No Daughter of the South (8 page)

Anyway, the ride was peaceful. I took off my boots and propped my feet up on the dash board. Riding around with Johnny. Something I hadn’t done in forever, but it felt so familiar. Like being on a bicycle again, after a long absence.

We were way out in the middle of nowhere when Johnny pulled over to the side. I didn’t ask him what he was doing when he opened the door and got out. I just climbed out, too.

He walked through the live oak trees dripping with Spanish moss until we reached a shallow creek lined with weeds. He walked alongside the clear, gently flowing water. Less than half a foot deep. I followed him, carefully picking my way through the bushes and weeds, until we reached a ratty-looking wooden bridge, just wide enough for one car to cross. There were signs at both ends, forbidding trucks. We climbed up the short bank and sat on the edge of the bridge, our legs dangling over the side. Our feet didn’t touch the water, but almost.

“Deadman’s Bridge?” I asked finally.

Johnny nodded. I sure couldn’t imagine anyone falling off this low bridge into that quiet, shallow water and drowning. Maybe if he was drunk. Maybe if the stream was swollen with heavy rain. But I didn’t think so.

The heat, the insect noises, the soft sounds of the water all made me feel sleepy. I looked over at Johnny to see if he felt the same way. He was looking at me. But it wasn’t sleep his eyes were lusting for.

I couldn’t help remembering how good Johnny was in bed. Well, actually, he was pretty good in the backseat of a car, or the front seat of a car, or sometimes in the sand beside a car. Couldn’t remember trying it under a car.

I also couldn’t help wanting him at that moment, and I was determined not to give in to that wanting. That was a rare state for me. Was it Sammy that did that to me, or just late-blooming common sense?

I started back to the car, and he followed. We reached the car about the same time.

“How’d you ever miss coming out here before?” he asked, sliding in on the driver’s side.

“Oh, I’ve been here before. I just didn’t remember that it was called Deadman’s Bridge. Good name for it,” I added.

Johnny nodded and started the car.

My boots were damp and sandy. I slid out of them again and stuck my feet back up on the dash, where the air-conditioning could blow up my mini-skirt and cool things down a bit.

Johnny slowed down as we approached the bridge. I tried not to hold my breath. I didn’t want him to notice how nervous I was as we began to bump-bump across the wooden planks.

About halfway across, Johnny put his hand between my legs. He just rested it there for a moment and then he gently undid the snap at the crotch of my body suit.

My body remembered Johnny inside me a thousand times. It remembered what it felt like the first time I came with Johnny inside me, when I thought that feeling was my secret and the secret of the universe, the thing that would save me, would save us all. My body was remembering all that, reading all that in the movements of his fingers. Then my brain was remembering the pain, and all the years I’d tried to forget him and all things I’d done trying to forget him.

Sammy was there, suddenly, inside me, as real as if she’d been there in the car with us. I felt shame, then, and I’d never felt that way about sex before. I knew—and was surprised by the depth and certainty in me of the knowledge—that the theme of my life was not sex of every sort, at every opportunity anymore. And that there were things and even people who were more important to me, and provided more satisfaction.

“We’re not going to fuck,” I said.

Johnny’s hand left me. He said nothing. Not a muscle moved in his face.

“I’m not gonna fuck you,” I repeated.

No answer.

Frustrated by his silence, I asked sarcastically, “You understand what I’m saying?”

“Yeah. I got it. You fuck everything else that moves, but you’re not gonna fuck me.”

“I guess you got it,” I said.

The car was stopped in the middle of the bridge.

“Let me drive,” I said.

Johnny shrugged, got out, and walked around to the passenger door, while I was scooting over to the driver’s side.

We drove in silence for a long while until we pulled up to a stretch of grass by the side of the road.

Finally, Johnny said, “We’re not going to fuck but were going to swim?”

“Yes,” I said. “Monkey’s Hole.”

I got out, and ran through the grass to the woods. Then down a narrow path between the trees. I remembered the way, but the distance was shorter than I had thought, so I nearly ran right into the spring. It was a deep, clear pool of cold water. The white sand bottom glimmered as if through glass in some places, while dark green weeds swayed in the center, and fish darted.

I stripped off my clothes. That was easy enough, since I hadn’t re-snapped my body suit. Then I ran out into the cold, cold water, up to my shoulders.

Johnny took longer to get undressed. He had to untie his shoes. There were all those buttons on his shirt, and the buckle on his belt. But he was finally naked. The sight of his body in that harsh sunlight was a shock to me. It wasn’t that I was repulsed. Actually, I found his pot belly, and all the little sags and imperfections of time, endearing. The boy I’d married, and left, and who was gone for good now, was not the same as the man he’d ripened into, this middle-aged small-town guy with love handles. I didn’t even know this guy. Not really.

Johnny gave a familiar yell—our football team had been the Port Mullet Rebels—and plunged into the water, diving under and resurfacing at the other side.

“You have to be so noisy?” I asked.

“Sure do,” he called back. “You want the water moccasins and the alligators to keep their distance, don’t you?”

I’d be damned if I was going to give him the pleasure of seeing me act scared.

Johnny disappeared underwater again. I felt something brush against me. Then my legs were pulled out from under me, and I was going under.

After a moment’s panic, I realized it was Johnny. I kicked him away, and swam out deeper, where I treaded water until he walked up to the sand at the edge of the spring and threw himself down.

He rolled onto his back, propped himself up on his elbows, his body half-in, half-out of the water. He looked comfortable, so I joined him, but at a distance just out of touching range.

“You have to be more careful of the alligators these days,” Johnny said.

The part of me in the water was tingly cold, and the part of me out was baking in the sun. The combination was great.

“Hmmm?” I said.

“They’ve been protected so long, and the damned Yankees feed them marshmallows, believe it or not. A lot of the gators have lost their fear of man.”

I turned over on my stomach and put my head down on my folded arms. The wet sand felt great against my breasts while the hot air was drying and warming my back.

Johnny turned over, too.

“Fear of man?” I asked. “Just men?”

“Well, I don’t know about women in general,” said Johnny, “but I bet even the meanest old gator is afraid of you.”

I ignored him.

We lay that way, together and yet apart, for a nice long time. “What about the Klan?” I asked suddenly. I guess I hoped I was going to catch him off guard.

He waited a moment and then said, “You mentioned the Klan the other night, too, when you left me so abruptly at the Pirate’s Den. What’s this about?”

I still didn’t turn my face towards him. I kept my cheek pressed against the sand. I couldn’t bear to look at him, I was so afraid of what I was going to find out. “The Ku Klux Klan, Johnny. You know what I’m talking about. The sign out on Night Lake Road.”

He sat up. I felt him looking at me.

“Hell of a note, them adopting a road, isn’t it? The county didn’t want to let them, but the lawyers said they had to. They pay to keep that stretch of road maintained. They filled out the forms. They wrote a check for the fee. Can’t discriminate. The other clubs get to, have to let them. Free country, you know.”

“Discrimination. Free country.” I let all my bitterness show in my voice.

“I don’t like the Klan anymore than you do. But one of the regional big-shots lives here, so the idiots from all over come here for the rallies. They’ve got good lawyers, fill out all their forms, even get bonfire permits from the fire department. What are we going to do?”

“How long has this been going on, Johnny?”

“Well, let’s see. I think there was a Klan here when we were little kids, like in lots of places. Then it kind of disappeared for a while. No need for it. Small black population, and no trouble when the schools were integrated. All those Yankees moving down here, and all the tourists visiting. Until right recent, the economy here was booming. Guess no one saw the need, when times were good.”

“Isn’t that nice,” I said, as sharply as I could.

“Why are you being mean to me about it?” he asked. “Just like the other night... Wait a minute! You’re not blaming me for this, are you?”

I didn’t answer.

“That doesn’t make any sense, Laurie. Anymore than if I blamed you for those black kids getting beaten to death up in New York City! You can’t blame all of us for what a few weirdos get involved in.”

He was right. I had been blaming him, and yet I hated it when I met some ignorant Yankee who assumed I was a racist because I had a southern accent. I turned over, and sat up facing him. “Johnny, about me fucking everything that moves...”

“What a provocative opening. Do go on.”

“I don’t. Not really.”

“You used to.”

“I had to.”

“You don’t say. Nymphomania? Maybe I can sell my story to the
Enquirer
. ‘I Was Married To A Nymphomaniac.’”

“You know how my Dad screws around. How most men around here screw around. How the wives hold on to their meal ticket by keeping their eyes and legs closed. I couldn’t live like that. You know I couldn’t. I had to prove to myself that I could screw around as much as the guys. And that it didn’t make me a bad girl.”

“I’m not like your father, Laurie. I was never like that. I just wanted you.”

“What about Linda, and the waitress at the Golden Spur...”

“Linda doesn’t count. You were sleeping with her first. And the other one didn’t mean anything. You know that. I was just trying to get your attention. Jesus Christ, I was a twenty-two year-old kid, and I loved you to distraction, and you were sleeping with girls! I didn’t know what the hell to do.”

I was quiet for a while, picking up handfuls of warm, wet sand, and squeezing them through my fingers.

“Yeah, yeah. I know that. But it wouldn’t matter if you did or not. I was the sweet little wifey and you were the man of the house, and it was my job to keep you home at night with home-cooked meals and...”

“You cooked maybe two meals for me. And those two weren’t any good.”

“That’s not the point,” I said.

“So, what is the point? I don’t understand what you are getting at. Instead of shacking up with me, you’re shacking up with some black woman. What’s the difference? Just this. You think you have to be original. You have to be the center of attention. You have to be different. Things were super between us, Laurie, until you screwed them up. You threw it away because I’m a white guy in a small town, and the idea of that just isn’t exciting enough for you.”

“It was exciting, Johnny. But exciting wasn’t enough.”

“You’re telling me you’ve had better sex?”

“I wasn’t talking about sex.”

“Just answer my question. Have you had better sex?”

I thought for a moment. “Different, yes. Better, no.”

“See?”

“It’s not enough, I’m telling you. I just wasn’t cut out to be a wife.” I stood up and walked back into the water.

He stood up and shouted to me from the shore, “What’s the difference? You’re her wife, aren’t you? Or are you the husband? How does it work?”

I dove under the water.

When I came up, he was swimming towards me. He stopped about a yard away. “Tell me how it’s different,” he pleaded. “Just tell me. Why can you be with her and not me. If it’s not different, you’re going to end up leaving her, too, right? And where’s it all going to end? With you alone and lonely some day?”

I shook my head and little drops of water sprayed into the air. I saw tiny rainbows dance around me. “I don’t know how it’s different. For one thing, we don’t live together. Look, I don’t know what will happen with me and Sammy. But I know you and me didn’t work, could never work.”

He turned and swam back to the sand, left the water and started pulling on his shirt. I got out of the water too, and started pulling on my sandy clothes. My body was damp, and the sand inside my tight clothes made me itchy.

We climbed into the hot car and onto the sticky seats, turned up the air conditioning and drove back to Port Mullet in silence.

I walked through the kitchen door, my hair frizzled from the swim, the rest of me sandy, my skirt wrinkled. Momma was at her usual place over the stove, and she just gave me another one of those looks.

I went directly to the cabinet over the refrigerator and poured myself three fingers of Daddy’s bourbon. I swallowed a good-sized sip of it, and then started towards the back of the house.

Something occurred to me and I stopped, went back to the kitchen and got another glass. Then I poured a nice stiff one for Momma and sat it on the counter next to the stove.

She looked at me like I was crazy and shook her head “no.” I shrugged my shoulders and left it where it was. I carried my own glass back to the bathroom, ran a hot, hot bath, and climbed in. I leaned my head against the back of the tub, and kept one foot under the stream of hot water from the faucet. My bourbon was on the side of the tub, within easy reach, when it wasn’t being administered in large doses. The hot water soothed my sand-scraped skin, and sharpened my memory of the cold spring water.

I got to thinking about Sammy, and the old claw-footed bathtub in her apartment. I would love to take a good long soak in it, with Sammy, lots of bubbles, and some fooling around. Unfortunately, that bathroom was only slightly less busy than Grand Central Station. I couldn’t even take a quick shower without stepping on plastic ducks and boats and wind-up scuba divers, and without someone banging on the door. If I ignored the banging, Sammy would pick the lock with a coat hanger so one of the girls could rush in to pee.

Definitely not the sort of adventure I usually like to star in. I reached out for another sip of bourbon. There was this pattern in my life with Sammy, and I was beginning to make it out. Sammy had made no demands on me of any sort. She was just there, offering herself, and a warm place in that crowded life. And slowly, by tiny increments, I’d shifted more of my life there. Once Sammy left in the middle of the night to deliver a baby, and the next morning I’d stepped right into the task of running out for Saturday morning bagels, cream cheese, and lox. But it had been so gradual that I hadn’t noticed the full extent of the change in my life, in me, until I had gotten away and gotten some perspective. The view from the tub was that I was more connected to Sammy and the girls than I had ever admitted to myself.

The water ran lukewarm after a while. My glass was empty. Even a hot bath and bourbon is only a temporary refuge. I climbed out and wrapped a towel around my body and another around my hair.

When I opened the bathroom door and stepped out, I encountered my father in the narrow hallway. He looked at me and said, “You mind putting on some clothes, Baby Sister?”

I went to my room, got dressed, and headed back to the kitchen. It struck me as another sign of an emerging maturity that I was actually feeling something between obligation and desire which was compelling me to help Momma in the kitchen. I wondered if it was something in the water. Or maybe a drastically delayed effect of being brought up a Southern female.

The glass I’d left for Momma was nowhere in sight, but her mood was definitely elevated. Singing to herself, she broke into little dance steps as she set the table. She put her arm around my waist and we did a little kick-step like a chorus line. She showed me how to mix biscuits, something she had tried to do many times before. Believe it or not, it took this time. I got it. I figured maybe I would surprise Sammy and make them for dinner one night.

Daddy was watching the local news in the other room. Momma was just about ready to call him in to eat when the back door opened and Walter came in, followed by Josh. I quit dancing. Momma hurried to set two more places.

We all sat down, and Momma kept shoveling out the food. My father, my brother, and Josh kept eating.

I tried to make conversation. “Walter, Daddy, have you two heard about the Ku Klux Klan?”

They looked up from their plates and stared at me.

Finally Walter spoke up. “Just how dumb do you think we are down here, Baby Sister? We do have newspaper deliveries and TV reception. Of course we’ve heard of the Ku Klux Klan.” He took two more biscuits and slathered them with margarine.

“What I meant was, have you ever heard of it around here?”

My father’s face was red, and I knew without looking at her that my Momma would be angry at me for riling everybody up at the dinner table.

Walter said, “There you go again. You really are a piece of work. You think everybody south of the Mason Dixon line is a dues-paying member of the Klan.” He helped himself to more gravy.

I glanced at Josh. He didn’t say anything, just kept putting away Momma’s good food.

“I didn’t mean to imply anything about any of you,” I said, waving my arms to indicate those of us at the table, “or Southerners in general, either. Don’t you know that some of the biggest Klan organizations are in the Midwest? I’m sure that I read that somewhere. I just want to know what’s going on right here in this town, damn it. Don’t tell me you haven’t seen the sign out on Night Lake Road.”

Walter sighed. “Sure, I see the sign every time I drive out there. And the light from the rallies if I happen to drive down Highway 17 some Friday nights. That’s all I know. What, you think I’m Grand Dragon, or something? Watch out, Momma, I might start stealing sheets outa your linen closet.”

“What about the rallies?”

Walter took a big bite of biscuit. Then he squeezed more lemon into his iced tea.

“Go watch one if you’re so interested. You can see the bonfire from the road. Last Friday night of the month.”

“Who goes? Who are these people?”

Walter shrugged. I looked around the table, and everyone else shrugged, too.

“Do you know anyone who’s a member?”

Momma said, “I’m sure I don’t know anyone silly enough to get involved in such foolishness.”

“What about you, Walter?” I demanded.

“I think they’re all a bunch of jerks,” he answered promptly, to my relief. “But,” he drew his words out slowly, and my heart sank, “a lot of people think things have gone too far in the other direction.”

“Who thinks what has gone too far?”

“Well, this affirmative action stuff. All the jobs are going to the blacks and women and other minorities, and us white guys are getting the short end of the stick. Reverse discrimination.”

“What are you talking about? What jobs haven’t you gotten because you’re white? How many blacks and women work in your office? None, I bet you.” I was waving my arms around passionately, dripping melted butter from my biscuit.

“Just because it hasn’t happened to me doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen. There’s this big preference for the minorities these days. Now, that’s prejudice too, in my book, but you don’t hear anyone screaming about that.”

I bit the insides of my cheeks to keep from screaming. Looking around the table, I saw Daddy’s place was empty. He had apparently finished his dinner and left while we were arguing. I hadn’t even noticed. From the sounds of it, he was back watching TV in the front room.

Walter pushed back his chair and stood up. “But that don’t mean I’m a Klan member, because I ain’t. Understand, Baby Sister?”

The “ain’t” had been chosen for my benefit. I ignored him.

He stalked out the kitchen door into the night, followed by Josh, who didn’t look at me. Josh did pause in front of Momma to say, “Thank you for the fine dinner, Mrs. Coldwater.” Then he was gone.

Momma and I were left alone once more at a table full of dirty dishes. She sighed, and said, “Well, Baby, I always did say you would argue with a signpost,” and then she started clearing the dishes off the table.

I knew she was right. I would.

When we finished in the kitchen, Momma went into the front room. Daddy was still watching TV. Any conversation would have to be during the commercials. I’d wait patiently—well, not so patiently, actually—for the breaks in the show, and then I’d try to get all the information I could. It was harder than I thought it would be, because the commercials were the only part that interested me, and sometimes I’d forget and watch them instead of talking to Daddy.

“Daddy, what do you think about the Klan?”

“I don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Think about it.”

Show was back on. I waited for another break.

“If you thought abut the Klan, what would you think?”

“I’m with your brother. A bunch of idiots with nothing better to do than run around in sheets.” He snorted.

“Do you know anybody in the Klan?”

He finally turned his head and looked at me. “What are you up to, young lady? Why are you asking me all this?”

“I have to know.”

“No, you don’t. You’ve gotten along this long without knowing, you can just keep right on.” He turned back towards the screen. “Now, hush up. I want to see if Burt’s team is finally going to win a game.”

At nine-thirty, Momma and Daddy headed for bed. I tried calling Sammy, but Elena answered and told me she was out. Elena didn’t say if she was out delivering a baby or out having a good time. I had a flash of jealousy, picturing her dancing with someone at a party like the one where we’d met. I scolded myself for that. Then I wondered whether I should have asked Elena how her studies were going, if I should have asked to speak to the girls. I had treated Elena like an answering service.

I was afraid if I didn’t get back soon, Sammy would slip away from me. If I didn’t get in touch with my New York reality soon, I was afraid I was going to turn into... I didn’t know what. Maybe my alternate self. The trapped, frustrated person I would have been if I had never left Port Mullet.

I went back to the telephone and dialed Sammy’s number again.

“Hi, Elena. It’s me again, Laurie. I meant to ask, how’s school, how’s your dissertation going? And the girls, how are they?”

I listened as she told me, filled me in on the details of their daily lives since I’d been gone. I realized for the first time that Elena, brilliant as she was and self-sufficient as she seemed, was lonely. Thousand of miles from home, unable even to call her family who had been on a waiting list for a telephone for years. Never hearing her native tongue, studying in a foreign language, knowing her family’s hopes for the future all hinged on her.

I told Elena to tell the girls “hi” for me, and then I added, “Tell them I miss them.” As soon as those words came out of my mouth, though, I felt uncomfortable. I had never been a hypocrite. I had always tried hard not to say things I didn’t mean. Nice things, anyway.

Then I thought that maybe it was true. Maybe I did miss the girls, too, for their own sakes, and not just for Sammy’s. I felt something in the pit of my stomach that might be that. Unless it was just a side effect of treating an attack of melancholia by consuming bourbon a thousand miles from one’s lover.

I tried calling Jerry. I got his machine and left an obscene message. That cheered me up a little.

I wandered into the kitchen and looked at the clock. Ten-fifteen on a Friday night. I had absolutely nothing to do, nowhere to go.

I thought about what I’d have been doing if I were back in the city. Not that long ago at this time on a Friday night, I’d just be starting to think about getting ready to squeeze into something tight and obvious, and start my tour of the clubs. There I’d find excitement, and a good time and I’d think that was the same thing as life and freedom. But lately, I’d been spending a lot of my Friday nights with Sammy. Sometimes we’d go out to dinner and a movie, but most of the time we’d have dinner with the girls, and then watch a video.

Now and then, just to prove I could, I’d tell Sammy I was busy, and I’d go out with some friends, and do the clubs, or a party. It really pissed me off that Sammy didn’t seem to mind. But the thing was, that wasn’t what I was missing. I was missing the evenings home with Sammy and Elena and the girls, watching old movies and making popcorn. Not that I’d give up the dancing nights, don’t get me wrong. But what scared me was, even a night at Sammy’s when she kept having to send Annie to her room, and Rachel was crying with a fever so we never got to fool around, was a real night, a good night, an important night in my life.

I didn’t fully understand it, but it went something like this. I knew about quick sex with guys, him going in and out, yelling “oh god” and collapsing on me. And then the guys who knew a bit about foreplay, maybe even variety and taking his time. That was sex. And then I’ve known some really great women who made me see that the dinner before sex, and the sitting in bed after, talking about what you looked like in the third grade, and how sad she was when her dog died—well that made the whole experience even better, deeper, more fun. I was beginning to think that the whole scene with Sammy,
everything
, from getting up in the morning to changing Rachel’s diaper at two a.m, was part of what made me feel the way I did about her.

Then I said the words to myself. Friday night. The
last
Friday of the
month
!

I ran back to my room and put together the most respectable disguise I could find. Jeans and sneakers. Not great, but fairly innocuous. I considered borrowing something pastel and polyester from my mother, but I was sure nothing she owned would fit me.

Maybe I could borrow a white shirt from my father. I stood at their bedroom door listening. I really couldn’t picture them “doing it,” not any better than I could when I was a third grader and Timmy Pritchard acquainted me with that possibility. On the other hand, I didn’t want to take any chances.

All I heard was my mother’s quiet breathing and my father’s irregular snores. I slipped quietly into the room, leaving the door ajar for a tiny shaft of light from the hall. After my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I found the closet door and moved carefully towards it.

I opened it and reached in. This wasn’t as easy as I’d imagined it would be. Whenever I pictured my father, I thought of him wearing the starched white shirts he had worn when I was a kid. But nobody, my father included, dressed like that anymore. I was wading through a lot of short-sleeved, knit shirts.