Mrs. Kimble (7 page)

T
he car started with a great rumble. It smelled the same inside, old leather and peppermint and his father’s hair cream. The smell engulfed Charlie like a warm bath. He’d forgotten the distinctive odor, the hollow tinkling of the turn signal.

“Can I turn on the radio?” he asked.

“Hold your horses,” said his mother. “Wait until we get on the highway.” She had a spot of red on each of her cheeks, like a giant rag doll. She frightened him, the floppy bonelessness of her, as if at any moment she might slump over the wheel or flop over sideways, her head lolling out the open window. But the car, his father’s car, rolled smoothly down the hill. In the backseat Jody clapped her hands and squealed.

“What’s that light?” Charlie asked. He pointed at the dashboard.

His mother looked down. “How should I know? Isn’t it always on?”

“No’m,” said Charlie. The light looked important, a glowing square of red.

“Never mind about that,” said his mother. “First things first.”
Ahead of them a traffic light turned yellow; she stepped hard on the brake. Charlie lurched forward, then fell back into the leather seat. He knew you only had to stop on red, but he didn’t say so. He could see that she was nervous.

“We need bread and milk,” he said instead.

“Whatever you want,” said his mother.

Charlie made a list in his head: cereal, hot dogs, bologna for sandwiches. He didn’t trust her to remember.

The A&P was cool and bright inside. The glass doors opened as if by some magic force. Charlie ignored the gumball machines, the wire cage of bright rubber balls. He led the way down the first aisle, grabbed a bunch of bananas and placed them in the shopping cart. His mother didn’t seem to notice. She stood at the front of the store looking all around, blinking.

Charlie kept on. The sacks of potatoes were too heavy for him. He looked back. His mother stood near the cash registers, flipping through a magazine.

“Mama!” he cried.

She looked up, startled.

“Are you coming?” He’d tried for weeks to get her inside a store; now that they were here, she seemed to have forgotten how to buy things. He felt the first tears behind his eyes.

“Hold your horses,” she said. But she put the magazine down and pushed the cart up the aisle.

Charlie raced down the next aisle. He wished he could carry more. He picked up a loaf of bread and a box of cookies. Then he saw the man.

He was at the back of the store, reaching into a refrigerator case of raw meat. His back was turned, but Charlie recognized the white shirt, the long hands, the wristwatch with the stretchy gold
band. The man put down the meat and walked away quickly, his dark trousers moving with long steps.

Charlie followed him. The next aisle was crowded with mothers and children and babies in strollers. The man was already at the other end of it. He turned the corner and disappeared.

Charlie ran. He pushed through the shopping carts, the pocketbooks dangling from ladies’ arms. What if the man had already left? What if he was in the parking lot, ready to leave without him, not knowing his boy was in the very same store?

Charlie scrambled around the corner, crying now. At the end of the aisle was his father, carrying a carton of eggs.

“Wait!” Charlie called. He could remember his father breaking eggs into a bowl for pancakes. He ran.

The man turned around.

“Daddy!” Charlie cried.

The man looked down at him, startled. “What’s the matter, son? Are you lost?”

“Daddy,” he said again, but something was wrong. The man was too old, his face too fat. He had brown eyes instead of blue.

“Son,” said the man. His voice was grave. “Have you lost your father?”

I
n the morning Birdie drove downtown. She tried not to look at the dashboard, the engine light an alarming red. Cars passed her on both sides; horns blared as she stopped at a traffic light. When the light changed she made a left turn from the righthand lane; the driver behind her yelled something out his window.

She found the garage at a busy intersection, not far from the luncheonette. “They won’t charge you an arm and a leg,” Fay had told her. “They’re the only honest mechanics in Richmond.”

Birdie parked in front and went into the office, a dirty little room redolent of cigarette smoke. On the wall hung a calendar, dating to the past December: a woman lay on her side at the foot of a Christmas tree, propped on her elbow, her other arm crossed beneath her large breasts. She was naked except for a Santa hat. From a radio somewhere, a sad male voice sang “Every Fool Has a Rainbow.” Behind the counter a swinging door led to the garage.

“Hello,” Birdie called out.

She waited. A cigarette burned in the overflowing ashtray. The phone rang, then stopped. A man in coveralls appeared through
the swinging door. His bald head was smooth and glossy, like the plastic body of a doll.

“Keep your shirt on,” he grumbled. He saw Birdie and reddened. “Excuse me, ma’am.”

Birdie cleared her throat. “I’m having trouble with my car. The engine light is on.”

The man glanced out the window. “That Pontiac there?”

“Yes.” She was still shaky from the drive; her blouse stuck to her back like a bandage.

“Have a seat,” said the man, “and I’ll take a look.”

The room was sweltering, the morning sun streaming through greasy panes of glass. She’d never been inside a garage before; her husband had handled the repairs. She had a sudden urge to walk down the street to the bus stop, leaving the car for the man to do with as he pleased.

She hated the car. Driving had been an ordeal from the start. She’d gotten her license four years before, after failing the test twice; Ken had insisted she keep trying, though she didn’t see the point. He was an excellent driver; she was a happy passenger. She’d never imagined anything would change.

Birdie glanced out the window and saw Buck Perry coming up the sidewalk, keys dangling from his finger. He seemed to be looking right at her. She waved, but he couldn’t see her behind the glare from the window. Hidden, she watched him come toward the garage. He was shorter than her husband, heavy through the arms and shoulders. His powerful thighs seemed ready to burst out of his blue jeans.

Perry disappeared around the side of the building. He must work here, she thought; the luncheonette was a few blocks away, an easy walk on his lunch hour. She thought of his thick arms in the denim shirt. Her husband had been slender and delicate; twice
he’d wrenched his back and spent a week in bed, expecting his meals on a tray. Buck Perry looked strong as a horse. He looked like he could carry her on his shoulders.

The door to the garage swung open and the bald man emerged, wiping his hands on his coveralls.

“Looks like the transmission is about to go,” he said.

Birdie blinked. She didn’t know what a transmission was and didn’t care; all that mattered was how much it would cost.

“Is it expensive?” she asked.

“You’re looking at about three hundred dollars.”

A lick of sweat trailed down her back. Three hundred dollars was what she earned in a month. Yet the car was the only thing of value she owned, the only thing her husband had left her.

“Parts and labor,” said the man. “Give or take.”

Birdie closed her eyes. “A transmission,” she said. “Is it absolutely necessary? Can I run the car without one?”

The man howled. “Did you hear that?” he called into the back. “She asked can she run it without a transmission!” He turned back to Birdie and grinned; his teeth were bad. “Well, ma’am, let’s just say I wouldn’t advise it.”

His rudeness stunned her. He stood with his hands on his hips, waiting. “Well, what do you want to do? Do you want me to replace it or not?”

“I can’t afford three hundred dollars.” Her eyes went to the calendar above the desk. The woman’s nipples were the size of silver dollars, rouged to match her mouth. The door swung open and Buck Perry stood in the doorway.

“Are you the transmission?” he asked.

Birdie nodded yes.

“I think I can help you,” he said.

T
here was only dirt where the house had been, a silent patch of bare ground. All afternoon a truck had hauled away bricks and boards and sharp slices of window glass. Charlie hid in the woods, knowing that the men, if they saw him, would chase him away. Crouching, he watched them load the truck. When it was full it would drive away and the men would stand in the shade, smoking cigarettes and talking in low voices, until the truck returned.

Finally the truck came back for the last time; the men piled into the rear and drove away, raising dust. Charlie got to his feet and walked through the woods, in a wide circle with the demolished house at its center. “Here, boys,” he called softly. But the puppies didn’t come.

He approached the crumbling foundation, half filled with splintered boards and chunks of plaster. He located the spot where the porch had been, the dark earth littered with nails and flaked paint and bits of glass. He reached into his pocket. That morning he’d gone back to the Hogans’; his pockets were full of kibble he’d taken from Queenie’s dish.

“I’ll leave it right here,” he said loudly, piling the kibble into a neat mound. Though by then he knew the puppies were gone.

S
omebody’s watching you,” said Fay.

Birdie looked up from the tray of water glasses she was filling. At the end of the counter, Buck Perry waved and smiled.

“Go take care of him,” said Fay. “He needs a warm-up.”

Birdie took the pot from the burner and refilled Perry’s coffee cup. His blond hair, she noticed, was thick and wavy. (Her husband’s had begun to thin.) It curled softly at the nape of his neck.

“How’s the transmission doing?” he asked.

“Just fine,” said Birdie. Perry had a friend who rebuilt transmissions on the side; he’d gotten Birdie one for almost nothing. He’d explained patiently what a transmission did, but Birdie didn’t care. The car ran beautifully; the troublesome engine light had been extinguished.

“He’s a card, that Jenks. The one that fixed your tranny. He plays drums in a dance band.” Perry bit into his hamburger, half the sandwich in one bite; ketchup oozed out the other side. He seemed not to notice. He ate fast and intently, like a hungry dog.

“They’re playing at the Vets this Saturday night,” he said. “You want to come and hear them?”

Birdie’s heart quickened. A date, she thought. He’s asking me out on a date.

“That sounds lovely,” she said.

Perry laughed. “Lovely it ain’t,” he said, “but it’s a pretty good time.”

I
t was nearly dark when Charlie got home, heavy clouds low in the sky. A wind had started. Thunder rumbled in the distance. He’d been playing in the woods; the house felt small to him, hot and airless. His sister sat in front of the television, stacking wooden blocks.

“Where’s Mama?” he asked.

“Where Mama?” she repeated.

He knocked at the bathroom door.

“Come in,” his mother called. She stood in front of the mirror in a pale yellow dress. Her face looked strange to him: mouth painted red, eyebrows plucked thin. An empty glass sat on the edge of the bathtub.

“Do I look pretty?” she asked.

“Yes’m,” said Charlie.

She sprayed a cloud of perfume into the air and walked into it; Charlie tasted it, flowery, in his mouth.

“A little scent goes a long way,” she said.

The doorbell rang. “That’s Dinah,” she said. “Button, go and let her in.”

Charlie ran to the door. He’d forgotten she was coming. They hadn’t had a baby-sitter in a long time.

“Remember what I told you,” his mother called after him.

“Yes’m,” said Charlie. If possible he was not to say anything about his father. If Dinah asked—and only if she asked—he could say his father was visiting in Missouri and would be back soon.

Charlie opened the door. Dinah came in holding a grocery bag. Pizzas, he thought. Last time she’d made them frozen pizzas.

“Hi, buddy,” she said, messing his hair. “Long time no see.” She looked around the room. “What happened to the pictures?”

“I don’t know,” said Charlie. His mother had taken them down from the wall; the plaster was dotted with bare hooks.

His mother came out of the bedroom holding a string of pearls. “Can you help me with this?” she asked Dinah.

She turned her back and lifted her hair; Dinah clasped the pearls behind her neck.

“You look nice, Mrs. Kimble,” said Dinah. “Is it a special occasion?”

“I think I hear my ride,” said his mother. She bent to Charlie and Jody and gave them each a kiss. “You be good now. You listen to Dinah.”

She rushed out the front door, leaving a trail of perfume. Dinah went to the living room window and peered out from behind the curtain.

“What are you looking at?” Charlie asked.

“Nothing,” said Dinah.

T
HE WIND
had stopped; the evening was still and muggy, the sky clouded over with gray. Birdie stood on the front step waiting for
Buck Perry. It was the Saturday before Labor Day, the last wearing of the white shoes. She smelled meat cooking, a charcoal fire. The neighbors were having a barbecue.

Through the open windows she heard the children laughing; they wouldn’t miss her at all with Dinah Whitacre there. Poor Dinah, she thought; poor homely child. She felt bad for the girl, so timid and awkward; Dinah who would have been pretty if it weren’t for her birthmark. It was so ugly Birdie could barely look at her, a jagged purple stain that covered half her face.

Birdie had called her at the last minute; she’d had the phone reconnected after her first paycheck. She dreaded the obligatory chitchat with the girl’s mother. Married to the president of the college, Grace Whitacre knew all the faculty comings and goings; she would know Birdie’s husband had quit his job and might even know why. Luckily, Dinah herself had answered the phone. She was a mannerly girl, raised properly, not like some others Birdie could name. (That girl on the downtown bus, draped all over the college boy; Moira Snell, braless in her peasant blouse.) Dinah’s shyness seemed appropriate to her age; in her presence Birdie felt like an adult, a sensation she rarely felt.

She breathed deeply; the yellow dress felt tight across her chest. She’d picked it off a sale rack three years ago when she was pregnant with Jody; that morning she’d cut off the price tag still dangling from the armpit. The dress was a size too small; her breasts had never shrunk back down to their old size. Still, it was the only thing she owned that didn’t hang to her ankles.

Her hand fluttered to her throat, to the pearl necklace her mother had left her. It was a short strand, meant to fit close around the throat; her father had given it to her mother as an engagement present. Birdie had worn it only a handful of times: her own wedding
day, a couple of dinners at the Whitacres’. Her married life had provided few occasions special enough. Then, this afternoon, something had come over her. Why not? she’d thought as she took the necklace from its leatherette case. Birdie Kimble, what are you waiting for?

A dusty green sedan appeared around the corner; engine rumbling, it pulled up to the curb. Birdie’s legs shook as she made her way down the porch steps. At the curb she waited, but Perry didn’t get out of the car. Finally she opened the door herself.

He lounged in the driver’s seat, so far back from the wheel that he was nearly lying down. He wore black pants and a pink shirt, open at the throat; his hair, slicked back from his forehead, showed comb marks.

“Well, look at you,” he said.

The car was low to the ground; Birdie held down her dress as she slid into the seat beside him.

“I should have brought my umbrella,” she said. Her heart worked furiously. “It looks like rain.”

“Nah,” said Perry. “You won’t need it.”

He shifted gears and backed smoothly into the street. The engine seemed uncommonly loud; Birdie slid down in her seat as they passed the Semples’ house.

“Did you have any trouble finding me?” Birdie asked. It was the only thing she could think of to say.

“Hell no,” said Perry. “I’ve lived in this town my whole life.”

In a moment the neighborhood was behind them. Perry hummed softly with the radio: muted horns, a deep Negro voice. His hands pattered on the steering wheel. Freshly shaved, his skin looked moist and childlike. He smelled strongly of cologne. They drove away from the city, to where the traffic thinned out and bars
and storefronts were separated by occasional houses, patches of grass. Perry drove fast and expertly, his left elbow hanging out the window. Twice he reached forward to change the radio station, gripping the steering wheel between his knees. He seemed to have forgotten her.

The Vets was set back from the road on a wide lot worn bare in places. Perry parked and came around to open Birdie’s door. She heard music in the distance, the silvery hiss of a cymbal. Perry placed his hand at the small of her back. She picked her way across the reddish dirt, worried about her white shoes. The sky had darkened; the air was very still.

“Storm coming,” said Perry.

The Vets was loud and dark inside, packed with people and their smells: perfumes, liquor, cigarettes, sweat. Men stood smoking and talking at the entrance. Perry pushed through them, his wide shoulders cutting a path; he took Birdie’s hand and pulled her along behind him. They crossed the dance floor to a table at the back, where a couple sat with their backs to the wall. On the table were cigarettes, glasses of beer, an empty pitcher.

“This is Lou and Marie,” said Perry. He had to shout over the music. “Everyone, this is Birdie.”

“Birdie,” said Marie. “That’s cute.” She was a sharp-faced blonde.

“It’s a nickname,” said Birdie. She eyed Marie’s snug sweater, the silver heart dangling from a chain into the dark hollow between her breasts. In her dress and pearls, she felt like a chaperone at a dance.

“I’m just Marie,” said the blonde. “I don’t have a nickname.”

“That’s what you think,” said Lou, winking. He was older and balding.

“Hey!” Marie squealed, giving him a shove. Her small eyes were rimmed with black liner. For a moment Birdie thought of Moira Snell, the hateful girl who’d seduced her husband. She pushed the thought away.

“They’re cooking tonight,” Lou shouted to Perry. “They’re really cooking.”

Birdie craned her neck toward the stage. The combo had four pieces—piano, guitar, drums, and bass. The singer was a colored man in a dark suit.

“Which one is your friend?” Birdie asked.

“Drums,” said Perry. He pulled up an empty chair from a neighboring table. “Have a seat. I’ll be right back.”

She sat, the vinyl seat sticky beneath her thighs. Lou and Marie said nothing; they sat watching the band over her shoulder. Finally she turned her chair a little to face the dance floor.

Perry returned with a pitcher of beer and two glasses.

“None for me, thanks,” said Birdie.

“You sure?” said Perry. “Why not?”

“I don’t care for beer.”

“Suit yourself.” He tilted a glass and filled it. Across the table Lou and Marie leaned close together. Birdie sat with her chin in her hand, watching the dancers. When the music slowed the floor filled with swaying couples; afterward the band would pick up the tempo and only a few would remain. The steps were new, nothing Birdie recognized. She had not seen anybody dance in years.

“How long have you two been going together?” Marie asked.

“What time is it?” said Perry, and laughed.

The room was hot, everything—the floor, the chairs, the table-top—coated with a sticky film, as if thousands of beers had been
spilled there. Birdie blotted her forehead with a napkin. Her nylon slip felt slick against her back; soon she would sweat through the yellow dress. She eyed the pitcher of beer.

“Look at her,” said Marie, blowing smoke out of the side of her mouth. “She’s dying of thirst. Go get her something to drink, for Christ’s sake. Be a gentleman for once in your life.”

“All right, all right,” said Perry. He got up and went to the bar.

Marie leaned forward in her chair. “I’ve known him a long time. Since we was kids.” She stabbed out her cigarette in the ashtray. “You’re in for a good time. Wait and see.”

Perry returned with a glass. “I got you a rum and Coke.”

“Thank you,” said Birdie. The drink was cold and sweet; she took half the glassful in one gulp.

“Whoa,” said Perry. “You
are
thirsty.”

The band lurched into a slow song Birdie recognized. She watched the dancers shuffle to the music, clinging to each other like shipwreck survivors. When the music picked up, Perry glanced at her. “You wanna dance?”

“Buck’s a great dancer,” said Marie.

Birdie looked out at the dance floor, the dancers twisting at the hips. She’d learned the box step as a girl; she could waltz and fox trot; but this was a different kind of dancing entirely.

“I don’t know how,” she said.

“Don’t know how?” said Perry.

“It’s been a long time.” Dancing was forbidden at Hambley; and after she was married, she hadn’t danced at all. She smiled apologetically. “No, thank you.”

Perry shrugged. “How about you?” he asked Marie. “Lou won’t mind.”

She glanced at the bar, where Lou stood smoking. “Mind, hell. He won’t even notice.” She got to her feet. She wore a sleeveless sweater and a short skirt; her bare legs were long and slender. She kicked off her shoes and followed Perry to the dance floor. The music quickened. “ ‘We’re going to wait till the midnight hour,’ ” the Negro crooned into the microphone. “ ‘When there’s nobody else around.’ ” Perry took Marie’s hand and swung her toward him, then away; for a big man he was surprisingly graceful. Marie’s body moved like water, a smooth rippling of hip and shoulder. Only her hair remained still, a firm tower of blond, sculpted as a wedding cake.

Birdie drained her glass. Perry’s legs were quick and rhythmic; the loose black trousers sat low on his hips. He twirled Marie, then pulled her close, their bodies merging at the pelvis. A Hambley girl had once whispered to Birdie that dancing was nothing but dry intercourse. At the time, the remark had baffled her. Now, watching Perry and Marie, she understood perfectly.

When the music ended, Perry and Marie came back to the table, laughing and breathless.

“Whew,” said Marie. “You got me good that time.”

Perry sat next to Birdie. He was very close; she smelled soap, alcohol, sweat. “Looks like you’re dry,” he said. “Let me get you another one.”

“Yes, please,” said Birdie. Across the table Marie fanned herself with a napkin. She tugged at the V of her sweater; sweat glistened on her suntanned chest.

“You’re a good dancer,” said Birdie.

“You’re sweet.” Marie refilled her glass from the pitcher; foam slipped over the rim. “Oops,” she said. She lowered her mouth to the glass and slurped away the excess.

Birdie smiled. If Jody or Charlie had done such a thing in public, she would have been mortified; but watching Marie it seemed perfectly reasonable—more logical, certainly, than wiping the glass with a napkin, which would make a sticky mess.

Birdie giggled. Marie looked at her, quizzically at first; then she too began to laugh.

Perry returned with two glasses and sat down next to Birdie. “What’s so funny?”

Marie laughed louder, a shrieking sound.

“Nothing,” said Birdie.

“I brought you a spare,” said Perry. “Save me a trip.”

“Thank you,” said Birdie. She gulped the drink.

“We’re going to take a short break,” the Negro said into the microphone. His voice was very deep. “Back in ten.”

“Excuse me,” said Birdie, getting to her feet. She wove her way through the crowd. Her legs felt loose and warm; the drink was stronger than she’d imagined. In the ladies’ room she waited for a stall, her bladder heavy as a melon. Women stood three deep at the mirror, brushing, powdering, fixing lipstick. A short brunette teased her fallen beehive with a rattail comb.

Some time later she was walking across the room; time had begun to quicken and slow, back to its old tricks. Thunder rumbled in the distance. “It’s raining,” the Negro crooned into the microphone. “Another rainy night in Georgia.”

Birdie approached the small stage; she stood at the edge of the dance floor, swaying slightly to the music. The singer was young, handsome in his dark suit; his hair was neatly parted, slicked with something to make it shine. He’s about Curtis’s age, she thought. She hadn’t seen Curtis Mabry in nine years, had never seen him as a grown man. He might, she thought, look exactly like this.

She turned and made her way through the tables, her hand trailing over the backs of empty chairs. The crowd had thinned; couples headed toward the door, hoping to beat the storm. Across the room Marie’s blond hair was bright as a lighthouse; the rest of the room bobbed like a boat on a choppy sea. I’m drinking too much, Birdie thought.