A Life of Bright Ideas (9 page)

“So no,” Winnalee said as she tucked the Baggie back in her duffel bag. “I didn’t ask her if I could go to Woodstock. I just went. And I’m glad I did it, too. It was the most mind-blowing experience of my life, Button. Hundreds of thousands of people crashing under the stars to peace and love, sharing food and drugs and sex, and getting down to some of the best music you could ever hope to hear. I got this close to Janis Joplin. This close!” she said, holding her hands a foot apart. “It was so frikken cool, Button. We were all brothers and sisters—no judging, no greed, no meanness—just peace and love. Acid was being passed out like Halloween candy, and the air was so thick with pot smoke that you could get high just breathing. Even the pigs just let us be.”

I was holding on to the frame of the window seat like it was the edge of a cliff. “Did
you
do those things?”

“Which things? The acid, the weed, or the sex?”

“Any of them.”

“I didn’t drop any acid. Tried it once before Woodstock and had a bad trip. Who needs
that
shit? I smoked a lot of joints, though. And had a lot of sex.”

“You didn’t,” I whispered, horrified, yet intrigued.

Winnalee laughed. “Everybody did!”

I could hear Ma’s voice saying, “If everybody jumped off a cliff, would you do it, too?”

“Freeda had a shit fit when I got back and told her where I’d been, but I didn’t care. I’d gone, and that’s all that mattered.”

Winnalee picked up her stack of albums and asked where my stereo was. I took her into my sewing room, where Jo’s soiled wedding gown and the near-finished bridesmaid’s dress
hung. “Holy shit, what’s all this? You aren’t getting married, are you?” She looked relieved when I told her no.

I explained the bridal shop and how I worked for Linda now, as Winnalee pulled a few vinyl records from their covers. “No kidding? Cool! I couldn’t do something like that. Look at this …” She pulled the bottom of her dress up and flopped the hem over to show me the gnarled zigzag of black thread. “I did this myself. Looks like a squished tarantula, doesn’t it?”

Winnalee dropped her skirt and lifted the stack of 45s sitting near my stereo, swishing through them like a card player looking for an ace. One of the red snap-in inserts necessary to fit the 45s on the skinny turntable spindle fell out of the hole and rolled under the table. Winnalee didn’t seem to notice. “Simon and Garfunkel … The Carpenters … Three Dog Night … The Bee Gees …” She glanced up, giving me the kind of smile people gave Boohoo when they thought his babyness was cute. But she gave me a real smile when she came across John Lennon’s “Give Peace a Chance.” Winnalee set down my 45s and picked up one of the few albums I owned. “Creedence Clearwater. Cool,” she said. “They were awesome at Woodstock.” I didn’t even know they
were
at Woodstock, but I was glad to hear it. I didn’t want Winnalee thinking I only listened to bubblegum music—even if I mostly did.

Winnalee stacked a couple of her albums on the turntable, cranking the volume up high so we could hear the music in the bedroom. Then it was my turn to grin, because Winnalee sounded like Boohoo mimicking a cartoon bad guy as she sang along with husky-voiced Joplin with her still-little-Winnalee voice.

Winnalee paused at my vanity and pulled Jesse’s picture from the edge of the mirror. “Is this your boyfriend?” she asked, flipping the picture over, seeing the back was empty, then turning it back to his face again.

“No. That’s Jesse,” I said. “We’re just friends.”

“You sounded sorry when you said that. Course, can’t say I blame you. He’s cute. Well, if the Army hadn’t butchered his hair … which is a far cry from what will end up getting butchered in the end. I hate that goddamn war.”

Winnalee flopped on the bed, her legs bent, her dress falling away from knees that were round and smooth and small. I turned away, because if she wasn’t wearing underwear, I didn’t want to know.

“I can’t believe you had sex,” I said aloud, even though I’d meant to only think it.

“Haven’t you?” she asked, her face going into shock mode.

I felt myself blush and I looked down. Up until that moment, I hadn’t known it was possible for a girl to be embarrassed because you
hadn’t
had sex yet. In my school, there were only a handful of girls who’d lost their virginity, and that was to boys they planned to marry after they graduated. I only knew two girls who had sex with pretty much anybody, and the raunchy nicknames their behavior earned them was enough to scorch a person’s eardrums. But Winnalee? When Uncle Rudy let out a cussword when he whacked his thumb with a hammer, Aunt Verdella scolded him because I was standing nearby. “Kids don’t do what they’re told, they do what they see,” she said to him: I knew what Winnalee had seen.

“Weren’t you afraid of picking up VD?”

“That’s what antibiotics and these are for,” she said, giving the packet of rubbers a toss back into her bag.

As uneasy as I was over hearing that Winnalee wasn’t a virgin anymore, I wished I wasn’t too embarrassed to ask her if it hurt bad the first time, because I was worried that I’d cry on my wedding night if it hurt. And I’d ask her how much she bled, because I thought it would be embarrassing and scary to turn into a bloody mess. I wanted to ask her, too, if she was embarrassed to show her naked body to guys she didn’t even
know, much less love (though I could pretty much guess what her answer to
that
would be) and if sex was as fun as guys made it sound.

Winnalee watched me as she rooted through the army bag she used for a purse, her eyes narrowing to slits, her smile widening. “I can’t believe you’ve never done it.”

“I came close, but no,” I said, even though I knew that letting a twenty-year-old feel me up a little and giving Dougie Beemer a few tight-lipped kisses on prom night didn’t exactly meet the criteria of “coming close.”

“Man, Button. You gotta ease up a little. Get with the groove.”

I guess she wanted me to learn how to loosen up quickly, too, because when her hand came out of her bag, she was holding a pack of Kools. She flipped the lid and pulled out a stubby homemade cigarette. The paper was twisted, the ends pinched—just how Penny had described the rolled joint she’d seen once. I blinked in horror.

I wanted to beg her not to light it in the house (or anywhere on our property, for that matter) because Boohoo or Aunt Verdella could pop over at any time. But I was already looking like a nerd, so instead I just sat stiff and quiet as Winnalee tucked her legs Indian-style on the bed and ignited a match. She sucked hard and held her breath until her face turned red, then blew out a small puff of smoke that smelled like molding hay. Not exactly an unpleasant odor, but still I yanked the window behind me open, and cleared my throat as I wondered just how much a person had to inhale before they got high.

“You want a toke?” she asked, holding it out. I shook my head in tight little jerks. Winnalee just shrugged, took another drag, and stacked the bed pillows behind her and leaned back.

“You’re a lot like your ma,” she said lazily. I instantly felt a stab of guilt for cringing at her words. “You’re prettier,
though,” she added, which gave me a moment’s relief, then another layer of guilt.

“You’re a lot like yours, too,” I said.

Winnalee’s eyes, pink as Bazooka, spit open. “You’re crazy. I’m
nothing
like that holier-than-thou hypocrite! You remember her, Button. She was fun-lovin’ and free. Didn’t let anyone rip her up or tell her how to live. Now she acts like a frikken nun! She’s always harping about ‘kids these days,’ and she says she’s not sleeping with another guy until she’s in love and there’s a ring on her finger. Can you believe it?”

Of course I could believe it. I was waiting for the same things.

“Like what? It’s a prize to be somebody’s
Mrs
.? I mean, think about it.
You’re
Mrs. So-and-so … what about the guy? You don’t see him having to give up his identity when he gets married, do you? It’s bullshit.”

I looked down at my fingers, tangled on legs that didn’t look so bad when I was sitting and they were spread out to the normal width of a thigh. Every bridal gown I worked on made me want to be a bride. One Sunday a few months ago, when I ran to the shop for more needles, I slipped on a finished gown, veil and all, just to see if I’d make a pretty bride. Hazel came into the shop unexpectedly, and I tripped all over myself, explaining that I was suspicious that the darts didn’t line up evenly so I was checking them out, since the bride and I had the same bust size (which obviously wasn’t true, since my boobs were flattened and bulged almost to my neck, making me look more like a Victorian queen than a bride). And like I’d have needed to try on the veil if any of that was true anyway. God! How embarrassing!

I glanced up at Winnalee and wondered if she could read my thoughts. Then I realized that about now, she was high enough that she probably couldn’t even read
her own
thoughts.

Winnalee was hungry, so we made grape Kool-Aid and Jiffy Pop popcorn, and brought them upstairs.

“Hey, remember when we usedta eat Kool-Aid powder straight from the package?” Winnalee asked, as she swirled her glass in front of the light and watched the Kool-Aid crawl up the side of the glass, smiling as if she was playing with a rainbow. “Mmmm, that was good.”

When Winnalee was talking about drugs and sex, my stomach had felt tight and my heart felt a bit sorry. But right now, at this moment, with her giddy about the fun things we’d done, her giggles washed away those feelings of unease. Once, after the Malones left, and Dad made some snide remark about Freeda being so promiscuous, Ma said, “It’s none of our business, Reece. Freeda’s ways aren’t hurting you, they’re hurting her.” I decided I would remember Ma’s words, no matter what Winnalee told me. And I’d remember what Aunt Verdella always said when people gossiped about how others lived: that it wasn’t our place to judge others, only to love them.

Winnalee imitated herself as a child, licking Kool-Aid from her finger, and I giggled. Then, in a burst of pure joy, I said, “I just can’t believe you’re back!”

“I know it. It kicks ass, doesn’t it?” Her eyes were glazed, her laughter slow and happy.

Winnalee popped a fistful of popcorn into her mouth, stood, and stripped naked as she chewed, not caring that her pubic hair and bare boobs were facing me (which I suppose made sense, considering that she’d let hundreds of thousands of strangers see them already). She still wore the faint memory of her girlhood potbelly below her navel, but otherwise she had the perfect body. Her armpits were fuzzy, though, and I wondered if that was because she’d been on the road for days or if it was some sort of hippie thing.

Winnalee tugged a too-big T-shirt over her head and
flopped back on the bed. She grabbed the foil popcorn pan and set it on her stomach. I grabbed my nightie, turned off Country Joe and the Fish, and went downstairs to brush and change. When I got back up, the popcorn tin was on the floor and Winnalee was almost asleep. “Button?” she said, her voice slow and drowsy. “Is Aunt Verdella raising Boohoo then?”

My stomach tensed. “I guess you could say that.”

“Nice,” she said slowly.

“Not exactly. Aunt Verdella’s too old to be chasing after a kid. So as soon as I’m settled …”

Winnalee came back to life with frazzled energy. “Button, don’t say that. Aunt Verdella’s not too old to raise a kid! She’ll
never
be too old to raise a kid!”

Winnalee wore the same look she wore at the table, and I understood. Aunt Verdella’s ways made her seem forever young. But every now and then, like when she’d lift her arm and I’d see skin hanging like soggy crepe paper, or when she’d struggle to get out of her chair after crocheting for a couple of hours and move stiffly for a few steps, I’d get scared and wonder how many years she’d still be around, and how I could ever face life without her.

I took Winnalee’s things off the bed and hung the peasant dress, then stuffed the rest of her clothes in my laundry basket. I folded her denim shorts and pairs of jeans that felt clean, and took them to the closet to stack them on the shelf. I scooted my clothes over, and picked up the urn to tuck it in the corner down by my shoes.

“This picture here on your nightstand,” Winnalee called. “Is this for real?”

“The tree?” I asked, as I hurriedly used my foot to bare a spot in the corner of the closet. “Yeah. Uncle Rudy took it.”

“Wow,” she said. And then she was standing there, in the closet doorway, any additonal comment she was going to make about the photo forgotten at the sight of the urn. She handed
me the tree picture and took the urn, rotating it in her hands and staring. I didn’t know what to say, so I just stood there biting my cheek and wishing I’d thrown the thing away years ago.

“Who would give a kid an urn filled with fireplace ashes—or whatever they were—and tell them that it was their dead ma? Who would do something like that?”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

She shoved it back in my arms, took the tree photo back, and left the closet. “Hey, speaking of trees,” she said, after a bit. “Did you ever find our Book of Bright Ideas that I left for you in our magic tree?”

“Of course I did, it’s
my
prized possession.” I rushed back into the bedroom, pulled the drawer on my nightstand open, and plucked out our book. Winnalee snatched it and moved over so I could flop down on my belly beside her. She opened the book at random:

“Bright Idea number fifty-six,” she read:
“If a girl asks if she can have a sleepover at your house, ask her if she pees the bed first. Otherwise you’re going to have a big spot on your mattress and your sister is going to cuss when she has to scrub it and flip it over and make you take a bath.”

Her head dropped to the book and she laughed, “God, I was such a dork.”

“No you weren’t,” I said, laughing only because her laugh was contagious. “You were fun and sassy and believed in magical things. I wanted to be you when I was little.”

Winnalee cocked her head to look at me, lumps of loopy curls falling over her face, so I brushed them behind her ear. “You’re kidding,” she said.