“It hasn't been a good week. In fact, it’s the worst since you gave me the scarlet fever.”
“Will you tell your husband?”
“My husband? Oh, yes. Actually, I’ve already told him.”
When she'd blurted the news she might be pregnant, Coddie hadn't taken it at all well.
“What a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive,” murmured Marlena.
Ron took it upon himself to break an awkward pause.
“Perhaps the pregnancy will help the two of you to make it up. I mean, get back together.”
“I doubt it.”
“Why is that? Because you don’t want to get back together?”
“Well, yes, that’s part of it. Also, I didn’t like the way he reacted to the news.”
“What did he say? Lena, if I’m being too nosey, just tell me to butt out.”
“It's all right. I asked him what I should do, and all he said was that he didn’t know, that he needed more information. He sounded like a cold fish, so I hung up on him."
She paused.
"That’s the trouble with Coddie. He’s smart, but he’s too rigid, cold-blooded, and straight-laced. Anyway, I couldn’t let him take the rap, even if he offered to.”
Ron scratched his head. After awhile he said, “Oh, I get it. Your husband isn’t the lucky father.”
She bristled. “Not my point, and not your business. I’m still his wife. That makes him involved, doesn’t it? There are men in the same circumstances who would have the chivalry not to ask questions about the paternity of their wife’s baby.”
“You’re saying he should be one of them? In novels that might advance the plot. But in real life, you might have difficulty finding a man willing to take on another man’s love child for a woman who's his wife only on paper. That is the situation he’s in, isn’t it?”
Marlena squirmed uneasily in her seat, thinking what she needed was a drink, and fast.
Why was the service so slow today?
Chapter Fourteen
"Ron, do you believe that the past looms larger here than it does in other places? During the last few days, I've begun to feel as if ghosts are following me. Do you ever feel that way, living here?"
As she asked these questions, Marlena had dropped her voice lower and leaned in closer. Ron inhaled the scent of jasmine from her feather-light, glinting hair. He felt thoroughly intoxicated; by way of an answer, the best he could do was shake his head.
The happy hour crowd in B. L. Zebub's was rapidly on the increase, both in numbers and raucous noise. The new bartender, a ruddy-cheeked young man with cropped dark hair, seemed overwhelmed. It was clear to Marlena he was oblivious to Ron's empty glass and her presence.
“Watch this,” she said to Ron.
She cocked her head as the new bartender went barreling past them. Then, with a quick flick of her super-fine tresses, she spun into the semi-dark atmosphere a luminous mist that stopped him dead in his tracks.
Her translucent eyelids fluttering upward, she stared directly at him, the reflective pupils of her aqua eyes conveying a strong mesmeric pull. Slowly she pointed a shiny finger tip, first at Ron's empty glass and then at herself.
Julio was frozen and in a trance until she spoke.
“Another Guinness for Just Ron, Julio. I'll have an espresso. Double brandy and light cream.”
Ron smiled, his mind shooting backward through the decades. He'd seen this performance done before, when Marlena was a little girl.
The ploy had never failed to amuse him, mostly because she seemed to take such childish pleasure in it. It was impossible to resist her, and impossible not to go along with the fun of pretending she was a witch, that her mesmeric powers were supernatural.
On the other hand, her reputation was no laughing matter. The natives believed her ancestor, Cassandra Vye, had been an evil witch.
Marlena was a dead ringer for that woman. This phrase was how old natives referred to Cassandra, fearful the mere utterance of her name would propel her from the depths of hell back into their midst.
So far as Ron could make out, the only crime the notorious ancestor might have been guilty of was being so dead sexy she’d managed to lure the town’s two most handsome, eligible bachelors into her snare.
Such a demonstration of power had been construed as downright demonic by pious native mothers with plain daughters of marriageable age.
As the story went, Cassandra Vye had been an outsider and ultimately a bounder, abandoning her saintly native husband Nicholas Brighton when she vanished into thin air on October 28, 1901, in the midst of a lightning storm on Hatter’s Field. Her married friend and presumed lover, Augustus "Curly" Drake, was found dead on the spot where they'd met, struck down by lightning. He was there with the express purpose of fleeing with her but expired instead.
It was a serious issue, thought Ron, how great beauty can easily attract dangerous malice in a small town. He felt a deep concern for the safety of his childhood friend. There was a well-established pattern in the citizenry of enacting violence against unusual outsiders. Reaching far back, the natives had a reputation for holding grudges.
Meanwhile, Marlena was thinking this cocktail hour wasn’t going exactly the way she’d planned. She gave Ron a frowning look.
In response to the pout, he felt an urge to kiss her, one he barely managed to resist.
“Never mind,” he said, referring to his comments on Coddie. “A good marriage isn’t black and white. Almost nothing is, when you examine things up close, not even penguins. King penguins in Antarctica have distinguishing marks of gold and tangerine.”
Christ, I'm babbling.
“Anyway, it will all work out the way it’s supposed to in the end. Perhaps your husband was just too shocked to behave in the way you wanted him to.”
“Whatever. Are you a marriage counselor, too? I didn't notice a license on the wall in your office. I don’t see a wedding ring on your finger. What makes you an expert on husbands?”
“To your point, I'm a bachelor, and I don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“Let’s talk about something besides my marriage, shall we?”
“Okay, let’s do.”
"We can talk about the weather. Everyone else does."
Sighing, she looked away from Ron and down toward the other end of the bar, where Sally had glanced her way more than once. She waved, and they smiled at each other like co-conspirators.
If she needed to get out of town quickly, Sally would provide the escape route. There was more than one way to skin a cat.
Skin a cat? What was happening to her?
Since Faith’s arrival, she had fallen into her mother’s annoying habit of bandaging every complex situation with an old chestnut.
“That’s better,” said Ron, noting the dazzling smile, now turned his way. “I always thought you had the prettiest smile, by far, of any girl in town. Even though you were shy about showing it.”
“It’s a small town, Ron, but I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It’s the sticks, but I know where there’s a great jazz combo. Interested?”
“I’d love to continue discussing penguins, but I have a dinner engagement at eight.”
“Who with?”
“Ron, I think you mean ‘with whom?’ English grammar never was your strong suit. I had to coach you all the way. See that lady down there, the one with the mod bangs and the young women hanging on her? She’s going to give me a great job in Key West, Florida, rehabbing a mansion.”
“Well, that’s too bad.”
“What, pray tell, is bad about it?”
“I was planning to take you to dinner here, before the jazz combo.”
“Here? I doubt you could afford us.”
“Ouch! You are mad at me. What did I do?”
She laughed ruefully. “You mean, besides killing a rabbit and messing up my life--AGAIN? I haven't forgiven you yet for my scarlet fever. Anyway, Ron, I don’t know how pleasant a compa
nion I would be, under the circumstances.”
“What do you mean?”
“The circumstances being, that I’m likely to vomit, or cry, or throw a tantrum. Now, at my business dinner with her down there”-- she took that opportunity to wave at Sally, and the target flapped one jeweled hand back at her--“my practiced habit of suppressing all feelings and soldiering on will come into play. Business ahead of pleasure, I always say. Unless I'm horny.”
He resisted the temptation to ask if she felt horny now.
“How about the next day? And the day after that?”
“You mean, might I be horny then?"
"I mean, how will you get through each day, feeling so numbed out?"
"Well, that’s my problem alone," she bristled proudly.
“Seriously, Lena, it isn’t your problem alone,” he said, looking into her eyes and taking her hand. She initially resisted, but then allowed it.
“You can count on me. Anything you need, you’ve got it.”
Unconsciously, her chin came up as he began to elaborate.
“Whoever the lucky father of this baby is, if he steps up to the plate and you don’t need me, I’ll back off, but if he takes his foot off the bag, I’ve got your back.”
“I had no idea, Ron, you were such a baseball fan. Seriously, I can't afford to believe you mean everything that you say. I've always had to count on myself alone.”
“I do.”
“Those two words are too heavy for bar talk. Anyway, why would you want to help me out?”
“Well, I’m a doctor in a small town, as you've pointed out. We stick together in these parts. You're an old friend who could use some moron support. And I’ve been in love with you, Lena, ever since the second grade. But just let’s forget I said the last thing.”
“Forgotten. My dad thought you were okay, even though he nicknamed you Typhoid Ronnie. Once upon a time, I may have been a little in love with you, too. You came to my rescue often enough."
She paused, reflecting.
"When I left, didn’t we promise to write each other always and be married one day in the future? Or maybe that was just a dream I had. I have this funny kind of memory. Everything I've ever known is on this spool of thread, but where the spool comes from, I don't always know.”
“That was no dream,” he said quietly.
His smile was shy and genuine, and she squeezed his hand before moving hers away.
“I’m sorry to have to leave you at this juncture, Ron. But I see my date for the evening is looking my way, and it's almost eight. I’ll need to kiss her ass all the way to Christmas if I want to land that gig.”
“Do you really want it that much? What do you know about her?”
“She likes me, and that's about all I know, except that she’s likely to be my ticket to independence. I’ve been letting my career slide lately, waiting on one damn man, but I've just received my wakeup call. Whatever I decide to do about--well, you know--I need both feet planted firmly on the ground. I’ve put my mind to landing that dream job in Key West, and land it I will.”
Ron nodded. “You were always good at getting what you went after, Lena. The smartest girl in class, the most talented, and the most caring, too.”
“Oh, please. We both know I'm Becky Sharp, not Jane Eyre.”
Her tone was flippant, but her eyes told a different story.
“Don’t say that, Lena, even jokingly. It’s not true. However, I’ll admit to being a little gun shy of you. You were such a brilliant student we were all afraid to talk to you.”
“It's just the memory thing, like a sleight of hand, but it made me feel like a freak. I knew all the answers better than the teachers did. I was too tall and skinny, and my hair looked like Raggedy Ann's. I desperately wanted to make friends, but I didn't know how, so I made the world of books my refuge.”
“A world that you could control?”
“One in which I could pretend to be the heroine, not the victim or the freak.”
“Well, now you’re in a position to be the heroine of your own story. The question is, who-- I mean, whom--do you take with you on the journey?”
“I’m sorry about what I said earlier, about Coddie. Truly he’s a great guy, and he’d jump through hoops for me. He didn't want children as I did in the beginning. He wanted our marriage to work in a practical, career-centered way. But he also loved me, in his own style. Then Harry came along--"
“The father’s name is Harry?”
“Forget I said that, will you? Harry as in Tom, Dick and…”
“It’s forgotten. Go on.”
“Then I fell in love with...someone else, and Coddie eventually gave up on me. The funny thing is, he gave up just as I was starting to wonder about the reality of the other relationship. If he hadn’t sent separation papers, we might still be together.”
“Timing's everything. How about now, when you are pregnant by Tom-Dick-and-Harry? Are you still questioning the relationship? Possibly thinking about getting back with your husband?”
“Not seriously. Isn’t life a kick in the head? Timing is everything; you said it, Ron.”
“Is there anyone you can talk to? A counselor or a minister, perhaps, or a family member?”
“My cousin Chloe has always been my confidante, mentor, therapist, even my surrogate mother. Faith abandoned dad and me for a couple of years. That’s why I went to Teddy Roosevelt.”
“I had no idea. I’m sorry. We assumed your parents were both day laborers, off working fields while your grandmother cared for you.”
“Faith will disinherit me if she gets wind of the trouble that I’m in now.”
“I remember your mother," said Ron. "She had jet black hair with a white streak through it, and she wore bright red lipstick. She'd come into my father’s office sometimes when I was hanging out there.”
“Yes, well, that would be Faith in her official dressed-up mode. She wore lipstick to go to the doctor’s office and to church. Otherwise, she was Plain Jane Marine.”
“Your mother was really a Marine? That sounds like a joke.”
“She was a Marine all right, served to the end of World War II, and she could kick your ass. The bed had to be made just so; life under her was all barked orders and tight corners.”
“And what is she like now?”
“Gray, still feisty. Her life is sad; she was left all alone after my father’s death. Her family’s all gone, except for me and Chloe. I know I should do a lot more for her than I do. But she'll never speak to me again if she learns of this train wreck."
"So you won't tell her?"
"Not until after I’ve decided what to do. Otherwise, she’ll quote the Bible at me and make me crazy.”
“Are you sure she won't be sympathetic?”
“Never. Women of Faith's generation weren't in charge of their own bodies. So why should we be able to pick and choose? Besides, abortion means excommunication from the Church.”
She shuddered. "Young women need to guard our hard-won rights to reproductive choice. Mark my words, the old warhorses, male and female, will try to take them away.”
“I’m on your side,” said Ron, “all the way.”
She grabbed Ron around the neck and hugged him. “You’re the best,” she said. “I feel better now after talking with you, really I do.”
Shirley came up just then.
“Another, Marlena? Just Ron paid for your first one in advance.”
“Shirley, please get Just Ron another Guinness and put it on my tab.”
“So, it’s gonna be that way, is it?” he asked, cocking his head at her in a puzzled way.
“Yep. You scratch my butt, I'll scratch yours.”
“Deal. Well, stop by the office whenever it’s convenient. I have vitamin supplements for you. Big brown ones.”
“Like my mother's eyes. You don’t make house calls, Dr. Ron? I thought country doctors were all over that like a cheap suit.”
“Well, I might make an exception in your c
ase, Lena.”
“Please do so,” she said, putting on a flippant and imperious tone of voice. “I don’t relish the thought of getting pregnancy vitamins from the town pharmacist. He spreads gossip the way you used to spread germs. You're going to Chloe's Christmas Fire Night extravaganza Sunday evening, aren’t you?”
“Wouldn’t miss it. You'll be there?”
“Front and center, with more front in my center than there ought to be.”
By way of a goodbye to her friend, Marlena kissed Ron on both cheeks and hugged him. She turned and walked off, leaving him gazing at the spectacle she made from the back.
He shook his head in admiration. Not only was she highly amusing, but the caboose was every bit as dazzling as the engine.
She had said she was going to have dinner with the white-haired lesbian who was holding court down at the end of the bar. It was the first time in his life Ron Huddleston could recall feeling envious of an older woman.
Murmurs arising from the middle of the bar, he looked down to where a black oil executive with bulging forearms, thick-framed eyeglasses, and an Afro was attempting a balancing trick with two forks. The tines were crossed over a toothpick, which in turn was balanced on another toothpick that was stuck into the hole of a silver salt shaker.
On the third try, the forks remained suspended in mid-air, slowly rotating on the topmost toothpick.
“Magic,” piped up a barrel-chested woman in a harlequin vest and pleated trousers. "Third time's a charm."
“No,” said the black man. “Physics.”
Ron glanced around the room, sizing up the clientele, mostly "native" sons and daughters along with an assortment of travelers and refugees from family gatherings. The Easterners could be spotted by their fat ties and brand-new cowboy hats.
Even the glummest customer, an old Native American woman with grey hair tightly skinned back into a pony-tail, appeared to be having a good time; two words were printed across her bulging breasts--“Fun Uprising.”
As the song “I’ll Take You There” came blasting over the amplifiers, a woman seated to his right stood up on wooden platform heels and began to dance in a slow, gyrating motion, shaking her shagged top and fringed leather mini-skirt as her thin, muscular arms twisted snakily.
The Fire Night Ball Page 8
