A Life of Bright Ideas Page 15

  Aunt Verdella made the guys stand in line, school lunchroom-style, then scooped food onto their plates. “Go wash,” I told Boohoo, who stunk like sweat and bug spray, and was poking at the poor dead fish’s eye. “Go on, little buddy,” Tommy said. “Then come over and sit by us guys over at the beer tub. That’s where the fishermen sit.”

  Marls’s friend Tammy helped when it was time to open the gifts, jotting down the name of the item and the gift bearer as Tammy held up each little sleeper, or blanket, or toy, so we could admire it. There wasn’t much oohing and ahing over Fanny’s gift, however—a dozen cloth diapers, unused, but yellowed with time.

  Marls called to Brody to show him the froggy-patterned infant seat Rita had gotten them, but he didn’t glance over. Even though she called his name three times. Tammy was in my line of vision, glaring over to where Brody sat on the grass with Tommy, while the older men sat on lawn chairs. Brody had ignored Marls since they pulled in, though he had made the point of going up to Winnalee to flirt a little before he joined the guys.

  Tammy’s eyes shrunk to squints when Winnalee got up and headed back to the beer tub, and Brody jumped to his feet, making a federal case about how he was “so thirsty he was farting dust.” Then laughing like it was a coincidence that he and Winnalee should both be fishing for an icy can at the same time.

  Marls looked crushed under the weight of her belly, and Tammy looked ready to explode when Brody picked Winnalee up by the waist, acting as though he was intending to tip her upside down into the tub of melting ice. Her short empire-style dress crept even higher up her thighs as she kicked, and I hoped she was wearing underwear.

  “Put me down, you stupid son of a bitch,” Winnalee screamed, but she was laughing. Brody’s dad made a joke only the guys could hear and a couple of them chuckled—even Dad. Mrs. Bishop glanced over at them with dead fish-eyes.

  “Brody, you be careful. She’s just a little bit of a thing!” Aunt Verdella called. And Fanny Tilman grumbled, “That girl should cover up.”

  Poor Marls, with her body bloated so that she hardly looked like herself, and her face water-balloon-puffy. All the ladies clucked about how “cute” she looked pregnant, but obviously, Marls—and Brody for that matter—didn’t think so. My heart hurt for her as she watched Winnalee, a girl far prettier, far thinner, far sexier than she, squirm out of Brody’s arms, then grab a fistful of ice and start chasing him in circles across the yard.

  Tommy shot me a do-something look, and while I was scrambling to think of some way to interrupt them, Tammy rose from her chair and marched over to where Brody was pinned up against the tree laughing as though he was being tickled, sloshing beer down the front of Winnalee’s dress as she struggled to stuff the dripping cubes down his shirt. “Your wife could use something to drink, Brody,” Tammy snapped, loud enough for everyone to hear. Marvin Thompson and Max Bishop busted out in now-you’re-in-trouble chuckles. Brody looked up, like it was the first he realized that anyone was watching them.

  Winnalee backed away. “Yeah, get your wife something to drink,” she said.

  Brody looked irritated for the interruption. “What kind does she want?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He reached into the tub at random and pulled out a 7 Up. He was about to toss the can to Tammy, when Winnalee yanked open the neck of his shirt and sent the ice sledding down his back. The can popped into the air and dropped to the ground with a thud, the pop-top splitting and sending a sizzling spray onto the grass.

  Tammy bent to pick it up. “You’re such a jerk,” she said.

  “What? It was Winnalee’s fault!” Brody protested. Max Bishop snickered again, which made my jaw tighten. That was his daughter-in-law sitting under the tree, humiliated and hurt and trying not to cry.

  Aunt Verdella leapt to her feet, her smile jumpy. “Button, why don’t you bring out the cake now?”

  I carried it out and set it on the table. The women stood for a better look, and cooed over it like it was a baby.

  “Bring it over to show Marls before we cut it, so she doesn’t have to get up,” Aunt Verdella said. “Poor thing.”

  “Oh, Evy, that’s darling,” Marls said. I was happy to see her smile, though her smile stretched as tight as her stomach when Aunt Verdella announced that the clothesline idea came from Winnalee.

  While we ate cake—Winnalee beside me, thank God—the party relaxed and conversation flowed until the gnats and mosquitoes came to claim the yard.

  It was Tommy who made Brody help carry the gifts to the Mustang, and while they did, Marls came up to me and Aunt Verdella to thank us. She looked pale and too tired to be upset anymore. “You come visit us girls anytime, Marls,” Aunt Verdella told her as she patted her arm.

  Fifteen minutes later, there was no one left but us and Tommy—and surprisingly, Dad. The guys were sitting by the beer tub, talking about fishing, and Winnalee ran to the house to get a bag for the torn wrapping paper and cake plates.

  Aunt Verdella was chattering like a squirrel, all happy because the party had been a success and she’d done well at the sale. But then she stopped abruptly. “Button, what’s wrong?”

  I was staring over by the guys. At Dad, whose legs were stretched, his eyelids soggy from beer. He was oblivious to the fact that Boohoo was standing beside him, patting his arm saying, “Dad … Dad … Dad …” Boohoo’s fish was in a bread tin with icy water now, because Uncle Rudy had told him it wouldn’t be good to eat if it wasn’t kept cold. Dad was oblivious to Boohoo, but he noticed the splot of water that sloshed from the tin. He moved his arm to keep the water from dousing his cigarette.

  Aunt Verdella gave me a troubled glance, then called out, “Reece?” She pointed down at Boohoo. But Boohoo was already setting the bread tin down by Uncle Rudy, asking him to watch his fish while he went to get Hoppy.

  CHAPTER

  16

  BRIGHT IDEA #95: When you sing, sing rowdy like Elvis. And when you dance, dance like you’re at Marty Graw.

  “Where’s my new hot pants?” Winnalee called from the top of the stairs.

  “On your dresser!” I called back. Her “new” hot pants were really a pair of white hip-hugger bell-bottoms with an impossible stain on the thigh, which she had asked me to make into short shorts because she knew white would look great under black lights. She’d run a strip of red Magic Marker on the fabric under the butt to show me where to hem them, not realizing that I had to go shorter or the marker would show. Then she had me tack a crocheted lace yolk on the back of the waistband. “I love the way you ran the patch of lace around one hip, too! Cool!” Winnalee called from the bedroom.

  Winnalee clomped down the stairs in chunky-heeled white boots that laced to her knees. Her hair was hanging in still-damp ringlets, and her lips were glossed. She turned around and bent slightly. “Can you see my undies in these things?”

  “Yeah,” I told her.

  Winnalee sighed and pulled her hot pants off. Then, right there in the living room, she stripped off her panties. “I know. I know … the cheeks of my ass are gonna be sticking out, but it will look stupider if my underwear is showing. Reefer wants them short, anyway.”

  Winnalee grabbed her purse and headed to the door. “Tommy and Brody will be by to pick you up at nine-thirty. The music starts at ten, but I want to show you my art first. See you later, Button!”

  It was Winnalee’s idea that Tommy go to the Purple Haze with Brody, so I wouldn’t have to sit alone, or with Brody (which might have been worse than sitting alone). The guys showed up, honking while I was trying on the third outfit Winnalee had left on the bed for my consideration. It was nine-fifteen. Winnalee had wanted me to wear either a miniskirt or shorts, claiming I’d melt to death in pants, but I’d told her I wouldn’t get caught dead in public with my darning needle legs and cauliflower knees. Winnalee didn’t have time to argue, so she picked out my best pair of bell-bottom hip-huggers, and three tops she thought would look great with them. “Whatever shirt you wear, tuck it in, too, and wear the
thick belt I left on your bed.” I’d tried on all three of the lightweight knits, but all of them clung to my boobs like skin.

  “Evy, come on!” Brody called from the front yard.

  “I’ll be right down!” I shouted. The truck honked again, and Brody shouted that if I didn’t hurry, they’d leave without me. Out of options, and out of courage, I settled on the black shirt—I wasn’t about to wear white and have my boobs glowing like two bright harvest moons.

  I’d changed so many times, and so fast, that my face and scalp were sweating, and I knew that in ten minutes I’d look like I was wearing an Afro, in spite of the juice cans I’d left wound in my hair all day, and the half of a jar of Dippity-do.

  “Evyyyyyyy, for crissakes, what are you doing up there?” Brody bellered. He’d probably paced the grass bald already, as anxious as he was to get to the Purple Haze to see Winnalee.

  I brushed my hair, and patted so much powder over the shiny spots that I feared my cheeks would look like floured bread dough, then strapped one of Winnalee’s hemp chokers around my neck. I stuffed a tube of New London lip gloss into my purse and was about to fly out the door, when I realized that I hadn’t switched sandals with the last outfit change. I hurried to the other side of the bed, and swiped underneath with my foot. The urn came rolling out. It had vanished the morning after Winnalee and I argued, so I assumed she’d picked it up and put it away. But there it was, bumping against the floorboard without its lid.

  I dropped to my knees to look for my sandal—this time it was Tommy who was bellowing—and saw the urn lid butted up beside my shoe. I grabbed them both, screwed the lid back on the urn, and rolled it like a bowling ball into the closet.

  The parking lot was already crowded when we pulled in, about twenty minutes after ten. “Right there!” Brody bitched as Tommy passed yet another space.

  “Chill, you dumb son of a bitch. A full-sized truck wouldn’t fit in those spots. Crissakes, why can’t people learn to park?”

  “I told you we should have taken my Mustang.”

  Tommy wasn’t happy to be here, that much was apparent. Even though he’d taken the effort to buy a new shirt (navy and white; wide, horizontal stripes), judging by the fold creases.

  He circled the second row of cars while Brody complained some more. I looked over at Brody and asked innocently, “Why didn’t you bring Marls along?”

  “And ruin all my fun?” Brody said. Tommy called him a “dick-weed.”

  Brody was out of the truck the second it stopped, but Tommy just sat there, his hand hanging over the steering wheel. “What a piss hole Bouman’s turned this place into,” he said.

  I slid over to the passenger door. “I thought you said you haven’t been here yet.”

  “No. But you can tell just by looking at the scuzballs going in.”

  Fat-bodied moths circled the bare bulb above the front door, and mayflies clung to the screen. “It’s the jukebox,” Tommy told me, as we neared the front door. I suppose because I looked impressed that a local band could play “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” just like Iron Butterfly.

  Tommy jerked open the door so I could step inside, but I made him go in first. Not that anyone would have noticed our entrance: The place was that packed. People stood shoulder to shoulder around the bar, waving bills to get a drink. From what little I could see through the archway, the dance hall was even fuller. “What do you want to drink?” Tommy yelled over the music and chatter. “Anything,” I said, as I strained to spot Winnalee.

  We might have stood there forever waiting for drinks, but for Brody, who came up and snatched the bill out of Tommy’s hand. He joked his way to the bar, then whistled to the cute bartender, calling her by name.

  Tommy was tallest, so I asked him to spot Winnalee. “She’s in the back,” Brody said, handing me a Pabst. “Come on.”

  The lit stage, two feet off the floor, was filled with beat-up-looking speakers, a drum set, propped guitars, but no band members. Girls were clustered nearby anyway. There were two tall cage-like constructions made of pipes built on tall platforms on both sides of the stage—for what purpose, who knew.

  It wasn’t easy examining Winnalee’s artwork, since people—mostly guys—hung near the walls, their dark silhouettes blotting out so much of the fluorescent forms that you could hardly make out what they were. Tommy found a bit of wall space to the right of the stage to lean against, and I followed to stand beside him. There was a group of guys sucking beer beside us, and Brody butted them out of the way. “Check this one out, guys,” he said to me and Tommy. He pointed to a series of pink fluorescent rectangles, boxes within boxes, that in the black lighting had such dimension it looked like a hallway you could walk down to reach forever. “Far out, huh?” Near the “hallway” was the image of a dark-haired woman screaming into a microphone. “Grace Slick,” Brody shouted. He pointed to the colorful swirls of music bursting from her mouth and said, “How cool is that?”

  Tommy didn’t talk, and neither did I, since it was so noisy you’d have to shout. He watched the place like a police officer, while I stared at white clothing, made brilliant purple white in the black lights, moving as if the forms were empty. The room was stuffy and hot, thick with the smells of cigarette smoke, beer, and musk perfume. I took a sip of my beer, cringing at the taste, but thirsty all the same.

  “Evy? Evy Peters?” I turned and saw Amy and a few more girls from my class. “Oh my God, it is you! Stacy said it was, but I said ‘no way.’ ” Amy glanced up at Tommy and her left eyebrow lifted as if she thought he was cute—and my date.

  “Jo’s dress was so pretty,” she said, still watching Tommy. I thanked her, as though I’d made it myself. Amy glanced at the stage while the girls she was with gawked and gossiped beside her, then Amy turned back to me. “I got a letter from Jesse,” she yelled, in an effort to be heard over Eric Burdon and War’s “Spill the Wine.”

  “Yeah, I know. He told me he was going to write you back.” I knew it was childish to feel the need to let her know Jesse and I were writing each other, and that I knew she’d written to him first, but I couldn’t help it.

  “I think he’s forgiven me for being so stupid,” she said, her smile dazzling in the black lights. She leaned closer and shouted beer breath into my already frizzing hair. “It was my mom’s idea to break up with him. She said I was too young to tie myself down while he was in the service.” I only nodded, because really, what could I say?

  “I know you guys are friends … Has he said anything to you about me?”

  My stomach clenched, and I took a long swallow of beer to soften it. “No. Only that you’d written and he supposed that he should be polite and write back.” Amy looked disappointed. “Well, put in a good word for me, will you?” she said. She gave me a pathetic smile, than scuttled off to catch up with her friends. I took a long chug from my sweaty bottle, and wished for Winnalee to appear so I could gush over her psychedelic paint job and leave.

  The band came out the back door and found their places onstage. The drummer tested his sticks against the drums, while the guy at center stage tuned his guitar. The band members were skinny and homely, but the girls still gravitated to the stage to oogle them. Ma was right: Women loved musicians.

  Brody left the three girls he was flirting with and hurried back to Tommy and me. “This way. She’ll be coming out now.”

  Brody tugged us through the crowd. And there she was. Winnalee emerging from the same door the band members had come from, her shorts and tight white shirt and boots a purply white blaze. Another girl, almost as pretty, also dressed in white, was beside her, and Chet was behind them. Winnalee stepped over tangles of cords and disappeared. I rocked side to side on tiptoes to see where she’d gone. The jukebox went dead mid-song, and Brody started jabbing Tommy and laughing like a buffoon. “There!” he shouted, pointing. Apparently there was a set of steps leading up to the metal cages and Winnalee came up them, the outline of her hair luminous like the edges of a cloud lit by the sun at its back
. She stepped inside the cage and struck a mannequin pose (but not of the virginal bride variety) and held it—same as the girl in the cage on the opposite side of the stage did. The lead singer shouted behind him, “One, two, three …” and the band lit into an earsplitting version of “Honky Tonk Women.” That’s when Winnalee came to life. Her body pulsing to the beat of the drums, her long, loopy hair writhing along with her. Brody stuffed two fingers into his mouth and whistled.

  I turned to Tommy, dumbstruck.

  “What? You didn’t know Winnalee cage-danced on weekends?” Tommy shouted, as he leaned over me.

  I couldn’t even speak. I couldn’t do anything but bend my head back and stare up at Winnalee as she danced, the cheeks of her butt a soft, shimmying bulge under her shorts, her breasts jiggling.

  The song was half over when she spotted me. She waved proudly, and I lifted my hand timidly to wave back.

  I curled my finger at Tommy and he bent over. “She doesn’t take her clothes off, does she?” I asked him. He shrugged.

  I looked back at the stage, just as Brody was handing a beer bottle through the pole slots. Winnalee squatted, her legs spread, and took it—turning so he could tuck a dollar bill in the waistband of her shorts. She shook the beer bottle while the crowd—the guys anyway—hooted. Winnalee clamped her thumb over the lip of the bottle and shook it vigorously. Lurid catcalls filled the room when she lifted her thumb and sent a spray of foam above her head. She tossed her wet hair and droplets sparkled in the stage lights. She bent to grab another bottle. She shook that one more vigorously, and sprayed the front of her flimsy white shirt. I stared in disbelief as guys formed a line in front of her cage, extra beer bottles and dollar bills in their hands.

  Winnalee set bottles of beer off until by the end of the set, she was soaking wet, and beer was dripping down through the bars to darken the dusty floor beneath the cage. I tipped my own bottle back, my second, and chugged.

  By the time the band took its second break, Winnalee’s hot pants were filled with dollar bills that drooped over her waistband like a limp tutu, and I’d had three drinks and was feeling tipsy. She freed herself from the cage and, bumping aside the guys who swarmed her, hurried to me. “Did you see my art?” she asked, as she handed me an opened beer.