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

Chapter 32





Barbara Jean’s AA sponsor was a man named Carlo who taught speech therapy at the university. A pudgy tanning booth devotee whose

carrot-colored skin had the texture of an alligator purse, Carlo was a few years younger than Barbara Jean, but he looked a lot

older. He had an unusually long, pointed nose, a wide jaw, and eyes that bulged a little. Still, in spite of having an odd

collection of features that seemed to be fighting for dominance of his face, Barbara Jean thought he wasn’t a bad-looking guy.

Somehow it all worked together, the different unpleasant facets canceling each other out.

Carlo lived with his partner, another former drinker who sometimes came to meetings with him. Barbara Jean chose him to be her

sponsor because he was gay. During some of her late nights, she watched television shows that featured gay guys who were

perpetually shopping and making witty conversation. She thought a sponsor like that would be a lot of fun. Barbara Jean was

disappointed to discover that Carlo must have been watching different TV shows. She liked him enough, but, blunt and serious, he

was as different from those men as she was from the sassy, wisecracking black women who populated TV Land. Carlo, as it turned

out, was a big gay pain in the neck.

Right about the time Barbara Jean convinced herself that she had fully mastered the AA thing, Carlo called and asked her to meet

him. They arranged to get together at a coffee shop near the campus. It was a dark, cramped place with bookshelves lining every

wall, designed to cater to the student population. Their meeting took place early in the day, just after the morning rush of

harried graduate students had left. Barbara Jean came armed with a shopping list, ready to begin the fun part of their

relationship.

She arrived at the coffee shop first and found a seat at one of the tables, which were all made from recycled industrial cable

spools. When Carlo sat down across from her, she greeted him by saying how happy she was that he had called and that she had been

thinking it would be nice for the two of them to get together for brunch, but hadn’t gotten around to asking him over to the

house.

He interrupted her. “Barbara Jean, it doesn’t appear that I’m the right sponsor to help you to take your recovery seriously.”

“Why do you say that?” she asked.

Carlo crossed his arms over his chest and stared at her. One of his eyebrows rose. “Your eyes are f*cking bloodshot and you’re

drunk right now.”

She put her hand to her chest and gasped to let Carlo know how offended she was. She would have stood up from her chair and

stormed out of the place if she hadn’t been just the tiniest bit buzzed and afraid that she might fall on her face in front of

him.

“I can’t believe you would say such a thing to me.” Barbara Jean slipped her sunglasses onto her face, blowing a quick breath

into her hand to check for the telltale odor of liquor as she adjusted the frames. “I don’t know how much more seriously I can

take my sobriety. That damn Serenity Prayer is on my lips practically all day long. And I’ve been going to three meetings a week

for two months now. Three meetings.”

He scrunched up his long nose and said, “Are you sure you haven’t been going to one meeting a week, but getting there so drunk

you’re seeing triple?”

Barbara Jean felt a tear trickle out from behind her sunglasses and travel down her cheek. She grabbed a napkin from the table and

wiped it away as quickly as she could.

Carlo softened his tone, which was contrary to his nature and, she knew, hard for him. He said, “Look, Barbara Jean, I like you a

lot. You’re good company and you’re a nice lady. But I’m not helping you. And, frankly, it’s not good for me to be around

someone who continues to drink the way you do. Especially someone I like as much as I’ve come to like you.”

Barbara Jean struggled to find something to say. She mumbled a few words about how wrong he was and how it hurt her that he didn’

t believe her. But her heart wasn’t really in the lie anymore. She leaned back in her chair and said, “Some folks have a good

reason for drinking, you know. A damn good reason. I want to tell you a story. And after I’m done, you look me in the eye and

tell me that I shouldn’t take a drink every now and then.”

She took a sip of the coffee she had spiked with a healthy splash of Irish whiskey from her silver flask before he’d arrived at

the coffee shop. Then she told Carlo a tale she had never told Odette or Clarice.


The night of Adam’s funeral, Odette and Clarice stayed on after everyone else had left Barbara Jean’s house. After they’d

helped her maid to clean up after the guests who had filled the house with far more food and sympathy than Barbara Jean could

handle, she rushed them out the door. Lester, who was just a few weeks away from the first of many hospitalizations that were to

come, collapsed onto the bed the second he was out of his black suit. As soon as he began to snore, Barbara Jean slipped out of

the house.

She went to see Big Earl. It was cool and misty outside that night, but there he was, smoking a cigar and rocking on the porch

swing, when she came up the walk to the house. It was as if he’d been waiting for her. When she stood beside him, he looked up at

her and said, “Baby, you should go on home.”

“I need to know where he is,” she said, not bothering to say his name. Though Chick never set foot in the All-You-Can-Eat or

made any attempt to see her, Barbara Jean knew that he had been back in Plainview for at least two years. She had spotted him

coming and going from the McIntyres’ house, and she had overheard Little Earl saying that Chick was a frequent visitor now that

Miss Thelma was sick.

Big Earl said, “You and Ray ain’t talked in nine years. Won’t nothin’ be helped by talkin’ now.”

“I need to see him. And I know you can tell me where to find him.”

“Be careful, Barbara Jean. You ain’t in the shape to make a good decision right now. You need to give it some time before you do

anything that might cause you more heartache.”

“More heartache?” She laughed at the thought of that, and Big Earl winced at the sound of her laughter, which to his ear sounded

like a shriek of hysteria. She said, “I’ve got to talk to Chick and I’m going to do it tonight. Will you tell me where he

lives? Or do I have to drive out Wall Road past the place where my little boy died and ask Desmond Carlson where I can find his

brother?”

Big Earl stared down at his feet and slowly shook his head. Then he looked up at Barbara Jean and told her the address. As she

left, he said, “Be careful, baby. Be careful.”

Chick lived on a block near the university that was mostly student housing, little square boxes painted dinner-mint colors. Was he

in school? She didn’t really know anything about his life since he’d returned to Plainview. Was he married? Was she about to

awaken a family? She sat in her car across the street from his house, staring at the place until a light came on in back. She

decided that was her signal, just like the light in the storeroom of the All-You-Can-Eat she had once watched for from her

bedroom. She crossed the street and knocked on the door. The noise of her fist striking wood was the loudest sound on the street

at that late hour.

Chick opened the door and drew in a sharp breath when he saw her standing in the harsh light of the yellow bulb that hung over the

front stoop. “Barbara Jean?” he said, as if he thought he might be seeing things. He didn’t move, so she opened the screen door

and walked in, brushing past him.

She stepped into a small, tidy living room that was furnished with two metal folding chairs, a beaten-up old couch upholstered in

cracked brown patent leather, and a desk that was piled high with neatly stacked papers and books. Against one wall were two

tables that supported six cages and an elaborate system of lights. Each cage contained an identical small bird with gray, red, and

white striped feathers, pretty little things whose sad cooing echoed in the quiet room.

Chick saw her looking at the birds and said, “I’m studying them at the university. I’m working on this project …” His voice

tapered off and they stared at each other.

There he was, just inches away from her again after all those years. Ray Carlson. Ray of light. Ray of sunshine. Ray of hope. Ray,

who had danced naked for her to an old, dirty blues song.

The room was hot, warmed by the lights over the cages, and he was shirtless. He was still thin, but broader across the chest than

he’d once been. He’s still beautiful, she thought, just like our son was. She turned her back to him, afraid all of a sudden

that she wouldn’t be able to say what she had come to say if she was looking at him.

“Barbara Jean,” he said, “I heard about your—”

Still with her back to him, she interrupted. “I just want to know one thing. Did Desmond kill him because of us? Did he kill Adam

because he was your son?”

She waited for his answer, but he said nothing. After several seconds, she turned around and looked at him. His mouth hung open in

a face that was slack with shock. His jaw twitched with little movements, but no words came out. When he finally said something,

it was so quiet she could hardly distinguish it from the cooing of the birds. “I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t know?” she cried out, surprising herself that she had any more anger left inside of her. “How could you not know?

Didn’t you ever look at him?”

Every time Barbara Jean looked at Adam, she saw Chick. His profile, the shape of his body, the way he moved. It was all Chick.

Clarice and Odette saw it, too. She could tell by the way they stared at Adam sometimes. If other friends and acquaintances didn’

t see the resemblance, it was probably because they couldn’t have imagined a man doting on a child who wasn’t his the way Lester

had doted on Adam. And Barbara Jean understood Lester’s family not seeing it. They had taken their cue from Lester’s late

mother, who saw her light-skinned grandchild and thought of nothing but rejoicing over the new infusion of café-au-lait-colored

blood into the veins of her family line. But how Chick could not have known that Adam was his son was impossible for Barbara Jean

to comprehend.

Chick said, “I couldn’t look at him. When I came back and heard that you and Lester had a son, I couldn’t look at him. Or you

either.” His voice growing more tremulous, he said again, “I didn’t know.”

She knew then that she should just go home. She knew that words could only make things worse. But Barbara Jean couldn’t stop

herself from speaking the truth to Chick, just like she couldn’t stop herself from telling him the story of her life in the

hallway of the All-You-Can-Eat back when she had first realized that she loved him.

“I married Lester because you took off and I had to make a life for myself and your child. I married him because it was that or

die because I couldn’t be with you. Maybe I was wrong to marry him. Maybe I was cruel to you. Maybe this is my punishment for

spending nine years waiting for you to knock on my door and come take me and Adam away, even though Lester loved our son as much

as any father could and loves me more than I deserve. Maybe this is God’s judgment for every bad thing I ever did.”

He stepped toward her then and wrapped his arms around her. He pulled her into his body and she inhaled the scent of him, familiar

and strange, perfect and wrong. She wanted to embrace him and squeeze him to her, but her body wouldn’t cooperate. She stood

stiff and straight with her arms crossed over her chest like a corpse inside a coffin.

He asked in a voice ragged with sorrow, “What can I do, Barbara Jean? What can I do to make it better?”

It just came out, the simple truth of what she wanted at that moment. “Kill him. If you want to do something for me, if you want

to do something for our son, you’ll kill Desmond.” Barbara Jean twisted out of his arms and stepped away from him. Brushing off

the stray gray, red, and white feathers that had transferred from his body to her black sweater, she said, “I’ve got to get back

to my husband. He’s not well.” She left him standing with his arms reaching out for her.


The police were back at Barbara Jean’s house the next day. They were Plainview police officers this time instead of the Indiana

State Police. They talked to Lester for a while in the foyer and told him they wanted him to come with them. Barbara Jean refused

to let him leave the house without her. She made such a fuss that they put her in the squad car along with her husband. The police

drove them out of downtown Plainview and onto Wall Road. She closed her eyes as they passed the place where Adam had been found.

The Plainview chief of police stood in the side yard of Desmond Carlson’s house, one of a dozen cops milling around—the entire

Plainview police department back then. Three of the policemen were loading Desmond’s body onto a stretcher when the car carrying

Barbara Jean and Lester drove up. At least Barbara Jean thought it was Desmond. She hadn’t seen him up close in nine years. And

he was barely recognizable now, with half of his face gone.

They separated Lester and Barbara Jean then. The chief of police talked to Lester ten yards away from her while a patrolman asked

Barbara Jean where her husband had been the previous night and early that morning.

That was when James drove up along with the white state trooper who’d come to the house with him to tell Barbara Jean and Lester

about Adam. They moved fast, their police cruiser skidding in the mud. The questioning ended as soon as James approached. Lester

came over and stood next to Barbara Jean while James spoke with the police chief for several minutes. Then James walked over to

his friends and said he would drive them home.

On the way back to the house, James apologized for the trouble and explained that he didn’t hear about it right away because

Desmond’s neighborhood was part of the Plainview cops’ jurisdiction, while Wall Road, owned by the university, was the territory

of the state police. He assured them that, after the investigation, it would be concluded that Desmond, overcome with guilt, had

killed himself with a shot to the head. James said, “That’ll turn out to be the best thing for everybody.”

When the car pulled up in Barbara Jean and Lester’s driveway, the white trooper shook Lester’s hand and whispered, “I would’ve

done the same thing if it’d been my boy.”

It began that day, the rumor that Lester had killed or engineered the death of Desmond Carlson. Eventually, Lester seemed to

believe it himself. But Barbara Jean knew the truth. Out at Desmond Carlson’s place, while the policeman questioned her about her

husband’s whereabouts, she had stared down at her feet and watched several delicate gray, red, and white feathers, just like the

ones she had brushed from her sweater at Chick’s the night before, float across the ground.

That night was the first Barbara Jean spent curled up on Adam’s little bed and the first time in her life she had been drunk.


When she finished talking, Carlo looked at Barbara Jean with an expression of pained empathy on his face. “Whatever happened to

this guy Chick?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean did he get arrested or anything?”

“No. He just disappeared. I found out later that he went to Florida, but I never heard from him. And I didn’t see him again

until this past summer.”

“Is he here now? In Plainview?”

She nodded.

Carlo reached across the table and patted her hand. “You can do something about this, you know. You can work your eighth and

ninth steps.”

When he saw that, even after months of going to meetings, Barbara Jean had no idea what the eighth and ninth steps of AA were, he

sighed with exasperation. In a voice that made his annoyance clear to her, he said, “Make a list of all persons you have harmed,

and become willing to make amends to them all. Then make direct amends to those people wherever possible, except when to do so

would injure them or others.

“This Chick guy seems to be on your list, so you should go see him.”

She agreed that she would, not knowing if she meant it or not.

Carlo said, “I’ll see you at the ten-thirty meeting tomorrow.” Then he got up and left the coffee shop. She watched her sponsor

walk away, this chunky man who was so comfortable doling out unpleasant truths. Barbara Jean thought, not for the first or last

time, that she must have some special kind of bad luck. She’d gone searching for a witty shopping companion and ended up with a

gay Italian version of Odette.

Two nights after her meeting with Carlo, that moment of clarity Odette had tried to knock into Barbara Jean’s head after she had

embarrassed herself so badly outside the All-You-Can-Eat finally came. And to her amazement, it came in her library, in her

Chippendale chair.

Without alcohol, her body fought sleep. Feeling ants crawling beneath her skin and unable to even imagine rest, she returned to

her beautiful Chippendale chair and the Bible Clarice had burdened her with decades earlier. She did what she had done more times

than she could count. She opened the book to a random page and dropped her finger. Then she read what she had landed on.

John 8:32. “And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.”

Common as salt, as the old folks used to say. And Barbara Jean had found her fingertip pointing to this passage often enough over

the years that it ordinarily held no meaning for her. But that night, John 8:32 started her thinking.

Maybe if she’d had a couple of good stiff drinks in her at that moment or if she’d had one more day of sobriety, she would have

ignored this familiar verse. In either case, Barbara Jean might have simply closed up the book and gone back to bed for another

stab at sleep. But she was freshly dried out and ready for a revelation. She thought later that it was likely any verse would have

done the job, but that night it was John 8:32 that rolled around in her mind until it transformed from an adage into a command.

Before she returned to her bed, that verse demanded and received a promise from her that she would face Chick. She would

acknowledge out loud that she had used him, that she had transformed him, the father of her child, from the sweetest man she had

ever known into her instrument of vengeance against his own brother. Then she would have to ask him, “What can I do to make it

better?” just as he had asked her all those years earlier.