The Right Thing (14 page)

“Oh, honey—you remember. I know you do. I was Lisa Treeby's escort, and you were there with that big ol' fella you married right out of college. Isn't his name Duane? I'll testify that you were definitely the belle of
that
ball. I always wondered why you ran off the stage and didn't come back until after the Presentation was done with and the dancing began, but I couldn't get over how perfect your dress was, and your hair—sugar! It was divine . . .” Absentmindedly, Bette extends the tip of her kielbasa-sized pinky to catch a crumb stuck in her lip gloss, lost in her reverie of me and my debutante ball of sixteen years ago, an occasion I'd prefer not to revisit right now with the vision across from me. It's a little creepy.

Starr brings Bette back to the table, placing a small hand on top of Bette's pork-roast-sized one. “Babe, this has been heaven and I expect you and Annie must have a lot of catching up to do, but we've got to get back on the road.”

“I haven't seen you in months.” Bette pouts, those red lips drooping.

“I know,” Starr says, “and I thank you from the very bottom of my heart, putting that thousand bucks down for me. It's an answer to a prayer, and I'm going to need every cent.” Starr pats the Winn-Dixie bag full of cash next to her on the banquette seat. I give it a glance, but my eyes return to the last snickerdoodle on the plate. Be strong, Annie, I tell myself as Starr tucks the plastic grocery bag in her purse.

Somewhere in the trailer's back half, behind the folding door, a telephone loudly whoops.

“Goddammit!” Bette explodes, her eyes narrowing to burning, fringed slits. “If it's not one fucking thing, it's another. Asshole trainers wait until the last minute, think I'm gonna drop everything to acupuncture some poor nag in the middle of the night—like its back wasn't sore this
afternoon
—but no-o-o, Mr. Big Shot from Churchill Downs thinks I'm just sitting here, hoping for the phone to ring, like I don't have a
life
. Those arrogant pieces of shit, I could smack their heads together just to hear the splat!” She's breathing hard; her massive fists pounding the table hard enough to make the coffee slop out of my cup.

My eyes widen. There's still an awful lot of Buddy underneath all that Bette, and right now I'm feeling sorry for that poor arrogant piece of shit, Mr. Big Shot. Better him than me, though.

Bette gets to her feet with a poisonous look toward the ringing phone. “Y'all hold on while I take care of this bullshit, hear?” Like a semi in low gear, she heads to the bedroom in the back of the trailer, squeezes through the opening, and slides the door shut with a slam that makes the trailer shake.

I turn to Starr. “She's really an acupuncturist? They actually do that to horses?”

“She is, and they do,” Starr replies.

“You're right, you know,” I concede. “She's changed a lot—I mean, it's still
Buddy,
but she's kind of sweet now, in this WrestleMania kind of way. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be so bitchy.”

“Look, Annie . . .” Starr hesitates. “Bette's been a good friend.” She looks down at her hands on the table. “But I meant what I said before. You're my
best
friend, always have been, no matter what. When things got bad—and they got that way a lot—I used to tell myself stories about what you might be doing. I could see you, going to school, having dinner with your folks, playing with other girls, then growing up and starting to go out with boys. You know, a normal life? Those stories I'd think up would keep me going. I could almost forget about the lights getting turned off again, or that Miss Hulda had found Momma's picture and tossed it out.” Starr looks at me then, her eyes grave. “Sometimes I wondered if you missed me, too. Every time Poppa drove us off into the night, I told myself that somehow we'd find each other again, someday. . . .”

I nod, the back of my throat heavy with tears. It was the same thing for me even years after she was gone. “We went through so much together, especially for a pair of second-graders. Nothing was the same anymore, not after you left.”

Starr says slowly, “I can't ever let myself...
care
. . . that way about anybody anymore, Annie. Never. You know what I mean?”

Again, I nod. I do.

We're quiet for a moment while in the back of the trailer Bette's giving someone a loud, unintelligible, but profanity-laced piece of her mind. With a sigh, Starr finishes her coffee and wipes her lips with a paper napkin from the swimming swan caddy.

“That Bette,” she says with a shake of her head. “Anyhow, we found each other now, didn't we? That's got to mean something, like maybe we was supposed to be together again for some reason.”

“Maybe so,” I say.

Starr grimaces. “Damn. I got to go visit the little girl's room, sugar. Wait here for me and try not to eat anything.” With a smile that belies that last dig, she gets up, goes into the bathroom and shuts the door.

I sit for a minute, wondering how the hell I'm going to pull off being Starr's friend when we return to Jackson. Tonight's mission is one thing, but sooner or later we'll be chin-deep in Jackson politics again. Do I have the courage to stand by her? I think of what Du will say, about the fallout in the Ladies' League and all over town.

“So grow up, Annie,” I mutter.

Oh, that'll solve
everything, the rosebush voice jeers. I shift uncomfortably on the bench seat, hating the fact that for once it's probably right.

But then, out of nowhere, my stomach grumbles, loudly, and I find myself grateful for the distraction from my self-loathing. Maybe those Chessmen from earlier today have set my long-denied appetite into relentless motion, but ever since the sight of those snickerdoodles earlier, it's been in the back of my mind, whether I could afford to eat one of Bette's cookies. I need the comfort of something sweet, and don't I deserve it? This has been one hell of a night, and the taste of those cookies in Starr's condo is fading fast.

Now that I'm allowing myself to consider jumping the traces again, though, I know what I really want is a
brownie,
not a snickerdoodle. Bette mentioned she'd made brownies. Surely she won't mind if I have one? Before I agonize anymore, I slide out of the dinette, sidle over to the counter, and open the tin Bette picked up earlier. Furtively, I part the wax paper, grab a brownie off the top, and cram it into my mouth.

It tastes a little strange, as though Bette's recipe is a foreign one, maybe a kind of... Mexican brownie? She does have a Latin boyfriend, so that might explain it, but this isn't really how I remember fudge brownies and a bit of a disappointment. I chew thoughtfully for a minute and can almost identify the herby aftertaste, and then there's Starr's muffled voice coming from the bathroom. I shut the lid on the tin, chewing as fast as I can because I don't want to listen to Starr's ragging me about my weight. This brownie is between me, my out-of-control appetite, and no one else. So what if it's lettuce and vitamins until Friday?

“Annie?”

I swallow the rest of the brownie with difficulty because it's kind of dry and extra chewy. Really, I think, that was hardly worth it. This indiscriminate eating has got to stop, or I'm going to wind up the size of Bette, having to go through doors sideways.

“Yes?” I manage, brownie swallowed at last.

“I might be in here a while. You want to take Troy for a quick walk before we get on the road?”

Even though I'm coming to dread the idea of returning to Jackson, I'm ready to do anything that'll get us gone faster. It's nearly eleven, and we really ought to leave in the next ten minutes. Troy, half hidden in the throw pillows, is sound asleep on the afghan-covered sofa. He looks okay to me, but maybe she's right—what do I know about dogs?—and then it occurs to me that I need a leash, or something like one. Looking around the trailer, I don't see anything useful I could borrow and Lord knows I don't want to disturb Bette. She must have put the fear of God into Mr. Big Shot because even here in the front of the Airstream I hear her slam down the phone so loudly it seems there ought to be shards of plastic flying through the door. Bye-bye, arrogant shit head.

Or not. The phone whoops again almost immediately. “Oh,
now
you've done it!” Bette yells. Maybe it'd be a good idea to just grab Troy and get out of here until she puts paid to this latest interruption of her girls' night.

“Wake-y, wake-y, baby,” I croon to the terrier as I lift him up off the sofa. “Let's find you a leash.” Troy stretches with a big yawn. “I'll be right back,” I call softly to Starr, and walk outside into the night with the dog in my arms.

Pausing on the top step for a moment, I think, wow. The night is so, so . . .
beautiful
. The foggy canopy over New Orleans is an opalescent dome of light high, high, high above me. Over by the cafeteria, a door opens, spilling hot yellow light and mariachi guitars into the quiet. I barely notice, being so enthralled with the crazy-beautiful sky that I stumble going down the steps and almost fall. Catching my balance in my high-heeled boots only to reel into one of the silk palm trees, I'm breathlessly proud that I've managed not to drop the dog and that I'm still on my feet.

“Whoops,” I sputter as I fight my way out of the silk fronds. I've got a thing for those palm trees, don't I? But now my heels are trapped in the black garbage bags piled around the bench. My balance is going again.
“Shit,”
I exclaim.

“Hey, watch yourself.” Out of the darkness, it's a man's voice. A strong, warm hand catches my elbow, another solid-feeling hand across the small of my back, steadying me. “You've conquered the steps, don't take a tumble now.”

“Eek!” It's a small, involuntary squeak of surprise. I'm startled, but the world's mad orbit slows and I'm caught before I even begin to fall, as though I'm paired with a really good dance partner. In the orangey glow of Bette's trailer's Christmas lights, I have to look up at the man who's just saved Troy and me from tumping over on our asses once again in the magnolia blossoms.

He's not too tall, maybe a hair over six feet, but that's still a lot taller than I am, his face worn around the eyes with the kind of lines you get from working outside in all weathers, squinting into the sun, the dust, the rain, timing the horses as they battle gravity around a hundred racetracks. It's a face as open as an Oklahoma horizon with a jaw as solid as Ozark bedrock. It's a good face, and he's smiling down at me in a way that makes me want to smile back. Like a flamenco dancer, with a certain élan I kick the black garbage bag wrapped around the heel of my boot onto the overturned red bench. Olé!

What in the hell do you think you're doing? You have
no idea
who he is!

I don't care. To hell with the rosebush voice. “Thanks,” I say, feeling grateful. “That was close.”

“You new in town?” the man asks. “I haven't seen you around here before, have I?” Taking those wonderfully steady hands away, he gestures at the dark backstretch around us.

“I doubt it. I'm not from here,” I say. “I'm Annie.”

“I'm Ted.” That smile broadens, his longish dark hair lifting in the light breeze from the east. “So, Annie not-from-here—you want to introduce me to your friend?”

I look around. There's nobody here but me. I'm feeling confused until I realize he means the dog in my arms. “Oh!” I'm laughing. “Troy Smoot. I liberated him tonight from an elevator. He needs a leash so he can have a pee without getting lost.” This strikes me as one of the funniest things I've ever said in my life. I mean, I'm laughing so hard the nice man in the jean jacket, faded Levi's, and dusty cowboy boots has to take me by the arm again when I turn around and walk smack into the Beemer.

“Crap, that's pitiful. I just ran into my own car.” I giggle.

“Nice car. Well, I believe I can help you with a leash, at least,” Ted—his name is Ted, I remind myself so I won't call him Steve by accident—says with that same
great
smile. “I just happen to have a quantity of hay rope over in Barn Nine, down at the other end of the backstretch. Want to take a stroll and get it? Shape you're in, I hate to leave you by yourself.”

This sounds like a fantastic idea to me, so I say, “Lead on!” Grabbing his arm, I lean into his shoulder because suddenly the ground seems very far away and I need to concentrate on it. Wait—where's Troy? I don't remember putting him down, but he's got to be around here somewhere, right?

“Umm, Ted?”

“Yes?” Ted says.

“Have you seen Troy?” I'm panicking.

“I'm holding him, lady.”

That's certainly a relief. Now I can work at getting across the treacherous, uneven dirt beneath my boots without falling down anymore. We're walking what seems a long way from the Airstream, past a lot of darkened barns, and the night air is cool on my arms, my neck. I remember Starr telling me how the air here in New Orleans was like a live thing, and so it is, a silken creature purring around my bare knees and thighs, and I laugh again because it feels so good that I can't imagine air ever feeling like anything else.

“Isn't air wonderful?” I almost trip over my own feet.

“You okay?” Ted's face seems concerned as he steers me into a dim, half-lit stable. Suddenly, the world slips a gear, a tilt on its axis, and again I'm glad for his arm.

“Sure!” I say brightly, looking around. There's nobody here except for Ted, Troy, me, and some horses, but I'm fine with that. Somewhere a radio is playing country music, the volume turned down low. The horses, bay, gray, and chestnut, come to the front of their stalls, blinking with sleepy interest at us.

“The rope's right here,” Ted says. Opening a half-door, he steps inside a stall where grass bales are neatly stacked in a golden-green tower, loose hay piled in sweet-smelling drifts on the hard-packed clay floor. I want to lie down in that hay, it looks so clean and soft. I'd be in a good place if the world tilts sideways again, and suddenly I'm afraid it's going to. I'm beginning to feel as though I'm surfing the night, that there's a huge wave building underneath my boots, making my every move a little tricky.