Authors: Nancy Bartholomew
I don't know what I thought about exactly. I know my mind wandered back to a lot of the dancers I'd known. I had no idea what had happened to most of them. In this business, friendships tend to be superficial and last only as long as you stay with the club. One night you look up, and you find somebody new sitting beside you at the makeup bench. You don't ask questions about the girl who used to sit where the new girl is now putting on her makeup. Maybe she got fired. Maybe she did too many drugs or got arrested. You don't ask because sometimes it's easier not to know.
I'd only made a couple of long-lasting friends in the whole eight years I'd been dancing. Ruby was gonna become number three, and what happened to her is the reason that I usually stay walled off from the others.
I was driving fast, catching all the green lights and coasting in and out of the few cars on the road. I had the T-tops off and my hair loose. For once, I didn't give a shit about anything but me, the night air, and the ride. The Camaro seemed to sense my mood and balked at the rough way I handled her. She was mushy on the curves and slow to respond, but I was too involved with my own feelings to care. I must've been doing sixty when I hit the entrance to the Hathaway Bridge and began the climb up the tall span.
The cool air at the top of the bridge, hit my face like a blast of cold water, shocking me back into the present. The car seemed to shake and shimmy more than it usually did on the concrete bridge. I have a fear of heights, especially heights over water. I can't drive over Hathaway without noticing every little shake and shimmy. Now I was having trouble keeping the car from pulling to the left. Probably out of alignment again, I hoped, but I was only fooling myself.
“Slow down,” I cautioned myself as I started up the slope of bridge that led into Panama City. The state patrol station lay at the foot of the bridge and all I needed was a ticket to cap off the evening.
As I approached the top of the bridge, I realized that there was something drastically wrong with the car. The entire front end shook like a blender gone out of control, and it was all I could do to hang on to the wheel. I couldn't see the water below me through the inky darkness, but I knew it was there, a hundred feet down. My palms began to sweat. The Camaro lurched sharply, pulling me into the middle of the span and into the path of oncoming traffic.
I couldn't touch the horn to warn the other drivers, because I was fighting to keep from plowing across three lanes of traffic and through the guardrail. There was a popping noise, and then the car seemed to drop to the left and spin. I closed my eyes, not wanting to see what would happen next. Horns blared, brakes squealed, and I braced myself. The wheel shook out of my hands and I covered my face.
The car banged up against something, then shuddered quickly to a stop. Slowly I uncovered my eyes. Straight ahead, I could see nothing but darkness with tiny lights in the distance. The wind blew salt air off the bay and into my face. I had come to a rest against the low concrete guardrail, a thick strip of concrete and steel that didn't seem to be an adequate protection from the water below.
Bright lights from traffic in both directions lit up the top of the bridge, making it impossible to see anything but the immediate area around the car. I was less than three feet from the grille of a monster truck.
“Damn!” The driver of the truck, a frizzy-haired blonde in tight jeans and cowboy boots, was climbing down from the cab and starting to run toward me. “Damn, Shazamm! I nearly ran your ass over!” she cried. “Lookit there!” She was pointing to my left front fender.
I slowly stepped out of the car, my entire body shaking as if I were cold. My left front wheel was gone, completely gone, and the axle had ground to a halt in the thick concrete of the bridge span.
Other cars were pulling up and stopped by my car, which spanned the center lanes of the Hathaway Bridge. Doors were opening and slamming and I could hear but not see people beginning to approach.
“Sugar,” the blonde said, “if I was you, I'd sue the asshole what put that tire on! You could've been
kilt!
”
From the base of the bridge I heard the high-pitched whine of a state trooper's siren as it started out of the patrol station and began climbing the span to reach us. I thought about Roy Dell Parks and his pit crew's assurances that my car had been fixed up good as new, and I swore that the first thing I'd do after I got myself and my car off the bridge was kick Roy Dell's ass.
Eleven
I lay in bed the next morning surveying the day's options. Fluffy lay beside me, her head upon the satin pillow that I'd bought especially for her and had embroidered with a pink satin
F.
I knew what I wanted to do, given the opportunity. I wanted to hunt down sorry Roy Dell Parks. I wanted to see the look on his scruffy face when I appeared at the track, or wherever he kept himself during the daytime, and pulled my fist back one more time. Of course, today that wouldn't be an option. Ruby Lee Diamond's funeral was to be held in her tiny hometown of Wewahitchka and I had to be there.
“Fluff,” I said, staring into her huge brown eyes, “no disrespect to the dead, but I'm not exactly a funeral person, see what I'm saying?” Fluffy yawned and blinked. Clearly she felt entitled to more beauty sleep.
“Ruby's gone, Fluff. A funeral ain't gonna make it better. But maybe I'll find out something that'll help me catch her killer.” Fluffy stretched, her tiny paws just reaching the edge of my shoulder. I reached over and scratched her neck below her chin. From the kitchen, the sounds of the automatic coffeepot swinging into action could be heard. The day was starting.
“You know,” I said, stepping out of bed and searching for my feather-trimmed bedroom slippers, “these Southern funerals can be kinda unpredictable.” Fluffy was stretching on the end of the bed now, preparing to hop down and make a beeline for the doggie door. Fluffy's not much for morning conversation.
“Well, I'm just hoping they don't go having an altar call or start slipping snakes into the congregation.” Fluffy left on that note.
“Well, I don't know about you,” I called after her, “but I don't have a thing to wear.” The slam of the doggie door answered me. “Fine for you,” I called after her, “but I get first dibs on the shower!” I was talking to myself again, the story of my freaking life. I headed for the coffeepot. If I was going to be in Wewa by two, I'd have to get a move on. It was almost noon.
I had one other problem. As of four
A.M.
, I was without transportation. The Camaro sat over at Bud's 24 Hour Service and Repair, awaiting a new wheel, and wouldn't be ready until late afternoon. I walked over to the bedroom window and looked out across the street to Raydean's trailer. There was only one option and I knew from experience that it would be a costly one. Raydean's 1962 black-and-white Plymouth Fury sat in her detached garage, neatly covered with a bright blue tarp for extra protection. Raydean's husband had bought the former police cruiser at an auction and treated it like the child they'd never had.
“Why, shoot yes, you can use the Plymouth to get to Ruby's funeral,” Raydean said when I called. “I was just dreading making the drive alone. You can ride us both out there.”
I knew better than to argue her out of it. She long ago explained to me that where her Plymouth went, she went. But still I tried.
“Raydean, you don't need to get all tuckered out going to Ruby's funeral. It's going to be ninety in the shade today, and that heat's not good for you.”
“Nope,” she said firmly, “if Roy Dell went and fell out over this gal, well, I reckon I oughta go see what all the fussing was about. Besides, she was a friend of yours, and you'll need some moral support. These are trying times, honey.”
I sighed and gave up. “All right, I'll be over in about a half an hour. Thanks, Raydean.” Raydean slammed down the phone, apparently too caught up in the upcoming events to fool with the social nicety of saying good-bye.
I don't have many church outfits in my closet. It's not that I've turned my back on my Catholic upbringing. I prefer to think that the Church has turned its back on me. I haven't given up on God. I think She and I see eye to eye on a lot of issues. Organized religion and all the attendant hypocrisy is what I object to most. Ruby would be judged a sinner by a jury of her peers; I was just certain of that. They'd sit in their pews and call it mourning, but I knew it was smug self-satisfaction that would bring them to her funeral. I was only going because Ruby couldn't speak for herself any longer, and someone ought to be there to stand up for all that was pure and holy in her.
I was thinking about that, and how I'd probably be thrown out of the By Christ United in His Word Holiness Church, as I started down the stairs outside my trailer. Raydean was already waiting, the cover hastily torn off the Fury and the doors wide open. She was either airing the hot car out or shooing aliens.
“Let's get a move on,” Raydean said, scrambling into the passenger seat. She pulled down the passenger side visor and adjusted what can only be described as an oversized Easter bonnet. Very slowly she pulled out a four-inch hat pin, carefully reinserting it in the exact same location.
“If you don't get a move on, they'll start without us. Didn't your mama ever teach you it weren't proper to enter a tabernacle of the Lord's sanctuary after the choir has done assembled for the pastor's good word? Put the pedal to the metal, sugar. We're gonna miss all the good stuff!”
Raydean actually turned out to be helpful. She knew Wewahitchka and led me straight to the church, a small cinderblock rectangle just on the edge of town. It was one of those drive-in-and-park-on-the-grass-up-to-the-front-door kind of churches, with a small white sign with black letters that looked to be poorly hand-painted. My heart sank further as I saw Brother Everitt's name at the bottom of the sign. We were in for a long sermon about the wages of sin and I was in no mood to hear it.
I hated to take Raydean's mint-condition Plymouth bounding over the rutted churchyard, but there was no other way to do it. People had filled up the front of the grass and gravel area, leaving us only the dusty red-clay pitted back area.
“Now, this is what I call a turnout!” Raydean declared with satisfaction. “We're gonna raise the roof here!” Raydean grabbed the top of her hat and directed her gaze skyward. “Be afraid, alien evildoers! Be very afraid!”
An elderly pair of women, making their way slowly across the dusty lot, stopped as Raydean shrieked her instructions skyward.
“Amen to that, sister,” one murmured.
“Right on!” the other proclaimed. She wore wild orange beads and seemed to be a kindred spirit to Raydean.
As we approached the front door of the tiny church, a figure in a black robe emerged from the side of the building, rushing toward the door. Brother Everitt, his short black hair slicked back with pomade, was sweeping up the steps, an impatient scowl on his face and a Bible in his hand.
“Get your tail in gear, girl,” Raydean said as we started up the steps after him. “The brother's fixing to give the call to worship.”
We ran up the stairs, bursting into the sanctuary and coming to an abrupt halt as Raydean surveyed the congregation for a choice seat. Then, straightening her bonnet and adjusting her thick purse on her arm, she was off again, sailing down the red-carpeted aisle like a steamship.
I feared she was heading for the front row, but she stopped on a dime a third of the way up.
“This'll do fine,” she whispered, clambering over the two elderly women from the parking lot in her attempt to get situated. “We won't miss a thing from here.”
I sat down and took a moment to get my bearings. There were maybe eighty people packed into the minuscule building, all looking back over their shoulders as newcomers entered, darting a furtive wave, a quick smile, and whispered greetings. It seemed more like a social gathering than a funeral. St. Mary's wouldn't have tolerated such a display. Where I come from, church is a penance. You don't chat, you suffer.
The By Christ United in His Word Holiness Church was lacking in a few of the things we Catholics consider essential. There were no icons, for one thing. A color portrait of Jesus, hanging centered above the pulpit, seemed to be the only acknowledgment of the religious heavy hitters. There was no altar, no gold crosses or candles, and furthermore, there was no incense.
The interior was very plain. Paneled fake-wood walls with no stained-glass windows, just red colored glass. This was a bargain-basement house of worship. There wasn't even a real organ, just keyboards and a piano, with a big-haired fat lady thumbing through a sheaf of music. The nuns would've had a heyday with this place.
The fat lady glanced toward the rear of the church, stiffened, and brought her pudgy fingers down hard on the keyboard. Music began to play and the congregation rose to its feet. “The Old Rugged Cross” rang out through the room as Brother Everitt began his slow procession down the center aisle, followed by a couple who had to be Ruby's parents.
Ruby's mom was short and trim, with dark hair coiled neatly into a bun. She wore a navy-blue dress and hung on to her husband's arm, her face swollen with tears. Ruby's father looked as if he were barely able to stand, let alone support his grieving wife. His face was pale, his eyes dark black circles of pain, and he seemed almost unable to lift one foot and place it in front of the other.
I felt Raydean's strong arm slip around my waist and realized, as she pressed a handkerchief into my hand, that I had started crying. Around us, voices were singing. People's expressions seemed unaffected by the reality of why we were all in this church on a Thursday morning. My friend, her parents' child, had died and would never again be seen on the face of this planet. The grief suddenly stabbed like a knife into my chest. Raydean's comforting presence seemed to be the only anchor in an ocean of unexpected pain.