Indelible (9 page)

Sunday

T
he drive to Sylacauga turned out to be a longer detour than Jeffrey had promised. He said they would stay the night at his mother's, but at the rate they were going, Sara thought it would be more like morning. Closer to Talladega, the highway started to back up with traffic for the race at the NASCAR super speedway, but Jeffrey took this more like a challenge than an obstacle. After weaving in and out of cars, trucks, and RVs at such a close distance that Sara put on her seatbelt, Jeffrey finally exited. She was relieved until she realized that the last vehicle to use the road was probably a horse and buggy.

The deeper they drove into Alabama, the more relaxed Jeffrey seemed, and the long stretches of silence became companionable instead of unbearable. He found a good Southern-rock station and they listened to the likes of Lynyrd Skynyrd and The Allman Brothers as they drove through backwoods country. Along the way, he pointed out different at
tractions, such as three recently closed cotton mills and a tire factory that had been shut down after an industrial accident. The Helen Keller Center for the Blind was an impressive set of buildings, but hardly much to look at going ninety miles per hour.

Jeffrey patted her knee as they passed yet another country jail. He smiled and said, “Almost there,” but there was an odd expression on his face, like he regretted asking her to come.

They took a last-minute turn onto another ill-used roadway, and Sara was contemplating how to ask him if he was lost when a large sign loomed in the distance. She read aloud, “Welcome to Sylacauga, birthplace of Jim Nabors.”

“We're a proud people,” Jeffrey told her, downshifting as the road curved. “Ah,” he said fondly. “There's a point of local interest.” He indicated a run-down-looking country store. “Yonders Blossom.”

The sign was faded, but Sara could still read that it was, in fact, called Yonders Blossom. Various items one would expect to find in front of a country store were strategically placed around the yard, from a radiator with a fern growing out of it to a couple of rubber tires that had been painted white and turned into flower planters. To the side of the building was a large Coca-Cola freezer.

Jeffrey told her, “I lost my virginity behind the cooler there.”

“Is that so?”

“Yep,” he said, a crooked grin on his face. “The day of my twelfth birthday.”

Sara tried to hide her shock. “How old was she?”

He gave a self-satisfied chuckle. “Not too old to
be taken over her mama's knee when Blossom got thirsty and happened upon us.”

“You seem to have that effect on mothers.”

He laughed again, putting his hand on her leg. “Not all of them, honey.”

“Honey?” she repeated, thinking from his tone that he might as well have called her his favorite side of beef.

He laughed at her reaction, though she had never been more serious. “You're not going to turn into a feminist on me?”

She looked at his hand on her leg, sending a clear message that it should be removed now. “Right before your very eyes.”

He squeezed her leg in response, flashing that same grin that had probably gotten him out of trouble a thousand times before. Sara was not so much angry as feeling he had paid her back for calling him stupid in front of her mother. Against her better judgment, she let it slide.

They drove slowly through downtown, which was similar to Heartsdale's but half the size. He showed her other “points of interest” from his childhood along the way. Sara got the distinct impression from his lopsided smiles that there were different girls attached to each of these spots, but she decided she would rather not know the details.

“There's where I went to high school.” He pointed to a long, flat building with several trailers outside. “Ah, Mrs. Kelley.”

“Another one of your conquests?”

He gave a low growl. “I wish. Good God, she's probably eighty now, but back then . . .”

“I get the picture.”

“You jealous?”

“Of an eighty-year-old?”

“Here we go,” he said, taking a left. They were on Main Street, which again looked very much like Heartsdale's. He asked, “Look familiar?”

“Your Piggly Wiggly's closer in town,” she said, watching a woman come out of the grocery store with three bags in her hands and a small child on either side. Sara stared at the children as they held on to their mother's dress, wondering what it would be like to have that kind of life. Sara had always thought that once she got her practice going, she would get married and have a few children of her own. An ectopic pregnancy subsequent to the rape had removed that possibility forever.

She felt a lump rise in her throat as she was reminded yet again of how much had been taken from her.

Jeffrey pointed to a large building on their right. “There's the hospital,” he said. “I was born there back when it was just two stories and a gravel parking lot.”

She stared at the building, trying to regain her composure.

He handed her his handkerchief. “You okay?”

Sara took the cloth. She had been tearing up before, and for some reason his gesture made her want to really cry. Instead, she wiped her nose and said, “Must be the pollen.”

“Here,” he said, leaning over to roll up the window. “Damn dogwoods.”

She put her hand on the back of his neck, brushing
her fingers through his hair. She was always surprised by how soft it was, almost like a child's.

He looked up at the road, then back to her. He gave her one of his half-smiles, saying, “God, you're so beautiful.”

She blew her nose to defray the compliment.

He sat up, slowing the car more. “You're beautiful,” he repeated, kissing her just below the ear. The car slowed more, and he kissed her again.

“You're going to block traffic,” she warned, but theirs was the only car on the road.

He kissed her again, this time on the lips. She was torn between enjoying the sensation and the odd feeling that half the hospital was looking out the blinds at the spectacle they were making.

She gently pushed him away, saying, “I don't want to end up being one of the ‘local points of interest' for the next girl you bring here.”

He asked, “You think I bring other girls here?” and she could not tell if he was serious or not.

A car horn beeped behind them and he resumed the posted thirty-five-mile-an-hour speed limit. Sara knew better than to point out that this was the first time he had driven the speed limit since they had gotten into the car. Something had shifted, but she was not quite sure what. Before she could think of a way to frame the question, he turned onto a side street by the hospital and pulled into a driveway behind a dark blue pickup truck. A pink child's bike was propped against the front porch and a tire swing hung from the tall oak in the yard. She asked, “This is your mother's house?”

“Last detour.” He gave her a smile that seemed
forced. “I'll be right back,” he said, and got out of the car before she could ask him who lived here.

Sara watched Jeffrey walk up to the front door and knock. He tucked his hands into his pockets and turned back around. She waved, but then realized he probably couldn't see her because of the glare. Jeffrey knocked again, but there was still no answer. He turned back toward the car, shielding the sun out of his eyes and holding up his finger to her, indicating he would just be another minute. She opened the car door to get out as he ran around the back of the house.

Sara surveyed the neighborhood as she waited for him. The street was fairly similar to those in Avondale, which was not exactly the nicest part of Grant County. The houses looked to have been hastily built to accommodate the soldiers who returned from World War II, ready to start their families and put the war behind them. During the mid-1940s, the area must have been nice, but now it looked run-down. There were a couple of cars on blocks, and a fair number of the yards needed to be trimmed. The paint was peeling on most of the houses, and weeds grew out of the sidewalks. Some of the owners had not yet given up the fight, though, and their immaculate yards and vinyl-sided houses showed meticulous care. The one Jeffrey had parked in front of fell into this second category, with its carefully manicured lawn and well-raked gravel driveway.

Sara went up the drive, passing the truck. A large orange stripe went down the side, with the words “Auburn Tigers” painted in blue. There was an orange flag with a blue paw print on it swaying by the
front door. She noticed the mailbox was painted orange and blue, too. Apparently, someone in the house was a college football fan.

Without warning, a small dog ran up the sidewalk and jumped at her, putting his dirty paws on Sara's skirt. She told him, “No,” to no avail, then finally knelt down to pet the overly excited animal so he would stop jumping.

The dog barked, and Sara tried not to gag at his breath. She stroked back the fur on its head, thinking she had never seen an uglier animal in her life. Halfway down his back, he had curly hair like a poodle, but the fur on his legs was wiry like a terrier's. The coloring was an ungodly mixture of black, gray, and tan. His eyes bugged out as if someone were squeezing his testicles, even though a quick check proved he didn't have any. The check also revealed he was a she.

Sara stood, trying to brush the paw prints off her skirt. Georgia clay didn't have a thing on Alabama dirt, and nothing short of a long soak would take the stains out.

“Zaftig!” a man called from the driveway, and Sara felt herself blush crimson until she realized the man was not talking to her.

He held a shopping bag in one hand and patted his leg with the other. “Tig! Come're, girl.” The dog did not leave Sara's side, and the man laughed good-naturedly as he walked across the front yard. He stopped in front of Sara, giving a low whistle as he looked her up and down. “Darlin', if you're one a them Jehova's Witnesses, I'm ready to convert.”

The front door banged open, and a dark-haired
woman around Sara's age walked outside. “Don't listen to that fool,” she told Sara, giving her the once-over with considerably less appreciation than the man had showed. “Sara, right?”

“Uh,” Sara stammered. “Right.”

“I'm Darnell, but everybody calls me Nell. This'n's my husband, Jerry.”

“Call me Possum,” he said, tipping his orange and blue baseball cap.

Confused, Sara told them, “Nice to meet you both.”

“Ma'am.” Possum tipped his hat again before heading into the house.

Nell let the dog in, but not Sara. “So,” she said, leaning against the doorjamb. “You're Jeffrey's new thing?”

Sara could not tell if she was joking, but she had had enough of this sort of treatment in Grant. She crossed her arms, resigned. “I suppose so.”

Nell twisted her lips to the side, still not finished. “Are you a stewardess or a stripper?”

Sara barked a laugh, but stopped when Nell didn't join in. She squared her shoulders, choosing “Stripper” because it sounded more exotic.

The woman narrowed her eyes. “Jeffrey said you work with children.”

Sara tried to think of something witty, but could only come up with “I use balloon animals in my act.”

“Right.” Nell finally stepped aside. “They're all in the back.”

Sara walked into the living room of the modest home, which contained more Auburn paraphernalia
than was probably legal. Pom-poms and pennant flags draped the fireplace, and a framed jersey with the number seventeen hung over the mantel. Under a glass dome on the coffee table was a small village that must have resembled the university campus. A rack held several college football magazines, and even the lampshade had an orange and blue AU logo painted on it.

Nell led her down a hall toward the back door, but Sara stopped in front of a framed magazine cover. Underneath the
SEC Monthly
banner was a picture of Jeffrey standing at the fifty-yard line. His hair was longer and his mustache dated the picture by about fifteen years. He was wearing a blue jersey and rested his sneaker on a football. The type at the bottom said, “The Next Big Thing for the Tigers?”

Before she could stop herself, Sara asked, “He played for Auburn?”

Darnell finally laughed. “He got you into bed without showing you his Sugar Bowl ring?” she asked, managing to make Sara sound stupid and loose at the same time.

“Hey,” Jeffrey said, coming in a little too late for Sara's liking. He was holding a bottle of beer in his hand. “I see y'all met.”

Nell said, “You didn't tell me she was a stripper, Slick.”

“Only weekends,” he said, handing Nell the beer. “Just until she gets on full-time with the airline.”

Sara tried to catch his eye to tell him she wanted to get the hell out of here, but either Jeffrey had not learned to read her signs in the last few months or he was fully aware of the treatment she was getting
and did not mind a bit. His shit-eating grin told her the truth of the matter.

Jeffrey threw his arm around her, dragging her close and kissing her head. It felt more like he was telling her to be a good sport than anything else, and Sara pinched the fire out of the back of his arm to let him know she was not up for that kind of play.

He winced, rubbing his arm. “Nell, can you give us a minute?”

Nell walked down the hall and went into what was probably the kitchen. Outside the open back door, Sara could see a pool in the yard with another couple sitting around in beach chairs. In the distance, a dog was barking. Possum stood behind a grill with a long fork in his hand, and he waved at them both through the screen door.

Sara said, “This detour seems a little planned to me.”

“Sorry?”

She kept her voice low, mindful that Nell was probably listening. “Is this part of the indoctrination for all your new things?”