A Southern Place (15 page)

Delores sucked her drink down to the bottom, then turned back the glass for the ice chips. Gazing at the dance floor, she noticed how none of the guys seemed as fluid as Phil. And though a few of the girls were perky and cheerleader-like or could move their hips to appear almost naked, none of them were that great either. She imagined the picture she and Phil had made, dancing, and she liked the image she superimposed between the gyrating bodies. They had looked good, she knew they had.
And the more we dance, we’ll just get better.

Delores headed for the line that must lead to the ladies’ room. She felt a swoon of delight and confidence she hadn’t felt in a long time. Inside the restroom, she realized she didn’t need to use the facilities, but took the opportunity to wet a paper towel and cool off her face and neck. Other girls at the mirror were re-applying heavy coats of eyeliner and rouge, and she wondered why. In the humid nightclub, it all ended up beneath their eyes, giving them a ringed raccoon look. She looked at her homemade dress, comparing it to the trashy pencil skirts, the childish poodle skirts, and tight sweaters around her. Hers
was
a classy dress, as nice now as two years ago when she made it.

The head-swinging blonde was there, taking down the ponytail, then leaning over and brushing her hair upside down. Delores liked the way it looked and decided to do it, too. Taking her own brush from her purse, she leaned over, her head almost touching her knees, and vigorously brushed her hair. Then she stood up quickly, snapping her head so that her hair fell back and away from her face. The result was astounding—brushing her hair had removed any tangles and made it glossy and shiny, but the simple slinging of her head gave it a windblown and careless appearance. It was sexy, effortlessly sexy. Pulling the hair away from her face showed off her clear skin and sparkling eyes, free of the aging make-up seen on other faces. She took her single lipstick from the pocket of her purse and touched up her mouth, then smiled at her reflection. She wanted the night to last a long time.

When she returned to her seat, Phil was sipping seltzer water, with another Coke drink beside it, and two such drinks at her spot. She took a long pull on her drink, then noticed that Phil was staring at her. Staring and smiling. It gave her a giddy feeling but also a sense of power. She took another pull, set down her glass but remained standing.

The drummer sang, beckoning them to come on over where there was shaking going on.“Wanna dance?” she asked.

Phil grinned, stood, grabbed her hand and pulled her to the floor.

They danced until the band broke, shagging and jitterbugging and inventing their own combinations to “All Shook Up” and “Great Balls of Fire” and “Shake, Rattle and Roll.” They ran to the table and downed the rest of their drinks, making it back to clown through Fats Domino’s “I’m Walkin’” then fall into each other’s arms for “Only You.” Her face against his white shirt, Delores felt the wet heat of his chest soaking through to her cheek, his breath cool against her neck as he lifted her hair and nuzzled there.

There were smells—smoke and liquor and all kinds of sprays, lotions, colognes and body odors—that made up the big picture, but the close-up and personal smells of just
Phil and Delores stayed securely in their own little space, an invisible box that wrapped around them and put them in a tiny world of their own. Delores was drenched in sweat yet didn’t feel dirty. She saw no one familiar yet didn’t feel lonely. She was in a place of which her mama would
not
have approved, yet it was all right. She wasn’t doing anything wrong, and she was a grown woman on a real date. It all felt different because it
was
different, like the next part of her life was finally starting to happen. And it had definitely been worth waiting for.

“I can hardly breathe in here,” Phil said, covering his mouth as he cleared his throat. “Want to go outside and get some air before the band comes back?”

“Sounds wonderful,” Delores admitted, waiting for him to stand and then following his lead. As the pushing crowd almost separated them, she brazenly put her hand on his shoulder, feeling the eyes of those watching as they maneuvered towards the front.

Reaching the entrance, Delores realized that Phil had brought his glass of ice water with him. He took a plastic cup from a stack at the door and poured his drink into it. She wished she had brought hers as well, but not bad enough to fight the crowd back to their table.

“I’ll share,” Phil said. Outside, leaning against the car, he held the cup to her lips. The unexpected bitterness startled her.

“Not fond of quinine?” he asked. “It’s an acquired taste. Call me weird, but I love the taste of Alka-Seltzer, as well.”

“No, thanks,” said Delores, “Though the coldness of it almost makes the bitter part okay.”

“Well, let’s make the most of the part you like. Allow me,” he said, taking a single ice cube and setting the drink on the hood of his car. Holding the cube between his thumb and forefinger, he traced Delores’s lips once, twice. She felt a cool, thin line of water dribble to her chin. He followed the dripping line down her chin, down her neck.

She could not stifle her shiver as the melting cube continued down her neck toward the cleft between her breasts, but Phil smoothly diverted the line to her right shoulder, then her left, and her right again, drawing a cool and delicate necklace on her skin. When the water touched fabric, it seemed to dry completely before filtering through the cloth. Phil lifted her hair in the back, drug the quickly shrinking ice chip to complete the necklace, then drew a straight line between her shoulder blades as it disintegrated in a wet vapor.

His hand still holding her hair, he asked, “Still bitter?”

“No, perfect,” she said, looking into the eyes of the man who had given her the first night of a new life. “Not bitter at all.”

He pulled her forward and kissed the top of her head, much like she’d seen parents kiss a much-loved, beautiful child in classic movies. Part of her wanted more, but this was good, too, and she wanted to savor each new sensation. He let her hair down, grabbed her waist and gently turned her around, with her back against his front. He spoke softly, moving her hair so that his lips brushed her ear as he spoke.

“Thanks for coming with me,” he said. “You deserve better than this. You out-class every girl here by a mile. For me, you make this run-of-the-mill place new all over again. I’m having a blast. Thanks for—for just being you.”

The arms wrapped around her waist gave a gentle squeeze as he kissed the back of her neck, his throat making some kind of vibrating sound she could feel more than hear. She wanted to turn around and kiss him—really kiss him—but having him behind, so close and yet out of reach, was a strangely erotic tease as well. She stood still and simply let it all happen, enjoying every breath, until the sound of the band pulled them back inside.

They listened as the first song began, screaming “Elvis!” and running back to the club’s entrance. The dance floor was full, but not as uncomfortable as the last set. Delores wondered if this meant they’d all be leaving soon, then banished the thought from her mind, thinking only of the music. It was a great set for dancing, with an extra long version of “Tequila” which ended featuring the two most spirited couples—an older man and woman who looked like professional ballroom dancers, and Delores and Phil. At the end of the song, Phil lifted her high above the crowd as she lay back over his shoulder in a final pose. The crowd, even the band members applauded. And then, the last slow song of the night, a Sam Cooke masterpiece.

But as all good things must come to an end, the band announced the final song of the night, and Delores was less than impressed. She and Phil looked at each other with puzzled faces, shook their heads, then burst out laughing.

“What the hell—” Phil said. “
Witch Doctor?
After they played such good stuff all night.”

“What a joke,” said Delores. “They actually expect people to dance to that?” But people were, in fact, dancing to it, frantically if not gracefully.

“I’ve never actually stayed ’til closing before,” Phil said. “But I’m thinking this place will be a zoo in about four minutes. Wanna try to beat the stampede?”

“Sure,” Delores said. She grabbed her purse as he took his jacket and they scurried out the door.

Pulling out of the parking lot, Delores noticed that the magical box that had insulated them all night was gone, replaced by an awkwardness not felt inside the building. Turning right onto the Albany highway, neither spoke for several miles, the open wind cooling their bodies and filling their lungs with the smell of longleaf pines. Just before the Nolan city limit sign, Phil broke the silence with an announcement.

“I know I said I’d cook you breakfast, but that just seems too ordinary, now. I mean, I’ve taken girls to the Plantation Club before. Afterwards, we’d go to the lodge and drink more, or party more, or whatever. Dolores, tonight was the most fun I’ve had in a long time. I want to take you home, kiss you goodnight, and take you out again—tomorrow. That is, if you’ll still go out with me.”

Delores reached across and kissed his cheek as an answer. She sat still, hearing the whooshing of air go past her ears like the orchestral score running through the climax of a movie. She wondered why she’d never before seen that the night sky was not black, but a brilliant blue, the twinkling stars like diamonds on a satin drape. And that power lines stretched between creosoted poles could look like long velvet ropes outlining the way home. As Phil slowed down for the stop sign by the Flint Bridge, Delores saw a possum dining on something at the edge of the road. Startled by the headlights, he looked up at them, then went back to the meal at hand.

“Have you ever noticed,” Delores asked, “that right in the face, possums look a lot like little panda bears?”

Phil smiled and tousled her hair. “Not until tonight. But now that you say so—” He kissed her cheek and never finished his sentence.

He did exactly as promised—took her home, kissed her at the front door, and left her. Delores watched from the window as he sat in his car for a minute, then two, then three, and as his key turned in the ignition, she ran out the door.

“Don’t go,” she said, out of breath for fear of not catching him. “Let me cook
you
breakfast.”

He shut off the car but didn’t move. “Sweetheart,” he said. “I have to be honest. I don’t think I can eat. I can’t eat, or sleep, or—I’m not even sure I can drive. I just want to look at you, to be in the same room with you, and I’m not sure I can trust myself to keep being a gentleman.”

“I don’t want you to be,” she declared, surprising herself but knowing it was true. “Come inside. Don’t let it be over, yet.”

They walked inside, hand in hand, but when the door closed, she kissed him as the new woman of the new life she’d begun just hours ago. Carrying her to her bedroom, he reverently removed the 4-H dress designed years before in wait of that very night. They spoke little, giving full concentration to the sights, smells, tastes, and feelings new to that night and never to be completely foreign again.

Though neither was aware of the time, they would both later recall a particular kiss that coincided with the break of day. They would almost fall asleep, several times, but upon realizing this fact would start the whole procedure again, in a different order or a different room or simply repeating something wonderful from minutes before.

At some time past noon, Delores closed her eyes and fell into a dream. She awoke naked but wrapped in blanket on her bed, her dress from the night before folded neatly over a nearby chair.

Stumbling into the kitchen, she looked out at the driveway and knew she was alone. A sharp and empty pain seized the pit of her stomach, and that was when she saw the note left on the table, scribbled on a Nolan Pharmacy pad she kept on the counter for grocery lists.

Delores
,
You looked so peaceful, like Sleeping Beauty, I didn’t have the heart to wake you. Going home, need to shower and shave, I smell awful. Come to my house—around 5? Will cook you a REAL dinner, fit for a princess. Can’t wait to see you again. Love, Phil.

She slipped the note into the blanket against her naked breast, and went back to bed, which smelled of
him,
and not bad at all.

They spent Sunday night at the lodge, Delores rising in time to go home and shower before going to work. On Monday night, they had dinner and a movie in Albany, then retired to Delores’ apartment. Tuesday night she cooked for him, her mother’s pot roast and Cal’s favorite blackberry pie. He promised venison steaks on Wednesday.

❦

Imogene Etheridge was late to work on Wednesday, and for the first time, Delores was a few minutes late and not there to cover for her. Imogene arrived a few minutes after Delores, and the two hoped their little indiscretion would go unnoticed. It didn’t.

Mr. Foster strode into the sewing room, seeming to follow Imogene as she rushed in to take her station. However, the object of his attention was Delores.

“Miss Mullinax,” called Mr. Foster from the front of the room, “I see you’re a bit late getting started this morning, as are some of the others. You girls should realize that this habit of laziness will not be tolerated.” Although it was Imogene who was truly
late, Mr. Foster spoke as if to admonish them all, continuing to stare at Delores as she hurriedly wound thread onto her machine bobbin. “Imogene, you start at Delores’ station today, since she’s at least gotten it ready to work. Miss Mullinax, I need a word with you, in my office. You can start up another machine when you return.”

He walked out the door. The room remained silent until enough time lapsed for his safety from hearing distance. Then they all talked at once.

“Who put a bee in his bonnet this morning?” snickered Aunt Mamie, causing several of the girls to smile.

“I’m sorry, Delores,” said Imogene. “I’m the one who’s way behind the clock. I don’t know why he’s got it out for you today.”

“Yeah, Delores is the one who covers all our butts when the going gets rough. Why is
she
the one in trouble?” questioned Bertha.

The room began to hum, the start up of sewing machines accompanied by varied explanations on why each lady thought the boss was after Delores. Delores said nothing, relinquishing her machine to Imogene and starting the long trek through the factory to Mr. Foster’s executive suite.

The secretary motioned her through the reception area and back to Foster’s office, where he sat behind a huge, ornate desk. “Have a seat, Miss Mullinax,” he said, gesturing toward the navy leather wing chairs facing him. “But first, close the door there.”

Delores swallowed hard and reluctantly took a seat in the closest of the tall, stately chairs obviously intended for someone more important than a sewing machine operator.
What is this about?
she thought, wondering both why she was singled out and why this was a seemingly private meeting. She had never seen the inside of this office, and she wasn’t sure any of her peers had, either.

“It seems that, unless we’re not up to snuff in our record keeping,” he said, flipping pages in a manila file folder. “Today is the first time you’ve clocked in late since you’ve come to work here.”

Delores said nothing, her head bobbing slightly in an almost-nod, her eyes shifting toward the floor.

“Answer me, Miss Mullinax. Was today’s example of punctuality your usual performance, or an exception to the norm?” He sat still, awaiting her reply.

“I, I—have always been on time, sir. Today wasn’t—was
not
the norm—at least not for me. I’m usually early, I guess ’cause I grew up on a farm—”

“So you admit that today you arrived later than you have in the past, in fact, later than you’ve clocked in throughout all your employment here,” he said.