Tim loved fried chicken, better than anything. It’d be just what he’d want before the big ballgame. And I smiled to myself, thinking what a joy it would be to see how much Tim liked that chicken I would fry, just for him.
Cassandra King
INTERVIEW
When did you start to write fiction?
When I was growing up, I loved to tell stories to my sisters. I’d make up plays and use my dolls to act out all the parts. Later, in elementary school, I took my stories to the playground and I would offer them in installments to my friends during recess, my very own schoolyard soap opera. I wrote them down for entertainment, but I suppose I wanted to be a playwright more than anything else. It was years before I took my writing seriously.
Tell me how the idea for Making Waves came to be.
I actually lived in the little town that the story was based on. When I started to write Making Waves, I was probably in my mid-thirties. I started keeping a journal of my observations and then began writing the stories about Zion; it was like going back in time. I put it in the book just as it was—situated in Alabama, twenty-five miles west of Tuscaloosa. It was so isolated, so small a town, it was a ripe setting for a book and I began to think in terms of a collection of stories that grew from the characters. There was someone similar to Della; there was a young man who went to high school with my son who’d had a football injury; he already had a scholarship and he was going to be the big star, but he was injured in an auto accident.
I had not thought about publishing, but I had a friend who was a writing teacher, and he was married to my best friend. I took creative writing from him. He encouraged me to mail stuff off. While I was putting these stories together, we moved back to Birmingham for my husband’s work; I decided to go to graduate school in Birmingham and began working on a master’s degree. When it was time to declare my thesis, I thought I’d do one made up of my stories of Zion, Alabama. So Making Waves was actually my master’s thesis.
Did you intend for the reader to see Tim and Taylor as gay?
I grew up with sisters, and really did not know anything about what it was like to be a boy until I raised three sons. During this time, I had observed that males had problems with friendship and expressing affection for each other. With Tim and Taylor, I wanted to write about the sexual confusion between them; the way society operates, they have to ask themselves, “Am I gay?” because of their feelings. I was interested in how males express love in our society, exploring that as my primary theme. It came directly from observing the wonderful friendships my boys had, the really close bonds they had with male friends, but no socially acceptable way of showing their love for each other. It was so much easier for me as a girl to love my girlfriends, to sleep over with them without anyone thinking twice about it. It bothered me that it was hard for boys to show the affection I knew they deeply felt.
How did you come to use the device of telling the story through different people?
I realized that everything I wrote was always in the first person; I love doing it. I also love the way we all see the same things differently; we each have our own perspective.
Was any particular kind of research involved in creating the novel?
No, it was all there in front of me. My mother thought she wanted to be a beautician; she never really worked, but she did go to beauty school. I suffered because my mother experimented on me (with perms). I had really straight, fine hair, and my mother religiously gave me permanents; the worst thing you can do to fine hair is put chemicals on it. Because of that, I know what goes on in a beauty parlor. Every time my mother took me with her (she had a standing appointment at 10 A.M. every Wednesday), I inevitably saw a woman there who had waves and clips in her hair under the dryer. So I knew how it was when I wrote about it.
Is there any particular significance to setting the novel in and around a beauty parlor?
No question about it. We lived right across from a house like “Donnette’s” with a beauty parlor in it. She was a really pretty girl; it was big white house with a beauty shop; all the gossip would go on there. It was like what a barbershop is for men; the beauty parlor was the primary place women would go to socialize and gossip, find out about the funerals and weddings, and so on.
What does your book say about life in the South? Who were your favorite southern novelists and playwrights?
Making Waves is about how many people have lived in a town that is so isolated. It’s away from the mainstream, like a self-contained world. This is not by any means a good thing. One thing you run into is a certain narrow-mindedness about a lot of issues. You also run into more apathy about what is going on in the rest of world. This is typical of small towns anywhere; it could be a small town in Connecticut. It’s a sociological phenomenon. But there is a strong sense of place, family ties, and tradition. Much of that is important in the South. Also the food, the aromas, the heat, and the scent of flowers. When you think of the South, you can’t not think about the heat. “Cold” is 50 degrees.
Southern writers I have liked are Truman Capote, Eudora Welty, Flannery O’Connor, Carson McCullers, but above all those, Tennessee Williams.
You are married to a southern writer. Where does your vision of the South and that of your husband meet and/or diverge?
Pat [Conroy] feels rootless in the South because he came from a military family and moved almost every year. But I was raised on a huge peanut farm, and was very rooted there. Pun intended. It was the King Brothers’ Farm. Pat missed all that; he often remarks on how related I am to my background, and craves that feeling of home. His mother was from a farming family, but she totally rejected her roots. They were poor farmers, always struggling; she never wanted to go back to that life. Pat and I complement each other because I romanticize the agrarian rural South, and he experienced his mother’s rejection of it.
READERS’ GUIDE QUESTIONS
1. Though Donnette is twenty years old, her thoughts and behavior can be very childlike. How is this most strongly demonstrated? What could account for this quality in her?
2. What are some of the sensory clues provided by the author that this story takes place in the Deep South?
3. Making Waves is set in a tiny town in Alabama. Can you imagine the events and characters taking place or existing anywhere else in the United States?
4. At no time in the story does the author indicate what is happening in the world outside Zion County. What is the significance of this?
5. What role does the beauty parlor play in the town’s affairs?
6. The author makes the affection between Tim and Taylor appear to border on homosexuality—or does she? What does Tim and Taylor’s youthful relationship say about the expression of friendship between men in this country?
7. What other novels have used the device of having different characters tell the story through their own voices? Is this a peculiar feature of southern writing, and if so, why is it so?
8. Does the transformation of Ellis from a drab mouse to a glamour-puss, and her rejections of religious teachings, seem plausible? Could she have been the backbone of the story? What other characters seem capable of taking over the story, or perhaps spinning off a new novel?
9. Presumably Tim’s artistic abilities were suppressed for the same reason that Tim and Taylor’s love for each other was—it wasn’t “manly.” What other southern writers are known for employing themes of repressed desires and frustration?
10. Did Making Waves alter your impressions of life in the Deep South in any way? What did you learn?
11. Miss Maudie’s funeral was the catalyst that starts the novel and brings Tim and Taylor back together. What other new beginnings came about as a result of the funeral?
If you enjoyed Making Waves,
be sure to look for Queen of Broken Hearts,
also by Cassandra King.
An excerpt follows.
Chapter One
At the exact moment the cash register dings and I open my change purse, the chain of be
lls on the front door of the coffee shop bangs together with a brassy clatter. I hear the sound of voices raised in greetings, a loud and hearty hello in response, and the bells jangling again as the door closes. Curious to see who’s making such an entrance, I glance over my shoulder. When I see that it’s Son Rodgers, my face flames and my heart pounds. On top of everything else that’s happened today, I go to the coffee shop for lunch, and who do I run into? One thing for sure: I have to get out of here before he sees me. It would be embarrassing for me and him and the dozen or so other folks enjoying their afternoon coffee. Instinctively, I duck my head and pull my arms close as if to make myself invisible.
Barely turning my head, I look over my shoulder again to determine the distance between me and the front door. No way I can get out that way without him seeing me; I’ll have to exit through the bookstore. Now I wish I’d driven to town instead of walking, even though it would’ve been ridiculous to drive so few blocks. But my getaway would have been easier. I could have gone through the adjoining bookstore, gotten nonchalantly into my car, and put the pedal to the metal. Instead, everyone in both stores will see me running out of the coffee shop right after my best friend’s husband has walked in. I can only imagine the talk that will follow, since our small town has talked of little else all summer except what’s gone on in the Rodgers household. I can hear it now: “Did you know it’s gotten so bad that Clare sneaked out of the coffee shop to avoid Son? Poor Dory!”
Making my getaway is turning out to be more difficult than I thought. The lethargic, bespectacled teenager behind the counter is new—his first day, he told me proudly—and he doesn’t know the ropes yet. He takes his time wrapping the two slices of carrot cake in parchment paper, placing them in a flat white box, then bringing the edges of the box together. When I see him searching for tape, I say, “It’s fine. Don’t bother taping it,” and hope that my voice doesn’t sound as flustered as I feel. But he shrugs me off and says no problem, it’s no trouble at all. He rings it up wrong for the second time, muttering, “Oops.” After canceling out the sale, he punches in the numbers again, glances at me over the top of his glasses, and mumbles, “Uh, that’ll be eight fifty-three.”
It hits me that I used all my change by counting out the exact amount for the veggie wrap and iced tea I had for lunch, plus a tip; I left the money on the table, anchoring my ticket. On my way out, I decided on impulse to take a couple pieces of carrot cake with me, and I stopped at the counter to place my order. I have nothing but a twenty to pay with. Another glance over my shoulder, and I toss the twenty-dollar bill at Pokey. In a low voice, I say, “If you could hurry, I’d really appreciate it. I’m running late for an appointment.” Of course, I speak too softly, trying to keep Son from hearing my voice, and Pokey tilts his head sideways to say, “Ma’am?”
“Hurry with the change, please,” I hiss.
From the corner of my eye, I see that Son is working the room like a politician running for reelection, slapping backs and grinning like the Cheshire cat. His greetings are met with cries of “Hey—look who’s back in town!” and “Son! How was your trip? When did you get home?” I watch him lean over to kiss the cheek of a plump, white-haired lady who coos and giggles and puts both hands to her face in something resembling the ecstasy of Saint Teresa. He then joins a couple of businessmen from the bank who get to their feet to shake his hand and pound his back with great vigor, buying me a few seconds. Son throws back his head to laugh at something one of them says, which gives me a chance for a furtive study of him. I haven’t seen him all summer, the longest span of time since he and Dory married, and that was twenty-five years ago.
Son is casually dressed in crisp, pressed jeans and a white oxford-cloth shirt, the sleeves carelessly rolled up to reveal brown, well-muscled arms. Usually he’s in a shirt and tie, as befitting such a highly regarded and important hotshot. I guess he hasn’t yet gone back to work in his real estate business, since he and Dory have been home only a couple of days. Even though he has a hand on the shoulder of one of the businessmen and appears to be listening with great interest, I notice that his eyes occasionally search the room to make sure he’s kissed up to everyone there. When his gaze comes my way, I turn my head quickly, almost dropping the bills and change that Pokey is counting into my outstretched hand. When he miscounts and starts over, I’m tempted to tell the poor fellow to keep it, even if it would make me the biggest tipper in town. He’d probably be so surprised that he’d ask me to repeat myself yet again, and I’d end up getting caught by Son after all.
With his scrutiny of the coffee shop, it’s unbelievable that Son hasn’t recognized me yet, even with my back to him and the counter located at a helpful angle. It occurs to me that he hasn’t seen me since I’ve had my hair cut. From the first day we met, Son has gone on and on about what great hair I have. It’s nothing but his usual empty flattery, the only way he knows to relate to women. The truth is, my long, heavy hair has always been unruly and difficult. After struggling with it all my life, I gave up and had it chopped off a few weeks ago. Everybody tells me I look like a different person with my mass of hair gone, which must be true. Even so, I’m not taking any chances, not with the way Son keeps looking everyone over, so I drop the change into my briefcase instead of in my purse. Thankfully, the door of the adjoining bookstore is only a few feet away.
I’ve taken a step away from the counter when the young man clears his throat and says in a loud voice, “Uh—ma’am?” My cheeks burning, I turn to see him holding out the box with the carrot cake in it. I yank it out of his hand so quickly that his eyes widen in surprise and his Adam’s apple jerks up and down. I feel bad for him, but not as bad as he would feel if Son saw me and caused a scene in the crowded shop. It would not be a good way to end his first day at work.
In the Page and Palette bookstore, a glance assures me that the salesclerk is helping a customer in the back, so I step behind a revolving display of paperbacks in order to peer into the coffee shop, making sure I got away without being seen. To my relief, I’ve escaped: Son is still standing with the two businessmen and running his mouth, with a big grin on his face. The three of them bend their heads together as he relates something, and they all laugh appreciatively, slapping backs again. Satisfied that I’ve escaped undetected, I sling the strap of my briefcase over my shoulder and tuck the box of carrot cake under my arm, then head toward the front door.
Once I’m outside, I’m surprised to find the sidewalks still crowded with shoppers and sightseers, which is unusual for early fall. Anxious to get away from the coffee shop, I mutter my apologies as I make my way through, wondering if there’s a tour bus in town. Although off the beaten path, Fairhope is becoming more and more of a tourist attraction, and it’s not unusual to have several tour buses in town during the summer, but not this time of year. In an effort to avoid a cluster of people blocking the sidewalk in front of one of the street’s many art galleries, I cut through a group of charming and colorful little shops that make up the area known as the French Quarter. And that’s where I run into Rye Ballenger, quite literally. If I hadn’t been hugging the bakery box so close, carrot cake would have gone flying.
“Clare!” he exclaims at the same time I gasp, “Rye!”Then both of us say together, “What are you doing here?”
I link an arm into his and continue my walk, pulling Rye along with me down the brick-paved lane. Out of the corner of my mouth, I say to him in a low voice, “I’m trying to get far enough away from the coffee shop so I won’t be seen by a certain person who just walked in.”
Rye plays along with me, matching my stride. “Who is it?” he whispers dramatically, looking around in mock terror. “An ex-husband of one of your clients?”
“Actually, you’re close,” I say with a groan. “It’s Son.”
“Son!” Rye comes to such an abrupt halt that I almost trip over a protruding brick. “Did he say anything to you? Tell me the truth.”
“He didn’t see me, thank God. I hightail
ed it out of there as fast as I could. Something tells me I’m not on his list of favorite people right now.”
With a frown, Rye studies my face. He disengages my arm in order to take my hand in both of his and squeeze it tight. “Why don’t you go back and confront him, sweetheart? I’ll go with you, by God. I don’t like the idea of him bullying you, and he needs to hear that.”
“Your problem is, you’re much too gallant,” I say with an affectionate smile. “Charging in on your white horse and defending the honor of the poor maiden.”
He snorts with indignation, his color high. “I’ve never been on a horse in my life, and have no intention of ever doing so. But I hate missing the chance to give Son Rodgers a piece of my mind.”
“All I want to do is avoid him,” I assure him. “I’m not interested in a confrontation at this point. Especially now, with him and Dory back together.”
“Still no idea how that miraculous event came about?” Rye asks, watching me curiously.
I shrug. “None whatsoever. But I’ll see Dory tomorrow at the group meeting, and she’s promised me that we’ll talk beforehand. Have you—”
Before I realize what’s happening, Rye has grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me out of the way of a large gray-haired woman who barges past us, then turns back to scowl at us for blocking the sidewalk. As we watch her walk away, I send up a thank-you to whatever gods were responsible for sending Rye strolling through the French Quarter at the very moment I turned the corner. From the first day I arrived in Fairhope, the sardonic and irreverent Rye Ballenger has been one of my dearest friends, and there’s no one I’d rather see now, after the near miss with Son. Certainly no one else understands my history with Son better than Rye does.
He and I move to stand under the jasmine-entwined arbor of a café, then Rye leans toward me to whisper in my ear, “Lord God Almighty, would you look at that! How ghastly.” He nods toward the retreating woman, who’s clad in a hot-pink T-shirt with flowered capri pants stretched way too tight across her very ample rear end. “I can promise you that she hails from north of the Mason-Dixon line.”
Making Waves Page 28
