The Girl from Charnelle (2 page)

S
he'd only tasted beer before, never champagne. It was sweet and sharp and stung high in her head, and it gave her a tingling jolt, akin to her father's black coffee. The more she sipped, the better it tasted. Soon she was finished with the whole cup. She stood by the punch bowl. The dance floor was swollen with people. The Pick Wickers, a six-piece band from Lubbock, plucked out a country waltz. The Pick Wickers had become minor Panhandle celebrities, had even opened for Marty Robbins in Lubbock, Amarillo, Fort Worth, Austin, and Houston. They had played the Charnelle New Year's Eve celebrations twice before, in '56 and '58, and were regulars at the Armory dances. Laura had seen them only once and was glad that they were playing tonight. Though billed as a country act, they played a little bit of everything (rock and roll, the blues, swing, blue-grass, gospel) and would, rumor had it, get wilder as the night wore on and they drank more beer. The lead singer was a pudgy, gray-haired man with a string tie who sang like Fats Domino and sometimes played a screechy
fiddle, and most of the other members of the band were in their thirties, except for the guy on the stand-up bass, a tall, thin boy with Cherokee cheekbones and a suit that looked too big for him. He would close his eyes during the songs and sway back and forth on the balls of his feet. Earlier in the evening, he popped his eyes open in the middle of “Blue Moon of Kentucky” and caught Laura staring at him. He winked at her, smiled, then closed his eyes again and continued plucking his bass as if that wink were a dream and the real world was in the rhythm of his fingers.

A little after eleven now. The decade almost gone, Laura thought. Another coming. Though her mother had left them a year and a half ago, it seemed at times like it had happened just yesterday and at other times like her mother had never existed. Time slipped or seemed stuck, but never the same. She didn't know how to judge it, and it no longer mattered, or at least it didn't matter in the same chronically aching way.

And on nights like this, it certainly didn't matter. Her first New Year's Eve party. Except for Rich, who was staying with Mrs. Ambling, her family was all here. Manny with his girlfriend, Joannie. Her father at the bar. Gene with his friends. They'd arrived late, almost eight-thirty, and the whole time she'd been dancing—the twist with Gene, a polka with her father, and other dances with boys she went to school with. Though chilly outside with the threat of snow, the inside of the Armory felt warm. On the deck were three barbecue grills with chicken and ribs and brisket. Inside were chips and a thousand variations on potato salad, bean salad, and fruit cocktail. Mounds of cookies and cakes and brownies. And a table full of champagne bottles, a few opened each hour, plastic cups filled. Her father had said she should try some, see if it tickled her fancy.

When she finished her champagne, John Letig suddenly stood by her side with a bottle in his hand, smiling, twirling around in goose-step foolishness.

“Let me top her off there, Miss Tate.”

She liked Mr. Letig. No one called him John, except his wife. Everyone else referred to him simply as Letig. He worked with her father at Charnelle Steel & Construction, and though he was younger—early thirties, she guessed—he played poker and went hunting and fishing with a group of older men, including her father. She sometimes baby-sat Mr. and Mrs. Letig's two boys. One was almost five, Rich's age, the other only three.

Laura held out her cup, and he poured too quickly. The foam bubbled
over the rim and splatted on the floor between them. She jumped back but could feel the wetness on her legs and the laced hem of her dress. She wanted to protect the dress, a green-and-white-striped one with small white satin bows on the sleeves and waist—a dress she'd had her eye on for more than a year and a half and had only recently saved enough money to buy, even though her father thought it frivolous to spend seven dollars on a dress she'd probably outgrow in a year or two.

“Whoops!” Mr. Letig chirped. He set the bottle on the table, gathered up a wad of napkins, and blotted the dance floor. “Here, let me get that,” he said and wiped at her shoes and leg.

He was handsome, she'd noticed before. A big man with a thick chest, but also delicate features, a long face, his eyelashes thick and practically white, his nose angular, Scandinavian. His lips always very red, like a lipsticked girl's, and white teeth only slightly crooked. His fingers were long and slender, and he moved with the grace of a large cat.

“No, that's okay. I'm fine.” She stepped away quickly and spilled more champagne.

“I'm not gonna bite you,” he drawled, looking up at her, smiling. His cheeks were flushed. His blond mustache wriggled comically. “Unless you want me to.”

She laughed nervously. He grabbed her foot. He pulled his handkerchief from his back pocket and snapped it open. “Never let it be said that John Letig besmirched a lady's shoes.”

He enunciated slowly, carefully, and she couldn't tell if it was because he was drunk or because he was trying to be funny. She figured a combination. And it
was
funny and sweet in its way, and rather than call any more attention to herself—already people standing around the punch bowl were looking over—she let him finish polishing. He stood up, neatly folded the handkerchief, put it back in his pocket, and reached for the bottle of champagne.

“Thank you,” she said.

He winked at her. “My pleasure. Do you know what time it is?” he asked.

She could see now that his eyes were bloodshot and slightly glazed, but it didn't scare her. He wasn't a mean drunk, she could tell, not like a couple of Manny's friends, who she knew got drunk as a precursor to fighting. He was having fun, and the alcohol brought out a comic foolishness that she found disarming.

She looked at the big Armory clock behind his head. “Eleven-fifteen,” she said.

“Right. And at midnight you're gonna owe me something.” He smiled and tapped the bottle against her cup. “Cheers!”

“Cheers,” she said.

“Don't worry. I'll find you.” He walked away, his shirttail dangling over the back of his pants. He walked straight, though, and she wondered—had she noticed this before?—if he used to be an athlete. He had an athlete's natural agility, even for a big man, a lithe fluidity that suggested he was at home inside his body.

And what was that thing about finding her? Just him drunk, she guessed. She knew that at midnight there would be toasts, everybody kissing. She knew it was a custom. In the past, their family had always stayed home, sometimes listening to the New York City special on the radio but often not even making it to midnight. She took a long swallow of champagne, and it felt like all the bubbles popped in her head at once. She laughed, and an old couple turned to her from a table by the dance floor.

“Are you okay?” the woman asked.

“Yes, ma'am.”

Dean Compson, whom she'd known forever, swept by and grabbed her hand and said, “Come on,” pulling her to the dance floor.

“Wait!” she called. “Let me put this down.” She raced to the corner and set her cup on a chair, ran back and slid across the floor into Dean's arms. The Pick Wickers had begun a fast-flying version of “The Rock Island Line.” Dean spun her so wildly that she almost fell, then pulled her close. They fumbled with a two-step, tripping clumsily over each other's feet before parting. A couple danced by quickly. The man bumped Laura's shoulder, hard, and knocked her off balance. She fell to the floor, landing flatly on her bottom, her dress flying above her knees. She felt stupid. Dancing couples gawked.

Dean and the man who'd bumped her crouched on the floor, hands extended toward her. “Are you all right, Laura?” asked the man. It was another one of her father's coworkers at Charnelle Steel, an older welder who looked perpetually sunburned from the torches. She'd met him before, a dim memory from a picnic several summers ago.

“Yes.” She laughed nervously. “I'm fine.”

She took both his and Dean's hands, and they lifted her up. She brushed
off the back of her dress. The dancers on the floor formed concentric rings of activity around her. In the far circles, the couples spun on, yellow and red skirts whirling, felt and straw cowboy hats spinning around and around like tops. The closest rings looked to make sure she was all right. “I'm fine,” she said again louder, assuring them, not wanting the attention, and the couples reclasped their hands and were absorbed into the beat. She felt embarrassed and silly. She shook her head slightly to dispel the fog.

Dean asked, “You had enough?”

“No,” she said and moved close, placed her left hand on his shoulder. He slid his palm to the small of her back, and they danced more slowly, an off-kilter two-step that seemed out of sync with the music. The Pick Wickers didn't pause. The last note of “The Rock Island Line” led into a wordless rockabilly number. At the end of that piece, the lead singer announced that they were going to take a short break. The musicians put down their instruments and began moving from the stage to the bar. Laura wiped the sweat from the corners of her forehead, picked up her drink, and watched the bass player onstage drinking from a beer bottle, his eyes still closed, body still swaying.

“I'm hot,” she said to Dean. “Let's go outside.”

 

Behind the Armory, they found a cluster of teenagers gathered around a small fire. Manny was among them, with Joannie by his side. They and the others—four boys and a girl named Claudette—were all older than Laura. Seventeen or eighteen. Juniors, seniors. The boys smoked cigarettes, as did Claudette, and one of the boys was telling a joke—something about a camel and a wetback—and suddenly the joke was over, and the boys erupted into laughter. The two girls smiled weakly.

“That's fucking hilarious,” said one of the boys, and then he belched.

Laura didn't get it. She stared at the parking lot, full of cars and trucks, the road empty, a thin spit of snow caught in the halo of the streetlight. She held her palm up but didn't feel anything. The band began playing again. Two boys took final drags from their cigarettes, tossed them into the fire, and headed back inside. Manny and Laura exchanged glances, Manny smiling widely. He was drunk. She knew that look, that serene blank stare. He nodded as if to ask her whether she was having fun, and she smiled back. She sipped her champagne, but it had warmed and tasted sickly sweet.

A boy poked his head out the door. “It's almost twelve! Everybody inside!”

She didn't want to be standing near Dean when the kissing began. They were friends, and he was fun to dance with, but he had a zitty face and thin lips. She'd rather be inside in the comforting circle of girls, or maybe close to Gene or her father.

“Bye,” she said and strode quickly to the door.

 

Inside, the Armory was hot and smelled of pine, sweat, sweet champagne, and barbecue sauce. The band played Patsy Cline's “Ain't No Wheels on This Ship,” though it didn't sound right with a man singing it. She found the punch bowl and ladled a cup of red juice, frothy with ginger ale and melting raspberry sherbet, into her cup. She drank it quickly and refilled it and then surveyed the Armory. Gene was with a group of other kids at a table playing cards. Her father was on the other side of the dance floor, leaning against the bar with a beer in his hand, talking to Jimmy Cransburgh, who was nodding and eating peanuts from a bowl. She studied her father for a moment.

Did he look like a man whose wife had abandoned him with four kids still at home?

The question surprised her. She used to think about it often, but it had not occurred to her in a long time. He was still a good-looking man, she guessed, though he'd aged in the past couple of years. His hair had grayed at the temples, and when he forgot to shave for a couple of days, his beard came in more white than black. His cheeks had thinned. She wondered if he sometimes forgot to eat, especially when he worked too much; he had a lean, hungry look.

A bosomy, dark-haired woman in a purple dress sauntered to the bar and clinked bottles with him and Jimmy. Laura's father smiled politely. The woman wedged herself between them, and Laura could see her father's discomfort. Since the night, over a year ago, when he'd brought a woman back to the house after going dancing, he'd never once been out on a date. One day Laura had asked him if he ever thought he'd get married again. He looked at her harshly and said, “I
am
married,” then walked outside and began pounding with a hammer on the toolshed. She didn't pursue it. In fact, she was relieved in a way. It meant that her mother was still part of the family, connected to her father, legally if not literally. Even if her mother was
dead, which might be the case for all they knew. Her mother's death was something Laura had definitely thought about, though it frightened her.

This woman at the bar boozily swayed side to side. Jimmy Cransburgh threw his head back and laughed, then leaned in to hear what the woman said. Her father also laughed but not in a Jimmy Cransburgh bust-a-gut way. The woman must have said something to her father because Jimmy looked at him, and her father looked down at his feet, shyly. He seemed boyish, even, and Laura felt a pang of protectiveness come over her, a desire to help him, as she often felt with Gene and little Rich.

She sipped more punch. A group of girls on the other side of the room fluttered nervously, all of them looking out to the dance floor. Laura recognized three of the girls—Jeanette Winters, Marlene Shopper, and Debbie Carlson. She thought to join them when suddenly the music ceased and big Bob Cransburgh, Jimmy's older brother, hopped onstage and whispered in the lead singer's ear. Bob Cransburgh smiled and tapped the microphone a couple of times so that it thudded loudly in the hall.

“Give us a break, Bob!” his brother shouted.