The Sweet Potato Queens' First Big-Ass Novel (12 page)

“You don't
sound
like you're from California,” Mary Bennett said.

“I'm from Jersey,” she said, her “Jersey” sounding like “Joisy.” “I miss the East, but I think California is a better place to raise kids. Bunny agrees.” She elbowed Gerald. “Right, bunny?”

Bunny/Gerald nodded sheepishly.

Under normal circumstances at a Queenly gathering, one of us (probably Mary Bennett) wouldn't have been able to resist ribbing Gerald about his “bunny” nickname. As it was, nobody said a word.

“Excuse me, dear,” Gerald said in an overly formal tone as he rose from his chair. “I need to visit the facilities.”

“Go ahead, bunny,” Sheila said. “Us girls will just chitchat.”

Gerald left, and Sheila gave us all a broad smile, revealing teeth dotted with bright red lipstick. “I'm so thrilled to meet all of you. Gerald talks about you constantly. I told him, ‘Gerald, what's up with all these women friends? Should I be jealous?' He says to me, ‘Dumpling'—that's what he calls me in private—‘don't get yourself into a swivet. I haven't shtupped any of them. They're my best friends in the whole world.' I'm so lucky to have a man like Gerald who isn't afraid to be in touch with his feminine side, and is capable of having platonic relationships with members of the opposite sex.”

“It's a rare thing in a man,” I said with a weak smile.

“Gerald's special all right,” Tammy said, and Patsy nodded along.

“He is a PRIZE!” Sheila said. Her hair was so lacquered with spray, not a strand stirred when she moved her head—it was preternaturally perfect, and there was something vaguely disturbing about it.

Mary Bennett, who'd kept curiously quiet, lit a Virginia Slim and stared contemplatively at the smoke rings.

“I have a personal question for you, Sheila, dahlin',” she said.

Tammy, Patsy, and I traded glances of alarm. We'd heard
that
tone before.

“Fire away,” Sheila said with a wave of her manicured hand. “I'm used to sensitive topics.”

“Good.” Mary Bennett smiled. “I was just wondering if it ever occurred to you that Gerald might be a wee bit
too
much in touch with his feminine side? That he might, in fact, be as gay as a goose? Because the truth is, when Gerald told me he was bringing his sweetie here, I quite frankly expected a Sherman, not a Sheila.”

I gulped back a gasp, and Patsy gripped the arms of her chair. Tammy's face was two shades paler than normal.

“I hear you, Mary Bennett, and I don't mind your frankness,” Sheila said, with a seemingly unfazed expression. “I agree Gerald might have some latent desires, but his wish to be a Jewish family man, respected by his parents, is far stronger.”

“What about you?” I surprised myself by asking. “Why would
you
want to marry a man who's probably gay?”

Sheila put a hand to her belly and said, “Tick-tock. Tick-tock. I'm almost forty, Jill. You girls might not understand this now, but one day you will. There's more important things in a relationship than mind-blowing sex.”

“Well, this group would prolly dispute THAT, hunny,” Mary Bennett said, “but have you thought about how his family is gonna react—I mean, you not being Jewish and all?”

We all got quiet. The only sound was the whirring of the blender behind the bar, and the muffled boom-boom of the bass from a Donna Summer song next door.

“Lift those chins, girls,” Sheila said, brightly. “Your dear Gerald is ecstatic, I promise you. This is a good thing for everyone!”

“Here he comes,” Patsy said, taking a sip of her ginger ale.

“Did y'all have a nice visit?” Gerald said as he sat.

“We did, bunny!” Sheila said, pecking his cheek. “Your girlfriends are such sweeties. We were gabbing away like old pals.”

“Good. It's very important to me that everyone I love gets along.”

 

“Could I stay at your place tonight?” Mary Bennett said, touching my elbow just as everyone was leaving the disco. “We're painting the inside of the house, and the fumes will make me sick.”

“Of course,” I said, picking up my purse from our table. “But you're going to have to sleep in a double bed with me. My apartment is ti-ny and there's no guest room.”

“It'll be like a slumber party! Besides, I'm used to close quarters living in New York.”

Mary Bennett followed me home in her convertible from high school. She always drove the Tammymobile when she was back home. I was thrilled it was still running. The red leather seats and gleaming chrome brought back so many fond memories.

“Get comfy,” I said to Mary Bennett as I switched on the living room light. “I gotta pee.”

Mary Bennett made herself at home. She stretched out on my spindly saggy sofa, legs dangling off one end. When I returned, her nose was deep into my journal.

“Whatda hell do you think you're doing?!” I asked.

“Well, you didn't have any magazines, and your TV's all snowy,” she said, licking a finger as she turned a page.

“Hand it over.”

“This is funny stuff,” Mary Bennett said with a snicker. “Have you ever thought about being a writer?”

I snatched the journal from her hand. “Have you ever thought 'bout mindin' your own fuckin' business?”

“Hell no,” Mary Bennett said, swinging her long legs around so she faced me. “That's why I'm racking my brain trying to decide what we're going to do about Gerald.”

I sat in the only other seat—a rattan chair that hung from the ceiling. It had looked cute in the store, but its swaying sometimes gave me motion sickness.

“I've heard of gay guys getting married and having children. Maybe Gerald—”

“Horse shit!” Mary Bennett said. “Marriage to that woman would be like locking him up in a cage. He needs to run free—get all wild and woolly. I know!” She snapped her fingers. “We should take him to a gay bar the night before his wedding.”

“Too obvious,” I said, rocking back and forth. “Besides, don't you think he sampled that scene in San Francisco?”

“He used to be into
drugs,
not the gay scene. He probably got high, hoping to lessen his attraction to men. I'll bet he's never even been in a gay bar before.”

“We actually have a few right here in Jackson now—I've been, had a blast,” I said. A thought suddenly came to me. “There
is
this fabulous gay guy who works out at my gym. He's the most gorgeous creature you've ever seen, not to mention the nicest. He's the minister of a nondenominational church that meets in an empty store downtown. Maybe he could talk to Gerald.”

“We could have a bachelor party for Gerald and have this guy jump out of the cake!” Mary Bennett said.

“I think subtlety is the key here. Let me give it some thought and…Lord have mercy!” The combination of the spinning chair and three Jack Daniel's (Seven and lemon held) were making me queasy.

“Excuse me,” I said, hotfooting it toward the bathroom. “Oh, Lord, I think I'm gonna lose my lunch.”

“Can I do somethin', hunny?” Mary Bennett said, following on my heels.

“No,” I said, shooing her off. “I've always considered pukin' to be a very private affair.”

I was in the bathroom a good while, squashing my cheek against the coolness of the tile floor. Mary Bennett had called out to me a couple of times to make sure I was still breathing, and I'd moan a reply. After a half hour or so the room quit lurching, and I thought I could pick my face up off the floor.

I rose on rubbery legs, brushed my teeth, and turned off the bathroom fan that I'd turned on earlier to drown out my gagging. I was about to open the door when I heard a high-pitched cry.

“But, Daddy. I'm down to my last few dollars. You can't cut me off.”

Mary Bennett's voice sounded so desperate and childlike I scarcely recognized it. In all the years I'd known her, I'd never heard her cry.

“I can't do that, Daddy. Please don't ask me. I love him. Don't hang up!”

The room was suddenly silent. I slowly opened the door and saw Mary Bennett sitting cross-legged on the sofa, desperately trying to choke back tears.

“Mary Bennett, is there anything I can do?” I asked gently.

“I've always considered a pity party to be a very private affair,” she said in a ragged voice.

I sat next to her, and hugged her neck. She melted into my chest, crying softly. After a few moments she lifted her head and said, “Pleeeze don't tell the others, okay?”

I nodded. “Do you need some money? Warren pretty much cleaned me out, but I do have a little bit of savings—”

“Hush, Jill,” she said, putting a finger to her lips. “I wouldn't take a cent from you. The convertible is in my name, so I can sell it if I absolutely have to. There's this fellow in the neighborhood who's always had his eye on it.”

“The Tammymobile,” I said sadly.

“Well, I won't sell if I can help it, but don't think one more thing about it. One day I'll have enough money to buy us the biggest, flashiest convertible in the entire world. Screw Daddy's money! I'll make my own.”

“I guess there wasn't really any painting going on at your house.”

She shook her head. “When I told Daddy about Brian, he had ‘his people' check him out—found out he's a mostly unemployed actor, just like me, and swore he would NOT support TWO of us—that the Man should be the Provider and all that crap. Said that until Brian got a real job or I ditched him, I'd not get another penny. Told me I could get a job and support his sorry ass if I wanted to but he'd be damned if HE was gonna pay for another MAN to sit on his butt claiming to be an ‘actor'—oh, fuck it. Forgive me for fibbin'. I didn't want to burden you with my problems. And there really ISN'T anything wrong with Brian—he's a good, honest, hardworking man—only it's harder to GET the work than do it, and Daddy just doesn't understand…I'm sorry—you don't need to hear all my troubles.”

“But Mary Bennett, that's why you
have
friends.”

That started her blubbering all over again. “I can't lose Brian, Jill. He's my first.”

“I know,” I said, lightly scratching her back. “The first love is the strongest.”

“Not just that,” Mary Bennett said, pulling away and staring up at me, her eyes fringed with damp lashes. “He's my first
everything.
”

“You don't mean…”

“Yes, I do,” she said with a solemn nod.

“But Mary Bennett, in high school—”

“All an act,” she said, biting her bottom lip until it turned white from her teeth marks. “My daddy was sleeping with anyone in a skirt, so I figured I would fight back by sleeping with anyone in pants. Trouble was, I was too scared to actually go through with it. But that was the beauty of high school, you didn't have to actually
do
the dirty deed to get credit for it, you just had to act like ya did.”

“Oh my God,” I said, gently grasping her wrist.

“Brian understands me,” Mary Bennett said. “It's like he's got those X-ray glasses from the back of the comic book, and can see straight into my heart. No man's ever been able to do that—none's ever cared enough to even try. He is the only man I ever believed
really
loves
me.
” A brittle laugh escaped her lips. “It's ironic, ya know. The one time Daddy pays me any attention is the only time I wish he wouldn't.”

“I'm so, so sorry, hunny.”

“That's all right,” she said, scrubbing away her tears with her fists. “Ever since I was a little girl, my dream was to please my daddy—make him proud of me—but this time, I'm gonna have to please myself.”

T
he thrill is gone,” I sang in a melancholy voice as I slipped files into their proper places in the cabinet.

“Jill!” My boss stuck her head inside my office, reading glasses dangling from a chain around her neck. “Could you come here for a minute?”

“Sure, Penny,” I said, banging shut a drawer. I strode to her office and saw Mrs. Dickerman sitting in one of the rounded-back chairs across from Penny's desk. Mrs. Dickerman had on a pair of bright blue shorts that accentuated the network of fine veins running through her pale, fleshy legs. On her feet she wore rubber flip-flops, and one of her toes was wrapped with a bandage. I scooted into the chair next to her and nodded a greeting, but she didn't meet my eye. The mood in the office was decidedly frosty and grim, and I was pretty certain I was fixin' to get an ass chewin'.

Penny's eyes were blue and chillingly cold, and her hooked nose looked sharp as a hawk's.

“Jill, did you happen to notice the injury to Mrs. Dickerman's big toe?”

“Yes, ma'am,” I said.

“Do you have any idea how she got that injury?”

“No.”
But I'm sure you're going to tell me.

“She dropped a can of cream of celery soup on it,” Penny said. “Does that ring a bell?”

“I don't think this is
entirely
Jill's fault,” Mrs. Dickerman said with a whimper. “After all, my hands were slippery. I'd been moisturizing with Jergen's.”

I knew exactly what this was all leading to. At a recent weigh-in, Mrs. Dickerman complained that even though she'd lost twenty pounds, her upper arms were still mushy. I'd shown her a triceps exercise that would help battle those batwings, and suggested that she hold a soup can for added resistance.

“What's our slogan here at Quick Weight-Loss Center?” Penny demanded.

“‘Lose weight without exercise.' But Mrs. Dickerman wanted to—”

“Jill,” Penny cut me off in warning. “Mrs. Dickerman, I'm very sorry about your toe, and I'm sure Jill is, too. She had no business recommending such a dangerous exercise.” She held out a piece of paper. “Here's a coupon for five dollars off your next visit. We'll see you in a week.”

Mrs. Dickerman shuffled up to the desk to get her coupon. Her eyes slid guiltily in my direction. I knew she hadn't intended to get me into trouble.

“We have a problem, Jill,” Penny said after Mrs. Dickerman left. “I should fire you. You've been warned not to discuss exercise with clients. Showing Mrs. Dickerman an arm exercise right after our last talk was insubordination, pure and simple.”

“I'm sorry,” I said, knowing better than to argue.

Penny twisted a paper clip in her hand. “However, since you've been here ten years and this is the first
real
problem I've had with you, I'm going to give you one more chance. But, as punishment, I'm demoting you. Christy will now be our new manager.”

I nodded, not trusting what I might say. Christy was three years younger than me and had worked at Quick Weight-Loss Center for only six months. She kept a Magic 8 Ball on her desk and was always consulting it for important decisions, being too uncoordinated to flip a coin and also having trouble deciding whether to choose “heads” or “tails.” The Magic 8 ball was a real time-saver for ol' Chris.

 

“You're in a foul mood,” I said to Tammy, pumping my arms as we circled the walking track around the YMCA. I slowed my pace to a near crawl so she wouldn't have to walk alone. Patsy and Mary Bennett were so far ahead you couldn't tell who they were.

“I am
perspiring,
” Tammy said, flapping her arms like a chicken. “And the other girls are a mile away—we're missing all the latest rumors. Why don't we just go somewhere and EAT. Hunny, now, tell the truth—wouldn't you
really
rather sit around in some nice air-conditioning—with a tableful of sweet, salty, fried, and au gratins with a big side of delicious gossip?” she pleaded. “Lord, I know I would. I despise all this sweat—it's disgusting!”

“That's the idea,” I said. “You're supposed to work up a sweat—there's simply no other way to get in shape.”

“Huh! I don't know that I
want
to change my shape. I think men prefer curvy women. My daddy always said the only use he had for a
skinny
woman was to take a message to a
fat
one.”

She'd been squawking the entire fifteen minutes we'd been walking, and I was getting more resentful by the minute. It was
my
turn to be in a dark mood. I was the one with the miserable job. I was the one who spent night after lonely night in a narrow-ass bed while Tammy cuddled up to her cutie-pie Ken doll. What the hell did she have to be crabby about?

“Guess who called last night?” Tammy said, her lower lip jutted out so far a pigeon could have perched on it. “Stacy. That's who.”

“Stacy?”

“The Hair Ball girl. Remember? Turns out she called the chairman of the ball to tell her about me, and the chairman told her they didn't have any openings on their stupid committees so my services wouldn't be needed.”

I paused for a moment to shake a rock loose from my Adidas. The sun was just coming up, and the grass was glittering with dew. “Count your lucky stars. They probably would have had you stuffing envelopes or some other mind-numbing chore.”

“Guess who the chairman of the Hair Ball is? Marcy Stevens!” Tammy said, spitting out the name. “Only it's not Stevens anymore, it's Highsmith. She married the president of Highsmith Insurance. No openings, my ass—Marcy just didn't want
me
on the committee. It's the fuckin' Key Club all over again.”

“I hate her—hope she dies,” I said offhandedly and started to walk again. It didn't even register that Tammy had slipped back into her true trash-talking ways. I'd been the one to suggest an early-morning trek, but I was no longer in the mood; my legs and mind felt heavy.

“It doesn't matter,” she said bitterly from her own world. “You can have a great job and a red-hot husband, but you can't ever get away from assholes like Marcy. She probably laughed herself sick at the idea of the loser from high school trying to be a part of her precious Hair Ball. She's just been WAITING all these years to get back at me for her Homecoming Humiliation.”

“So what?” I said, without my usual patience. “Even if she's trying to snub you, who is
Marcy
to you anymore? Frankly, I'd love to have seen her face when Stacy told her that she wanted YOU on her committee! I bet she nearly shit, and now she's prolly in a complete meltdown that Stacy will find out about Homecoming and
she'll
be humiliated all over again—we can only hope.”

A startled look appeared in Tammy's green eyes, as if she were trying to process my question. In the meantime, Patsy and Mary Bennett had backtracked to join us.

“I'm pooped,” Mary Bennett said, grabbing her bony knees and stretching. “Why don't we take a little breather and go over our plans for tonight?”

We arranged ourselves around a picnic table a few feet away from the dirt track.

“Why don't we quit altogether and just talk about what all we're gonna
eat
tonight? That's about the only planning I'm interested in,” Tammy said, mopping her damp forehead with the tail of her T-shirt. “Even dogs have sense enough to go lie down in the fucking shade when it's so damned hot—I ain't walkin' another step on this stupid track today. Now, who's bringing what tonight?”

 

As soon as there was a satisfactory list of enough fat-filled foods to give Tammy hope for the future, our conversation turned to the raft of questions raised by the return of Gerald with the mystifying Sheila. Was there anything to be done about the situation? An hour later, and sick of sitting on those hard bench seats, we were no closer to an answer.