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

Chapter 29





The morning after Richmond’s stripper friend signed up to have her soul saved, Clarice heard a knock at her door. It was just

before nine o’clock in the morning, so she assumed that it was her first student of the day arriving early for her lesson. From

the piano bench where she was having her tea, Clarice called out, “Come in.” Beatrice Jordan and Richmond marched into the

living room.

Beatrice pointed at her daughter’s chopped-off hair and grimaced. For several seconds, she stood in the center of the room

regarding Clarice as if she’d just discovered her dancing naked in a crack house. Richmond wore a smug expression on his face as

his mother-in-law said, “Clarice, would you care to explain yourself?”

In the past, this was the point at which Clarice would revert to behaving like an obedient little girl. She would make nice and

apologize to her mother for whatever she had done, just to get Beatrice off her back. But living alone in her own house, even for

such a short amount of time, had changed her. Clarice found that she couldn’t react like her old self. She said, “I’ve already

explained things to Richmond. And I believe that’s all the explaining I need to do.”

Her mother spoke softly, as if she believed someone might be listening in. “Everyone at Calvary Baptist is talking about you. How

could you do this? You made a vow before God and everybody.”

“So did Richmond. Did you have a talk with him about his vows?” Clarice said, feeling heat rise from her neck onto her face.

“It’s different for men, and you know it. Besides, Richmond is not the one who ran out on his marriage; you are. But listen, it

’s not too late to fix this. Richmond is prepared to go see Reverend Peterson with you to work this out.”

“I don’t think so,” Clarice said. “I’ve seen where Reverend Peterson’s advice leads. And no offense, but I don’t intend to

spend my golden years shouting at whores through a megaphone.”

She felt guilty for that low blow when her mother’s eyes began to glisten with tears. But Clarice had been mad for a good long

time and a lot nastier things than that were waiting to come out. To keep from saying those things, she took a deep breath and

then a drink from her cup of tea. The tea was too hot for the big swallow she took and it scalded all the way from her lips to her

stomach. It hurt so much that it took her breath away for a few seconds, but the time she spent recovering from burning her tongue

stopped her from saying some of the meaner things that were swirling around in her brain.

Clarice said, “Mother, I love you, but this has nothing to do with you. This is between me and Richmond, and I think I’ve made

it clear to him where I stand. I’m done with things the way they were. I’ll go back home, or not, when I see fit.”

Beatrice whimpered quietly and said, “Honestly, when I think about how hard I fought for us both to live when you were born.”

She put the back of her hand to her forehead. “It was a horror show.” When that didn’t produce the desired effect, she changed

tactics. In the tone of voice she used when delivering her parking lot sermons, she declared, “Ephesians says, ‘Wives, submit

yourselves unto your own husbands as unto the Lord.’ What do you say to that?”

Clarice snapped, “I say God and I will just have to hash that one out between the two of us. My submitting days are over.”

Richmond spoke for the first time. He said, “I talked to the kids, and they’re shocked that you’ve done this. They’re very

upset and confused.”

Clarice said, “You must have talked to four different kids than the ones I talked to. When I told Carolyn, Ricky, and Abe that I

’d moved out, they were just surprised that it had taken me so long. And if Carl’s upset, it’s because he’s too much like you

and he knows it. The way I see it, I’ve done him a favor I should have done years ago. Now maybe he’ll think about the crap he’

s pulled on his wife and realize it might come back and bite him in the ass one day.”

Richmond turned to Beatrice and said, “See? It’s like I told you. She’s talking more like Odette all the time.”

Beatrice nodded. “I’ve always known that girl would cause trouble one day.”

Clarice’s mother believed that a woman showed that she was well brought up by doing three things: dressing impeccably,

enunciating like an East Coast debutante, and starving herself to the edge of unconsciousness for the sake of her figure. So,

Odette had never made sense to her. But Beatrice had chosen the wrong time to start in on Odette, Clarice’s sick friend who had

stepped in time and time again when Clarice needed her and had now even supplied her with a home. The little bit of restraint

Clarice had managed to get hold of was in danger of slipping away. She narrowed her eyes at her mother and her husband and

prepared to let loose. But just as her scalded tongue was poised to toss forth a red-hot string of long-overdue words, Clarice was

distracted by the sound of light tapping coming from the front door. Clarice stood from the bench and said, “My student is here.

”

When Clarice rounded the piano on her way to admit her pupil, Beatrice saw for the first time what her daughter was wearing.

Beatrice let out a whimper and turned her face away.

During Clarice’s first weekend in the house, she had gone down to the basement to put some things away and came upon a box full

of old clothes that had been left behind by one of the previous tenants. Odette had rented the house, furnished, to visiting

faculty members at the university. They tended to be an earthy lot and the clothes in the box reflected what Clarice thought of as

the academic fashion sense—shapeless, hippie-style items made of cotton and hemp. To celebrate her emancipation, she ran the old

skirts and blouses she had found through the washer and dryer and started wearing them.

The skirt Clarice wore that morning was made of a faded blue-and-white-checked fabric. It had a high waist that was embroidered

with blue and green stick figures. Strands of puka shells that hung from the fringed hem grazed the floor when she walked and made

a rattling noise.

Beatrice pointed at her daughter and said, “Oh dear Lord, first her hair, and now a peasant skirt. Richmond, we’re too late.”

It took every ounce of willpower in Clarice’s body to keep from lifting the hem of her skirt and revealing that she was wearing a

pair of Birkenstock sandals that she had purchased a few days earlier at a shop near the campus where young saleswomen who didn’t

shave their armpits or wear makeup sold comfortable shoes and artisan cheeses. She continued past her stunned mother and husband

and went to the door, where she was greeted by Sherri Morris, a gap-toothed nine-year-old girl whose bad practice habits and

resultant sloppy technique gave Clarice fits for an hour each week.

Sherri said, “Good morning, Mrs. Baker. I love your skirt.”

Clarice thanked the girl and made a mental note to put a gold star in her étude book that day no matter how poorly she played. She

told Sherri to go to the piano and warm up on some scales while she said goodbye to her guests.

At the door Richmond whispered, “We can finish this discussion at the revival tonight.”

“Sorry, I have students until late in the day today. I’ll be too tired to go back to the revival tonight.”

Richmond sighed and looked at Beatrice as if to say “See what I’ve been dealing with?” To Clarice, he said, “Fine, we’ll talk

at church tomorrow.”

“If you really must talk to me, I’ll see you at the All-You-Can-Eat after church. I won’t be at Calvary tomorrow. I’m planning

to stop by the Unitarian church for services this week,” she said.

Clarice said that purely for spite. Although she had talked to Odette about maybe giving Holy Family Baptist a try, Clarice had no

intention of going to the Unitarian church that Sunday. She was furious that the two of them had come over to gang up on her and

preach at her, so she wanted to shake them up. Besides, there was something about putting on a peasant skirt and puka shells that

made Unitarianism pop into your head.

Her mother moaned and leaned against Richmond for support. Clarice felt guilty for an instant. She knew that her mother would just

as soon have seen her hook up with one of the polygamist congregations that were rumored to thrive in the hills outside of town as

hand her soul over to the Unitarians.

But even though she had said it out of spite, Clarice started thinking that it might not be such a bad idea to try out the

Unitarians. Why not? She was certainly in the mood for something different from the bitter mouthful she’d been chewing on for all

those years.

As Beatrice crossed the threshold of the front door, still clinging to Richmond, she said to Clarice, “I’ll pray for you.”

Clarice marveled at how her mother had managed to make it sound like a threat.

Richmond mouthed, “See what you’ve done,” and led his mother-in-law back to his Chrysler.

Clarice closed the door behind them and went to her student, who proceeded to brutally massacre a helpless Satie piece. She kept

the promise she had made to herself to give Sherri a gold star, and the girl left happy at the end of her lesson.

Clarice’s roster had expanded since her move. The wealthy families of new Leaning Tree were thrilled to have a locally famous

piano teacher within walking distance. And Saturday was her longest teaching day. By that evening, she was exhausted. She made

herself a fresh cup of tea and went back to the piano to play a little something to wash away the sound of her students’ uneven

performances—a kind of musical sorbet.

She had just settled onto the bench when sharp hammering at the front door abruptly ended the night’s quiet. When she looked

through the keyhole, she expected to see Richmond or her mother back for another round. Instead, Reverend Peterson stood on the

porch. His dark, wrinkled face managed to appear sorrowful, beseeching, and pissed off all at the same time. She reached to turn

the knob and allow him in, but then thought better of it.

Maybe it was more displaced anger, but she couldn’t help but think that Reverend Peterson’s counsel was something she was better

off without. His track record was pretty bad, she thought. She had followed his directions for years and had ended up believing

that, in a woman, self-respect was the same thing as the sin of pride. And his advice to shut up and pray while her husband made a

fool of her by screwing everything in sight had helped to keep Richmond a spoiled boy instead of the man he might have grown up to

be. Okay, it might have been a stretch to blame Reverend Peterson for that, but she wasn’t in the mood to play fair.

Fair or not, thinking clearly or not, hell-bound or not, Clarice turned around and walked back to her piano. She sat down and, to

the beat of the insistent rapping on the door, began to play Brahms’s rapturous B Minor Intermezzo. As she played, she felt the

stress of the day begin to fade away. Clarice thought, God and I are communicating just fine.