Authors: Elaine Drennon Little
“Well, tell me, what do you do for fun?” Phil asked.
“What do you mean?” She held up a glass and rubbed hard around the lipsticked rim.
“Fun, you know, things that make you feel good, for no reason. Every time I see you, you’re working.”
“You’ve seen me at home. I wasn’t working then,” she said, rinsing the glass, setting it in the drain, and reaching for another.
“Actually, you’re working there, too. Answering the door, cooking, cleaning, taking care of your brother. Do you work everywhere you go?”
“No, silly. No one works all the time.”
“Well, where else do you go?”
Delores thought. The answer did not come quickly. “I go to the grocery store, the post office. The bank,” she said.
“Still work. What do you do for fun?”
“I go to the library when I can get there before it closes.”
“The library. How old are you, eighty?” he laughed.
“No, and I like the library,” she insisted.
“Okay, let’s try something else. What do you like to do?”
“Read,” she teased.
“Okay, fair. What else? Do you like to sing? Dance? Play an instrument?”
She shook her head. “Can’t sing, don’t play anything. I like to dance, I guess.”
He nodded. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Do you like to watch movies? Play tennis? Paint? Read palms? Attend Klan meetings? Play cards, gamble, bet on boxing and horse races?”
Delores shook head, trying not to giggle.
“Coon hunt? Handle snakes? Speak in tongues? Perform circus acts?” He was obviously pleased with his rant.
So was Delores. “I like to watch movies,” she said. “I liked to play baseball as a kid, was better than most of the boys my age. I’ve only played cards with my family, and we played for peanuts or Tootsie rolls. I don’t hunt, but I love to fish. And I like to cook and to sew. That’s about it.”
“Impressive,” he said. “And here I had you pictured as only a workaholic. And how do you feel about eating?”
Delores looked puzzled, then made a silly face. “I guess I feel okay about it. I mean, it doesn’t rule my life, I hope, but sure, I like to eat. Everybody has to eat, sometime.”
“Indeed we do. Which brings me to my next question. Would you, Miss Mullinax, consider accompanying me tomorrow night, to perhaps dinner and a movie?”
Delores put down the glass she was washing, dumbfounded. She hadn’t been asked on a real date since, she couldn’t remember when. But did he mean it? It didn’t matter, anyway. “I’m working tomorrow night,” she said. “I just started back tonight, and can’t ask off the next night.”
“Okay,” Phil said, considering his next move. “What hours do you work?”
“Five until closing on Saturdays.”
“But you close at midnight, right?”
“Yeah, I get out around twelve-thirty or so.”
“Perfect. Not such a conventional date, but who says we have to play by Emily Post? Let’s say I come by again tomorrow night, and we can leave as soon as you lock up.”
Delores was confused. “Where are we going? I mean, where would we be going, if I agree to this?”
“The Atlantic City of South Georgia,” he said, miming the rolling of dice. Delores had no idea what he meant.
“You work in a bar, and you’ve never been to the Plantation Club on Saturday nights?”
“No. Isn’t that the place on the left, going towards Albany, set off from the road? I thought it was just a place for gamblers and such.”
Phil laughed. “I don’t know what you mean by and such, but yes there is gambling. There are card tables in the back, but most of those guys are high rollers from out of town. In the front there’s a bar, tables, a dance floor and a band that plays from ten or so until five in the morning. Sometimes the bands are pretty good.”
“They play until five in the morning?” Delores stopped washing glasses.
“The people that work in bars and clubs from Albany, Americus, even a couple of hours away in Tallahassee and Dothan, they all close down at midnight and head for the Plantation, only open bar in Georgia against the Sunday liquor laws. So what do you think? You want to take a walk on the wild side? We don’t have to stay until closing, but we can if you want to. Just play it by ear.”
Delores considered. “I—I guess so,” she said.
“And afterwards, I make a killer omelet, if you’re so inclined.”
Delores smiled, standing still and trying to decipher what she really thought about Phil Foster. She’d first seen him as a spoiled rich kid, stuck on himself and too good to even look into the eyes of anyone from Dumas County. Then there was the thing with his drinking. Unlike others she saw come and go through the Sundown, his poise and even his intelligence seem to increase after a few drinks. And there was his relationship with Cal. She knew there was something strange in the way Cal avoided him after the accident; and yet here in the bar, she could see in Phil a genuine concern for her brother, a concern Phil didn’t voice for anyone else.
Of course, there was the thing at the river, last summer, but she was sure Phil remembered none of the bad part, and she really didn’t think there was a bad part. They both went to sleep, and for that she was more than grateful. Grateful enough to give it a second chance.
“Not sure I trust you enough to try your cooking,” Delores announced, “but it would be nice to get out and let someone serve me for a change. Do I have to wear anything special?”
“Come as you are, my dear,” he grinned. “You could wear a croaker sack and still be the classiest broad there. I’ll come by around eleven, hang out ’til you’re finished. Even help out if I can.” Phil drained the last of his drink and set it on the bar, rising and pulling on the jacket draped on his bar stool. “See you tomorrow,” he said before turning to go. “Take care.”
Delores watched as he swaggered past tables and out the door.
What the hell I am thinking?
She turned back to wiping down the bar and straightening the wine and whiskey glasses hanging over her head. The three or four regulars still nursing their drinks looked up for a second, then back down.
Oblivious to it herself, Delores Mullinax was singing with the jukebox.
When Phil arrived the next night, Delores almost lost her nerve and considered telling him to go on without her. He wore a linen jacket, his farmer tan brilliant against a starched white dress shirt; and something about the way he smelled made her want to lay her face against his neck and breathe him in.
Though she’d spent hours deciding how to dress, the fact that she was wearing a white butcher’s apron to protect her dress made her feel awkward and frumpy in his presence. Phil, however, seemed not to notice her clothing at all, a fact she had no idea how to take. Did he think she intended to wear the apron all night? Did he think she dressed so badly, anyway, that it didn’t matter? Did he dress up on purpose, to call attention to the country bumpkin he’d be ridiculing to his friends? Why had he asked her out in the first place?
Phil sat at the bar, talking to a couple of Oakland guys and to Mr. Hall, who was manning the bar for the night. Phil ordered his usual Scotch, but then switched to seltzer water. At eleven- forty-five, Mr. Hall told Delores to take off her apron and get out, that he’d close up. “Go, kid—have some fun for a change. I’ve known
grandmothers that get out more than you do.”
She felt herself blush beet-red, hating her lack of a social life being comic relief for the whole bar. She wasn’t even sure how Mr. Hall knew about it, why he just happened to decide to work tonight, like the whole town was in on the joke. Delores set down her empty tray, grabbed her purse, and headed for the restroom.
Untying the apron in front of the mirror, she wondered why she’d thought her simple cotton dress was so special. Sure, it won first place as a 4-H project, but that was two years and two lifetimes ago. It had taken her days to get the fitted, angled shoulders perfectly darted and lying flat. The notched white collar was cut on the bias, flowing evenly against the neck seam of the navy voile print, dotted with fields of white flowers and the tiny, occasional red rose. She had covered the little round buttons and the wide, cinching belt in red fabric of the same shade. It had been the most complicated, most grown-up, most take-the-world-by-storm garment she had ever owned, and now it was just a dress.
Delores shook her hair from its ponytail and covered her lips with a matching red lipstick.
Might as well get it over with
, she thought, wadding the apron into a ball and heading out to meet her doom.
The Plantation Club was unlike any club Delores had imagined, though her experience in such matters was limited. She’d seen it from the road, every time she’d been to Albany, for as long as she could remember. The building was painted a dusty rose and trimmed in cream, baring a steep roof, no windows and art deco letters spelling
The PLANTATION
backlit across the front
.
A loan mimosa tree, reminiscent of Florida landscapes, stood in its front yard while all the trees in back of the building were tall Georgia pines. Its very presence in the center of Dumas County and twenty miles from any sign of civilization was a puzzling enigma to anyone who gave it much thought.
“Nice to see you again, Phil,” said the man taking money and stamping hands at the front door. “And who is this classy young lady?” The man smiled at Delores.
“Delores Mullinax,” Phil said, “meet Warren Irvin, owner, proprietor, and overseer of this fine establishment.” Mr. Irvin offered his hand, which she shook quickly, not knowing what else to do.
“What a pleasure,” Mr. Irvin said. “Let me know if Phillip gets out of hand. I’ve known his family long enough to take him over my knee, personally, if he doesn’t behave.” Phil laughed, took her shoulders and gently guided her through the entrance and to the left, where a large room of small tables covered three sides of a large dance floor, directly in front of a raised bandstand. He chose a table near the front and pulled out her chair to seat her first.
So far so good
, Delores thought. The band played a slow Platters’ tune, and the dance floor was close to full. “You’ve got the magic touch
,”
crooned the lead singer, a thin, dark-haired boy looking no older than her.
He’s really not bad
, Delores thought, though the lack of harmony behind him made it a different song than the one she’d heard on the radio. He played rhythm guitar, and the other musicians included two more guitarists and a drummer. A saxophone and several percussion instruments sat on stands.
“I like these guys,” Phil said, leaning forward to talk directly into her ear above the band. “They’re really versatile. The other band they use is good on the up tempo stuff, but only so-so on the ballads.”
He didn’t seem to expect comment, and Delores was glad. As easy as talking to him had become, it was like starting over from scratch without the bar and her job separating them. A waitress came to take their order. When Phil asked what she’d like to drink, Delores went blank, raised her hands in a questioning motion, feeling like an idiot. Phil placed his hand over hers on the table, then turned back to the waitress.
“Two Bacardi and Cokes, light on the rum, with a slice of lime,” he said. The waitress placed two paper napkins at their table and left.
“So,” Phil said, “you know what everyone else drinks, but have no ideas for yourself. Interesting.”
“I don’t drink much,” she replied. “I don’t really know what I like. Is that stupid?”
“Not at all,” he reassured. “Pretty much what I figured, which is why I chose. If you don’t like it, you can try something else, or just go to straight Coke next time. I’m not trying to get you wasted and take advantage of you. Unless you want me to, that is.”
The way he said it meant everything. He knew she was uncomfortable, and he only wanted to make her feel better, and he did. She smiled back at him, then turned her attention to the band. The slow song had ended, moving directly into to the easily recognizable intro to “Jailhouse Rock.” A few couples left the floor while a hoard of dancers jumped up from their seats.
Phil spoke above the drums and the cheering crowd. “Wanna dance?”
“Sure,” she said, on her feet.
Phil grabbed her hand and led her to the center of the floor. Delores hadn’t danced in public since—maybe since her high school prom, but it had always come naturally for her. She and Cal had danced with the radio their whole lives, and with music like this, dancing was the only way she knew to express the way it made her feel.
The dance floor was packed with hardly room to move. A tall blonde girl with a pink sweater and a high pony tail was swinging her head from side to side, her hair actually slapping Phil’s face. He grinned, shrugged his shoulders and moved closer to Delores.
He’s a pretty good dancer
, she thought to herself. Delores hated dancers who showed off, dancing for the sake of calling attention to themselves more than celebrating the music.
Without a word, the two of them created a pattern and fell into it, breaking out into a little more creativity with each verse, but sticking to their original swing sequence with the chorus. By the final tag, the whole dance floor was clapping in time, singing along. As the chord sustained and the applause continued, the bass guitarist was already beginning the next song.
Delores and Phil fell into an easy rhythm, simple and then more complicated variations of the Carolina shag, as though they’d been dancing together for years. One of the guitarists picked up the sax, and during an extended instrumental, the dancers set up a Virginia-reel like pattern where each couple danced through a long line, then split up and became part of the line when they reached the end. Then, once again, the ending chord was still being held as other band members hammered out the beginning of their next crowd pleaser. The tables were nearly empty, the dance floor painfully pushed together.
Phil grabbed Delores in a quick hug. “Sheesh,” he said, his mouth on her ear. “If I don’t get something to drink, I may pass out on you. You mind sitting this one out?”
“Please,” she said. “I love to dance, but it feels like it’s a hundred degrees, at least.” His hand on her shoulder, he used his other hand to part the waves of dancing couples and meander their way back to their table.
Delores swallowed half of her drink before sitting down. The ice had melted a little, and she could hardly taste the liquor at all, but the lime slice gave it a wonderful, clean taste. “Wow,” she said. “This is good. I’ll bet it was
really
good before the ice melted.”
“Want another?”
“Please,” she said. “I’m famished.” She used the tiny straw to inhale the rest.
“I’ll go to the bar and order, that should be faster. The same drink okay, or something different?”
“This is great. The same. Only—“ she hesitated. “Make it regular strength. We’re sweating too much to worry about the alcohol, don’t you think?”
“My thoughts exactly! But I’m driving, I may get some water for myself. Be back in a minute.”
“I’m off to the ladies’ room to wash my face,” she said.
“Sure. Just don’t let any of these losers sweep you off your feet. I’ve got the best looking date here, and the best dancer. Let me enjoy it, okay?” He left for the bar.