Flying Shoes (19 page)

She understood he was trying to comfort her in his way, and she did appreciate it. Charles benevolently allowed the hug to continue, and she clung.

“You’ll be all right,” he said, lightly kissing the top of her head. He released her, pushing only just a little bit. “I’ve got to get going to catch Wiggs, okay?”

“Okay,” said Mary Byrd, knowing that she’d squeezed the last drop of blood out of that turnip. And he was right that she needed to stop feeling sorry for herself. Like Mann said, it wasn’t about her.

If she was going to make the trip she needed to be getting her shit together
now.
Make some calls: the carpool, get some groceries in for Charles and the kids. Bring in a little firewood, get water and batteries and put the emergency radio and candles out where they could find them if the storm knocked the electricity out. Go to Dog and Lena’s and get wine, vermouth, gin, bourbon, and cognac. She and Charles loved cognac in their morning coffee when it snowed. Cover the tender plants in the yard in case they really did get a hard freeze, put down the sisal runner in the hall so slush and mud wouldn’t get tracked in, put kitty litter on the steps and walks, blah blah. Remember to leave notes around reminding everyone to put the trash out on Sunday night, walk the puppies no matter what the weather was like, keep the front room closed off so the heat bill wouldn’t be ridiculous and the puppies wouldn’t pee or make a pile in there, remember to feed Mr. Yeti, their feral but devoted cat, and tell them to trap him in the big Havahart and bring him inside if it got really cold. Change the litter box for the spoiled homeboy kitties who wouldn’t go outside if it was cold. They could do most of these things themselves but if she got it all done, and spelled out, she could leave without too much guilt and worrying.

Four thirty. Eliza had drama and William had soccer practice, so she didn’t need to pick them up until five thirty, giving her a few minutes to herself before she ran by the Bear to talk to Teever at five. Charles would be home around six, and she’d made a Dutch oven full of chili for him and the children to have while she was gone. A little cast iron was good for them. Iggy was bunting against her legs seductively. She wanted to pretend that he was trying to comfort her, but she knew he was just hoping for a treat. Her hands shook as she picked him up and hoisted his fat, tailless body over her shoulder and began petting his sleek black and white fur, which calmed her, and he purred loudly, pulling out all the stops. “You’re just a selfish slut like everybody else, Iggy,” she said. “You just want what you want, and don’t really care about anybody else.” She kissed him deep in the fur and fat around his neck, and with a finger tinkled the little cowbell she’d put on him because he looked just like a miniature Holstein. “Yep, you’re just a slutty old heifer, Ignatius,” she said, dumping him to the floor. “It’s not dinnertime yet.”

She was afraid Teever hadn’t gotten her message and wouldn’t show. Maybe she should call Ernest and see if he knew where Teever was. She had to find Teever, and she would like to have some nerve pills for the trip. That couldn’t hurt, could it? It wasn’t like she
had
to have them, but it was nice to know they were there. She swigged a little Chianti out of an unfinished bottle from the previous night and, seeing only an inch left, glugged it down for courage. Ernest’s number was written on a ten-dollar bill, still rolled in a tube, at the bottom of her purse. Mary Byrd didn’t fully understand why she was attracted to him, or vice versa. His inappropriateness was a big factor. She knew that he knew that she knew the allure of sex that was
wrong.
He had the preppy pretensions some Mississippi country boys affected, mostly in dress. He always had a gun, but not the kind that a farmer or hunter would have—he had some scary military stuff and pistol things like gangsters would carry. Ernest was kind of good-looking but in a hillbilly-come-to-town way. Not inbred, exactly, but without even a drop of any kind of non-WASP blood to fortify his watery gene pool (not too different from Charles’s, really, but without any money), too many generations of hookworms, poor diets, hard drinking, and smoking had given him a slightly sickly look. His blond hair was slicked back like it was still the eighties, although at least it wasn’t a frat-boy Tuscaloosa Swoop. A soft, dissipated bod. Not her physical type at all. She liked long and lean and medium-well. Fair-skinned blonds with alcoholic bloat were kind of a turnoff. Sexy shadows under his eyes, though, and great wrists, and she loved men’s wrists. His looked strong with pale, thickish hair curled around his Rolex. Wrists that seemed
like they had character and competence. She knew it was just a mirage. Her friend Lucy had heard that he had what she described as “a smushed Coke-can pecker.” Not good. She just had a thing for misfits and fringe people to whom conventional rules and situations did not apply. Flattered by the attention, she knew that Ernest wasn’t someone you would leave home for, or fall in love with—Mary Byrd got that. He was a poor risk for a
thing
,
perfectly likely to challenge Charles to a duel or a showdown. Discretion was not the better part of his valor.

Nobody much liked Ernest. She’d heard him described as “an asshole’s asshole.” But he cultivated his assholeness as a way of distinguishing himself from his slacker barfly friends who were amateur assholes. He loved to fight over bar tabs, girls, the state flag, literary heroes, whatever. Don’t ever tell him
Chinatown
was not the best movie ever made, or that Gun Club’s
Fire of Love
wasn’t the best record. But in his too deeply set pale blue eyes, Mary Byrd thought there was often a demented twinkle signaling his amusement and the knowledge of how cartoonish he was, but the entertainment value made it worth it. If he took a notion, at the Bear he’d scoop a woman up like a fireman and carry her down the stairs, managing to slip a hand under her skirt before she knew what was happening—a redneck satyr in a blazer. Or he could pick up and go to the Bosnian front in his khakis and tweeds without a word to anyone. He was funny, which counted for more with her than anything else. He was smart in an idiot savant way; he’d read some books, and he and his pals had started a literary rag and had big plans for it. Unplugging the stupid current that buzzed between them, Mary Byrd had asked him to back off, but when she was blue or bored the flesh was weak. She hesitated, and dialed the number on the bill.

The ring was hollow and rattly. Wallett was way out in the country. “Hello!” said a loud, happy voice.

“Hello,” said Mary Byrd. “This is a friend of Jack’s. Is he around?”

“Why, I believe he is,” the man said in mock surprise. “Just a minute, please, ma’am. Jacky!

“
What
Pothus?” Mary Byrd could hear Ernest respond in an annoyed voice she’d never heard. He was hard to annoy.

“Tel-lee-phone,” came the now-amused singsong.

“Hello?” said Ernest, businesslike.

“Hey, Ernest,” Mary Byrd said. “What’s up? Just checkin’ in on you. And I wanted to run something by you.”

“Well, hey, darlin’! How are you? I was just thinking about you.”

“I’m sure.” She already regretted the call. “Who’s that who answered the phone?”

“Pothus, my uncle, my dead aunt Aleda’s husband. Quite a character. He puts on a blazer just to answer the phone. Not even four o’clock and that knucklehead’s already three sheets.”

“And you’re not? By the way, it’s nearly five.”

“I, as you know, have been working on my novel all day. I lose track of time.”

“And you haven’t had a drink?”

“Maybe just a drop,” said Ernest. “To grease the wheels.” They laughed a little. “So, what-all have you been up to?”

They chatted casually, staying in shallow water, giving each other a little more shit. She told Ernest that she was about to go to Virginia, hoping to get in front of the weather. Realizing it would not be smart to give Ernest any extra personal info that he could parlay into an advantage, she said she needed to “see about her mother,” who “wasn’t doing well.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Ernest lied back, as if he cared about her mother, and as if he hadn’t already heard from a girl who worked in Charles’s gallery what was really up. Did she think there were any secrets in town? “How’re you getting there? I know you hate to fly,” he said.

“Well, I was thinking about asking Teever to drive me,” she said. She waited for the silence.

“Girl, that is
suicide
. I ain’t lettin’ you do that. Are you on crack?”

“You’ve got nothing to say about it, do you?” she taunted.

“I can make sure Teever’s in no condition to walk to the square, let alone drive to Virginia,” he said.

“He’s
never
in condition.”

“What if
I
take you? If you’re going to take chances, why not me? I’m going to be in town anyway tomorrow for that Lords of Chevron party. I was hoping you might be around.”

Mary Byrd laughed. “What, drive to Virginia in an MG? If it’s icy? It’s supposed to precipitate big-time.”

“We’ll take your car. I’ll be a perfect gentleman, I promise.”

“My husband will be happy to hear that plan. Who’s on crack now?”

“That storm
is
supposed to be a motherfucker, though. My grandmother won’t shut up about it.”

“I might just try to drive myself. I’ve done that drive a million times.”

“If you wait ’til Sunday, I’ll take you,” he said.

“I just can’t quite conjure up that image: you and me in your clown car, going to Virginia.”

“But yet you
can
picture yourself driving with Teever,” Ernest said.

“Teever is at least . . . you know perfectly well what I mean.”

“I haven’t seen that old boy in a while now,” he said. “But you should seriously consider going on Sunday instead and showing up at this party.”

“Okay, I will,” she said. “But I’ve gotta run. I’ll talk to you later.”

“No you won’t.”

“Did you call me here last night?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Ernest, I asked you to
please
not do that. Please.”

“Why not? We’re just
friends
, right? Aren’t you allowed to have friends?”

“Can we please not drag this old dead horse across the road again?”

“Hey,
you
called
me
, darlin’.”

“I know,” said Mary Byrd. “But it’s an
informational
call.” She shouldn’t have called him. Stupid.

“Well, here’s some information, M’ Byrd: I love you. I miss you. I miss you
hard
.”

“There’s nothing to miss, is there?”

“I liked it when I thought I was going to have something to miss,” he said. “When I sell my novel, I’ll give you twenty-nine thousand dollars to run off with me. No—make it thirty-five thousand. Don’t go to Virginia tomorrow. Meet me at this party. You can go the next day.
If
you can tear yourself away from me.”

She laughed. “You are nothing but trouble, and I don’t need any more of that right now.”

“I’m a wonderful guy upon whom you can pin all your hopes and dreams, girl.”

“What you are is a grenade with the pin half pulled.”

“C’mon now, M’Byrd. You’re too hard on me.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “
Not.
But I do hate to miss that party; the Lords of Chevron are always so fun.” What she really hated to miss was some medicine.

“So I’ll be lookin’ for you, then?”

“Look, I’ve got to go, okay? Bye.” You could lie and hang up on Ernest; it had no effect. Five minutes after five. She grabbed her purse and keys and ran out of the house, almost tripping over Irene, who rushed up behind her to take advantage of the open door.

Late as always,
Mary Byrd took the stairs in twos up to the Bear. It was deserted; at this hour the students were taking naps, resting up for the night. It was just a couple lawyers having a few after work and Teever and Chip, the adorable bartender who was Mary Byrd’s favorite of the many adorable bartenders in town. They were silently watching some game on ESPN.

“Ayyy, Mudbird!” Teever said in his loud, gravelly voice. She gave him a hug. He always looked pretty dapper somehow, and today he had on a slightly too large tweed sport coat, expensive-looking weave, over a Greek black T-shirt.

Chip was drinking coffee and leaned over the bar to give her a kiss on the cheek. The Bear guys were well trained to make the of-a-certain-age ladies feel loved and wanted and in the mood to give tips.

“Teever’s already running you a tab,” Chip said with a grin. “Beefeater ’tini straight up?” He reached for the shaker. He was sort of unbelievably precious, Mary Byrd thought.

“You know what? I hate to be a pussy, but I think I’ll just have whatever red’s open,” Mary Byrd said. “I’m only here for a minute.” Turning to Teever, she asked, “So, how are you?” She lightly punched his arm.

“I’m cool, baby,” said Teever. “Wassup? You seen Ernest?”