Little Gale Gumbo (20 page)

Dahlia stepped to the side, wanting to run but frozen there, wishing she could melt into the wainscoting. She gazed off to the side, as if she were looking for someone, Billy's cocky voice dropping beside her. She heard the word
nothing
and then, “Thanks, man.” The short, sweet sealing of a male pact to keep the other's secret, no doubt. She stiffened, pulling out her tube of lip gloss and reapplying it calmly. To hell with both of them, she thought.

“Nice to see you again.”

Dahlia looked over. Billy had gone and now only Jack Thurlow stood there, in chinos and a navy sweater over a white collared shirt. She leaned her head back against the wall and gave him a disinterested look to mask her embarrassment, digging her fingernails into the soft wood behind her.

“Run into any difficult ketchup bottles lately?” he asked.

She grinned in spite of herself, biting gently at her lip. “Nope. I think I finally got the hang of it.”

“Good for you.” Jack looked down the hall, looked back at her. “You don't have to do that, you know.”

“Do what?”

He nodded to the closet. “That.”

She folded her arms, looking away.

“I'm just saying there are plenty of guys on this island who'd be thrilled to be seen in public with a girl as interesting as you. That's all.”

Thrilled. Interesting. Dahlia felt heat flood her skin. “Name one,” she said.

Jack smiled knowingly. “I'm just saying I think you deserve better than that. Better than
him
.” He turned toward the hall. “Enjoy the dance.”

Dahlia watched him walk away, warmth spreading through her, feeling at turns elated and heartbroken. She forced herself back into the auditorium, nearly crashing into Josie on her way.

“Dahl!” Her younger sister was wild-eyed and breathless as she waved her forward. “Dahl, you've gotta come—you won't believe it. Daddy's here!”

“What?”

“He's here and he's on the stage!” Josie cried over her shoulder as they hurried back into the auditorium. “He took the trumpet right out of Corey Rice's hands and now he's demanding the bandleader let him do a solo!”

“Oh, Jesus.” Dahlia reached the edge of the room, finding herself behind a small crowd that had gathered to watch the ensuing drama onstage. Josie tried to press through them, but Dahlia tugged her back. “What the hell are you doing?”

“What do you think?” Josie shook off her sister's grip. “We have to stop him. He'll humiliate us!”

“He already has,” Dahlia whispered harshly, pulling Josie out of the crowd and toward the door. “Let's just go before he sees us.”

“Josephine!”

The name seemed to last a whole minute as it sailed across the room. Josie cringed, frozen in place as if Charles's hand had landed on her shoulder.

“Julep, is that you over there, sugar? Don't be shy, now!”

The auditorium fell quiet as Charles stumbled toward the edge of the stage, squinting into the crowd.

“Josephine, baby, come on up here and help me show these folks how to play some
real
music.”

“I have to go,” Josie said weakly, already turning back.

Dahlia gripped her arm. “Don't you dare. We're leaving.”

“But he'll be furious,” Josie said, fighting Dahlia's lead.

“So let him be. Let the cops come and throw his crazy ass in jail and get him the hell away from us.”

“Aw, come on now, girls,” Charles yelled out again. “Dahlia, I know
you
ain't shy, girl!”

Dahlia felt her cheeks flush, disgraced. Josie began to cry. The other students turned toward them, figuring out their location now. Dahlia swept her gaze across the line of them, determined not to let them see her embarrassment. Then she glimpsed Jack Thurlow standing near the end and her heart sank.

“Where's Matty?” Josie looked around, desperate. “I want to wait for Matty.”

“Then wait for him,” Dahlia snapped, feeling her own tears threatening to betray her. “I'm not sticking around for this.” She marched to the entrance, past the parted rows of wide-eyed students and chaperones, and fumbled through the coats until she found hers, forsaking her galoshes, knowing there wasn't time to rifle through the pile.

As she reached the steps, she saw the Jeep pull up to the curb. Ben climbed out, calling to her. “Get in,” he said gently. “I'll be right back.”

Dahlia nodded, knowing somehow she didn't need to explain. Barely five minutes later, after she'd taken a seat in the back, she heard the crash of the front doors hitting the side of the school, then a familiar cry booming out into the flurrying night. “Get your fuckin' hands off me!”

Charles appeared at the top of the stairs, Ben beside him, the shadowed figures of Josie and Matthew following. Halfway down the steps, Charles slipped on the snow and Ben reached out to steady him, only to have Charles shake off his help.

Dahlia kept her eyes forward as they reached the Jeep, looking out the window when Charles labored into the front seat, muttering incoherently and slamming the door behind him. Matthew and Josie crawled in beside her. Finally Ben climbed in, turning on the engine and looking up to give the children a reassuring smile in the rearview mirror.

Charles shoved a cigarette into his mouth and struggled to find the lighter on the dashboard. Ben calmly reached over and helped him.

“Thanks,” Charles grumbled, the last word that would be uttered in the car as they made the short trip back to the house, driving through a galaxy of snowflakes.

When they arrived, Charles stumbled again on the porch, but this time Ben didn't offer his help. He was already walking ahead with Matthew and the sisters, making sure they got safely inside.

Camille was waiting in the foyer when they came in. She searched her daughters' drawn faces, her heart sinking. She touched them each on the cheek as they marched by, walking up the stairs with weary steps. Ben steered Matthew into the parlor.

“Hi, baby.” Charles fell against Camille, nearly toppling her. She winced at the stench of spilled liquor on his coat. “Bottle fell and broke on the goddamned ice,” he muttered against her temple. “They wouldn't let me play, baby. Assholes. Don't know shit about music and they tell me to go home. Fuck 'em all. I say let 'em play their Lawrence Welk shit.”

Camille glanced at Ben over Charles's shoulder, her eyes bright with apology. She mouthed,
Thank you
. Ben nodded, but a swell of panic rushed over him as Camille turned to lead Charles toward the stairs.

“Charles,” Ben called out. “I keep some Scotch. Maybe you'd like to join me for a glass?”

Charles turned, his arm hanging off Camille's shoulder. He shrugged. “Why not?” He peeled himself off Camille and staggered toward Ben, grinning. “I should warn ya, Haskell. I can drink most men under the table.”

“I don't doubt it.” Ben looked to Camille. “I'll see him back.”

She nodded, but her expression remained fixed with doubt when she turned to go.

Inside the parlor, Ben settled Charles on the couch, barely hearing the drunk man's rantings as he walked into the kitchen for the bottle of Scotch. Matthew waited in the doorway, eyes wide, and watched his father draw down a pair of juice glasses, then an amber bottle.

“Aren't you gonna pour any?” Matthew asked, seeing his father's hands stalled on the counter.

“No need.” Ben nodded toward the parlor.

Sure enough, the rantings had stopped, replaced with thick, dragging snores. Ben met his son in the kitchen doorway and both men looked out into the parlor together, seeing Charles's sleeping body twisted along the length of the couch.

Matthew took in a deep breath. “He scares me, Pop.”

Ben put a hand on Matthew's shoulder, his eyes fixed on Charles. “Me too, son,” he said quietly. “Me too.”

Josie felt the wet spot from her tears on her pillow when she rolled over.

“What if they want us to leave now?” she whispered into the darkness.

“Who?” Dahlia answered from the other side of the room.

“Ben and Matthew. What if they think we're too much trouble? What if they kick us out? What if that's what Ben's saying to Daddy this very minute?”

“They can't do that.”

“Of course they can!”

“Hush,” Dahlia ordered sharply, not sure if her impatience was from weariness or her own fear of the same thing. “Just go to sleep.”

But neither sister could. And in the living room on the pullout, Camille tossed and turned in the same awful quiet. She was almost relieved when she heard the door creak open two hours later and Charles's uneven steps cross to the pullout, stumbling as he kicked off his pants. When he climbed in behind her and pulled her to him, she didn't dare make a sound. She just reached out to brace herself against the wall, hoping she might slow the couch from its proclaiming beat.

Sixteen

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

By eight o'clock the next day, news of Charles Bergeron's episode at the dance was covering the island like freezing rain, filling the crowded counter of the hardware store and causing shopping carts to stop in the aisles at Larson's Grocery. If Ben sensed the tension, he didn't say a word when he greeted Matthew and the sisters in the foyer on their way to school, but the children had their suspicions.

“Don't worry,” Dahlia said firmly as they marched down Ocean Avenue for the ferry landing. “Everything will be fine once we get to school. Nobody cares about what happens on this stupid island over on the mainland.”

But it wasn't so. As soon as they stepped into the halls of the high school, it was clear that the span of the bay had done little to keep their secret.

“Everybody's staring,” Josie whispered frantically as they walked down the length of the lockers.

“You're imagining it,” Matthew said, even as he too could hear the whispers, feel the prying glances. “Just ignore them.”

Josh Moody scurried up beside them, his glasses still speckled with sleet. “Hey, is it true?” he asked. “I heard you guys' dad busted up the dance last night!”

“I'm going to the bathroom,” Dahlia said, steering them around the corner.

Josie nodded. “Me too.”

Matthew followed.

“I'll wait for you two,” he said firmly, settling against the tile wall when they arrived at the double doors.

Dahlia frowned at him. “What for?”

But Josie was delighted. “Thanks, Matty.”

Stepping into the bathroom, Josie's heart sank to see the notorious trio of Marsha Daley, Peggy Posner, and Tracy Jenkins standing in front of the soap-splattered mirror, brushing their feathered hair and putting on lipstick.

“Just keep walking,” Dahlia said low as they moved toward the open stalls. Dahlia's stream came effortlessly, but Josie couldn't manage even a trickle and gave up when she heard Dahlia's flush. They crossed back toward the door, avoiding the sinks.

They were almost out, almost safe, when Marsha's lilting voice called, “I hear your dad was a big hit at the dance last night, Dahlia.”

Dahlia stopped. Josie glanced up at her, panicked. “Don't, Dahl.”

It was Tracy's turn next. “It's really disgusting not to wash your hands,” she said, tracing her lips with cotton-candy pink.

“And their mother doesn't even shave under her arms,” announced Peggy. “Lucy Warren's mom saw her in the Laundromat and said so.”