Sailor & Lula (16 page)

Write often peanut. I am in the laundry at 5. There are car magazines and TV. Other than that is mail.

I love you. It is hard to end this letter. If I stop writing your gone. There is not a lot more to say though. Vaya con dios mi amor.

Sailor

“I'm goin', Mama. No way I can't go.”

“You ain't takin' Pace, though.”

“Course I am, Mama.”

Marietta sighed. “What time's Sailor's bus get in?”

“Six.”

Neither Marietta nor Lula said anything for at least half a minute.

Finally, Marietta asked, “Got any plans?”

“Figure we'll go have supper someplace. Maybe get some barbecue out by Stateline. Sailor always liked that Havana Brown's Pig Pickin'.”

“Well, you be careful with that boy, Lula.”

“Sailor ain't a boy no more, Mama. He's thirty-three years old.”

“Don't mean him,” said Marietta. “It's Pace concerns me.”

“Really, Mama, I gotta go.”

“I'll be at Dal's, honey, you need me.”

“Hi and all to Dal. We'll talk later.”

“Bye, Lula. Love you.”

“Love you.”

Marietta hung up first. Lula was relieved that Marietta hadn't told her a second time to be careful.

“Pace? You ready, honey?”

The boy walked into the front room from the kitchen, eating a chocolate bar. Lula got up from the couch and looked in the wall mirror.

“Shouldn't be eatin' no candy now, darlin'.”

“Just a Mounds, Mama.”

Lula finished fixing her hair, picked up her purse and headed for the door.

“Come, baby,” she said.

From the back seat of the car, Pace said, “How'll we know what he looks like?”

Lula made a wide left turn onto Jeff Davis Highway without signaling, causing the driver of a white Thunderbird headed across the intersection to jam on his brakes in order to avoid a collision. The T-bird driver sat on his horn and shouted at Lula.

“Mama, you almost crashed us.”

Lula steadied the steering wheel of her Camaro with her left elbow while she struck a match and lit up a More. She threw the match out the window and took possession of the wheel with both hands, the cigarette clamped in her teeth.

“Don't give me no trouble now, Pace, please. This ain't my easiest day in a long time. And what do you mean how we gonna know what your daddy looks like? You seen his photo.”

“How'll he know what we look like? He seen our photo?”

Lula puffed furiously several times on her More before she took it out of her mouth and dropped it.

“Damn it, child! Now look what you made me do.”

“What I make you do, Mama?”

Lula felt around on the floor with one hand until she found the cigarette.

“Nothin', honey,” Lula said, stubbing it out in the ashtray. “Mama's just actin' strange.”

“You ain't actin', Mama.”

“Why, Pace Roscoe Ripley, ain't you got the cute mouth tonight.”

“It's Grandmama does the actin'.”

Lula didn't know whether to laugh or pretend to be angry.

“Who'd you hear that from?”

“Uncle Johnnie.”

Lula laughed. “Then it must be true,” she said.

“I still ain't sure what my daddy looks like.”

“Like you, sweetheart. You and your daddy got the same mouth, eyes, ears and nose. Only difference is your color hair is black, like mine.”

It started to rain, so Lula turned on the wipers, rolled up her window and flipped on the AC.

“My daddy ain't never killed nobody, has he, Mama?”

“Course he ain't never killed nobody. Why'd you say that, Pace?”

“Heard Uncle Johnnie and Grandmama talkin'.”

“And?”

“Grandmama said how Sailor murdered a man.”

“Wrong, baby. Your daddy never committed no murder. Musta been you didn't hear Grandmama proper. He made some mistakes, is all. Your daddy ain't always been so lucky.”

Pace leaned over on the passenger side of the front seat and rolled down the window, letting the rain in.

“Pace, you close that. The seat's gettin' wet.”

“I like the rain, Mama, it's steamin'.”

Lula reached across and rolled the window back up.

“We're almost at the depot, honey. Sit back a minute.”

Lula pulled the Camaro into a stall in the Trailways parking lot and cut the motor. She sat and watched as the blinking blue-and-white neon BUS sign gnawed its way through the grainy grey sky and sprawled across the windshield.

“Why we sittin' here, Mama?”

“Thinkin' a second, baby. Somethin' just now reminded me of a place me and your daddy stayed once.”

“Where?”

“In a old hotel by the end of a river.”

Lula shuddered and without thinking slid her right hand inside her shirt and caressed her left breast.

“Mama, it's hot.”

Lula opened her door and she and Pace climbed out. They held hands as they walked through the warm rain toward the station. The big clock on the side of the building showed ten minutes past six.

“I'm scared, Mama.”

“Why, honey?”

“Case Daddy don't like me. What if he don't like that I got black hair?”

“Pace, your daddy'd love you even if you didn't have no hair at all.”

Lula saw Sailor as soon as she opened the door. He was sitting in an orange plastic chair against the opposite wall, smoking a cigarette.

“Still partial to Camels, huh?” Lula said to him.

Sailor smiled. “First pack of tailor-mades I had in a while,” he said.

He stood up and looked down at Pace, who was still holding hands with Lula. Sailor put out his right hand.

“You must be my son,” he said.

“Shake hands with your daddy,” said Lula.

Pace released Lula's hand and put his own in Sailor's. Sailor gripped it gently but firmly, pumped once, then let go.

“Pleasure to meet you, Pace. I read a lot about you.”

Sailor looked at Lula. Her eyes were full of tears and she let them loose. “Good thing it's rainin',” she said, smiling. “Nobody'll know the difference.”

“Nobody'd care but me,” said Sailor.

Lula forced a laugh. “You hungry? Pace and I ain't had dinner yet.”

“Lead the way.”

Sailor picked up his black metal suitcase and followed them outside.

“No rag top, huh?” said Sailor as Lula drove.

Lula started to reply, then stopped. She stared straight ahead, gripping the wheel hard. Suddenly, she pulled over to the side of the road, killed the engine and got out of the car.

“What's wrong, Mama?” said Pace.

“Don't worry, son,” Sailor said, turning to him and patting Pace's head. “Just stay here.”

Sailor got out and went over to Lula, who was leaning back against the hood.

“I'm sorry, Sailor. I just can't help it. Give me a minute and I'll quit.”

“Boy's frightened, Lula. This ain't no good.”

“Really, Sail, I'll be okay. Look, it's just the rain now.”

“It's a mistake, honey. You two go on. I'll walk back to the depot.”

“What're you talkin' about? That's your son in there.”

Sailor smiled. “He ain't never known me, Lula, so there ain't much for him to forget. Not seein' each other for ten years makes it next best to simple for us, too.”

“How can you say that, Sailor?”

“What makes sense, is all.”

Sailor went around to the driver's side, reached in and pulled the keys out of the ignition. He unlocked the trunk, removed his suitcase and closed the lid.

“Don't do this, Sailor, please,” said Lula.

Sailor slipped the keys in her shirt pocket and leaned his head into the car.

“Oiga, amigo,”
he said to Pace. “If ever somethin' don't feel right to you, remember what Pancho said to the Cisco Kid: ‘Let's went, before we are dancing at the end of a rope, without music.' ”

Sailor stood up and looked at Lula. Her long black hair was matted from the rain and her eye makeup ran in dark streaks down her face.

“You been doin' fine without me, peanut. There ain't no need to make life tougher'n it has to be.”

He picked up his suitcase, kissed Lula lightly on the lips and walked away. She let him go.

1942
-
1990

 

 

Pleasure which vanishes vanishes for good. . . . Other pleasures come, which replace nothing.

—Roland Barthes

Perdita met Manny Flynn in the San Antonio airport restaurant and bar. He was gobbling chicken fajitas and she was smoking a cigarette, an empty glass in front of her on the table, which was next to his.

“You wanna 'nother one?” Manny asked.

Perdita looked at him. Fat but neat. He wiped his thin lavender lips with a napkin. A waitress came over.

“Sweetheart, bring me another Bud and give that girl there whatever she wants.”

“Wish somebody'd make me an offer like that,” said the waitress. “What'll it be, honey?”

Perdita took a long drag on her Marlboro, blew out the smoke and killed it in an ashtray.

“Coke,” she said.

“Diet?”

“Not hardly.”

The waitress looked hard at Perdita for a moment, then wrote on Manny Flynn's check.

“One Bud, one Coke,” she said, and hurried away.

Manny forked down the last bite of fajita, wiped his mouth again with the napkin, stood up and redeposited himself at Perdita's table.

“You live in San Antone?” he asked.

“Not really.”

“You sure do have beautiful black hair. See my reflection in it just about.”

Perdita withdrew another Marlboro from the pack on the table and lit it with a pink and black zebra-striped Bic.

“You catchin' or waitin' on one?” asked Manny.

“One what?”

“A plane. You headin' out somewhere?”

“My flight's been cancelled.”

“Where you lookin' to go?”

“Nowhere now. About yourself?”

“Phoenix. Four-day computer convention. I sell software. By the way, my name is Manny Flynn. Half Jewish, half Irish. What's yours?”

The waitress brought their drinks, set them down quickly on the table without looking at Perdita, and left.

“Perdita Durango. Half Tex, half Mex.”

Manny laughed, picked up his beer and drank straight from the bottle.

“Pretty name for a pretty Miss. It
is
Miss, isn't it?”

Perdita looked directly into Manny Flynn's eyes and said, “You want me to come to Phoenix with you? You pay my way, buy my meals, bring me back. I'll keep your dick hard for four days. While you're at the convention, I'll do some business, too. Plenty of guys at the hotel, right? Fifty bucks a pop for showin' tit and milkin' the cow. Quick and clean. You take half off each trick. How about it?”

Manny put the bottle back down on the table, then picked it up again and took a swig. Perdita turned away and puffed on her cigarette.

“I gotta go,” Manny said. He threw several bills on the table. “That'll cover mine and yours.”

He stood and picked up a briefcase and walked away. The waitress came over.

“I'm goin' off duty now,” she said to Perdita. “You finished here?” Perdita looked at her. The waitress was about forty-five, tall and skinny with bad teeth and phony red hair that was all kinked up so that it resembled a Brillo pad. She wore one ring, a black cameo with an ivory scorpion on the third finger of her right hand. Perdita wondered what her tattoos looked like.

“Just about,” said Perdita.

The waitress scooped up Manny Flynn's money. Perdita nodded at it. “Gentleman said for you to keep the change.”

“Obliged,” said the waitress.

Perdita sat and smoked her Marlboro until the ash was down almost to the filter.

“Dumb cocksucker,” she said, and dropped the butt into the Coke.

“Mummy says he has more money than he knows what to do with.”

“Why does he work, then? He still works, doesn't he?”

“Oh, he's just so greedy, that's why. Mummy says he needs to work just to have something to do, which doesn't make any sense at all. At least not to me. I mean, he has all kinds of stocks and everything, lots of property all over the country. He's just so cheap I can't stand it, and neither can Mummy.”

“So why does she go out with him?”

“It's just someone, I suppose, until she can find a man she really likes. Could be he's hung like an Australian crocodile, for all I know. Mummy's always had a weakness for big cocks. She told me.”

“She
told
you that? My mother's always acted like babies come from a stork.”

“You mean like dropped down a chimney?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Both girls laughed.

“She'd never talk to me about sex. Once I asked her if they had Tampons when she was a girl and she said, ‘When the time comes, young lady, we'll discuss all that sort of thing.' Then, when I got my period in March, remember? The week before my birthday?”