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

Chapter 22





After saying goodbye to her last piano student of the day, Clarice went to visit Odette. Late February had brought with it a spell

of false spring. Temperatures were almost twenty degrees above normal and she felt energized by the warm weather.

Odette was having a bad month. She didn’t complain, but Clarice could see that she had practically no energy. The previous Sunday

at the All-You-Can-Eat, Odette had terrified everyone at the table by leaving an entire pork chop untouched on her plate at the

end of supper. So Clarice decided to drop by bearing a slice of peach cobbler, a bag of gifts, and some decent local gossip she’d

picked up. (Rumor had it that Clifton Abrams, less than five months from marrying Sharon, had something going on the side.)

Everyone in town was celebrating the unexpected warm weather by airing out their homes. For the first time in months, Clarice

passed by open door after open door as Plainview’s residents welcomed in the unseasonable breeze. Odette and James’s front door

was also open, and standing on their porch, Clarice peered through the screen door and saw them in their living room. James sat on

the sofa and Odette sat on the floor in front of him with her back to him and her legs stretched out on the rag rug. She petted an

enormous calico cat that Clarice didn’t recognize. Odette still picked up strays, so this one could have been added just that

day. Two other cats lounged across her shins. Her eyes were closed and her head was tilted back. James, who had half a dozen bobby

pins squeezed between his lips, attempted to coax Odette’s hair into a semblance of the style she’d worn it in most days for the

last three decades, pulled into a tight bun on the back of her skull.

Odette had lost a lot of hair by that time, and what was left didn’t want to cooperate with the twisting and tugging of James’s

long, clumsy fingers. Repeatedly, he would lift one of the remaining tendrils of hair only to have it slip away from him or simply

break off at the root and float down onto Odette’s shoulder.

When a particularly large clump of hair came off in his hand, he spat out the bobby pins and said, “I’m sorry.”

She said, “That’s okay. Most of it’s already come out anyway.” Then she reached back and grabbed his shirt and pulled him down

toward her. She kissed him on the mouth.

When Odette released her husband, she looked at him with a softness in her face that Clarice only saw when Odette looked at James.

It was a warm glow that never failed to make her look pretty.

Through the screen, Clarice watched James redouble his efforts to style Odette’s hair. She had just raised her hand to knock when

she heard Odette chuckle and say, “Clarice is gonna be thrilled when I go bald. She’s been wanting me to cover up this mess on

my head with a wig since we were in the eighth grade.”

Clarice knew that Odette hadn’t meant anything unkind by that remark. She knew that Odette would happily say the same thing

directly to her with a broad smile on her face. But that knowledge didn’t help her at that moment. All she wanted to do was rush

inside and shout to Odette that she loved the sight of her just as she was—good hair, bad hair, or no hair. But Clarice didn’t

move. She couldn’t.

Was it possible that she had allowed the person she loved most in the world to believe that she saw her as something other than

beautiful? And she did love Odette most of all. More than she loved Richmond. And, she asked the Lord to forgive her even as she

thought it, as much as she loved her own children. Words Clarice had spoken to Odette over the decades rang in her ears,

obliterating any other sounds or thoughts. “Do something about your clothes.” “Fix your hair.” “Let me help you with your

makeup.” “If you could just take off twenty pounds, you’d have such a cute figure.”

A wave of shame struck her so hard that she pulled her knuckles away from the wood frame of the door and backed off of the porch.

She walked to her car as quickly as she could and drove away with the shopping bag containing two pre-styled wigs, now destined

for the Salvation Army, resting on the passenger seat.

Clarice was at her piano, trying not to think, when Richmond came home a couple of hours later. He surprised her by announcing

that he would be spending the evening in, something he hadn’t done on a Saturday night in months. They had dinner—leftovers

since she had thought she would be dining alone and hadn’t cooked anything that day. Then they cuddled together under a throw

blanket on the living room sofa and watched a movie he had picked up from the video store. Later, Clarice would recall that the

movie had probably been a comedy. She would carry with her a hazy memory of Richmond laughing just before things took a turn.

Clarice couldn’t concentrate on the movie enough to laugh or cry. She was still dwelling on her visit to Odette and James’s

house. She watched her handsome husband and thought, Would you do that for me? Would you do my hair for me if I was too sick to

lift my arms and do it myself?

The answer she came up with was a decisive yes.

Yes, Richmond would style her hair if she was sick. He would do it for her and do it with no complaints. And he would probably do

it well. Those big, beautiful hands of his were capable of anything he put his mind to doing with them.

But she also knew that one night, as Richmond combed through her hair, their phone would ring and he would go to answer it. After

he hung up, he would return to her with a lie already worked out to explain why he had to leave for just a little while. She would

sit, hair half done, smiling in her sickbed, and pretend to believe his lie as he scooted out the door. If she was lucky, there

would be no mirror in the room in which she might catch a glimpse of her face contorted into an imitation of that lovely, soft

expression that came over Odette’s face so naturally when she gazed at James.

That vision was in Clarice’s head when she stood up from the sofa, walked over to the television, and turned it off.

Richmond said, “Hey, what are you doing?” He lifted the remote from where it rested on his lap and pointed it at the television.

But Clarice was standing in the way and the set wouldn’t respond.

When she didn’t move, he asked, “What’s going on?”

She said, “Richmond, I can’t live with you anymore.” It came out easily and sounded totally natural, even though her heart was

pounding so hard she could barely hear her own voice.

He said, “What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m tired. I’m tired of you, tired of us. Mostly I’m tired of me. And I know I can’t live with you anymore.”

He let out a long sigh and set down the remote. Then he spoke to her in the low, calming tone people reserve for interactions with

hysterical children and brain-damaged adults. “Now, Clarice, I’m not sure what’s gotten into you that you think you need to

make this fuss right now, but I want you to know that I’m sympathetic. You’ve gone through a lot lately with Odette being sick,

your mother’s problems, and whatever’s going on with Barbara Jean. And I understand that the change can hit some women extra

hard, mess up your hormones and everything. But I think you should remember what the truth is. And the truth is, I’ve never

pretended to be anything other than the man I am.

“Not that I’m claiming to be perfect. Listen, I’m more than willing to accept my portion of the blame for a situation or two

that may have hurt you. But I have to say that I believe most women would envy the honesty we have between us. At least you know

who your husband is.”

She nodded. “You’re right, Richmond. You never pretended to be anyone other than the man you are. And that might be the saddest

part for me. I really should have helped you be a better man than this. Because, sweetheart, the man you are just isn’t good

enough.”

That came out meaner than she had intended it to. She really wasn’t angry—well, no angrier than usual. She wasn’t sure what she

felt. She had always assumed that if this moment ever came she would be yelling and crying and trying to decide whether to burn

his clothes or glue his testicles to his thighs while he slept, the way women on afternoon TV always seemed to be doing to their

unfaithful men. Now mostly she felt fatigue and a sadness that left no room for histrionics.

Richmond shook his head in disbelief and said, “Something’s not right about this. Really, I’m worried about you. You should get

a checkup or something. This could be a symptom of something bad.”

“No, it’s not a symptom,” Clarice said, “but it might be the cure.”

Richmond hopped up from the sofa. His shock and confusion had faded. Now he was only mad. He started to pace back and forth.

“This is Odette’s idea, isn’t it? It’s got to be her idea, all the time you’ve been spending with her.”

“No, this idea is all mine. Odette’s idea was to castrate you back in 1971. Since then she’s kept quiet on the subject of you.

”

He stopped pacing then and tried a different approach. He walked over until he stood close to her. Smiling his slickest, most

seductive smile, he put his hands on her arms and began to stroke them up and down.

“Clarice, Clarice,” he whispered, “there’s no need to go on like this. We can work this out.”

He pulled her to him, saying, “Here’s what I think. Let’s plan a little trip together. Maybe go see Carolyn in Massachusetts.

Would you enjoy that? I could buy you a new car and we could make it a road trip. Just you and me.”

His mouth was at her ear now. “Just tell me what you want me to do, baby. Tell me what I can do.” This was Richmond at his best,

Richmond the lover. That part of their relationship had always been perfect. But now, when she thought about his extraordinary

abilities in the arena of lovemaking, she was forced to think about the countless hours he’d spent honing those skills with other

women.

Clarice put her hand on his chest and pushed him away. She shoved him harder than she meant to and he lost his balance for a

second. She was shocked by how good it felt to see him stagger, on the brink of crashing ass-backwards into the glass-topped

coffee table.

She said, “Evolve, Richmond. What I want you to do is evolve.”

He started pacing again, faster this time. “I don’t get it. All these years and you pull this on me now. You had plenty of time

to say something if you weren’t happy. This is on you, Clarice.” And more softly, to himself, “This is not my fault.”

She could see the gears turning as he tried to figure a way out of this. When he couldn’t come up with a way to turn things

around, he settled on rage. He stalked up to her and bent over so his square chin was just inches from her nose. His breath hot on

his wife’s face, Richmond said, “And I’ll tell you something, Clarice, I’m not moving out. This is my house every bit as much

as it is yours. More, actually, since I paid for it. So, you’d better think this foolishness through a little more.”

He crossed his arms over his broad chest and stood up straight, looking satisfied that he’d made his point successfully and put

her tantrum in its proper place.

Clarice walked out of the living room then, and headed toward the stairs and their bedroom. She said, “That’s okay, Richmond.

You’re welcome to stay here. I’ll leave.”

That night, after stopping by Odette’s place to pick up the keys, Clarice carried a suitcase of clothes and a cosmetics bag into

the front door of Mr. and Mrs. Jackson’s old house in Leaning Tree. When her piano was delivered two days later, Clarice

inaugurated this new phase of her life by playing Beethoven’s melancholy, powerful, and joyful Les Adieux Sonata and allowed the

second love of her life to reassure her that she’d done the right thing in leaving the first.