“You mean they didn’t get married after all?”
Old Sonny the hell-raiser had shocked everyone last month by up and marrying suddenly. I figured she was pregnant. But I was astonished to hear that he’d married a former classmate of mine, a girl so plain and unknown I had to look her up in the yearbook to remember her. Then I couldn’t believe my eyes. What a hoot.
“Oh, no, he didn’t marry Glenda, dear.” Aunt Della gave up on her biscuit and stared at me wide-eyed. “He married the older sister, the one with the funny name.”
I was flabbergasted at this news. “What? Ellis Rountree—you don’t mean to tell me that Sonny married Ellis Rountree, the Baptist preacher’s secretary?”
“Yes. That’s the one. Ellis.” Aunt Della sat back in her chair and sipped her coffee.
“But—Aunt Della—that’s just not possible!” I was bowled over at this news, stunned. “She’s much older than me, so she’d be—what? Four or five years older than Sonny?”
“I was older than Rufus when we married,” Aunt Della reminded me, primly.
“Yeah, but—Sonny! Naw—I cannot believe it!”
Old holy-roller Ellis Rountree, marrying Sonny! It was too much for me this early in the morning. Ellis Rountree—memory flooded over me and I felt my face flush hotly. Oh, God. Ellis Rountree, married to my cousin Sonny—what if she told him about … no, she wouldn’t. I could count on that. She’d never tell anyone that. I glanced sheepishly at Aunt Della and saw her forlorn face.
“Well, it seems that Miss Priss Ellis has long coveted this house, working right across the street from us at the Baptist church and seeing it out her office window every day. I can remember now, her always stopping to talk when I was working in the yard, asking about things. But I never thought nothing of it. Guess she thinks she’s found a way to get her hands on it now.”
I couldn’t think straight, couldn’t process this new information. “Where are the newlyweds living?” was all I could think to ask.
The Rountrees were a strange family, raised in a little frame house out from town and keeping mostly to themselves. They were religious as hell, about all that I or other folks in town knew about them. The Rountree girls never wore any makeup nor took part in any of the school activities like everyone else. Old Man Rountree didn’t believe in frivolities. They went to some foot-washing primitive Baptist church out in the sticks that the other Baptists in town looked down on. It was hard to imagine Sonny in that family!
“They’re living with Opal, of course, at Harris’s, with everybody else,” Aunt Della said with a sniff. “Miss Priss is really putting on the airs now. She quit her job at the church, went off to Columbus to some business college for a year, and now thinks that she can run all the Clark businesses! Can you imagine? And she’s gotten that old fool Harris eating out of her hand. Of course, Opal’s so glad Sonny’s settled down that she dotes on her, too. Beats all I’ve ever seen.”
That it did. I couldn’t help it. In spite of Aunt Della’s look of disgust with the Clark clan, in spite of learning that Ellis was the new bride and not her mousy sister Glenda, I started laughing.
“Next thing you know, ole Sonny will be working,” I teased her. Sonny played the role of the good-ole-boy so well that he’d never worked a day in his life.
“Oh, he already is. He’s with Cleve at the funeral home,” Aunt Della told me solemnly.
That really cracked me up, and I strangled on my coffee. Aunt Della went on with her story, oblivious.
“He drives the hearse. You know, I must say that Sonny looks right nice in a dark suit, with his hair cut short. He’s never looked a thing like his daddy, though. Always favored Opal’s folks to me, especially Hoot Hamilton.” She bit into her biscuit again.
Not only did Sonny look like his maternal grandfather, I thought, wheezing and coughing, Sonny was his namesake and took after him in other ways, for old Hoot had been a notorious womanizer, finally shot by a jealous husband, over at Mt. Zion. Caught in the act, so to speak. One of our local scandals.
I never knew Sonny’s daddy, my uncle Harris Jr. He was one of Zion’s war heroes, killed in Vietnam when Sonny was a baby. Aunt Opal’d lived in the big old house with all the Clarks ever since. She and Aunt Frances Martha stayed on and ran the house for Daddy Clark after Grandma Clark died, years and years ago. It took two women to wait on that old geezer, he was so used to having everything his way. My mother’s father, yet I’d never felt one ounce of affection for him. Nor he for me, nor my mother. What a loving family we were.
I turned my attention back to Aunt Della as she began telling me about other family members, cousin Carrie and Aunt Mary Frances and Uncle Cleve and their daughters. I let her go on and on, but I was only half listening. At some point, I planned to stop her and ask about Tim and Donnette. She hadn’t even mentioned them in almost a year. She had kept me posted on Tim’s progress after the accident, when he got out of the hospital and rehab and began to recover, then when he and Donnette married. After that, she wouldn’t mention them again and was evasive when I asked her, claiming she didn’t get out or see people like she used to. For all I knew, they could have moved or divorced or something. But somehow, every time I’d open my mouth to ask about them, I’d stop myself. Aunt Della was talking about Miss Maudie now, and the funeral arrangements, so I decided to wait until later and ask about Tim. After I’d been home a day or so would be better. One thing at a time.
The phone rang and interrupted our breakfast, finally. I started doing the dishes while Aunt Della talked and talked on the phone to Aunt Frances Martha. Though I grimaced and waved soapy hands to her, trying to signal her no, Aunt Della told her all about my arrival and detailed everything we’d eaten since then.
To make matters worse, Aunt Della then accepted a dinner invitation for me to go to the Clarks’ that night. Shit. She’d be so horrified if I didn’t go that I had no choice. She was of the old school, and, despite all their differences, to Aunt Della family was family and that was that. If you came back into town after two years’ absence, regardless of the reason for your leaving, you visited all your relatives. Period. End of argument. Oh well, I might as well get it over with. I needed to talk with Daddy Clark about Aunt Della anyhow.
Aunt Della and I spent the rest of the day doing my laundry, which had piled up for days and needed either immediate attention or a dose of Lysol. She talked the whole time, contented to have me there with her again. And I admitted to myself that it felt good to be with her. Good and secure and right. Like I should have been back long before now. If only I didn’t have to visit the damn Clark clan tonight!
The Clarks always eat dinner early as country hicks, before dark—six o’clock on the nose—so about that time I took off walking the few blocks over to the ancestral manor, walking west and facing the slanting rays of the late afternoon sun. The heat rising up from the sidewalk almost took my breath away before I’d gotten to the end of Hiram Street. I soon regretted my decision for a stroll because my tee shirt and cutoff jeans were wet with sweat before I’d gotten out of Aunt Della’s sight.
I regretted it even more when I noticed that folks were staring at me as though I were a ghost as I strolled along. At least there were only a few people around this time of the day. Elton Davis, the vice president of Daddy Clark’s bank, was just coming home from work. I was right in front of his driveway when his flashy white Cadillac pulled in, and he craned his neck and stared like hell at me before getting out of the car. I scurried on down the street before he had a chance to speak to me. Just as I crossed over to Clark Street, two little kids on Big Wheels came bearing down on me, squealing and va-rooming, the only noise in the still, hot afternoon. Even they stopped and looked at me curiously as I walked past them on the sidewalk, shielding their eyes with chubby little hands. The older of the two, a nasty little porker about five years old, shot me a bird. They both giggled and snorted and wheeled themselves into their driveway as though I were going to chase them. I glanced up a
t their house, a shabby ranch-style that the Clarks rented out, trying to remember who lived there. Not that it mattered. Shitty little kids.
Finally I reached the end of Clark Street, where I could see the dark red ancestral manor looming way back from the sidewalk, looking deceptively dignified and grand. The Clark house was the grandest one in Clarksville for sure, but certainly not in Zion County. Other folks in Zion who had money lived in modern houses with swimming pools and central air, not old Victorian monstrosities like this one. Even an antebellum heart-of-Dixie number would have been better than this Dickensian horror. Despite its impressive size, the Clark house was embarrassingly tacky, with gingerbread swirls and gothic turrets and iron reindeer on the sterile manicured lawn. The black iron fence around the whole monstrosity made me think of a cemetery, appropriately enough. I opened the heavy gate and started up the walkway. I hated the way all of the trees and shrubs were so thoroughly pruned here, such a contrast to Aunt Della’s lush yard.
In the backyard I could see John Moses Jackson, a black man who had to be in his eighties yet was still considered Daddy Clark’s yard boy. Anxious to flaunt my liberal views, not to mention bug hell out of the Clarks, in the past I’d tried to befriend old John Moses. But no; he was such an Uncle Tom he insisted on calling me Mister Taylor, bowing and scraping, so I gave it up as Daddy Clark smirked at my failure. Of course, if John Moses hadn’t been so servile, he’d never have lasted with Daddy Clark, even though the old geezer pretended to accept all “Nigras” as brothers in Christ. Putting up with that kind of shit all his life eventually softened John Moses’s brain; he was notoriously senile. Last few years he’d taken to pruning hell out of the shrubbery so it was practically denuded, forcing it into unnatural shapes, tottering around talking to himself. Even from here I could hear the crazy old fart as he attacked the bushes in the back with his pruner, muttering away: “Yassir, Mist’ Harris—I done tol’ you these dogwoods looks bad … uh, huh, sho is.”
As I walked up the long brick walkway to the front of the house, I noted that in spite of the overall tackiness, there was a really spectacular porch, going all the way across the front and around the right side, heavily latticed like icing on a cake. I’d never really noticed it before because the Clarks would never lower themselves to sit outside like ordinary folks around here do, so I’d never been on the porch. I saw for the first time elegant rattan furnishings and showy giant ferns, looking almost like something you’d see in New Orleans. Wait a minute—the reason I’d not noticed it before had to be that it wasn’t there. Well, the porch was, but not the furnishings. Evidently they’d started using it after all.
Which was the case, because as I climbed the curved brick steps leading up to the house, out of the corner of my eye I could see someone waiting for me on the side porch. Suddenly I felt my insides contract and a wave of nausea hit. Welcome home, old boy. As usual, I felt the urge to run instead of facing up to my two years’ absence. Swallowing hard, I made myself turn away from the front door and head straight toward the porch on the side of the house.
Damn—it was only Sonny. He was standing there on the porch, hands in pockets, watching me the whole time. We stared warily at each other for a minute, then I stuck out my hand to him.
“Well, well. Cousin Sonny. How are you?” False, hearty smile. Hypocrisy runs in the Clark family.
Sonny shook my hand quickly, as though I were contaminated and he couldn’t wait to get his hand back into his pocket, which he did immediately. I looked him over carefully, trying hard to conceal the smirk I felt coming on. He always brought that out in me.
Sonny had put on weight, quite a bit actually, looking a lot like Elvis in the later years. His jowls were becoming prominent, and the famous sleepy eyes rather saggy now; looking, as folks in Zion County say, like he’d been rode hard and put up wet too many nights. I’d never understood why the girls thought Sonny good-looking, suspecting it was because he was the only real Clark heir. Cat said he was sexy, but I never saw it. He looked like a plain old redneck to me.
Still, I had to admit to some improvement now, in spite of the added weight. Sonny’s dark hair was neatly cut and sleeked back stylishly. And his dress—he was wearing starched khakis, loafers, and an Izod instead of his usual jeans and Bama tee shirt. Old Sonny was finally settling down. My smirk widened.
“How you, Taylor?” was all he could manage to say. As usual, though, he looked me over with disgust and disapproval.
“Me? The question is, how are you, Sonny? I understand that congratulations are in order.” I tried hard to keep from grinning like a jackass. Even more so when Sonny actually preened at my comment, intended sarcastically.
“Yep. I finally got roped into matrimony—tied the knot,” he said with a grin. Jesus—after all the girls chasing him, here was Sonny acting like he’d pulled in big bass by catching old Ellis! There was something weird going on here. Surely she wasn’t pregnant.
“I can’t wait to see your blushing bride again. Aunt Della first thought you’d married Glenda, but when I found out it was Ellis instead—well! I just can’t tell you how astonished I was.”
“Ellis is looking forward to seeing you again, too—she just stepped in to get us a drink.”
Sonny was trying hard not to, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off my hair. Finally I could stand it no longer.
“What the hell you looking at, Sonny?” I was determined to be civil to all of them, for Aunt Della’s sake, but it was going to be difficult.
“How come you come over here with that faggy hair, Taylor? And dressed like that? I swear! You know Daddy Clark will have a shit-fit.” Sonny wouldn’t look at me; instead, with hands jammed deep into his pockets, he turned from me and stared out over the manicured lawn.
“It won’t be the first time. Everything I do gives him the squirts.”
“My God—he’s an old man now, Taylor. Why can’t you grow up?” Sonny glanced sideways at me, then back at the lawn.
“Like you have? Spare me.” Anger burned under my damp tee shirt, causing my face to flush hotly.
“Why’d you come back here anyway?” His voice was low and I barely heard him.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me—why in the hell are you here?”
“You folks been asking that ever since your dear Aunt Charlotte got knocked up by a Cajun bartender,” I said, smiling at him. He didn’t smile back but glared at me instead.
“Oh, crap, Taylor. I could feel sorry for myself, too, you know—most anybody could. Take somebody like Ellis—”
Fortunately I was spared the rest of Sonny’s philosophical remarks. As if on cue, the front door opened and a woman came through it, carrying a silver tray. It was Ellis Rountree Clark—I’ll be damned! I tried not to stare, but my mouth fell open and my eyes bulged. Old Ellis, the Baptist preacher’s prissy secretary! It couldn’t be.
“Why, Taylor Dupree!” This strange creature smiled broadly, setting the tray down and turning to face me. She stood right in front of me as I gaped at her. “What a surprise—I couldn’t believe it when Aunt Frances Martha told me you were back in town and coming for dinner tonight. It’s been a long time.”
Sonny’s change was in his added weight and new preppy appearance; he was still the same redneck-looking Sonny to me, in spite of that. But old Ellis Rountree—I would not have known her. Never.
Ellis was as tall as Sonny, a big-boned country girl with large flat feet and really prominent boobs, undoubtedly her best feature. When I last saw her as the preacher’s secretary, she was dowdy and painfully plain, dressed in homemade polyester dresses and clodhopper shoes. Makeup and haircuts were against her religion, so her mousy hair had never been cut, and she wore it sleeked back and pinned in a tight bun. Her face was obscured by big dark-rimmed glasses. You’d have never noticed her except to marvel how anyone could be so out of date and fashion. Only in Zion County.
However, marriage to Sonny had evidently transformed the old Ellis into the so
ciety queen of Clarksville. The glasses were gone, replaced with bright purplish-blue contacts, and the once-unadorned face was as heavily made up as a country singer’s. No more tight prim bun—her hair was cut short and stylish now, dyed a Dolly Parton silvery-blonde. Diamonds sparkled in her ears and on her fingers, and she was decked out in an expensive white linen sundress. I struggled to remember who she reminded me of, and conjured up my tacky Aunt Opal, whom Sonny’s dad had married off the farm and brought to live with him in the big city of Clarksville. Holy shit. Ellis was Aunt Opal thirty years ago—Sonny had married his mother!
Ellis stuck out a diamond-ringed hand to me and I grabbed it blindly, still gaping at her like a fool.
“Ellis—,” I finally managed to stammer, “I-I wouldn’t have known you.”
“I brought you boys drinks,” she said as she smiled, motioning to the silver tray she’d placed on a rattan table. “Would you care for some sherry?” I’d forgotten her habit of enunciating her words precisely, as though taking old-fashioned elocution lessons. She held her pert little nose elevated, her head tilted; that, along with the prissy way of speaking, gave her a snooty air.
Sonny guffawed before I could answer. “Good going, Ellis. I’m sure Taylor sits around the French Quarter and sips sherry during happy hour every single day.”
Ellis blinked thickly mascaraed eyes at him and frowned, puzzled. I shot Sonny a look of disgust and turned back to her. “Actually, I adore sherry,” I said. “Happens to be my favorite.”
Ellis poured me a tiny, gold-rimmed glassful and I forced myself to kill it. Sonny laughed like hell.
“Sugar, how about pouring me some burgundy instead?” he said with a snort. “I don’t have Cousin Taylor’s refined tastes, evidently.”
I ignored him and turned back to Ellis. In spite of her friendly greeting, now that we were actually face to face, I saw that she was uncomfortable. Unless she had gone senile, she’d have to remember our last encounter, and remember it with shame. She didn’t look my way but fiddled with the tray of drinks instead.
Making Waves Page 7
