Sailor & Lula (53 page)

Back in their room at the Robert Johnson Regency, Sailor and Lula lay on the king-size bed in their underwear, smoking and talking. Lula had fallen off the cigarette wagon in the Hound Dog Cafe, having fished a More from her purse and fired it up before she'd even realized what she was doing. She puffed happily away and put any thoughts about the possible consequences into a dark corner of her mind.

“Sail, you know, we really been alive a long time now.”

“Sometimes it feels long, peanut, other times not much. Why you say that?”

“Oh, thinkin', is all.”

Sailor lit a fresh unfiltered Camel off an old one and stubbed out the butt on the letters RJR in a round glass ashtray.

“Bet Robert Johnson never stayed in no hotel fancy as this,” Sailor said.

“Robert who?”

“Johnson, man this hotel's named for. Blues singer from Miss'ippi died young. Record comp'ny brought him to the city, right off the plantation, I believe. Think Dallas, or San Antone. Cut some tunes then got killed, shot or knifed or somethin', so there ain't much to listen to. What he done was outstandin', though. Kinda spooky, some of it. That's what Sparky was referrin' to when he called this place the Me'n the Devil Motel. ‘Me'n the Devil' was one of Robert Johnson's songs. Another good one was ‘Hellhound on My Trail.' ”

Lula inhaled hard on a More and then blew a big gusher of smoke into the air where it hovered over the bed like a cumulus cloud.

“Shit, Sailor, you know so much more'n me about things? I mean, strange, about unheard of details, like what happened to Robert Johnson.”

“Anybody's interested in the music knows about him, honey. Ain't nothin' special.”

“Not just this, Sail. You got tons of information tucked away in every part of your brain you never even gonna use. It's a gift.”

Sailor laughed. “Ain't the same as bein' smart, though. I'd been smart, never woulda spent a dozen years of my life behind bars. Only real smart thing I ever done was realize you're the best, peanut. I mean that more'n anythin'.”

“Sailor?”

“Huh?”

“Don't laugh at me now, okay? When I say what I'm goin' to say?”

“How do I know if I'll laugh or not? What if it's funny?”

“No, you gotta promise or I can't say it.”

“Okay, peanut, I promise.”

“You think when a person dies, he just fades away? Mean, there ain't really no heaven or even no hell and it's just all over? Tell me the truth now.”

“Thought you figured this out back when you was part of the Reverend Goodin Plenty's flock in the Church of Reason, Redemption and Resistance to God's Detractors.”

“You know I ain't been to church since Bunny Thorn and I seen Goodin Plenty shot to death in the tent at Rock Hill. His answers didn't hold up, neither.”

“ 'Member that ol' Buddy Holly tune, ‘Not Fade Away'?”

“Yeah?”

“There's your answer.”

“Splain yourself.”

Sailor raised himself on one elbow and stubbed out his cigarette.

“I'll tell you,” he said, “but now you gotta promise not to laugh.”

“I do.”

“Well, I believe that when folks die all their energy just disperses in the air and flies off like sparks through the universe. Their spirit shoots out of their body and sprinkles back over ever'thin'. That way nobody dies, 'cause their vital self enters into what's left.”

“You talkin' 'bout reincarnation, like in India, where a person can come back in another life as a insect? Or you mean that past lives stuff?”

“Uh-uh. Some people in India figure if they live holy enough, next time around they'll be an American. No, just what I said. I call it the ‘sprinkle body' theory. Sometimes maybe because of the way the earth's spinnin' or somethin', more of someone gets transferred into a newborn baby or a bee or a rose, but prob'ly that's pretty rare. I figure it's sorta like tossin' a handful of sand into the sky and lettin' the grains blow into eternity.”

Lula lay still and didn't say anything.

“Peanut, you think I'm crazy, thinkin' this?”

“No, Sail, I think you're smart, real smart. About some things, I mean. Mostly important things, and this is one. Wasn't totally your fault you went to prison. There's plenty of bright boys locked up for one reason or another.”

Sailor lay back on his pillow, picked up his pack of Camels, shook one out and lit it.

“Can't figure it any other way,” he said.

“Sprinkle bodies,” said Lula.

“Yeah.”

“It makes sense, don't it, Sail? It truly does.”

The room was almost completely dark, and Sailor stared at the burning end of his cigarette.

“This is the only chance we got to be who we are, Lula, to have all of ourselves in one package.”

“I believe you, Sailor. I believe in you, too. But I guess you must know that by now.”

Lula turned toward Sailor and fit her head into his right armpit.

“I love you, too, peanut,” he said. “And you know what?”

“Huh?”

“Neither of us ain't never had another choice in this world.”

Lula nuzzled in even closer.

“Listen, Lula,” said Sailor, “I want you to have engraved on my tombstone: ‘Dear Peanut, I love you to death,' and underneath just my name.”

“Oh, Sail, don't be depressin'. You ain't about to die anytime soon.”

“Prob'ly Elvis, even though he was a overweight drug addict, didn't think he was gonna go at forty-two, honey. Just remember, okay?”

“Course I will, sweetheart, it's what you want. Just you remember I love you to death, too.”

“Okay, peanut, guess we might just as well do it, even if Phelps gets the money.”

“Don't matter anyway, Sail. This bein' your birthday you should do what you want. It'll be fun visitin' Graceland. Elvis didn't die there, did he?”

“Yeah, he O.D.'ed sittin' there on a toilet.”

“Prob'ly if he'd always stayed in Memphis, or got him a spread down in that beautiful area around Hernando, Miss'ippi, he'd've lived a whole lot longer. Elvis was outta his true element in California, I believe. Read a Elvis-on-Other-Planets Weight Chart was in a
Enquirer
or somewhere, said that since he weighed 255 when he died, Elvis woulda weighted 648 pounds on Jupiter but only 43 on the moon.”

Sailor and Lula had awakened early on the morning of his fiftieth birthday. They'd each gone to the bathroom, peed and brushed their teeth, then gone back to bed and made love. Ordinarily Lula had a hard time coming when they did it so soon after waking, but today she'd been able to get the calf out of the chute so easily that it gave her the giggles.

“What's so funny?” Sailor asked.

“Nothin', honey, just feelin' nice and warm, is all. Look, bring that big bad thing up here where I can treat it right.”

Lula grabbed Sailor's cock and pulled him up so that he straddled her chest. She guided him into her mouth, placed her hands on his buttocks and let him move himself forward and back until the hourglass-shaped vein on his penis swelled to bursting and her throat was flooded.

“Still works good, don't it, peanut?” Sailor said, getting off the bed.

“I'm a lucky girl, all right.”

Sailor went into the bathroom to take a shower and Lula switched on the TV. The news was on and Lula cranked up the volume in order to hear over the running water.

“In Oxford, Mississippi, last night,” the young, African-American woman newscaster said, “a man was shot and killed with his own gun by a half-naked woman, who was then run over and killed by the man's car when it went out of control. Police in Oxford are calling the incident the
‘Lesbian Indian Murders.' The killings were apparently the result of a love triangle involving the man, who has been identified as Wesley Nisbet, address unknown, and the woman, Venus Tishomingo, a Chickasaw Indian who was a student at Ole Miss, and a sixteen-year-old girl named Consuelo Whynot, who was present at the scene. Miss Whynot, who was unhurt, is being held in protective custody at the Lafayette County Jail in Oxford.”

“Sailor! Sail, come here! You won't believe this!”

Sailor turned off the water and grabbed a towel.

“What is it, peanut?” he said, running in and dripping everywhere.

“You know that girl hitcher we picked up and drove from Jackson to Batesville?”

“Yeah?”

“She's in jail in Oxford. Near as I could make out, a man and a woman were fightin' over her and killed each other. Cops got her in custody.”

Sailor ran the towel over his head, under his arms, around his back, down his legs, daubed his feet and tossed it on the bed. He started to put on his clothes.

“Let's get down there, peanut. She might could use some help.”

“What could we do for her? Besides, it's your birthday and we're goin' to Graceland.”

“Don't matter what day it is. Just think it's what we oughta do. Fuck Graceland, anyway. I re-decided I don't want none of our money filterin' down to no Church of Myrmidon.”

Lula got up and began to pack. The telephone rang and Sailor answered it.

“Ripley speakin'.”

“Sailor, this is Dalceda Delahoussaye.”

“Hello, Mrs. Delahoussaye. Why you callin'? How'd you know we was in Memphis?”

“Marietta told me. Is Lula there?”

“Yeah. You rather speak to her? She's packin' 'cause we're about to leave.”

“Don't really matter, I s'pose. Marietta wanted her to know that Marcello Santos had heart palpitations yesterday and is under doctor's care at the Sister Ralph Ricci Convalescent Center here in Bay St. Clement. Marietta's stayin' by his side and won't leave.”

“That so? Look, lemme put Lula on.”

Sailor handed her the phone.

“Dal? Mama all right?”

“Yes, Lula, Marietta's fine, but Santos is havin' serious chest pains and's in Sister Ralph's. Marietta's there with him, holdin' his hand and readin' him chapters from his favorite book, Eugene Sue's
Mysteries of Paris.
”

“That's Mama. He gonna pull through?”

“Don't think he's got long to go, Lula, but he might could hang on, bein' he's one tough Sicilian. There's somethin' else, though.”

“What's that?”

“Johnnie Farragut's kidneys just completely quit on him this mornin' early, and he's over at Little Egypt Baptist plugged into a dialysis machine. Marietta don't even know yet. I ain't told her since she's got her hands full with old Crazy Eyes. Doctor at Baptist says unless Johnnie gets a transplant soon he's done.”

“Sweet Jesus, Dal, what a phone call.”

“Sorry to be the one, Lula, but I thought you'd want to hear the news sooner'n later.”

“ 'Course, Dal, I 'preciate it. Sailor and I are leavin' here now. We got a stop to make in Oxford, then we'll head for home, I guess. I'll call you when we get to Metairie.”

“Okay. Take care drivin'.”

“We will, Dal. Bye.”

“Bye, hon'.”

Lula hung up and said, “Shit hits the fan, it splatters.”

“You don't care 'bout Santos, do you?”

“Not one way or another, but Dal says Johnnie Farragut's got kidney failure and needs a new one or he's a goner. He's rigged to a device at Little Egypt Baptist.”

Sailor picked up the telephone.

“You got that card Sparky give you?” he asked.

Lula found it in her purse and handed it to Sailor, who read the number on it and dialed. A machine answered.

“You've reached S&B Organ Retrieval Service,” said Sparky's recorded voice. “Leave a message and we'll do what we can to accommodate your needs. It might cost you some, but at least we won't charge an arm and
a leg! Just a little humor there, of course. We stand by our motto: ‘Only the best parts!' Be talkin' to ya. Here comes the beep.”

“Sparky, Buddy, this is Sailor Ripley speakin'. Listen, Lula's mama's old friend Johnnie Farragut is got kidney failure and's hooked up to a tube or somethin' at Little Egypt Baptist Hospital in Bay St. Clement, North Carolina. He needs a transplant real quick or he's gonna die. If you can help out with this, Lula and I'll find a way to pay you back. We're checkin' out of the hotel now. I'll call you again later.”

He hung up, opened his suitcase and threw in his clothes. The phone rang and Sailor answered it.

“Sailor? It's Buddy.”

“I just called you.”

“I know, we heard the message. We never answer ourselves. Never know who it might be. Anyway, we're on the case. Sparky's contactin' our best retrieval man, John Gray, on the other line. Prob'ly we can get a part on its way to your friend by tonight. And don't worry about the price, it's free of charge. For old times' sake.”

“This is awful large of you guys,” said Sailor. “Awful large.”

Buddy laughed. “Sparky's standin' here talkin' in my other ear now. Hold on, Sailor.”

“Sailor? Sparky here.”

“ 'Preciate this, Spark. You guys are beyond outstandin'.”

“Anything for veterans of the Big Tuna! You tell Lula's mama not to worry. We gotta run now, we're gonna get this part out.”

“We're goin', too.
Adios,
amigo.”