Authors: James Henderson,Larry Rains
Chapter 23
Once again Neal sat on the bathroom floor, his feet pressed against the locked door. Smoking. This time, however, marijuana.
Two days ago, Perry had presented him two suits, a blue pinstripe two-piece and a black worsted three-piece. She claimed that each had been worn only once, but didn’t say by whom.
Neal chose the blue pinstripe and asked why he needed a suit. Perry ignored his query and insisted he try it on. While doing so he found a cellophane bag filled with marijuana inside the breast pocket. He neglected to mention the bag to Perry, who said the suit fit him perfectly.
Neal couldn’t understand why a worn suit fitting him caused her such delight. Nor could he understand why she’d been following him around since he’d come back from meeting Tasha.
When he stepped outside, she stepped out, too. Several times he’d caught her peering around the corner at him. This was making him super paranoid.
To calm his nerves, he decided to try the marijuana. Lacking the necessary paraphernalia, he’d emptied a cigarette and stuffed pot inside. The first drag scorched his throat.
He waited for something to happen. Nothing. He took another drag, inhaling more deeply. Still nothing.
Am I doing something wrong here?
He started to take another drag when Perry knocked on the door.
“What the hell are you doing in there?”
He grabbed the air freshener and sprayed. “Nothing.”
“Hurry up! I need to use it.”
“What’s wrong with the one downstairs?”
“I prefer to use this one.”
He started laughing, uncontrollably.
I prefer to use this one
was the funniest thing he’d heard in a long time. He opened the door. Perry stood there, frowning, staring at him suspiciously.
“What’s so damn funny?”
This was also funny--no, this was hilarious. He had to lean on the door to keep from falling to his knees laughing. Just when he’d almost composed himself, his mind would replay
I prefer to use this one
and he’d start laughing again.
Tears rolled down his face, his stomach hurt, and he felt bladder pangs, though couldn’t stop laughing.
“We’re smoking dope now?” Perry said.
More laughter.
We? I don’t recall you taking a toke
.
“You need your ass whipped!” Nose twisted in disgust. “Whipped senseless…and left to rot.”
This comment sent Neal to his knees. “Stop it!” laughing uproariously. “Please stop!…Please!…You’re killing me!”
“Not yet.”
Neal fell to the floor, laughing, holding his side with one hand, and started beating the carpet with his fist. He rolled onto his back, a hand covering his forehead, and started coughing…A glob of saliva flew from his mouth and narrowly missed hitting Perry smack in the face as she leaned over him.
Neal watched her expression change, disgust to rage.
The transformation stopped his laughing, cold.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.”
Perry didn’t respond, just stood there looking catatonic, not blinking, grinding her teeth.
Neal got to his feet and crossed to the bedroom. He tried to conjure up a heartfelt apology…and then noticed the ceiling fan…A modern marvel of human technology. It was rather amazing: pull the chain and the blue ornamental blades whirled so fast you saw only a blue blur; pull the chain again and the blades stopped.
Absolutely amazing!
* * * * *
Déjà vu, Perry thought. No, this was more than that. This was a shock, an electrical current that jolted past events to life.
Neal had done this to her…and Neal had slunk away, leaving her to deal with the painful memories of Lester Perkins…
“You sh-sh-sh-shorted me,” Lester complained to the cashier, a muscular, dark-skinned man, in the Prime Pork restaurant full of customers. “I ordered two fries.”
Perry watched as the cashier snatched the bag from Lester, grabbed him by the scruff of his pants, hauled him across the greasy pinewood floor and threw him out.
“St-st-stay out and d-d-don’t come back!”
Witnessing this, Perry no longer wanted a chopped beef barbecue sandwich. She walked out.
Lester stood near her car, hurling insults at the establishment. He was a short, slender man, late thirties, wearing a porkpie hat, plaid shirt and striped polyester pants.
He reminded Perry of someone she’d seen on television. Who exactly? She wasn’t sure.
Perry consoled him, “He was wrong embarrassing you in public like that,” and offered him a ride to wherever he wanted to go.
Lester was smitten, so enamored with Perry he didn’t attempt to speak, simply stared at her, smiling and nodding his head.
They ended up at her house, and later, after a pint of Jose Cuervo, in her bed.
Perry discovered that his tongue, though unable to enounce sibilant syllables, was proficient in another area.
Two weeks later, they got married in the courthouse,
the aftermath of a night of too much Jose Cuervo, too much cunnilingus, and too little sleep.
Lester got stuck on “I do,” and had to be plied with more tequila and a Vicks cough drop to loosen his tongue.
Truth be told, Perry didn’t say
I do
with villainous thoughts in mind. Lester doted on her, and he obeyed her orders, promptly. Plus, his speech impediment severely limited verbal input, which not only reduced arguments but afforded Perry a receptive and non-critical audience.
The bliss-breaker occurred when Perry came home one Saturday afternoon and saw her nineteenth-century Thomas Chippendale mirror missing, a blank spot on the wall above the fireplace. The French-designed, antique mirror. The tripartite, giltwood frame mirror adorned with irises and Japanese phoenixes. The priceless mirror she’d gotten from Robert Stubbs.
The mirror she cherished. Dusted every day without fail.
Glass shards were found in the garbage can in the backyard.
Perry picked out a triangular piece and confronted Lester with it, fighting the temptation to stab him.
Lester looked at it and shrugged. “Wh-wh-what’s that?”
Perry then realized who he resembled on television.
Ernest T. Bass.
The social misfit on
The Andy Griffith Show
. The lunatic prone to throwing rocks through windows and running off laughing.
Jealous joker didn’t have shit and didn’t want to see anyone else with shit.
She wondered why Andy never tossed his silly ass in jail.
No rational reason whatsoever why Lester put his hands on her mirror.
He broke it to spite me! Stuttering bastard!
The following Monday she took Lester to the Crystal Hill Insurance Agency.
Two weeks later she told Lester that her wildest fantasy was to make love on a mountain, under a full moon.
“S-s-so-sounds good to me!” Lester said. “I can do it anywhere.”
An hour before their departure to the park, the phone rang. Lester picked it up.
Perry listened in on his end, noting nothing unusual, just Lester’s usual stuttering and stammering.
Probably some salesperson, she’d thought (a day later she traced the number to her insurance agent). After the call, Lester suddenly became melancholic; he stared at Perry for a long time.
“What?” she said. He did not answer.
When she told him it was time to go, just after sunset, he closed his eyes and shook his head.
No moon appeared that night.
The thirty-five-mile trip to Morrilton, Arkansas, Lester Perkins said absolutely nothing.
Perry took his hand and placed it between her legs… Lester jerked away.
At Petit Jean State Park, closed, Perry said, “You ready, baby?”
Lester did not answer.
“What’s the matter?” hoping he wouldn’t respond, fearing that in his state of mind a two-word reply might take an hour. She rubbed his neck. “Come on, baby, let’s go have some fun!”
Perry got out and ran ahead, peeling off her clothes and throwing them behind her.
Lester followed, head down, dragging his feet.
“Over here,” Perry called to him. She’d run to a spot where not one of several halogen lights illuminated.