
“I don’t see why we can’t just stand still.”
“The pavement’s burning through my shoes.”
“Does that sign say the yogurt’s free? I didn’t wear my glasses. I thought there was going to be TV coverage.”
DRINK WATER FROM YOUR OWN CISTERN,
FLOWING WATER FROM YOUR OWN WELL.
“Justin! Remember your attitude!”
“Well, we got our exercise today.”
“Yes, you still have to go to church tonight. You can tell the other kids who didn’t come what it was like to be a picket. You can witness.”
HATTIE BOHANNON
They were coming. I could hear them in the distance, gaining the long hill, ready to crucify me, and here I sat, the lights low in my bedroom. They needn’t bring knives or swords. The words had been enough. She that liveth in pleasure is dead while she liveth, a widow indeed.
I longed for Oakley to be here to help on this day. In the past at times, I had talked with him in my head over the miles and he answered in his smart and funny way. He and I had many conversations because I needed shoring up. Today, though I sat on our bed and waited for his answer, there was nothing. Maybe my own guilt over having spent the night with Paul Dodd blocked him. Weariness rode my bloodstream. I could not face this day, these people.
I looked out the window and saw Darla step from under the awning. She was home. Maybe Oakley had answered me. Good. Good. I turned from the window with a sudden lightness and went to the bathroom and washed my face. I brushed my hair and set out toward the ice-cream cart to greet my returned child, but the parade of pickets wound around the perimeter of the lot, a slow, confident snake. The posters glistened like scales. There must be thirty of them, far too many to be considered only the fringe. I squinted at the words, names of everything I had tried to save Jessamine from becoming. Not one picketer succumbed to the ice cream.
I suddenly lost my nerve. I was not going to fight them head on. That was not the plan. I’d go to Darla later, later when I could both hug and scream at her. Now I felt dizzy. The weariness was gone but air was pumping through my veins. I took the path through the scrub to the garage, where no one would find me.
Inside, in the musty place, I climbed into the Jetstar. The dull red of a gas can filtered through a clump of broom straw waiting, as it had for years, for a broomstick. Oakley never got around to whittling its handle. A hard core of anger in my chest whooshed into a hot flame. He had abandoned m
e, that was the truth.
Yet I was keenly aware of how I used his absence. The spontaneous way his name fell from my lips when correcting a child. “Your daddy would not” a phrase that made Oakley into Santa Claus with its implication: If you are a good girl, your father will come home. Subtle and mean, or was it my own wish? If I am a good woman, God will send my husband home. I parceled Oakley out in small pieces that made him look like a saint and myself the embodiment of patience. In town, at Fred’s General Store, pausing over the men’s gray socks or buying mentholyptus drops as Oakley had done, a subtle way to remind the clerk of his absence. How much of this was planned and how much natural? I did not know. I talked about Oakley more in town than I ever did at home. In fact, sometimes months passed without a thought of him, except when his memory pushed itself full-blown across my vision, thanks to the sight of a trucker’s yellow fingers or a particular laugh. His laugh was like a fiddle in a beginner’s hands, uneven and squawky.
Again anger surged at him for abandoning me. If he was here, they would not dare march. This I knew.
His damned car. I thumped the steering wheel. His pride, his vanity. He was always pounding dents out of it. I remembered the one day I’d asked him to watch the girls so I could canoe the Ruby alone. When I got home, he was pounding a dent, and the girls were drenched in raw eggs. “Cheaper than a babysitter.” He’d smiled, his face sooty with grease.
The runty hens I’d scraped up from friends and neighbors. I’d fattened them and they’d produced eggs I was going to trade for blue gingham to make myself a new dress after I’d gotten back to normal size after having three babies. My eggs. My money. True, he’d come from town the next day with a flowery yellow gown he’d paid too much for. Yellow made my skin look sallow and I didn’t like florals.
I was the most alone I’d ever felt. The closeness I’d shared with Paul was replaced with sudden shame. I had expected too much from it. He had to have known about the protest while we were wrapped in each other’s arms. His deputies’ wives were ladies of the church. He had known the tarnished position it would put me in today. I had risked my reputation. Yesterday I could have stood out there and confronted those people, covering for Jessamine, but covering for myself was different.
