Aunt Flossie had put together the prettiest flower arrangement—right in the middle of the head table: roses, daisies, and Queen Anne’s lace, and pittosporum and nandina for greenery.
Just before supper, Charles and Buddy went out for you-know-what, I guess. I had to keep smiling and be as nice as I could to everybody. The supper was meaningful, but while I was cutting a piece of T-bone steak I bent over to Charles and whispered: “Charles, I will never forget this.” But Charles just turned to Daddy and started talking about the Braves. They always talk about the Braves. As soon as they see one another they start talking about the Braves. I wanted to say, “Daddy, don’t you see what Charles is doing? How can you sit there and talk about the Braves while Charles is doing what he’s doing?” But I didn’t say anything. Lord knows, there was disturbance enough.
I had spent all that time working out the arrangements and Charles wrote all the invitations by hand—he has this beautiful handwriting—and we had talked all about his new library job and our house and our future and how everything was going to work out, and he had been so good about running little errands. Then this.
Charles is very intelligent, and good looking in his own way—his head is slightly large, but I think it just seems that way because his shoulders are narrow—and, oh, we had one or two little fusses getting ready for the wedding, but no more than you’d shake a stick at. And we’ve been playing music at different gatherings right along through all this—getting better and better and having lots of fun. Charles learns real fast and we like the same music mostly.
Then I end up sitting at my own wedding rehearsal dinner fussing at Charles for doing the one thing I was hoping against hope wouldn’t happen ever since Madora explained about how some people get drunk at weddings. We had talked about drinking several times, and I had this feeling of not being able to get a clear picture of how Charles felt. He talks a lot about “psychology.”
The actual wedding itself went off without a hitch. It was the most wonderful day of my life. Charles was perfect. Dr. and Mrs. Shepherd were perfect. Mary Faye and Norris were perfect. Mama and Daddy were perfect. Mama wore a long dress—pink—and she was real pretty, except her hair-do was a little tight. Daddy looked the way he always does at church: out of place in a suit, and his head white where his hat goes, and his face red. (He looks like he has high blood pressure, but it’s normal and always has been.) Right before we walked down the aisle, he said, “Honey, I’m real happy for you. Charles is a good man.” His chin was quivering, and two tears rolled down his cheeks. He was holding my hand, which was something I don’t remember him doing since I was a little girl. Daddy don’t show much emotion.
A bunch of people said it was the nicest wedding they had ever been to. I was just flushed throughout the whole thing. It went exactly according to plans. Charles was handsomer than I’ve ever seen him. The shoulders in his tux were padded.
The wedding was fairly short and we all went straight to the reception in the education building without getting our pictures made, so people wouldn’t have to wait. Mama was real worried about us not getting a photographer, but Mack Lumley did it for only ten dollars over cost.
Mama and Mrs. Shepherd—Millie—cried several times each, and so did Flora and Aunt Naomi and Aunt Flossie, and two or three times Dr. Shepherd gave Millie a long hug right in front of everybody. Charles’s friend, Buddy Shellar, spent some time talking to Mary Faye and Norris. I thought that was nice. Buddy and my cousins fixed up our car with tin cans and shaving cream; we changed clothes; Sylvia Curtis caught the bouquet; we ran to Charles’s Dodge Dart under all that rice, and headed for Myrtle Beach.
Now. The honeymoon. I do not have the nerve to explain everything that happened on the first night there in the Holiday Inn. We had talked about it some before—or Charles had talked about it. And we had, you know, necked the same as any engaged couple. And I had told Charles way back, of course, that I wanted my marriage consumed after I was married. Not before. Because if it was consumed before, then I would have to carry the thought of that throughout my entire life and it’s hard to undo that which has already been done.
I’ve read books. I’ve had talks with my mama. And I’ve read the Bible. You’d think that would prepare a woman for her wedding night.
It didn’t. First of all, Charles had rib-eye steaks rolled into our room on this metal table with drawers which could keep the steaks warm. And there in the middle of the table was a dozen red roses. All that was nice.
But in this silver bucket with ice and a white towel was, of all things, a bottle of champagne.
It was a predicament for me, because on the one hand it was all so wonderful, and Charles had planned it all out like the man is supposed to do—I mean, my dream was being fulfilled. Charles was getting things right. But on the other hand, there in the middle of the table rearing its ugly head, as they say, was a bottle of champagne. I’ve seen enough bottles of champagne after the World Series on TV (when the ballplayers make fools out of themselves and cuss over the airways) to know one when I see it.
Well, I’m not a prude. Getting drunk at your wedding is one thing, but I can understand a little private celebrating, maybe—as a symbol of something wonderful happening. Something symbolic. So I didn’t say anything about the champagne. It’s very hard to find fault on your wedding night with a dozen red roses staring you full in the face—even though a still, small voice was warning me.
Charles poured me a glass and I said to myself, Why not just a sip, like medicine, and I tried a sip, but that’s all. It tasted like Alka Selzer with honey in it. I politely refused anymore. And didn’t think Charles would drink over a glass. (I figured you couldn’t buy it except in the bottle, and that’s why he got it that way.)
We finished eating and Charles pushed the table, with the dishes, out into the hall. I said excuse me, went into the bathroom, put on my negligee and got ready, you know, and came back out to find Charles standing there in his Fruit of the Loom, drinking champagne out of a plastic cup. It was a terrible scene to remember.
I was planning to do what Mama explained to me: get in the bed and let Charles carry out his duties. And I was thinking that’s what Charles would be planning to do. But. He had a different idea which I do not have the nerve to explain. It turned into an argument which finally turned into a sort of Chinese wrestling match with my nerves tore all to pieces. Charles kept saying nothing was in the Bible about what married people could or couldn’t do. I finally cried, and Charles said he was sorry. It was awful. I cried again the next morning and Charles said he was sorry again. This may be something I can forgive but I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. Not for a long time.
On the second day, we didn’t say much at breakfast, or after. We went to the beach for a while, ate hot dogs for lunch, and then came back to change clothes. Charles asked the manager about us playing music in the motel lounge that night. (We took our instruments in case we got a chance to play.) When he found out we’d do it free the manager said fine.
So on the second night, rather than going to this country music show like we’d planned, we met the manager in the lounge. Charles wore bluejeans and I wore my blue-checkered blouse, jeans, and cowgirl hat. The manager came in and lit all the candles in these orange candle vases. There were only three or four people there. The only thing I didn’t like about it was that they served beer. But the bartender went out of his way to be nice.
We decided to play half an hour and see if we could draw an audience. We started with several banjo pieces and then I sang “This World Is Not My Home” and “I’ll Fly Away.” I like the way those two songs fit together. It gives me something to talk about when I introduce them. Charles is good about letting me talk about the songs. I have played with people who hog it all.
A crowd gathered, and sure enough they liked the music and clapped and somebody requested “Your Cheating Heart” and Charles tried it. He’s been learning it for the last month or so. He forgets words pretty easy. No
body noticed but he sang the same verse twice. He looked at me and I managed to wink in spite of the fact I was still in turmoil from the night before.
We had told the manager we couldn’t play past nine-thirty that night. We told him it was our honeymoon and all. The truth is we only know about two hours worth of songs. But I did want to get back up to our bed and start our marriage in the proper manner. It’s something I had been thinking about since I was sixteen or seventeen years old and the night before had not worked out at all like I thought it would. It had made me a bundle of nerves and I had discovered something in Charles I didn’t know existed—something corroded, and him drinking a whole bottle of champagne brought it out. He still hasn’t taken serious my principles about drinking. That first night was a awful experience which I can’t bring myself to talk about, but I must say things went better on the second night. I was able to explain to Charles how I was supposed to come out of the bathroom in my negligee, go get in the bed, get under the cover, and then he was supposed to go to the bathroom, come out, come get under the cover, and accomplish what was supposed to be accomplished. It all worked the way it was supposed to, and was wonderful, I must say.
Next morning when I came out of the shower, before we went down for breakfast, Charles was talking on the phone to his other main friend besides Buddy Shellar: Johnny Dobbs, who lives in New Orleans. They were all three in the army together.
“She has a great voice,” he was saying. “Raney, get your guitar. Wait a minute, Johnny.”
Charles put the phone receiver on the bed, got out his banjo, hit a couple of licks and said to me, “Do ‘This World Is Not My Home.’ Wait a minute, let me introduce you to Johnny.” So he did, over the phone, and Johnny sounded real nice.
“Charles,” I whispered, “do you know how much this is costing?”
“I’ll pay for it,” he said. “I’ve been telling Johnny about your voice.”
So I sang “This World Is Not My Home,” and Charles asked Johnny if he could hear it clear over the phone and he said he could and then Charles wanted me to do my chicken song—the one I wrote. Charles thinks it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. It is a good song, and since Charles was paying. . . . It goes like this:
The town council chairman came by late last May.
Said we’re sorry, Mr. Oakley, ‘bout what we must say.
But the airport’s expanding, we mean you no harm.
The new north-south runway’s gonna point toward your farm.
My chickens ain’t laying; my cow has gone dry,
’Cause the airplanes keep flying to the sweet by and by,
To the lights of the city, to the Hawaiian shore,
While I rock on my front porch and tend to get poor.
I talked to the governor, and told him my desire:
Could you please make them airplanes fly a little bit higher.
“My chickens ain’t laying,” I tried to explain.
But my words were going north on a south-bound train.
My chickens ain’t laying; my cow has gone dry,
’Cause the airplanes keep flying to the sweet by and by,
To the lights of the city, to the Hawaiian shore,
While I rock on my front porch and tend to get poor.
I talked to a doctor; he gave me a pill.
I talked to a lawyer; you should have seen the bill.
I talked to a librarian; he grinned and winked his eye.
And he gave me a little book called, “Chickens Can Fly.”
(Charles says the book is by B. F. Skinner)
I read the little book. Taught my chickens to fly,
To aim at the intakes as the jet planes flew by.
My chickens are gone now, but the answer is found:
My kamakazi chickens closed the new runway down.
My kamakazi chickens closed the new runway down.
When I finished, Charles said Johnny really liked it. They talked another fifteen minutes before Charles finally hung up.
I hugged Charles and said something about the night before. Charles said we ought to talk about our “sexual relationship” sometime, and I said okay, but Lord knows I won’t be able to talk about it. It’s something you’re supposed to do in a natural manner, not talk about. That’s why you don’t find it talked about in church and school—or at least you shouldn’t: it’s not supposed to be talked about. It’s something which is supposed to stay in the privacy of your own bedroom.
Next morning when we left, the manager was at the desk and he gave us an envelope with a twenty dollar bill in it. Said it was some of the best entertainment they ever had and would we please come back and that he once worked in a hotel in Reno, and he’d heard some better, but he’d sure heard a lot worse.
III
Charles is in the bedroom covered up in the bed. There are eleven broken monogrammed glasses here on the kitchen floor and every window in the house is locked from the inside.
This all started last Saturday afternoon when I called Mama as usual. I try to call her every day. We’ve always been close and I say those television commercials about calling somebody—reaching out and touching—make sense. Belinda Osborne drives to see her mother every day—forty miles round trip—which I’m not about to do. That is too close. Three times a week is often enough. (Belinda’s mother is sick a lot though.)
I’d like to be living closer to home and I know Mama and Daddy were disappointed that we didn’t move into the Wilkins house, and I would have, but Charles insisted we live here in Listre because it’s close to the college. I finally said okay when he promised he would still go to church with me at home in Bethel.
But: he’s been going to church less and less, and we’ve only been married six weeks. He’ll take me to Sunday School and drop me off, still wearing his pajamas under his clothes. He’s done it twice. Deacon Brooks said since Charles was Methodist he must think he’s too good for Free Will Baptists. He pretended he was kidding, but I could tell he was serious.
Well, as I said, I called Mama last Saturday afternoon and she told me that she had come by with Aunt Naomi and Aunt Flossie to see us that morning but we were gone. They came on in to use the phone to call Annie Godwin so it wouldn’t be long distance. (We don’t lock the door normally.) Aunt Naomi went to the kitchen to get a glass of water and accidentally broke one of the monogrammed glasses Cousin Emma gave us for a wedding present. Mama told me all this on the phone. I didn’t think twice about it. I figured I’d just pick up another glass next time I’m at the mall. I know where they come from.
Sunday, the very next day, we’re eating dinner at home in Bethel with Mama, Daddy, Uncle Nate, Mary Faye, and Norris. Mama fixes at least two meats, five or six vegetables, two kinds of cornbread, biscuits, chow-chow, pickles, pies, and sometimes a cake.
Mama says, “Where did you tell me you all were yesterday morning?” She was getting the cornbread off the stove. She’s always the last one to sit down.
“At the mall,” I said.
“I like where you moved the couch to,” says Mama. “It looks better. We waited for you all fifteen or twenty minutes. I’m sorry Naomi broke that glass,” she said.
I hadn’t mentioned it to Charles. No reason to. He says—and he was serious: “Why were you all in our house?”
I was mortified in my heart.
“We were just using the phone,” says Mama. There was a long silence. It built up and then kept going.
“Pass the turnips, Mary Faye,” I said. “I couldn’t figure out what was wrong in there so I moved things around until it looked better and sure enough it was the couch. The couch was wrong.”
My mama ain’t nosy. No more than any decent woman would be about her own flesh and blood.
Listen. I don’t have nothing to hide. And Lord knows, Charles don’t, except maybe some of his opinions.
We finished eating and set in the den and talked for a while and the subject didn’t come up again. Charles always gets fidgety within thirt
y minutes of when we finish eating. He has no appreciation for just setting and talking. And I don’t mean going on and on about politics or something like that; I mean just talking—talking about normal things. So since he gets fidgity, we usually cut our Sunday visits short. “Well, I guess we better get on back,” I say, while Charles sits over there looking like he’s bored to death. I know Mama notices.
Before we’re out of the driveway, Charles says, “Raney, I think you ought to tell your mama and Aunt Naomi and Aunt Flossie to stay out of our house unless somebody’s home.”
To stay out of my own house.
He couldn’t even wait until we were out of the driveway. And all the car windows rolled down.
When we got on down the road, out of hearing distance, I said, “Charles, you don’t love Mama and never did.”
He pulls the car over beside the PEACHES FOR SALE sign across from Parker’s pond. And stares at me.
The whole thing has tore me up. “Charles,” I said, and I had to start crying, “you don’t have to hide your life from Mama and them. Or me. You didn’t have to get all upset today. You could understand if you wanted to. You didn’t have to get upset when I opened that oil bill addressed to you, either. There ain’t going to be nothing in there but a oil bill, for heaven’s sake. Why anyone would want to hide a oil bill I cannot understand.”
He starts hollering at me. The first time in my life anybody has set in a car and hollered at me. His blood vessels stood all out. I couldn’t control myself. It was awful. If you’ve ever been hollered at, while you are crying, by the one person you love best in the world, you know what I mean. This was a part of Charles I had never seen.
Here’s what happened yesterday. We went to Penny’s Grill for lunch. (I refuse to cook three meals a day, I don’t care what Mama says.) When we got back, there was Mama’s green Ford—parked in front of the house.
Raney Page 2
