A Southern Place (4 page)

“She did? She never told me.” My stomach grumbled and I hoped Mama wouldn’t wonder where I’d got to, but I loved being at Uncle Cal’s house. It was like a present to me with the rain pattering outside and the box between us.

“Your mama loved to sew, nothing made her happier than a purty piece a material and a new pattern.” It was like he described someone else, a younger, happier woman. It made me feel strange, thinking of Mama in a life without the panty factory, or bills to pay, or me.

“I know she don’t have time to do a lot of it these days, but your mama’s made you some pretty dresses you could never of afforded from the store. You don’t wanna learn to sew?”

“Sort of,” I admitted. “Mama helped me make a skirt one time, and she was gonna show me how to put in a zipper so I could make a dress, but I guess we forgot or got too busy. And her sewing machine don’t work too good anymore. That’s how Mama learned to sew?”

“Yes ma’am. You tell her bring that machine by here—no sense taking it somewhere that’ll charge you an arm and a leg—” He stopped, looking at his hook.

My eyes stung, and I knew crying would make him feel worse, so I did the only thing I knew to do: I gave it right back to him. “No use lettin’ somebody charge an arm and a leg when you already gave up an arm, Captain Hook. Arrrrr!”

My uncle laughed and shook his head. Reaching underneath the papers, he pulled out the picture frame. “This here’s your Mama and me, right ’fore she graduated. She made that dress for the Junior-Senior Prom, got mad at the boy she was supposed to go with, and took me instead. Now ain’t I a sight for sore eyes?”

The frame had been metallic gold once but had rusted with age. The color picture was faded, but the two familiar faces were brighter than I’d ever seen them. Uncle Cal wore a white coat, white shirt, black bow tie and black pants with pinstripes. Even his shiny shoes were black and white, and there was a yellow flower in the pocket of his jacket. His curly brown hair was combed back, and he was grinning, his arm around Mama. He had
two
good arms, then.

Mama looked like a princess in a floor length, off-the-shoulder dress of baby blue dotted-swiss. It was perfectly fitted through the bust and her tiny waist, which was belted with a long white ribbon and a corsage of daisies in its center. The skirt flared out in big, perfect ripples like waves of whipped cream around a layer cake. Her hair was curled and put up tall, weird by the standards I was used to, but perfectly elegant with the dress in the picture. Her lips were painted pink and smiling—bigger than I could ever remember her smiling. Her basic features still looked the same, but not really. The excitement in my mother’s face made her a different person altogether.

“Why does she look so—so happy?” I asked.

“She was a fine-looking girl, in a new dress she made herself, going to the biggest event she’d ever been to. Her life was just starting to get to the good parts—graduation was a few days away. She was happy to be alive, I guess.”

“But she graduated, and then she went to work at the panty factory. She was looking forward to that?”

My uncle’s face clouded over, his eyebrows pulling tight against his skull as he sucked in air. “She wasn’t planning to go the factory, not at first,” he said, bothering about for his cigarettes. “She got a little scholarship, not much, but enough to send her to the vocational school if she worked part-time and watched her spending.” He tried striking a match but the pack must have been wet, and he threw them on the floor. “She was real good at typing and shorthand, wanted to take some more courses, and some bookkeeping.”

“Why didn’t she?” This was more information than I’d ever gotten about Mama’s life before me.

“We had some hard luck, Delores and me. Mama died.” Cal leaned over and grabbed another pack of matches from the windowsill. “And the little house we lived in wasn’t really ours, it was mortgaged to the hilt.” He stuck a bent Lucky in his mouth. “We thought if we both worked like crazy we could hold on.” He opened the book of matches. There was only one match left. “I was working fulltime for Oakland, and Delores worked two jobs that summer, then for the next year, too, thinking she’d be able to drop one of ’em and go to school the next fall.”

He sighed and struck the match. The flame burst out and caught the end of his cigarette. Exhaling, he watched the smoke rise to the ceiling. “Then I lost my arm, you know that old story,” he said, looking far away from the room where we sat. “That put us behind even more. Delores was gonna start school the
next
year. Then—” Uncle Cal was silent. He smoked.

After a minute or more of deep thought he said, “Things don’t always work out the way you think they will. That’s all. But she’s been a good mama to you, Cajun girl. Don’t you forget it.” Reaching over, he patted my knee, then grasped the box lid on the floor with his hook and with that, signaled an end to my family history lesson.

“Wait!” I cried, grabbing inside the box before he could restore the lid. “What about this?” I took out a red plastic cube about the size of a jack-in-the-box. There were holes in four sides, holes in the shape of circles, ovals, rectangles, squares, and stars. Flipping open the top, I found little plastic pieces in all of those shapes. “Whose was this?”

Uncle Cal stood up, rubbed out his cigarette in a little tin ashtray, and looked out the window again. He took the box from my hands.

“It’s quit raining, you better be getting back home before it starts again. Your mama’ll have my hide if I send you home in the rain,” he said. The plastic cube, the picture frame, and everything else went back beneath the Thom Mcann logo. He closed the lid and put the box under his arm.

Mama’ll have my hide if she finds out I came here,
I thought, but I didn’t dare say it. Uncle Cal rose and walked to the door. Why was he trying to get rid of me? How could a plastic box, a baby toy, make him so—so whatever he was? I wasn’t ready to go home: I wanted answers. I sat on the couch with my knees practically in my ears and said, “That little box didn’t look so old. I’ve seen ones like it at Woolworth’s in Albany. They’re for little kids to learn shapes. Whose was it?” I asked.

He smiled, his hook on his hip, pretending to be put out with me. “Well, okay, Miss Smarty Pants,
you
played with it when you were a little critter. Had to give you something to keep you outta my dog food.” He turned and opened the door to usher me out. I hiked myself off the couch and the two dogs looked at me, Hank never lifting his head.

“Tell your Mama to bring me that sewing machine,” Cal said. “Put me to work, make an honest man out of me.” He gave me a quick hug and stood watching as I walked down the stairs. He waved as I climbed onto my bike, then he went back inside, closing the door.

❦

Back at home, Mama was standing in the doorway, wearing the same expression Uncle Cal had worn when I left. When she asked where I’d been, I told the truth; she always knew when I was lying anyway.

She grounded me for a month.

“It ain’t Cal I don’t trust, Mary Jane, it’s those houses you pass between our house and his, and then the riff raff he’s likely to have inside.”

I wanted to tell Mama about the things I’d seen: the diplomas, and awards, and how pretty she was in that picture. But she seemed about as closed to new information as Uncle Cal was at giving out the old kind. I left well enough alone, thinking I’d find a better opening later.

Chapter 3: July 1958

Delores

Delores Mullinax was unassuming, unsophisticated, and unexcited about life in general. Born smart and willful, her girlhood was cut short when she was forced into a quick transition from high school to factory life, strapping her in the monotonous struggle of the tired and weary working class of the south.

She was outside under the smoking tree, on break from her job at the Nolan Manufacturing Company, a sweatshop that produced ladies’ panties from size 4 to size 44. One pattern. All cotton. In white, pastels, and various florals some big-wig found for next-to-nothing at going-out-of-business warehouses.

Just panties. That’s all they made. Her mama had worked there years before, and she’d tried to find those panties in a department store, on the few and far between treks she’d made to real cities—Tallahassee, Albany, Columbus. She never saw a single pair on any rack—bargain or otherwise—which made her wonder. Where did those panties go? Whose bare buttocks slid into those 4s and 14s and 44s? Delores never found out.

She’d worn a few. The plant manager had a heart: he let them take out the rejects, the ones with flaws too big to sell to outlets. They weren’t much to speak of—a big flaw might be a pair that had no leg holes or no elastic in the waist. But Mary Pearl Mullinax taught her daughter not to waste a thing, and Delores made some of those blunders into almost perfect underwear for herself. She felt good wearing them—she could count on one hand the times she’d had anything
new
, and to her it seemed a shame she couldn’t wear them on the outside, where people could see.

Maybe it was some kind of sign. If she
had
worn them on the outside, the way she’d laughed about doing, he might have noticed her, but he would
never
have tried to talk to her. Not that he tried, then. No, Delores knew she was responsible for that fiasco. The one she’d remember the rest of her days.

She’d been with Bertha June, the thirty-eight-year-old wife of a Pentecostal preacher. Bertha had spent six months in the state asylum at Milledgeville after what doctors called a “mandatory hysterectomy” following the birth of her fourteenth child. She’d returned to work the week after her release, but co-workers agreed she’d never been quite the same.

“The doctors are still trying to get my medication right,” Bertha had told them, admitting to a definite problem she couldn’t explain. It seemed that her days fell in two categories: depressed older woman or horny teenager.

Delores sucked in her last drag as a car drove up to the front door. Not just a car,
the
car: a 1958 Corvette, brilliant white with red interior. The radio was on; she heard the end of “Maybelline” and then the Johnny Reb Radio jingle before he shut off the engine.

He looked in his rearview mirror, ran his fingers through his sleek black duck-tail, and climbed out. He didn’t lock his car; he didn’t put up the top. He seemed oblivious to the fact that he drove the American dream. He was tall, but not gangly, just lanky enough to be damned near perfect. There was only a scant breeze in the air, yet it found its way to his collar, his un-tucked dress shirt, his shining hair. He didn’t walk, he
floated
across the dirt brown grass and onto the concrete landing in front of the entrance.

Nolan Manufacturing Company had a somewhat impressive entrance, though no one used it but the owner, Mr. Foster, and his secretary. According to the workers, some “business people” who had dealings with Mr. Foster used it, too, but such people were never viewed from the smoking tree. The entrance had a forest green awning, two plastic trees that set in gold pots, and a door with the company’s name on it. Blue carpet could be seen through the glass. Factory workers, maintenance people, custodians, and the like used the “service entrances.”

The handsome guy in the gorgeous car strode across the landing to the entrance door. It was at that point that he had a bit of a problem. He pushed against the aluminum crossbar. Nothing happened. He pushed again, with the same result.

He coughed, or made some kind of vocal noise, and looked as if he were summoning some special strength provided by the gods-of-the-unbelievably-good-looking in such circumstances, then pushed again. Nothing happened.

“
Must be a joke,” Delores mumbled. “Showing off, giving us hicks on break something to laugh at. Cocky bastard.”
Bertha smiled, then burst into girlish giggles uncharacteristic of her matronly size.

He looked in their direction, smiling back at them like a movie star giving autographs to schoolgirls.

“Look,” Bertha said, pointing. “Ain’t he just be-yoo-ti-ful?” Her eyes lit up, her chubby face looking cherub-like as she stared in awe.

“A beautiful idiot,” Delores muttered, looking away, then back. He was still battling the front door.

“You needin’ some help?” Bertha beckoned in a voice an octave higher than normal.

“He’s fine, Bertha, leave him alone,” Delores said.

The self-assured Adonis walked toward them. “I guess the door’s locked,” he said, looking a little confused. “But he
said
he was here this morning. Is there a way in from the back?”

“There’s three ways into the back, them’s the way we always come in,” Bertha explained.

“But if you really want to use the main entrance, it’s not
locked,” Delores said. “It’s always open from eight to twelve and from one to four.”

“Weekdays, that is,” Bertha added.

His face showed a faint line of perspiration and his breathing became more auditory. The pretty boy was pissed. “Okay, I give up. It’s Friday. It’s ten-thirty. It’s not a national holiday that I know of. And the damned door is locked. Can you show me the back entrance, or do you just enjoy being a bitch?” he asked, looking directly to Delores.

She returned his stare as she answered.

“There’s a service entrance on all three sides, but the south end is most likely to be unlocked. The front entrance is unlocked, too, but it does require the ability to read. Above the handlebar you’ll see the word ‘pull.’ And I don’t enjoy being a bitch, but it does come pretty natural when someone else is being an ass.” Delores turned and pretended to drag on the smoke she’d stubbed out minutes before.

When she looked up, he was gone.

❦

She didn’t see him again for weeks. Never even knew his name. Didn’t care.

Sundown Liquors had a tiny lounge in the back, not much to speak of and only open on weekends: A haven for local drunks who didn’t want to leave town and neighboring dry county folks hiding from their wives. Just a bar, six tables, and a jukebox. A couple of gals from the factory were going there, after work on payday. Delores decided to splurge and join them. She rarely went out, and hadn’t been anywhere since she and Cal had closed their parents’ house and moved to Oakland.

The place was full. Her brother was there, sitting at the bar. He shooed away the loser he was talking to and gave her a seat. It turned out the owner was looking for a weekend barmaid, eighteen being the legal age in Georgia liquor establishments. When Delores came in the next day, the owner showed her around, and she went to work that night. Pay wasn’t great, but it was cash plus tips.

A month or so later, the handsome jerk from that long ago day at the factory showed up at the Sundown. He wore seersucker shorts and a shirt that screamed country club/golf course and probably looked great against the car he drove all day. He sat down at the bar like he owned the place.

“A shot of Glenlivet, over ice,” he said.

This was a brand Delores had not heard before, one she didn’t think she’d seen on the shelf. “Glenn What?” she asked.

“Glenlivet. Single Malt Scotch,” he said.

Delores turned quickly and examined the section containing Scotch. There was no Glenlivet.

“I’m sorry, sir, we don’t have that brand,” she said. “Could I get you something else?” He appeared not to hear her, staring intently into the plastic sphere of a clock that sat on the bar. His eyes traced the tiny Clydesdale horses and their continuous circular path around the inside of the globe. “Sir?” she said again.

As though the one word broke his trance, he looked back into her eyes again.

“We don’t have any Glenlivet,” she said. “Would you like something else?”

He smiled. “Any Haig & Haig, then? Dewar’s White Label? Just a good single malt.”

Delores glanced back at the names she’d just read. She was pretty sure he wouldn’t like her answer.

“We have Johnny Walker Red and River Train. We don’t get a lot of Scotch drinkers, I guess.”

“River Train?” he laughed. “Never heard of it. I’ll bet it’s a rot-gut brand they age six months or less. Give me the Johnny Walker—I guess when in Rome—” He didn’t finish his statement, and she made no comment.

He’d gone over to the jukebox when she left his drink on a napkin. It was a slow night, and Delores went back to straightening things that weren’t messed up. He picked his quarter’s worth and sat down. Taking a long pull on his drink, he swallowed slowly and nodded in her direction. Then his attention shifted back to his liquor.

Nat King Cole crooned over
Mona Lisa
. Delores figured that was the voice God would have, if He was really there, and if He sang.Delores smiled as she wiped ashtrays and listened. She always enjoyed
really
listening to Nat. It was like right then, in that moment, she wasn’t Delores, she wasn’t poor, she wasn’t in Nolan, and all the possibilities she’d dreamed about as a kid could still come true. Just for that minute, she floated on a cloud, someplace that none of the shit of the real world could come through, not then. Just for a minute, such a beautiful, delicious minute she wished could last forever.

“You’ve got a nice smile, too,” he said.

Delores looked in every direction possible, then realized he was talking to her
.
“Thanks,” she said, meeting his gaze, then darting her eyes away.

“And maybe I could grow to like the working man’s Scotch,” he added. “Could I get another?” He handed her his empty glass.

She took it, turned away, poured another. She wondered, not for the first time, why the phrase “working man” seemed a term of endearment when some folks said it, yet with others, like this guy, it referred to the low end of their caste system. A part of her wanted to rise up and take offense, like he was making fun of her heritage, but—Delores looked back at him, and could see no signs of hatefulness in his demeanor. He was even going out of his way to make conversation, though he wasn’t all that good at it.

I guess he can’t help where he came from, no more than any of us can
. She turned back to face him with his new drink; the cool sweat on the glass made it slippery in her hands, and she wondered why she’d never had to work at holding on to a glass before.

She set it on a fresh napkin. He finished in one gulp, then left. The jukebox still played, this time with Johnny Ray’s “Cry.”

It was only at closing that she noticed the tip. The empty pickle jar on the bar, the one that collected nickels and dimes at best, sported
real
money. She tucked the $5 bill in her pocket as she closed up for home, where she dreamed of stars, music, cool-clear-water—and seersucker.

❦

As the summer wore on, Phil Foster showed up every other weekend. Like clockwork. He always drank Scotch. And he had the best taste in music of anyone that darkened the doors of The Sundown.

“Delores!” He smiled as he seated himself at the bar. “How’s it going?”

“How’s it that you know my name?” she answered back, but nicely. He’d never used it before.

“Doesn’t everybody know the name of Nolan’s most beautiful barmaid?” he teased.

“Nolan’s
only
barmaid,” she reminded him. He laughed. He was flirting, the kind of thing she usually ignored, but it was nice to be noticed, to be something besides Cal’s little sister or the gal that brings the beer.

“Could I get some change?” He offered her a dollar.

“Sure,” she said as she handed back four quarters.

“For the jukebox,” he said. “Any requests? Surely the lady has a particular favorite,” he added.

Delores liked that—asking her opinion, like she was somebody.

“I . . . I like Nat King Cole,” she admitted. “And I like Hank, but not the ones on that jukebox.”

“Your wish is my command.” He bowed and left.

She heard the opening of “Too Young,” the big introduction where the swirling violins answered the call of the vocals. It was Delores’s favorite Nat song, though she’d never told anyone. It was syrupy and romantic, the kind of song fit for the climax of a fairy tale. To admit her love for such songs would be a sign of weakness. Just because it was her favorite was no reason to share that truth.

The bar was full that night. Delores was grateful to keep busy. He sat at the end, staring at the Clydesdales, then off into space again while stirring his drink in slow a circle. He was working on maybe his third one when he looked up and asked, “Why in the hell do you stay here?”

Delores was startled. It was like the blurred voices and laughter, even the jukebox music seemed to fade, his voice being the only real sound in the room. She suddenly felt the cool of the wet rag in her hand, yet the scent she took in was not smoke or liquor or the suds in the sink, but only his faint cologne, a smell like new leather and leaves.

“Whadda you mean, stay here?” she asked. “I don’t
live
here, I just work here, and only weekends. I have a real job, this is just extra. And I’m going to school in the fall.”

Of course, he wouldn’t understand about extra jobs, he’d probably never had a job in his life.

“No, silly, I know you don’t live here,” he laughed. “I mean why do you stay here, in Nolan, why don’t you move?”

Delores said nothing.

“You’re gorgeous: There are bars, lounges, restaurants, supper clubs, resorts,
real
night clubs—you could get a job anywhere. Why the hell do you stay here in this shit-hole town?”

She stared back at him like he was crazy. Sure, she thought about things like that. How could any girl read a book or watch a movie and not imagine herself in that place, being someone else, somewhere else? But she’d never say such things out loud.

Her mama had taught her to be practical: to make the most of everything she learned, to be frugal in everyday living in hopes of saving up for the frivolous little extras life might present later. Both her parents had placed a high priority on a good marriage, reminding their children that life’s burdens could be cut in half when a man and a woman chose to share their lives with each other. After Daddy died, Delores and her mother had spent many evenings talking about the difference in romantic love and everlasting love, and she was determined to hold out for the relationship that would have met her parents’ approval.