Almost Famous Women (4 page)

I ate half a sheet cake between songs.

Daisy, Violet said. That's disgusting.

I pushed my empty glass forward for a refill.

The great Houdini told us to retreat to an imaginary shell when we got tired of each other, I said to the bartender, rolling my eyes at Violet.

We never met Houdini, Violet said.

Next thing I knew, Violet was wrestling my finger out of my mouth in the bathroom stall.

Stop it! she said.

You drink too much and you never eat, she said. What did you have yesterday? Half a peanut-butter sandwich? An apple?

We sank back against the wall of the bathroom stall. I still remember the pattern of the tile. Mint-colored rectangles with black squares. Ice cream, I thought. Tile like ice cream.

And the lying, Daisy, she said. The lying.

I watched ankles and shoes walk by the stall. Some women
had beautiful ankles. Some women moved on two feet instead of four.

I still had icing on my fingers.

I need to stay here for a while, I said.

Violet held her hand underneath the stall door and asked a pair of ankles for a glass of water.

She had chutzpah when I least expected it.

Two weeks later, she surprised us all by dropping her panties into the church time capsule.

Did I ever tell you about our big break? I asked the agent.

I pulled out a stock photo Violet and I had autographed.

Violet and I might be broke and we might be strange but we were not ordinary.

Why do you have that old thing out? Violet asked. What are we—seven or eight?

She was eating saltines out of a dented tin box.

Can't whistle now, she said, smiling.

I pinched her bottom.

The agent is here, I whispered.

I'd once seen Violet cover my half of the photo with her hand to see what she looked like alone. We'd both wondered.

Here's how we ended up back in Carolina. I'd been in talks with a man who said he needed us for some public relations work.

It's like this, he had said. You show up at the theater and do an introduction for my movie.

We have to take the risk, I'd said to Violet.

But we don't, she'd said. We're old. We're retired.

We can't live on what we have, I'd said. Not for long, and I plan on living a long time.

We fronted him money for travel arrangements. He promised a hefty return. But what he did was leave us stranded at the bus station. We had no money, no car, only our suitcase.

I'm tired of trusting, Violet had said.

We'd cried that night, propped up against the brick station wall. A minister had taken us in, fed us hot dogs, said he knew of a local grocery that needed an extra pair of hands.

We have those, I said.

One night Violet shook me awake. Ed was in the bathroom with the door closed.

Get up, she said, switching on the bedside lamp. Get up.

Your eye, I said.

Violet had a red handprint across her face.

We stumbled to the dark kitchen.

He's drunk, she said.

Doesn't matter, I said.

I picked up the silver pot we used to boil noodles in one hand, grabbed a paring knife in the other.

Ed came into the kitchen crying.

Get out, I said.

I shielded Violet with my body, backed her up to the sink.

I flipped on the kitchen light. We all winced.

Leave, I said.

You're crazy, he said, sinking to his knees. Violet?

He'd said something else. What was it that he said?

I slung the silver pot into his crooked nose.

I can't picture what the agent looks like, I said to Violet.

Violet was reading the jokes in
Reader's Digest
and eating outdated yogurt.

There was the one in Texas, I said. And then the one in the city. The one with the Buick.

We're in Carolina now, she said. Why don't you rest?

When the agent comes back, we should do a number, I said.

There hasn't been an agent here, Violet said. You have a fever.

The one in the blue sports coat, I said. With gold buttons.

Do we have health insurance? she asked, the cool back of her hand against my forehead.

When the agent comes back, I said, let's do “April in Paris.”

Let me get you a cool washcloth, she said, lifting me gently from the couch.

Let the water run clear, I said. Tomorrow . . .

Trust God on this one, Violet said. Rest.

In our early days, people had trusted God's intent. We were the way we were because He made it so.

I remembered what Ed had said that night I crushed his face. His mangled, fighter's face.

You are not made in His image, he'd said. You can't be.

And now, ladies and gentlemen, the tortoise race
.

My eyes watered. I felt as though I could no longer stand.

I jes' want to see it walk.

I'm sorry, I said to Violet, before I pulled her to the ground.

If we have interested you, kindly tell your friends to come visit us.

There was something about the body, our seam. Were we one or were we two?

I touched the skin between us.

One day soon, I said, you'll walk out of here alone.

Hush, Violet said. Hush.

Get a new dress, I said. Eat all the goddamn cookies you want.

M. B. “Joe” Carstairs, the fastest woman on water.

Photo reprinted with permission of The Mariners' Museum,

Newport News, VA.

G
eorgie woke up in bed alone. She slipped into a swimsuit and wandered out to a soft stretch of white sand Joe called Femme Beach. The Caribbean sky was cloudless, the air already hot. Georgie waded into the ocean and as soon as the clear water reached her knees she dove into a small wave with expert form.

She scanned the balcony of the pink stucco mansion for the familiar silhouette, the muscular woman in a monogrammed polo shirt chewing a cigar. Joe liked to drink her morning coffee and watch Georgie swim.

But not today.

Curious, Georgie toweled off, tossed a sundress over her suit, and walked the dirt path toward the general store, sand coating her ankles, shells crackling underneath her bare feet. A lush, leafy overhang covered the path, which stopped in front of a cinder-block building with a thatched roof.

Georgie looked through the leaves at the sun overhead. She lost track of time on the island. Time didn't matter on Whale
Cay. You did what Joe wanted to do, when Joe wanted to do it. That was all.

She heard laughter and found the villagers preparing a conch stew. They were dancing, drinking dark rum and home-brewed beer from chipped porcelain jugs and tin cans. Some turned to nod at her, stepping over skinny chickens and children to refill their cans. The women threw chopped onions, potatoes, and hunks of raw fish into the steaming cauldron, the inside of which was yellowed with spices. Joe's lead servant, Hannah, was frying johnny-cakes on a pan over a fire, popping pigeon peas into her mouth. Everything smelled of fried fish, blistered peppers, and garlic.

“You're making a big show,” Georgie said.

“We always make a big show when Marlene comes,” Hannah said in her low, hoarse voice. Her white hair was wrapped. She spoke matter-of-factly, slapping the johnnycakes between the palms of her hands.

“Who's Marlene?” Georgie asked, leaning over to stick a finger in the stew. Hannah swatted her away and nodded toward a section of the island invisible through the dense brush, where a usually empty stone house covered in hot pink blossoms stood. Joe had never explained the house. Now Georgie knew why.

She felt an unmistakable pang of jealousy, cut short by the roar of Joe pulling up behind them on her motorcycle. As Joe worked the brakes, the bike fishtailed in the sand, and the women were enveloped in a cloud of white dust. Georgie turned to find Joe grinning, a cigar gripped between her teeth. She wore a salmon-pink short-sleeved silk blouse, and denim cutoffs. Her copper-colored hair was cropped short, her forearms covered in crude, indigo-colored tattoos. “When the fastest woman on water has
a six-hundred-horsepower engine to test out, she does,” she'd explained to Georgie. “And then she gets roaring drunk with her mechanic in Havana and comes home with stars and dragons on her arms.”