It was about this time that Viola showed me a picture of her brother, Junebug. There wasn’t nothing subtle about it, though she tried to play it off.
“Don’t you think he’s a fine looking man?” Viola asked me. I was doing some ironing in the dayroom.
I had to concede that he wasn’t hard to look at. He had a red tone to his skin and deep eyes. He was wearing a thick gold chain around his neck but not all that flash that them ghetto thugs think they have to wear.
“He’s a hard worker, too, girl,” Viola said.
Daffy strolled up and stuck out her long neck so she could see the picture.
“What kind of car do he drive? Hmm?” she asked.
“Um, a Ford Taurus, I think,” Viola said. “It’s blue.”
“A Taurus?” Daffy opened her eyes wide like she was impressed when I knew she was making fun of Viola’s brother, so I had to stick up for him a little bit even though I didn’t know the man.
“It doesn’t matter what kind of car a man drives. What matters is how he treats you.” I pressed down hard on the iron, thinking that Antwan had treated me so good all the way up to the moment he let me do his time for him. And it occurred to me I didn’t know jack about the way a man ought to treat a woman. I used to think my daddy wasn’t good to Momma. He didn’t spoil her and all like that. I’m not even sure what broke them up. On the other hand, I could remember coming into the kitchen and seeing them cooking together – Daddy making stew and Momma cooking greens and biscuits. And there was something about the way they moved about the kitchen together, stepping around each other in constant motion, never getting in each other’s way. It looked like they were doing a dance together. Maybe they had more going on than I realized as a fourteen-year-old girl.
Daffy walked out of the room, and later in the cafeteria, she said to me, “Child, please. What is Viola thinking? Like you would dump Antwan for her chump of her brother.”
I just crossed my arms and nodded. I had gotten a letter from Antwan just that day full of his sweet sexy words (though he couldn’t spell worth a damn). And he had put fifty dollars in my bank, which was nothing out of his bankroll, but meant a lot to me being locked up.
But that night, don’t you know, as I was standing with my head stuck in my locker, I overheard Daffy telling Viola that her brother Junebug could write to her—Daffy, that is—if he wanted to. And poor Viola started stammering something. I just held in my laughter and pretended like I didn’t hear a thing.
Wednesday, June 28
Jen watched them wheel Lolly on the gurney into surgery. She had no idea how long it would take or when Lolly would be able to talk. Lolly was scheduled to stay in the hospital for at least one day after the surgery; the insurance companies didn’t let you lounge around for long. Jen stood in the hallway at a loss, the raw hospital smell like detergent in her sinuses. Any number of Lolly’s friends would have been happy to be here. They all doted on Lolly, but Lolly hadn’t wanted to tell people. One thing Lolly hated was pity. Maybe that’s why she asked Jen to bring her; Jen had never been capable of pitying her.
A couple of nurses bustled past Jen, and Jen looked around at the various doors leading to mysterious rooms of equipment and wondered where they kept the good drugs. Oh well, she did know where a good bar was located quite nearby. She could while away the afternoon there and come see how Lolly was doing later that evening.
Jen left the hospital and headed straight to the bar. She started drinking about three in the afternoon; rum and coke seemed like it would do the trick. The sugar alone would kill her. The bar was decorated in an island theme with a large patio area out back where bands sometimes played.
She had moved to Tallahassee when she was 26, already a senior citizen in the eyes of the college-going populace. In the past six years, she’d met her share of fellow imbibers.
A loud thunder crack overhead shook the place, but they all knew in fifteen minutes or so it would all be over.
Oh Lord, here came big tall Howard toward her table. He would surely offer to buy her drinks all night. She was a magnet for easy men. Lolly’s surgery would be done soon. She couldn’t allow herself to get sidetracked.
“Whatcha drinkin’, Lady?” Howard asked with a big smile.
----
It had been dark for a while when Jen sped along Tennessee Street in Lolly’s Civic. Howard had eventually gone home to his wife, and Jen had stopped at her place to change. Now she was out with the sultry night air licking her face. Amazing what power this little car had. She flew past the bars crowding against the strip, the stereo was screaming out “Radar Love” and she was screaming with it. She felt electric. She felt good for the first time in weeks. Sure, her sister was in a hospital somewhere with her breast lopped off, but Jen’s boobies were still there firmly planted and oh, the rum sang inside her. And she was ready to party. Where were her friends? Where was anyone? The sky above was a swirling gray and black. The young night was full of possibility and green lights. Go, she heard her blood whisper, fly.
The whoop of a police siren broke the spell. Jen slowed the car down. How fast had she been going anyway? The police car with its siren and steady beating blue light followed close behind her, admonishing her. Damn, she said, and I just got my license back. This struck her as terribly amusing. She pulled into the parking lot of a wooden building designed to look like a saloon where college students regularly obliterated their busy brain cells. Now, she was busted. At least she looked great if she was going to the hooskow. She was wearing her red dress that hugged her body and a pair of black, strappy sandals. Boy, it would really look bad if any of her former students were around. She laughed again at the thought of it and turned her car off.
The police officer shined a light into her car.
“Ma’am, have you been drinking?” he asked. There were two police cars.
“Yep,” she answered with a smile and handed over her license.
“Get out of the car please,” he said. She opened the door and stood up. My, my. A low whistle came from the other car, but they merely watched.
“Jennifer Johanssen, is it? Do you know how fast you were going?”
“No, I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.”
“You were going about 90 miles an hour.”
“Wow. Ninety on Highway 90,” Jen said. “Sorry. That’s way too fast.” Way to go, friggin’, Einstein, she thought. Mmmm, stupid, stupid, stupid.
“I’m going to need you to take a sobriety test,” he said. “Please walk along this line here, placing one foot in front of the other.” He indicated a yellow line in the parking lot.
The thing about Jen’s drinking was that there was a little window in the intoxication process when she could perform all things flawlessly. She’d once won a pool tournament in the very bar next to the parking lot after having imbibed a considerable amount of tequila. Generally, after drinking a bit, her vocabulary suddenly improved. Big words—obsequious, quotidian, voluptuous, chastisement, loquacious, puerile—peppered her sentences and entranced more than one hungry man to follow her home. At these times things were sharper, clearer and easier. And then she usually went home, passed out, unable to remember the adventures of the night before. But she was nowhere near the passing out stage. She was in perfect form and easily moved over the line like a circus tight-rope walker.
“Okay,” the officer said. “Now stand on one leg.”
Jen did as she was told. Didn’t they have a Breathalyzer with them, she wondered, but somehow she knew she’d pass that, too. Speeding, reckless