Florabelle shook his hand. “Florabelle Rayburn,” she said smiling. “This is my sister, Fern.”
The man that came out from behind the clothes was tall with jet black hair and dark brown eyes, and suntanned skin. If it weren’t for the fact that his nose formed kind of an arrow, he looked right out of Hollywood, especially with his sensual smile, under a thin mustache, that sort of lured you in and washed you over. The bright-colored polyester shirts he had stepped out from behind draped him like stage curtains.
Florabelle stared at him like she was in some sort of trance. “If them pants never been worn,” she challenged, “why are you selling them?”
“They belonged to my mother-in-law, who recently lost a lot of weight on one of those protein milkshake diets. They’re practically new.”
“So you’re married then,” said Florabelle, starting to flirt.
“Yes.” He smiled again. “You must be, too.” He patted her stomach, hand lingering.
“No,” she said, “but Fern here is getting married soon, and we’re looking for a wedding gown. Would your wife by chance be selling hers today?”
“Congratulations,” he said, I guess to me, but looking at Florabelle, still laying on the charm.
Of the two of us, it always seemed, Florabelle attracted more men. She had a welcoming look of intent about her, always quick to warm up to strangers, while I would stand back, measuring people up. And as far as looks went, even pregnant, Florabelle had a figure that curved in all the right places, and I was as skinny as a beanpole. I was flatchested, bony at the knees and shoulders, and though there was quite a distance between them, my hipbones protruded. No one in the midwest could have a more fitting name than I did. Silver Fern. Just like the one on Momma’s kitchen table. Wide at the base, narrow at the top, with studded stems.
Florabelle’s skin was fair, much smoother than my darker, drier, quick-to-bruise, prone-to-freckling complexion. Her hair was thick and ash blond, and she could wear it in all sorts of styles. My hair was blond, too, but with more of a honey gold cast from the sun; it hung straight and limp to my waist. Momma and Aunt Hazel had once given me a Lilt perm in the basement, but it didn’t take. Aunt Hazel said it could have been defective chemicals or too large rollers, but Momma argued that it was just my bad luck to have hair as fine as a frog’s.
It wasn’t five minutes after standing there making small talk, that Frank put his arm around Florabelle, just as if he’d known her forever, and led her over to a table covered with books and record albums.
“I’m going to find Birdie,” I said, and left them alone. I squinted in the bright sun and looked around. She wasn’t in the garage, driveway, nor yard, so I figured she must already be back at the truck.
In the street out in front of the house, a boy and a girl were fighting over a bicycle for sale. Two women hollered at them from the curb, threatening to count to three and get their daddies. The boy pushed the girl down, then both kids started screaming.
As I got near the truck, I could see Birdie’s small head over the edge of the tailgate. Her hair, which was unfortunately taking on my hair’s traits already, hung over the side, tangled from the wind. She was going to need my help with the snarls later.
“Hi,” I said.
She didn’t sit up. Her eyes were shut so I thought she might be sleeping. I leaned against the side rail of the truck. I’d parked under an oak tree, and the shade felt good. I shut my eyes, too, and waited.
“I put her in the desk drawer,” said Birdie.
I turned around and looked at her, but her eyes were still shut.
“What?”
“That desk they was selling. I put her in the bottom drawer when nobody was looking and left it open some.”
I looked at the remaining pup. It was snuggled up between Birdie’s legs with its head resting on her crotch.
“Is that one there male or female?” I asked.
“Boy.” She opened her eyes. “This one’s Jimmy.”
“Jimmy,” I repeated, reached in and scratched his ears.
“He’s the smartest,” said Birdie.
“How do you know that?”
“Cause he keeps trying to hide. Climbs in the tire. He knows.”
“I wish you could keep him, Bird. But you know Daddy—”
“He should just drown Heidi. That way we won’t have to kill any more of her puppies.”
“Oh, no, Birdie, it’s not Heidi’s fault. She doesn’t understand. She just has pups because God wants her to.”
Birdie sat up, glared at me. “God don’t put no babies here just to die.”
“No, you’re right,” I said. “Just bad luck I guess.” I couldn’t think of how to explain ill fate or neglect to an eight-year-old. “Birdie,” I began, “Clem Proffit down at the station has an old retired friend who used to doctor racehorses. He would know how to fix dogs where they don’t have any more litters. Doesn’t hurt the dogs any. We’ll have Clem check into it for Heidi, see how much it costs. How’s that sound?”
Birdie moved Jimmy from her lap, set him down in a shady spot. “He’s thirsty,” she said.
“We’ll see about some water at our next stop.”
“Florie ain’t found a dress?”
“Not yet.”
Florabelle, just then, was walking back up the road, swinging her arms, carrying what looked like an old tennis racket.
Florabelle didn’t play tennis.
Birdie settled back against the tailgate. “Fern?”
“Uh-huh?”
“This thing Clem’s friend can do to dogs to make them not have babies. Can he do it to humans, too?”
“Well, yes, I suppose so. But it’s a whole different kind of thing.”
“They should do it to Florabelle.”
We rode in silence for quite a while, then about a half mile past a No Shoulders sign, I hit a pothole and Florabelle said, “So you done turned Birdie against me too, now.”
“Have not.”
“She’s being a pissant.”
“Don’t call her that.”
“She hasn’t spoke to me all day.”
“It ain’t you she’s worried about,” I said, glancing in the mirror at Birdie once more. “She named them pups, you know.”
Florabelle turned and glared at me. “I don’t see what the fuss is over them damn dogs. Nobody seems too concerned about me finding a wedding gown. Anyways, if I was Heidi, I’d be glad to be getting rid of the things, saves her from having to take care of them.” She lit another cigarette. “You see them two fighting over that bicycle back there? I wanted to smack them both. Seems like kids are always running around, getting into things, making noise and messes.” She blew smoke into the sunvisor mirror and checked her lipstick. “Frank agrees with me.”
“You shouldn’t be having that baby,” I said.
“Got to.”
The next garage sale wasn’t too far up the road from the last one. It was off a side street, right outside of Stanton. Florabelle got out first this time and said something to Birdie that I couldn’t hear.
The house wasn’t a whole lot bigger than the tool shed Daddy had built behind Grandma Trapper Feezer’s. A few pieces of furniture crowded the small yard, and dishes, pots, utensils, and toys balanced on an old cedar chest.
A girl sat alone on the front stoop. She looked about eighteen and had a small frame like mine, but petite rather than scrawny. Her hair was black and shiny, and her eyes were tiny, round, and chestnut-brown. If it weren’t that her face was so pale, she could have passed for Cherokee. Her whole complexion lacked luster, and she looked almost scared of us as we walked up.
Birdie was the first to speak. “This is Jimmy,” she said, holding up the pup, way over her own head.
Florabelle grabbed at the pup and yelled for Birdie to put it down. But Birdie quickly pulled Jimmy away from her and hugged him close. The startled pup let out a yelp and wet all over Birdie’s T-shirt. Birdie looked embarrassed.
“
It’s okay, Birdie,” I said.
The girl stood up and disappeared inside the house.
“What are you doing, Birdie?” Florabelle snapped. “Now’s she’s going to notice if we don’t leave with it.”
Birdie stared at her, not answering.
The girl came back with a towel. “Here,” she said and started wiping Birdie’s shirt off.
“I’ll do that,” I said, taking the towel.
Florabelle walked away and started looking through the stuff.
“Jimmy’s very handsome,” said the girl, squatting down to Birdie’s level. “Can I?” She gently took the pup from Birdie’s trembling hands and sat back down on the stoop. “Bloodhound, right?”
Birdie nodded.
“My Daddy raises these on his farm in Carrollton,” said the girl. “He’d be real proud if one of his turned out looking like this one.” She handed Jimmy back to Birdie.
Birdie smiled, pleased.
The girl took the damp towel from me and set it aside. She smiled up at me but didn’t speak. Her beady eyes, nearly lost in her colorless face, made me think of brown M & Ms.
Florabelle hollered from where she stood by the dishes and toys. “You got a kid?”
The girl hesitated, smile suddenly fading. “No.”
Florabelle walked over. “Whose toys then?”
“They belonged to my little boy. He died, though.”
Florabelle stared at the girl a moment. “But you’re married, right?”
Again, the girl hesitated. “No. Was for a while, but—”
“The reason my sister’s asking,” I began, glaring at Florabelle, “is because what we’re looking for is a wedding gown. For her.”
The girl stood up and walked over to the cedar chest and began taking everything off of it. Birdie followed her and helped, still holding Jimmy. They worked silently while Florabelle and I stood watching.
The girl opened the chest. “Here,” she said, lifting out a full, rustling dress. The dress was eggshell white, sack style, and although it was wrinkled, the lacework and sequins still looked good. The girl held it against her, smoothing out the creases. “This was mine,” she said, handing it to Florabelle. “It might fit you, I was bigger then. You can go inside and try it on.”
“It’s pretty,” said Florabelle, studying the detail. She took the gown into the house.
We waited by the door a few minutes, not speaking. Birdie played with Jimmy around the hedges. I gave up hope on getting rid of him here.
When Florabelle came back outside, she was smiling. The dress was a little snug around the middle of course, but because of the style being low-waisted with a sash belt, it did at least fit around her. Even with her blue sneakers and her shirt collar showing underneath, the dress looked fine. She looked real pleased with herself as she paced in front of us for approval.
“Fits,” I said and looked over at the girl for her to agree.
But she had no expression on her face whatsoever, just sat there staring at Florabelle, her eyes all glazed over as if she’d left us there, alone for a moment, to revisit something. “Looks nice,” she said at last.
“You think so?” asked Florabelle.
We nodded.
Florabelle strutted up to the girl. “Your husband die, too?” she asked, softly this time.
“No. He left.” She hesitated, looked at me as if for consent to go on. “Left when Michael was born. Married me when we found out I was pregnant, left soon as he was born. Got scared, I guess.”
Florabelle stopped pacing, considered this. “You miss him?” she asked.
“Not much.” The girl shrugged. “Just my baby.” She sat back down, head bowed.
Florabelle sat down beside her, lit a cigarette, offered one to the girl.
The girl shook her head.
“What happened to him?” asked Florabelle.
“Pneumonia. Had it bad last winter. We both had it.”
“How old was he?”
“Eight months.”
Florabelle exhaled, long and slow. “Miss him bad, huh?”
The girl frowned.
“I mean it’s not easier now, after some time’s gone by?”
“Does it look like it got easier?”
Florabelle glanced around at the few things cluttering the yard.
“Where you going?”
“Home. To my Daddy’s. Selling my things for the bus fare.”
“Can’t he pay?”
The girl looked away. “He don’t know I’m coming.”
I felt desperate, regretted even having stopped in. I was suddenly disgusted with our whole mission. “Florabelle, Birdie, let’s go.”
They both stood up. Birdie was clutching Jimmy and sobbing. I put my arm around her.
“How much you want for this gown?” asked Florabelle.
The girl puckered her lips, tilted her head to one side, calculated, candy eyes shifting. “Twenty dollars.”
I looked at Florabelle.
“We don’t have but eighteen,” she said flatly.
We’d come with twenty-five dollars that Momma and Grandma had pulled together and given to Florabelle to hold. I couldn’t imagine the tennis racket costing much more than two bucks and wondered what she’d done with the rest.
The girl looked at Birdie, who had her face buried against my legs. I could feel Jimmy’s wet nose against my thigh.
“Or,” said the girl, “you can leave me that pup.”
Birdie stiffened.
Florabelle looked down at the gown and pressed it against her swollen stomach. She dropped her cigarette, put it out with her shoe, looked up. “No deal,” she said. Then slipped the dress off over her head, balled it up, and gave it to the girl. She turned to me and fixed a stare. “That pup belongs to my little sister.” Her face was red.
I lifted the quivering pup from Birdie’s cradled arms and handed it down to the girl. I felt like a coon, stealing an egg from a bird nest.
Birdie screamed.
The girl, again, offered the dress.
Florabelle just kept her piercing eyes on me all the while.
Everyone waited while I gazed down at the ground, sweeping gravel back and forth with my foot. Birdie kept on crying. I stood motionless, looking down at the girl cradling Jimmy.
“We’re going on to Stanton,” I said, finally. “We’ll look for a dress there.”
Florabelle kicked at the driveway like a scolded child, and headed for the truck.
“He needs water,” I said to the girl. “It’s been a long ride.”
The girl shook her head. “Here,” she said, holding Jimmy out to me. “Keep him; that little girl needs him more than I do. Make her quit that crying. Anyhow, my Daddy’s got a bunch of them running around the farm for me to pick from.”
I looked at the girl. Her eyes had welled up; I could tell she was fighting an urge. One tear broke free and slid down her cheek. I held her eyes, though. M & Ms melt, I remembered, if you hold them for too long.
“Please, Fern,” pleaded Birdie, “I’ll take care of him. Please.”
I just stood there, not knowing what to do or say, thinking about the pond. It was always up to me in these circumstances, to know what to do. To have the right answer and do the right thing. No matter whose business it was, it always ended up being mine. My head hurt from hunger and the heat. My heart hurt from heaviness.
I heard the truck door open, and Florabelle came strutting back, swinging her purse, stomach way out ahead of her. She snatched Jimmy from the girl and shoved him in Birdie’s hands. “For God’s sake, Fern, will you just come on?” she hissed. “I’ll take him with me this weekend; he can stay in Jason’s backyard.” At the last minute, she opened her purse and threw two ten dollar bills down on the ground at the girl’s feet next to the wadded up dress. Then she dragged Birdie by the hand back to the truck, lifted her with great effort into the cab, got in, and slammed the door. When I didn’t come right away, she laid on the horn.
It wa
s a loud horn, loud enough to summon up a demon. And the noise blared out, declaring our offense.
At last, I said good-bye to the girl, who said absolutely nothing, just watched me with her hands clapped over her ears. She never heard me go. I never looked back.
2. Hearing Rattles
The rain finally came on the trip back to Leeco, washing away the dust. Florabelle snored the whole way. Birdie was wedged between us, holding Jimmy. We had the windows rolled up because of the rain, and the cab smelled like dog breath.
Even if we’d had enough money left, we wouldn’t have been able to find a dress. It was late, the sky was clouding up, and as we drove back through town, people had their garage doors closed and were out taking their signs down off the telephone poles.
Florabelle had finally admitted to having two dollars and fifty cents left in change, and we’d stopped for some burgers at a White Castle. Then I’d run into Ewen’s Grocery and bought a six-pack of Almond Joys for me and Birdie. Later, my stomach felt full and bloated from the burgers; I wondered if that was the way Florabelle’s felt all the time, except without the grease.
“Is Daddy going to shoot Jimmy once he sees him?” asked Birdie.
“No, he won’t see him,” I said, looking down at her. “Florabelle’s promised to empty out the sewing basket in our room and hide him in there until Friday when she moves out.”
Birdie stuck her thumb in her mouth and sucked hard.
“Cut that out,” I said. “You want buck teeth?”
“I don’t want Daddy to kill Jimmy.”
I looked down at the chubby brown pup. “Birdie, quit thinking about it,” I said, but I couldn’t help worrying about it, too. “Jimmy will be okay,” I said, patting his head.
We were nearly two or three miles from home, and I turned on the brights so I wouldn’t miss our turn. I didn’t get out driving much, except for the tractor mower around the yard, though I always wished for a car of my own. A convertible. I’d always had a thing for cars and enjoyed working on them down at Clem’s.
I drove slowly through the darkness. We lived on four acres owned by the Tennessee Gas Company where Daddy worked. Our backyard dropped down into a hollow, and at the bottom of it was a pump that Daddy was paid extra to watch.
Natural Bridges Page 2
