She laughs down at me. “You idiot. You look like you’re dancing for pennies.”
“You. Me. Grundy’s.” I call up to her. “Meat plus three. My treat.”
She smiles at me with a flash of white teeth that break my heart. “Can’t. New client coming by. I was hoping I’d see you, though. I’ve got news.”
“News?”
“The district court issued a temporary restraining order against the college to release Barefoot.”
“So it’s all over?”
“No. The college filed an appeal. That kind of surprised me. The restraining order actually gave them what they wanted most, which was disavowal of the entire magazine. They were going to be allowed to stamp the front of every copy with a disclaimer that Barefoot isn’t an official publication. The college’s case is pathetically flawed. Judge Pettry practically laughed at them.”
“So why not just let the whole thing drop?”
“I suspect,” Jenny replies, “that you’ve pissed them off just enough that they’ll refuse to settle until the bitter end.”
“Me?” I ask. “You must be mistaken. Everyone in the Lyceum adores me.”
“Dean Moriarty claims you threatened him.”
“I did? When? What does he think I said?”
“Something about watching out for himself when he’s driving his car.”
“Driving his car? Driving his car?” I try to recollect our recent encounters. “Oh! No, it wasn’t about driving. I just said, ‘You take care out there on the road, okay?’ It was a joke.”
“You shouldn’t tease the semi-literate,” Jenny advises. “Anyway, now we go to the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals in Clarksdale. Judge Watters. I’ve been in his court before. He’s going to want to hear testimony. Are you willing to be a witness?”
“I’ll testify my little heart out.”
“It’s a date, then.”
Jenny turns from the rail, back to her office. I start walking toward Blaylock’s drugs, but have scarcely taken more than a few steps before a window display of pet products catches my attention.
I check my pockets for cash, find three dollars plus some change, and step inside to make a purchase that just may save my ass this week.
~ ~ ~
Tuesday, March 28
Rain is pelting across south Tennessee and north Mississippi from a warm front that’s pulling an ocean load of Gulf moisture off the coast of Texas. This is explained to me by a sweet spoken news lady on the radio, who also warns me to prepare my ass to get soaked by up to an inch of precipitation before Wednesday arrives.
Dr. Goodleigh’s morning copy of the Commercial Appeal lies already sodden in the driveway when I pull my car up to her door. I toss it into the trash, retrieve her mail, and step cautiously inside.
Melpomene’s lapis-eyed gaze is the first thing that greets me. She sits, waiting for breakfast, on the kitchen counter beside an oversized pepper grinder.
“Mmmmmrrrrrrrroouuuuuuughhhh!” she wails.
This cry is apparently Siamese for “The dumb hippie is back – let’s scare the shit out of him,” because the floor at my feet and the rafters overhead suddenly team with famished, impatient, discontented life.
“Mmmmmmmmmmouuuuuuuggggggghhhhhhhhrrrrr!” the others reply, like a chorus in a Sophoclean tragedy.
This is my cue to make a dash for the pantry, snatching bowls and the canister of dry food on my way so I can fill the bowls in relative safety, eject them through the accordion door and effect my getaway while all are distracted by the feeding frenzy.
If that’s what they expect me to do, though, I have a surprise for them.
“Hello, kitties!” I call.
I then reach into my coat pocket, produce an aerosol can, and fill the room with clouds of fine mist that produce an instantaneous effect.
“Mrrrrrrrooouuuugghh!” Melpomene wails, arching her hind quarters for a leap that suddenly turns into a stunned slump. Her front legs scoot forward, weak, and she rolls over onto the counter, belly up. “Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmrrr,” she coos.
The three cats who’ve somehow managed to perch on Goodleigh’s newly-polished eaves tumble to the floor, not stoned enough yet to miss landing on their feet, though with a self-satisfied thump of a cat consciousness approaching nirvana.
The pride scatter prostate on the floor before me, rolling over and over, mewing like kittens, rapt by the blessing I’ve bestowed upon them.
“Say hello,” I tell them, “to catnip in a spray can!”
~ ~ ~
Wednesday, March 29
The demons have kept me up all night. Blake, on the other hand, consumed enough vodka and gin to nod off for a few hours.
I drive into town with my body in need of sustenance, protein, so I drop by Grundy’s for breakfast and am surprised to find Clamor at one of the tables.
“What’s wrong with your eyes?” Clamor asks.
“Don’t know. I can’t see my eyes. I thought you’d have left town for break.”
“Where would I go? No money to travel anyplace fun, and the family has decided against the traditional Easter reunion in Batesville this year. All because of the scandal that cousin Amy has brought down upon us.”
“Amy has brought scandal upon the Madigan clan? Good for her. However did she accomplish that?”
“Sleeping with Alcott. The family always assumed she’d conducted herself in un-ladylike fashion at those New York literary parties when her novel was published, and they were willing to turn a blind eye on that period in her life. But now, to be having an affair with a married man right in their own back yard – that’s too much for them to stomach.”
“Good for cousin Amy,” I say. “That makes me almost like her.”
“Who said that the whole purpose of being a writer is to embarrass your entire family to death?”
“Sounds like J.P. Donleavy.”
“And speaking of embarrassments, have you heard any news about James?” she asks, as the waitress fetches coffee for me.
“The gang drove to North Carolina to see him,” I say.
“I know. They invited me along. But I’m not ready to forgive him yet.”
“Yet.”
“I suppose I will, eventually,” Clamor says.
“I won’t,” I say.
“That’s because you’re not in love with him,” she says. “We always forgive people we love, eventually, no matter what pieces of shit they are.”
~ ~ ~
Thursday, March 30
I’ve woken up beside enough women to know that it’s impossible for them – even the most beautiful of the species – not to reveal at least one imperfection first thing in the morning.
Joan, however, is that impossible exception. Even droopy and disheveled at our tiny kitchen table, wearing one of Blake’s ink-stained shirts, staring vacantly into a half-full coffee cup, Joan is perfect.
We also have company this morning. Blake has been inviting guests for breakfast, each charged with the task of convincing Joan that he’s no good for her. Duck and the Septic System Man have been by separately this week to testify to his bad behavior, absence of common sense, and lack of prospects. This morning’s guest speaker is the Widow.
Instead of simply cataloging out Blake’s manifold deficiencies in character, as the others have done, the Widow has decided to appeal to logic.
“You say your first husband was a bastard,” the Widow says.
“He was,” Joan agrees. “He is.”
“I can attest to that,” I add.
“That means you’re attracted to Blake because he’s a bastard, too.”
“I am,” Blake concurs.
“It’s not your fault, honey,” the Widow says to Joan. “We women can’t help falling for the same man, over and over, repeating our original bad choices. Believe me. I know – I’ve had five husbands.”
“And they were all bastards?” Joan inquires.
“I don’t have a weakness for bastards. My men were go
od to me. They just shared one fatal flaw, which was a knack for getting themselves killed in unusual ways.”
“Five dead husbands?”
“The last one passed away on our honeymoon.”
“Oh, god. What happened?”
“He got crushed to death by a cactus,” she says.
We pause, waiting for an explanation.
“My fault, I suppose,” the Widow goes on. “I insisted on a honeymoon in the desert. I always fantasized about making love with a man under all the stars in creation. We got hitched in Tucson and drove the truck out to find a little hidden away camp site, where we smoked some dope and waited for the sun to set. It was a glorious consummation.
“When Henry woke up the next morning, I was still asleep. He’d brought his Thompson along for the trip, though I told him not to, and he must have decided to use one of those big old cactuses for target practice. Blew an arm off one, and the damn thing fell right on top of him. Must have weighed half a ton.”
“Why did he do that?” Joan wonders.
“I didn’t have an opportunity to ask. But I suppose he didn’t see the point of being surrounded by so much natural beauty if he couldn’t fire a couple of rounds of ammunition into it.”
The Widow taps a cigarette from a pack of Virginia Slims, lights it, and takes a deep, meditative drag. I notice, when she removes it from between her lips, the filter is lipstick-smudged the same as the rim of her coffee cup.
“One other thing I seem to favor,” she says, “is men who aren’t overly intelligent.”
~ ~ ~
Friday, March 31
“You really need me to protect you from the kitties?” Clamor taunts, when I invite her along for the daily feeding at Dr. Goodleigh’s house.
“They’re not ‘kitties.’ They’re Pterodactyls with fur.”
“Mmmmrrrrrrroooouuuggggghrrrrrrrrrmmmmmm!” Melpomene howls in greeting as we step through the kitchen door.
Clamor, who stepped through boldly enough, draws back. It’s a nice day. The pride should be out sunning itself and hunting the ravine. Instead, they’re all inside, waiting for me, Melpomene acting as sentry.
The others rouse, sluggish, from their nap at her signal. Heads swivel toward us. Muscled, sinewy haunches pivot in our direction and flex in preparation for leaping.
Clamor sidles up behind me, maneuvering me into the position of bodyguard as we inch our way across the room.
“Oh, my lord,” she mutters.
“Now you see what I mean.”
If she’s thinking of an escape, Clamor’s already been outwitted by a feline phalanx that’s moved to block us from the back door. Another has swept in front of us, sealing off the path to the little pantry that I’ve designated as my foxhole.
Melpomene observes her troop movements from the counter, incarnating at this moment the departed souls of Cyrus the Great, Hannibal, Napoleon and Stonewall Jackson. She turns her icy stare upon me. I am humbled by an alien intelligence greater than my own.
I nod. Melpomene nods back.
“What can we do?” Clamor whispers. She’s clutching my left arm.
I reach into my right-hand pocket and lift the nozzle of the aerosol can toward the center of the room. “Biological warfare,” I say.
A cloud of mist fills the room. Melpomene and her army buckle, drop and fall before me, vanquished by sheer animal joy.
“What is that?”
“Catnip. In a spray can.”
Clamor gives me a perplexed grin as I proceed to fill the bowls with cat food. “Does Dr. Goodleigh know that you’re getting her cats high?”
“If she ever asks, I’ll tell her. Otherwise, I don’t intend to mention it.”
~ ~ ~
Saturday, April 1
“There, now. Don’t you look handsome?” Joan flatters, as Blake emerges from his bedroom newly-shaved, freshly-showered, hair washed and neatly combed, actually wearing a necktie – the mate, I assume, of the one he’s loaned me for this special occasion – and a full 24 hours sober.
I have to admit that Blake cleans up well. With a razor and a little bit of soap, he can look as straight as they come, though there’s still that disconcerting resemblance to Norman Bates that diminishes the overall effect.
As I close the trailer door behind us and search my pockets for the key, one of the demons inside hurls a book against the louvered glass window. From the size and the heft of it, I’m guessing it must be my copy of Harrison’s Prolegomena.
“I’ll be the luckiest girl at the Holiday Inn tonight, with two such handsome escorts,” Joan says, linking our arms in hers as we ascend the hill toward my parked car on the berm of Campground Road.
Blake hasn’t left the trailer in weeks, and he hasn’t slept in his bed for at least that long. He’s been at the kitchen table all this time, typing his dissertation in a race to finish by the May deadline his graduate committee has imposed on him.
This outing tonight – Easter dinner at the Holiday Inn, purportedly my invitation and my treat – is a plot. Joan’s already reserved a room at the motel, to which she will lure him at dinner’s end and where she plans to seduce him, thereby putting an end to what she’s termed “as long as a dry spell any healthy young woman should be expected to endure.”
We sit at the bar while waiting for our table to be ready. A sober Blake turns out to be an observant Blake. “Where’s your date?” he asks me. “I thought this was supposed to be a double-date.”
“I guess she’s stood me up,” I say, the cover story Joan concocted for me.
“That so?” Blake says, suspicious.
It turns out, though, that Joan has deceived me as well. “No, she just walked in.” Joan points, directing our eyes toward a side door that Amy Madigan has just stepped through.
I shoot Joan a look that says, “What the fuck is this?”
“Amy Madigan?” Blake remarks. “I thought you two hated each other.”
“Tonight,” I improvise, “we are all friends in the mystery of the Resurrection. Show a little respect for this holiest of evenings, heathen.”
Amy approaches the bar. She and Blake haven’t met, so I make the introductions. Blake has somehow found time to read Monastery of Horses, and can speak learnedly upon its themes and characters, which melts the cold crust of Amy’s reserve.
We’re eventually moved to our table. Glasses of wine are ordered, followed by salads, entrees (Oysters Rockefeller for the ladies, sirloins for the gentlemen), more wine, and lively conversation.
Joan deftly subverts Blake’s every effort to order hard liquor. She wants him mellowed out, not drunk. By 10:00 he’s pleasantly marinated into the docile, suggestible man she’d hoped to bed this evening.
Joan lures Blake from the table, “for a stroll around the pool,” and they do not return. I thank Amy for her cooperation in making the evening a success.
“A favor for Joan,” she says. “I’ve always liked her. She’s cool. Besides, this gives me a chance to share my good news – unless Harold has already told you.”
“Told me what?”
“I’m moving to New York at the end of the semester. Leaving Ole Miss behind for good . . . or at least until I can return in glory. Edward has a plan for my career, internship in his agent’s office, introductions to publishers, getting my work seen by people who matter.”
“Congratulations. I’m betting that you’re going to be famous some day.”
“That’s very gracious, Daniel. Thank you. I’m trying to make peace before I leave. It’s the Christian thing to do. So I’d like to apologize for all the mean things I’ve said to you.”
Our waitress passes by at that moment, and I catch her eye.
“Apology accepted, and returned. We’ve been best of enemies. Would you like something stronger?” I ask.
“Black Russian,” Amy orders.
“Jack Daniels,” I say. “Neat.”
~ ~ ~
Sunday, April 2
I wake under a pinstrip
ed blue-and-white percale sheet with matching pillowcases in Amy Madigan’s narrow bed, which is situated in a cramped alcove of a tiny attic apartment overlooking Madison Avenue.
Amy’s already awake. “Was I your first?” she asks.
“My first?” I say.
“Your first virgin.”
“Oh, that.”
“Yes, that. Don’t pretend you didn’t notice.”
“You were,” I admit. “I was kind of a late bloomer as a teenager. All the available girls had already been taken.”
“Well, I’m glad I was able to provide that experience.” Amy pats me on the head, condescending. “Something you can use in a poem someday . . . if, that is, you ever intend to write another one, which I doubt.” She pulls a blanket around her as she slips out of bed.
“One thing I’d like to know,” I say.
“Yes?” Polite. “Do tell me.”
“Why now? And why me?”
“Those are two things. But I’ll answer. ‘Now’ because I’ve held Edward off for as long as I could without finally driving him away. I could scarcely let him know that I’ve been inexperienced all this time.”
“Why not? I’d imagine that would be a point of honor for you.”
“If I were going to my future husband, yes. But I’m going to a man who’s supposed to advance my career. I can’t appear to look vulnerable. Balance of power, you understand. I had to lose my virginity before going to bed with him.”
“Makes sense,” I acknowledge. “But why me?”
“Because I can depend on your discretion. Everybody knows we despise each other. If you ever tried to tell this story, nobody would believe you. Also,” and here she pauses, “I don’t think you would tell anyone. I think that somewhere under that scrawny, drug-riddled frame of yours beats the heart of a gentleman.”
“I wish people would stop saying that about me.”
She heads toward the bathroom and closes the door behind her. “You can see yourself out?” she asks, still politely, through the wood.
“I think so. It’s not that big a place.”
A minute later, I’m descending the wooden fire escape that leads from the roofline to the ground floor. I begin to wend my way onto Jefferson, back toward the Holiday Inn, where the car is still parked.
I hear the courthouse clock on the square begin striking the ninth hour, but halfway through, it’s drowned out by the bells of the Church of Christ on Lamar, calling the faithful to rejoice on this Easter morning.