“Give me that phone,” my newly brazen mother said, grabbing it from my hand.
“Can we help you?” she snapped. “Well yes, I’m well aware of that. Uh-huh, I’m sure he is . . . that’s really useful information we’ll have to keep in our memories . . . all right . . . do what?” Mama tucked the receiver under her arm and said to Landon and me, “Old hag says she’d almost had enough when she come home one day and seen the house all pink.
“It’s not pink,” Mama said into the receiver. “It’s salmon,” and she pronounced the L. “I thought you were from Florida and would appreciate a colorful house, ’specially one the color of a fish. Isn’t that what y’all do down there? Go wild in that hot sun painting your houses an assortment of pastels? The owners gave us permission, if you recall, which it appears you don’t.” There was a moment of silence on Mama’s part. She frowned and swigged her beer. “Uh-huh. I figured you were Jersey. Figured it right off the bat . . . say what? . . . I have you know I paid $3,200 to have the house painted for you so you ought to be sending me a Hallmark ‘Thank-You’ card. You want my address so you can send it?”
“Mama!” I shouted, snatching the phone. “I am so sorry about her,” I said to the woman. “She’s not herself. We’re sending her in for testing tomorrow, so please excuse this behavior.”
“No one ever asked me if I wanted a pink house,” the old woman said, her memory dusty.
“What color would you prefer, ma’am?”
“One without . . . without . . . such goings-on above us. It’s like a bowling alley up there with all the racket.”
“I’m sorry, really. I’ll try to remind myself and the children not to flop about like a herd of T-rexes.”
I hung up and turned to Mama. Landon wasn’t paying this scenario the least bit of attention. He’d gone into the living room and cut on the TV, flipping all the channels, which we now had since I am rising up in the income world due to the radio gigs and can afford the better cable offerings. Men will retreat to any area of a house as long as they don’t have to witness the dramatics of domestic friction.
“Prudy,” Mama said, finishing beer. “You don’t need to live above them Yankees. I’m going out tomorrow and finding you another place. This is no kind of—”
“I’m starting to like it here and the kids are adjusting. I’m not about to move them again.”
“Fine . . . get your purse and you and what’s his face go have some fun.” She wiggled a long finger in the direction of the living room, her eyes watering from drink and mirth. “Don’t drop your drawers, Prudy. I know you’d like to. Lord, if I wasn’t such a good Christian I’d be tempted to—”
“I’m going to fix you a sandwich before I leave you with my children,” I said. “A club with three pieces of bread to absorb some of that alcohol that’s got you talking crazy.”
“Oh, it ain’t the alcohol,” she said. “I’ve had these thoughts in my head for years. I’ve held them back from you and Amber, trying to act decent and upright so you girls would defy the statistics. You defied them all right. Up and exceeded the 50 percent single-parent household rate. Not one daughter’s gonna stay married. Where did I go wrong?”
I gave her the sandwich, a big scoop of pasta salad and a hug. “It’s okay, Mama. None of this is your fault. We picked wrong. People do that sometimes and there doesn’t have to be some deep underlying reason. All those therapists who say I’ll never get well because I don’t get angry enough, they believe every choice a person makes is indirectly or directly based on her raising. I think there may be some truth in that, but only a little. I picked Bryce. Amber picked the chicken man.”
We talked for a few more minutes, Mama growing more coherent and rational, giving me the confidence to leave with Dr. Kennedy and see where this date was headed.
We did a last-minute check on the children who had grown quiet, which is never a good sign. They were giggling and watching a PG-13 movie Aunt Weepie had loaned me. Cuss words flew, and I couldn’t handle Miranda hearing such, not with her convent-like mannerisms.
“Don’t let them watch this movie, Mama.”
“You’re the one with the filth in this house,” she said. Good. She was becoming an old stiff prude again. The food did the trick.
“Well, all right,” I said, replacing Ferris Bueller’s Day Off with Shrek. “I guess I’ll go see what Dr. Kennedy’s been doing to entertain himself during all this lunacy.”
“Prudy,” Mama said. “Remember your morals. I know you must have the itch. Please, don’t go using this youngster to scratch it. Not until you’re married.”
“Married? I have no plans for that again.” I left her standing in thought and discovered Landon asleep on the couch, hands folded in his lap, mouth ajar. “Not on my time, buddy,” I said and kicked his foot to rouse him. We decided to try the new oyster bar in town where a classic ’70s rock band played on weekends. The radio station had been promoting the new place all week and the band, a group called the Boomerangs, was supposed to be great according to Landon and all the hype. It’s just the ticket for people like him—younger than I with no dependents, men who say things like “cop a buzz” and “chill.” Those were his exact words, the language of a man with four years of vet school and internships. He was set on going there and that was fine with me.
The parking lot was packed, mostly newer cars, sporty and youthful, not many wagons or SUVs, a sign this place catered to the market everyone was after: 18–34. As usual, I was a few years past the expiration date, and no one was courting my “market” these days.
We went inside the stucco bar with a Spanish tile roof, a former Mexican restaurant that had gone out of business. The place was freezing cold and smelled like a pier. I shivered, my flesh rising and neck stiffening. Men in khakis and polished girls with good skin and white teeth sat on tall barstools as they cracked oysters, peeled shrimp and drank imports.
Farther into the room, where the light grew dimmer and then brightened around a small stage, was the band. I paid them no attention. They fiddled around onstage, warming up, tuning and checking equipment. I turned my back to them, focusing on Dr. Kennedy. The place was loud, and even though the smokers were relegated to the bar, the clouds floated like blimps into each room. We were all as one, breathing the same air, blending all factions of Southern society on the basis of a common interest in classic rock and shellfish.
Landon ordered a Blue Moon with an orange slice and I sipped a glass of Zinfandel, what Annie Sue calls “pussy wine.” A few minutes later the band started and I could ignore them no longer. As soon as the first words came out of the singer’s mouth—though my back was toward him—I froze. The male voice was in perfect pitch and sounded like the lead singer from Ambrosia. I’d know that voice anywhere, any time. I couldn’t swallow, couldn’t talk, could not even turn my head 180 degrees to see that at the microphone, singing his heart out, was none other than Croc Godfrey.
He belted out “You’re the Biggest Part of Me,” my favorite Ambrosia tune he used to sing to me in the clubs when we were young and first started dating. The voice, the singing, skinny Croc Godfrey moving his body with the music, caused a corner of my heart to fall away. The tears poured without warning. It wasn’t time for my period. I wasn’t hormonal and yet they spilled anyway, falling into my bar napkin. They went unnoticed by Landon Kennedy who was grooving and guzzling and trying to absorb every single woman as she walked by. His head swiveled like a gyroscope, and he couldn’t stop checking out everything with breasts that came within 50 yards of him.
Eventually, he got up and roamed around, told me he’d be back “in a while.” I sat there and cried, drank my wine and heard one song after the next. Pablo Cruise, Zeppelin, Electric Light Orchestra, Doobie Brothers, Foghat, Steely Dan—all of them until the set ended and Landon returned from wherever he’d disappeared, hands in his pocket, p
robably to make sure the phone numbers and business cards from horny women were still in there.
“Want another wine?” he asked, not even seeing me, speaking into the dark bar air, over the voices that had risen since the music stopped.
“Why not?” Nothing like drinking pussy wine alone while your heart flaps on the floor, and your ex-ex boyfriend (who dumped you twice) tears it up onstage.
“There’re a few pool tables in the next room. You play?”
“We used to have one in our house, remember? Seems you played when you were a little kid. I used to beat you then, might as well do it again.” I smiled, and he didn’t return my gesture.
We walked into the next room, a cloud of cigarette smoke hovering, not moving, just growing larger like a lifeless Portuguese Man-of-War. I felt feverish from the wine and the tears, the music that peeled the years off, even if only in mind and spirit. Landon broke the balls, and I went first, leaning over like a vixen, making my shot, landing the pocket I’d told him I would hit. I stood up and raised my eyebrows.
“Not bad,” he said. “Let’s see you do it again.”
And I did. Four more times the cue ball smacked the target ball, sending it into the chosen pocket, then rolled and spun its way into perfect position for my next shot. This felt good. Bryce had never allowed me to shoot pool, said it was “skank’s play.”
“Pretty impressive,” I heard someone say. Croc’s voice. I didn’t know whether to feel mad as hell at him for rejecting me or for daring to come to Spartanburg to play a gig without letting me know. This was certainly a major slap in the face. Had he the slightest bit of interest in me at all, he would have called to say he was coming to town. But no. He hadn’t. So I could either play it mean, as if I didn’t give a flying hoot, or I could be all nice and cool, just like Holly Golightly from Breakfast at Tiffany’s. I’d be charming and indifferent. I’d be anybody but the insecure and indignant woman I really was at the moment.
“Nice to see you, Croc,” I said, smiling, thankful I’d thought to reapply my pink frosted lipstick moments earlier. “I don’t believe you know Landon. Landon, this is Croc Godfrey. My ex.”
Not missing a chance to be pretentious, Landon said, “Hi. I’m Dr. Landon Kennedy. Animals. All sizes and breeds. Nice to meet you, Crotch.”
“It’s Croc,” I said. “As in crocodile. His real name’s Edward, but when he was young he kept baby crocodiles for pets and the name stuck with him. Plus, he really doesn’t look like an Edward. Or kiss like one from what I recall, but naturally a girl’s memory fades after 19 years.”
Croc grinned, and it appeared his teeth had lightened since our date weeks ago. Maybe he’d discovered Crest Strips. He seemed amused by the scene I caused, and I noticed him checking out my rude but beautiful date who did not remotely resemble Gandhi, God love him. My escort for the evening weighed more than me, which certainly raises the score in most women’s books.
“Take good care of that one,” Croc said. “She’s a winner on all accounts.” I couldn’t believe the words from his lips after this recent rejection.
“Say, Prude, or Dee, rather,” Landon said, finally noticing I had a pulse. “What’s with the limp? Your leg hurt?”
“No,” I said, hating being called Prude. “Hard to have a hurt leg when you don’t have a bone.” I died laughing. I couldn’t help myself: the wine, my mother, the strange tilt of the bizarre world. “Did you not hear about me? Did Mama casually ‘forget’ to tell you? I’m the woman married to the preacher who went nuts and ran over her with the church van. See this?” I pulled my necklace to the side to reveal the holes in my skin, the gray dented scars, deep as his dimples.
“Christ Almighty,” he said. His expression formed that look I’d seen on so many men’s faces. It reflected a blank screen, the flicker of eye and the pause in animation when a woman knows what he’s thinking. That he’s in over his head. That even a divorced woman, or say, a woman with a kid or two was baggage enough. But this? A divorce, two kids, a near-murder, boneless leg and pierced chest? He morphed into a cornered dog, hunting a way out of the room.
“She’s been through a lot, but I’ve never met more of a survivor or wonderful mother,” Croc said, knowing I was on the edge; he’d seen it many times even if it had been 19 years ago. He patted my shoulder, a there-there type of affection similar to the comforts we dole out at Top of the Hill.
“You a big or small animal vet?” Croc asked, trying to steer the conversation back to neutral ground. Landon was not biting and instead his mind was on how to get away from me and my heavy-duty past. His eyes were transfixed and staring another hole in my chest.
“What the hell did he use to make those kinds of wounds?” he asked as tactlessly as I’d ever heard a question put by a grown-up with any amount of decency.
I ignored him and focused instead on Croc’s question. “His specialty,” I said, “is neutering. Small animals. Large ones. Humans, too. I do believe he’s trying to neuter either you or me right here in this nightclub. What do you think, Croc? You think he stands a chance?”
“Not with you, sweet girl,” Croc said. I thought he was so classy and precious the way he behaved that I almost forgot he’d had me on a blanket in the dark and never called back for an encore. Landon, on the other hand, fidgeted and prepared himself for a quick exit. Both were confusing me to the point it was hard to remember who to be mad at, so I decided to be aloof and a bit mean with each. That’s the strategy Aunt Weepie used to get 11 marriage proposals, four husbands and a giant jewelry chest crammed with gemstones.
“Croc, it was nice seeing you,” I said, noticing my date was inching toward the bar. “I appreciate your not giving me the time of day since our little ‘Lake Date,’ seeing as how I didn’t have it anyway due to my super busy schedule. I was telling Dr. Kennedy just the other day while we were eating a romantic lunch at The Gardens Café, I said, ‘Landon, hon. There’s a fellow who broke my heart 19 years ago when he left me for a Miss Georgia finalist with dentures.’ Remember her? Before your wife? I said, ‘If that’s not enough, a few weeks ago he breaks it all over again. Could you fix him for me, sugar pie?’”
I grinned and tried to wink at Landon, to let him in on the secret, but he had glanced away, eyes on a tall blonde with obvious saline lifting her to new heights and the only scars on her chest the small slits where the surgeon had stuffed in her new “milkies,” as my daughter Miranda calls them.
“I’ve meant to call you,” Croc said. “A lot has happened, I’m so glad to see you, and truly, you look gorgeous. I’ve missed you so much.”
“Spare me, darlin’,” I said with sarcasm.
“Now, listen, Prudy. Please. I really—”
“I have a phone. I have a mailbox. And tonight, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be having a heaping serving of Dr. Kennedy here who has other specialties besides animals. If you know what I mean. Come on, Landon, time to go home.”
“I’m not leaving.” His eyes were all over that blonde.
“You’ll take her home like a decent gentleman,” Croc said, getting up in Landon’s face.
“Yes, you will,” I said. “You can always return for the kill. She’s not going anywhere. Just to be sure, I’ll run tell her you’re a doctor and a Kennedy. That ought to do it.”
I was on a roll of rejection, not knowing how to behave. It’s bad enough when one man doesn’t call, but when another doesn’t jump on your suggestive remarks, the humiliation is more than unbearable. I then took a higher road and did what Mama does, pulling compliments from thin air.
“Croc, your voice has never sounded better.” He was smiling, a confused daze in his eyes. “You have more talent than I ever knew possible. I was too young to fully appreciate it then. Never, ever give up your music.” I flashed him a classic phony Southern-woman smile.
“Prudy, wait,” he
said as I was heading for the door. “Prudy!”
Inside my soul, I was completely undone by the rejection of both men but not about to show it. I would pretend all was great in my world. If there is one thing I do know about men it is this: They are driven 100 percent cuckoo over women who seem to have lives and interests outside their relationships with them. The women who chase and pine are going nowhere. They’ll get nothing but society’s backwash and leftovers.
Even the homely girls who act like they have it all together drive men crazy as long as they seem slightly detached. The plain Janes with exciting lives never lack the attention of available and genetically normal-to-superior males. That’s why you see so many giblets married to hunks. They’ve fooled them with fabulous hobbies and interests. Yes, that’s the secret. A social calendar squeezed and overbooked with marvelous events and activities.
I would try this strategy with these buffoons.
“Croc, once again, and perhaps never again, it was nice to see you. I must rest up. Got an early morning at the airport. Flying lessons. Gotta be sharp. While we’re up in the air, we’re going ahead with the skydiving training from last weekend.” I didn’t tell him my real plans: a minor league baseball game with Jay, then last-minute preparations for the big dance I’d cooked up for a week from tonight at the old folks home, complete with a D.J. from Bubba’s Hideaway Bar and Grill and a pack of bikers who’d agreed to cut the rug with the golden oldies. I’d promised Annie Sue a complete makeover to go with her Posh Spice hairstyle. It was to be quite a busy day, but nothing in it glamorous, risky or smashing enough to entice wonderful men to seek my company.
“Hmm. You are one busy woman,” Croc said, not buying any of it.
Chimes from a Cracked Southern Belle Page 25
