Sorrow Floats Read online

  “What about Jean Harlow?” I asked.

  “Jean Harlow was a tramp.”

  Brad offered to buy lunch with what was left from the hair sale. Lloyd pulled Moby Dick into a Sonic drive-in on the main strip in Pulaski. Because of the trailer, we had to park in the end slot, and even then our butt stuck out on the highway shoulder. A wide-load truck could have creamed the Coors.

  Everyone but me had cheeseburgers and Tater Tots, which are nothing but cardboard shredded up, then pressed into lumps. Because I was depressed I ordered a chocolate malt to chase the Jack with. Chocolate malts in those drive-ins aren’t ice cream at all but some runny poop-colored chemical that oozes from a machine. I named the bottle Injun Joe after a character in Huckleberry Finn because Mark Twain named himself after a unit of depth in the Mississippi River.

  I passed Brad his Tater Tot boat and the little packets of ketchup. “Lloyd said they don’t sell Yukon Jack down here. It’s illegal, like Coors.”

  “Right,” Brad said. He was checking out the carhop who was checking out him. Short hair hadn’t killed off his allure.

  “How’d you find this bottle, then?”

  Wasn’t easy to check out the carhop from the back end of an ambulance. Brad had to pretzel himself and lean between the front seats, pretending to need a napkin. “My education wasn’t a complete bust back in Comanche. If it’s illegal, I can score.”

  I don’t criticize younger women as a rule, but the carhop could have used a flea collar. Brad smiled at her and leaned back. “Can I have the cat?”

  I said, “She’s a dog.”

  “No.” He held up the half-whiskered kitten. “This cat. I never had a pet.”

  Andrew yelled, “Mine,” spilled his Orange Crush, and burst into tears. Hugo Jr. joined in. In the confusion the hairy man parked his pickup camper opposite us, facing me.

  “Here.” I handed Andrew my malt. I wasn’t hungry anyway. Marcella soothed Andrew in her lap while he sucked down my chocolate-flavored chemical stuff.

  “It would be real Christian of you to share your kitty with Brad. I’m sure he’d let you play with him any time you want,” Marcella said.

  “My kitty!”

  “You have not bothered to name the animal,” Shane pointed out. “He’s not legally yours if you haven’t named him.” Andrew eyed Shane with suspicion. Shane lifted his hands, palms up, as if the matter were out of his control. “That’s the law, buddy. It’s not your cat.”

  “My name’s not Buddy.”

  “Either let Brad keep the cat or give me back my malt,” I said. The malt won.

  Brad held the cat in his lap and fed it a Tater Tot. The cat dropped the tot, then made scratches on Brad’s leg, trying to bury it. “I’ll name him Merle,” Brad said.

  I was touched. “That’s my name.”

  “I know.”

  I started to ask how he knew but skipped it since I’d probably told him during a blackout. Blackouts put drinkers at such a disadvantage. One time I called Delilah Talbot to say I wouldn’t be over that night to watch The Carol Burnett Show because I was stuck in Jackson with a broken car, then the next day I told her I’d missed the show because I had the flu and the phone was out of order. Even Delilah saw the discrepancy.

  “What is that shady character staring at?” Shane asked.

  I looked out the front windshield across the carhop island into the eyes of the hairy man. He had fierce eyebrows.

  “He pissed on the trailer this morning,” Lloyd said. “Maurey likes him.”

  “I do not.”

  “You said he seems okay.”

  “Seems okay doesn’t mean I like him.”

  Shane clucked with his tongue. “Does if you have observed his genitalia.”

  ***

  The man in the pickup wore a short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt open at the neck so you could see hair bubbling up from his chest. He chewed gum and his fingers tapped a rhythm on the steering wheel, which I took to mean he was listening to the radio with his engine off. The black hair on his head wasn’t exactly curly, but it sure wasn’t straight. It grew all over the place the way it grows on real smart men like Einstein, Schweitzer, or Kurt Vonnegut. My dad had the same hair.

  “Wouldn’t you hate being stuck on a chain gang with that fellow?” Shane said.

  I took a slug of Injun Joe. “What’s the matter with him? You don’t make such a hot first impression yourself.”

  “If that primate dated my daughter, I wouldn’t allow him in the door or her out. I better not catch you encouraging his affections.”

  Injun Joe made me overreact. “Who are you to tell me what to do?”

  “I’m the one of us with fit judgment.”

  “To hell with your fit judgment. If I want that man, or any other man, I’ll take him. Who made you my guardian?”

  “Someone has to do it, young lady. Lord knows you can’t take care of yourself.”

  “Fuck you, Shane.” Right away I felt bad about saying “fuck” in front of Andrew, but, Jesus, I never let my own father tell me who not to sleep with. I’d be damned if I’d listen to an old, fat cripple. I hadn’t even considered encouraging the hairy man’s affections until Shane told me not to. Before that he was just another cute guy like you see across a parking lot somewhere and waste five seconds on in fantasy. But one more crack from Shane and I’d have switched vehicles.

  Shane knew it, too. As I glared at him he set down his Coke, dug around for that stupid knife of his, and busily went into trimming his toenails. Brad stared at me as if I might bolt. Everyone else pretended to ignore me the way you pretend to ignore a horse who may or may not be fixing to kick the tar out of you.

  I looked from Shane to Lloyd to the man in the truck. He acknowledged my look without a smile. Keeping my eyes burning on his, I brought Injun Joe to my mouth and drank.

  37

  One spring morning when I was thirteen and five months pregnant, Sam Callahan and I rode our bikes from town up to the TM ranch. Estelle had just foaled and Dad let me name the colt, so I named her Dad, kind of like Brad naming the kitten Merle.

  Sam and I played around Miner Creek a couple hours, then I told him it was time to break our secret to Dad and he should ride home alone, that I would be along later. As I walked across the west pasture my stomach got all tight and nervous. Telling your father you’re pregnant must be the high-stress moment of a girl’s teenage years.

  I found Buddy—Dad—in the kitchen cleaning up after his lunch. One plate, one coffee cup, and one fork sat in the drainer. Dad was wiping his hands on a towel, looking out the window toward the horses when I told him I was pregnant. At first, I didn’t think he heard, so I repeated it.

  “Dad, I’m going to have a baby.”

  He turned and walked to the table, where he sat in one of the straight-backed chairs. With that beard, you never could tell what he was thinking.

  “What do you want from me?” he asked.

  I moved forward a half step. “I was hoping you’d hold me and tell me it’s going to be okay.”

  He exhaled so sharply the hairs on his upper lip jumped. “Is it that kid from this morning?”

  “Yes.”

  For the first time I could remember, Dad’s posture made him appear tired. “Guess I’ll have to whip him.”

  “It’s not Sam’s fault. I made him do it.” Dad looked at the linoleum on the table while I gave him a two-minute summary of the last year and how I came to this point. I left out the near abortion.

  After I stopped talking we slipped into a long silence. Dad looked at the table; I looked at his hands on his legs. The right thumbnail was dark purple. Some blood or placenta or something stuck to his left wrist. The whole time he sat and I stood, neither of his hands moved a muscle.

  Dad’s throat finally rumbled and he spoke. “Does your mother know?”


  “I think so.”

  He looked back out the window. “I never thought I’d raise a child to grow up a slut.”

  I lost my breath. “Daddy.”

  He turned and looked directly at me. He said, “You are a whore, Maurey. I’m ashamed to call you daughter.”

  ***

  The far side of Chattanooga Lloyd announced we needed gas, although I don’t know how he knew since the gas gauge and mileage doogie were both broken. I guess after Lloyd lost his wife, then his bottle, he’d bonded with his car. You have to bond with something.

  The rest of us waited in near darkness in the parking lot of Junior’s Truck Stop and Cafe while he went inside to negotiate. I’m not a good waiter, especially when I’ve been drinking. I get antsy and need to take action—any action. I’d rather take the wrong action than piddle my time away waiting for something to happen.

  Andrew was whiny and Shane was back on his harmonica. He’d played the Elvis medley all day to the point where I was dangerously close to fed up. I offered to hold Hugo Jr., but Marcella said, “No, thanks.” She knew I’d been drinking. People treat me different when I’ve been drinking, even when I act the same.

  Lloyd finally came back to say he’d traded three cases of Coors for a tank of gas and six chicken-fried steaks with soup or salad and potatoes.

  “I don’t feel an affinity for chicken-fried steak,” Shane said.

  Andrew threw a D-volt battery against the ambulance wall. “I hate chicken-fry steak.”

  “I’ll eat yours,” Brad said.

  Andrew broke down in tears. “He’s stealing my supper.” Typical outing with the Moby Dick gang.

  The first door we tried was too narrow for Shane’s chair, so we had to go way the hell and back around by the diesel pumps to get him inside. Whoever builds buildings is prejudiced against people with fixed dimensions.

  As we turned Shane around to yank him up the double steps, he nodded in the direction of the Trucker’s Only overnight lot. “Speaking of the devil.”

  “What devil?” Brad asked.

  “Maurey’s.”

  I knew before I looked, it was the off-yellow pickup camper. I didn’t say anything. This dude showing up all the time was a little eerie, and partway through my afternoon drinking bout I’d decided not to nail him just to spite Shane. He was probably okay and wondering why we were following him, but I’d been nailed by enough weirdos not to take chances. No more sleeping with non-friends.

  “Freedom’s Dallas connection drives a truck like that,” Brad said.

  Shane said, “Wouldn’t surprise me if he keeps a corpse in the camper.” I fought the urge to push Shane off the steps.

  At the booth Brad and Andrew spat over who got to sit on the inside by the jukebox wheel. I traded sides with Andrew, and Marcella moved to the aisle so both of them could be on the wall, but that hacked off Andrew because he hated sitting next to his mother. Life with kids is complicated. I decided to hole up in the John until the group sorted out seating arrangements.

  “Order me coffee,” I said as I slid out the booth.

  “Can your system take it?” Shane asked.

  In the bathroom I did the mirror routine again. Gruesome, but not terminal. I didn’t look all that drunk. The bruise on my arm was turning brackish purple outlined by lime green. Otherwise, my eyes were semi-clear and my hair combed, sort of. Considering all I’d been through, Shane had no right to give me guff. The turd. Wasn’t a thing wrong with me a three-day nap wouldn’t fix.

  I tried to add up the days. Mother’s Day, then Monday when they stole my Auburn. I was unconscious till Friday and left GroVont Monday night. Since then, there’d been two showers, one in Amarillo and one in Memphis. That made today Wednesday, but I didn’t think so. Somewhere I’d miscounted.

  “What day is this?” I asked back at the booth. Lloyd had finished gassing up and was plopped down in my place. I had to scoot in with Marcella, Hugo Jr., and Andrew.

  “See that fellow behind the cash register?” Lloyd asked. I turned to look at an angular midlevel-management type in a blue suit and white tie with a pitch-black dress shirt. His neck had a bad rash spreading up from the collar. Lloyd continued, “That’s the shift manager I traded the Coors with. How long has he been on the phone?”

  Brad said, “Saturday.”

  I thought he was kidding. Coming back from the can, I’d upped my guess to Thursday, possibly even Friday, but Saturday?

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  Brad nodded. “No school today.”

  Shane adjusted his body in the chair. “Maurey, are you cognizant to the fact that you are sloshed out of your gourd?”

  “That’s a damned lie.”

  “I don’t like the way he’s watching us and talking on the phone at the same time,” Lloyd said.

  Shane rotated his chair so he could see the situation. When the manager realized we were staring at him, his face went the color of his rash and he looked quickly at the floor.

  “The gentleman is definitely discussing us with someone,” Shane said.

  Marcella made Andrew stop screwing around with the salt and pepper shakers. “Sure, it’s Saturday,” she said. “Jewish people go to church on Saturday. Everybody else goes on Sunday.”

  “We should move along now,” Lloyd said.

  “Personally, I believe in better-safe-than-sorry,” Shane said, which wasn’t true. “We shall reach Granma’s by midnight. I’m certain she will insist on feeding us.”

  Shane spun his chair and headed for the diesel doors. Lloyd stood up. “Don’t run, but let us leave as quickly as possible.”

  Andrew set up a howl. “I’m hungry.”

  “We have to go,” Marcella said. “There’s graham crackers in the ambulance. You can have those.”

  “I want chicken fry!”

  I said, “Shut up.”

  The manager abandoned the phone and hustled over. “Is there anything I can help you people with, a larger booth, perhaps?” Some guys are totally out of place in a suit. They look like they’re wearing a costume, Halloween or something.

  “We have to be leaving,” Lloyd said.

  “But you haven’t finished your meals. You haven’t started your meals.” He sucked up to Andrew. “How would it be if I served complimentary cherry pie for everyone.”

  Andrew was happy—“Yea!”—but the rest of us moved out fast. Any man offering free pie has an ulterior motive. Brad and I followed Shane the long way while Marcella carried one kid and dragged the other one after Lloyd. The manager couldn’t decide who to try to stop.

  “What’s our problem?” Brad asked as we pushed Shane past the lit pumps.

  “I imagine he telephoned the police. He looked like the scuzzy type,” Shane said.

  “I am not sloshed out of my gourd.”

  38

  The patrol car caught us on a dark road a couple miles west and south of Junior’s. Lloyd had thought we stood a better chance doubling back toward Chattanooga where there were more side streets, but it didn’t do any good. On a straightaway at the bottom of a vine-covered hill Lloyd glanced in his side mirror and said, “Rats.” Red-and-blue flashing lights reflected off his face.

  “What is it?” Marcella asked.

  Lloyd stopped the ambulance and sat there a moment, rubbing his hand on his overalls leg. “Everyone stay put. Whatever happens, let me handle it.” He gave me a meaningful look. I shrugged. “No sweat.”

  After Lloyd slammed the door, I hit Injun Joe a big slug, then waited maybe ten seconds before slipping out. Behind me I heard Shane call something unintelligible that ended in “fool.”

  Even though the moon was nearly full, the low cloud cover made for a milky-dark borrow ditch. I walked quietly along Moby Dick and the trailer and came up behind the policemen. The one shaped like a 7Up bottle had his flashlight
beam in Lloyd’s face while the short, slim guy examined my trailer. They were doing that smug patter cops do when they know you’re nailed.

  “Hey, Bernard, you ever seen anything like this? They got a horse on the license plate.”

  The big one was considerably older. “Probably because that’s a horse trailer, A.B.”

  “I never met anyone from Wyoming. I heard cowboys out there fuck sheep.”

  “You fuck sheep?” Bernard asked.

  Lloyd said, “No.”

  “He’s lying,” A.B. said. “All cowboys fuck sheep. I bet his mama was a sheep.” A.B. walked off toward Moby Dick. I heard him up by the hitch. “I bet he’s got himself a trailer chock full of illegal aliens.”

  “Or whores,” Bernard said. He kept his flashlight in Lloyd’s eyes. “We don’t hanker to whores in Hamilton County. This ain’t Nashville.”

  Lloyd didn’t try to shield his eyes from the blinding light. His voice was resigned. “We’re not carrying illegal aliens or whores.”

  “Must be contraband, then,” Bernard said. His light traveled down Lloyd’s body. “Drugs. Them’s just the kind of shoes drug smugglers wear.”

  A.B. opened Moby Dick. “We could radio for the dogs. Sniff out their marijuana.”

  “We’re not hauling marijuana,” Lloyd said.

  Bernard flipped up the bolt in the trailer’s double doors. “Let’s see what illegal substances you are hauling.”

  I said, “Beer.”

  Bernard dropped the flashlight, twirled, yelled “Shit,” and pointed his gun at me. “Who the hell are you?”

  “It’s my trailer. Put down that pistol.”

  A.B. called from inside the ambulance. “Bernard, we got us three kids, a mama, and a cripple back here.”

  Bernard answered. “We got us a crazy bitch back here.”

  “Watch your tongue, mister.”

  Lloyd sent me a look, but I wasn’t in the mood. When cops act abusive, men should cooperate, women shouldn’t. That’s how America works. I pointed to their car. “You’re Chattanooga city police. You have no jurisdiction on this road.”