It's Not Like I Knew Her (2 page)

She'd awakened to discover that Red had pulled her close, and with her head pressed to his chest, she listened to the sound of his big heart, wishing she might will her own heart to beat in rhythm with his.

She felt tears building behind her eyelids, and for the first time since beginning her homeward journey, she understood she was here because of that moment. For now, it was enough that he'd come for her when news of her mama had reached him. She'd stay and care for him. She owed him that much.

T
en year-old Jodie ran in the direction of the roar of a diesel engine. Back over her shoulder, she saw Ginger moving toward the highway, but she knew Ginger would watch from a safe distance. She ran to the center of the narrow bridge, the metal grating bruising her bare feet. Thirty feet below, the shallow, sandy-bottom creek took no notice of her damnable foolishness, and in spite of her fear of heights, she climbed onto a cross rail. Balancing there, she gripped an upright and raised her fist in the air, signaling the driver of the approaching semi, and he blasted his air horn.

The tractor-trailer pressed so close she could see the driver's eyes popped wide with disbelief. The backdraft sucked at her body, threatening to snatch her from the rail. Her shirt snapped like a flag caught in a high wind, her teeth clattered, and her knee joints locked.

The roar of the huge engine and the pounding rotation of its eighteen wheels deafened her. The bridge shuddered under its power, and Jodie clung to the vibrating rail with all her might. But she didn't dare close her eyes. As the semi passed, she watched Ginger's small face, stricken with terror, mouth caught open in a silent scream.

Jodie climbed down from the railing, her legs wobbly, strangely gratified by Ginger's fear. She walked to where Ginger stood looking at her in a way that felt brand new. Jodie inhaled sharply, believing she meant to hug her. But she only touched her lightly on the forearm.

“Oh, Jodie, I could never do that. You're so … so courageous.” Ginger liked big words. Courageous felt even bigger coming out of her mouth.

“Ain't special. Just something I like doing.” She flushed with pride at having shown Ginger Sutton that Jodie Taylor was braver than any boy on the row could ever be.

They turned toward home, careful to keep out of sight at the edge of the woods. Approaching the rutted clay road that fronted the row of weathered shotgun shanties, they skirted the stench of a bloated dog, green-headed blow flies working its corpse. Ahead, white heat waves jitterbugged across the sun-bleached landscape in the direction of the vast cotton fields, stretching as far as Jodie could imagine; its entirety conveyed an emptiness she could not yet name, but one that stayed with her, as real as her very skin.

Ginger turned to her and Jodie's heart quickened in the odd way it could at the nearness of her. Neither girl flinched, Ginger lingering a beat longer before turning and walking away.

Jodie held her breath, her stomach fluttering with what, exactly, she wasn't sure. Ginger slowed, turned, and looked back in her direction, but she didn't wave. Yet Jodie allowed herself to believe it was a true sign that she, too, had liked their closeness. She waited until Ginger had disappeared inside her house before stepping from the cover of the trees.

J
odie eased into the kitchen through the back door, mindful of the penalty for waking her mama before she was ready to emerge from the bedroom, expecting supper to be on the table. Her trip to the bridge with Ginger meant she'd need to take care not to give her mother any reason to get her nose out of joint.

She filled a kettle to warm the water Jewel would want and set yesterday's leftover coffee on to reheat. Her mother liked it strong and bitter. Anything less and she'd bitch that she could get plenty of piss-poor coffee on the road. Jodie brushed crumbs from the faded oilcloth and searched the cupboard, choosing stewed cabbage over boiled potatoes. She removed the cheesecloth from the dwindling slab of white meat and sliced four even pieces.

At the sound of a chair scraping across the worn linoleum, Jodie turned from the pan of frying meat. Her mama had come into the kitchen and collapsed onto a chair. She didn't speak but gave Jodie a groggy nod.

“Ready in a jiffy.” She measured cheerful against hurried.

Jewel sighed and raked her long, slender fingers through her hair.

Jodie admired the way her mother's black hair hung long and straight nearly to her waist, and her olive skin was smooth as a drawn bed sheet. Red had said Jewel's eyes held womanly mysteries. Jodie hadn't known what he meant, but she liked the promising sound of her mama's name on his lips.

Jewel lit a cigarette and nodded toward her shiny red stilettos on the kitchen chair where she'd placed them on her return. “These babies may be just the ticket for lifting tits and ass, but they're hell on feet.” She drew nicotine into her lungs, slowly exhaling. “Singing's natural as breathing, but standing all night ain't as easy as it once was.”

“Yes ma'am, they're sure to. Uh … hurt your feet, I mean.” Jodie had believed Red when he said her mama would stand knee-deep in pissed off rattlers as long as there remained one person sober enough to call out her name.

The shoes had cost a month's worth of tips from the truck stop café where she'd worked as a waitress for as long as Jodie could remember. She spoke of café work with the same loathing she reserved for coming up short on rent day. Claimed that her very pores had begun to ooze rancid hog lard and that no amount of bathing and cheap perfume could take the odor away. Said it was the way old women smelled before they died.

Jewel wore her nylon stockings rolled down around her ankles, and she gently pulled them off her feet as if they were soiled bandages. Jodie tested the temperature of the water in the kettle, and after cooling it down, she filled the chipped washbasin, adding two tablespoons of turpentine, meant to take away the soreness. She set the pan on the floor before her mama, who slipped her feet into the hot, oily water.

Jewel sighed. “Lord God, baby, that's good. These feet of mine are going to be the death of me.”

Jodie turned back to the stove, thinking her mama talked a lot about dying, but it was more likely her fear of wearing out before realizing her dream of appearing onstage at the Grand Ole Opry.

Jewel reached for her pocketbook and poured a double fistful of coins onto the table, along with a few wadded bills. She held up a lone five.

“If I'd been of a mind to, I could've just as easily gone off with this one as not.” She arched her back, her firm nipples pushing against the thin robe she wore.

Red had bought his way into Jewel's favor, but Jodie was careful to never mention him. It soured her mama's mood, sometimes causing her to take to her bed for days.

“Go on, girl, hand me the bank. This pitiful pile ain't going to grow no matter how much I handle it.” She snorted a surly laugh.

Jodie retrieved the Luzianne coffee can from the icebox and set it on the table. Jewel pushed the coins, separated and stacked by denomination, over the edge of the table. The room filled with the sound of them dropping into the can.

“Bet your sweet ass Kitty's got men with nothing to do but count her take.”

“Not fair. It's just that she gets to sing on the radio. Wait till people hear you. We'll need to buy a second icebox just to hold all the money.”

“Icebox, be damned.” Jewel smiled. “Someday I'll swish my fine ass into the biggest bank in Nashville and open an account. And pour so much money into that account we'll need to open a second.” Jewel laughed, and Jodie did the same, although she worried that Jewel's laughter could sometimes trigger her blues.

She'd believed Red when he said Jewel's singing brightened her in the way color dye transformed an ordinary hen's egg, causing lesser women to move closer to their men. Jodie didn't know if it was still true since her mama had stopped doing gigs for Red months ago and hooked up with Troy, Jewel's so-called manager-songwriter, and his band of half-assed musicians. Still, she lifted her gaze to the water-stained ceiling and wished she trusted God or even Oral Roberts. Her mama could use a first-class miracle.

Jodie poured Jewel's coffee, taking only a half cup for herself, and doctored her own with PET milk and three heaping teaspoons of sugar.

“You sure as hell know how to ruin a good cup of coffee.” Jewel smiled, though it wasn't one that reached her eyes. Still, Jodie liked her mama's teasing, even about the sissy way she drank her coffee.

“Way better than that jacked mess you drink.”

Jewel snorted. “Gal, where'd you get that damn sassy mouth?”

“Some say I take after Jewel Taylor.” Jodie grinned.

“Hear tell that one's a half-breed bitch in high heels. She's said to carry a twelve-inch prick-sticker strapped to her inner thigh.”

“Yeah. And if you mess with her, she'll cut your throat and watch you bleed out.”

“Lord God, girl.” Jewel shook her head and smiled the one that lifted Jodie, making all the dark times bearable, and she hoped it would stay.

Jewel didn't offer to make her customary pitcher of tea, and it was just as well, since Jodie had forgotten to put the ice card in the screen door. The ice man wouldn't be back until Tuesday.

“Jesus, it's too damn hot to live.” Jewel opened her robe, flapping the front halves like a fan. “Wish to hell I was straddling the North Pole.”

At the sight of Jewel's full breasts, the circle around her nipples brown as tree ripened figs, Jodie felt her heat rising, and she turned away, confused and shamed by her desire to know how it would feel to touch breasts like her mama's. Could Jewel know her secret thoughts? Was this the reason she never included her in stories about leaving with strange men who left five-dollar tips?

“Unless you intend to burn down this sorry excuse for a house, you'll need to drag that rancid grease off the burner.”

She pulled the smoking pan off the stove. Behind her, she heard the slapping sound Jewel's slippers made against her heels as she left the kitchen.

Jodie cringed.

There was no breathing easier at the familiar, bittersweet lament of Bessie Smith's
Down Hearted Blues.
It was certain to fan her mother's smoldering bad mood.

Jewel returned to the kitchen and sat with her back pushed up tight against the chair spindles. Jodie braced against her dread.

“What'd you do all day?”

“Me? Nothing.” Jodie busied herself at the stove.

“Damn it, Jodie. Look at me when I'm talking to you.”

Jodie concentrated on the dangling ash from Jewel's cigarette, avoiding the storm she knew was gathering in her mama's dark eyes. One slip from her and things were bound to go from bad to worse.

“That nothing didn't have to do with that little gal next door, now did it?” She flicked ashes onto the floor.

“Played ball.” Jodie was careful to always hold ready an elaborate story, one she could detail without stammering. “Roscoe was short a decent fielder, so he sent Rabbit to get me.” She had played earlier before going to the bridge, and a sin of omission was better than an outright lie. Her mama hated liars worse than axe murderers.

Jewel squinted against the heavy blue smoke, her head tilted in the way she had when she wasn't buying. It meant Jodie would need to keep talking until her mama heard something that satisfied her.

“I'm a better hitter than any boy on the row, except for Roscoe.” He claimed to hate tomboys worse than Negroes, and to make his point, he'd sometimes send for Alvin instead. Then, it wouldn't do to mention Alvin.

Jodie wished she could tell the whole truth and that Jewel would understand why she'd become such a liar. But her gut told her she was to trust no one, not even her mama.

Jewel picked bits of loose tobacco from her teeth while Jodie prayed that whatever had fed her mother's bad mood would fade with the same mystery of its sudden onset. She lifted the dancing lid on the steaming pot, stuck a fork in the over-cooked cabbage, and turned off the burner.

“Lord God, Jodie, put a damn lid on that pot. Whole house smells like an overturned outhouse.” Jewel waved a dishrag as if it could make a difference.

“Bring something home that don't smell like shit and I'll gladly cook it.”

She'd crossed the line, and braced for Jewel's flashing anger, but she only glared, leaving Jodie to think her mama was either too tired or too fragile to put up a fight.

Jodie took plates from the dishpan of cold water, a greasy scum floating on top, and ran cold water over both. She placed white meat, cabbage, and the last slice of stale Wonder Bread onto a plate and set it before her mama.

“Not much to get up for.” Jewel pushed the plate aside.

“But I thought you liked stewed cabbage better than boiled taters.” Jodie hated the whine that had crept into her voice.

“Damn it, Jodie. I hate both, and if you cared you'd know.” Jewel pushed up from the table and rushed out of the kitchen, slamming the bedroom door behind her.

Jodie added cane syrup to the cabbage to take away the bitterness, and when she'd eaten, she scraped Jewel's plate into a bucket for the three hens—Sadie, Sybil, and Shirley—Red had given her one Easter as fluffy biddies. She piled the dishes into the dishpan and filled it with hot water from the kettle.

The same Easter Red brought her the biddies, he'd hung a tire swing in the chinaberry tree next to the house. She remembered the sound of his big laughter each time she squealed for him to push her higher and higher. With him she'd felt as if her pointed toes could touch the sky. After he stopped coming, she could never send the swing as high as he had, no matter how hard she pumped her legs. She wanted to believe Jewel was wrong about Red never coming back. So much so that after six months, she still stopped whatever she was doing to watch slow-moving cars approaching the row.