We Five

by Mark Dunn

  “I’m sure everything will work out fine,” said Ruth, as she stepped over to her “aunt” to give her a kiss on the cheek.

  “Unless there’s a tornado,” fretted Lucille, “in which case we’ll get to watch you fly away like Dorothy Gale.”

  Mobry nodded. “You two remember when the big one touched down about a mile up the road? You recollect how much trouble we had getting Lucius out of that trailer and down into the basement?”

  “Well, you don’t have to worry about me,” said Ruth. “I’ll be camped out in the basement long before the Weather Channel even puts up the Doppler radar. Me and my good friend, Little Debbie.” Ruth moistened her lips, visions of Swiss Cake Rolls and Oatmeal Creme Pies now dancing impudently in her head.

  The Lucius of above mention was Lucius Redder. He’d been CGS’s building custodian since the church was founded by the Reverend and his sister in 1962. The siblings couldn’t pay him much but allowed him to live rent-free in the house trailer, which Mobry had bought at an estate sale and which he’d docked permanently in the backyard. Lucius had died in his sleep about six months earlier—right before Mobry’s retirement. No one knew how old he was, but Ruth guessed he’d reached at least ninety before he passed. Her friend Molly thought he was even older than that: “I think he was born into slavery.”

  Molly said this with a straight face and nobody corrected her. “Molly isn’t stupid,” Jane had once remarked to the others. “She just doesn’t know very much.”

  “This’ll work nicely,” said Lucille Mobry a few days later. She was standing inside the old trailer and giving it a good looking-over the way interior decorators do. “It needs a little fixin’ up, I’ll give you that, but Herb and I have a lot of time on our hands now. He can wedge those bed legs so you don’t roll off in your sleep, and I can sew you some nice new café curtains and re-cover this old couch. And I’ll get you a bunch of lavender sachets that’ll remove the old-man smell.”

  “Don’t go to too much trouble, Aunt Lucille. I can do most of those things myself.”

  “But I want to, honey-girl. And just think: you can sit out here and read in peace and quiet. You won’t have to listen to all those shows Herb and I watch now, which we never had time for before, like that funny Moesha, who looks like Stelloise’s girl Jerline, or that show where Rob Petrie is a doctor who solves crimes, but his wife Laura is nowhere to be found.”

  “The television never bothered me,” said Ruth simply, thinking distractedly of what she was going to do with the big armchair next to the door with the batting coming out of it.

  Jane Higgins was standing on the concrete pad outside the door to Ruth’s trailer. Ruth held the door open for her.

  “Where are the others?” she asked, craning her neck to see around Jane.

  “Mags’ car went into a ditch.”

  “Is she all right? Was anybody with her?”

  “She’d just picked up Molly and Carrie. It happened over by Carrie’s house. Everybody’s fine. The road had some ice on it and she just slid right in.”

  “What are they gonna do?”

  “Well, Molly’s daddy can’t drive us to the casino because his car’s in the shop with a distributor problem, and Mrs. Hale was already on her way up to Memphis for a doctor’s appointment, so Mags got the idea of calling the casino to see if they could send over one of their courtesy vans to pick us up. And guess what? They said they would.”

  Ruth sighed. “Couldn’t we just see the new insurance man some other day—like maybe one of the nights we’re all waitressing?”

  Jane shook her head. “The meeting is for everybody—that means all the employees of Lucky Aces. Ms. Touliatis isn’t gonna make that insurance man drive all the way back down to make a second presentation for just five cocktail waitresses.”

  Ruth acquiesced with a nod. “Why do we even need medical insurance anyway?”

  “Because one of these days Mags just might drive us all into the Mississippi River and we’ll probably have to get our lungs pumped out.” Jane looked around the trailer. “I like what you’ve done with this stinky ol’ place.”

  “I haven’t done half the things I want to. I did put up those curtains. Lucille helped me. I don’t know anything about curtains. I should have asked Carrie to be my ‘aesthetic advisor.’”

  “Whatever the hell that is, I’m sure she would’ve been glad to do it. Carrie’s so cultured. Do you know what Lyle said about Carrie? I don’t go quoting my brother very often because most of what comes out of his mouth is drunken garbage, but this one was funny. He said Carrie and her mother had such high airs they probably shitted divinity.”

  Ruth’s mouth wasn’t doing what Jane’s mouth was doing; only one of the two friends was smiling. “What does he mean: ‘divinity’?”

  “Divinity! Like pecan divinity. Like what you get at Stuckey’s.”

  “Oh, you mean candy.”

  “But divinity candy. That’s the joke. You know: divinity’s white and shit is—oh, just forget it.” Jane rolled her eyes and groaned. “It spoils everything when I have to explain jokes to you. You’re getting as bad as Molly.”

  “Maybe it’s because I’ve been living with a minister and his sister all these years. When I hear the word ‘divinity’ I don’t usually think of candy.”

  “Well, thank you for letting me know I’ll have to start tailoring my jokes to your personal life experience.”

  Ruth stared at her friend. “Why are you such a sourpuss this morning?”

  “I’m not a sourpuss. On the other hand, I was in a slightly better mood before your Aunt Lucille made a crack about my handbag. You must have told her I got it from Second-Hand Roseanne.”

  “When was this? You mean just now?”

  Jane nodded. “When I was coming through the house. Now why do I have to come through their house when I’m here to visit you? Can’t I just come around the house without having to pass Go and collect two hundred insults?”

  “Oh stop it, Jane. Whatever she said, I know she didn’t mean it the way you heard it. Lucille wouldn’t even know how to insult a person if she tried.”

  “She insults me. She calls me her ‘sister-in-spinsterhood,’ her ‘bosom bachelorette.’ Why does she think I’m never gonna get married? I’ll tell you why she thinks that—because she thinks I’m ugly. That’s what she thinks. That we’re two ‘sisters-in-ugliness.’ Do you know how offensive that is? Especially since you’re the one who never wanted a ticket on the marriage train.”

  Jane sat down on the couch.

  “These shoes are hurting me already. They’re new. I don’t know what I was thinking.” She kicked off one of the shoes and began to rub her foot.

  “Do you want to wear one of my pairs?”

  “What size do you wear? I can’t remember.”

  “Eight.”

  “I’m a ten, but thanks anyway. Does Lucille know you’re a lesbian?”

  “I’m sure she’s figured it out.”

  “But you’ve never told her? Or the Reverend?”

  “No, but they have to know. They never ask me why I don’t date. And they see some of the books I read. I’m sure they’re okay with it. So, you’re sure the courtesy van’s gonna swing by to get us too?”

  “That’s what Mags said. Isn’t it nice how things work out? Like the way Ms. Colthurst is letting us all work the day shift so we don’t have to go all the way home and then have to come right back again tonight.”

  “It would be nice, Jane, except for the fact that we hardly ever get good tips on the day shift. From nine in the morning till five in the afternoon it’s just a bunch of stingy old farts who hog the nickel slots and drink up as many free Diet Pepsis as their bladders’ll hold.”

  “Whoo boy! There’s a Ruth Thrasher I don’t see very often.” Jane ran her hand along the fabric of the couch. She sniffed the air. “Did somebody pee on this sofa?”

  “I think Lucius had a dog for a while.”

  “Let’s hope he had a d
og. Aren’t these colors wild? How old is this trailer house of yours?”

  “Ancient. I didn’t mean what I said about those old people. I like old people. I guess I just prefer old people like the ones who go to CGS—people who are trying to make the world a better place—not the ones who just sit at slot machines until all their organs shut down.”

  “I know that, honey. I also know that going to that church has given you a big ol’ conscience. I depend on your conscience, since sometimes I can’t find where I put mine. That comes from having a brother it’s so easy to want dead. First tortured with acid and then dropped off a bridge.”

  “Jane, have you ever once thought something and then not said it?”

  “All the time. Like all morning I’ve been thinking of how much I’m gonna enjoy getting the night off. Lyle’s doing something with his friends tonight, and I’ll have the apartment all to myself for a change. I plan to take a sudsy bubble bath with scented candles all around and sip white wine like somebody in the movies. And there’ll be no Lyle to come banging on the door and tell me to please feed him, like he’s a helpless baby chick waiting for his worms. I thought I might ask if I could move in with you, Ruth, since we’re the only ones of the five of us who aren’t abnormally attached to a parent.”

  “Because we don’t have parents,” Ruth superfluously interjected.

  “Well, duh, yeah. But now that I’ve gotten myself a good look at this place, it’s really small.”

  “You’re right. It is pretty small. But I’d have you for a roommate in a New York minute if it wasn’t. You know that Mags’ mother and Molly’s father might be getting married, right?”

  “Yeah, I’d heard that. Mrs. Barton will be saving a ton on chiropractic services and all those holistic teas and things Doc Osborne sells. Do you have any coffee?”

  “No. Do you want me to get you a cup from the house?”

  “What? And give your opinionated Aunt Lucille a chance to say something new about how sucky my chances are of getting a husband? I don’t know why she has it in for me.”

  “I think she means well, Jane. She just can’t overlook those things the two of you have in common.”

  “Excuse me, Ruth Thrasher, but I have absolutely nothing in common with your shriveled-up old Aunt Lucille!”

  “Now who’s talking smack about old people?”

  “Who’s that guy walking up to the trailer?”

  “By the look of his livery uniform, I’d say he’s the courtesy van driver from Lucky Aces.”

  “That was fast.”

  “I think he must be picking us up first. Put your shoes on.”

  The man seemed more boy than man. He looked like a college kid. Very well groomed and nice-featured. Big lips, though. Mick Jagger lips. He introduced himself as Tom. Full name: Tom Katz.

  In the van, Tom, now seated behind the wheel, said that his father had a sense of humor.

  “Katz is a Jew name,” said Jane, seating herself right behind their young, good-looking driver. “Are you Jewish?”

  “First, Jews don’t generally like it when you use the word ‘Jew’ as an adjective, although I don’t think you meant anything by it.”

  “Oh I didn’t mean anything at all. I like Jews. Especially the ones who give me the giggles like on Seinfeld.”

  “Well, as it so happens, I’m not Jewish. I mean, technically. Although my father’s Jewish. Hence the name. But to be Jewish your mother has to be Jewish and my mother was a Pillsbury. Not one of the baking company Pillsburys, but the Greenville, Mississippi, Pillsburys. Though ironically, Mama did go to the Pillsbury bake-off one year before she married my father, but they wouldn’t let her compete because they were afraid people would think things were rigged if she’d won. The good thing was that she got one hundred dollars anyway just for showing up and being a good sport, and everybody liked her cobbler and didn’t even guess it had brandy in it.”

  “You’re a good driver,” said Jane. “You handled yourself on that ice patch in a very fruity way. You know: ‘with a plum.’”

  Ruth rolled her eyes.

  “A plum?” asked Tom, addressing Jane through the rearview mirror.

  “Jane only tells jokes that have to be explained,” shouted Ruth from the rear of the van. “In my opinion, they stop being jokes at that point and just become a nuisance.”

  Jane emitted a low growl. “What I was trying to say, Ruth, is that I notice he hasn’t spun us into a ditch like some people we know and love.”

  “Yeah,” said Tom. “They did put us through a little mini training course. But it was mostly about how to treat our passengers—you know, how to lay the Southern hospitality on real thick, since a bunch of Lucky Aces employees are coming from other parts of the country where rudeness is the order of the day. My four buddies and me—as it happens: we’re locals. We just graduated from Ole Miss last year, so we know all about Dixie manners.”

  Jane looked as if she was merely feigning interest, but she was actually genuinely engaged in what Tom was saying and couldn’t help it that her face didn’t register sincerity convincingly. “You graduated from college and now you’re working for a casino?”

  “Just till the end of the summer. We all thought it would be nice to get ourselves a taste of the real world before going on to law school.”

  “You’re all going to be lawyers?”

  “Well, four of us. Pardlow wants to be a legal historian. He wants to write about the law and go on Court TV and CNN and say shit like—sorry. Say stuff like, ‘Well, you know, Wolf, this isn’t the first time a man has been charged with killing his whole family with a fireplace poker. That would be the People of Ohio versus Billy Pokeman back in 1923.’ Anyway, I mention my buddies because we’ve been watching the five of you since we started working at the casino a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Oh, you have?” Jane raised her eyebrows for the benefit of Ruth, the way people in sitcoms do to show wry, shared interest.

  Tom nodded. “And we were wonderin’ if any of you were seeing anybody. I mean, we haven’t noticed any guys hanging out at the casino who looked like they might know you.”

  Jane laughed. “You mean since you don’t see any guys who might be our boyfriends, that means we don’t have any?”

  “Yeah. Well, yeah.”

  “Well, we don’t have any boyfriends,” Ruth blurted. “And some of us aren’t even in the market for boyfriends.”

  “Just one-night stands,” Tom Katz let fly.

  Jane mimed drumsticking a snare. “Ba-bum-bum! Does your Pillsbury Dough Mama know her little Jewboy talks like this?”

  Tom locked eyes with Jane through the rearview mirror. “Not to get too P.C. on you here, but Jewish men don’t generally like it when you put the word ‘boy’ after the word ‘Jew.’”

  “I was just funning you.”

  Ruth interjected sourly, “Why don’t you explain to Mr. Katz just how that was funny?”

  “Oh why don’t you just hush up, Ruth?”

  Tom tried to get the conversation back on track: “I guess what I’m tryin’ to say is that we all—my four friends and me—we’re gettin’ a little hard up for some decent female companionship. And ya’ll are the only ladies anywhere near our age in skuzzy Casino Land who don’t look like they used to be strippers or drug addicts, or’ve been out there spreading STDs around since junior high school.”

  Jane’s mouth fell open. Ruth rolled her eyes again and tried to find something distracting out the window to take her attention away from the conversation.

  “You’re awfully disgusting,” replied Jane, with a casualness to her delivery that belied the harsh sentiment, “and awfully picky, considering you drive a courtesy van for a living.” Jane punctuated her observation with a flirty wink directed toward the van’s rearview mirror.

  “Nothing wrong with being picky even while you’re slummin’,” replied Tom. “Anyway, if I can get all your phone numbers, then I’ll divvy them up between the guys, and we’ll all do
something together. Some nice, safe, ‘break-the-ice’ group activity.”

  “Count me out,” said Ruth, under her breath. She was looking at a cotton field, the plants not yet plowed under. Little white bolls polka-dotted the landscape like dandruff.

  “I tell you what I’ll do,” said Jane, sounding like a used-car salesman. “I’ll give you my phone number. You can probably get it easy anyway. It’s in the book under ‘Higgins Antiques.’ And I’ll talk to my friends—including Ruth here, who I’m sure would be up for anyplace where she can get fried catfish or hot tamales or ribs. Ain’t that right, Ruth?”

  “You act like I’m a shark that just has to eat all the time,” said Ruth, still looking out the window.

  Jane ignored this. “Anyway, Mr. Katz, I’ll let you know how I did when you call.”

  “Sounds like a good plan,” said Tom. “You’ll like my friends.”

  “You mean even though they’re clearly ‘slummin’ to be with us?”

  “I shouldn’t have said that. They’re good guys. And they know you’re good girls.”

  “What does that mean: ‘good girls’? Maybe you haven’t noticed, but we all work as cocktail waitresses in a casino.”

  Tom laughed. “We won’t hold that against you.”

  Ruth groaned again, this time quite audibly.

  Chapter Six

  Tulleford, England, August 1859

  Tom Catts and his four friends, all of whom worked at the Tulleford Cotton Mill, took their luncheon in the High Road. At six or seven minutes past the matutinal hour of eleven o’clock from Monday through Friday (luncheons were not taken on Saturday half-holidays), the five men placed themselves side-by-side upon the long bench which had been installed by Mr. Crawdon to accommodate those who came to have their shoes repaired in his shop. Sometimes there was a lady or gent waiting upon the bench for the heel of a top boot to be mended or a blucher to be revamped. But this person would not reside there for very long after the importunate arrival of Tom and his fellow millhands, for their intercourse was noisy and roistering, and their slovenly workingmen’s dress—oily and cotton-fibre-dusted fustian—was equally difficult to bear, especially if one was not disposed to affiliate with those of ill-bred behaviour and disreputable appearance. As the men would laugh and jostle one another whilst clanking their lunch buckets and clinking their tin cups, the customer would be crowded and crushed to the point of removing him or herself to another precinct—perhaps the bench in front of the blacksmith’s shed or the one before the linen-draper’s concern, or even the fishmonger’s shop (where the fragrance of fish was only slightly less insulting to the nostrils as that of working men bearing the stench of grease and metal-and-spindle-lubricating mineral oils about their persons).