Your Cheatin Heart

Chapter Fourteen

That night, the Golden Stallion was hopping. The all-male dance revue, the Young Bucks, were in town and strutting their stuff on the dance floor. It was a sight to behold. A tribe of young farm boys, their muscles pumped, their hair perfectly slicked back against work-tanned skin, wearing their jeans tight enough to cause concern about future progeny. It was all happening right in front of me, and I had all I could do to keep my mind focused on the job at hand.

Weathers knew much more about me than I knew about him. The Digger story was one thing. I figured Weathers brought that up just to show off how much he was capable of finding out. That story wasn't going to hurt me, not like the story of Jimmy's wedding rehearsal dinner. Now that could hurt me.

Jack sidled up while I sang "My Heart's on Fire, but Your Hands Are Still Cold." It was a rowdy little tune about a drunken cowboy who loses his love to another. I had the Young Bucks restless and the cowgirls breathless, just urging them on. If anyone in the place went home lonely tonight, they'd have only themselves to blame.

"Evelyn needed my car tonight," Jack said, between verses. "Can you give me a ride again?"

I looked over at him and nodded. Who in the world was this Evelyn, and why wasn't she coming to pick him up? She'd lose him to someone if she kept up this kind of behavior. Of course, if she was anything like Jack, they probably had some open type of arrangement. Hell, she probably lived with two or three guys in a commune somewhere.

I could never stand for that, I thought. I'm a one-man woman.

The song came to an end and Sparks gave the band the nod to go into their break tune.

"Folks, we'll be right back," he announced. "Gotta tend to a little business, if you know what I mean." He laughed, as did the crowd. All I had on my mind was some fresh air and a little solitude. Sometimes watching all those couples together out on the dance floor really got to me.

I pushed my way backstage, past the stagehands and groupies waiting to transact business with the boys in the band. I stepped out onto the fire escape and walked over to my car. No one ever looked for me there, especially if I didn't crank the engine, and slid down in the seat where I wouldn't be noticed. I needed time to think.

Jimmy got married in August five years ago. At the time, we all figured we knew why. Had to be that Roxanne was pregnant. Jimmy had practically made a career out of avoiding marriage. But with Roxanne, he was announcing his engagement a mere four weeks after he'd met her. And the engagement wasn't even announced in the traditional manner.

At the time, me, Vernell, and Sheila were living out in Oak Ridge on what Vernell referred to as a "gentleman's farm." What it really was, was a brick three-bedroom ranch that sat on four acres. Vernell figured that because it took a riding lawn mower to cut the grass and because there was a detached garage in the shape of a barn, he could call it a farm.

It was pretty, though. The house sat up on a little rise, set back from the road. A porch spanned the front of the house, and in the summer we'd sit out there and watch the cars passing by and the corn growing in the fields across the street where the real farmer lived. We were sitting out there the afternoon Jimmy came to announce that he was gonna marry Roxanne.

His little red pickup swung into our dusty dirt driveway, spinning out as it rounded the corner and slinging gravel everywhere.

"Wonder what the hell bee's got up his butt," Vernell muttered, watching Jimmy push his truck up the hill. "Probably got trouble out to the lot again. You know, I'm getting sick of his lazy ass. Don't take a rocket scientist to run a business. If the boy can't handle it, he ought to get somebody in there who can. Hell, he could put in a manager and go play golf all day and make more money than he is running it himself."

I didn't say a word. It was the same-old same-old as far as I was concerned. The Spivey brothers fought about everything, constantly. And they were worse when one or both of them had been drinking.

"Hellfire," Vernell said, rising up out of his rocker. "And here it is about supper time. Darned if that boy don't smell you cookin' from across town. Jimmy!" he yelled out, stepping down off the porch. "You're tearing up my yard!"

His yard! Vernell figured his outdoor duties were discharged when he bought me a used John Deere riding mower.

Jimmy stepped down out of his truck, his Braves cap twisted around backward and a Bud Lite in his hand. We were headed for trouble, I thought. Maybe food would sober him up.

"Hey, Jimmy," I called. "Come on in. You're just in time for dinner."

"Cain't stay," he yelled, like maybe with me being ten feet away I couldn't hear him speak in a normal tone. "I just come to tell you something." He was looking straight at me, ignoring his brother completely.

"Now, Jimmy," I said, standing up and preparing not to take any of his nonsense, "I made your favorite, fried chicken."

He hesitated, then took a few steps toward the porch. "Greens or beans?" he asked.

"Beans with tatters. Cornbread with cheese. And for dessert, I made a banana cream pie. So come on." I wouldn't have let him leave anyhow. Any fool could see he was drunk.

Jimmy walked straight as an arrow to the porch steps and sank down on the top one. "Banana cream?" His eyes had unexpectedly filled with tears and the hand holding the beer began to shake. "Aw man, I sure am gonna miss your cooking."

I sank down beside him. Vernell was eyeing Jimmy as if he were a subspecies. In Vernell's world, even a drunk man ought not cry.

"Jimmy, now you know Vernell's just kidding when he gets on to you. He don't mean nothing by it when he teases you for coming to eat so often." Okay, so Jimmy ate with us more than he did his own mama. I didn't mind. "We like having you here, don't we, Vernell?" I gave Vernell a nasty look and he grunted in our direction, still eyeing Jimmy the way a hound eyes a skunk.

"Not no more," Jimmy cried balefully, "I'm getting married. Next Saturday."

This galvanized old Vernell into action. "No wonder you's all emotional!" he yelled. "You about to go and let loose of your freedom. Hellfire!" Vernell let out a loud rebel yell. "Who's the lucky jailer, I mean, woman?"

I stood up and pulled Jimmy with me. "We'll talk about it over supper," I said. "When's the last time you ate, Jimmy?"

"I don't know," he said, not sounding at all like a lucky bridegroom.

"Well, that's your problem, son. You need something on your stomach. A man can't live by beer alone."

I led Jimmy into the kitchen, Vernell following, but still maintaining a healthy distance in case his brother were to start emoting again. They both sat at the table, content to let me run around the kitchen, setting out plates and silverware. The scent of fresh fried chicken and moist southern corn-bread danced across the roomy kitchen. It was my favorite time of day, the time when smells and sounds outweigh the reality of a home fraught with tension and too little love between partners.

I tried to stay busy and let Vernell and Jimmy do the talking, but I became aware that Jimmy was watching my every move, and pitching his voice so it would carry to me. I started to get a bad feeling about Jimmy's engagement, especially in light of the facts as they began to emerge.

"Her name's Roxanne," I heard Jimmy say. "She's a widow-lady. I met her out at Mama's Country Showplace." Great place to meet women, I thought, in a honky tonk made famous for the quality of its Saturday night bar fights.

"She used to skate derby for the Rockettes, but she blew out her knee. Got tripped up by a rival."

"How long have you known her, Jimmy?" I couldn't help asking.

"Four weeks. That was long enough for me. I know, you're thinking four weeks ain't much of a time to know no one, but I know all I need to know. She's it."

Vernell snickered and Jimmy just sat there. Any other time, Jimmy'd have been at his throat for insinuating, Jimmy didn't seem to care.

"Do you love her? Have you met her folks?" I couldn't help myself.

"Maggie," he sighed, "it's time. I can't wait forever, and it's time." The remark flew right over Vernell's head. Jimmy was getting married on account of desperation and loneliness. He was giving up on the notion of waiting for me to leave Vernell and marry him.

I did everything I could that night to bring my foolish brother-in-law to his senses, but with Vernell there, I couldn't speak directly. I tried all that week to hunt Jimmy down, because he was avoiding me. He knew I'd talk him out of marrying Roxanne, the twice-before married, ex-roller derby queen.

I didn't see Jimmy again until the night before the wedding. That's when all the trouble broke lose, and that's when I knew for certain that Roxanne and I would never have a sisterly relationship.

The rehearsal dinner, hastily arranged by Mrs. Spivey, was held at the Twilight Supper Club out off Route 29 on the way to Reidsville, It was held there for two reasons. It was the elder Spiveys' favorite place to spend Saturday night. And because they were regulars, it was the only place in town where they could secure affordable accommodations on such short notice.

The Twilight was a Greensboro institution. Set up shortly after World War II as a dance club to entertain the returning young Greensboro natives, it had not changed in the intervening forty-odd years. The house band that played all the big band favorites was still there, with most of the original members. The front door was padded with quilted leather and a big "T" adorn the door, traced out with large brass upholstery tacks.

Mrs. Spivey arranged the evening personally with Travis Dean, now an elderly man in his seventies. She rented a bus to pick us all up and had Flora's Bakery concoct a cake that she kept carefully concealed in a huge white box. She assured us that it was going to be an evening to remember.

The fact that Mrs. Spivey despised Roxanne on sight and principle made no difference in the evening's plan. Mrs. Spivey was just happy to be marrying Jimmy off. The way she seemed to figure it, a man in his early thirties, unmarried, was bound to be a reflection of his mother's shortcomings, and Mrs. Spivey was not a woman to have shortcomings. She had worked for Cone Mills for almost forty-three years, had risen to the rank of shift supervisor, and she did not take anything off anybody at any time. This included her sons and her weak-minded, passive little husband, Vernell Senior.

By the time the bus rumbled up our Oak Ridge driveway, forty minutes before the festivities were due to start at the Twilight, Mrs. Spivey had worked up a good head of steam. She was a large-boned woman with dyed auburn hair, rhinestone-rimmed, oversized glasses, and huge cubic zircon rings which she flashed at every opportunity. Because she had arranged for a bartender and a bar to come along with the bus, she and every other member of the wedding party were well on their way to being intoxicated.

When Vernell stepped up into the bus and saw that he was behind the others, he made a beeline for the bartender. I stood up by the driver and took stock of the situation.

The only person on the bus I could not identify was the woman who turned out to be Jimmy's intended, Roxanne. Roxanne five years ago was nothing like Roxanne today. In fact, when we saw her, Vernell and I each drew in a sharp breath, for what turned out to be different reasons. Vernell was impressed by Roxanne's cup size, while I was struck by the similarities between the two of us. Other than, of course, our physical measurements.

Roxanne was short, like me, only shorter, and she had bright red curly hair, the very same shade as mine. I looked from her to Jimmy and saw him smiling, a triumphant, what-do-you-think-of-that? smirk. I just shook my head. Now I knew for certain that something had to be done.

By the time the reconverted school bus rolled into the Twilight parking lot, there wasn't a sober Spivey in the lot. Mrs. Spivey led the parade down out of the bus and into the Twilight, her fake fur coat flapping wildly behind her, the big white cake box nearly obscuring her view of the pathway to the front door.

Roxanne and Jimmy followed the elder Spiveys down out of the bus. She clung to his arm, staring up at him through the lace of her veil which she had insisted upon wearing during the rehearsal, which had, by the way, been held on the bus. The preacher Mrs. Spivey had lured into performing the ceremony held the door for the happy couple. He clung to it more for support than as a gesture of good manners. He, too, had fallen from the wagon of faith and into the quagmire of intoxication.

We made such a loud and unruly entrance into the supper club that even the Two-Tones, who were slap in the middle of "Begin the Beguine," were forced to quit playing. At a signal from Mr. Dean, the band broke into a rousing version of "Here Comes The Bride."

Jimmy and Roxanne processed in a slow, weaving pace down the middle of the dance floor, their bodies bathed in the eerie red light of the dining room. For a moment, the Spivey family looked almost normal. Happy, laughing, barely weaving with the alcohol, the Spiveys had decided to put on a good show for their Jimmy.

The evening progressed at a rapid pace, or else the Mai Tais I swilled were working to collapse time in upon itself. The happy couple was toasted. The steaks arrived. And soon, people began to wander away from the table, heading for the dance floor or back to the bar. Mama Spivey's head was drooping over her empty plate. Pa Spivey had taken the opportunity to sneak onto the dance floor with one of the waitresses, and Roxanne left to go powder her nose. Jimmy, momentarily unaware of my presence, relaxed.

He was eating his steak, his dark hair falling over the side of his face, his jaws working with the concentrated effort of chewing. For a moment he looked just like what he really was, a sad little boy.

"I want to talk to you," I said, "and I'm not taking no for an answer." I didn't have to speak loudly, I was only four seats away, but still the sound of my voice startled him. He looked up, blushed, swallowed, and paused with his fork halfway to his lips.

"Maggie, don't." He had a determined look on his face, as if keeping me from speaking would save him from thinking about what he was about to do with Roxanne.

"We have to talk, Jimmy. You're doing this for the wrong reasons." I leaned closer and spoke a little louder as the bandleader soloed on his tenor sax.

"You're killing me!" Jimmy said, his voice carrying suddenly, as the bandleader brought the song to a close. Jimmy flushed and stuck the uneaten forkful of food in his mouth.

Mrs. Spivey, who'd been half asleep, jerked to attention and whipped her head around to see the cause of Jimmy's distress. Her eyes narrowed when she spotted me.

"Maggie! Leave him be!" I realized then that Jimmy's unrequited love had not gone completely unnoticed. Jimmy was supremely embarrassed. He blushed even redder, pretended to choke, and looked down at his lap.

"Mrs. Spivey, he doesn't love her. That's my only beef with the whole deal."

Jimmy was carrying his coughing fit a little too far, bringing his hands up to his neck, jerking in his seat. Just like a Spivey to overact.

"It don't matter," Mrs. Spivey yelled. "He can't go around the rest of his life mooning after his brother's wife!"

Jimmy slipped to the floor, sliding under the table. Even for a Spivey, this was a bit much. His face was a dusky red, and his eyes had rolled back in his head. I didn't waste any time at all. I ducked down under the table, crawling my way over to the disabled Jimmy.

Above me, I heard Ma Spivey screaming. "You two get up from under there!" I don't what she thought I was doing, but the reality was enough for me to handle.

"Jimmy! Can you hear me?" His face was a mottled reddish blue. I bent my head close to his mouth. Not a sound. That's about when Roxanne reappeared from the ladies' room.

"What the hell's going on here?"

I had my fingers halfway down Jimmy's throat. I didn't feel anything, so I sealed my lips over his and blew. Roxanne bent down and peered under the table.

"Jimmy! Oh my God!" She was gone, standing upright and screaming at Ma Spivey. "They're making out under the table! At my wedding rehearsal!"

This brought the band to a standstill and the wedding party on the run. I felt them stampeding, the floor trembling beneath me as I struggled with the dead-weight Jimmy.

"Help me get him out!" I yelled, but the others were too busy listening to Roxanne to hear me. I flipped Jimmy on his stomach, knelt behind him and tried to pull him up. I formed my hands into a knot by his diaphragm and pulled as hard as I could.

Someone pushed me aside.

"Leave my wife alone! "Vernell yelled.

He grabbed Jimmy from my arms, attempting to haul him out from under the table, his arms wrapped around his brother's torso.

With a sudden jerk, Jimmy's body flew up. Vernell staggered backward under the weight of his brother, and a huge wad of steak went flying from Jimmy's mouth, past me and across the table into Mrs. Spivey's lap.

Jimmy gasped, his eyes fluttered, and he awoke just as Vernell's fist went flying toward his face.

Ma Spivey screamed "Stop!", but it was too late. Jimmy sank to the floor again and Vernell stared wide-eyed, from me to his mama.

"I heard it all!" Ma Spivey exclaimed. "Jimmy said she was killing him!"

Roxanne lunged toward me, but someone grabbed her, holding her back. Jimmy was coughing and writhing around on the floor, struggling to scramble to his feet.

"He was choking! Did y'all not see the hunk of steak?"

They ignored me, all yelling at once. Jimmy struggled to his feet, a dazed look on his face.

"What happened?" he asked.

The wedding party turned on him, all talking at once. It was a huge mess. Somehow, Jimmy persuaded a reluctant and suspicious Roxanne to believe that he had choked and we were not kissing. With Jimmy's testimony, Ma Spivey and the others were forced to accept that I had not tried to kill my brother-in-law, but you could see in their eyes that some doubt remained. Especially with Ma Spivey and Roxanne.

I looked back on that night, five years ago, and I could see how Marshall Weathers had gotten the wrong impression of me again. Out in the country we used to say, "If it walks like a duck, talks like a duck, and smells like a duck, it's probably a duck" But I wasn't a murderer, no matter what I smelled like.

" Are you coming inside or are you gonna sleep in the car?" Jack had snuck up on me, at least it felt that way. In all probability, I'd been lost in my memories. He leaned against the front fender, waiting for me to move.

"Go on ahead," I said, stirring. "I'll be in in a minute."

"You all right?" he asked, concern mirrored in his eyes.

"Finer than frog hair split down the middle." I didn't meet his gaze for long.

He shrugged and turned away. That was something I liked about him. If I said I was fine, then he let me be fine, no matter what evidence there was to the contrary. When I stepped out of the car, he was disappearing inside the club without a backward glance.

I'd reached the stairs, almost to the back door, when I heard the ping and saw a tiny flash of light. It took the second shot for my brain to register that someone was shooting at me.

I think I screamed. I know I ran for the door, grasping at the handle, ducking down, every nerve in my body painfully tingling with fear. I half fell in the back door, too scared to do more than run for the first person I saw. Cletus.

"Help me!" I yelled. My body was at war. Part of me was scared to death, the other part, numb with denial. Don't be silly! No one shot at you!

Cletus, for his part, responded like a bouncer, instantly and with a sense of authority, no rushing, just steady, solid presence. He stood next to me, muscles bulging, dressed all in black, his bald head gleaming in the club lights, a tiny earpiece and wire running down to a small box clipped to his waist. Cletus was on the job.

"What happened?" he asked, his eyes scanning behind me, running to the sides, looking for trouble. I pointed to the back door; by now the denial side of my body had won out. I was calm, even a little embarrassed.

"Out there," I said. "I think somebody shot at me." The band, unaware of my situation, saw me and went into my intro. I had to get back on the stage. A new thought entered my mind and blew away the denial. "What if the shooter came into the club? What if he was already in the club?"

Cletus spoke into his walkie-talkie. Across the room, I saw two of the security staff begin to move, one toward the back door and one out the front. The guy working the front door picked up the phone.

"Clete, what if he's in here?" I asked.

"He didn't come in here with a gun," Cletus answered calmly.

"How do you know?"

Cletus looked at me. "I know," he said. "You're all right."

I was facing a dilemma: Did I trust Cletus to really know the club? In the six months I'd worked here, nothing had ever happened. But someone had just tried to shoot me.

The band was coming up on my spot. I either ran up those stairs now or missed another intro and faced Sparks after the set. I ran. After all, it was my job and I needed iv I'd just have to trust that Cletus could do his job. I grabbed the mike and walked out onto center stage.

He was too hot to handle.

He said, "Baby don't touch."

I said, "I live for the moment,

I ain't asking for much."

You've never had trouble,

you never had style.

Well son, you're fixing to tumble

'cause I'm totally wild.

The Young Bucks were back on the dance floor. The night was coming to its hormonal peak. This was the last set, the last chance for the unattached to hook up before the bartenders announced last call and the houselights went up. Alcohol was having its desired effect on the crowd. Anyone who wanted to dance was out on the floor, with or without a partner.

Jack wandered up. "Why're the cops back?" he asked.

I looked out past the dance floor. Two uniformed officers stood talking to Cletus. He'd called the cops.

"Someone shot at me out in the parking lot, right after you went inside."

I looked behind the two officers, expecting to see Weathers. If he was there, he hadn't come inside.

Jack grabbed my arm. Sugar Bear was playing the last few measures of the song. The dancers whirled around the floor, oblivious to everything but their carefully timed steps and twirls. Jack and I were standing in the eye of the evening's storm.

"He didn't… You're…?" Jack was at a loss.

"He didn't hit me. I'm fine." I turned away from him and stepped back to the mike. I didn't want to think about it. I wanted to be inside the music. I wanted to be alone. I wanted to be the singer, not the victim.