Authors: Nat Burns
Tags: #LGBT, #Fiction, #Lesbian, #Romance, #(v5.0), #Healing the Past
Also, there was a smallish swimming pool that had been voted in during the late 80s and in summer it was well-used. The crowd of young people there might mock Louie with his sightless eyes and molten lava face. She was sure the threat of this was what kept him on the quieter side of the park.
She was actually surprised he went out at all, although she couldn’t fault him for wanting fresh air and sunshine. He had a few old buddies there too, mostly winos who didn’t care much what old Louie November looked like. There were few friends left. He’d never been popular in school and his contrary behavior had alienated the few adult friends he’d been able to make.
Parking the car in the graveled area bordering the lush greenery of Manahassanaugh, Delora left it running and ran around to open the passenger door. She strode across the grass, enjoying the heady summer smell of a well-tended plot of land.
He sat there, his wide wooden-plank body reared back, one arm holding his walking stick, the other riding along the back of the bench. Surrounded by unemployed cronies, he was pontificating about something. She could hear the low rumble of his monotone as she approached. The men with him eyed her warily, as if wondering at her nerve, intruding upon their exclusive male domain.
Uncannily feeling their sudden silent detachment, Louie turned his head her way and queried, “Who’s that?” he asked imperiously. “Rosalie? Delora?”
“It’s me,” Delora said.
“What the hell’s took you so long? I’m about to starve out here.”
“I’m sorry, Louie,” Delora said, approaching and touching his forearm. “Let’s get you home. I’m sure Mama has supper ready.”
One old guy, with hard eyes and reeking of alcohol, watched her with keen interest.
“Who is this little bit, Louie? You ain’t expectin’ us to believe this is your wife, are you?” he asked.
Louie laughed and brushed Delora’s hand away.
“This is her. Pitiful, ain’t it? And she ain’t never been in time for anything. I swear you just can’t get good help these days.”
“But she’s a pretty thing,” Hard Eyes said loudly. “What the hell’s she doing with an ugly old bear like you?”
Apologetic laughter floated on the sun-streaked air. Two of the men hunched forward as if ashamed of their involvement.
“I guess she looks all right,” Louie agreed, “but can’t say that much matters to me anymore.” He laughed, but the others muttered lamely, clearly embarrassed by his reference to his disability.
Hard Eyes still watched Delora with a gaze that had her squirming uncomfortably. What was he looking for? Anger flared in her.
“Come on, Louie, let’s get you home now,” Delora said, grasping his arm and endeavoring to pull him to his feet. “I’ve got your cane.”
Louie rose reluctantly and hitched his belted jeans.
“Well, fellas, guess I’ll be on. The little lady wants her way with me and who am I to say no?”
Delora blushed and pressed her lips together in a firm line so she wouldn’t say anything. The men laughed, including Hard Eyes, who never stopped watching her. His gaze made Delora feel dirty.
Louie held her bicep as she led him to the car. After he was in, she almost slammed the door harder than was necessary—but memory held her hand. One of her worst black eyes had come from slamming a car door once. Instead she shut the door with a firm push.
“Took you long enough,” he repeated as soon as Delora had settled herself and shut her door.
“I’m sorry,” she said again.
After Louie asked her to light a cigarette for him, the two sat in silence the entire way to Royale Court. Rosalie’s van wasn’t outside the small ranch-style house and a feeling of dismay washed through Delora. If Rosalie was there, Louie would be distracted and busy talking to her. As it was, with only Delora there, he would be as annoying as hell.
Sighing, she parked and moved around to lead him from the car into the house.
The two remained silent as they entered the large kitchen area. Delora wriggled free of Louie’s grasp and muttered something about getting dinner. He wandered toward the living room, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Busying herself, she took pork chops from the refrigerator and laid them on the counter. Rosalie had left cans of vegetables on the counter as well as a bowlful of potatoes so Delora had a good idea of the evening’s menu.
As she peeled potatoes, she thought of Louie in the other room. She could hear the TV and thought how nice it must be to have nothing else to do.
He’s blind, fool
, an inner voice whispered.
An uncharitable part of her mind persisted, however.
His fault
, it screamed. The paring knife slipped and came dangerously close to her thumb. Just what she needed—another bandage. She placed the knife in the sink and took a deep breath. She didn’t need this crap today. Her thoughts flew to more pleasant things—Sophie and Salamander House. She daydreamed she was there, the lazy slap of Bayou Lisse sounding in her ears. She saw Sophie’s warm brown eyes lit with the inner fire of her wholesome spirit.
Delora smiled and picked up the knife. She peeled a potato completely before she thought another thought. The first thought was still Sophie and insanely it was a memory of Sophie’s hand pushing insistently between her thighs. The memory evoked a strong plummeting feeling in her body and a shudder of desire raced through her. It took a minute for her to recognize it and when she did, it frightened her. She knew what Bucky said was true. Delora didn’t much care. Deep down she believed most people were capable of bisexuality if they allowed themselves to be, but what rankled was, why now? Coming at this point in her life, this desire for Sophie was a moot point. Sophie had seen the worst of Delora; she wouldn’t want her.
She thought of her gaze at the greenhouse. Hadn’t she still liked her? They meshed together so well. Delora frowned at a difficult potato. She probably just wanted Delora’s friendship. This desire for Sophie’s touch was Delora’s burden to bear alone. Secretly.
She awkwardly cut each peeled potato into cubes and started them toward boiling in a pan of water on the stove.
She got the frying pan ready for the chops after debating a minute or two about how Rosalie wanted them. Often she cooked them in the oven with breading sprinkled on top.
The decision was taken from her hands by Rosalie’s entrance. She came in the kitchen door, a plastic grocery bag in one hand. She lumbered up the short stoop and through the screen door, breath bellowing in and out in harsh gasps.
Delora hurried to take the bag from her.
“I started dinner. Got the potatoes on but wasn’t sure how you wanted the chops cooked.”
Rosalie laid her pocketbook on the table and moved to the stove. She peered into the pan of slowly rolling potatoes and made a tsking sound. “I was gonna slice and fry them,” she said sadly.
Delora paused at the refrigerator a head of lettuce in one hand, a block of cheese in the other. Anger filled her, but she beat it down. “I’m sorry, Mama. I didn’t know.”
Rosalie sighed and rinsed her hands at the sink. “That’s all right. We’ll have mashed.”
She hid the pork chops with her bulk, effectively dismissing Delora.
Delora, feeling chastised, lifted plates from the cupboard and placed them on the table. She laid out paper napkins and silverware with great care, then stood wringing her hands wondering what to do next.
“How’s Louie this afternoon?” Rosalie asked finally. She turned to look at her foster daughter.
“He’s fine. Quiet.”
Rosalie snorted. “I’m hoping that’s a good thing.”
Delora smiled timidly. “Hope so.”
“Listen, there’s laundry that needs to be done. You work on that while I do this.”
“Okay,” Delora said, glad to be freed from Rosalie’s territory.
Surrounded by the pleasant fabric-softener-and-detergent smell of the laundry room, Delora felt more at ease. Hearing Rosalie’s heavy step in the kitchen, she moved around the partition that separated the laundry area from the storage half of the room. There, in the dividing wall, rested Rosalie’s treasure. Sliding a large carton to one side and partially pulling aside a wooden panel, Delora could see it.
Each of the oversized pickle jars was packed full of tightly wadded bills. There had to be a million dollars stored there. She bet Rosalie didn’t even know how much she had saved over the years. The jars were about two feet tall each, the folded bills pressed tightly into each one. Three of them contained change; the money winked at Delora in a stray beam of light.
“I see you,” she crooned softly.
The money had been there a long time. Delora hadn’t known anything about it until she noticed a pattern to Rosalie’s behavior. Every time Delora paid her in cash, Rosalie would find some excuse to come to the laundry room alone. Delora was no dummy and soon noticed, by several weeks of detective work, slight movement in the position of the cardboard crate. Then it was just a matter of time until her keen mind had fastened on the truth hidden in the partition.
At first, she had been amazed, and then she went through a period of seething anger. Rosalie cried poverty all the time, extorting more and more money from Delora’s earnings. She also took Louie’s disability checks, cashed them and ferreted the money here. Delora found some satisfaction in knowing that in reality, most of the money stored there was her money. Rosalie’s only income was a veteran’s check from her dead husband, amounting to just about five hundred a month. The rest of it had come from Delora and Louie and her foster sisters when they moved back home.
Later, sitting across from Rosalie and Louie at the dinner table, knowing about the affair and the cash so close by gave her a sense of power. She knew Louie had no inkling the money was there, otherwise he’d be spending it as fast as he could. She also knew that Rosalie didn’t know this one fact about her, that she knew about everything now. This one nugget of knowledge allowed a type of one-upmanship that she cherished.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“She’s in love, is all,” was Clary’s response to Stephen’s inquiry about Sophie’s distracted presence.
Sophie sat forward. “It’s not like that...just, we don’t know that yet, okay?”
Stephen’s smile crept across his face like a slow crack in a plaster wall. “Oh, my gawd. You don’t mean to tell me…who is it?”
Sophie blushed and sat back, motioning for Clary to carry on with the gossip she’d started.
Clary obliged. “Well. Her name is Delora November and she lives over on Royale in Redstar.”
Righteous, still recovering from work the night before, yawned widely before speaking. “Tell us more. Where’d you meet her?”
Sophie leaned forward, eyes twinkling. “She came to me.”
“She did,” Clary added playfully. “She had some burns that needed tending.”
“Damn. Is she okay?”
“They’re old,” Sophie explained. “She just needed some patching.”
“Well, we need to meet her. Invite her to dinner.” Stephen was eaten up with curiosity.
“What else do you know about her?” Righteous directed his question to Clary, clearly believing her to be the more responsible of the women present.
“I didn’t meet her that night—I wasn’t here—but I think I’ve seen her around. She’s that little blonde that works in Blossom’s, over on the highway
.”
“She works at the French Club too,” Sophie added. “And out at Spinner’s Fen on Carelton.”
Stephen frowned. “Now wait a minute. How many jobs does this girl have?”
“Too many for my way of thinking. I think her husband is pretty much useless so she has to.” She paused as she felt incredulous eyes on her.
“She has a
husband
?” Righteous breathed. “What are you thinking? Do you know how crazy that is?”
Stephen eyed his partner with exasperation even as he agreed. “Yeah, Sophie. Can’t you find a single woman?”
Sophie shook her head ruefully. “Wouldn’t matter either way. She is who she is.”
A prolonged silence fell.
“Well, what the hell does that mean?” Righteous asked.
Sophie watched Righteous as her eyes twinkled. “It means I have faith that everything will turn out okay.”
“By this you mean she’ll leave him and come to you?”
“That sounds reasonable,” she agreed with a shrug.
“Ha!” Righteous insisted loudly. “You really think it’ll be that easy?”
“Why not?”
“Things just don’t work out that way. You can’t snap your fingers and have everything the way you want it.”
“Why not?” Sophie’s gaze was calm and patient.
Beulah chuckled. “Give it up, boy. You know you can’t get past her when she’s this way.”
Righteous hung his head. “Okay, fine. We’ll see how it all plays out. I ain’t holdin’ my breath for no happy ending though.”
“Well, I am,” Stephen said in a campy, queen voice. “I believe Sophie’ll get her little diner girl. What I want to know is just how far has this relationship gone. I mean, do you even know for sure she’s, you know, like us?”
“Not for sure,” Sophie replied thoughtfully, her mind working possibilities. “Sure seems like it though.”
“But she’s married!” Righteous persisted.
“Doesn’t mean a lot. I don’t think it’s a match made in heaven.”
“He’s mean, isn’t he?” Clary watched Sophie closely.
“I think so.” Sophie sighed. “That and the accident have beaten her down some.”
“What happened? Was it a house fire like my grandma?” Righteous asked.
“Yeah, but it was set by her husband,” Clary interjected. “Word is he was drunk and tried to burn the two of them up.”
Righteous’s mouth fell open.
“You don’t mean it,” Stephen said, his voice horrified.
Sophie sat back in her chair, the fingers of her right hand tightening around the base of her glass. The cool moisture of the condensation erupted and slid along the back of her hand.
“Aye, the past is past,” Grandam said. “Y’all leave Sophie be and come get some of this peach ice cream Tass churned for us this afternoon. Clary, you got some of that whip for the top?”
Clary laughed as she rose and headed toward the refrigerator. “You got such a sweet jones, Miss Beulah. It’s a wonder you ain’t got sugar in the blood.”