July 7th

by Jill McCorkle

  “I’m on my way,” Fannie yells.

  It was a hold-up. He remembers stretching out in the grass beside that building, remembers staring at that light in front of the store where moths were gathering, remembers the bells ringing, remembers he was thinking of M&M’s, remembers seeing all that bread land on the sidewalk, slice after slice of bread that reminded him of the ants in the gutter, going after the bread, but he had been too tired to think about it; he had closed his eyes; he had taken a nap.

  “Here you are.” Corky hands Fannie her purse and a green dress wrapped in plastic.

  “You do what Corky says, baby.” Fannie kisses M. L. on the cheek and then heads down the steps. That boy is already back in on his side and has the car cranked and the radio blasting. Fannie gets in the car and Sam Swett suddenly bounds up and runs down to close the door for her. He waits while she gets her skirt in and folds that dress in the plastic just right. He has seen that boy before; he had seen him dump out a whole loaf of bread.

  “Thank you, Sam,” Fannie says and makes him jump. He closes the door and watches them drive away, rubs his head.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Corky asks, and he shakes his head. If he could just remember for sure. If he could just take a little nap, maybe he could remember better, or maybe he’d forget all over again. He has done this before, remembered something that happened when he was drunk when he was drunk again but forgetting it while he was sober.

  “Who was that in the car?” He weaves a little and sits down on the sidewalk, takes her hand and pulls her down beside him, almost pulls her on top of him.

  “Don’t do that with M. L. right here,” she whispers and sits up straight, glances up on the porch where M. L. is running back and forth, tossing that monkey up in the air and catching it.

  “I didn’t mean to,” he says and grabs her arm tighter. “Who was that?”

  “His last name’s Foster. He’s the son of the people that Fannie works for.” She takes his hand off of her arm because he’s hurting her. “Why?”

  “I’ve seen him before.” He gets right up in her face and whispers. His breath just about knocks her out, might have to lend her toothbrush to him if he plans on kissing her later on.

  “So?”

  “Do you know him?”

  “Nope.” Her eyes look so blank right now, so dull and blank. “Fannie can’t stand him cause she says he’s spoiled rotten.” She shrugs and pulls up a piece of grass, makes a tiny slit and tries to whistle through it. “I never did learn to do this, did you?” He shakes his head. “Chip could do it real good. He could whistle with his fingers, too.”

  “Why doesn’t Fannie like that boy?”

  “I told you, he’s spoiled and too, he’s a troublemaker.” She glances back on the porch to make sure that M. L. is still up there playing and not getting dirty. “Well, nobody knows for certain but when the church was all messed up, rumor was that that boy and two others did it. Nobody ever found out for sure, but Fannie said she could believe him doing such a thing.”

  “What did they do.” Now he is in her face again, those brown eyes wide open, darting back and forth like he might be crazy.

  “I can’t even say it was so bad.” She leans back so that he won’t be breathing right in her face.

  “Please, tell me.” He leans toward her again and she thinks he’d crawl right up on top of her and hold her there like Chip used to do if she gave him half a chance.

  “Okay, but sit up,” she says, and he does. He sticks his little finger in his ear and jiggles it around to make sure he can hear good. “They wrote all this bad stuff on the walls, bad words, you know. They did it with spray paint and so the church had to be repainted, then they,” she looks away. “They did something filthy there on the altar.”

  “What?”

  “Well, I’ll tell you this much, they got it from messing with themselves, you know?’

  “God, that’s sick.” He squints his eyes, jiggles his ear again. “And that boy did that?”

  “Well, it wasn’t proven. Everybody figured that those boys’ daddys paid somebody off, might have paid to redo the church, you know?”

  “God, my father would’ve probably killed me and turned me in.” He remembers suddenly the time that he took a tape from K-Mart’s, one lousy Eagles tape and he didn’t even get caught. But he couldn’t hack the pressure, he told his father what he had done. His father had slapped him in the face, driven him to K-Mart’s, made him go up to the register and confess there in front of everyone. He was in high school, for God’s sake, and his father was standing right there behind him, forcing him to confess, forcing him to pay for the tape. He had begged for forgiveness on his own. The woman smacking gum behind the counter had not accepted the apology; she had just rung up the tape and smacked her gum.

  “You never know,” Corky says and he looks back at her quickly. “Your Daddy might have thought you deserved another chance, you know?” She leans her head to one side, a small sprig of hair blowing right near her eye. “Still, though, everybody else was hoping that they’d catch who did it.”

  “I saw that boy last night,” he says and grabs her hand, this time not as tightly so that she will let him hold it; he needs to hold it. “I saw him at the Quik Pik. I was outside of the store; I was sick and now I remember that car, the same car, pulling up and I remember seeing that bread fall out of the wrapper.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “He did it.” Sam gets on his knees now and moves from side to side. “I tell you I think he did it!” He can’t keep himself still now. He feels like he needs to start moving again. “You got anything to drink?”

  “Are you sure? Are you positive that you saw him?” She sits up straight again, those gray eyes opened wide, her mouth dropped open, those full lips. “I mean you’re sure?” He nods faster and faster; he jiggles his ear. He has never felt this way before.

  Juanita has got her Tammy Wynette album turned up about as high as it will go so that she can hear it while she’s taking her bubble bath. Stand by your man. She lathers her legs up real good so that she can get a close shave. She has done electrolysis on part of her legs, and probably in about five years will finish them up. She will probably be the only woman on the face of the earth who always has smooth silky legs, who never has her nylons catch on a stubble. She just does it a little at the time because it is a skill-requiring, lengthy process.

  “Mother! Can I turn that record off?” Patricia is outside of the bathroom door.

  “Sure, honey,” Juanita yells, even though she would really like to go right on listening to Tammy instead of those Talking Heads. She knows that’s what Patricia’s going to play, too. Imagine, calling yourselves the Talking Heads. Still, Juanita wants to do everything in her power to make up to Patricia, to see if she can make it to where Patricia won’t be ashamed of her. Juanita finishes shaving her legs and lets the water start draining out of the tub. She likes to sit there until all the bubbles gather around the drain, and then she turns on the shower and just stays there like she might be stretched out in the rain. It is invigorating and exhilarating. That’s what she always told Harold when he told her that was a stupid thing to do and she likes those two words so much, invigorating and exhilarating, that’s how she feels right this second, especially now that her skin is all tingly and red where she has rubbed good and hard with her loofah sponge. She gets out and puts on her robe without even drying off just like they always do in the movies, and it does feel good to air dry sometimes.

  Patricia is sitting in that lounge chair with her legs thrown over one arm. She is reading Seventeen, listening to the Talking Heads and eating a Milky Way all at the same time. That chocolate ain’t good for her face and Juanita has to near about bite her own tongue to keep from saying it. Harold, Jr., is on the floor playing himself a game of checkers. Juanita loves to watch him do that, the way that hell move around that board from side to side. He writes down on a piece of paper “me” and “I” an
d then he keeps track of how many games he wins.

  “Where’s Petie?” Juanita asks and fluffs her hair.

  “Her Daddy came and got her.” Harold, Jr., jumps himself two in a row.

  “Well, why didn’t you tell me?” she asks. “I would have liked to have congratulated him. Besides, we could have run Petie home.”

  “Well, he got her.” Patricia looks up from her magazine as if she is the Queen of Sheba and has just been interrupted.

  “What’s for dinner, Mom?” Harold, Jr., asks and makes a mark on his little score pad.

  “Ribs!” She goes into the kitchen, stopping in the doorway. “Your Daddy’s favorite.” She stands there grinning and waiting for them to say something.

  “Dad’s coming?” Harold, Jr., asks and runs into the kitchen.

  “Yes sir. He’s coming home.” Juanita presses her robe up against her leg where there is some water dripping down. Maybe she should have dried off a little.

  “Oh great.” Patricia throws down her magazine. “So y’all can finish your fighting?”

  “No ma’am.” Juanita goes back into the living room. “So we can work things out between us.”

  “You mean he’s going to come back after what you did?”

  Juanita is so tempted to go over there and slap Patricia’s face again, but she stops herself. Why on earth is that child doing this to her?

  “We both made some mistakes,” Juanita says and steps closer.

  “But I didn’t” Patricia balls up that Milky Way wrapper and tosses it toward the trashcan. It misses and she doesn’t even get up to get it. “I haven’t done anything at all, but I have to put up with it.”

  “I’m sorry, too.” Juanita goes over and stands right beside Patricia’s chair. “I never wanted to hurt anybody.” She touches Patricia who jerks away. “I love you; I love all of you.”

  “Then why did you do it?” Patricia stands up. “Why did you …” She glances over at Harold, Jr., and stops short. At least she cares enough about him not to tell everything that she knows.

  “I don’t know why. If I knew that then I wouldn’t have done it.” Juanita feels like she might cry right now and Patricia looks away from her. “I had some problems, honey. I just wasn’t myself.” Juanita steps closer. Patricia goes and picks up her magazine and then puts that wrapper in the trash. Juanita watches her slouch off down the hall.

  “He’s here!” Harold, Jr., screams and runs out the front door. She hears Harold, Jr., squeal and she knows without even looking that Harold has picked him up and swung him around.

  “Come on in,” she yells as if Harold had never even been here before. “I’ll be dressed in a minute!” She rushes off to the bedroom and puts on her stretch jeans and a full loose blouse, one that Harold picked out for her all by himself one time. She leans her head over and brushes all her hair forward, so that when she slings it back it will be full and bushy, the way that Harold likes it. She looks at herself in the full length mirror and she does look good. Harold cannot help but notice how good she really does look. She sprays a little Aviance on herself and for a second catches herself wishing that she had some of that fancy cologne for herself right now. Harold likes Aviance, though; he always liked that commercial where the woman says, “I can bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan.” Juanita moves her hips in front of the mirror just the way that that woman always did. Her heart is going a mile a minute, like this might be her first date or something. She knocks on Patricia’s door when she passes by. “Your Daddy’s here, honey,” she says, and Patricia doesn’t even answer.

  “Hi, Harold,” she says. “I hope ribs sound good to you.”

  “That’s fine,” he says and goes to the refrigerator and gets himself a beer.

  “I might have one of those, Harold,” she says and he pops open another one and hands it to her. “Do you want a glass for yours?”

  “Now, when have I ever used a glass?”

  “I didn’t know, thought I’d ask is all.” She smiles great big but Harold doesn’t. He goes over to his lounge chair and rears it all the way back. “Cut on the sports station,” he says to Harold, Jr. “And cut off that stereo.” Harold, Jr., goes right over and does both of those things. It is just like old times.

  “Here’s some chips and dip,” Juanita says. “You sit here and rest and I’ll do the grilling.”

  “Why don’t you cut it out, Juanita?” he asks, right when Patricia comes into the room.

  “What?” Juanita smiles great big and tosses her hair from side to side.

  “This act you’re putting on. I’m here to eat, here in my own house, and you’re acting like I’m a guest.”

  “I thought you were here to stay.”

  “Maybe, haven’t decided.” He takes a big swallow of his beer. He is going to give her a hard row to hoe. He leans his head back in the chair and closes his eyes. He’s just going to take a little nap and let her sweat it out for awhile. She got herself all fixed up and he knows she’s dying for a compliment, fishing for one. Juanita always has fished for compliments if you didn’t give them to her.

  “Tricia, will you help me?”

  “Why are you calling me that all of a sudden?”

  “You said that’s what you wanted to be called,” Juanita says, and looks over at Harold. He has one eye open.

  “Why in the hell would she want to be called that?” he asks.

  “She doesn’t like her name as it is.”

  “I didn’t say that,” Patricia wails and grunts.

  “I’m sorry, I thought that you did.” Juanita goes over and gets herself a chip and dip. Harold is not even touching them. “Will you help me?”

  “I said that I might want to change my name,” she says. “What do I have to do?”

  “Well, you don’t have to do anything, honey. I thought you might help me with the salad.” Harold sits up and stares at Juanita. She is acting crazy all the way around. “I thought we might use the good china this evening.”

  “Why in the hell would you put ribs on good china?” Now Harold has pushed his recliner back down and Juanita doesn’t even answer him. She comes over and runs her finger over the tear in that chair. “I declare we’ve got to patch this old thing up, maybe get a new one.”

  “This one is fine. Who the hell are you expecting, the Reagans?”

  “I’ve been thinking that I might want to redo this room” Juanita puts her hands on her hips and looks around the room. “Maybe paint the walls white or off-white, you know, something sophisticated. I might get new drapes and a whole new set of furniture.”

  “Is that what this is all about?” Harold looks at her but she is going around the room now, stepping back and looking at everything from ceiling to floor. “You want me to come back so you can get some money?”

  “No, Harold. I’ve just been thinking lately that we haven’t done a thing to the house in years and you know, Tricia will be having dates before too long.”

  “So what?” Harold gets up and follows her around the room.

  “Well, we want our home to look nice when her friends stop by, now don’t we?” She stops and looks at Harold. “I mean things like that are important when you’re young and entertaining.”

  “I hadn’t noticed anybody knocking the door down,” he says, and then looks over at Patricia. She is staring down at her feet. “Of course, I’m sure they will be” he adds. God, now Juanita’s got him acting crazy.

  Juanita loops her arms through Harold’s and he lets it stay there. “I mean sometimes you just have to have something new to make you feel better. I mean just the other day I came this close to buying me and you and Harold, Jr., some of those shirts that everybody wears with the alligator.”

  “Those fox shirts that I wear are just as good,” Harold says, but Juanita shakes her head slightly at him and keeps right on going.

  “You know with Patricia going to the high school, she’ll need some new things, especially if she makes flag girl.” Now, Patricia’s mout
h is wide open.

  “Why are you saying it like that? like Patricia instead of Pa-tree-sia. You said when she was born that that was the prettiest name you could come up with.”

  “I did say that, Harold, but you know that name is hard for people to pronounce, and what’s more, when it’s spelled out it looks just like Patricia.” She looks over at Patricia. “Right, honey?” she asks and Patricia nods. “Don’t you remember P. R. Riley, Harold and how his Daddy meant to name him Pierre but always said P. R.?” Harold nods and starts to say something but she doesn’t give him the damn chance. “You know, P. R. was embarrassed by his name and it made him ashamed of his Daddy cause he thought people would make fun. Now we don’t want our Patricia being ashamed of us now do we, heaven knows we’ve already caused her enough heartache.” Juanita shakes her head back and forth, the tears springing to her eyes all of a sudden. Harold would like to know what in the hell this is all about and where Juanita thinks all this money she’s talking about spending is going to come from, when one look at Harold, Jr., and them rabbit teeth of his would tell you that that boy is going to be in bad need of braces one of these days soon.

  “Hey Mama, want me to sing it now?” Harold, Jr., asks and Juanita shakes her head back and forth.

  “Sing what, son?” Harold asks.

  “Nothing, Harold. He was thinking he might sing a song he learned just recently.”

  “I learned it off of Mama’s Wayne Newton record,” Harold, Jr., says and smiles great big. He is so proud of himself.

  “What did you learn?” Harold asks, and can’t help but laugh to see him standing there, those dirty hands on his hips like he might be all grown up.

  “Goes like this,” he says and throws back his shoulders, opens his mouth.

  “Not now, honey,” Juanita says. “Not while we’re talking about the redecorations.”

  “Let him sing,” Harold says. “God knows, it’s nice to see somebody that feels like singing for a change. Go ahead, son.”