The Sweet Potato Queens' First Big-Ass Novel (7 page)

T
here's something I want to show you,” Tammy said, giddy with excitement.

She startled me. I'd just gotten back to our apartment from the Piggly Wiggly and was stashing a box of Little Debbie Swiss rolls behind a row of tomato soups in the pantry. I hid my treats because Tammy had a terrible sweet tooth and would gobble them up in a single day.

Tammy didn't even notice the Little Debbies, she was so worked up. She seized my hand and said, “Come on. I just got it today, and it's just so beautiful.”

I followed her into her room, which looked like a shrine to Dr. Dick. Photos of the two of them covered her dresser and were thumbtacked to a bulletin board. In all of them, Tammy had her hand pressed to Dr. Day's chest, as if claiming him as spoils.

There was a small table near her bed where she kept all her Dr. Day mementoes—movie ticket stubs, matchbooks from restaurants, dried flowers, and a stack of greeting cards he'd given her over the years. I also knew that her two top drawers were stuffed with teddies, panties, and nighties that she donned exclusively for his benefit. Around the house she wore an oversized “Archie Bunker for President” T-shirt, holey granny-panties, and a ratty butt-sprung bathrobe.

Despite sleeping with a gynecologist, she wasn't having any orgasms either. I'd asked her about it a few months after I first started having sex with Sonny and she'd said, “I'm not sure. Sometimes I get a pleasant tingling during sex. That's probably an orgasm, don't you think?”

“No,” I'd said. “I think it's like sneezing—you'll
know
it when you're having it.”

“Look!” Tammy said, holding a long white dress encased in a see-through plastic garment bag. “I have to take it out for you to
really
appreciate it.”

I blinked in confusion. “Is that a fuckin' wedding gown?”

“Not just any wedding gown,” she said, unzipping the bag and pulling free the dress. “It's
my
wedding gown, and it's the most beautiful one they had at Marla's House of Brides. Look at the detailing. There must be a million seed pearls.”

“Oh, my God,” I said, sinking onto her twin bed and knocking to the floor a three-foot pink teddy bear, a Valentine's gift from Deke. “He did it. Dr. Dick actually left his wife. I've been wrong all along.”

“I told you not to call him that!” Tammy said, spreading out the train. “Of course, it's not exactly official, but I
know
—”

“Wait a fuckin' minute. Whaddya mean it's not official? Has he left her or not?”

“Jill! Deke's still in Boston at that medical conference,” she said, with a thin laugh. Dimples dented her cheeks. “I told you that when he comes back, I'm
positive
he's going to give me an engagement ring.”

“So why in the world do you have a wedding dress?”

“Well, it's inevitable that Deke and I are going to get married, so I'm just thinking ahead. Marla's was having a sale, so I bought it.”

“Tammy—”

“I've decided that when he comes home, I'm going to wear it.” She shook the gown at me. “It looks so pretty on. I'm convinced that when he sees me in this dress, he'll understand how badly I want to be his wife.”

“Oh, God, Tammy,” I said softly. “I think he already knows that.”

“He
wants
to marry me,” she said, stroking the dress with her hand. “I know he does. I can hear it in his voice.”

“Let's put the dress up,” I said gently. “You don't want to spoil it.”

“I know you have doubts, but you just don't
know
him like I do.” Her eyes were bright and hard, like quartz crystals.

“I bought some Little Debbies, and
Laugh-In
's on tonight,” I said. Tammy had clearly crossed some line that made it impossible for me to argue with her. “You wanna watch it with me?”

“No, I think I'll tidy up in here,” she said, tugging on the sleeve of her blouse. “Besides, I don't want to get involved in a show because Deke is gonna call tonight.”

I left her alone and ended up reading the latest issue of
Good Housekeeping
(Sonny had given me a gift subscription) instead of watching television. I couldn't believe Tammy was doing this. Through her door I could hear occasional snatches of “Lara's Theme” coming from the music box that Deke had given her. The evening passed quietly with not a single phone call. When I glanced at the clock and saw it was eleven, I decided I'd check on her.

“Tammy,” I said, lightly knocking on the door, “I'm going to bed.”

I thought she'd fallen asleep because she didn't answer, but then she said, “Good night. Sleep well.”

“Tammy, are you all right?”

“I'm great,” she said, but her voice sounded thick, as if she'd been crying. “I forgot that Deke had a dinner function tonight. I'm sure he'll call me tomorrow at work.”

“'Night, Tammy.”

I
have one final question before I can perform your wedding ceremony,” Reverend Mixon said, his kind watery eyes searching mine.

Shit! Here it was—the question I'd been dreading ever since we'd started the premarital pastoral counseling. He was about to point a finger at me and say, “Have you remained pure before marriage or become the devil's harlot?”

Should I lie, confess, or plead the Fifth?

“No need to look so alarmed, Jill,” Reverend Mixon said. “I just want to know how you feel about the word ‘obey.'”

I let out a long sigh of relief.

“Obey? You mean as part of the wedding vows?” Sonny asked. He and I had been holding hands for so long that both of our palms were slick with sweat.

“Some women have asked me to omit the word from the ceremony,” Reverend Mixon said. He chuckled. “They think it's old-fashioned.”

Sonny let go of my hand and squeezed my shoulder. “Jill's very traditional. She's not one of those wacko women's libbers.”

His comment irritated the shit out of me. While it was true I considered bra-burning a fool's errand, I absolutely agreed with the whole premise of the movement—how could Sonny be so oblivious to that? But, since this was our last counseling session, I didn't want to make waves.

“I suppose it's just a word,” I said, the very picture of a dutiful fiancée.

A twinkle of approval came to Reverend Mixon's eyes. “I guess I'll see you on Sunday, then.”

Sonny got up, but I lingered.

“Was there something else, Jill?” Reverend Mixon said.

What do you think our chances are?
I wanted to ask, hoping for his seal of approval. Had he ever refused to do a wedding because he thought a couple was too mismatched?

“Nothing,” I said, picking up my pocketbook.

As we strolled to Sonny's Buick in the church parking lot, he asked, “When did you say those friends of yours, the Sweet Peas, were arriving?”

“They're the Sweet Potato Queens,” I said, sliding in after Sonny opened the door. He had painstakingly covered the seats with clear plastic. It was stiff and yellowing from months of Mississippi heat.

He turned the key in the ignition and stretched his arm across the back of the seat as he backed out of the parking lot. My daddy used to do the same thing when he drove me to school, and the heaviness of his arm behind me always made me feel safe.

“I still don't understand about this Gerald person,” he said. “Are you sure he's not an old flame?”

It made me smile to think of Gerald as being an old boyfriend of anyone's, and I suppressed a chuckle at the word “flame,” thinking of another meaning entirely.

“No. Gerald and I never dated. We're just very good friends.”

“What sort of guy spends his high school years around a bunch of girls?” Sonny said, puffing up his chest. “That's what I want to know.”

“You'll like him,” I said. Truthfully, Gerald would probably give Sonny the creeps and Gerald wouldn't have two words to say to Sonny. Gerald had always hung out with us—there weren't any guy-type buddies in the picture, no hunting trips, bar fights, or hot cars to talk about.

“So there's Tammy…,” Sonny said, frowning. He sorely disapproved of Tammy's affair with Dr. Day. “And there's Patsy, an artist in Atlanta, and Gerald, who dropped out of medical school to move to San Francisco—what's that about? And who's the other one?”

“Mary Bennett. She's an actress in New York,” I said, twisting my engagement ring. “She can be kinda—ahh—flamboyant.”

I could easily imagine Mary Bennett sidling up to Sonny and saying, “So, you gettin' much, Sonny-boy?”—just to see the look on his face.

And it wasn't like I could ask her to tone herself down. Hell, no! You did
not
try to muzzle Mary Bennett—not unless you wanted her to be ten times more brazen than usual.

“An actress,” Sonny said in a disapproving tone. “All your friends sound a bit
odd
. I hope they're not too weird at the wedding. Clients will be there. And my folks.”

“They'll be fine,” I assured him. After all, the Queens weren't in high school anymore. Surely everyone had matured over the last few years. Life couldn't be moonshine and Fritos forever.

 

“There she is!” Mary Bennett said, grabbing at least two inches of cheek flesh from my face and squeezing hard. When she let go, I stepped back to take her in.

She wore a geometric-patterned dress and tights. Her hair was cut boyishly short, like Twiggy's, which brought all kinds of interesting angles to her face.

“You look fabulous!”

“And you look”—she paused as if she were trying to conjure up a compliment—“like someone's wife.” Her nose wrinkled ever so slightly when she said the word “wife.”

I looked down at my clothing. I was wearing a pink cotton blouse with a Peter Pan collar, a khaki dirndl skirt (Sonny didn't like women in pants—“only ‘hippie scum'” wore blue jeans), and canvas shoes. Instead of wearing my hair in its customary messy bun, I had it pulled back from my face with a black hair band.

“Of course she looks like a wife,” Tammy said, who was standing on the steps behind me. “She's gettin' married in two days.”

“Tammy!” Mary Bennett said. “I didn't even see you there. And get a load of you, hunny.” She took in Tammy's familiar teased hair, heavy makeup, and tight dress. “You're exactly the same.”

“Why, thank you,” Tammy said, patting her hair, basking in Mary Bennett's attentions and obviously taking it as a compliment. “You look like a fashion model,” Tammy gushed.

“Wait until y'all see Geraldine,” Mary Bennett said, motioning us inside. “You're goin' to flip out! Come on in.”

She led us into the kitchen, where an unfamiliar bearded man sat at the table. He had long, bushy dark hair tied back with a piece of leather and wore purple-tinted John Lennon–style glasses. He wore a tight, faded Iron Butterfly T-shirt that showed off his toned pecs and biceps.

“That cannot be—” I began.

“It is!” Mary Bennett said, whipping off the stranger's shades. There was Gerald, blinking back at me, his eyelashes as long as ever.

Tammy gasped, and I slapped my cheeks. “Oh, my God!”

“Pretty wild, huh?” His voice was huskier than I remembered.

“What's with the hair?” I asked. “It used to grow straight out, like an Afro.”

“When it grows long enough, it falls down into big, fat, hippie hair,” Gerald said, fingering his ponytail.

What if he had so much hair he wouldn't be able to tuck it into his Queen wig? But we were too old for all that. Come to think of it, I wasn't even sure where my wig was.

I gave him a hug and got a snoot full of patchouli oil.

“Are you holding, Geraldine?” Mary Bennett demanded, hand on hip.

“Maybe,” he said from behind his beard.

“Give it up,” Mary Bennett said, thrusting out her palm and tapping her foot impatiently.

Tammy and I exchanged a glance. We had no idea what they were talking about.

Gerald rifled through a fringed pouch hanging from his shoulder.

“Is that a pocketbook?” Tammy asked with a laugh.

“It's a
bag,
” Gerald said, as if it was completely obvious. “Everyone in the Haight has one. We all need a bag”—he withdrew a rolled-up plastic baggie and held it up triumphantly—“to hold our bags.”

“Colombian Gold?” Mary Bennett said, watching Gerald hungrily.

“Better,” Gerald said, unrolling the baggie on the table and looking up at her with a smug smile. “Maui Wowie.”

“Is that marijuana?” Tammy asked with alarm.

“The very best. Roll us a fatty, Gerald.” Mary Bennett slapped a package of strawberry rolling papers on the table, and Gerald took out a thin, pink square and licked it along the top.

“Y'all do get high, don't ya?” she said.

“Every once in a blue moon,” I lied, deliberately avoiding eye contact with Tammy, who knew I'd never even seen the stuff. “Aren't you worried about your father catching us?”

“He's in Paris stuffing his face with croissants and wooing his latest conquest,” Mary Bennett said, idly flicking a Bic lighter with her thumb. She was sitting forward in her chair, her elbows planted on the table.

“I see,” I said with a nod, watching Gerald spread a large portion of marijuana on the rolling paper, and then with one hand, dexterously rolling it up into a fat-bellied joint.

“Show-off,” Mary Bennett said, plucking it from Gerald's hands and waving it under her nostrils. “Mmmmmm, baby, come to mama.”

“Where's Patsy?” I said. I couldn't keep my eyes off the joint. This was a first for me.

“She called. Her plane's late. She won't be here for another half hour or so,” Mary Bennett said quickly. She lit the joint and inhaled deeply. “Primo weed,” she said with a cough as she passed it to Gerald, who made a loud sucking sound as he inhaled. Then Gerald wagged it at Tammy and me. “You two want a toke?” he asked.

“Sonny and I are planning on having children,” I said, quickly. “So I better not.”

“I'm with Jill,” Tammy said with her arms folded across her chest. “I'm involved with a doctor, and he wouldn't approve.”

Great clouds of smoke billowed out of their mouths as they both burst into laughter.

“God, when did y'all get so uptight?” Mary Bennett said.

When did you and Gerald turn into hippie scum?
I thought, but a small voice inside my head wanted to know when
I
turned into
Sonny,
so I said nothing.

“All right, chickadees,” Mary Bennett said with a sigh. “I can see this is making y'all uncomfortable so we'll hold off.”

Gerald stubbed out the joint and tucked the pot back into his pouch. The room fell into an awkward silence. I couldn't recall a time when four Queens were in the same place and the noise and laughter wasn't deafening.

“So why don't you tell us about your commercial, Mary Bennett,” I asked. “Sounds so exciting.”

“The only reason I'm doing it is to pay the bills,” Mary Bennett said in a weary voice. “It's for Dainty and Dry deodorant. What a crap product!”

“I use Dainty and Dry,” Tammy said brightly. “It's effective, and has a very nice fragrance.”

“Maybe
you
should do the stupid commercial,” Mary Bennett said. Her eyes were lazy red slits.

“I think Mary Bennett is trying to say that deodorant is a completely unnecessary product,” Gerald said. “What's wrong with a person's natural scent? Why do we have to cover it up?”

“'Cause it's stinky?” Tammy said, holding her nose.

“I don't wear deodorant,” Gerald said. “Haven't for years.”

“Remind me not to sit next to you at the rehearsal dinner,” I said, hoping to lighten things up.

“Ha, ha,” Gerald said, but there was no levity in his tone.

Mary Bennett leaned back, clasped her fingers on her flat stomach, and said, “Why don't you tell us about your old man, Jill?”

I was grateful for the change in subject, so I forged ahead. “His name is Norman, but everybody calls him Sonny, and he's an accountant. We just bought a house in Oasis Flats. He wants me to go back to school to be a health teacher, because—”

“Another Pleasant Valley Sunday, down in status-symbol land,” Gerald sang softly.

“I have that album. It's the Monkees,” Tammy said. She looked at Mary Bennett and Gerald with triumph in her eyes. “See, I'm not completely ignorant about this counterculture stuff.”

“The Monkees are far from counterculture,” Gerald said. “They're a creation of Madison Avenue—a vehicle for selling sugary breakfast cereals to the masses.”

“Then why are you singing their song?” I said.

He gave me a pointed glance. “I thought it was apt.”

“Instead of singing, why don't you
say
what you mean, Gerald?” I said, narrowing my eyes.

“Give it a break, Gerald.” Mary Bennett stifled a yawn. “Jill can't help it. Jackson's twenty years behind the times. I was trying to find a decent radio station 'round here and all I could pick up was gospel, country-western, and Burt fuckin' Bacharach.”

“What's wrong with Burt Bacharach?” Tammy demanded. “His songs are piped into the doctor's office.”

“Egg-zactly,” Mary Bennett said with a nod of her head.

“I don't see what Burt Bacharach has to do with anything,” I said.