“Where is Sofie?” she demands.
Sofie, our sweet and slobbery eleven-year-old yellow Labrador retriever whose hips are as bad as her breath, was once full of energy. Sofie and I used to spend hours playing fetch in the backyard, or tug-of-war, or ride the doggie-horsey. But now all Sofie does is dig holes in the backyard, lie on the patch of monkey grass she’s claimed as her own, and sit under Daddy’s chair on the nights he is home for dinner, knowing that he has the most tender heart of all of us when it comes to animals and will often feed her scraps.
I shrug, not taking my eyes off the screen. An older lady with blue-white hair is trying to figure out how much a matching washer and dryer would go for retail.
“One hundred eighty five,” I say.
Mama walks to the television set and mashes the power button with her finger. The picture dissolves into silver and black static, which fades and then disappears.
“Robert Banks,
listen
to me. Where is Sofie?”
“She’s outside, I think.”
I must have given Mama a wounded look, because she sighs and her tone softens.
“I don’t mean to be short with you. Today is a big day. You know that. And everything is ready, everything is prepared, but I can’t find the undergarment I bought that works with the camisole. I know it was in my lingerie drawer last night, because I checked. It was curled up right beside the camisole, its price tag still on. But now it’s not there. I feel like I’m losing my mind. The only explanation I can come up with is that I somehow took it out of the drawer this morning when I woke up early to make coffee for your father and Sofie got hold of it.”
Sofie is famous for stealing underwear from the dirty-clothes basket. Over the years she has eaten through countless pairs of Mama’s panties and our briefs. But Mama has never complained of Sofie stealing bras.
“It probably got shoved into the back of your drawer somehow,” I say. “You just can’t find it because you’re nervous.”
“I’ve turned that drawer inside out. And I can’t find it because it’s not there. I don’t have anything else to wear besides the Mark Shale suit. My nails are painted to match. I bought a lipstick especially for it when I went to Davison’s for the bra. And I haven’t checked my other clothes for wrinkles or stains. Lord knows what shape they are in.”
Mama’s clothes are never wrinkled or stained.
“I need you to go outside and see if Sofie has dropped it in any of those holes she’s dug up. If she has maybe I’ll have time to wash it quick in the sink with Woolite and put it in the dryer on Delicate.”
I hoist myself from the plaid couch and walk through the kitchen to get to the back door. At the little breakfast nook in the corner, where two benches and a table are built into the wall, sits Hunter, wearing swimming trunks and a white Fruit of the Loom undershirt, stuffing a heaping spoonful of Cap’n Crunch and milk into his mouth.
I don’t say a word to him and he doesn’t say a word to me, either; instead he just stares ahead as if we aren’t even in the same room. That’s just what we do—ignore each other. But then out of the blue, he’ll attack. Like at the beginning of the school year when I opened my science book and discovered an index card, planted between the pages, that read, “FAG.” My brother hadn’t even bothered to disguise his handwriting, a small, slanted print I’d recognize anywhere. Soon after I made him a batch of brownies with two squares of chocolate Ex-Lax melted into the batter. Hunter pretty much ate the whole tray, which I left out on the counter, knowing Mama wouldn’t touch the brownies for fear of the calories and Daddy wouldn’t be home to eat them. All night Hunter kept getting up to run to the bathroom while I just smiled in the dark.
We have nearly an acre of land in our backyard, starting with grass that eventually leads to woods, which a creek runs through. Between the grass and the woods is a border of high monkey grass. This is where I find Sofie, in her special patch, where the blades lie flat, pushed down by her weight day after day. I walk to her, kneel beside her. Man, does she stink. Like mud mixed with dead animal. But her eyes, her almond-shaped eyes—they are human. Daddy swears she’s a person trapped inside a dog suit.
“Hey, girl, have you been a little thief?” I ask, using the stubs of my nails to scratch beneath her collar. I push up on her where her chest hits the grass, making her stand. There’s nothing underneath her, no bra cup or chewed-up elastic strap. I put my hands on her mouth, forcing it open so I can look inside. It’s possible that she ate
the bra, but there’s no sign of it in her mouth. All I see are the brown stubs of what once were sharp, white teeth.
I guess she could have buried it. She follows me as I walk to the old swing set to look around, peering into the little holes she has dug in the ground, when I hear my full name being called. I look and there is Mama, standing in the frame of the back door, still in her heels and housedress, her hair covered in the silk scarf.
“Now! Get in here now!” she barks.
It is official. The stress of throwing the luncheon for Mrs. Lovehart has driven Mama plumb crazy.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” I mutter. I walk but do not run to the house.
At the door Mama grabs my arm, not even loosening her grip once she yanks me inside. She’s hurting me and I start to tell her so, but I can’t speak in the face of the awful look she is giving me. In her left hand is the bra.
“You found it,” I say, as if the fact that she found the bra has not yet caught up with her mind. As if the moment she realizes the bra is no longer missing she will loosen her grip on my arm and stop looking at me funny.
Only then do I notice Hunter, standing behind Mama, still in his swim trunks and T-shirt. His hip is cocked against the side of the avocado-colored refrigerator. His arms are folded across his chest.
“It was Hunter who found it. But I believe you can tell me exactly where it was.”
“I have no earthly idea,” I say, wincing as soon as the words come out of my mouth. Even I can hear how prissy I sound.
Mama starts crying, her tears messing up her eye makeup.
“Oh, Bobby,” she says. “Why would you hide my underwear in the back of your dresser drawer? And not just my bra. Hunter said there was also a pair of panties in there, a pair I lost months ago and had just assumed Sofie had gotten. And Hunter said he found this—”
Mama lets go of my arm and pulls a wrinkled, glossy page from a magazine out of the pocket of her housedress. She holds it out for me to see. Even wrinkled, I recognize the picture of the skinny, naked man, grinning as he holds his erect penis in his hands. I found the picture blown up against a curb in the parking lot behind the 7-Eleven. Ripped out of some porn magazine, I guess. I stuffed it into my pant pocket, bicycled home, and hid it in the space between the dresser and the drawer, taking it out only when I am sure no one else is home.
Hunter must have found it when he was planting Mama’s underwear. Or maybe he found it beforehand and planned this whole thing in response.
Seeing it in Mama’s brightly lit kitchen makes me turn all wobbly, like I need to grab onto something or my knees might buckle. No one was supposed to see that picture but me.
“It’s not mine,” I say, my mouth so dry it’s hard to get out the words. “Why would I want to look at that? And I didn’t take your underwear. Hunter did. He must have stolen it from your drawer and put it in mine. That’s what you did, isn’t it?”
Mama and I both look at Hunter. He speaks as if it is painful to do so. “I walked in on him, Mama. I should have told you after I did, but it was just so weird I didn’t know what to do. It was a couple of weeks ago. He must have thought he was alone in the house. He was standing in front of the mirror on our closet door, wearing your stuff—your bra and underwear. Not this one, a different one. I think he’s been doing this for a long time, Mama. I think he’s really sick.”
I spring, like a dog attacking an intruder. Mama holds her arm out to the side, blocking the path, and I think of the many times she has made that exact same motion while driving, when she comes to a sudden stop and worries I’ll go flying through the window. Except this time she isn’t protecting me. This time she’s protecting Hunter from me.
“Don’t,” she says, her voice gritty. She is looking at me in a way she never has before. It’s as if behind each eye someone has switched off a lamp.
She believes him.
Yes, the dirty picture is mine, but the rest of what Hunter said is a lie. I have never dressed in my mama’s underthings. I would never dream of doing such a thing. I don’t want to do such a thing. And yet I know I’m guilty. That picture from the magazine. I cannot believe I am standing in the kitchen with Mama, that picture between us.
Mama looks exhausted. The corners of Hunter’s mouth show the faintest smile. He is loving this.
“He’s lying,” I say meekly.
“Son,” she says. “Please don’t make things worse.”
We stand there for a moment, looking at each other sadly. And then she straightens her shoulders, glances at the clock above the stove, sees that it is 10:30 a.m., stuffs the picture into one pocket, the bra into the other, and rotates her body so that she can address us both.
“My guests arrive in an hour,” she says. “Bobby, you are to put the breakfast dishes in the dishwasher, and then make sure there’s a clean monogrammed towel in the guest bathroom. Yes, I have checked twice already, but for my peace of mind I need you to do it again. After that, I want you to shower and put on khakis and a polo shirt. I don’t care how hot it is, I want you boys in long pants for Mrs. Lovehart.
“Hunter, you shower now, and both of you, make sure to wipe up any water that gets on the sink and on the floor. I expect you boys to be seated in the living room, shirts tucked in, by eleven-twenty sharp, ready to greet my guests. When they arrive, Bobby, you are to offer lemonade, and Hunter, you are to pass around the hot crab dip. And then I want you two to say good-bye and I want you out of the house. And I swear to my sweet Lord Jesus, if you come home
having so much as touched each other I will have your daddy tear you apart. I don’t care how old you are. And if he doesn’t do it to my satisfaction I will do it myself, and don’t think I don’t mean it. And don’t even think about showing up at this house again until six-thirty p.m., at which point you better be here sharp for dinner with Daddy, during which none of us will say a word about what Hunter found in Bobby’s drawer until I figure out what to do.”
“But
Mom
,” Hunter protests. “He’s sick.”
“You don’t think I know that?” she asks.
• • •
I am dutiful, doing everything Mama asked of me. I shower, dress in long pants, check to make sure there is a clean hand towel in the guest bedroom. I sit on the couch in the living room with Hunter, waiting for her guests to arrive, two polished silver trays on the coffee table before us, one filled with glasses of lemonade, the other with crab dip, Club Crackers, and Mama’s monogrammed linen napkins. Sitting next to Hunter is pure h-e-l-l. My throat hurts just being near him, aches and tightens so that breathing feels like work. Which is helpful, in a way, because it keeps my mind off the tears pushing at my eyes, tears that I will not let fall.
Will not.
But then they do. Pool over and run down my face, landing on my khaki pants. Hunter glances at me, his eyes showing disgust. But he does not say a word. He’s as scared of Mama as I am.
The doorbell rings and Mama strides out of the kitchen, stopping short of the door to take a breath and say a quick prayer. In
Gracious Servings
this is something she advises all hostesses to do in that second before greeting their guests. Ask the Lord to calm your nerves and open your heart to the festivities ahead.
After her pause, Mama throws open the door. “Well, hello! Welcome! I am so delighted to have y’all!”
And in spill the ladies, along with a scent of mixed floral perfumes.
The last one to enter is Mrs. Lacy Lovehart herself, so luminous I stand as if at attention. I have seen her on television before, but in person she is brighter, magnetic. And tall—at least five foot ten in flats, which I recognize from
Vogue
as Jack Rogers Navajo sandals, the ones Jackie O made famous when she wore them in Palm Beach.
Lacy’s hairstyle is much more modern than Mama’s, falling in loose waves around her shoulders. She wears a sleeveless shift in her signature color of peach, her arms toned and tanned as if she plays a lot of tennis. She wears a necklace of big, round silver beads, and on her arm is a silver bracelet weighted with charms. But it is her face, her glowing skin, her wide eyes, that suck me right in.
Mama turns and smiles at Hunter and me. Her smile means it is time for us to come forward with our offerings for the ladies. I lift the tray of lemonade off the coffee table; Hunter hoists the tray with the crab dip and crackers.
I make my way to the buzzing hive of pastels and perfume, offering them the lemonade, which Mama has poured over cubes of frozen lemonade, so when the ice melts it won’t weaken the drink. For the occasion she has pulled out her crystal tumblers, “EBM” etched into the glass. Hunter follows behind, offering the dip and a napkin to each lady. He doesn’t speak so much as he grunts, but they get the message and ooh and ahh as they put the dip in their mouths.
Lacy does not take a lemonade off the tray. “Aren’t you precious,” she says. “But might you happen to have a peach iced tea?”
I glance at Mama, worried.
“Oh, Lacy, I’m so sorry. I have Coca-Cola, sweet tea, and coffee, but I don’t have any peaches. Man ate the last one this morning.”
Well, that’s a flat-out lie. Mama hasn’t bought any peaches at all this summer. She says none of the ones at the grocery store have looked any good.
Mrs. Lovehart lifts a glass of lemonade off of my tray. “This
will suit me just fine,” she says. “Though you
should
try peach iced tea one day. It’s simply wonderful!”
It is as if Mrs. Lovehart is in a commercial. I glance at Mama to see her reaction. She looks irritated.