The Supremes at Earl's All-You-Can-Eat (35 page)

She sat up in the bed. “Richmond, last night was a lot of fun, but I see no reason to come back home. I like it here. And this short amount of time we’ve been apart isn’t enough to fix forty years of both of us making foolish decisions. You know that.”

His eyes grew big and he raised his voice. “You knew that if we went to bed together I’d think you were coming home, and you went ahead and let me think that.”

“I’m sorry if that’s what you thought. But nothing’s changed, except we had a really good night.”

Richmond stood beside the bed with his mouth opening and shutting. He looked like a giant brown fish that had been thrown onto dry land. He clutched his pants against his chest as if he had suddenly grown modest and was trying to cover himself. With his empty hand, he pointed at Clarice and stammered out, “Y-y-you led me on and used me. That’s what you did. You made me think we were going to be together again and you used me.”

She thought about it for a few seconds and realized that he was right. She had known what he would think about the two of them
after last night, and she had pushed that knowledge aside because she wanted him, the way she had always wanted him. Some other day, maybe she’d have felt guilty. But that morning, she was completely unable to keep herself from grinning, and then giggling at the thought that she had used Richmond.

Towering over her beside the bed, Richmond looked as indignant as Clarice could remember seeing him. But then she saw his face gradually break into a smile and he began to chuckle along with her. He laughed harder and harder until he wobbled on his feet and collapsed onto the bed next to her.

“You had me over for dinner, screwed my brains out, and now you’re getting rid of me at sunrise. I can’t believe this. You turned me into a one-night stand. No, it’s even worse. You actually had me believing we were going to be together. Holy shit. I’m not your one-night stand; I’m your mistress.” He whacked his forehead with his hand and shook his head. “Ramsey’s always telling me, ‘Man, Clarice is gonna turn you into a woman if you give her half the chance.’ And after forty years, it’s finally happened.”

Still snickering, Clarice put a leg over him and straddled his hips. “We don’t have to tell Ramsey about it. We can keep it our dirty little secret.” Then she kissed him hard.

He stayed for another hour.

On his way out later that morning, she told him she would call him about getting together for dinner soon. At the door, she swatted him on his firm, round ass and kissed him goodbye.

After she put the teakettle on and popped bread into the toaster, Clarice reread the letter Richmond had brought her the night before. She thought to herself that if this was what it was like to have a mistress—a night of thoughtful gifts and good sex, then your lover is out of your hair by breakfast time—Richmond’s behavior over the past few decades made a lot more sense to her.

Sharon’s wedding took place on the hottest day southern Indiana had seen in decades. Spring had come early that year and the trend of record temperatures that had begun in February continued into the summer. The mercury registered right at one hundred and five degrees that afternoon and the humidity was just as awful. Only Richmond wasn’t panting from the exertion of climbing the slight incline that led to the Garden Hills Banquet Hall and Corporate Meetings Venue from its parking lot. The Supremes and James began gasping for air within yards of their cars. The journey from the parking lot to the banquet hall was made worse by the fact that the high temperature had caused the tar on the asphalt of the lot and driveway to become tacky so they had to work hard just to lift their feet from the ground.

They stopped at the front steps of Garden Hills to take in the enormity of the place. The pictures from Veronica’s wedding book hadn’t done it justice. The building was a half a block long. The huge white columns supporting the second-floor verandah that stretched across the width of the structure were far more massive than the photo had let on. Nothing else in town, aside from the larger buildings on the campus, approached this place in size.

The banquet hall was a part of “the other Plainview,” the Plainview that those who had grown up there didn’t recognize. This imposing tribute to Greek Revival belonged to the new town that was being built by the university and by Plainview’s newer residents, people who worked in Louisville and saw little of the town outside of the routes from their bloated homes to the pricey specialty shops of modern-day Leaning Tree. Every one of the people gathered in front
of the building thought the same thing. They were becoming outsiders in their own town.

Barbara Jean said, “It looks like something straight out of
Gone With the Wind
.”

Clarice snapped her fingers. “That’s it. I’ve been trying to think what this place reminded me of, and that’s it. It’s Tara, caught in a fun-house mirror. What a sight.”

Odette said, “Would somebody please explain to me why any self-respecting black couple would want to get married in a giant plantation house? That’s messed up.”

Barbara Jean shook her head. “I tell you they’re asking for trouble not getting married in a church. Everybody knows that’s bad luck.”

“My words exactly,” Clarice said.

Two young men exited the building and gawked at Barbara Jean as they passed by. Clarice and Odette silently agreed with their judgment. Barbara Jean looked fantastic. She had toned down the color palette of her clothing over the previous few months. She hadn’t exactly turned into a wallflower, but the days of the wild outfits seemed to have come to an end. And it wasn’t just her clothes that were different. Sobriety seemed to be doing wonders for her. Who could have imagined that Barbara Jean could become more beautiful? But a few months without liquor had managed the impossible. Odette and Clarice both told her all the time how proud they were of her, but in typical Barbara Jean fashion, she refused to take any credit for what she had accomplished. She would mutter some catchphrase like “One day at a time,” and then change the subject. But Barbara Jean had been resurrected and that was plain to see.

“Let’s get inside. It’s too hot out here,” James said, meaning that it was too hot for Odette to be outside. James was more vigilant than ever that summer—part nurse, part mother bear, part prison guard. He was also more aware than anyone that Odette had lost more weight and more strength. She fought on like a champion, though, refusing to acknowledge that anything had changed. Her husband and her friends admired her warrior spirit, but couldn’t help but feel like Odette was rubbing her legendary fearlessness in everyone’s
faces. When they looked at Odette, they all knew it was time to feel scared. They battled with the urge to shake her until she came to her senses and was as frightened as they were.

The lobby welcomed the Supremes, James, and Richmond with a blast of frigid air that made each of them sigh with relief. A pretty young hostess with bright red hair and an exaggerated English accent greeted the wedding guests at the reception desk. She said, “Good afternoon. We are delighted to have you here at Garden Hills Banquet Hall and Corporate Meetings Venue. Please follow the corridor to the doors that lead out to the courtyard for the Swanson-Abrams nuptials,” and pointed out the way for them. Her instructions were accompanied by flamboyant arm waving. She wore a tight gray skirt and a very low-cut frilly white blouse. Her breasts jiggled with each of her grand movements. Richmond did an admirable job of staring at the ceiling instead of ogling the girl as his nature would surely have had him do. Clarice had to give the man an A for effort.

Unlike Richmond, who was going all out to prove that he was a changed man, Clarice wasn’t certain what degree of exertion on her part was appropriate where her marriage was concerned. The new Clarice enjoyed having Richmond as her secret lover—she hadn’t told her friends that he’d been spending nights with her. But the old Clarice, the one who knew all of the rules and yearned to follow them, had staged a reappearance. Somehow Clarice had gone from reveling in her newfound freedom and sensuality to feeling guilty about her vain pursuit of pleasure. She had even begun to take pride in sending Richmond away at the times she most wanted him to stay. Funny how easy it was to tap into all of that—the guilt, the shame, the anger.
You can take the girl out of Calvary Baptist, but you can’t take Calvary Baptist out of the girl
, she thought.

At the end of the hallway, two young men in white uniforms stood stationed beside massive oak doors. When the Supremes, Richmond, and James approached, the men shoved open the doors, exposing a vast and spectacular courtyard. Second—possibly—only to Barbara Jean’s prizewinning gardens, this was the most elaborately landscaped property in town. Intricately sculpted evergreens lined the courtyard’s
redbrick walls. Lacy vines trailed from stone pots that sat atop pillars that had been distressed in the style of Roman ruins. Luridly bright flowers of every variety surrounded the wedding guests.

Barbara Jean grabbed Clarice’s arm. “This is incredible. They must swap out these plants every week to keep them looking like this.”

The garden was something to see, all right. Unfortunately, the direct sunlight that helped the flowers remain so beautiful was not greeted with much approval from the wedding guests. The sun beat down on them and, as more people arrived, their shared suffering soon became the number one topic of conversation. Erma Mae and Little Earl McIntyre stepped into the courtyard just behind the Supremes, both of them frantically fanning themselves with their hands. Erma Mae grumbled, “Outdoor weddin’ in July. Your cousin’s tryin’ to kill us all, Clarice.”

Erma Mae wore a violet straw hat that Clarice thought was cute. But that hat didn’t provide a bit of shade to her great, round head. Erma Mae’s cheeks and ears baked in the afternoon sun. She continued to curse Veronica as she and her husband headed to their seats.

To ensure Odette’s comfort, James had been toting around an enormous insulated bag full of just-in-case supplies all summer. By the time the Supremes and their spouses had traveled down the brick path that divided the courtyard in half and seated themselves on creaky white wooden chairs, James had dug into the bag and pulled out five chilled bottles of water and a couple of battery-operated personal fans. He handed each of his friends a bottle of water and gave fans to Barbara Jean and Odette. In return, James received heartfelt thanks and an apology from Richmond for having teased him about carrying a purse for the past month.

Refreshed by the water and puffs of air from the tiny fans they passed back and forth to each other, Barbara Jean and Clarice ventured from their seats to take a closer look at the flowers. They took a few steps toward the nearest bed, but stopped when they were still about five feet away after discovering that they weren’t the only admirers of the flowers. Dozens of bees floated from bloom to bloom
in lazy arcs—a picturesque summer scene, best appreciated from a safe distance. When they discussed it later, they all agreed that the bees had been an omen.

The two uniformed employees who had opened the courtyard doors for the guests reappeared, each carrying an oscillating electric floor fan. When they placed the fans in opposing corners of the rectangular seating area and turned them on, the crowd burst into applause. The effect was mostly psychological, though. Humid hundred-degree air was still humid hundred-degree air, even with a two-mile-per-hour gust behind it. But the slightest of breezes was cause for celebration on that day.

The tiresome elevator music that had been piped in via speakers placed throughout the flower beds stopped. The redhead who had greeted everyone at the front door entered the courtyard and asked the crowd to be seated in order that the service might begin. James glanced at his watch and nodded his approval. “Right on time.”

The speakers blasted out music again. This time it was Pachelbel’s Canon in D. Clarice muttered to herself, “How unimaginative can you get.” Then she admonished herself for being mean.

The large oak doors opened again and Reverend Biggs stepped through. He was followed by Clifton Abrams and his groomsmen—Clifton’s shoe freak brother Stevie and two shifty-eyed, scowling young men. The groomsmen slouched in their ill-fitting, rented tuxedoes with matching green cummerbunds and emerald bowties beneath a bridal arch that was covered in chartreuse carnations. Behind them, a fountain in the shape of a gigantic fish spat water high into the sticky air.

Odette leaned toward Clarice and said, “Is this a wedding party or a police lineup?” Clarice responded, “You are just awful,” even though she had been thinking the same thing.

The doors opened again and Veronica’s mother walked out on the arm of her favorite granddaughter’s husband, a heavyset young man who stopped every few seconds to wipe perspiration from his eyes with his free hand. Glory’s green dress wasn’t very flattering, but she seemed unaffected by the heat. In fact, she looked far healthier
and cheerier than when Clarice had last seen her. Glory and Clarice’s mother, who was boycotting Plainview until Clarice left “that Unitarian cult” she had joined, hadn’t spoken in several weeks due to yet another theological spat. From the looks of things, not talking to Beatrice had been good for Glory. There was, Clarice thought, a lesson to be learned in that.

Minnie McIntyre strutted down the aisle after Glory. In keeping with the color scheme of the wedding, Minnie wore a kelly green suit, making it the first time in months she had been seen in anything other than one of her fortune-telling outfits. She slowly walked, unescorted, down the brick path toward her chair in the front row. On her way, she acknowledged acquaintances in the crowd with a slight dipping of her head. She frowned each time she did it. It was clear to all spectators that her signature move was unsatisfying to her without her turban and bell.

The groom’s parents, Ramsey and Florence Abrams, came next. Ramsey grinned as if he were filming a toothpaste commercial. Florence smiled, too, though it was difficult to tell with her. For years, Florence had twisted her facial features into an expression more suggestive of having encountered an unpleasant odor than experiencing joy. The muscles responsible for smiling had atrophied long ago. However, her customary pained smirk seemed to be less agonized than usual that day.