Authors: Kibler Julie
Yet I had never once intentionally contemplated his dreams and goals.
That night, I did. I wanted to know them in detail. But before I could ask, the trolley arrived, its squealing brakes interrupting our conversation.
I sat alone at the front of the car, scrubbing away rouge and eye kohl—which seemed more childish than grown-up now—with a handkerchief damp from my tears, while Robert sat at the rear, watching me like a hawk guarding its nest from a distance. We descended separately, one stop early, not quite to Shalerville, then fell into step again outside. The driver hesitated, eyed me with concern when only Robert and I alighted from the trolley, but I smiled reassuringly and he released the brake. I could have taken the streetcar all the way back into Shalerville, but, of course, being with Robert changed everything. The driver wouldn’t let him off the car there.
In a valley between the Licking River and the bluff we walked along toward town, South Newport’s steel mills worked around the clock. From this height, the bright lights, belching smoke, and machinery’s rhythmic clamor appeared independent of human manipulation. I hadn’t viewed their eerie, almost fantastical nighttime facade so close in years. I hesitated, my previous desire to return home as quickly as possible taking a new shape—a desire to suspend the moment. Robert’s mood seemed to match mine, and we gazed at that distant, alien world together; our attempts at conversation now seemed extraneous.
At the edge of town, I slowed even more. This, I’d seen my whole life, every time we’d crossed in or out of Shalerville. It was more or less wallpaper, no different from the trees by the side of the road. But tonight, my chest tightened with a painful sense of shame. Robert had saved me from something I could scarcely imagine, yet he was forbidden from seeing me home by virtue of this rule I’d never questioned before. I read the sign as if for the first time:
NIGGER, DON’T LET THE SUN SET ON YOU HERE IN SHALERVILLE
.
4
Dorrie, Present Day
W
E WERE OFFICIALLY
away from Dallas traffic, and before long, pine trees bordered the sides of the road, taller and thicker and closer together with each mile. I began to feel crowded, trapped in my own body, like I always had growing up in East Texas.
Miss Isabelle’s inevitable sadness, however—I’d been expecting it, waiting for it—seemed strangely soothed by her memories of her Newport adventure. And I won’t lie. The story of Robert, her unlikely savior, surprised me, and the thought of this sequestered little town both angered and intrigued me. I wanted to know more. But wouldn’t you know, the exit for
my
hometown rose from the pavement, and damn, if that wasn’t right when Miss Isabelle decided it was time to stop for lunch.
“Here?” I gawked at her.
“What’s wrong with here? It’s your hometown. And look, there’s a Pitt Grill on the other side of the overpass. I always wanted to eat in a Pitt Grill.”
I groaned, with a sneaking suspicion that stopping here had been her plan all along. I’d lived in this three-light and a Wal-Mart bump in the road my whole life until Steve and I moved to Arlington to make a fresh start—that is, so I could work somewhere that paid more than minimum wage and build my clientele until I could set up my own shop while Steve continued his shining career of not having a career. But I’d never once considered eating at the Pitt, not even when I lived nearby. And after all the time I’d been away, I suspected not much had changed in East Texas. I’d had no reason to visit for years, and wasn’t sure I wanted to experience that part of my life again. Unfortunately, the Pitt was the only restaurant near the highway.
“Oh, come on. It’ll be an adventure,” Miss Isabelle said. Now, if it was even possible, she looked excited about the Pitt, while I, in turn, squirmed. But I shrugged, pleased she was back to herself—and knowing the argument was futile anyway.
“Whatever you say, Miss Isabelle.” I exited and pulled across the bridge and into the dinky parking lot. Logging trucks idled on the gravel in an open space between the restaurant and a cheap motel. “Looks like Paul Bunyan eats here, too,” I observed. Miss Isabelle rolled her eyes and hobbled her way into the greasy spoon—the only way to describe our first view of the place. I followed patiently, holding my breath and praying she wouldn’t stumble on anything. I knew she’d slap me if I offered my arm. A waitress in a pink polyester zip-up uniform dress stuffed an order pad in her pocket and a pen behind her ear and hurried toward us. She grabbed a menu from a stack at the counter and greeted Miss Isabelle.
“One, hon? Nonsmoking?”
Miss Isabelle’s jaw fell slack inside her mouth, causing her chin to droop unattractively low against her neck. She glared at the waitress. The woman’s assumption that we weren’t together—even though we were standing close enough to kiss!—came as no surprise to me.
In the meantime, the waitress hardly glanced my way, but about that time, I recognized her. By golly, if it wasn’t Susan Willis, queen of the homecoming court the year Steve and I graduated. Steve had been king and escorted her across the field, to the dismay of her redneck daddy and nearly the whole town. I could tell she didn’t recognize me back, though. I almost felt embarrassed for her, so I hoped maybe her amnesia would hold. I couldn’t imagine being the most popular girl in school, only to end up waitressing at the Pitt Grill nearly two decades later. I’d always thought she had pretty hair in high school, but good heavens, if she didn’t need to take the eighties bangs down a notch or three now to bring her into the new century and get a few lowlights to tone down that piss yellow.
Miss Isabelle tsked with her tongue and said, “Table for two. If that’s a problem, we’ll sit at the counter.”
“Two?” Susan’s head shook just enough for me to detect it, but she pulled herself together. “Oh, yes, ma’am, we have a table. Of course we do. Right this way.”
As we followed, I wondered, What would she think of my life? Sure, I owned my own business, but I lived month to month, constantly worrying about whether I’d be able to pay the bills and feed and clothe my kids. How was that any better than slaving away for tips at the Pitt, probably trying to support a couple of kids because your no-good husband had run off? Maybe we had more in common than I’d ever dreamed we would in high school.
Or maybe not. Maybe her husband owned the Pitt Grill.
Susan kept glancing curiously—and not especially covertly—at us the whole time we ate. I couldn’t decide if it was because she was nosy, trying to figure out the relationship between Miss Isabelle and me, or if she was trying to place me. I actually preferred the first. But I knew my luck had run out and Susan had recovered her memory when I heard, right as Miss Isabelle and I were about to exit the Pitt, “Why, Dorrie Mae Curtis, is that
you
?”
I cringed and made a quarter turn, still hoping for mercy. But Susan had stopped halfway through sliding the five-dollar tip Miss Isabelle had left at our table into her zip-up polyester pocket. The look on her face confirmed our reunion was unavoidable.
“Hi, Susan. You’re right. It’s me, Dorrie. How’re you doing?” I crossed my fingers, hoping she’d give an easy answer, something standard, like “You’re looking great! Can you believe it’s been almost twenty years?” and let me go on.
But my luck was all out of whack by then.
“Oh, Dorrie, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you the half of it. Me and Big Jim bought this place back in ’98”—so my backup prediction was correct: Hubby owned the Pitt!—“and then Big Jim got too fat for his britches, as if that’s a surprise. A gen-u-wine redneck real estate tycoon. He left me for some young thing he met over to the new roller rink we built. He got custody of the rink and I got the Pitt, and it’s all I can do to keep it running and chase after our boys. All four—who are following right in their daddy’s footsteps, far as I can tell when I can hog-tie them for a minute.”
So, prediction number one was correct, too. I wasn’t sure how to feel about that. “Uh-huh, well, I’m sorry to hear—gosh, good to see you landed feetfirst.” I shrugged. No response could do that story justice.
“What about you, Dorrie Mae? What’s been happening with you all these years? I bet you and Steve have a whole football team by now. Y’all moved away, right?”
Like she could have missed us if we were still in that little town. And I wished she’d stop calling me Dorrie Mae. I’d had to move nearly two hundred miles to lose the name I’d hated all through school. I glanced over at Miss Isabelle, who clutched her handbag tight against her waist, her lips twitching. If she called me Dorrie Mae when we got to the car, I’d screech.
“Sounds like you got the football team. I only have two—a boy and a girl. We’re down the road in Arlington, in DFW. Steve and I, we’re divorced, too.”
“Aw, that’s too bad,” Susan said, screwing her face into something resembling sympathy—
as if she hadn’t just told me her equally, if not more, pitiful tale!
“You and Steve. Me and Big Jim.” She sighed loudly. “Remember when me and Steve were homecoming queen and king? Just goes to show all those yearbook predictions don’t mean a thing, huh? I always thought the four of us would be the ones with fairy-tale endings.”
“You and me both, Susan. Well, listen, my friend and I need to get back on the road. We’ve got a long trip ahead.”
“Oh, well, where ya headed? Who’s this nice lady?”
Susan was obviously desperate for conversation with anyone over the age of eighteen who didn’t wear a trucker’s cap and have syrup stains on his elbows. I felt bad for her, I did, but not enough to keep this surreal reunion going much longer. I glanced at Miss Isabelle.
“Dorrie and I are traveling to the Cincinnati area for a family funeral,” she said. Her politely icy tone dared Susan to say more. She obviously hadn’t completely forgiven Susan for assuming we were separate parties.
“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear.” Susan’s gaze toggled—me, Miss Isabelle, me, Miss Isabelle. She looked more bewildered than ever about how the two of us fit together. “Well,” she said. “I won’t keep you, Dorrie Mae. Now you be sure and stop in again next time you come through. If I’d recognized you earlier, your tab would have been on the house. Both of yours, of course. Can I at least send you ladies with drinks to go? Coffee? Cokes?”
“No, we’re good. Thanks anyway. You take care, Susan.”
I turned and headed deliberately toward the door. This time, I let Miss Isabelle follow.
* * *
“H
OW EXACTLY DOES
one go from homecoming king to someone who mooches off his ex-wife?”
Ouch. Miss Isabelle never minced words, but that stung. I’d figured she’d have all kinds of nosy questions for me after Susan let that particular cat out of the bag, but we hadn’t even been back on the interstate for two miles, heading for the state line. “Oh, Miss Isabelle, it’s such a long story. You don’t want to hear about it. Hey, what’s twenty-three across?”
Miss Isabelle sniffed and tugged her crossword book out of the console, folded back on itself to a half-completed puzzle. “Twenty-three across: ‘a rodent with a case of stage fright.’”
“That’s a cinch.
Possum.
”
“Seven letters.
O-possum.
” She marked the letters while I did my best to miss bumps in the road. It wasn’t too hard. We weren’t to Arkansas yet. After we crossed Stateline Avenue in Texarkana, I couldn’t be responsible for letters crawling over into wrong boxes. “Mmm hmm,” she said. “
Opossum.
”
The word lingered in the air like a challenge. I felt the urge to roll over and play dead.
“You know, Miss Isabelle,” I said, “my momma and I, we’re nothing alike.”
“Were we talking about your mother?” She contemplated me across the car.
“Well, if we’re talking about Steve and why I let him take advantage of me, I guess we’ll have to talk about my momma first.”
“Go on.” She said it calmly, as if she were some kind of shrink, me reclining on her couch.
Tell me how you really feel about your mother.…
“Momma has always needed someone to rescue her. First, a man, and now me. I swore up and down I’d never do that. Early on, I made up my mind to be self-sufficient. I’d make damn sure I had the resources to take good care of my kids—with or without a man by my side.
“Of course, I hoped Steve and I would marry and start a family, but I took cosmetology courses my senior year of high school as a backup plan. I was lucky I did, because I came up pregnant two weeks before graduation, and Steve dropped out of college after one semester. He said he needed to be home when his baby arrived so he could take care of things.” I snorted. “His idea of taking care of things was literally being
home,
watching Stevie Junior all day while I worked my butt off—pardon my French—at the Stop ’n Chop, then going out with his loser friends and drinking beer all night.”
Miss Isabelle clucked her tongue.
“I mean, the complimentary child care was something, but come on, really? I also worried that Stevie Junior had stayed strapped in the baby seat all day, because that’s where he usually was when I got home. Steve always claimed he’d only put him there for a minute to keep him safe while he showered or started dinner—that is, took the hamburger out of the freezer and set it on the counter for me to thaw and cook.
“And you’re right. I let him get away with it, I guess. But I kept my promise to myself. My kids are healthy and happy … more or less. Most of the time.” I reached to turn up the radio and fiddled with the stations. There wasn’t anything but country music, and I doubted that would change between now and Memphis. I twisted the volume knob back down and decided to risk another nosy question I hoped would eventually bring us back to the subject of Robert. “Tell me more about your mother, Miss Isabelle.”
Miss Isabelle turned her face to the window. “After all these years, why do you still call me that? You could just call me Isabelle. But I guess it doesn’t matter as long as you don’t call me any of those other silly names you come up with.”