The Supremes at Earl's All-You-Can-Eat

Chapter 18





On the evening of December twenty-first, Clarice answered the ringing telephone in her living room and heard a familiar voice. It

was a sweet, tenor sound with a subtle lisp, like a choirboy who had been born with the tongue of a snake. It was the voice of Mr.

Forrest Payne.

Instead of hello, he said, “She’s here.”

Clarice didn’t need to ask what or whom he was talking about. She answered, “I’m sorry. I’ll be right over.”

From the other end of the line, she heard the snick-snick of a cigarette lighter being struck. Then Mr. Payne, the vile

whoremonger with the lovely speaking voice, said, “Merry Christmas, Clarice. God bless you and your family.” He hung up before

she was forced to return his kind wishes.

Clarice arrived at the Pink Slipper Gentlemen’s Club fifteen minutes after receiving Forrest Payne’s call. Her mother stood on a

small hill just east of the parking lot. Tall and thin, Beatrice Jordan looked elegant in the black, sable-trimmed sheared mink

coat that Clarice’s father had given her twenty years earlier after doing something especially humiliating to her, the details of

which Clarice was never privy to. In hands covered by her bright red leather Christmas gloves, Beatrice held a megaphone. She

bellowed, “You are a child of God. Stop what you’re doing. Your sinful ways will bring a storm of hellfire down upon you. Come

to the Lord and you will be saved.”

Clarice had heard her mother’s hilltop sermon dozens of times. It always began the same way, “You are a child of God. Stop what

you’re doing. Your sinful ways will bring a storm of hellfire down upon you. Come to the Lord and you will be saved.” After

that, a Bible verse. As Clarice approached her on her hill, her mother broadcast Romans 8:13. “For if you live according to the

sinful nature, you will die; but if by the Spirit you put to death the misdeeds of the body, you will live.” Beatrice was

especially fond of the more ominous verses.

Clarice’s mother’s first Pink Slipper bullhorn sermon occurred during a visit home not long after she’d moved away following

her husband’s death. Clarice had been at home awaiting her mother’s arrival. Anticipation had just transformed into worry,

causing her to station herself at the front window to watch for her mother’s rental car, when the phone rang. Pretty-voiced

Forrest Payne had told her that her mother was at his place with a megaphone. She hadn’t believed him until he carried his phone

outside so she could hear her mother’s amplified voice crackling out warnings of damnation.

Mr. Payne had said, “Clarice, I’m calling you instead of the police out of respect for the many years your daddy, God rest his

soul, served as my attorney.” But she suspected it was really out of respect for the fact that her father had spent so much money

at the Pink Slipper that Forrest Payne should have named a room, or at least a memorial stripper pole, in Abraham Jordan’s honor.

After Clarice persuaded her mother to stop sermonizing that first time and got her back to her house, Beatrice informed her

daughter that she was finally ready to openly acknowledge her deceased husband’s infidelities. But she also made it clear that

she had entered into a new type of denial. She refused to hold Abraham responsible for any of his misbehavior. Instead, she blamed

his cheating on the loose women and poorly chosen male friends who she believed had led him down a sinful path. She focused her

righteous fury on Forrest Payne and his little den of iniquity out on the edge of town.

So, once or twice a year, Clarice’s mother, the epitome of all things ladylike and proper, stopped by Forrest Payne’s Pink

Slipper Gentlemen’s Club armed with a megaphone and an unquenchable thirst for revenge. It is terrifying, Clarice thought, what

marriage can do to a woman.

Making the situation even worse, Beatrice didn’t recognize Clarice at first. When she saw that Clarice was walking toward her

instead of going into the club, she took her daughter for a fresh convert. She pointed the megaphone at Clarice and said, “That’

s right, sister, turn your back on that house of evil and listen to the Word.” Seeing, finally, that it was Clarice, Beatrice

said, unamplified, “Hi, sweetheart, I suppose he called you again.”

Clarice nodded yes.

“Well, I was just about finished here anyway.” But she wasn’t done quite yet. A truck pulled into the parking lot just then and

the driver, a heavyset, bearded man in a cowboy hat who moved as if he had already had a few drinks, walked falteringly from his

vehicle toward the fuchsia front door of the club. Beatrice lifted her megaphone again and squawked out, “You are a child of God.

Stop what you’re doing. Your sinful ways will bring a storm of hellfire down upon you. Come to the Lord and you will be saved.”

When the man disappeared inside the Pink Slipper, she tucked the bullhorn under her arm and descended her hill.

She stopped just in front of Clarice and looked her up and down. Clarice was wearing the gray down parka and snow boots she had

thrown on to go fetch her mother after receiving Forrest Payne’s phone call. Beatrice frowned as she took in her daughter’s

ensemble. She said, “I can’t believe you allow yourself to be seen in public like this. These people may be the lowest of God’s

creatures, but that doesn’t mean they won’t talk.”

Clarice quietly mumbled to herself, “I love my mother. I love my mother.” She knew she was going to have to remind herself of

that often over the next several days. This Christmas season was going to be rough, with Odette being sick, Barbara Jean walking

around half in a coma, and Richmond behaving more like Richmond than ever. She wasn’t in the mood to have her mother’s special

brand of crazy piled on top of it all. Clarice gave serious thought to marching into the Pink Slipper and doing her best to

persuade Forrest Payne to have Beatrice locked up for trespassing and disturbing the peace. Let the county jail have her for the

holidays. That would serve her right.

Clarice hugged her mother and said, “Merry Christmas.”

The following morning as she cooked breakfast, Clarice discussed the day’s itinerary with her mother. She had scheduled several

things: hair appointments for them both, visits to old family friends, shopping excursions for last-minute gifts, and a grocery

store trip for the meal they had to prepare for Clarice’s children and their families. There were also all sorts of holiday

events going on at Calvary Baptist if more was required to keep Beatrice busy. It was important that Beatrice always have

something to do. Left to her own devices, her fingers began to itch for her bullhorn.

Things would become easier when the kids arrived the next day. Ricky would be with his wife’s family this year, but Clarice and

Richmond’s other children were coming. Abe was bringing along a new girlfriend for his grandmother to exhaustively interview and

disapprove of. Carl would have dozens of pictures to show Beatrice from the latest exotic vacation spot he had taken his wife to

as penance for his latest transgression. Carolyn’s four-year-old son, Esai, who had inherited Clarice’s musical genes, could be

relied upon to occupy his great-grandmother with hours of singing and dancing. God bless him. The child could go all day, if

needed.

Beatrice wore dark red lipstick that left a vivid imprint on the white mug from which she sipped Earl Grey tea. She always came to

breakfast in full makeup. Because it involved a rare excursion into the use of coarse language, Clarice never forgot her mother’s

opinion about being seen, even in your own home, without your face done. “Honey, it’s the equivalent of dropping your pants and

taking a dump in the fountain outside of Town Hall.” As a goodwill gesture toward her mother and to avoid aggravation, Clarice

had been sure to apply lipstick herself that morning.

Her mother asked, “What were you playing last night?”

Clarice apologized for waking her. The piano was in a music room that was off the living room. The bedrooms were upstairs at the

opposite end of the house—far out of earshot, she thought.

“No, no, you didn’t wake me. I just got up in the night to go to the bathroom and I heard you. I sat on the stairs for a while

and listened to you play. It was beautiful. Took me back to when you were a youngster. I used to sit on the stairs at the old

house for hours listening to you practice. I have never been as proud of you as I was then, listening to my baby girl overpower

that big piano. You really had a gift.”

Her mother seldom passed out compliments, even backhanded ones. Clarice took a moment to enjoy it. Then she said, “It was

Beethoven, the Waldstein Sonata. I’ve gotten into a habit lately of practicing Beethoven in the middle of the night when I can’t

sleep.”

Beatrice took another sip of tea and said, “You know, I’ve always thought it was a terrible shame that you gave up on your

music.”

Here we go, Clarice thought. “I hardly gave up on music, Mother. I have two dozen piano students, and I have former students

performing all around the world.”

Her mother dabbed at her lips with a napkin and said, “That’s nice, I suppose. But what I meant was that it’s a shame you never

did more, after showing such promise. You never made those recordings when that man asked you to. What was his name? Albert-

something, right?”

“Albertson. Wendell Albertson.”

“That’s right. You really should have made those records.”

When Clarice was a sophomore at the university, she won a major national competition. Wendell Albertson, who was the head producer

at what was at that time the leading classical music label in the country, was one of the judges. He talked to Clarice after the

competition and told her that he wanted to record her. His idea was that she should record all of the Beethoven sonatas over the

coming year. He had wanted to market her as a female André Watts, a pianist version of Leontyne Price. But Richmond was injured

not long after the competition, so the recording was put off until later. Then Richmond and Clarice became engaged and the

recording was delayed again. Then there were the children. Her piano teacher, Mrs. Olavsky, had greeted the news of Clarice’s

first pregnancy by shaking her head and saying, “All these years, wasted,” before slamming the door to her studio in Clarice’s

face.

Clarice hadn’t wanted to believe that it was over for her, but time had proved her teacher right. All those years of work, both

hers and Mrs. Olavsky’s, had been wasted. Though she tried not to, Clarice thought of the career she had thrown away whenever she

suffered through a sloppy, poorly phrased performance from one of her weaker students. And she mourned that lost life even more

keenly each time she watched one of her especially gifted pupils escape Plainview for a fine conservatory, leaving her behind to

ruminate over her missed opportunities.

Beatrice said, “You know, I often wonder what would have happened if you’d gone ahead and made those records.”

“I haven’t given it a thought in years,” Clarice said. That was only half a lie because there had been years, mostly when the

kids were young, when she hardly ever thought about having passed up her big chance. But now it was on her mind during each one of

those nights when she sat up playing the piano. Lately, as she charged through the angriest Beethoven passages, she found herself

wondering what would have happened if she had been stronger or braver and walked away from Richmond when she’d had the

opportunity. But then there wouldn’t have been the children, and what would her life have been without them? She stirred the

grits in the saucepan and tried to think of Christmas shopping.

The phone rang and Clarice pulled the last strips of bacon from the skillet before going to answer it. After she said hello, she

heard a young woman ask, “May I please speak to Richmond?”

Clarice was about to call him to the phone, but she heard the sound of water running in the bathroom at the top of the stairs, so

she said, “I’m sorry, Richmond isn’t available right now. Who may I tell him called?”

There was a pause, and then the woman said, “I was just calling to confirm my meeting with him today.” Another pause. “This is

Mrs. Jones.”

Mrs. Jones. Clarice had to roll her eyes at that one.

Clarice said, “I’ll be sure to deliver the message, Mrs. Jones.” She hung up and went back to stirring the already overcooked

grits.

Her mother had tired of discussing Clarice’s failed musical career. She began to complain about her Arkansas neighbor, Clarice’s

aunt Glory, another of her favorite topics of conversation. Aunt Glory was petty. Aunt Glory was ill-tempered. Aunt Glory was

unwilling to listen to constructive criticism. And, worst of all, Aunt Glory had set such a bad Christian example in her own home

that Veronica had fallen under the satanic influence of a fortune-teller.

She said, “Veronica hasn’t been right since she left Calvary and went over to First Baptist. Those First Baptist folks are all

show and no substance. Watch and see how fast they drop her after she burns through that money she got from the Leaning Tree

place. Mind you, they’re still a step ahead of that primitive Holy Family bunch. I know your friend Odette goes there, but

honestly, they might as well be snake handlers.”

The ache behind Clarice’s eyes that had started when Forrest Payne called a day earlier throbbed a little harder with each word

that came from her mother’s mouth. What made it worse was the fact that Clarice had expressed similar sentiments about her cousin

and about her friends’ churches countless times. Just like Veronica, her mother had a way of reminding Clarice of how alike their

thinking was, and seeing the similarities between them made her more and more uncomfortable as time passed.

Richmond burst into the kitchen with a wide, welcoming grin on his handsome face. He was dressed in black slacks and a maroon knit

shirt that was tight enough to display the muscles he worked so hard at maintaining. He kissed his mother-in-law on her forehead

and sat down next to her.

He winked and said, “Good morning, Bea. How’s the second-prettiest girl in the world doing today?”

Beatrice giggled and said, “You are a darling man, taking the time to sweet-talk an old woman like me.”

“You haven’t aged a day since I met you, and that’s the truth,” he said, gaining another giggle in reply.

To Clarice, Richmond said, “Sweetheart, I have to spend the day in Louisville with Ramsey talking to a football coach and a kid

we’re scouting. Depending on how things go, I might not make it back for dinner.”

She nodded and brought Richmond his bowl of grits and a plate with two scrambled eggs and bacon. He said, “Thanks, babe,” and

began to eat.

She walked across the kitchen and got the pot of coffee from the machine and brought it back to the table to pour it into his mug.

Maybe it was because her mother distracted her from her task by asking about Odette’s health, or perhaps because her mind

wandered off to her plans for the day, or because she caught a glimpse of the self-satisfied smirk on Richmond’s face, but the

coffee Clarice poured missed Richmond’s mug entirely. Half of the pot spread onto the table and the other half splashed into

Richmond’s lap. It wasn’t until he screamed, “Damn it!” and jumped up from his chair that she realized what she had done.

In a voice so high-pitched and breathless from shock that she sounded as if she had been the one doused with steaming hot coffee,

Clarice cried out, “I’m so sorry! Are you okay? Let me get something to wipe that off.”

He pulled the steaming fabric of his pants away from his thighs with both thumbs and forefingers. “Don’t bother. I’ve got to

get out of these. Jesus Christ, Clarice.” He left the kitchen and hurried up the stairs.

Beatrice didn’t say anything to Clarice as she watched her daughter clean up the mess she had made. She just finished her cup of

tea and ate her breakfast—one slice of dry toast and one poached egg, the same breakfast she’d eaten every morning Clarice could

recall.

Clarice, having lost her appetite, placed the food she had planned to eat into a plastic tub and tucked it into the refrigerator

along with the eggs and milk.

Richmond came down again as Clarice put the last of her breakfast away. He was wearing gray pants and an annoyed expression now.

He said, “I’m running late. I’ve got to go.”

“But you’ve hardly had anything to eat,” Clarice said.

He pulled his coat from the rack by the garage door. “That’s okay. I’ll get something later.”

“Richmond, I really am sorry about the coffee.”

He blew a kiss at his wife from across the room and went through the door.

Beatrice retrieved her compact from the pocket of her red-and-green Christmas cardigan and reapplied her lipstick. Then she said,

“Clarice, I think you should have a talk with Reverend Peterson. That always helped me when things were bad with your father and

our little problem.”

Clarice’s mother called her father’s serial infidelities their “little problem.” It bugged Clarice to no end whenever she

described it that way, but she felt that she couldn’t rightfully say anything about it. She knew it was hypocritical of her to be

bothered by her mother giving Abraham Jordan’s cheating a comfortable euphemism when Clarice herself had spent decades pretending

Richmond’s “little problem” didn’t even exist. But that didn’t stop her from wanting to shout at her mother to shut the hell

up.

Beatrice said, “Reverend Peterson has had a lot of experience. Believe me, there isn’t a thing you can say that’ll shock him.

He can help you deal with all this anger.”

“I’m not angry.”

“Clarice, what you have to concentrate on is that this is all a part of God’s plan. Sometimes we women have to suffer an unfair

amount to gain the Lord’s favor. Just remember that you’re paying the toll for your entrance into the Kingdom. Reverend Peterson

explained that to me years ago, and I haven’t had a moment of anger since.”

That just about beat all, Clarice thought. Her father was long dead and her mother still felt sufficiently irate about his

behavior to warrant traveling with her holy megaphone. And she was passing out anger-management advice? Watch out, old woman, or I

’ll brew an extra hot pot of coffee just for you.

Clarice said, “Thank you for your advice, Mother, but I’m really not angry. Things are the same with Richmond as they’ve always

been. We’re fine.”

“Clarice, dear, you just scalded the man’s crotch and threw away his insulin.”

“Threw away his insulin? What are you talking about?”

Her mother pointed at the trash can. Clarice went to it and pressed the foot pedal that lifted the lid. Sure enough, atop

eggshells, coffee grounds, and discarded wrappings of different sorts was the box that contained Richmond’s insulin supply, the

box that sometime during the past ten minutes she must have removed from its place in the refrigerator door and tossed into the

trash.

She picked up the insulin and stared at it for several seconds. Then she put the box back into the fridge. She took off her apron

then and said, “Mother, I think we’ll go shopping a little bit later.”

Clarice left the kitchen and walked through the dining room, past the living room, into the music room, and to her piano. She

ripped into Beethoven’s Appassionata Sonata and forgot about everything, for a while.