Forever Never Ends (12 page)

"Just think of what you can buy for them," he said. "Won't have to run around in ratty-assed boots anymore. They can get Nikes like the rich kids. And they could have hamburger for dinner instead of macaroni and cheese."

"What if Sylvester starts noticing all the little extras?"

"Tell him you've been stretching the dollar. Hell, it's not like he notices things anyway."

Peggy trembled against his caress. A low moan escaped her lips.

Damn, she is a hot one. She can probably turn half a dozen tricks a day. Maybe even do a party scene once in a while. I'll have to work out a rate card for different positions.

"Jimmy," she said, breath coming fast now.

Jimmy rolled away. He wanted to leave her aching. Might make the idea of an endless parade of men seem more enticing. He started to get out of bed. She grabbed him by the most convenient handle.

"Jimmy, where are you going?"

"Got to run, honey."

He reached for his clothes as she wrapped her hands around his waist. Her lavender nail polish glittered in the sunlight. He stood and she fell back onto the bed, her legs wide. "Jimmy, don't leave me like this," she pleaded.

Perfect. If she could act this good with him, there was no reason why she couldn't pull it off on demand. He looked at her while he stepped into his pants.

"Think about what I said, Peggy." He tugged on one of his snakeskin boots, resting his other foot on the bed.

Peggy lay still and pouted, her lips curling. He picked up the whiskey and turned to leave the room.

"Jimmy?"

"What, darling?"

"What would that—you know, what you're talking about—do to
us
?"

"Not a thing, darling. You know I love you, no matter what."

"Wouldn't it make you jealous, knowing?"

"There ain't no room for jealousy. There's business, and then there's you and me. What we got is special."

Peggy scooted out of bed and wrapped a nightgown around her torso. She followed him to the door with quick, shuffling steps, kicking the dirty laundry away from her ankles.

Jimmy looked out the glass slats of the trailer window, making sure the coast was clear. Peggy was at his shoulder. He reached out and absently stroked her hair. "If you won't do it for yourself, do it for me," he said.

"How much did you say we could make?"

He looked out the window again. "I figure forty bucks a shot for the basics, fifty for special treatment. We split it fifty-fifty."

And Jimmy would keep the extra.

Peggy gnawed at a thumbnail, clattering her small sharp teeth. "I don't know," she said around her thumb.

"I'll round up the customers, and all you have to do is send them away happy. Everybody wins."

"But it's so—
dirty
."

Jimmy faced her and took her firmly by her bony shoulders. "Look here, Peg. It might be a way out of
this
," he said, jerking his head toward the interior of the trailer. "Maybe we can get away someday, just you and me."

"But the kids—"

"It'll take a few years."

"I don't know." She looked down at the ragged welcome mat.

"Think about it," he said, his hand on the door.

She leaned forward quickly and pecked him on the cheek. He handed her the nearly empty whiskey bottle.

"Are you
sure
you'd still love me?" she asked.

"Of course, darling." Just like he loved his Ford F-100 pickup with the Leonard camper top and CB radio. Just like he loved the hunting knives that he traded at the Piney Ford flea market. Just like he loved his silver Dale Earnhardt belt buckle. Like he loved all his favorite possessions.

"And things will be just like before?"

"Sure. Maybe better." Except there was no way in hell he'd be poking her after she started working. Not with the kinds of diseases people spread around these days. But she'd learn all about that later.

"I'll call you," he said, before putting his weight on the corrugated trailer step.

Peggy sat at the kitchen counter with the bottle in front of her. Jimmy's tailpipes thrushed as he backed out of the driveway and headed downtown. She idly scraped at a flake of dried gravy with her fingernail as she thought about Jimmy's offer. She took a sip of the whiskey, enjoying the numb tingling feel of her lips against the glass. Just for practice, she slid her mouth down the bottleneck. It went in easily.

Someone knocked at the door. She wondered who it could be at this time of day. The kids wouldn't be home for another hour or so, what with the long walk from the bus stop. She wrapped her nightgown around her waist and held it in place with her arm, then opened the door a crack.

It was Paul Crosley, wearing his terrapin grin.

***

Mayor Virginia Speerhorn looked down from her seat at the podium. She enjoyed her elevated view of the Chamber of Commerce members. She surveyed the pink tops of bald spots, the stray hairs that sprang free from severe barrettes, the seam lines of wigs and toupees. "Progress report, Mr. Patterson?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Melvin Patterson. He looked as if he'd love to put a tongue on the tip of her strapless dress shoe. WRNC provided good coverage for her during the election seasons, and Patterson was too dull-witted to know he was giving away free political advertising every time WRNC interviewed her.

"I've gone over security for the weekend with Chief Crosley," she said, her authoritative voice rattling off the oak rails and teak walls of the Town Council chambers. "That leaves entertainment, which I believe is your area, Mr. Patterson."

"Yes, Madam Mayor. The musical acts have signed contracts, and country star Sammy Ray Hawkins is headlining. And the storytelling group will be there. Except they perform for free, of course. Then there are the usual attractions like the Volunteer Fire Department turkey shoot—"

"With air pistols, correct?"

"Yes, ma'am. The library will have a book fair and the Baptist Sewing Circle will be making quilts for auction. And most of the vendors will have displays and free activities to draw children to their booths."

"Very good, Mr. Patterson. All family-oriented, correct?"

"Yes, Mayor."

She insisted on formality at town meetings even though everyone knew each other. It kept things on a firm footing. This was civic business, after all. "And who's in charge of the vendors?"

"I am," came a watery voice from the table where the Blossomfest Committee sat. It was Margaret Staley. Her husband Horace had run a weak campaign against Virginia eight years before.

Virginia had nearly ruined both of the Staleys. All it took was a simple background check to find out that the Staleys had not reported a tool shed, a speedboat, and a Ford Taurus on their county tax listing. Then there was the interesting fact that Margaret's sister had an illegitimate son by Margaret's husband's cousin. After the gossip had "leaked," the town had been whispering behind their hands for months.

Horace Staley had called Virginia, saying he wanted to respectfully withdraw from the race. Virginia didn't want to win an unopposed election. She felt that would make her seem politically vulnerable. So she had threatened Horace with the secret she had held back, that Horace had worked for the American Civil Liberties Union for a year after he had gotten his law degree.

Horace had stayed in the race and taken his beating, and had recovered enough to put his wife in the Chamber hierarchy. Virginia, feeling magnanimous, nodded at Margaret's trembling head.

Margaret stood, the legs of her chair digging into the parquet floor. Virginia winced. A few whispers fluttered in the back of the room among the two dozen spectators.

"We've got forty-one vendors enlisted, Mayor." She seemed to spit out the last word.

Some people just wouldn't let bygones be bygones. But Margaret is competent enough with fund management.

"And they have their state and local business licenses, Mrs. Staley?"

"Yes. Their fees are paid up front, with a rain date clause in the agreement."

"No need for pessimism, Mrs. Staley. Please knock on wood."

Margaret clenched her jaw and twice tapped lightly on the table.

"Rain is a fact of life, my friends," Virginia said to the room at large. "But it's never rained at Blossomfest since I've been in office, and I don't plan on letting it start now."

This wasn't entirely true. There had been misty sprinkles at last year's Blossomfest, but Virginia had refused to postpone the event. The vending fees were already in the city coffers. So everyone had shuffled through a miserable weekend, too chilled to dig through their wallets and purses and buy useless trinkets.

"Mayor, we have a variety of arts and crafts this year, pottery and woodcarving and weaving,” Margaret said. “A solid mix of mountain folk art and consumerist-type merchandise. Something for everyone, as you like to say."

"Is that all, Mrs. Staley?"

Margaret dipped her weary, defeated head and sat down.

"Mr. Lemly?"

Bill Lemly stood up, seemingly blocking out the polished glow of the woodwork with his shadow. "We've got the street plans drawn up, Mayor Speerhorn. I personally supervised the building of the stage in accordance with all the local codes."

"And how much of a bite did that take?" Virginia was tallying up the estimated cost of promotion and weighing it against the expected profit. She fondled the gavel that she had used only once, in her first year in office, and it seemed as if that single rap still reverberated off the walls like a threat.

"None, ma'am. I donated the labor and materials."

She searched his face for smugness and found none. She hoped she never had to run against him. He might prove to be cleverer than he looked. But she was sure she could find something on him, if it came to that. His ex-wife, for instance.

"Very good, Mr. Lemly. So we have everything in place. I'd like to personally thank the committee for all its hard work, and I'm confident that this year's Blossomfest will be the best ever."

She looked at Dennis Thorne to make sure he had gotten that last bit on tape. Patterson was looking at him, too. Dennis held his microphone in the air as wooden applause scrabbled across the council chambers.

"This meeting is adjourned," Virginia said, rising between the North Carolina and United States flags that flanked her like bodyguards. She watched as her subjects spilled from the room into the cool night air.

***

The kids were in bed. Tamara had tucked them in, although Kevin was starting to get a little squeamish about the good-night kisses. She had read Ginger
The Butter Battle Book
.

How true that was. If people wouldn't worry about how other people buttered their bread, the world wouldn't be so out of whack. Dr. Seuss was way ahead of his time.

"Mommy, what does ‘out of whack’ mean?" Ginger asked as Tamara was turning off the light.

"It means not sensible, not neat and orderly. Where did you hear that?" Tamara asked.

"I don't know. I just thought of it."

Coincidence. She probably heard it at school
.

Tamara kissed Ginger on the nose. "And you're going to be all out of whack tomorrow if you don't get some sleep."

She went into the living room and collected an armful of papers, then sat on the couch beside Robert, who was watching basketball.

"Damn those cheaters," he said, his carotid artery swelling in rage.

"Calm down, honey. It's only a game."

"Only a game?
Only a game
?" He ran a hand through his dark hair, which was beginning to show the first signs of silver. "It's the
Tarheels
playing. Down by six with a minute left. And the Antichrist forces of St. John's are holding the ball."

Tamara almost made a remark about Robert living out a gladiatorial macho instinct by proxy, but she let it pass. There was enough friction between them lately that an innocent quip might flare into a free-for-all. Robert leaned back and took a drink of his chocolate milk. Tamara looked at him out of the corners of her eyes..

He pumped his fist as the Tarheels nailed a jumper.

Maybe if the Tarheels win, he'll be in a good mood. Maybe tonight. The Gloomies are away on vacation, even if they’re keeping in touch via long distance.

She looked at her work and the words swam without meaning. She needed a rest. From psychology. From thinking. From
shu-shaaa
. She put her books aside and leaned her head on Robert's shoulder.

She watched as the Tarheels made what the announcer called a "trey," and her head fell to the sofa cushion as Robert leaned forward. She put a hand on his knee and rubbed his thigh as a skinny Carolina player hit a pair of free throws.

“Comeback City, baby!” the announcer shouted.

The crowd roared as if they were at a Nazi rally. Tamara pictured that much excitement taking place as a library opened its doors or a community theater dropped the final curtain on a staging of
Our Town
. The suspension of disbelief was too much of a stretch. The final horn sounded on the television set and Robert was airborne, pumping his arms just like Kevin did when excited.

"The Redmen are Deadmen," Robert said, imitating the announcer. "Aw, baby!"

Tamara watched him pace excitedly for a minute as the sportscasters droned nasally about tournament brackets and Sweet Sixteens and Final Fours and seeds. Sports had its own secret language, just as psychology and academia and religion did. Just another competitive belief system, only the score was much clearer in sports.

Everyone needs their buzzwords. Even would-be clairvoyants need names for their Gloomies. Names like Shu-shaaa.

Later, in bed, Robert touched her, his palms still moist from the tension of watching the game. "How did your day go, honey?"

She smiled against the dark pillow. "Fine. No Gloomies."

"I'm glad."

"So, are you excited about Blossomfest?"

"I'm agonna buy me a Rebel flag ashtray, and maybe one of ‘em little wooden outhouses, you know the kind, what's got the hillbilly with the corncob pecker."

She laughed, surprised that she was surprised by it. Laughter sounded strangely out of place, the way their bedroom had been lately.