One Mississippi (8 page)

I fought off the memory of my one and only kiss, outside the emergency room in Pigeon Creek, Alabama. The one that turned me off the whole idea of kissing. I would kiss Dianne tonight as an antidote to that. Dianne Frillinger was a nice girl with a great personality. We’d had fun dancing, she’d been sweet to me all night. If there’s one thing she deserved, it was a kiss on Prom Night. I could do that much. I knew I could.

I thought,
Here goes nothing
, and folded my hand around hers. Her hand was clammy. When she smiled, her braces caught a glint of light from the street.

Tim was telling some pointless story about Anne Marie Davis not dancing with Russell Briscoe as he steered the car into the parking lot.

“Timmy, why are you bringing us here?” said Debbie. “The Jitney Jungle is closed.”

Tim put the car in park but left the motor running. “I’ll show you why.” He took her face in his hands.

That was my cue. Dianne’s eyes flickered up to the front seat then back to me, yes yes please kiss me now. I closed my eyes and moved my face forward until it touched hers. I kissed. It felt odd. I opened my eyes. I was kissing her nose. Her face was upturned, her eyes closed in anticipation. I kissed her nose again as if that was what I’d meant to do, then moved to her lips. They were dry and strangely cool. I pressed my mouth against hers. We stayed that way for a while, mouths pressed together.

There had to be some part of it I was not doing right. This could not be all there was to it. I know you’re supposed to open your mouth, but I was afraid my tongue would touch metal. I held the kiss as long as I could without breathing or moving, then pulled back.

Dianne opened her eyes. “Oh, Daniel, that was sooo nice. You’ve kissed girls before, huh?”

I coughed. “Yeah. A few times.”

“I thought so. That was my first time. I’ll never forget it.”

Debbie and Tim were really going at it, mouths open, as if trying to swallow each other. Dianne looked shyly at me:
Should we try it like that?
I hesitated. She patted my hand, consoling me, as if she were my mommy.

I cleared my throat. “Hey you two, break it up! Jeez!”

Debbie pulled away, laughing. Tim said, “Sorry. We got carried away.” He put the car in gear. The radio was playing “Nights in White Satin” and it all seemed suddenly romantic, the bad parts of this night adding up to one good part. I squeezed Dianne’s hand. She put her head on my shoulder.

As we swung onto Dorothy Drive she untangled her fingers and moved over by the door.

“What’s the matter?” I said — then I saw Mr. Frillinger outlined in the porch light. In his hands he twisted the banner from the garage door, like a rope he meant to wrap around somebody’s neck.

“Oh God,” Debbie said, “he looks mad.”

I felt a flash of reflex panic before remembering we hadn’t done anything wrong.

“What time is it?” Dianne held her watch to the light. “It’s only a quarter to twelve!”

Mr. Frillinger stalked to the car shouting, “Get out! Get out of the car!”

“Daddy, what’s wrong?”

“Get out and go in the house!”

“Daddy?”

“Deborah Ann! Do as I say!”

“You better go,” I said. “We’ll see you at school.”

The girls scrambled out of the car.

Mr. Frillinger filled the driver’s window. “You boys know what time it is?”

“Yes sir,” Tim said. “A quarter to twelve.”

“You were s’posed to have them back here by eleven. Where the Sam Hill have you been?”

While Tim had his attention I slipped out of the backseat, up front into shotgun position.

“I’m sorry sir, but you told us midnight,” said Tim. “The prom’s just now gotten over. We brought ’em straight home.”

I leaned over the seat. “He’s right, sir. You did say midnight.”

“That’s the last time you take out my daughters, either one of you,” he said. “I’ve a good mind to call up your daddies.”

“Go ahead,” Tim said, starting the car. “I think maybe you’re confused about what time you said.”

“Don’t tell
me
I’m confused.” The man leaned close to the window. “Did you kiss them? Did you touch ’em?”

“No sir, no way,” Tim said. “Let me tell you something, Mr. Frillinger, you’ve got yourself a couple of barking dogs there. I mean
barking.
I wouldn’t touch either one of ’em if you paid me. We took ’em to the prom out of sympathy, okay? No one is ever gonna want to kiss ’em. You’re safe.”

The man’s mouth made an O. Tim gunned the car backward, slammed it in drive, and screeched off down the street.

“My God, Tim, did you — I can’t believe you said that!”

“Did you see his face? Did you see?” he howled. “That old bastard. ‘You kiss ’em? You touch ’em?’ Jeesus H. Christ!”

“But I mean, one minute you’re like making out with her, then you tell her father she’s a —”

“Dogwood, relax! It’s over. We don’t have to ask ’em out or even talk to ’em, ever ever again. He’s gonna call up our
daddies!
I don’t know who’s crazier, him or the mother.”

“Yeah, I know, but . . . oh damn. Never mind.” I pictured Mr. Frillinger with his mouth open and I couldn’t help it — a snort, a giggle. In five seconds, we were helpless with laughter. We rode around, hooting, past the darkened school, onto Barnett Street, laughing all the way.

Taillights ahead. Tim touched the brakes. “Is that a cop?” We weren’t drunk, but as hard as we were laughing we might seem that way to a cop.

“No, Blindy, it’s a car and . . .” I squinted through the windshield. Barnett Street was raised above its sidewalks. The houses along here had deep lawns and long driveways. In the distance I made out — was it one person on a bicycle, or two people riding together? Cruising beside the bike, slowly weaving back and forth between the lanes, a jacked-up fastback sports car — GTO? Mustang? Cherry red, with yellow flame decals licking down the sides, around the fender.

The car’s irregular motion made the bike wobble. The rider veered off the pavement and fell off the bike.

The car hesitated a moment then roared off with a blast of exhaust.

When we got there she was picking herself up, a brown girl in a green sweatshirt and khaki shorts, bent over, pulling on one of her shoes. Riding a bike in high heels! The second rider was actually her infamous white dress, now in dry-cleaner plastic, crumpled on the ground beside her. A tiara and a dozen red roses had spilled out on the grass.

I stuck out my head. “Arnita? You okay?”

She peered into our headlights. “Who is that?”

“Daniel Musgrove,” I said, “and Tim Cousins. You need help?”

“No, no I’m fine.” Arnita gathered the dress.

Tim leaned over from the driver’s side. “Someone bothering you, Arnita?”

“That damn Red,” she said, “he’s just
too
drunk.”

“Red Martin?”

“Yeah, he’s the King, y’know, the big bad Kang, thinks the Queen just automatically belongs to him for the night.”

Tim said, “What are you doing out here?”

“Riding home from Charlene’s, man, she’s having a biiiig party!” She took a deep breath. “I went with Tommy Johnson but he got mad at Red and took off. I hope to God I didn’t mess up this dress. It’s not mine. I gotta give it back to my aunt.”

“Arnita, where are your glasses?”

“I . . . I don’t know, I think I lost ’em. It’s okay, I can see.”

“Why don’t you let us give you a ride?”

“No, y’all, thanks, I’ll be fine.”

“I’m glad you won,” I said. “I voted for you.”

“Oh, aren’t you sweet.” She had no idea who I was. She climbed on the bike and wound the dress around herself to keep from tangling it in the wheels. “Thanks, y’all, I’m just gonna go home now.”

“Aw come on, Arnita,” Tim said, “you’ve had a little bit to drink. Let us throw that bike in the trunk and drive you home. It’s late. You coulda got hurt.”

“My house is just over the bridge,” she said, pushing off with her foot. “I’ll be fine.”

Tim coasted along beside her. “Let us ride along with you to make sure.”

“No, I’ll be fine.” Her voice took on an edge. “Thank y’all so much. Good night!”

“Come on, Tim, she says she’s okay.”

He pulled a few feet ahead. “I don’t like it.” He kept one eye on the rearview. “Red’s an asshole, he was drunk, and he might come back. God knows what he was trying to pull.”

When he said “pull,” he turned around in his seat to look at her. His hand slipped off the wheel. The Buick drifted wide to the left. Another car coming —

I grabbed the wheel, jerked it right just as Tim slammed on the brakes. A mild little
flonk!
from the back of the car — as if Arnita had slapped the trunk with her hand.

“Shit!” Tim yelped.

I turned. I didn’t see her.

“Where is she?”

I looked down. The grass sloped to the sidewalk, where Arnita lay sprawled on her back, her arms flung out, the dress wrapped around her like a flag.

“Arnita?” My voice sounded small. “You okay?”

Her head rested against the edge of the sidewalk. She looked up at the dark sky.

“Oh God,” Tim said, “oh my God.” He tromped the gas, throwing me back in my seat. We flew away faster than the speed of light.

4

“W
HAT ARE YOU DOING?
She’s hurt! Turn around and go back!”

Tim tromped the accelerator. “Shit shit
shit!
”

“Tim! We gotta go back and help her!”

“We can’t do that,” he said in a strangled voice.

“Well you can’t just leave her there, are you crazy? She’s hurt!” The big Buick flew over the railroad tracks — I swear all four wheels left the ground. “Tim, I mean it, we have to go back!”

He turned, his eyes cold and gleaming — the eyes of somebody I didn’t recognize. “Would you shut your damn mouth?”

“All right — stop the car. Let me out!”

“We’re going to get help, okay?” he yelled. “We’re gonna get her some help. I’m
thinking!
Would you shut up and let me think?”

“It was an accident, an
accident!
It is not our fault, please turn around and go back.”

“You jerked the wheel!” he cried. “Why the hell did you do that?”

“Stop the car. Stop it now!”

After everything that happened, “Nights in White Satin” was
still
playing on the radio — or was it playing again? The guy was reciting the portentous spoken-word part, “breathe deep the colors of the night” or whatever it was. I kept seeing Arnita with the dress wrapped around her. Her head resting against the concrete edge. The rear wheel of the bicycle lazily spinning.

Tim said, “Okay. We’ll find a phone and call somebody.”

“Good. Good idea. Where’s a phone?” We zoomed past Buddy’s Bait and the Gibson’s Discount. I pointed to a phone booth glowing at the edge of the road by the Pic-N-Pay. “Who do we call, the police, the hospital, what?”

The Buick’s tires crunched on gravel. “Nights in White Satin” was rising to its pounding conclusion. He switched off the engine.

“I’ll do it,” he said. “You’re hysterical. Stay in the car.”

“Would you
hurry!
” I cried.

He walked around the back of his father’s car and squatted by the bumper to check for damage.

I ran to the phone booth, picked up the receiver, and dialed 0. It rang twice. I heard Tim running behind me and then he was on me, wrestling the phone away. “Yes operator, hello?” he said. “I, uhm, listen, we’re here in Minor, we need to report an accident. A black girl’s been hurt. She fell off her bike. An accident, yeah, can you send an ambulance — Sorry? Uhm, sure — Barnett Street, like three blocks to the, to the west of Minor High School. What’s that?” He paused. “Uhm, I don’t know.” He hung up.

His eyes came around to me. “Think they can trace that call?”

“How should I know?”

“Get back in the car.”

“Where are we going?”

“I’ll take you home, and then I’m going home. We have to forget this ever happened.”

“Tim. We have to go back. Or it looks like we did something really wrong.”

“We left the scene,” he said, checking the rearview.

“Look, we go back right now,” I proposed, “we tell the truth. She ran into us, she fell off her bike, you freaked out and drove off, we called an ambulance and came back. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“What do you mean
I
freaked out? You’re the one who grabbed the damn wheel.”

Terrible, what fear can do to a boy. Fear can take a perfectly good boy like my best friend Tim Cousins and turn him into this shaky pale guy, unnerved but weirdly composed, his eyes spinning.

I was scared too. Oh yes. I knew I should march back to that pay phone, call the police, and tell them the truth. I thought about doing that, but instead I got back in the car.

Tim started the engine. “There’s not a scratch on that bumper,” he said. “Now listen to me. I can’t explain it right now, but I can
not
get involved with the police, okay? Don’t ask why. Just trust me.” He started the engine. “We called for the ambulance. They’ll know what to do. We’ve done everything we can.”

“She saw us, Tim. Aren’t you forgetting that?”

“Who?”

“Arnita! We talked to her! She knows who we are.”

“Oh shit. You’re right.”

“We have to go back,” I said.

“You saw her. Did she look dead?”

“You drove off so fast I couldn’t — Jesus, Tim, what if she
is.
What if we . . . ?”

“It’s not our fault. She ran into
us,
remember? We stopped to help her. . . .” His voice trailed away.

“What?”

He straightened in his seat. “You’re right. We don’t have to stop, necessarily, but we have to go back. At least ride by and see. If she’s awake and talking, then we’ll stop.” He drove slowly. “She fell, we stopped to help her, then went to call an ambulance. What’s wrong with that? We’re not drunk. We didn’t do anything wrong.”

The Jitney Jungle lot was deserted. It seemed like a year ago I was steeling myself to kiss Dianne Frillinger under this sickly yellow light.

We sat at the stoplight by the Dairy Dog, left blinker clicking. Just as the light changed, a car blasted through the intersection, flashing headlights and blowing its horn.

Tim said, “Jesus!”

“Police,” I said. “Minor Police.”

We crept over the railroad tracks, onto Barnett Street. Ahead I saw the blue winking lights of cop cars parked at angles, their headlights trained on one place.

Tim said, “Easy, now. We’re just riding through, we haven’t got a care in the world.”

Two police cruisers sat nose to nose, an ambulance between them. As we passed I saw two men lifting Arnita on a stretcher into the ambulance.

Her bike lay where it fell.

Just beyond the police car was a jacked-up Mustang Fastback, cherry red with yellow flames. The trunk and doors were wide open. There were cops in the backseat, digging around. Another cop held Red Martin spread-eagled on the hood.

We glided by, taking it in. The cop pressed Red’s cheek against the hood.

I held my breath to the end of the block. I didn’t dare look at Tim. I knew what he was thinking. I was thinking it too.

Finally Tim said, “Did he see us?”

“I don’t think so. There was a lot going on.”

“Red Martin,” he said.

“Yep.”

“Arnita said he was drunk.”

“Yeah, she did.”

“Could you see her?”

“Just, she was on the stretcher, I . . . no.”

“They didn’t seem to be in a hurry, did they?” he said. “I don’t think that’s a good sign.”

“Yeah, I know. Jesus, Tim. We gotta go back.”

“Red knocked her off that bike, Skippy. He did. Before we did. You saw it happen. It’s the truth. He drove off and left her on the ground, right? You saw it. She could have got hurt then.” His voice was growing calmer every second. “I mean, we were trying to help her. Red is the one who was bothering her.”

“What are you saying?”

He looked sideways at me. “Red did this. Not us. Okay, it’s not exactly the way it happened, but in a way it is, see? Red’s the one who’s drunk. Not us. He was hassling her. We stopped to help her. You see what I mean?”

“So what do you want us to do?”

“Nothing. We go home and wait. See what happens. Maybe she’ll be okay. Maybe they’ll let Red go. I don’t know. We just have to see.”

We circled around on Larry Lane. Tim took a roundabout route through the backstreets of the subdivisions, away from the busy streets.

“What happens when Arnita tells them it was us?”

He shrugged. “She hit her head, right? She’s probably confused. We stopped to help her, that’s when she saw us. We went to call for help. Who do they think called the ambulance? We even drove by a second time, to make sure the ambulance came. And it did.”

I peered at him. “Wow, you’re good at this.”

“It’s all new to me,” he said.

“Take me home, Tim,” I said.

“That’s where we’re going. Right now.” He switched on the radio, a loud used car commercial. He switched it off again. We drove out into the country, where the roads were fast and the Buick’s high beams pushed back the darkness. “It’s gonna be fine, Skippy.”

“I don’t know. I have a bad feeling about this.”

He tried the radio again. The Spirit 99 deejay was sending late-night dedications to Bunny in Yazoo City from a secret admirer, to Randy from Tina with a love that will never die, to T.J. in Vicksburg love you always from Carol, “and a very special Prom Night dedication from the twins to Daniel and Tim,” he said. “Whoa, twins on Prom Night! Is anybody having fuuuuun?”

“Oh my God,” Tim said. “They called the radio station. I don’t believe it. It wasn’t enough for them to put our names on the garage door.”

I leaned my face against the cool glass. “I just hope we didn’t kill Arnita.”

“Well, so do I.”

“Really? Is that what you hope?”

“Of course! What do you think?”

“It’s hard to tell with you tonight,” I said. “You’re full of surprises.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

I turned on him. “What is it, Tim? Why are you so scared of the cops? You’ve been in trouble before, right?”

“Once.” His eyes never left the road.

“For what?”

He blew out a breath. “It was last Thanksgiving. Reckless driving. I never told you or anybody. I spent the night in jail. I used my one phone call to tell my folks I was spending the night at your house. Thank God you didn’t call me that night.”

“Reckless driving, what is that? That’s not so bad,” I said, although it did sound serious.

“It was bad enough. They suspended my license for six months. Nobody knows that either.”

“Well damn, Tim. And you’re still driving?”

“Not after tonight. Believe me, I’m taking this car home and I’m never driving again. Just get me home tonight, Jesus. I swear I’ll ride my bike from now on.” He snatched off his bow tie, flung it out the window.

“You’re gonna have to pay for that.”

“That is the least of my problems,” he said.

Buena Vista Drive led up a low hill. A split rail fence marked the beginning of our yard. Normally I hated that yard and every blade of grass on it, but tonight it looked like home and I was glad to see it. Mom had left the porch light on for me.

“We can’t leave it like this, Tim. It’s not right.”

“Call me tomorrow,” he said. “For now, just don’t tell anybody. For God’s sake don’t tell your folks.”

“You think I’m crazy?”

He turned into our driveway, setting up a howl from Mrs. Grissom’s beagle across the street.

“Call me first thing,” Tim said. “No. I’ll call you. You’ll be home?”

“Yeah, I always stay with Jacko while they go to church.”

“You okay, Durwood?”

“No, I am not okay.”

He squeezed my arm — an invitation to join in, play along, stick together, help him tell a very big Lie.

I slammed the door. He waved and drove off. I stood breathing the piney air of Buena Vista Drive as Mrs. Grissom’s dog howled at me.

If we hadn’t stopped to kiss those girls at the Jitney Jungle, Arnita would be home in bed now, with her roses and her crown on the nightstand beside her.

If I hadn’t grabbed the wheel . . .

We ran over the Queen of the Prom. We didn’t mean to do it. But leaving the scene — leaving her lying on the ground — that we did on purpose.

I was amazed by Tim’s coolness under fire, his ability to calculate his next move while the situation was unraveling. He was figuring out our alibi while I was still in the first shock of seeing Arnita on the ground.

“Shut up, dog,” I yelled. The beagle obeyed. Poor dumb dog, it was just waiting for someone to say shut up.

Our house was asleep. I tugged off my bow tie and went in as quietly as I could. As I reached in the fridge for orange juice Mom appeared, heavy-eyed, in her flannel robe. “Hey honey, how was your prom?”

“Good, Mom. Go back to bed.”

“What time is it?” She pushed hair from her eyes.

“Almost one,” I whispered. “Go back to sleep.”

“No, I want to hear all about it. Pour me a glass of milk.”

“It’s late. We can talk about it tomorrow. We don’t want to wake him up.” I jerked my head in the direction of Dad.

“How was Dianne? Did y’all have fun? Did she look pretty in her prom dress?”

“Yeah,” I said. “On the way there I got a bloody nose.”

“Oh honey, no.” She patted my arm. When I was a kid I had bloody noses all the time, and Mom was always the one who sat up with me until it stopped.

“It wasn’t so bad. Just a little one.”

“Did it spoil your whole evening?”

“No. We had fun. We danced and everything.”

When she blinked, her eyes wanted to stay closed. “Oh sweetie, I was hoping you’d have a perfect night.”

“We did, don’t worry. It was fine.” I felt so much older than my mother just then. Lying to her, to keep her from worrying. Mom was prettier than Doris Day, with long wavy hair, light gold like an ice-cream cone. At the moment she looked like a sleepy little girl. I took a slug of juice from the carton. “Go to bed, Mom. I’ll tell you all about it in the morning.”

“Don’t put that carton back after you’ve drunk from it.” She leaned up to kiss me. “Look at my little baby, all grown up.”

“I guess so.”

“Night, honey. Turn off the lights, okay?”

“Night, Mom.”

Half a carton of orange juice didn’t begin to slake my thirst. I moved on to ginger ale. I gulped it down so fast it sent a big gingery belch ripping up through my nose.

I went in from the kitchen to find Jacko hunched on the floor beside my bed. “Damn, Jacko! You scared me!”

His eyes gleamed. “Somebody dead,” he announced.

“What are you doing up? It’s late.”

“Somebody dead,” he said. “What you know about it?”

“What are you talking about, old man? You having another one of your bad dreams?”

“Ain’t no dream,” he said.

“Well then, you must be crazy,” I said. “But that’s not exactly news.” I was polite to Jacko only within earshot of Mom. He lived in the room next to mine, in the converted garage I had named the Freak Annex. If I didn’t snap back at him, he would drive me nuts with all his creepy muttering and cackling. His latest notion was that he had buried bags of gold all over our yard and our neighbor Mrs. Wagner across the street was sneaking in at night with a shovel, digging it up while we slept.