The Right Thing (11 page)

Before my father could say anything to this, however, my mother said, “Starr's our guest today, Mother Banks. Just as you are.” And with that, she took the handles of the wheelchair from my father and pushed her now stone-silent dragon of a mother-in-law into the living room to the place of honor beside the fire.

“Wade,” my mother said, and her voice was like music, “why don't you pour us a glass of sherry? I know I could certainly use one.”

 

Thanksgiving that year was anything but tedious, especially after Aunt Too-Tai arrived twenty minutes later and Daddy broke out the bourbon. My grandmother was more than rude, speaking only to my father, except for once when she asked Aunt Too-Tai about someone who turned out to be dead.

And then, after we'd sat down to dinner, Daddy had carved the turkey, and we'd all said grace, Starr dropped her fork. The heavy silver striking the floor rang like the bells at St. Andrew's. Everyone at the table looked up from their plates. Conversation stopped. Starr's face was as red as her borrowed dress.

“ 'Scuse me,” she mumbled, looking as though she wanted to vanish under the Irish linen tablecloth.

My grandmother gave a loud sniff of disdain and cleared her throat, obviously about to render a fatal judgment from on high, but before she opened her mouth, Aunt Too-Tai had picked up her knife and dropped it on the floor next to her chair. That knife really clattered because she'd put a good spin on it.

“Whoops,” she said, her voice bright. She gave my thigh a poke under the table. “Now, Annie,” Aunt Too-Tai muttered. “Drop something.”

With a startled glance at her, I dropped my fork on the floor, too.
Clang.

“Really, Wade,” my horrible grandmother began, sounding vastly annoyed.

With a grin, my daddy dropped his knife, and my mother laughed and dropped her spoon, too. Looking at my mother from down the table, Starr's eyes shone with what could have been worship. When everyone had collected their silverware from off the floor, Thanksgiving dinner resumed. My grandmother didn't even talk to Daddy after that.

That year was a better-than-usual Thanksgiving, and better yet, at the conclusion of dinner, instead of joining everybody by the fire, Grandmother Banks made Daddy go out and wake Wash up from his doze in the front seat of the Packard to take her back to State Street. It was as though the dragon sulking in its wheelchair had decided to roll on to a location farther south, taking the oppressive atmosphere with it. My parents and Aunt Too-Tai raised their after-dinner glasses of bourbon in a silent toast while Starr and I stretched out on the rug and played Old Maid in the firelight.

At last, Thanksgiving Day ended, Aunt Too-Tai left to make the drive back to Chunky, and it was time for Starr to go home.

“Wade,” my mother said. “Let's drive her. It's dark.”

Gathering the cards, I got up from beside the fire to go, too.

“No, Annie,” my mother said. “You'd better go on upstairs and have a bath. Methyl Ivory will stay with you until we come back. Say good-bye to Starr, now.”

They were gone what seemed a long time, much longer than it should have taken just to drive around the block. I was in my flannel pajamas and robe, sitting at the kitchen table with Methyl Ivory and having a last slice of pumpkin pie and a glass of milk, when my parents came in the front door.

“. . . disgraceful,” my father was saying. “Tighter than Dick's hatband, no better than a drunk.”

“Shhh, Wade.” It was my mother's lowered voice. “Let's not talk about it now.” You know, I can still remember the way they looked as I ran to meet them in the hall—tall and handsome, somehow bright around the edges—like princes of the earth.

I have never loved them more.

 

Later that same night, I was reading
The Secret Garden,
snug under the covers. My mother came in my room to kiss me good night. She sank down on the bed beside me.

“Annie, she said, “I need you to listen to me.” I sat up, and she took my hands in her own. “Starr's father isn't a well man.” My mother pinched her red lips together, as though remembering something nasty. “Your daddy and I had a word with him this evening when we took Starr home. We told him he has to take better care of himself, but I don't know how much good that'll do. Now if you hear that he's . . . sick . . . again, I want you to tell me right away. Starr can come stay with us for a while, just until he's better.”

“He's not really sick, is he?” I remembered what my daddy had said. Drunk. My only experience with drunks was watching Red Skelton's Willy Lump-Lump staggering around the light pole on the television, but I knew what drunk meant. “But how come he's tighter than Dick's hatband? Did somebody tie him up?”

“Never mind that.” She didn't say anything for a moment; then my mother burst out, “No child should have to endure what that little girl is going through!” Her eyes were fierce, her hands tightening on mine. “And if I have anything to say about it, she won't have to, not anymore. We can at least go through your closet tomorrow and find some nice things for her to wear. Good night, Annie.”

“ 'Night.”

She kissed my forehead, turned out the light, and I fell almost instantly fast asleep, full of pie and Thanksgiving.

E
ven though I began this frantic race to New Orleans with a mostly full tank, we have to stop for gasoline at the Fernwood Travel Plaza, just outside of McComb. The Beemer is a great car for a road trip, but a V-8 eats up the fuel exactly like it devours the road.

It's just as well. Starr, being in her second trimester, has needed to find a restroom since we passed the Jackson city limits eighty miles ago. I give her a hundred-dollar bill from the wad in my parka's pocket and ask her to pay the cashier while I pump the gas. In the back seat, Troy Smoot is whining and pawing at the window. I'm guessing he probably needs a quick whiz himself, so, finished pumping, I hang up the hose and open the door to let him out of the car before I remember he isn't wearing a leash.

I don't have a lot of experience with dogs, obviously.

At our house, we never had pets at all, not even a goldfish, much less a dog. I think it was a mutual decision for my parents—Daddy having grown up with a series of ill-tempered dachshunds and my mother unwilling to have a four-legged nuisance underfoot in addition to her two-legged one. If I wanted to play with an animal, she'd say, I could go next door and visit with King, Dr. Thigpen's German shepherd. Like Dr. Thigpen, King was retired and only wanted to laze underneath the live oak tree in the peace and quiet of his own front yard. Once, when I was really little, I tied myself to the oak with a clothesline and tried to convince King to bite the rope in two like Rin Tin Tin did when rescuing Rusty from the Comanches. The mailman gave me an odd look, shaking his head as he passed on his rounds. Dr. Thigpen came outside and asked me what in tarnation I was up to now. I wasn't yet discouraged, but after a long half hour of commanding a snoring King to spring into action, I finally untied myself.

Troy Smoot the terrier may look like a ten-pound version of King, but as soon as he bounds out of the car and hits the oil-spotted pavement, he's off—sprinting into the darkness like he's got a hot date with a small, crunchy mammal. I'm ready to panic until I realize he's made straight for the parched grass at the dark edge of the parking lot, just beside a row of big semis idling with their low beams on. I keep an anxious eye on him as he lifts his leg on a mud flap, then noses around the gravel perimeter while I'm waiting on Starr to come back from her trip to the ladies' room.

Which she does at last, carrying two big Styrofoam cups of steaming coffee. “Whew,” she says, lowering herself into the front seat. “That surely was a relief. Here's your change.”

Stuffing the fistful of bills into my parka's pocket, I whistle an uncertain summons to Troy. To my utter relief, right away he comes belting across the lot under the sodium vapor lights, wearing a doggy grin and a high-held tail. He springs into the back seat and curls up with a contented wriggle, clearly pleased with his new, elevator-free circumstances.

Then, as I get in the driver's side, a whistle shrills from somewhere in the darkness by the rank of idling semis. I squint in the whistle's direction, feeling confused. Is someone else calling the dog?

“Hey, babe!” somebody hoots. It's a greasy-haired guy in a gimme cap, hanging out the window of his tractor-trailer's cab and waving at me. I shut the door, quick, and hit the lock button.

“Somebody thinks that scrawny ass of yours is mighty fine,” Starr says as she hands me my coffee. I snort.

“Oh, right.” I back out of the truck stop's circle of lights and head the car toward the black on-ramp, onto the I-55. “Ronald Reagan still had most of his mind the last time anyone looked at my ass, let alone made a comment about it.” I glance at her in the glow from the instrument panel. “Except for you, that is. How come you keep calling me scrawny?”

“ 'Cause you're the size of a Bic ballpoint.” Starr gives a snort of her own, holding her thumb and forefinger about half an inch apart. “You don't know anything about what men
really
like, but they surely appreciate a woman with a little meat on her bones. You,” she says with authority, “probably have no idea how men look at you—like they want to buy you a ham sandwich, then take you home.”

I can't imagine why she'd think that. Except for the Judge and his obscene proposition two years ago, no one's expressed that kind of interest in me since I was in college, really not since Du started dating me. Maybe it's because I'm so dismally inept at flirting I usually end up embarrassing myself and don't even bother with it anymore. Maybe Du scares them off. Anyway, feeling a little uncomfortable at Starr's observation, I take a sip of my coffee and practically spit it out. It's loaded with artificial creamer and sugar.

“Hey,” I sputter. “This shit is—”

“Fattening? Oh, please.” Starr sounds bored. “Go on, honey. A little Cremora and a couple of packs of sugar never killed anybody yet.”

I take another begrudging sip. Okay, it's not bad, and I can certainly use the caffeine. The highway stretches before us, dark and deserted on this night before Thanksgiving. Out here in the country night, all I can find on the radio is that terminally nasal brand of down-and-out hillbilly music and some backwoods preacher hollering into his lonely microphone about huma-seck-shu-als among us. I turn it off. During the twenty miles since the truck stop, conversation's been in short supply so I venture a question.

“Hey,” I say. “Tell me about this person who's got your money.”

“There's not a lot to tell,” Starr replies, her nose buried in her coffee cup. “She's . . . an old friend, from my racetrack days, mostly. She did me a favor a couple of months ago, before me and Bobby hit the wall. 'Round about Labor Day, Bobby gave me a thousand bucks mad money from his poker winnings, she put that thousand bucks down on a sure thing for me, and don't you know that bangtail came in at twenty-toone! Since Bobby was paying for everything at the time, I asked her to hold on to the money till I could come and get it.”

“Oh.” This woman must be a hell of a good friend, holding on to Starr's twenty thousand dollars. That's a lot of money, even though twice that amount probably won't be enough to see her through the legal Armageddon she's going to be facing with Bobby and Judge Shapley. I keep this discouraging fact to myself, though, and drive another ten miles before I ask her another question, one that's been in the back of my mind ever since earlier this afternoon at the condo.

“So who was it you were supposed to be meeting tonight?” I ask, feeling playful. “You know—the guy on the phone?”

“Nobody,” Starr answers. There's a tone in her voice warning me not to push this.

I do anyway. “Nobody?” I repeat. “Oh, come on, Starr. You can tell me.”

“Okay,”
she says. “Since you're so damn nosy, it was somebody who told me he maybe could help me out with my situation. He sure doesn't want his name dragged into it, though.” Her profile in the dashboard's glow is sullen. “Look, Annie—don't make a big deal, 'kay? It's not like he's going to do anything for me anyways. Let's not talk about it.”

I digest this cryptic explanation. Who could it be? And why is Starr acting like this is some Vatican state secret? I'm never going to tell anyone
anything
. Once we pick up her money and get back to Jackson, I'm praying my part in this midnight expedition never sees the light of day, so it's not as though I'm dying to go around town gossiping about this mystery man of hers. This just seems . . . off, somehow, maybe even sort of insulting that Starr doesn't trust me with his name. I wish I could smoke a cigarette. I always think better with a cigarette, and I'm not sure what to think about all this secrecy.

As I mull this over, Starr reaches for her purse and rummages around inside it. With a rustle of plastic, she unearths a jumbo pack of Slim Jims. Troy perks up and sticks his head between the front seats. I think he's drooling an unobtrusive, little-dog inquiry.

“Here.” She opens the package and tries to hand me one of those meat sticks. “I bet you didn't eat before you came to get me.”

“I can't have Slim Jims!” I say, even though my nose twitches at the rich, greasy aroma. Get thee behind me, Satan, I think with a shudder. “Do you know how many calories are in that thing?” I complain. “
Junk
food. Besides, eating those cookies this afternoon means I can't have anything but vitamins and lettuce until Friday.”

“You serious?” Starr's voice is aghast. “There's something bad, bad wrong with that, sugar. What're you supposed to do tomorrow? Sit around with an empty plate while the normal folks load theirs up with turkey and all the fixings? Doesn't anybody ever tell you to eat?”

“Du likes me fine the way I am,” I say defensively. “And my mother's never said a word to me about my weight. I bet she's happy I can still fit into my deb dress. Anyway, so long as I put some food on my plate, I can push it around for an hour and nobody really notices.”

“I can't believe it. That's terrible.” Starr shakes her head. “It's like you're starving yourself so you'll look like a twelve-year-old or something. What size are you, a two?”

“A zero.”

Starr makes a disgusted noise. “A zero. So you're trying to disappear, then.”

“I just like to fit in my clothes, that's all,” I say quickly. “And I've seen what happens if you let yourself go.”
If you can't be pregnant, you sure can't be fat,
says the rosebush voice.
Who'd want you then?
“So if you don't mind, I'll pass on the Slim Jims.”

“Huh.” Starr's mouth twists in wry concession. “Then I guess you won't want the Reese's cup either. Here, Troy, have some yummy grease.”

With a genteel snap of his jaws, the dog takes my Slim Jim and nearly swallows it whole.

 

We crossed the state line an hour ago, trading the gentle hills of Mississippi for the flatlands of southeastern Louisiana. The miles fly by now. At a quarter to nine, we're crossing over the Bonnet Carré Spillway with ten miles to go before we hit the city limits.

New Orleans appears to the southeast as a golden arc on the black horizon, its skyline floating above banked clouds of fog and light, and in spite of my nagging suspicion that this trip is going to turn out to be a really bad idea, I can't help but feel my spirits lift at the sight of the city.

I've always loved this town. I love its improbable, tattered buoyancy, its insatiable appetite for all good things and more than a few bad ones. Ever since I was a child, I've loved wandering the shadowed, mysterious streets of the French Quarter, loved sitting by the Mississippi River and watching the great ships of the world cleave those terrible, fathomless currents. The challenging grace note of a solitary jazz trumpet flung like a dare against the evening sky; a long, cold drink in a short, dark bar while the rain courses silver tears down the face of the marble dryad on a hidden courtyard—oh, Lord, if I was ever going to run away from my life for real, I might run to New Orleans. It'd be a sight more effective than hiding underneath the duvet and a whole lot more fun.

We're crossing the last elevated mile over the marsh before we get to the city limits, and I ask Starr, “Where do we find this friend of yours with the money?”

Starr thinks for a moment; then she says, “Get off at the exit at St. Bernard Avenue. I'll tell you how to get to the racetrack from there.” She shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “I can't hardly wait. I need a bathroom.”

I glance at her in the flat glare from the interstate's rows of lamps. “You really have to go again?” Here's an aspect of pregnancy I've never imagined, being at the mercy of your own bladder. For me, being with child has been on a par with walking through the gates of Mecca in holy ecstasy, the culmination of an endless pilgrimage through the desert wastes. I haven't given much thought to what Mecca would be like if I ever got there.

“It's chronic.” Starr winces. “Like I said before, I wouldn't do anything different, but I wish someone had told me about this part when I forgot to take my pills. I'd have bought stock in Charmin.”

We're coming up on the exit. I brake the car and glide down the ramp to the stoplight on St. Bernard. The neighborhood is dark, the streetlights' hazed glow muted by the fog and the massive oaks' heavy-leafed limbs. I check again to make sure the doors are locked. I've never been to this part of the city before, and this doesn't look like a good neighborhood. It's a far cry from the Quarter, for sure.

“Where next?” I ask, trying not to sound apprehensive and almost succeeding.

“Turn right.” Starr guides me down St. Bernard to Gentilly Boulevard, then from there into an even more poorly lit rabbit warren of narrow one-way streets with exotic names like Crete and Trafalgar. The small shotgun houses here are crowded shoulder-to-shoulder in the darkness as though they're keeping an eye out for trouble, and a couple of times Starr tells me to reverse the car and go back because we missed a turn. I'm starting to freak out when, finally, rows of cinder block and sheet metal buildings appear to our left. Starr points to a gate up ahead in the high, barbed-wire-topped chain-link fence.

“We'll go in here.” In the back seat, Troy puts his feet up on the window and whines at an alley cat slinking under a dilapidated house. “Shit, I forgot,” Starr says, dismayed. “The dog. The guard's not going to let us bring the dog onto the backstretch. Quick—stop the car.”

I pull over to the right-hand side of the street, in front of a house with foil-covered windows and a cement shrine to the Virgin hunkered down next to a junked car on cinder blocks. “He's a little dog,” I say. “Maybe the guard won't see him.”

“Can't take that chance.” Starr shakes her head. “Take your coat off and cover him up with that. Let me do the talking.” I struggle out of the mink, and Starr drapes it over the dog. “Be good, Troy Smoot,” she warns. “Lay still.”