MURKY BAYOU: October 2007

Barbara Wagner leaned against the shower wall, letting steamy water pour off her shoulders and short black hair. When the phone rang, she grabbed a towel and hurried into the living room of her tiny apartment. She stood dripping on the carpet, holding the dead receiver in one hand and the towel in the other. Shaken by the one-sided dialogue, she didn't bother turning when someone opened the front door, entering without knocking.

"Get an obscene phone call, or just making one?" the unexpected visitor quipped.
Barbara smiled weakly at Penny Pratt. Holding a half-finished romance novel in her hands, her gangly neighbor was peering at her over the top of her thick horn-rims.

"Bad news," Barbara said, hanging up the phone.

Penny asked, tersely, "Someone die?"

Tucking the bath towel beneath her arms, Barbara answered, "No. The bank rejected my loan."
Penny plopped on the couch and put her long legs up on the coffee table. Dressed in shorts and sneakers, she resembled a studious basketball player. "Is that all? Last time I tried to borrow money my banker said he knew teenagers with more assets."

Barbara smiled, went to the kitchen and poured two cups of coffee. "My banker wanted to discuss the loan over dinner."

Penny ruffled her brownish-blonde hair and straightened her skinny frame. "You pretty girls have all the fun. My banker asked if I'd like coffee and charged me a quarter when his secretary brought it."

Barbara sat beside her on the couch. "Thanks for cheering me up, Penny, but I have a real problem."

"Diaphragm broken again?"

"I wish. I'm thirty days behind on my car payment, my insurance is due and I owe five-hundred dollars in taxes."

"Sounds like an average week for me."

"Seriously, Penny, I don't know what to do."

"Borrow it from your rich boy friend."

Barbara shook her head. "Can't do that."

"Why? You're marrying him, aren't you?"

Barbara walked to the window. "Robert's mother doesn't like me. I'm sure she wouldn't understand."

"Borrow it from Bob, not her," Penny said, following her off the couch and refilling her cup.

"Robert and his mother are very close."

"I'll say. Take my advice Sweetie. If you're gonna marry that boy, sooner or later you're gonna have to unlatch his lips from her nipples."

Barbara grinned. "Penny, you really have a way with words."

"His family is gold-plated, a family you'll be part of in less than six months. Why not borrow money from him?"

"Robert's mother doesn't cotton much to the idea of her only son marrying a plumber's daughter from Clarkston. I don't want to give her a reason to persuade him otherwise."

"You're not marrying his mother, Sweetie. If it makes you uncomfortable, just borrow the money from your parents?"

"Long story."

"I have all day."

"I haven't visited my folks in six months and I already owe them more than I can repay on my salary in the next ten years."

"They're still your parents. They'll be happy to help."

Barbara frowned and shook her head. "I had an argument
with Dad last time I was home."

"So what's new? My old man and I are always yelling at each other."

"Dad's retiring next year and he's going through a difficult period. He's depressed and angry and sulks and pouts around with a perpetual frown on his face. Mom says he even talks to himself."

"And makes both of you miserable."

Barbara nodded. "Nothing either of us do is good enough for him. He uses any excuse to pick a fight."

"Then borrow the money from Bob. Forget his mother. Even rich, good-looking hunks have their faults," Penny said, sprawling back on the couch.

"Why don't you tell him? He just drove up outside," Barbara said, looking out the window.
Penny quickly finished her coffee and rushed for the front door.

"No thanks. See you later."

She met Bob Lieberman, dressed for tennis, getting out of his red Corvette, smiled and waved. "Hi Bob. Barbara's expecting you."

When Bob saw Barbara's towel-wrapped wet hair, he wondered what Penny had meant. "Drip drying to save electricity?"

Barbara stood on her tiptoes, kissed him, then turned for the bathroom. Bob grabbed a cup of coffee from the kitchen and followed her. He found her sitting at the small vanity, naked as she dried her short hair with a blow dryer.

"Mother wants you to spend the weekend," he said, sipping the coffee.
Barbara turned off the dryer, green eyes suddenly wide. "Are you kidding?"

"She asked me at breakfast to extend the invitation."

"Separate bedrooms?"

"For appearances only. We can do what we want after Mom and Dad go to bed."

"Thanks Robert, but I'm not comfortable in that huge house."

"June's not far away."

"We've discussed that a dozen times. It's just not a good idea for us to move in with your parents."

"The house has twenty-five rooms, a cook and a maid. No one will bother us."

Barbara shook her head and fluffed her hair. "That's not the point. We need a place of our own."

Bob quickly decided to drop the subject. "Are we on for this weekend or not?"

"I'm visiting my parents in Clarkston. Why don't you come with me?"

"And miss Mom's spring fling? I can't do that."

"Robert, your mother has twenty parties a year."

"But not this one. The spring bash is a family tradition."

Barbara draped her willowy arms around his neck. "Sorry to disappoint you, but I have something more important to worry about this year than your mother's party."

***

Next weekend Barbara gunned her old maroon Fiero down the winding blacktop near Clarkston, slowing as she passed the graffiti water tower, the red emblazoned heart still visible at the top of the tower. Jack loves Barbara, it said. A suppressed memory invaded her thoughts and she smiled, despite herself. Red bud trees and white-blossomed dogwood lined both sides of the road. Feeling like a high school senior again, she pulled the car off the blacktop.

"Gorgeous," she exclaimed, opening the door.

Barbara picked a yellow wildflower. When she glanced up she saw old man Baker in his old pick-up, waving like a hundred times before. Some things never change, she thought.

Little had changed. A few new fast-food restaurants and a giant Wal-Mart were Clarkston's only concessions to the new decade. She passed a group of youngsters milling at the Dairy Freeze. Others, out of school for the holiday, cruised the streets looking for mostly non-existent excitement. When she reached her parent's house a wave of nostalgia crested, washed across the sands of her memory, then returned in foamy rivulets to the ocean of her subconscious. Her stoic father waited on the porch as she parked in front of the house.

"Hi Dad. How are you?"

"Passable," he drawled.

He waited stiffly as she hugged him, then moved away quickly to retrieve her bags from the car. "Are you alone this time?"

"Yes," she said, realizing she was visiting Clarkston the first time in many years without a boyfriend.

He silently took her bags into the house.

"Where's Mom?"

"Your grandmother's."

"How is grandmother?"

He laughed drily. "The old woman will outlive us both."

"Any thoughts on putting her in a rest home?"

Barbara could feel his anger when he answered. "Not if your mama has anything to say about it," he ranted. "She's there from ten till noon. Goes back at three and stays till six."

Barbara started to reply, but a car pulling into the driveway interrupted her -- her mother, arriving in a brown Pontiac. The attractive middle-aged woman slammed the car door and hurried up the steps, an anticipatory smile on her face.

"Babs," she said, putting her arms around Barbara's shoulders. "You're early."

Barbara hugged her and smiled. "Just a little. How's grandmother?"

"Doesn't know a soul," she said, grimly.

"Mama, why don't you put her in a rest home?"

Cynthia Wagner stiffened noticeably and crossed her arms. "Mandy and Polly would rather die," she explained.

"Aunt Mandy and Aunt Polly live in Houston. They don't take care of grandmother everyday. Neither should you."

Her mother pulled away and opened the refrigerator. "I don't mind. You hungry? There's chicken and a roast, or you can make a sandwich."

"I'm not hungry, Mom. What's wrong with Dad?"

"He's under the weather since his prostate trouble," she said, shutting the refrigerator door.
"More like a terminal case of constipation if you ask me."

Cynthia Wagner ignored the remark. Barbara passed her father in the den, reading the newspaper and smoking his pipe. Cynthia followed her upstairs to her old bedroom. Barbara found her suitcase and overnight bag on the bed.

"Jack Stevenson is in town."

Barbara frowned. "I'm engaged, Mom. Remember?"

"I know Dear, but you haven't seen him since you went away to college. It would be nice to at least say hello."

"You liked him more than I did."

"He reminds me of your father when he was younger," she said, pulling away. "You never explained what happened."

"Nothing happened. I wanted college and a career. He wanted to stay in Clarkston."
Cynthia smiled knowingly. "But he didn't. He has his own construction company now." She edged out the door and Barbara followed her.

"I'm going for a spin through town, Mom," Barbara said, feeling suddenly closed in. "I'll be back later."

The little town was all greenery and solitude. Barbara drove to the park, followed a familiar path through the pines and sat on a swing. She listened to children playing and the swing creak, soon hearing something else beyond the clearing.

Barbara found a group playing volleyball. The young man serving attracted her attention. She admired his wavy hair -- dark as her own -- and bare muscular chest that rippled when he served the ball. Not until she looked twice at his green-flecked hazel eyes did she realize it was Jack Stevenson. Feeling light headed and disoriented, she quickly returned to her car.

. . .

Barbara took a nap before dinner and went downstairs, determined to broach the subject of the loan. She didn't find the courage until her mother served the apple pie.

"You're very quiet tonight, Dear," her mother said.

"I have something on my mind."

Cynthia Wagner looked concerned. "What's the matter, Babs?"

"Mom, I'm behind on my bills. I need to borrow some money."

George Wagner threw his napkin on the plate and stood from the table. "I knew it!"

Cynthia glanced disdainfully at her husband and protectively grabbed Barbara's hand. "George! Don't be so insensitive."

He ignored her, stalking out the front door and slamming it behind him.

"I'm sorry, Babs. Of course we'll lend you the money."

She began clearing the dishes and Barbara remained sitting, brooding over her father's angry outburst. Distraught and hurt, she joined him on the porch swing.

"Dad, I'm sorry about the money. I just didn't know who else to ask."

George Wagner stood up and went into the house without answering. She crossed her arms and rocked silently in the swing, tears streaming down her face. He returned with a glass
of milk, handed it to her and touched her shoulder. Barbara recalled his gentle tone when he spoke.

"I remember when you were a baby and I took care of you by myself the first time. After about five minutes you started crying and it scared me half to death. I yelled out the window to old Mrs. Branson next door. She just laughed and told me to give you a bottle."

George Wagner smiled, remembering the moment. He noticed Barbara's tears and handed her his handkerchief. They trickled down his neck as she rested her head on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry about my temper tantrum, Chicken. I guess that's what happens when you get old."
"You're not old, Daddy."

"Thanks, but you're not the only one that's reminded me lately about what an old grouch I've become."

"At least you're a lovable old grouch."

He patted her shoulder again and extricated himself from her grasp. "You knew we would lend you the money. You should have asked sooner."

"I didn't want to be a bother."

"You're no bother to us, Chicken." He opened the door and went inside. "We would like to see your smiling face around here more often," he said, sticking his head back through the door.
Barbara crossed her arms and rocked in the swing, happy tears streaming down her face. Another voice startled her. She flinched and turned around.

"Come home for the full moon?"

It was Jack Stevenson, standing in the darkness behind her. "Jack!"

Jack Stevenson grinned and walked up the front steps. "Didn't mean to scare you. Like some company?"

"Sure," she said, wiping her eyes with her father's handkerchief still in her hand.
Jack waited for her to move over in the swing. Her face turned bright red when she realized she was sitting in the middle and she quickly scooted over, glad for the embarrassment
cloaking darkness.

Jack sat beside her, still smiling. "Long time since we did this."

Their elbows touched, making Barbara nervous, but also exciting poignant memories. She didn't move away.

She asked, "How did you know I was home?"

"I didn't. I visit your parents when I'm in town."

Barbara cocked her head in disbelief. "After all these years?"

He laughed out loud. "What's wrong with that. You know I always liked your parents."
"I thought you liked me."

Jack touched her hand, but quickly pulled away and turned around, facing the darkness. "I still miss you, you know?"

"No, I didn't know."

Jack smiled the same old smile Barbara used to daydream about during class. She felt suddenly light-headed, staring blankly into his dark eyes. The yellow moon melded into a flash of light, searing straight to her brain. She squeezed his hand, glad she was sitting and not trying to stand on wobbly legs.

. . .

Penny Pratt watched as Barbara parked and then hurried out of her apartment to help with her bags.

"From the look on your face you're parents must have lent you the money." Barbara smiled and nodded, but didn't answer. "Was it worth it?"

"Penny," she said, without answering her question. "Remember the yellow bikini at Flashman's I liked so much?"

"Yes."

"Let's go shopping. I'm going to buy it."

Penny scratched her head, looking confused. "I thought you said you didn't need a new bathing suit."

Barbara grinned. "Well, I can't very well go to Cancun this weekend wearing an old suit."

"Cancun? How are you going to swing that? Bob's mother thinks he's still a virgin."

Barbara grabbed Penny's elbow, smiling as she steered her toward the door.
"Believe me, Penny, it's not something she's going to have to worry about."

THE END

http://www.ericwilder.com http://www.gondwanapress.com

Here is a story from Eric Wilder's new book Just East of Eden, available later this month.

BIG JIM'S HUNTING TRIP

While I have written volumes about my east Texas grandparents, I have neglected telling many stories about my equally colorful gp’s from north Louisiana. Jim and Lela migrated from Mississippi during the early 20s. Big Jim was, as his name implies, was a large, intimidating man, Lela, his antithesis, small-boned, rather frail and always had a smile on her face. Together, they had six children, all different, yet all the same.

Grady was the second son. After the tragic and untimely death of Iris, his older brother, he embraced the role of eldest living child and only male heir of Lela and Big Jim. Like his father, Grady was an avid hunter, mostly of squirrels and dove.

Vivian is only a few miles from the Texas state line. Grady and Big Jim had Louisiana hunting licenses, but not Texas hunting licenses. Still, they would often park Grady’s old Ford on a dirt road near Jeems Bayou in Louisiana and then work their way into Texas. On one such trip, both Grady and Big Jim had each bagged more than their limit of quail, even if they had been legal. They weren’t.

Big Jim stayed with the shotguns and over-limit quail, and sent Grady down the road to retrieve their car. When Grady drove past in his Ford (Grady and Big Jim always drove Fords), he saw the game warden with his dad. Like any son with good sense, he just kept driving.

The game warden arrested Big Jim, confiscated his guns and illegal game, and drove him to Jefferson, Texas. Big Jim always had cash on hand. He paid a fine of $100 and then hitch-hiked back to Vivian. When he got there he was not a happy camper.

It didn’t matter much. Grady had already told the story to everybody in the family. When Big Jim blustered, everyone began to laugh at him. Finally, with a disgruntled shake of his head, he shut his bedroom door and retired for the night.

The story is legend in the family, retold countless times at reunions and among family members. Except for Big Jim. No one ever mentioned the event in his presence. He wasn’t an ogre and probably would have taken it okay, but no one ever took the chance.

http://www.ericwilder.com http://www.gondwanapress.com

MURKY BAYOU

Sunday, October 21, 2007

Book Review - Just East of Eden

Friday, October 19, 2007

Feel the Magic

Tuesday, October 9, 2007

A Crack in the Ice, a short story

Monday, October 8, 2007

Big Jim's Hunting Trip

Alcoholic Hazes - a short story

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