The Orange Blossom Special

by Betsy Carter

  The sound of a ringing phone called her back from sleep. The voice on the other end was husky and familiar.

  “This is your lucky day, Dottie Lockhart,” it said. “Mr. Fixit has come to town.”

  “Who is this?” she said, still groggy from her nap.

  “I fix cars, sinks, screen doors, and hi-fi’s. You name it, I fix it.”

  “Is this who I think it is?”

  “I don’t know. Who do you think it is?”

  “Oh golly. Hi. What are you doing here?”

  “I told you. I’ve come to town to fix your hi-fi and anything else that needs repairing.”

  Tessie didn’t know how to answer that.

  “Can I come over?” he asked, slightly hoarse.

  “Here? Now?”

  “That’s what I had in mind.”

  All Tessie could think of saying was “You’re married.” But she didn’t.

  “I suppose so.”

  “It’ll take me fifteen minutes to get to your house,” he said.

  “How do you know where my house is?”

  “What’s the matter? You don’t think I can read? It’s in the phone book, page 218 under Lockhart. See ya soon.”

  Tessie put the phone in the cradle and stared at her hand putting the phone in the cradle. “Jerry, what have I done? What am I going to do?” she cried.

  Tessie showered, washed her hair, combed it straight back the way she’d seen Grace Kelly wear hers in some magazine. She put on a pair of black slacks and a plain white jersey blouse. Shoes. It was important to wear shoes. Barefoot was too informal, too intimate. Flats, not sandals. Brush teeth. Lipstick, no Jean Naté, the strand of little pearls, perfect as baby’s teeth. Music? Shouldn’t there be music? Nothing too mushy. Hank Williams. Perfect. Oh nuts. Hi-fi’s not working. Answer the bell.

  The Baron stood at the other side of the screen door. A look of uncertainty crossed his face as they stared at each other through the gray mesh. “You will let me in, won’t you?” he asked.

  “Oh sure.” Tessie laughed.

  She undid the latch and opened the door. They stepped as close to each other as they could without touching.

  “Hello,” he said.

  Tessie in her flat shoes was a few inches shorter than he was. She watched the perspiration zigzag across his rutted skin. In this morning light, his eyes shone amber and green. The smell of Old Spice caught in her throat.

  “Hello to you,” she said.

  “So, let’s get to work,” he said. “Where is it?”

  “Where’s what?”

  “The hi-fi. I’m here to fix your hi-fi. Why’d you think I came?”

  Tessie jumped, as though his words had snapped her out of something. “Sure,” she said, pointing to a mahogany consul with Mag-navox scripted in chrome across one of the cloth speakers. She lifted the lid and showed him the inside, where the turntable and spindle were taped up like mummies. “Just another job for Mr. Fixit,” he said, rubbing his left bicep. “Ya got a screwdriver?”

  For the next twenty minutes, he spliced wires and screwed the turntable back together. He worked in silence. The snaky veins around his temples became prominent the more he concentrated. When he was finished, he wiped his hands together, stood up, and straightened his trousers. “That’s done,” he said. “I guess we should test it.” He looked through the small pile of records stacked on her bookshelf and pulled out a 45 rpm.

  “They asked me how I knew, all who loved were true . . .” The luscious chords of the Platters filled the room like a church choir.

  Suddenly Tessie felt like a sixteen-year-old waiting for a boy to ask her to dance. She played with her pearls and stared at the floor. Barone stood with his hands at his side, his arms bowed as if he were about to start running.

  “Will you dance with me?” he said.

  “Gladly,” she said, and stepped forward. He put his arms around her waist, she wrapped hers around his neck. They rocked back and forth, not really dancing at all. The Old Spice mixed with sweat. She could feel his heart beating. Slowly, he let his hands drop from her waist to the bottom of her spine and then again, until one was under each side of her buttocks. He held her with such force that if Tessie had picked up her feet and wrapped them around him, they wouldn’t have tipped forward. She slipped her hand into his open shirt and felt the hair on his chest and the swell of muscle underneath it. With the little sense that was left in her, she forced herself not to nuzzle her face into the reassuring nest of black hair. She just kept running her hand back and forth in the same spot, taking in his smell, letting the sweetness of the music carry her to a place beyond reason.

  Barone circled her cheeks with his hands, each motion getting harder and more urgent until it felt like he was already inside her. Either her legs gave out, or he pulled her to the floor, or both happened at the same time. They tugged at each other, discarding their clothes as fast as they could. When they were naked, he stopped and held her away from him. “My God, Dot,” he said, catching his breath. “You are so ripe.” He placed his hands between her legs and she heard herself moaning. “Take me. Please, take me.” Tessie had never said those words out loud. They came out like a growl, the voice of an animal, not anyone she knew. Barone slid inside her. He lay on top of her, and held her by the wrists as they rushed forward. “Ay, Ay,” he yelled. “Ay, Ay.” She heard herself scream and felt the tears on her cheeks. He held her tight: her tears, their sweat, what came from their bodies. She buried her head under his arm, afraid that he would see the naked want on her face. “I never thought I would love again,” she cried into his armpit. He stroked her wet hair. “Child,” he said. “My poor child.”

  Tessie finally came back to the world: the floor, the clothes strewn around her. She heard the sound of the needle skipping at the end of the record, the ringing of the phone. She needed to say something that would get them from this moment into another, the one where they could be Tess from Lithographics and Barone Antonucci from Fort Lauderdale. But it was too late for that.

  “Is that what you yell at Jai Alai?” she asked. “Ay, ay. Is that where it comes from?”

  “You’re a real smartass, aren’t you?” he said, kissing her on the forehead. “The phone’s ringing.”

  “No one calls me on a Saturday morning.” The ringing was persistent.

  “Someone is calling you now.”

  Tessie pulled away from Barone and ran into the kitchen. The voice at the other end had a forced evenness to it.

  “Mrs. Lockhart?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Arnold Kamfer, I run the Kamfer funeral parlor?” His inflection rose to a question. “Everything is fine, but your daughter, Dinah Lockhart, is here. She’s a little under the weather.”

  “Under the what? Who is this? Where is she?”

  Tessie heard her voice rising and tried not to scream.

  WHEN ELLA, CHARLIE, and Dinah walked into the Kamfer funeral parlor that Saturday morning, Eddie Howell’s body was on view in the back room. The Howell family—Earl Howell was a plumber who had fixed nearly every sink and toilet in town—had been talked into the open casket by Arnold Kamfer, the owner and mortician at the home. “Eddie was a beloved student at Gainesville Junior High,” he had told them in a monotone. “And you are pillars of the community. You owe it to your friends in Gainesville to let them say their last goodbyes to Eddie. And don’t you worry,” he added, his voice filling with pride. “I will make him look as good as ever.”

  Early that morning, before any of the mourners arrived, Arnold Kamfer pushed open the lid on the coffin and showed the Howells what he had done to their son. Eddie’s face lay peacefully against purple satin as though he were propped up in a jewel case. He looked handsome enough, just as Arnold had promised. His hair was slicked back into a suave pompadour. His cheeks had been plumped up and rouged and the blueness was gone from his lips. He wore his only suit, a striped gray one, and his arms were folded atop the black cotton blanket that covered
the bottom half of his body. His mother, Betty, noted that his fingernails had been buffed and that in death, he looked healthier and less strained than he had during the last two of his fourteen years.

  She sat on a folding chair by the head of her son as visitors walked past and paid their respects: Earl’s partners from the plumbing business. Eddie’s teachers, including Mr. Reilly, who said to Mrs. Howell, “We’ll miss him. Why? He was a wonderful student and would have been a great American. I’m so sorry for your loss.” Their former neighbors, the Dickersons, who’d moved to Ocala, had driven seventy-three miles to be here today. They’d brought their son Bruce who was a little younger than Eddie. Betty only heard the last part of the scuffle between Bruce and Wilma Dickerson. “Because I said you can’t touch him, that’s why,” she whispered.

  As the funeral home filled with people, the cloying smell from all the flowers made Betty lightheaded. Wilma could see Betty fanning her fingers in front of her face, and wiping her brow. She ran across the room and put her arm around Betty.

  “Honey, you feeling faint?” she asked.

  Betty nodded yes.

  “Here I brought this just in case.”

  Wilma pulled a bottle of smelling salts from her handbag and moved them under Betty’s nose. “I never go to one of these without them,” she said. “There now, that’s better, isn’t it?” Betty sat upright and took a deep breath. That’s when the two women noticed a curious group gathered around the casket. There was a black woman, all dolled up in coral beads, a blue dress with white polka dots, and a navy blue cloche with a plume that streaked up the side of her head. A stocky white boy whose neck spilled over his dress shirt held her arm, and across from them were two young girls about Eddie’s age, hand in hand.

  Wilma turned from Betty and let the salts drop to her side. “That’s the Landy boy, isn’t it?” she whispered. Betty nodded, “Yes indeed it is.”

  “But who’s the nigrah?” asked Wilma, turning to Eddie as if he held the answer.

  Ella, an old hand at studying the dead, was scrutinizing Eddie. “So pretty and virginal, laid out like this,” she smiled. Charlie stood next to her, trying to take in the sight of the first dead person he had ever seen. “He sure didn’t look this way when he was alive,” he mumbled.

  “I reckon he’s found his peace now,” said Ella. Charlie looked across the casket at Crystal and Dinah. They were peering inside and pulling away at the same time.

  Wilma placed a gloved hand on Betty’s shoulder. “I’ll handle this, don’t you worry,” she said.

  She stood up and stared directly into Ella’s eyes. “Y’all are so kind to come here today. I suppose you are friends of the deceased?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Ella. “Dinah and Miss Landy were his schoolmates. This is Mr. Charlie Landy.”

  “And you are?” asked Wilma?

  “My name is Ella Sykes.”

  Ella didn’t seem to sense trouble, but Charlie did.

  “Ella’s been with our family for seventeen years,” he said.

  “That must be very comforting at a time like this,” said Wilma, her voice dropping. “But I am sure you know that the Kamfer Home does not allow any coloreds.”

  Ella continued speaking. “Dinah came new to the school this year, and Mr. Fingers was the first person to befriend her.”

  Wilma looked at the coffin, then back at Ella. “He was a kind boy,” she said, lowering her eyes. “But I don’t think you heard what I said. The Kamfer Home doesn’t allow any coloreds.”

  Charlie squeezed Ella’s arm, took a step forward, and opened his mouth to speak his mind. But before he could say anything, a sound like a train switching tracks tore through the room. It was Dinah. She had leaned forward and stuck her head into the casket where Eddie was resting his left hand on his right side. Gone were the blue spidery veins in his long fingers. Three of his six fingers were curled up like dying petals of a flower. The other three, the middle ones, lay rigid and pointing right at her.

  “Three fingers. He’s flashing three fingers!” she cried. Her face turned the color of skim milk and her body went loose and floppy, like one of those collapsible wooden dolls held together by rubber bands. Charlie watched her go down slowly. For a moment he worried that she would fall on top of Eddie. But instead she wound up knocking over little Bruce Dickerson, who was standing on tiptoes trying to pry open one of Eddie’s eyes. The two of them ended up sprawled on the floor at the feet of Wilma Dickerson.

  Charlie and Ella ran to Dinah. Ella got down on her knees and started wiping her face. “Salts, I need salts,” she ordered. With one hand Wilma dug into her bag and retrieved them; with the other, she pulled Bruce to his feet. “I told you to stay away from him,” she said through clenched teeth. Bruce pointed to the prostrate Dinah and wailed, “I didn’t do nothin’. She pushed me.”

  Crystal and Charlie knelt on the floor with Ella. The color was starting to come back into Dinah’s face. “Honey, you’re gonna be fine,” said Ella, wiping the sweaty red curls off her forehead. Dinah looked up at the sea of concerned faces staring down at her: Mr. Reilly, kids from school, Charlie Landy, Crystal. “Oh God,” she muttered. “I am so embarrassed.” Charlie got on all fours and crawled to her side. He leaned down, gripped her arm, and whispered something in her ear. She said something back to him. It took a while for him to answer, but after he did, the world stopped spinning and she felt well enough to sit up. “You may be right,” she said. He put an arm around her shoulder. “I know I’m right,” he answered.

  By now it seemed as if half of the funeral party was on the floor. It was Arnold Kamfer who broke the silence. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, wringing his bony hands. “May I remind you that we are here to honor the dead, not gawk at the living.”

  If a funeral was a production, Arnold Kamfer was the impresario; he was not about to be upstaged by some hysterical teenage girl. Arnold crouched down next to Dinah and, in a stage whisper loud enough for everyone to hear how kindly he was, said to her, “Dar-lin’, give me your phone number, and I’ll make sure your parents come and pick you up.”

  “It’s just her mom,” said Crystal. “Highland 3-0874.”

  ARNOLD KAMFER WAS experienced at dealing with the overwrought. He knew to modulate his voice evenly and speak slowly, in order to emphasize his concern and empathy.

  “Mrs. Lockhart, everything is fine, really it is. It’s just that your daughter, Dinah Lockhart . . .”

  “I know her name,” shouted Tessie on the other end.

  “. . . has had a little fainting spell,” he continued. “But she’s okay, really she is.”

  “What is she doing in a funeral parlor? Doesn’t sound okay to me.”

  “Please, just take down the address and come pick her up. I assure you, everything will be just fine.”

  Tessie grabbed a pad of paper, wrote down the address, and hung up the phone.

  “Who was that?” asked Barone, his eyes half closed.

  “That was the Kamfer Funeral Parlor,” said Tessie. “The Kamfer Funeral Parlor. My daughter’s under the weather at the Kamfer Funeral Parlor!”

  “What’s she doing there?”

  “That is the question, isn’t it?” said Tessie, grabbing his shirt from the floor. Suddenly, being naked in front of this man seemed the most inappropriate thing in the world. “She’s supposed to be at this school thing. How should I know what she’s doing there?”

  “Let’s go.” said Barone, putting on his pants. “I’ll take you.”

  Mechanically, she put on her clothes and combed her hair. “It’s just that a girl her age shouldn’t have so much death around her,” said Tessie as if they’d been in this conversation the whole time.

  “Tell me, is there a good age to have death around?” he asked.

  She stared at him. The morning sun created a shaft of white light that split the room in two. Then her eyes bulged as if she’d just remembered something. She ran to the hi-fi and switched it off. Carefully, she
lifted the record from the turntable, slipped it back into its sleeve, and returned it to the bookshelf. “Ok, let’s get out of here,” she said.

  When Barone and Tessie drove up to the Kamfer Home, Dinah and Ella were sitting at the edge of a stone planter. Ella was wiping Dinah’s brow with a cold cloth. Charlie and Crystal stood like sentries on either side of them. Dinah saw her mother before her mother saw her. She saw the older man behind the wheel and noted that he wore a pinky ring. Dinah stared at her mother as if she’d never seen her before.

  Barone stopped in front of Kamfer’s, and Tessie jumped out of the car. “Sweetheart, what happened?” she asked, her hands crisscrossed on her chest.

  Dinah’s words froze in her throat. “I’m all right,” she said flatly.

  “She took one look at that boy inside his coffin and gave out quite a holler,” said Ella. “Then she fainted.”

  Tessie turned so white, for a moment it seemed as if she might faint as well. “Tell me what happened,” she whispered to her daughter, taking her by the hand and pulling her to her feet. “You wouldn’t understand,” said Dinah, pulling away from her and grabbing her friend’s arm. Tessie stood there alone, surrounded by strangers and by Barone, who might as well have been a stranger. She felt as if they knew her secret: that she’d just made love to this man she’d had lunch with once. That’s why Dinah was punishing her now. The Landy children and Ella. She’d met them only at the picnic after she’d had way too much to drink. They knew why Dinah was here, and she didn’t. She was the outsider: a northerner, a widow. Even her own daughter didn’t want anything to do with her. She watched as Dinah and Crystal walked together, their heads bent in toward one another as though they were sharing secrets she would never know.