Burying the Honeysuckle Girls (7 page)

Chapter Eight

Sunday, September 16, 2012

Mobile, Alabama

Mobile Country Club’s rolling golf course shimmered in the waves of heat. I parked at the edge of the lot, under the shade of an old oak, and punched at the baffling row of buttons above the windshield until one of them closed the sunroof. I slid the cigar box under the driver’s seat. Along with my phone.

The kid in the pro shop told me the Oliver foursome was close to finishing. I was thinking about getting a golf cart when I spotted the snack cart parked outside on the path. They were always hiring the biggest dingbats to run the carts: morons with mermaid hair, big tits, and skirts so short you could see a faint swell of ass under the hem. In other words, women who could sell an ungodly amount of beer and turkey clubs. I sauntered out. No surprise, the key was in the ignition. I started it up and took off down the cart path.

After whizzing past a couple of players who attempted to flag me down, I parked at the fifteenth hole, just in time to see Rowe Oliver tee off. I sat in the cart, under the stand of pines, trying to collect myself. It had been a long time. Years. But now that I was this close to him, I felt like a thirteen-year-old girl again. A trembling, panicky, thirteen-year-old girl.

Rowe was dressed in an atrocious combination of purple, kelly green, and yellow with a wide white belt holding his pants under a substantial gut. I did some mental math. He was forty-two. His face was bright red, salt-and-pepper hair sprouting above the white visor, stained with sweat.

I could handle him, I told myself. I could. And not just because I knew his weaknesses but because he was nothing to me.

Nothing.

Rowe squinted down the fairway, leaned on his driver, and swore. The rest of his group headed to their cart. I slid out of my seat. Struck a pose—legs apart, one hand on my hip, chest out.

“Thirsty?” I called out. My voice sounded strong. Saucy. And, like a puppet on a string, Rowe Oliver turned my way. I smiled.

He returned his driver to his bag and waved at his father and the other two men. “Y’all want a beer?” They declined, and Rowe walked toward me. “You’re new,” he said, whipping off his sunglasses, wiping his face with his arm. His eyes roamed over my body. My stomach turned.

“You want something?” I asked.

He narrowed his eyes at me, and I thought I saw a flash of recognition. He hesitated. Stepped back. “No, thanks.”

I grabbed his wrist. It was hairy and slick with sweat. “Well, I do.”

“I don’t do that anymore.” He jerked his arm away from me, but he didn’t move, and I saw him look me over again. I pulled off the sunglasses and smiled at him.

“Hey, Rowe.”

He was shaking his head now. Smiling at his own stupidity. He had recognized me. “Althea. Long time no see.”

“Ten years,” I said.

“Yeah. Wow. Where you been?”

“Oh, here and there. Around. You know.” He allowed himself another quick check at the opening of my blouse.
Asshole.

“C’mon, Rowe.” I moved closer to him. “I know you’ve got some oxy or Percocet or something lying around. I know it.”

“Rowe!” His father called out. Rowe waved at him.

“Meet me when you’re done,” I said in a low voice. “Just give me whatever you have. I can pay, any way you want.” I winked. He swallowed. “Second row from the back. Silver BMW.” I held my breath and moved my finger to the front of the horrendous green pants, hooked it into his white belt. Gave one gentle tug. His mouth parted. I could smell his breath, cigars and onions.

“See you soon,” I said.

I climbed into the cart and drove back down the path to the parking lot. I was being unquestioningly, horrendously stupid. But the last twenty-four hours had made something all too clear to me: I’d spent a lifetime letting other people push me around, letting them use me and hurt me. Today, finally, the time had come to push back.

Rowe had plenty of pills—they were in one of those vinyl money bags banks use—and we settled ourselves in the hot backseat of Jay’s car. Right off, I told him to remove his pants. He didn’t even question me, just pulled them right off and threw them onto the floor. He was wearing black boxer briefs. And from the looks of it, really looking forward to what was about to happen next.

I studied him. He was practically trembling with anticipation. “Now your shirt. Don’t worry, the windows are tinted.” He peeled it off too, then went for my neck again, his hands spidering up and down my arms.

“So you’re married?” I pulled away. “Kids? What do you do?”

“God, Althea. Now? Really?”

“Sue me. I want to catch up a little first.”

He sighed. “I run my dad’s business.”

“The timber company?”

“And I’m on the city commission.” He cracked one eye open, assessing my reaction.

I smiled. “The underwear.” He hesitated. “I have money, Rowe, if you’d prefer.” He whipped off the briefs then, and I averted my gaze to the zippered money bag on the console.

“So what do you have?” I said.

“Xanax, Vicodin . . . Whatever you want.”

“Impressive,” I said. “I mean, for a guy who doesn’t sell anymore.”

In answer to that he reached up, wrapped one hand around the back of my head, and pushed me down as hard as he could in the direction of his crotch. I tucked my head and, just missing him, hit the seat, my nose bent uncomfortably sideways. I opened my mouth and drew in a breath. I could smell the sharp new-leather scent and his odor.

“Get busy,” he said above me.

“Give me a minute, okay? Jeez.”

“What, you want to say the blessing before you get started? Quit stalling.”

I carefully reached under the driver’s seat and slid out my phone. I opened the camera app just as I felt a sharp tug on my scalp. He was pulling my hair, trying to get me back up to him. I switched the phone to my left hand. Then sat up, pointed it at him.

“Say cheese.”

I snapped a couple of pictures.

“What the hell—?” he yelped.

I jabbed at the button until he slapped the phone of out my hands, and it tumbled between the console and the driver’s seat. I bent back, reaching for it, but he pushed me aside and jammed his hand into the crevice. His face contorted with the effort.

“It’s too late,” I said mildly.

“What did you do?”

“Sent a few to the cloud. And my email.”

“The fuck you did. You barely even got a shot.”

“Why don’t you pull it out and see?”

“I would if I could get my goddamn hand in there.” But after a few more fruitless seconds, he sat back and glared at me. I smiled.

“Okay, well,” he said. “This has been great. An absolute riot. What do you want?”

I reached down under the driver’s seat, pulled out the cigar box, and opened it. I held out the oldest vial, no more than an inch from his nose. He just sat there, quivering, red-faced, hands over his cock.

“A long time ago, you sold these pills to my mother,” I said. “Start talking. Now. I want to hear everything.”

Chapter Nine

October 1937

Sybil Valley, Alabama

One late-October afternoon, Jinn’s daddy sent for her.

He did this every so often when Vonnie—the girl who looked after him and Jinn’s mama—got held up with her own father and brothers or couldn’t make it down the mountain in the winter ice. He’d let things pile up around the house until he ran out of clean dishes or discovered the coffee grounds in the pot furred with mold. Then he’d call Jinn to come tackle the mess.

“We’ll go to Grandpap’s after I put the collards and sausages in the oven,” Jinn told Collie. “How about we make a cobbler over there and bring home half?”

Collie nodded. “Daddy’ll like that.”

The mist hadn’t even burned off the grass when she and Collie tramped into the apple orchard that bordered the Alfords’. Jinn watched the little girl dart into hazy puffs of moisture like they were magical clouds. Like she expected everything would feel soft and fuzzy once she was inside them. It made Jinn laugh. Collie had such an imagination.

Jinn pushed open the front door of her parents’ frame house and crinkled her nose at the smell. There was a trail of chicken shit leading through the hall, a few pellets squashed on the linoleum floor. She could see the deep grooves from her daddy’s work boots imprinted in the mushy blobs. Farther inside the house, Jinn could hear Binnie and the other two hens clucking and scratching their claws on the wooden floor. Somebody’d probably left the back door open. Maybe Mama had got up this morning.

Her daddy’s .22 rifle hung in its spot over the fireplace. The brass stock plate, engraved with oak leaves and acorns, glinted in the morning sun. Jinn let out a relieved breath. Her mama had been known to take the gun down on bad days, when her nerves got the best of her. She’d shoulder it, say she’d had enough of Vernon’s nonsense, and, by golly, she was going to shoot him if he didn’t straighten up. These episodes never amounted to much—Vernon kept the gun unloaded and hid the bullets—and it hadn’t happened in a while. Anyway, by now, her mama had to be too sick to heft a gun.

Jinn shooed the chickens out of the den and into the kitchen, which was also liberally sprinkled with the sharp-smelling pellets. She clapped her hands, and Binnie and the other two hens squawked indignantly, racing in crazed circles all the way out the back door. They darted across the dirt-packed yard and to the coop, where she shut the gate behind them.

Back inside, the house was quiet as a graveyard. The rays of the morning sun slanted in, splashing bright blocks on the rag rug. Jinn had forgotten how the house flashed with light in the mornings. She remembered being little, standing in one shimmering square that lit up, on and off, like an electric lamp.

She walked to the bottom of the rickety staircase and looked up. She thought about her sleeping mother, what would happen if she tiptoed upstairs and peeked in the bedroom. She could do it, just creep to her mother’s bed and smooth back her fuzzy gray hair. Press her lips against the dry, crinkly skin. She only thought about those things, though. Howell had told her in no uncertain terms that her father said she wasn’t to bother her mama. “Your pap says she don’t feel well, and she needs her rest.” He’d made Jinn promise she wouldn’t go upstairs.

Her mother had been sick for a long time now. Tumor in the gut, they said, and not much to be done about it. That, on top of being touched—well, any surprise might set her off. Howell was right; going upstairs wasn’t a good idea. But Jinn couldn’t help thinking about it. She hadn’t seen her mother in months.

The cuckoo clock on the mantel tick-tocked in the still morning air, and she surveyed the room. The chickens had left a mess, sure enough. She’d better get to work; she had to be back by one o’clock to give Howell his lunch. She handed Collie a little broom and dustpan, sent her off to the kitchen, and busied herself with her own broom.

Around eleven, when the den and kitchen sparkled, she started on the roast, another batch of collards, and the biscuits. As she kneaded the dough, the thought crossed her mind that her father might not have given her mother anything to eat. Not that he’d do it on purpose. He had a lot to keep up with, and he was getting on in years. He might’ve even been the one who’d left the kitchen door open.

There was a bad stretch last year, when her daddy had been laid up with emphysema and a stove-up back. He’d let things slip, long enough that Mama had gone downhill quick. He’d felt bad when Jinn and Howell had found her up on their bedroom floor, sobbing from the burning in her stomach. Vernon had even cried a bit himself, something Jinn had never witnessed. He said he hadn’t meant to forget her medicine.

For a while after that, the ladies at church would stop by with casseroles and pies for them. But that was a year ago, and Jinn was pretty sure the church ladies had other people to think about. She rolled out the dough and thought about her mama. Even if she’d had breakfast, she still might like a piece of toast or a sliver of one of the plums Jinn had brought.

Even though Jinn had said she wouldn’t go upstairs.

Her father’s shirts and underwear and socks might need to be washed, though. And if they did, she should get to that right away, while the sun was high, before the afternoon got too cloudy and cool to dry the clothes. Of course, she’d have to go up to the bedroom to gather the pile of dirty laundry. Daddy always threw his clothes over the back of a cane chair by the window after he wore them.

She set two slices of bread, each with a pat of butter, on the stove to warm and sliced the plum. She wiped out the sink, cut the biscuits with her mother’s tin cup, and lined the dough discs on her mother’s pan. She slid the pan into the oven, then put the toast and plums on two plates.

She called Collie in from the backyard and set her up at the table. She told her to eat quietly, that they’d do the wash next.

“Mama’s going upstairs to tidy up,” she said, kissing the top of her daughter’s curly head. “Don’t you come up, you hear?”

Collie picked up a wedge of plum and inspected it.

“Collie?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Jinn carried the plate up the stairs so quietly she wouldn’t even startle the mice that liked to nose the cracks along the hallway baseboards. At the top of the steps, the hall stretched out before her, tranquil in the late-morning sun. A beam of sunlight streamed from the high transom at the end of the corridor. Dust motes floated and collided and danced around each other in it, and a spider’s thread bisected it. A whiff of something musty hit her nose. The bathroom up here probably needed a good scouring. And the bedroom. The sheets were probably soft and yellow with stains by now.

She crept toward the closed door at the end of the hall, her heart thrumming in her chest. One step, two, three, until at last her hand was on the knob. She turned it and hesitated there, straining to hear any sound that meant Collie had followed her or that her father had returned early from the mill. After a good, long stretch of silence, she pushed open the door.

The smell hit her first. Piss and shit and something else vaguely rotten. Jinn clapped her hand over her nose and told herself not to gag. The room was dark, filled with bluish shadows from the flowered wallpaper and patchwork quilt. The blinds were drawn, the curtains pulled across them. Otherwise, it was perfectly neat. No piles of soiled work clothes on the chair back, no dusty boots or grease-stained gloves resting on the bureau.

Her mother lay under the quilt, her hair spread like a fan around her. She was still—but for the barest rise and fall of skin and bones under the quilt. Her face was as blue as the room, and it took Jinn a minute to realize it was just the light. Her mother wasn’t dead. Not yet. Jinn moved closer, close enough to see her mother’s taut skin hollowed under cheekbones, eye sockets, and nose. The woman’s eyes stared at the ceiling, unblinking; her mouth gaped open. A line of spittle had left a shining trail from the cracked corner of her lips all the way down to the sheet.

A low rattling rose up from the bed, and, at the same time, a cry erupted from Jinn’s mouth. At the sound, her mama turned her head toward her daughter, and her mouth moved just the slightest bit, a sunken hole with no teeth. She greeted her daughter with a long, creaking moan.