Raney (3 page)

I've read books. I've had talks with my mama. And I've read the Bible. You'd think that would prepare a woman for her wedding night.

It didn't. First of all, Charles had rib-eye steaks rolled into our room on this metal table with drawers which could keep the steaks warm. And there in the middle of the table
was
a dozen red roses. All that was nice.

But in this silver bucket with ice and a white towel was, of all things, a bottle of champagne.

It was a predicament for me, because on the one hand it was all so wonderful, and Charles had planned it all out like the man is supposed to do
—
I mean
,
my dream was being fulfilled. Charles was getting things right. But on the other hand, there in the middle of the table rearing its ugly head, as they say, was a bottle of champagne. I've seen enough bottles of champagne after the World Series on TV (when the ball
p
layers make fools out of themselves and cuss over the airways) to know one when I see it.

Well, I'm not a prude. Getting drunk at your wedding is one thing, but I can understand a little private celebrating, maybe
—
as a symbol of something wonderful happening. Something symbolic. So I didn't say anything about the champagne. It's very hard to find fault on your wedding night with a dozen red roses staring you full in the face
—
even though a still, small voice was warning me.

Charles poured me a glass and I said to myself, Why not just a sip, like medicine, and I tried a sip, but that's all. It tasted like Alka Selzer with honey in it. I politely refused anymore. And didn't think Charles would drink over a glass. (I figured you couldn't buy it except in the bottle, and that's why he got it that way.)

We finished eating and Charles pushed the table, with the dishes, out into the hall. I said excuse me, went into the bathroom, put on my negligee and got ready, you know, and came back out to find Charles standing there in his Fruit of the Loom, drinking champagne out of a plastic cup. It was a terrible scene to remember.

I was planning to do what Mama explained to me: get in the bed and let Charles carry out his duties. And I was thinking that's what Charles would be planning to do. But. He had a different idea which I do not have the nerve to explain. It turned into an argument which finally turned into a sort of Chinese wrestling match with my nerves tore all to pieces. Charles kept saying nothing was in the Bible about what married people could or couldn't do. I finally cried, and Charles said he was sorry. It was awful. I cried again the next morning and Charles said he was sorry again. This may be something I can forgive but I don't think I'll ever forget it. Not for a long time.

On the second day, we didn't say much at breakfast, or after. We went to the beach for a while, ate hot dogs for lunch, and then came back to change clothes. Charles asked the manager about us playing music in the motel lounge that night. (We took our instruments in case we got a chance to play.) When he found out we'd do it free the manager said fine.

So on the second night, rather than going to this country music show like we'd planned, we met the manager in the lounge. Charles wore bluejeans and I wore my blue-checkered blouse, jeans, and cowgirl hat. The manager came in and lit all the candles in these orange candle vases. There were only three or four people there. The only thing I didn't like about it was that they served beer. But the bartender went out of his way to be nice.

We decided to play half an hour and see if we could draw an audience. We started with several banjo pieces and then I sang "This World Is Not My Home" and "I'll Fly Away." I like the way those two songs fit together. It gives me something to talk about when I introduce them. Charles is good about letting me talk about the songs. I have played with people who hog it all.

A crowd gathered, and sure enough they liked the music and clapped and somebody requested "Your Cheating Heart" and Charles tried it. He's been learning it for the last month or so. He forgets words pretty easy. Nobody noticed but he sang the same verse twice. He looked at me and I managed to wink in spite of the fact I was still in turmoil from the night before.

We had told the manager we couldn't play past nine-thirty that night. We told him it was our honeymoon and all. The truth is we only know about two hours worth of songs. But I did want to get back up to our bed and start our marriage in the proper manner. It's something I had been thinking about since I was sixteen or seventeen years old and the night before had
not
worked out at all like I thought it would. It had made me a bundle of nerves and I had discovered something in Charles I didn't know existed
—
something corroded, and
him
drinking a whole bottle of champagne brought it out. He still hasn't taken serious my principles about drinking. That first night was
a
awful experience which I can't bring myself to talk about, but I must say things went better on the second night. I was able to explain to Charles how I was supposed to come out of the bathroom in my negligee, go get in the bed, get under the cover, and then he was supposed to go to the bathroom, come out, come get under the cover, and accomplish what was supposed to be accomplished. It all worked the way it was supposed to, and was wonderful, I must say.

Next morning when I came out of the shower, before we went down for breakfast, Charles was talking on the phone to his other main friend besides Buddy Shellar: Johnny Dobbs, who lives in New Orleans. They were all three in the army together.

"She has a great voice," he was saying. "Raney, get your guitar. Wait a minute, Johnny."

Charles put the phone receiver on the bed, got out his banjo, hit a couple of licks and said to me, "Do 'This World Is Not My Home.' Wait a
minute,
let me introduce you to Johnny." So he did, over the phone, and Johnny sounded real nice.

"Charles," I whispered, "do you know how much this is costing?"

"I'll pay for it," he said. "I've been telling Johnny about your voice."

So I sang "This World Is Not My Home," and Charles asked Johnny if he could hear it clear over the phone and he said he could and then Charles wanted me to do my chicken song
—
the one I wrote. Charles thinks it's the funniest thing he's ever heard. It
is
a good song, and since Charles was paying.... It goes like this:

The town council chairman came by late last May.

Said we're sorry, Mr. Oakley, 'bout what we must say.

But the airport's expanding, we mean you no harm.

The new north-south runway's gonna point toward your farm.

My chickens ain't laying; my cow has gone dry,
   

'Cause the airplanes keep flying to the sweet by and by,
   

To the lights of the city, to the Hawaiian shore,
   

While I rock on my front porch and tend to get poor.

I talked to the governor, and told him my desire:

Could you please make them airplanes fly a little bit
higher.

"My chickens ain't
laying
," I tried to explain.

But my words were going north on a south-bound train.

My chickens ain't laying; my cow has gone dry,
   

'Cause the airplanes keep flying to the sweet by and by,
   

To the lights of the city, to the Hawaiian shore,
   

While I rock on my front porch and tend to get poor.

I talked to a doctor; he gave me a pill.

I talked to a lawyer; you should have seen the bill.

I talked to a librarian; he grinned and winked his eye.

And he gave me a little book called, "Chickens Can Fly."

(Charles says the book is by B. F. Skinner)

I read the little book.

Taught my chickens to fly,
   

To aim at the intakes as the jet planes flew by.

My chickens are gone now, but the answer is found:
   

My kamakazi chickens closed the new runway down.

My kamakazi chickens closed the new runway down.

When I finished, Charles said Johnny really liked it. They talked another fifteen minutes before Charles finally hung up.

I hugged Charles and said something about the night before. Charles said we ought to
talk
about our "sexual relationship" sometime, and I said okay, but Lord knows I won't be able to
talk
about it. It's something you're supposed to do in a natural manner, not
talk
about. That's why you don't find it talked about in church and school
—
or at least you shouldn't: it's not supposed to be talked about. It's something which is supposed to stay in the privacy of your own bedroom.

Next morning when we left, the manager was at the desk and he gave us an envelope with a twenty dollar bill in it. Said it was some of the best entertainment they ever had and would we please come back and that he once worked in a hotel in Reno, and he'd heard some better, but he'd sure heard a lot worse.

III

Charles is in the bedroom covered up in the bed. There are eleven broken monogrammed glasses here on the kitchen floor and every window in the house is locked from the inside. This all started last Saturday afternoon when I called Mama as usual. I try to call her every day. We've always been close and I say those television commercials about calling somebody
—
reaching out and touching-
—
make sense. Belinda Osborne drives to see her mother every day
—
forty miles round trip
—
which I'm not about to do. That is too close. Three times a week is often enough. (Belinda's mother
is
sick a lot though.)

I'd like to be living closer to home and I know Mama and Daddy were disappointed that we didn't move into the Wilkins house, and I would have, but Charles insisted we live here in Listre because it's close to the college. I finally said okay when he promised he would still go to church with me at home in Bethel.

But: he's been going to church less and less, and we've only been married six weeks. He'll take me to Sunday
School
and drop me off, still wearing his pajamas under his clothes. He's done it twice. Deacon Brooks said since Charles was Methodist he must think he's too good for Free Will Baptists. He pretended he was kidding, but I could tell he was serious.

Well, as I said, I called Mama last Saturday afternoon and she told me that she had come by with Aunt Naomi and Aunt Flossie to see us that morning but we were gone. They came on in to use the phone to call Annie Godwin so it wouldn't be long distance. (We don't lock the door normally.) Aunt Naomi went to the kitchen to get a glass of water and accidentally broke one of the monogrammed glasses Cousin Emma gave us for a wedding present. Mama told me all this on the phone. I didn't think twice about it. I figured I'd just pick up another glass next time I'm at the mall. I know where they come from.

Sunday, the very next day, we're eating dinner at home in Bethel with Mama, Daddy, Uncle Nate, Mary Faye, and Norris. Mama fixes at least two meats, five or six vegetables, two kinds of cornbread, biscuits, chow-chow, pickles, pies, and sometimes a cake.

Mama says, "Where did you tell me you all were yesterday morning?" She was getting the cornbread off the stove. She's always the last one to sit down.

"At the mall," I said.

"I like where you moved the couch to," says Mama. "It looks better. We waited for you all fifteen or twenty minutes. I'm sorry Naomi broke that glass," she said.

I hadn't mentioned it to Charles. No reason to. He says
—
and he was serious: "Why were you all in our house?"

I was mortified in my heart.

"We were just using the phone," says Mama. There was a long silence. It built up and then kept going.

"Pass the turnips, Mary Faye," I said. "I couldn't figure out what was wrong in there so I moved things around until it looked better and sure enough it was the couch. The couch was wrong."

My mama ain't nosy. No more than any decent woman would be about her own flesh and blood.

Listen. I don't have
nothing
to hide. And Lord knows, Charles don't, except maybe some of his opinions.

We finished eating and set in the den and talked for a while and the subject didn't come up again. Charles always gets fidgety within thirty minutes of when we finish eating. He has no appreciation for just setting and talking. And I don't mean going on and on about politics or something like that; I mean just talking
—
talking about normal things. So since he gets fidgity, we usually cut our Sunday visits short. "Well, I guess we better get on back," I say, while Charles sits over there looking like he's bored to death. I know Mama
notices
.

Before we're out of the driveway, Charles says, "Raney, I think you ought to tell your mama and Aunt Naomi and Aunt Flossie to stay out of our house unless somebody's home."

To stay out of
my
own house.

He couldn't even wait until we were out of the driveway. And all the car windows rolled down.

When we got on down the road, out of hearing distance, I said, "Charles, you don't love Mama and never did."

He pulls the car over beside the PEACHES FOR SALE sign across from Parker's pond. And stares at me.

The whole thing has
tore
me up. "Charles," I said, and I had to start crying, "
you
don't have to hide your life from Mama and them. Or me. You didn't have to get all upset today. You could understand if you wanted to. You didn't have to get upset when I opened that oil bill addressed to you, either. There ain't going to be nothing in there but
a
oil bill, for heaven't sake. Why anyone would want to hide
a
oil bill I cannot understand."

He starts hollering at me. The first time in my life anybody has set in a car and hollered at me. His blood vessels stood all out. I couldn't control myself. It was awful. If you've ever been hollered at, while you are crying, by the one person you love best in the world, you know what I mean. This was a part of Charles I had never seen.

Here's what happened yesterday. We went to Penny's Grill for lunch. (I refuse to cook three meals a day, I don't care what Mama says.) When we got back, there was Mama's green Ford
—
parked in front of the house.

"Is that your mother's Ford?" says Charles.

"Where?"

"There."

"Oh, in front of the house? I think it might be." That long silence from the dinner table last Sunday came back, and I hoped Mama was out in the back yard picking up apples because I knew I couldn't stand another scene within a week. I couldn't think of a thing to say. I didn't want to fuss at Charles right before he talked to Mama, and I certainly wouldn't dare fuss at Mama.

Charles got out of the car not saying a word and started for the house. I was about three feet behind, trying to keep up. The front door was wide open.

Charles stopped just inside the door. I looked over his shoulder and there was Mama coming through the arched hall doorway. She stopped. She was dressed for shopping.

"Well, where in the world have you all been?" she says.

"We been to eat," I said.

"Eating out?"

"Mrs. Bell," says Charles, "please do not come in this house if we're not here."

I could not believe what I was hearing. It was like a dream.

Mama says, "Charles son, I was only leaving my own daughter a note saying to meet me at the mall at two o'clock, at the fountain. The front door was open. You should lock the front door if you want to keep people out."

"Mrs. Bell, a person is entitled to his own privacy. I'm entitled to my own privacy. This is my
—
our
—
house. I
—
"

"This is my own daughter's house, son. My mama was never refused entrance to my house. She was always welcome. Every day of her life."

I was afraid Mama was going to cry. I opened my mouth but nothing came out.

"Mrs. Bell," says Charles, "it seems as though you think everything
you
think is right, is right for everybody."

"Charles," I said, "that's what everybody thinks
—
in a sense. That's even what
you
think."

Charles turned half around so he could see me. He looked at me, then at Mama.

Mama says, "Son, I'll be happy to buy you a new monogrammed glass if that's what you're so upset about. Naomi didn't mean to break that glass. I'm going over to the mall right now. And I know where they come from."

Charles walks past me and out the front door, stops, turns around and says, "I didn't want any of those damned monogrammed glasses in the first place and I did the best I could to make that clear, plus that's not the subject." (I gave him a monogrammed blue blazer for his birthday and he cut the initials off before he'd wear it.)

So now Mama's at the mall with her feelings hurt. Charles is in the bedroom with a blanket over his head, and I'm sitting here amongst eleven broken monogrammed glasses, and every door and window locked from the inside.

Evidently Charles throws things when he's very mad. I never expected violence from Charles Shepherd. Thank God we don't have a child to see such behavior.

We didn't speak all afternoon, or at supper
—
I fixed hot dogs, split, with cheese and bacon stuck in
—
or after. I went to bed at about ten o'clock, while Charles sat in the living room reading some book. I felt terrible about Mama's feelings being hurt like I know they were; I hadn't known whether to call her or not; I couldn't with Charles there; and I couldn't imagine what had got into Charles.

I went to bed and was trying to go to sleep, with my mind full of upsetting images, when I heard this
voice
coming out of the heating vent at the head of the bed on my side. I sat up. I thought at first it was somebody under the house. I let my head lean down over the side of the bed close to the vent. It was
Charles
—
talking on the phone in the kitchen.

Now if we'd been on speaking terms I would have told him I could hear him, but we weren't speaking. And besides, I won't about to get out of bed for no reason at eleven P.M. And so I didn't have no choice but to listen, whether I wanted to or not.

Charles was talking to his Johnny friend. I could hear just about everything he said. If we had been speaking, I wouldn't have hesitated to tell him how the sound came through the vent. But we weren't speaking, as I said. He was talking about
—
you guessed it: Mama.

"... She just broke in, in essence ... just walked through the door when nobody was home.... It's weird, Johnny.... What am I supposed to do?"

Now why didn't he ask
me
what he was supposed to do? He didn't marry Johnny Dobbs.

I agree that some things need to be left private
—
but the
living room?
The living room is where everybody comes into the house. That's one of the last places to keep private on earth.

I just can't connect up Charles's idea about privacy to the living room.

He went on about Mama for awhile and then said something about everybody saying "nigger," and that when Johnny came to see us for him not to drive in after dark
—
which I didn't understand until it dawned on me that maybe Johnny Dobbs was a, you know, black. He didn't sound like it when I talked to him over the phone at Myrtle Beach. Charles and his other army buddy, Buddy Shellar, at the wedding kept talking about "Johnny this" and "Johnny that" but I never thought about Johnny being anything other than a regular white person. They were all three in the army, which of course everybody knows has been segregated since 1948, according to Charles, so I guess it's possible they roomed together, or at least ate together.

He didn't sound, you know, black.

I'll ask Charles about it when we're on speaking terms and I tell him about how the sound comes through the vent; but if he
is
a nigger, he can't stay here. It won't work. The Ramada, maybe, but not here.