Revenge of the Kudzu Debutantes (26 page)

“This is beginning to sound a lot like the ‘As God Is My Witness, I’ll Never Be Hungry Again’ speech from
Gone with the Wind.
”

“I tell you what,” Eadie said. “If more women acted like Scarlett O’Hara there wouldn’t be near the divorce, poverty, and spousal abuse there is in the world today.”

The door opened and a woman dressed in black slacks and a black turtleneck with a green sweater tied around her neck came into the store. “Do you serve anything besides baked goods?” the woman said to Mona, who was standing at the counter. “Do you have a lunch menu?”

“No, ma’am, not yet. But we’re opening up a deli real soon that will sell sandwiches and stuff like that.”

“Can you tell me what that green vine is growing all over everything?” The woman had the hard clipped accent of a New Englander. Lavonne was guessing Boston or New York.

“Green vine?” Mrs. Shapiro asked, her little nose wrinkling as she tried to understand the woman’s accent.

“It looks a little bit like English ivy but it has broader leaves.”

“Does it have purple flowers in the spring and summer?” Mrs. Shapiro said, shaking her head. “ ’Cause if it does, it’s wisteria.”

“No,” the woman said. “I know wisteria. It doesn’t have flowers. It’s just green. It seems to cover everything.”

“It’s called kudzu,” Lavonne said.

The woman turned around and said to Lavonne, “Where can I get some?”

Behind the counter Mrs. Shapiro stared at the back of the woman’s head, a blank expression on her face. “What do you want it for?” she said.

“I want to take a clipping home.” The woman turned her shoulders so she could look at Lavonne and Mona at the same time. “I want to hang a pot of it in my sunroom.”

Mona Shapiro blinked. She arched her brows and looked at the woman like she might look at an escaped lunatic from the mental hospital.

“You don’t want a clipping of that,” Eadie said. “You’d go to bed and wake up the next morning and your whole room would be covered in vines.”

“Oh?” the woman said.

“It grows up to a foot a day,” Lavonne said.

“It won’t grow up north,” Eadie said. “And even if it did, you wouldn’t want it. It’s hard to kill.”

Lavonne looked at Eadie and grinned. “It takes over everything that gets in its way,” she said.

“It’s tenacious as hell,” Eadie said.

“Oh really,” the woman said, obviously feeling they were making fun of her. “A foot a day,” she said flatly, looking at Mona, who slowly nodded her head in agreement, her bad eye rolling toward the wall. “Okay, thanks,” the woman said, turning abruptly to leave. The door banged shut behind her. They watched her walk hurriedly down the street, her little green sweater flapping against her back like wings.

“You know she’ll take a clipping home with her,” Lavonne said, watching her disappear in a crowd of tourists.

“Serves her right if it takes over her whole damn house,” Eadie said. “I don’t think she believed a word we said.”

“Speaking of kudzu,” Lavonne said, trying not to think about the fact that Dallas hadn’t called her back and it had already been more than an hour since she talked to him. “The Kudzu Ball is Saturday and I’m assuming you’re going with me, Eadie, because I sure as hell don’t want to go by myself. It starts at seven-thirty, but the queen doesn’t arrive until later. If we’re lucky, and everything goes according to plans, we’ll be able to meet with the husbands and still get to the ball on time.”

“I like the way that sounds,” Eadie said. “Of course I’m going. I got my dress yesterday down at the Goodwill Thrift Store and I can’t wait to wear it. Aren’t you supposed to pick somebody to be the Kudzu King?” she said to Lavonne. “Aren’t you supposed to have an escort?”

Lavonne jabbed her thumb at Little Moses, who had come out of the back carrying a tray of Texas sheet cake. “I’ve always wanted to be a king,” he said, grinning.

“You’re not the king,” Lavonne reminded him. “You’re just the queen’s consort.”

Little Moses slid the tray into the display case. “What exactly is a Kudzu Debutante?” He stood up, wiping his fingers on his apron.

“It’s a cross between a feminist and a homecoming queen,” Eadie said.

“It’s a woman who thinks for herself and won’t do as she’s told,” Lavonne said. “Are you going, Nita?”

Nita shook her head. “I don’t think so.” She’d be lucky if Charles ever let her out of the house again. If she wasn’t able to sell the Deuce and come up with some money of her own, she’d be a virtual prisoner in her own house, dependent upon the generosity of a husband who would probably never forgive her for setting him up with female impersonators. It was a dismal thought.

Lavonne reached out and patted her hand. “Don’t worry, Nita, everything will work out. No one’s blaming you for anything you do. It’s your decision, not ours. You’ll always be our friend and we’ll support you no matter what you decide to do.”

“Even if you decide to stay married to that asshole Charles Broadwell, we’ll still love and support you,” Eadie said. “Even if it all falls apart and we wind up broke and incarcerated, you’ll still be our special friend.”

“Whether you want to be or not,” Lavonne said.

They raised their glasses in a toast.

“Here’s to friendship,” Nita said, trying to imagine life without Jimmy Lee.

“Here’s hoping our husbands get what’s coming to them,” Eadie said.

“And here’s hoping we get what’s coming to us,” Lavonne said, tapping her glass against the other two.

CHAPTER

EIGHTEEN

B
ENTLEY AND
W
ILLIAM
arose early Thursday morning. The snow had melted, showing the scattered remains of camp utensils and packs that littered the ground like a sacked and abandoned city. The charred tower of the fire pit rose from the center of the clearing. From the dim interior of one of the tents, the Nancy-boys watched them with the fish-eyed, hunger-crazed look of plane-crash survivors who’ve lived three weeks on roots, berries, and beetles. They hadn’t slept in two nights. Redmon had moaned all night in his sleep and William snored like a buzz saw, but Bentley was a heavy sleeper and he had awakened feeling cheerful and refreshed.

“Morning, boys,” Bentley said.

William got the fire started and fried up some bacon and some moldy biscuits he had brought in his pack, while Bentley cleaned up the camp. He whistled while he worked and spoke cheerfully to William, ignoring the strained silence of the lawyers who had refused to give up their sleeping bags, and settled their raggedy asses around the fire like a gang of lumpy scarecrows. They had been here two days and hadn’t shot anything other than Redmon. Bentley assumed their silence was from shame, but in actuality, Charles had admonished both Redmon and Leonard to keep their mouths shut so as not to damage their chances of retribution in a court of law.

They started down the trail around two. The storm had cleared; the sun shone from a blue and cloudless sky. Redmon, anesthetized by whiskey, rolled in his saddle and chattered like a magpie. Leonard, perched atop the perverse Big Mama, found that although she had been loathe to climb the trail, she seemed now, as they headed home, inclined to break into a trot at the slightest pressure of his heels against her flanks. He rode behind the stiff-backed, morose Charles Broadwell, and daydreamed about the new life he would have when the girls were grown and he was no longer saddled with Lavonne.

Bentley rode in front of Charles, feeling the greenhorn’s hatred like a cold wind on his back. He kept throwing out little comments meant to wound Charles, tales of other greenhorns who, unable to hunt for food, had perished in the wilderness. Charles didn’t say anything but Bentley could imagine each tale piercing the chucklehead like an arrow point. He could feel his words embed themselves deeply in the lawyer’s tender flesh. He imagined Broadwell riddled with arrows, like a member of the Seventh Cavalry at the Little Big Horn, flayed and tortured and pierced like a pincushion. This mental picture made him so happy that Bentley put his head back and began to sing “Oh Lord, Won’t You Buy Me a Mercedes-Benz.” They were almost to the bottom of the trail, where the trees thinned before breaking into a wide meadow in front of the ranch, when Charles, unable to stand it any longer, burst out, “Are you going to sing, or are we going to ride?”

Bentley reined his horse and turned around in the saddle. Redmon, remembering the trip in the Range Rover, fell suddenly quiet. Leonard fought a rising sense of panic while Big Mama pawed the earth with her hoof, throwing her head up wildly.

“Hey man, I’m draggin’ these sorry-ass mules,” William said, trying to diffuse the situation.

Bentley pushed his hat back on his head. He squinted at Charles, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “You saying you want to run back to the ranch, Kemosabe?”

“Sure,” Charles said, gathering his reins. He’d taken dressage in college and he figured he could handle a sway-backed trail pony. “The sooner I get back to the ranch so I can have you fired, the better.”

“Sweet Jesus,” Redmon said.

“Oh dear God, no,” Leonard said.

“Giddyap,” Bentley said, touching his heels to his horse’s belly.

R
AMSBOTTOM AND THE
girls were sitting out on the front porch drinking beer and watching the sun set behind the distant mountains.

“Just look at that sunset,” Stella said.

“It’s totally awesome,” Tawny said.

“I’m bored,” Cherry Blyss said.

“When do we get to meet the movie stars?” Morganna said.

Ramsbottom had promised them if they cooperated he would take them next door to meet the Enviro Nazi Movie Director and some of his Hollywood friends. “Don’t get your panties in a wad,” he said, running his hand up Morganna’s stockinged leg. “You do something for me, I’ll do something for you.”

“I’ve heard that before,” Morganna said, pouting.

“I’ll bet you have,” Ramsbottom said, turning his head toward the distant fringe of trees. He had heard something.

Stella had heard it, too. “What the hell’s that?” she said.

Ramsbottom grabbed the railing and hauled himself rigidly to his feet. “Stampede,” he said.

They burst through the trees, coming across the field at a dead run like a cavalry charge in a B western, only this time the charge was being led by a crazy Indian. Bentley stood in his stirrups swinging his hat from side to side and yelling like a madman. To his right William rode standing in his stirrups, the mules loosed from their tethers and coming up on either side of him with their packs flopping like corpses. Directly behind him rode Charles Broadwell, his hat gone, the reins loosed, both hands clutching the saddle horn, his face pale and contorted with fear. The fat one rode to his left; his saddle had slipped to the side and he rode perpendicular to the ground like a trick rider, his head inches from Big Mama’s thundering hooves. Redmon brought up the rear. His feet had slipped from the stirrups and he clung to the saddle horn and flopped around like a rag doll, screaming the whole time, his voice echoing down the darkened canyon and spurring his horse to new feats of speed and daring.

They came across the field and veered to the right of the ranch house, Bentley standing in his stirrups and doffing his hat to the girls like Buffalo Bill, William racing up beside him, his hat flattened, his face stretched in a wide grin, enjoying himself. Behind them followed the mules and the other three, still in the saddle by some miracle of God; their horses’ hooves pounding the ground and throwing up great clods of earth. It was a thrilling spectacle worthy of any Wild West Show. The girls jumped to their feet and began to cheer and clap their hands.

Ramsbottom limped to the steps and shouted, “Goddamn it, Bentley, you’re fired!” He hurried down the steps and around the side of the house, expecting to see the ground littered with the bodies of dead or injured lawyers. He had spent weeks planning his little revenge and now Bentley was going to fuck everything up by killing them before he had had a chance to videotape them with the female impersonators.

Ramsbottom limped around the side of the house, his legs stiff, joints wrenched in pain, and headed toward the stable just in time to see Big Mama clear the stable fence, Leonard’s head missing the top rail by maybe three inches. Charles Broadwell’s horse pulled up short and Broadwell swung around in front of him, his arms still clutching the horse’s neck. He stood there for a moment, slumped against the sweating animal in an awkward sort of embrace, and then he collapsed like he’d been hit between the eyes with the butt end of a pistol. Redmon’s horse dropped to a trot and followed Bentley and William into the corral. The horse stopped and waited patiently for Redmon to dismount, but the man refused, clenching the saddle horn and blubbering until William and Bentley came over and lifted him forcibly out of the saddle.

I
N THE END,
it was the girls who managed to get the greenhorns calmed down. Charles Broadwell had walked around in a stupor for nearly an hour after the stampede incident and the fat one had sat on a stool in the stable yard and cried like a baby. After they dragged Redmon from his horse, they plopped him down on a bale of hay and he grinned and chattered like a monkey, asking for tequila and cigarettes.

The girls went into the bunkhouse to freshen up, and came out forty minutes later in full regalia. Ramsbottom had to admit, watching them troop into the stable yard in their high heels, they did look good. Pretty as a speckled pup. Pretty as a scorpion with her tail up, and just as dangerous.

A
FTER A HOT
bath and a hot meal, the tenderfoots began to look better. The fat one’s left eye was swollen to a slit and one of his hands had frozen into a clutched position, the result of having hung upside down beneath his horse on that wild ride across the field, but other than that, he looked okay. Charles Broadwell had developed a tic in the side of his face and a slight stutter, but seemed fairly normal otherwise. Redmon seemed to have aged about twenty years and one shoulder set up higher than the other one, which, for a man his age, considering what he had been through, probably wasn’t too bad. Overall, they were whittled down some, but still standing.

After dinner they all went out on the front porch to party. The tequila had been flowing freely for two hours and the girls were still looking pretty good, especially under the dim porch lights. Redmon sat between Tawny and Morganna, who had perched precariously on the arms of his chair, and kept leaning forward to press their bosoms to his face. He looked happy as a pig in slop. His eyes rolled from side to side of his big bald head. Drool spilled down the front of his shirt.

Cherry Blyss sat on the porch swing squeezed up beside Charles Broadwell, but it was obvious to everyone that Charles had his sights set on Stella, who was sitting on Leonard’s lap and feeding him olives by hand.

Stella was the prettiest girl to ever sit on Leonard’s lap. He had lost the contact in his swollen eye, which made it kind of hard to see her clearly up close, but he was enthralled by the length of her legs and her voice, which had a deep, throaty quality, and the playfulness of her teasing. She flattered him every way possible, told him how smart he was, how sexy, how funny, and by the time she finished buttering him up, Leonard was feeling pretty good about himself. The demoralizing memories of the past few days were beginning to fade under Stella’s careful guidance.
She’s just the kind of girl I will marry once I get rid of Lavonne,
Leonard thought, happily nibbling olives from her rather large hairy fingers.
Someone who appreciates the things I will give her. Someone who appreciates me for who I am.

Charles stared at Stella like a man in a trance. She was the most desirable girl he had ever seen. But why was she flattering that fat buffoon, Zibolsky, when she could be sitting on
his
lap? Charles knew he was still a damn fine, good-looking man. Someone had told him once he looked a little like Robert Redford.

Cherry Blyss was not accustomed to being ignored. She pouted and poked Charles in the ribs with a sharp finger, and when he did nothing but continue to stare at Stella, she yawned and said, “I’m bored.” She stretched her legs out in front of her but Charles didn’t look. “I think I’ll go sit with him,” she said, rising and walking over to plop herself down on Redmon’s lap.

“Wa-wa-whatever,” Charles said, embarrassed by his stutter. He hadn’t stuttered since kindergarten, since his mother sent him away to a school in Boca Raton that specialized in stutterers, sufferers of Tourettes syndrome, and idiot savants.

“Hey,” he said to Stella, patting his lap with both hands. “Why don’t you c-c-come over here and sit?”

“What’s the matter, honey?” Stella said. “Cherry Blyss not good enough for you?”

“I’m picky,” Charles said. “I like the c-c-cream of the c-c-crop.”

Stella couldn’t help but be flattered by this. She stroked her hair and crossed her long legs dramatically.

Charles stood up. “C-c-come on,” he said to her. “Let’s take a walk.”

She stood up and went down the steps with Charles, arm in arm, before Leonard could think to say anything. “Hey,” he said, lifting his frozen hand like a lobster lifts his claw. “What about me?”

“You take Ch-Ch-Cherry Blyss,” Charles said over his shoulder.

Rage ricocheted through Leonard like a bottle rocket. All his life he had been taking second best. All his life boys like Charles Broadwell had been taking the prize away from him. All his life he had sat back and let it happen. “No,” he shouted, standing up suddenly.

Charles and Stella turned around in surprise. “What did you s-s-say?”

“I said no!” Leonard bellowed, coming down the steps like a madman. He grabbed Stella’s arm with his good hand and pulled her behind him. Charles’s face twitched and spasmed, and he reached out to take Stella back, but before he could touch her, Leonard had clubbed him in the head with his lobster claw hand. Charles stood for a moment, stunned, staring into his squinty-eyed partner’s enraged face, and then he put both hands around Leonard’s throat, and they went down in a pile of swinging fists and kicking feet.

Ramsbottom videotaped them rolling around in a big pile of steaming horse shit and pummeling each other, and then he motioned for Bentley and William to break it up. He convinced Stella to take both of them back to the ranch house for a friendly little game of strip poker, and it was after that that things got interesting and Ramsbottom managed to snap some photos and film some of his best footage. He was amazed at how long it took the lawyers to figure out that the girls weren’t girls, and he really wasn’t sure they ever did, because Leonard passed out sometime around eleven o’clock, and Redmon fell asleep soon after, facedown in a plate of chicken pie. Charles had more stamina; he lasted until nearly twelve-thirty.

Ramsbottom waited until he had stumbled off to bed and then he downloaded the photographs and e-mailed them to Eadie. He checked the video, sealed the mini DV in a package, and then handed it to Bentley who had volunteered to drive it into Push Hard to the overnight courier office.