Shop Talk

by Carolyn Haines

  Bo refused to close his eyes, but even with them wide open and focused on Mona d’la Quirt’s robustly rounded backside, he couldn’t shut out the scene Lucille described. Happy Hare had called him into the bedroom, a big room with three windows where the sun slanted in through the venetian blinds creating a pattern of black and white across the dark green bedspread, a zebra pattern across Happy Hare’s pale face. Even at the time, Bo had thought it significant. Happy was a man of sharp contrasts. So good natured, always ready with a laugh, until he went into one of his dark spells. So alive and vital, until the collapse.

  It had been no secret that Happy was dying. The doctors said it was his heart, but there was some confusion. It wasn’t a stroke or a heart attack or a clogged aorta or a weak ventricle, it was something else. Something that not even the doctors fully understood. Just one of those strange things that happened to the human body. But it had been one of Happy’s last acts to extract the promise out of Bo to care for Lucille and Ethel.

  “We Hares are a special breed,” Happy had said, his voice reedy and thin because his heart was not pumping properly. “You and Lucille, you’re the last. The best.” He had made a face. “It’s up to you, Bo, to look out after your mother and your sister. There are some things I need to tell you,” he’d sighed then, big and long, “but I haven’t the heart.” He’d chuckled weakly at his own pun. “Besides, you’ve done fine not knowing, and sometimes a little bit of knowledge is a dangerous thing. Just promise me you’ll look out for Mama Hare and your sister.”

  And Bo had promised. Because that was what a good Hare did.

  “Bo, if you don’t let us meet up here, they won’t let me be part of the group. They’re real writers, Bo. They might be able to help me get an agent, or find a publisher.”

  Bo tried to ignore her. His own stomach was doing a St. Vitus dance at the thought of those women in his work space. He connected with Iris’ gaze, but she gave him no help. She claimed to be part Indian, and Bo had an image of her standing in front of his shop with a fistful of cigars. Her expression was wooden–until she whipped the axe from behind her back.

  “Bo!” Lucille stood on tiptoe and whispered in his ear. “Please. Just give it a try. If we make a mess, you can tell us not to come back. If you say yes, I promise I’ll go to work on time. I won’t give Mr. Johnson any reason to fire me.”

  “Let me talk it over with Driskell.” Bo hated himself. “You’ll have to make sure you don’t disturb him.”

  Lucille’s smile was one of victory. “Driskell won’t mind. I can assure you of that.”

  Iris put her cigarette out in the ashtray at Bo’s elbow. “Don’t blame me if we come in here one Thursday morning and find them all stacked in a corner, drained of their blood.” Iris cut her eyes at Coco, who had bent over to fluff the pompon on her right shoe. “All except that one. He’d have to get a hydraulic suction pump to get anything out of her.”

  “Oh, thank you, Bo.” Lucille leaned over and kissed his cheek, leaving a dark lipstick stain. She turned to Mona. “Bo says if we don’t bother Driskell we can meet here.”

  Mona looked at Coco, who was watching the contestants on Jeopardy soundlessly gesture and clap. “We’ll put it to a vote and let you know.”

  “How many others are there?” Lucille asked. “I didn’t make but three copies of my book. There’s one more in the car.”

  “Three more.” Mona rattled her keys. “Let’s go, Coco.”

  “When can I see what you’re working on?” Lucille twisted her hands together. “I can’t wait. I can’t believe this is actually happening to me, Lucille Hare. I’m going to be part of Writers of Mississippi Books!”

  “Wednesday night.” Mona said. “Six-thirty, exactly. Come on, Coco.” The bell jangled their departure.

  “Captain Bligh and her greyhound,” Iris said. “Where did you find those two, Lucille?”

  “I have to get back to the bank.” Lucille edged toward the door. The one thing she didn’t want to do was answer questions about Mona or Coco.

  “Lucille, if Driskell says no, you’ll have to call them up and cancel.” Bo tried hard to sound firm.

  “He won’t say no.” Lucille knew he wouldn’t. He’d been the one who encouraged her. “Bye now.” Lucille pushed open the door and ran into the April afternoon, which had begun to cloud.

  Iris watched as Lucille slammed herself into her car. “Jesus, baby, that scene was like a wreck between Mad Max and that cartoon character, Skeletor.” She shook her head. “I wonder what the others look like.” There was a certain amount of interest in her voice.

  Bo still held his screw driver, but he no longer felt like the doctor on Chicago Hope. Now he was Tom Selleck, Magnum, in a bad episode. Most episodes were bad for poor Tom. He was always getting it in the eye whenever he tried to do his duty or just be a regular nice guy. Bo sighed and wished some reasonable inner voice would speak to him and make it all better.

  Iris heard the sigh and saw the droop of his shoulders. The idea of Lucille and her weird friends in the shop every week was both infuriating and intriguing. She’d never known Lucille to meet anyone on a regular basis. “Maybe those women have brothers, or cousins, male relatives that Lucille can date.”

  “You mean male relatives who aren’t in prison?” Bo made a face. “Forget it, baby. I want Lucille to marry someone who’ll take her off my hands. I don’t want her dragging some other poor jerk into the family so I have to support two of them.”

  “Right.” Iris looked up as the front door bell jingled aggressively. “Holy shit,” she said. “This is ‘Day from Hell'.”

  Bo said nothing as the tall, burly man walked toward them. His step was measured, his gaze holding Bo’s, disregarding Iris completely. As he drew nearer, Bo could see that his eyes were laced with red veins and a pulse throbbed at his left temple, clearly visible beneath the short, gray hair.

  “No house calls, Mr. Gavin.” Iris spoke first. Tensed and coiled, she waited by Bo’s side.

  “My television is broken. It’s too big to fit in my trunk. I want it repaired.” His tone was commanding.

  “You have to bring it in.” Iris walked to the counter and took up her position.

  “My business is with Bo.” Abe Gavin dismissed Iris with a sneer. “This is between us men.”

  “Bo doesn’t make house calls.”

  “What kind of repairman is he?” Abe Gavin clenched his hands at his side. “I’ll pay him triple.”

  “No,” Iris said. “No amount of money. No house calls.”

  “But he always comes to our house. My wife is expecting him. She’s baked a fresh apple cake just for him.”

  Iris saw the sympathy in her husband’s eyes. “Absolutely not. Remember the pitiful woman who trapped you in the bathroom? Remember the elderly man who had no family, only his TV? Remember the fat girl who nearly sterilized you by grabbing you?” Iris turned back to Mr. Gavin. “No house calls. Not now; not ever.”

  “It’s not the set. It isn’t even broken. It’s just that Gladys, my wife, says that Bo reminds her of Gerald, our boy. He lives out in Oregon. Gladys just misses him a lot. If Bo came by to check the set, it would be like having Gerald home for a visit. Just for a piece of cake and a cup of coffee. Fresh apple is Gerald’s favorite.”

  Iris shook her head. “Mr. Gavin, Bo can’t leave the shop because he’s been ordered by the courts not to leave the premises.” She nodded at her own ingenuity as she took the older man’s arm and led him to the door. “I’m sorry,” she said, and she was. As much for Bo as the Gavins. When she turned back to her husband, she saw the horror on his face.

  “Their desperation has crawled up under my skin and it’s running around like the alien. Pretty soon it’s going to burst out of my chest and devour everything in sight.”

  “Bo, honey,” Iris sighed and kissed his cheek. “You can’t make Gerald be a good enough son to remember to give his mama some attention. You can’t take care of everyone and make it right for them.
”

  “It eats at me.” Bo eased the wires down to his work table. “You think hell bring the set in?”

  “No. It’s not broken. He told the truth–Mrs. Gavin just wanted to pretend for half an hour that her son, Gerald, was home and that he was nice enough to drink some coffee and eat some cake she baked especially for him.”

  Bo felt as if he were smothering under the weight of the Gavins’ need. He didn’t even have the energy to try to fight his way free.

  “Bo, baby, if you were the wrong kind of man, you could take a lot of these old people for a ride.” Bo looked at her.

  “Their own children abandon them, and you’re nice to them. You care about them, and you don’t even know them.” She shook her head. “They’d leave you their money if you worked at it.”

  “I know. People work all their lives and then end up with a stranger to be kind to them.” Bo was too dejected to pace. “This isn’t the way things are supposed to be. We’re off track. The human race is self-destructing, and each generation seems worse and worse.” He sighed and looked up at the skylight, at the milky eye that gave onto a gray sky. “We need help. Someone to lead us back to the right path.” He shook his head. “A hero, Iris. That’s what this country needs. One good man to blaze the trail.”

  Iris had seen Bo in a lot of emotional states, but not one like this, not one so black, so prophetic. It had something to do with that clutch of women who had been in earlier. Lucille had started this downward slide with her incessant needs. But there was a cure. One that would take all of her talents.

  “Bo, baby, finish that set. I’ve got to take care of something in the apartment.” She closed the metal door behind her and locked it in place. She didn’t want Bo to interrupt her in the middle of her preparations. Digging into the very back of the closet she found the plastic bag and pulled it out. The yellow tulle was only for special occasions. Very special occasions. It was Bo’s favorite costume, one that ignited all of his passions and fantasies. If Bo ever needed the release of Mandingo, it was now.

  She threw off her clothes and began the long process of arranging the undergarments and hoops, and finally draping the antebellum gown over her shoulder. The yellow fabric settled around her, hugging her waist and belling out around her ankles. With quick strokes she arranged her hair in loops on either side of her head. She bit her lips and pinched her cheeks, then widened her eyes, minced and practiced batting her eyelashes so fast it almost made her dizzy.

  The early 70s Dino D’Larentis film was a classic–the worst of a genre of plantation tales based on a series of novels by Lance Horner. She and Bo had memorized every line of awful dialogue. It was howlingly bad, and yet it unleashed a need in Bo that was raw and powerful.

  Checking herself one last time in the mirror, Iris stepped through the door and into the shop. Advancing so that her gown billowed around her ankles, she stopped in front of her husband.

  She spoke in a simpering voice that was edged with command. “Come on in here, Mead. I’m a tellin’ you to come in here. I want you to listen close. I’m gone tell you a story and I want you to listen good.”

  Bo looked at his wife and the desperation slowly left his face. It was replaced by a hint of hope. “Massa Hammond wouldn’t like me goin’ with you.”

  “I need me a man like you.” Iris’ voice broke and the last word came out with a roughness. She fluffed at her hair. “Better get in here, Mead, or I’ll have you whupped.”

  “Massa Hammond won’t like me comin’ in his bedroom.” Bo glanced at the front door of the shop. It wasn’t closing time. Still, acting out television and movie roles was a part of their marriage, an important part. Through the years they’d developed unwritten rules–unspoken trust. One partner never left the other hanging out on an emotional limb. When the game started, they both played. It was the foundation of their love.

  Iris pressed against him. She ran her hands along the planes of his face, down his shoulders, feeling, probing, measuring. “You do what I tell you, Mead. If Hammond can have his bed wench, I’m gonna have me some of what I want.” She slid her hand down his stomach. “You don’t do exactly what I say, I’m gone put you in that pot. You know, that big old pot we use to toughen up your baby soft hide.”

  Bo tensed. Iris knew exactly how to get to him.

  “Let’s go finish Mandingo,” she whispered, her breath warm against his ear.

  “Iris, baby, it’s only four-thirty,” Bo said.

  All of the sickly-sweet drawl was gone from her voice. “Close the fucking shop, Bo, or I’m gonna put you in that pot. And you aren’t going to like it one little bit.”

  His laugh was soft, hungry. He eased out from under her hand and went to the glass door. He locked it and flipped the sign to closed. “To hell with them,” he said.

  “Exactly.” Iris led the way to the heavy metal door.

  Chapter Eight

  The bath water was hot, scented with a manly musk and a few oils for his skin. The lap of the water against the wooden tub was soothing to Slade’s tired body. At first the water had stung the two little raw spots on his inner thighs and the place where his coccyx had rubbed the worn leather, but he had accepted the pain as his due for the long hours in the saddle. The cowboy life was a hard one, but it was the one he had chosen.

  He had made it into Hot Spur, Montana, with the hope of a bath, a hot meal, a glimpse of Clara and a clean bed, all in that order. After three weeks on the range, he’d been glad to see the raw frame buildings of the town. The cows had been glad, too. They were willing creatures, going a hundred miles out of their way on the trail south so that Slade could follow the elusive scent of Clara. He’d heard she was singing in the Silver Dollar Saloon in Hot Spur, an activity that he found somewhat lacking in ladylike qualities. He intended to have a talk with her about her choice of professions as soon as he found her. He could only assume that she’d turned to singing when she was unable to obtain work as a schoolmarm–after the nuns had shunned her. The image of the nuns, all black and white condemnation when he’d mentioned Clara’s name, troubled Slade. It was obvious the sisters had failed to understand that Clara’s spirit was her strength, not her weakness. They’d turned their backs on her, forcing her to move on, seeking employment as a teacher. But the Montana wilderness didn’t set a great store in book learning.

  Easing down until his chin touched the water, Slade sighed. The west was a hard place, for men, women–and cows. Clara was a survivor, and he liked that. She hadn’t given up.

  As the dust and grime of the trail washed off him and settled into the bottom of the tub, he thought about the coming evening. He’d been told that Clara had taken a room on the second story of the Hotel Peligroso. He had walked past the building, noting the raw lumber and the screenless windows, a sure indication that Clara was running low on the funds she’d fled with. Not to put too fine an edge on it, he’d heard Clara sing. Even as much as he loved her, he wouldn’t pay money for the pleasure. But he admired her spunk. Trouble was, the hardened cowpokes he knew didn’t give a damn for spunk. They were a lust driven lot, thinking only of wine, women and … At that thought he rose out of the tub, water cascading down his sculpted body. The manly oils had coated his skin and he glistened as though he’d been burnished by the sun. Maybe he should begin to execute his plan immediately. After all, spunk couldn’t put food on the table for a woman like Clara, and he knew for a fact she was fond of her meals.

  He slipped into the new black denim pants he’d purchased at the general store, then buttoned the blue chambray shirt he’d bought because it exactly matched his blue/blue eyes. In preparation for this reunion with Clara, he’d been hefting heifers. Fifty heifers every day. And he’d had to round them up first. Even as fit as he was, he could still feel his heart pounding against his ribs, hard. The prospect of seeing Clara excited him, and he was man enough to admit it.

  He was also pleased by the fact that while soaking in the hot bath, he’d come up with another poem for Cla
ra. A light-hearted verse that conveyed his amorous feelings for her. He’d simply incorporate the poem into his plan.

  He pulled his boots on and then rubbed the toes on the back of his pants. He was ready. For Clara. For his destiny. Just as soon as he found a piece of paper and a pen.

  The local grocery had no fine stationary, so Slade settled for the back of a rough paper sack. Somehow, it was fitting. With a borrowed pen he put his feelings down on the page.

  As I sat in my hot tubbin’

  I thought of you and all your lovin’

  I felt a presence in the water

  Up popped Harry Water-Otter.

  Harry’s cute and very charmin’

  Though he’s bald, he’s quite disarmin’

  He swells with pride when your name sounds

  And he grows taller, bigger round.

  Harry has a message for you

  And he speaks for old Slade too:

  “Come to bed and take your drubbin’

  From old Slade and his big nubbin'.”

  After he checked the spelling twice, Slade folded the note, returned the pen, and headed for the hotel. It was after five, and the dust stirred by numerous wagons and assorted horses had finally begun to settle. In the windows of the hotel saloon, lamps had been lit, giving the old, ramshackled building a more homey look. Inside the bar a small mariachi band played a song welcoming the patrons to the Hotel Peligroso. For a brief moment, the old hotel gained a certain loveliness as Slade envisioned Clara singing with the band.

  He could have selected the front door, but it presented too little challenge. Instead, he used a wagon parked beside the building to gain access to the first story roof. As he neared the window he’d determined to be Clara’s, he was afraid she might hear the pounding of his heart. But she didn’t. It occurred to him that Clara’s hearing might be part of the reason she sang slightly off-key. Clutching his poem, he crouched below the window and slowly lifted his head.