Sorrow Floats (25 page)

“Because he’s that kind of person. In his mind we cheated him.”

Andrew decided the bigger one was too big and the only piece for him was the one Shane was eating. Shane said, “Forget it,” and Andrew started crying, said he wouldn’t eat any, then, and the pizza was stupid.

Shane offered me a piece, but I wouldn’t touch the damn pizza. I said, “Brad’s got two more hours. You said we could wait.”

Lloyd’s hand traveled to his breast pocket where Sharon’s picture lay. He patted it the way people who have given up smoking will when they forget they’ve given up smoking. “We can’t handle police questions, Maurey. Brad hasn’t come back all day. Two more hours is too big a risk.”

To be honest, I had a higher priority than Brad. Alcohol does that. When you need it, other loyalties fly right out the window. “Can we stop at the first liquor store and trade some Coors for a bottle? A half-pint will hold me over.”

Lloyd didn’t make me beg. I have to give him that much. Never once the whole trip did he make me beg. “Sure,” he said. “We’ll get you a bottle.”

What makes people fall in love with specific other people? Sam Callahan says it’s a combination of timing and brain waves. Our brain waves snap into place with other random brain waves like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. And we fit with an amazing variety of people the same as one jigsaw piece fits with different-shaped pieces depending on which side they lock into. Only the jigsaw metaphor crashes at this point because human brain waves change every so often, so people who click like magic the moment they meet can fall in love, get married, and seven years later be total strangers.

Sam says the way to deal with romance is to find someone you fit with on the passion level, then try like hell to become friends before the irrational, fluttery-heart stuff wears off.

Park and I snapped together. When I was with him my stomach trembled, I hyperventilated, and my crotch put out enough lubrication to grease a pickup truck—STP Vagina Treatment. No logical reason existed for basing the worth of my life on this pale, curly-headed, soft-fingered sophomore. He was from the East Coast, didn’t know squat about horses, and, same as Sam Callahan and Lloyd Carbonneau, Park wore his vulnerability like a shirt. If you ask me, guilelessness for its own sake is a form of guile.

Probably, if I’d been a virgin when Park and I met, we would be positioning ourselves for a divorce about now—fighting over who gets the Dutch oven and the Remington prints and how much I’m gouging him for child support. We’d have split up over his mother, I bet. Or my alcoholism. In-laws and alcoholism are God’s gift to lawyers.

You notice I admitted to alcoholism there.

Breakthrough! Breakthrough!

First they say it’s a disease, not a character flaw, then they say admitting you have it is half the battle. Admitting you have cancer isn’t half the battle. Or mumps. If this is nothing but a disease, what does the sick person’s stance toward it matter? Huh?

Alcoholics don’t all expire on the sidewalk in a pool of vomit. Hardly any of them do. Some alcoholics lead rich, full lives surrounded by love and family. Witness Errol Flynn, W. C. Fields, and Calamity Jane. Okay, forget Calamity Jane.

They can’t take your children simply because you drink through Paul Harvey and masturbate. I could dry out—hide up in the mountains and live off fish and rabbits and huckleberries for the summer while my body detoxed. By reducing all conflict to survival I could sweat out the poison as I grow spiritually and find a private peace.

If whoever’s in charge let me return to Go, collect my two hundred dollars, and start again, I could control it this time. The bad stuff snuck up on me before; now I’d know the signs of slippage. Given another chance, I would make definite rules for myself—a one-pint limit with no drinking before Auburn went to bed at night. Who could ask for more than that?

There on Highway 64, rolling through the darkness of Tennessee, sipping discreetly on my half-pint of George Dickel, I made a pact with God: Give me back Auburn and I’ll never touch alcohol while he’s awake. I will stay in control. What a deal. I get what I want—my baby and a relationship with Yukon Jack—and God gets what he wants—a good mom.

The moon illuminated a countryside littered by countless varieties of trees and houses that glowed silver behind long front porches and open windows with no curtains. I could see the rooms the people lived in, the couches and flickering television sets. As Moby Dick wallowed east the dash lights threw a shadow from Lloyd’s upper lip across his nose. When he blinked the spider lines around his eyes glittered.

I felt good about admitting to alcoholism and making the covenant with God, and I almost told Lloyd, but the nice feeling was too precarious. Lloyd might scoff. He might say “I used to make deals with God,” as if everything I tried to cope with the situation was old hat.

Reformed people are such a pain. “I did it, so you can.” How the hell do they know that? I can stand up on a galloping horse; Lloyd can’t. I can make a baby; Lloyd can’t. Personal capabilities are highly individualistic. Lloyd was weak and couldn’t control himself, so he assumed I couldn’t control myself, either. With him, drinking had to be all or nothing. But I wasn’t Lloyd; I was capable of compromise.

***

Dad used to say I was stubborn as a hare-lipped mule—one of those nifty yet basically meaningless phrases he learned from his father, who learned it from his father, and so on back into the Middle Ages. Ever notice how the stupid stuff is passed on but the valuable lessons must be relearned by each generation?

Anyhow, every Pierce family reunion Dad told this story about how he gave me a Red Ryder BB rifle for my fifth Christmas. Wyoming’s one of those places where it’s considered normal for Santa Claus to bring guns to little girls. I was riding horses solo at four. I guess Dad figured I might as well be shooting animals at five.

An hour after I unwrapped gifts I was
pow-pow
ing at Petey, and Dad told me always take for granted the weapon is loaded.

I said, “It’s not loaded.”

Dad said, “That doesn’t matter. Always pretend it is, and never point it at a person.”

I said, “I’ll point it at Petey if I want to.”

Same conversation you read in the newspaper next to a photo of a redneck with his head blown apart. In my case, Dad took the gun away and I ran to my room and wailed all morning, screaming angry denunciations of all my presents, my parents, and Christmas itself. Bad as Andrew.

Finally Dad decided I’d learned my lesson and gave back my rifle. I said, “Any numbskull knows this gun’s not loaded,” and fired a round through Mom’s beehive hairdo into an angel ornament atop the Christmas tree.

That’s the last I saw of my Red Ryder rifle. Looking back, it seems fate that any girl who rides at four and shoots (once, anyway) at five will get pregnant at thirteen. Thirteen is the age when Mom and I stopped laughing when Dad came to the part of the story where he said, “That’s the day Maurey nailed her mother and an angel with a single bullet.”

***

I woke up in a campground beside a dull silver river somewhere in Tennessee. The campground was deserted except for a pickup camper next to us and a station wagon surrounded by five Boy Scout tents. Birds chirped like mad, and down by the river a raccoon waddled along a trail, stopping now and then to sniff the air.

Lloyd was asleep with his head back and his hands on the steering wheel. Shane’s rumble was louder than ever; his sleeping lungs had taken on the grunt of a bugling elk. If I told people around here Shane sounded like a bugling elk, they would say “Huh?” I missed Wyoming. I missed my own bed and my fuzzy blue bathrobe and the window seat where I could look out at the mountains. If anything, Tennessee had more trees than Arkansas. Made me claustrophobic.

The camper door opened and a large, hairy man came out, stretched, and made chew motions with his mouth. He had on slacks but no shirt or shoes. He faced the horse trailer, unzipped himself, and started peeing—didn’t bother checking to see if anyone else was awake and watching.

“You’d think he would cover himself,” Lloyd said.

“You awake?”

“I don’t care where he is, a man should shield himself when he urinates.”

“Dad said a man should be able to leak off his porch in the morning without shame.”

“There’s a difference between without shame and showing off.”

The hairy man went an awful long time—sounded like a horse going on gravel. With his free hand he rubbed the hair on his chest, then scratched his beard. Only after shaking his thing twice and zipping it back up did he look around and see me. There was no sign of embarrassment, even though he must have known I’d watched. He stared at me a long time, almost as long as he’d peed, then he went back to the camper. He opened the door, but before climbing inside he stooped to throw a rock at the raccoon. Missed by two feet.

“Rude fella,” Lloyd said.

The truck was an off yellow with Tennessee plates and half-bald tires. “Seemed okay to me.”

“Well, look at that,” Lloyd said.

Hugo Sr.’s Oldsmobile pulled off the highway and stopped fifty yards or so downstream. Brad got out the passenger side.

I
whooped
and jumped out the door. I don’t know why I was so glad to see the kid, it’s not like we went way back or anything. It’s just that I felt responsible, what with helping him escape Freedom and cutting his hair and all. Losing him was a minor form of losing Auburn and Shannon.

Brad waved so long to Hugo Sr. and walked toward us carrying a brown paper sack. You could tell he was happy to be home. Moby Dick’s side blew open and Andrew flew out. He ran down to Brad, yelling, “The grown-ups ditched you. I told them I’d break windows if they did, but after pizza they ditched you anyway. They never listen to me.”

Everyone’s reaction was way overblown, considering we hardly knew each other. Shane grinned and bobbed, Lloyd waved a thank-you to Hugo Sr., Marcella straightened a place in the junk pile for Brad to sit.

He’d sold his hair. Walked way out in the suburbs to a wig joint and sold the sunshine-colored mane. The sack was full of presents—spark plug wires for Lloyd, Oreos for Shane, a stack of Marvel comics for Andrew, and a box of pink bubble bath for Marcella.

Marcella was amazed. “No one ever gave me toiletries before. Every year I ask, but Hugo Sr. gets me scissors or Tupperware or something he thinks I need. How’d you find him?”

“He was sitting in the parking lot. Said he knew y’all had left without me, so he waited.” Brad turned to Marcella. “He feels real bad about Annette Gilliam.”

Marcella’s hands did a nervous twisting thing. “You’re good with men, Maurey. What should I do?”

I’m good with men? “Let him feel bad. We all feel bad—why should Hugo be different?”

Brad dug into the bottom of the bag and came up with a fifth of Yukon Jack. “Is this your brand?”

I could have kissed the boy. Instead, I kissed the bottle.

***

Dear Dad,

People are trying to make me want things I swore off and swear off things I want, i.e. family and whiskey. I expressed enthusiasm this morning and afterwards floundered in guilt that I can feel joy without Auburn. What kind of mother am I? What kind of father were you? How should I behave?

Get your ass back here,

Your daughter

***

As morning wore on, I found myself free-falling into depression. For one thing, I’d missed Paul Harvey. And for the other thing, I was irritated with Moby Dick’s little gang of lost souls. Didn’t they know we were almost to the destination? What then? I’d go on to Greensboro to find Sam Callahan and Shannon, Lloyd was off to Florida searching for the holy grail or whatever, Lord knows what would happen to Brad. I’d lost everyone I ever cared for, and now, after this bunch tricked me into liking them, it was fixing to happen again. As always, nobody gave a flying hoot. They all acted as if we were driving to the moon and back. I was tempted to find a bus stop and bail out.

“Most people are unaware that Hank Williams had leukemia when he passed away,” Shane said. “A doctor in Mobile prescribed heroin to kill the pain, and Hank overdosed, thus making him the first superstar, white superstar, anyway, to die of drugs.”

“What about Jean Harlow?” I asked.

“Jean Harlow was a tramp.”

Brad offered to buy lunch with what was left from the hair sale. Lloyd pulled Moby Dick into a Sonic drive-in on the main strip in Pulaski. Because of the trailer, we had to park in the end slot, and even then our butt stuck out on the highway shoulder. A wide-load truck could have creamed the Coors.

Everyone but me had cheeseburgers and Tater Tots, which are nothing but cardboard shredded up, then pressed into lumps. Because I was depressed I ordered a chocolate malt to chase the Jack with. Chocolate malts in those drive-ins aren’t ice cream at all but some runny poop-colored chemical that oozes from a machine. I named the bottle Injun Joe after a character in
Huckleberry Finn
because Mark Twain named himself after a unit of depth in the Mississippi River.

I passed Brad his Tater Tot boat and the little packets of ketchup. “Lloyd said they don’t sell Yukon Jack down here. It’s illegal, like Coors.”

“Right,” Brad said. He was checking out the carhop who was checking out him. Short hair hadn’t killed off his allure.

“How’d you find this bottle, then?”

Wasn’t easy to check out the carhop from the back end of an ambulance. Brad had to pretzel himself and lean between the front seats, pretending to need a napkin. “My education wasn’t a complete bust back in Comanche. If it’s illegal, I can score.”

I don’t criticize younger women as a rule, but the carhop could have used a flea collar. Brad smiled at her and leaned back. “Can I have the cat?”

I said, “She’s a dog.”

“No.” He held up the half-whiskered kitten. “This cat. I never had a pet.”

Andrew yelled, “
Mine
,” spilled his Orange Crush, and burst into tears. Hugo Jr. joined in. In the confusion the hairy man parked his pickup camper opposite us, facing me.

“Here.” I handed Andrew my malt. I wasn’t hungry anyway. Marcella soothed Andrew in her lap while he sucked down my chocolate-flavored chemical stuff.

“It would be real Christian of you to share your kitty with Brad. I’m sure he’d let you play with him any time you want,” Marcella said.

“My kitty!”

“You have not bothered to name the animal,” Shane pointed out. “He’s not legally yours if you haven’t named him.” Andrew eyed Shane with suspicion. Shane lifted his hands, palms up, as if the matter were out of his control. “That’s the law, buddy. It’s not your cat.”

“My name’s not Buddy.”

“Either let Brad keep the cat or give me back my malt,” I said. The malt won.

Brad held the cat in his lap and fed it a Tater Tot. The cat dropped the tot, then made scratches on Brad’s leg, trying to bury it. “I’ll name him Merle,” Brad said.

I was touched. “That’s my name.”

“I know.”

I started to ask how he knew but skipped it since I’d probably told him during a blackout. Blackouts put drinkers at such a disadvantage. One time I called Delilah Talbot to say I wouldn’t be over that night to watch
The Carol Burnett Show
because I was stuck in Jackson with a broken car, then the next day I told her I’d missed the show because I had the flu and the phone was out of order. Even Delilah saw the discrepancy.