Flying Shoes

by Lisa Howorth

  “Maybe so,” he said, heaving a sigh that rattled his throat but didn’t catch. “Why you asking all these questions, anyhow? Can’t we just drive in peace?”

  “Okay then,” she mocked him. It made no sense at all, she thought. Someone like Zepf, who’d killed and molested at least one innocent child, might be released from prison, and somebody like Angie, who’d been pushed over some dreadful edge and killed her husband in self-defense, would remain in prison for who knew how long. Was it possible that Angie could get the death sentence? Mary Byrd’s shoulders hunched in disgust. She reached for the radio buttons. “It’s time for NPR. Let’s just listen to that.”

  “Not them people with them crazy names—Carl Kasell, Korva Coleman, Calvin Cockamamie.”

  “I love NPR.”

  “Zo listen to that stuff all day down to the Iko Theater. Them two dudes talk about cars—white folks’ nice cars, like yours. Puh. Don’t know shit. Need to put some black guys, some Mexicans, on that show, talk about some real cars and car problems.”

  “Well, I’m sure as hell not having that kind of conversation now. Why are you being so cranky?” Mary Byrd poked the buttons until she found WEVL out of Memphis, which they could just barely tune in. This was as crazy as driving with Foote.

  The deejay’s voice shouted from the dashboard, “Okay, people, some funky stuff comin’ at you, take us back to nineteen fifty-seven. Don’t be afraid, don’t be afraid, but if you don’t like the racy stuff, now is the time to spin your dial. Here’s Andre Williams doin’ his signature song, ‘Jail Bait.’”

  “Okay, here’s my attempt at racial reconciliation,” Mary Byrd laughed.

  Teever perked up. “Oowee, I have not heard this song in too long. And this not his best song. There’s one that’s too nasty; everbody knows it. Cain’t even say it front of a lady. You a lady, Mudbird?” He laughed.

  “Shut up, Teever,” she said. “Okay, we’ll listen to this so we can have racial harmony in this car. Where’s your attempt to reconcile?”

  “Mudbird, I would only be too happy to let you get to know the pleasure of a black man’s company, you know, personally,” he said, grinning. “Too happy. There my attempt to reconciliate.”

  Mary Byrd laughed. “That’s another conversation we’re not having. You never give up, do you?”

  “No ma’am, I never do,” he said. “Not Teever. No way.”

  At least he never played the race card like some of those guys did out at Junior’s juke joint—trying to guilt-trip the little white coeds, who were so pleased with themselves for being adventurous enough to be in a black club, into dancing with them: “Oh, you jus’ don’t wanna dance with a black man.”

  “I don’t give up on nuthin’,” he said, “no way, no way, no way.”

  Fourteen

  Their ramshackle—that word was never going to be the same for Mary Byrd—old house was inviting and a comfort to return to after Ernest’s funeral. Warm, relaxed, full of people and dogs and cats and lower forms of life scuttling through the big rooms, requiring Homer, the vigilant Orkin man, to visit every other month. The ice storm had knocked the power, plumbing, and phone out for a few days, and Eliza and William had hauled ice to melt to flush the toilets and had enjoyed themselves until they began jonesing for TV. Their old gas Chambers stove had become a sort of communal hearth for the mostly electric neighborhood and people had come in and out to make coffee or heat their suppers. Now things had gotten more or less back to normal, except for mud and the thick spatters of wax on the rugs.

  When she’d gotten home from Richmond the night before in her stale suit, she’d peeled it off and gone straight to bed. In the morning she’d only had time to doctor on Teever’s foot, empty the fridge and freezer of ruined, smelly food, and zip herself into a short but demure tweed skirt before taking off again with Teever for Ernest’s funeral. There would have to be a big cleanup day tomorrow, a Thursday without poor Evagreen. She needed to remember to get Evagreen’s checks to her as long as she needed to be gone. Was it time for Evagreen to retire?

  She and Charles had not really had a chance to talk at all about the events of the past few days. Although Mary Byrd knew they could easily never get around to discussing any of it and could just pick up where they had left off, as if nothing unusual had been going on. That would be absolutely okay with Charles, and very near okay with her. She was talked out.

  Charles for some reason had ignored her chili but had kept some stuff cold outside so it was still good, she hoped. Now he had a garlic omelet ready for her, which was one of the four things he cooked really well, the others involving flames, sizzling skillets, or a powerful blender. He liked his omelets runny inside, though, and Mary Byrd didn’t, so she did what she always did: scraped out the runny stuff into a pool on the side of her plate and ate the rest. When Charles wasn’t looking, she’d let the puppies lick her plate. Charles could not bear for the animals, especially the cats, to use people dishes but would occasionally give the Pounder or Puppy Sal a bite of steak or offer them a nub of fat right off his own fork. It was something about the cat’s fur licking that especially disturbed him.

  Mary Byrd looked down at the floor, where Iggy the fat little cow milled around, hoping for treats. He sniffed at her shoes—her favorite Charles Jourdan pumps with the Pilgrim buckles that were now ruined, crusted with thick red Mississippi clay from standing at Ernest’s graveside, sniffling and drying her eyes with one of Liddie’s old lace hankies, firmly stuck to the earth.

  “Well, Iggy, these have about had it, don’t you think?” She kicked them off, a few small clods falling away, which Iggy investigated as well.

  “Wow, I’m so exhausted. Aren’t you?”

  Charles poured her a little more wine. “Nah. It was actually kind of fun. Life on the frontier. Reading by candlelight. No TV. Melting ice to flush the commodes. I think the boys might have sneaked out one night, according to the Dukes, but I didn’t say anything to William—how could they resist?”

  She was too tired to register alarm or be pissed. “I guess that’s why there’s wet spots, mud, and wax everywhere.”

  “Yeah, Eliza and William were flailing candles around before I put some in the bathrooms for them,” he said. “There’s probably some pee on the floor, too. William can’t aim in the dark.”

  “William can’t aim, period,” she said. “Gee, I’m really sorry I missed all the fun,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Not.”

  Charles wore his old Washington and Lee sweatshirt and pajama bottoms, which was something of a departure. Normally he stayed in his street clothes until he went to bed. He seemed relaxed and happy, she was surprised to notice, having expected him to be annoyed with her because he’d had to deal with things while she was gone, and because she’d gone to the funeral. Usually, Charles was never around when stuff went wrong. The storm had been good for him, although she felt slightly slighted whenever the three of them were able to get along fine without her. It was funny that Charles seemed to do well in her absence, when the opposite felt true for her. But in the long run, she told herself, things would go down fast without her. Dogs’ and cats’ accidents would go undetected and would accumulate, tape and scissors and tools and kitchen things would become misplaced or lost, dark and white laundry would be mixed together and the whites would become dingy or pink and the darks would have bleached spots. No, if she died, or she was gone, Evagreen would take over and the house would be more efficient and organized and cleaner than ever. They’d all be better off, probably, except the animals, which Evagreen would dispatch immediately. They’d even eat better—all Evagreen’s fried chicken and catfish and real mac and cheese and chess pies and meatloaf that they loved, on the rare occasions when Evagreen cooked for them. It bothered her a little to realize that she couldn’t do without Eliza and William, and probably Charles, even if they could do without her.

  Charles poured himself a little more Maker’s. “What’s wrong? I mean, besides the obvious. You look miserabl
e,” he asked.

  “Oh, I’m not,” she said, straightening up and smiling. “Just so tired. The funeral was nice, actually, super country, with great music. And things went all right in Richmond. There was a little weirdness with Mama. Of course. I’m too wasted to go through all the details tonight. They’ve found the right guy, a totally different guy, and they just have to prove it somehow, which won’t be easy since they—get this—lost the evidence, and they’ve got to bring him to trial or at least keep him in jail by civil commitment, whatever that is, or he could be free again this summer. That’s why they’re in such a hurry.”

  “Jesus! I don’t get that—how could they lose the evidence?”

  “Oh, it’s way worse than that,” she said. “I’ll show you this detective’s report tomorrow. It’s so fucked up, you couldn’t even make it up. But it’s going to be … over. We think.”

  “God, I hope so. What a mess. Do you want a nightcap? Maker’s?”

  “Okay,” she said. “What about Wiggs? How did that end up going?”

  “He was fine,” Charles said. “After he got back to Memphis and settled down a little, and figured out that his nose wasn’t broken. I’m going up to pull the prints, and we’ll probably do the show in May.” He poured a finger of whiskey into her wine glass and raised his.

  “Chaz! That’s great!” She leaned up and clanked glasses with him. Whew, she thought. At least she hadn’t screwed that up.

  They sat silently for a minute. Mary Byrd heard water rushing in the pipes upstairs. One of the children flushing. She wanted badly to see them. They didn’t know she was back, or they would have come downstairs, or maybe they didn’t want to hear whatever she had to tell them about her trip. Or maybe they were miffed that she’d gone off to Wallett.

  She finished off the last of her omelet. She could have eaten another one, she’d been so hungry. “Did you go to Rod’s funeral?” she asked.

  “Of course I did. They somehow got all their people down here from Gary and Chicago by Monday, in spite of the storm, and they went on and buried him.”

  “Was it okay? Did Evagreen and L. Q. go?”

  “L. Q. and Ken were there, kind of in the back, but not Evagreen. I guess it was as okay as it could be, under the circumstances. But I did get to speak to Ken, and he’s got someone great to represent Angie.”

  “Who?” she asked. “The Mongoose?” The Mongoose was a scary and highly successful criminal lawyer in town.

  “Nope,” Charles laughed. “Ruby Wharton.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “She’s an African-American lawyer in Memphis, married to AC Wharton, the hotshot attorney up there. They’re both famous for civil rights cases, and Ruby has done some women’s stuff, like she wrote one of the first laws about domestic abuse. It’s kind of a brilliant move on Ken’s part.”

  “How will they do it?” Mary Byrd asked. “Self-defense?”

  “I guess.” said Charles. “But I don’t know.”

  “Wow! That’s great. What about Evagreen and L. Q? They must feel so much better about it. What about Desia?”

  “How good can they feel about it, really? I think Desia is coming to live with the Kimbros and Evagreen and L. Q., ’til it all gets figured out. Call Evagreen tomorrow.” Charles extended his hands on the table before him, slapping both palms down, a signal that it was time for the conversation to be over. He took his plate to the sink.

  “I told Ken a little about why you had to go to Richmond, in case they were wondering why you hadn’t been by with food or something.” He yawned and stretched. “I’m going to bed.”

  “Tell Eliza and William I’ll be up in a minute,” she called to his retreating back, already in the next room. He didn’t answer. In the morning she would make some bread and pimiento cheese for each family. Pimiento cheese sandwiches could sustain people in a crisis. Under stress, when you weren’t able to eat rich, gloppy pies and cakes and casseroles or big, heavy slabs of ham, you could always eat a nice, neat, square pimiento cheese sandwich on homemade yeast bread. Of course, Liddie had taught her this. And she’d take something for poor little Desia—a toy or some books or something.

  Charles reappeared in the door. “This was in the mail slot this afternoon.” He handed her a plain white envelope with ms. mary byrd printed on the front in Evagreen’s old-school handwriting. The envelope was lumpy with more than just paper. What on earth, she wondered. “Here’s the rest of the mail, and a phone message Eliza took today.” He tossed a stack on the table.

  Charles retreated. Mary Byrd put her plate on the floor and watched Iggy pad over. The dogs followed the cat hesitantly and Mary Byrd said sharply, “No, Iggy. Go on.” Iggy reluctantly backed off and the dogs moved in, clearing the eggy plate in seconds.

  She looked at the note from Eliza, written in sorority-girl handwriting: Is dotted with circles, each letter cheerfully bulbous.

  mom, a kind of annoying lady in richmond wants you to call her asap.

  The number, of course, was Linda Fyce’s. Mary Byrd snapped her wrist, index finger pointing at the message, and said, “Bitch, I will call you if and when I feel like it.” She carefully slipped the note in the silverware drawer, hoping she’d remember where she put it. She might have some things to say.

  Flipping through the few pieces of mail that had accumulated while she was gone—a surprising amount, given the storm—Mary Byrd pulled out a stout manila envelope postmarked Clarksdale.

  Inside was a photograph that she recognized as Evagreen and L .Q.’s house, and a note written in an almost illegible, fountain-pen scrawl:

  My dear Mary Byrd,

  Please accept this gift as an apology for my, shall we say, unfortunate behavior on a recent evening. Like M. Popeye, “I yam what I yam,” don’t you know. Looking forward to seeing you and Charles again soon, and to the show in early summer.

  Grazie mille,

  Edward Freeman Wiggsby

  Amazing. The photo was, of course, stunning. The Bons’ small house glowed softly in a violet night sky. The porch light illuminated the huge tangle of early-blooming Carolina jessamine climbing up and over the little portico, the vines a dazzlement of canary-yellow blossoms. How had she not noticed them that unhappy night? She couldn’t wait to show it to Charles. And Eliza, who might be impressed enough to cut Wiggs a little slack. She’d give the photo to Evagreen and L. Q., or maybe to Ken, to remind him of home. Or to Angie, if she wasn’t going to be coming back. Ugh. She didn’t want to think of it. Maybe the photo wouldn’t make any of them too sad. And what was this envelope from Evagreen?

  She opened the envelope carefully and removed some folded tissue paper. Wrapped inside was a handful of little tan globes. Unfolding the enclosed note, she read:

  I am praying for you and your family. These from our chinaberry tree. You plant them in your yard NOW, where they will get Sun, to honor your Little Brother. Who is now an angel in Heaven. Ms. Evagreen Bon.

  She piled the chinaberries on the windowsill with the other tiny things. Picking up a pad of stick-it notes, she wrote parking reserved for stevie’s dump truck and stuck the note beneath them, wondering how long it would be before Stith sent the truck.

  Mary Byrd wanted her bed. As tired as she was, she thought she’d better check in with Mann first; he’d be worried. And curious, but that could wait. It was late, past his usual early bedtime, but she went to the phone. E-A-T C-H-I-X. It rang a couple of times and Mann picked up, saying groggily, “Hey, it’s really late.”

  “I know. I’m sorry,” she said. “But I know you were worried sick about me.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said. She heard the inhale of a big yawn. “You okay? How was it?”

  “Creepy, but fine. I’ll tell you tomorrow. I’m just checking in.”

  “How’s your family?” Mann said.

  “Everyone’s pretty okay. At least for now. And Ernest’s funeral was … weird. Did the storm mess up your house at all?”

  “Just a tree on the deck. No bi
g deal. I had some hot chicken stuck in Texas, though.”

  “Did Foote get back okay?”

  “Yeah, he’s back. Oh—he said to tell you that he and Frank Booth are ‘at your service.’ What’s that about?” Another yawn.

  “Oh, god! Mann, he is so crazy! I mean, the trip was fine, but he says some insane stuff. He’s kind of a homophobe, among other things.”

  “Yeah?” Mann said. “So who isn’t? A lot of the junk he says, he’s just showing out.”

  “Maybe. It doesn’t bother you?”

  “He’s a good driver. He’s a nice guy around me. Nicer than Wiggs, your well-educated, sophisticated friend. Anyway, I doubt Foote really cares about gays much one way or the other, but he does care about his paycheck.”

  “I’m exhausted. Go back to bed. Call me tomorrow.”

  “Sweet dreams,” Mann said.

  “Yeah. I hope. Luvyabye.”

  Heading upstairs to her children, as she passed the bookshelf where they kept assorted reference books—the French dictionary, The Readers’ Encyclopedia, the pill identification book. She pulled out Mississippi Trees. Evagreen’s gesture touched her deeply, and she loved the old-fashioned dooryard trees. Chinaberry flowers smelled like her mother’s favorite perfume, Fracas—rich and wonderful, but almost overpowering. People didn’t seem to grow chinaberries much anymore. She knew she’d better read up on how to plant and grow them properly, or else.

  Mary Byrd knocked softly at Eliza’s door and opened it. Eliza was already asleep in her poofy cocoon, the mosquito net drawn around the bed, or she was pretending to be asleep, because just a few minutes earlier Mary Byrd had heard her laughing. She had the greatest ha-ha-ha laugh but they didn’t hear it often these days; of course she had been on the phone with one of her friends. Mary Byrd decided to leave her daughter be; she didn’t have the energy for any skirmishes. They could talk the next day.

  Passing the bathroom, she saw Irene lapping at the little puddles left in the tub; probably they’d forgotten to melt some ice for the kitties while she was gone, and Irene and Iggy hated drinking dog water. Who wouldn’t. Irene looked so cool and colorful. She loved how calico cats were sort of pieces of different cats patched together—a black-and-white tuxedo cat leg here, a marmalade tabby leg there. She went in to pet Irene and saw that she had what the children called “rainforest butt”: leaves and twigs were tangled in the long fur around her fluffy ass. Mary Byrd tried to pull the junk off, but Irene was having none of it and jumped out of the tub and ran off. “Suit yourself, skanky-butt,” she sighed.