Mark Dunn - We Five

It was her psychic friend who told her this.

At this same time, four blocks away, Carrie lay in bed not even the least bit sleepy. She stared into the enveloping darkness of her bedroom while stroking the family tabby, which was scrunched into a furry oval next to her. Over and over again she replayed the sequence of events from one of the most enjoyable nights of her life.

Her mother had wanted details. She had summoned Carrie to her bedroom upon her return to hear whatever interesting tidbits Carrie might wish to share with her. And Carrie did tell her things — a good many things — just not everything.

Because how on Earth could she? On this seemingly ordinary Thursday night, Carrie Hale’s ordinary life had stopped being ordinary, and it was hard for her to even put into words how she felt about this sudden turn of events.

It frightened her. It excited her. It actually made her feel a little woozy.

What she did tell her mother was this: that she really liked the one named Will. The one with the dreamy hazel eyes. The tall one. The one with the linebacker’s build and the overdeveloped biceps, which seemed close to bursting right through the fabric of his button-down shirt, like Bruce Banner’s shirt did while he was transforming into the Hulk. Even better: Will really seemed to like her from the second she’d climbed into the courtesy van.

The seat next to him had been empty. It was almost as if he’d been holding it for her. Carrie wondered if the five former fraternity brothers had already put in their dibs based on Tom’s descriptions, which had obviously been supplied by Jane when the two of them set things up. Carrie meant to ask Jane about this — how it was decided who got who — but she never got the chance. Things had moved so fast. Tom had gotten the fleet boss’s permission to borrow one of the casino’s vans for the night. It wasn’t a problem; Thursday was always a slow night for Lucky Aces. Tom, with his four buddies already on board, had picked up each of the girls at their respective homes and then, this time, instead of dropping everyone off at the Lucky Aces Casino as he had done on Monday morning, he took himself and his nine passengers all the way down Highway 61 to Clarksdale, to a blues club he’d been to there.

Tom Katz, a student of the Mississippi Delta, knew all about its rich musical heritage. He’d grown up in Greenville, farther south. Tom had shown the others the exact spot where the blues singer Bessie Smith had met her tragic vehicular fate, and pointed out the crossroads where Robert Johnson — as legend had it — sold his soul to the devil.

This in spite of the fact that Jerry Castle, born in the exclusive white suburb of Memphis called Germantown, had crowed right in the middle of Tom’s commentary that he’d “had enough nigger history for one night,” so would Tommy please shut his “blabby-mouthed Jew pie-hole?” Maggie had cringed to hear such a string of filth belched from her date for the evening. Carrie was pleased, though, that Will had been the first to dress down his friend for it. She squeezed Will’s arm to demonstrate her approval.

When it was Carrie’s turn to be dropped off, Will walked her to the door of the 1960s-era brick ranch-style she shared with her mother on the north side of Bellevenue (where the second and third— generation middle-class white families lived). Carrie wondered if he was going to kiss her goodnight.

He’d wasted no time in satisfying her curiosity. They’d hardly reached the concrete porch before he pulled her against him and gave her a deep, hungry kiss, his powerful hands clamping her upper arms firmly, almost painfully. After releasing her, he’d whispered with incongruous tenderness, “I want you.”

She didn’t know quite how to respond.

He pushed on: “When can I see you again?”

“Call me,” she said.

He had nodded and clumped back to the shuttle van, planting each foot carefully upon the concrete walk to the driveway so as not to slip on the slick ice.

Carrie didn’t tell her mother about the kiss, or about Will seeming to really like her. But she was honest in admitting she was very interested in him, and yes, she’d probably be seeing him again.

Then she talked about the catfish and the ribs and the “crawdads.” She knew her mother, herself a child of the Delta (Greenwood), also loved crayfish. Carrie conveniently neglected to mention that there had also been some drinking on the order of two Lemon Drops (Molly), one Fuzzy Navel each (Jane and Carrie), two Sea Breezes (Ruth), and a Diet Coke, plus refill, for non-imbiber Maggie. And why shouldn’t she leave this out? None of the girls had overindulged. Ruth had left the club a little buzzed, but it had worn off long before she’d gotten home.

Of course, Sylvia knew. She smelled the peach schnapps on her daughter’s breath. After all, Sylvia Hale wasn’t born yesterday.

She let it pass. She only wished she’d been there too. She would have ordered a strawberry daiquiri.

Jane noticed upon her return to the rooms she shared with her brother at the back of the antique store that several lights had been left on. She turned them off while grumbling to herself that he could have thought a little about their electric bill before going out for the night. Or had he gone out? The previous night, when We Five had gotten together to eat Domino’s pepperoni and talk about what they were going to wear on their group date, he’d been in his room (and never once ventured out, just as he’d promised). More than likely, thought Jane, Lyle would make up for it tonight. He’d be off with his buddies till all hours, either blowing money he couldn’t afford to blow at one of the nearby casinos or drinking himself cross-eyed at some titty bar fifteen miles up the road in Southaven. (Also something he couldn’t afford to do, but which he did anyway once or twice a week.)

She opened the door to his room nonetheless, and discovered she’d been mistaken in her first assumption. He was there. He was awake. And he was doing something she’d never seen him do before.

Startled, he threw himself involuntarily over the sketchpad which had been resting on his knees. There was a book next to him, propped open. He’d been working with colored pencils, copying one of the images from the book; Jane couldn’t quite make it out from where she stood in the doorway.

“What are you doin’?” she asked.

“Why do you just barge in here like that?”

“The door was unlocked. If you were in here with your girly magazines you’d have it locked and I’d mind my own business. Are you drawing ?”

“So it appears.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean: why ?”

“I don’t know. I just — Lyle, I never knew you liked to draw.”

Lyle closed the sketchpad so Jane, who was craning her neck to get a better look, wouldn’t have any idea as to what he’d been sketching. The open book gave her a clue, though. Stepping closer, she was able to glimpse a pastoral scene — a verdant grassy hill with a flock of sheep on it — before he slammed that shut too.

“I thought you’d still be out,” Jane said, “or conked out in front of the television with a can of Budweiser balanced on your knee. I found you like that one night. I almost took a picture. I can’t believe you don’t even have the radio on.”

“I like silence when I draw. Total quiet.”

Jane sat down on the bed. Lyle was sitting Indian-style at the end, his back pushed against the wall, his cluttered side table pulled over so he’d have a place to prop up the book he was sketching from.

“How long have you been doin’ this?”

Lyle shrugged. “I don’t know. A while.”