“Well ain’t that big of you, finding a proper way to insult me.”
Blanche, I start, rehearsing in my head how I’m going to respond, you listen here. You listen good. There ain’t nothin’ wrong with marrying a Christian man and making a household together. And there ain’t nothin’ wrong with wanting someone like my daddy. You talk ’bout surviving? Well, this is how I want—no, need—to survive.
I press my lips together, the words slipping away. All I ever do with Blanche is rehearse, never truly standing up to her. I turn onto my street, exactly as she’d instructed me to do, and let out a long, low growl, Blanche’s snore eating it right up.
4
Morning comes. So does the distant sound of heaving, and the memories of last night. Buck’s wink. Blanche’s outburst. My lack of an outburst.
But also the money that came tumbling out of Blanche’s bust. The allure of the music …
I roll over, trying to leave the thoughts behind, but don’t go far. I open my eyes to slits and stroke my little sister’s dark hair.
“Blanche kicked me out of my bed last night,” Billie mumbles into my shoulder.
I vaguely remember Billie climbing into bed with me. But last I thought, Blanche agreed to sleep on the couch. I lift my head, seeing Billie’s rumpled sheets but no Blanche.
She’s too busy getting sick.
“Better get her before she wakes up Mama,” Billie says.
I groan. She’s right. For being so young, Billie’s often right.
I’m relieved Ma’s door is closed when I pad into the hall. I tiptoe into the washroom and roll my eyes. Blanche is hugging the John like they’re going steady. No doubt the longest any John has kept her fancy.
She rocks her head up, her face seeming as if it’s melting off, from her smeared makeup. “I wake you?”
Hand on my hip, I add sternness to my voice. “What do you think?”
She cringes, a hint of vulnerability in her eyes. “At least I feel better now, right?”
I rip a towel from the rack, but hand it to her more gently. “Get yourself cleaned up.”
A voice seeps into the hall from the living room, stopping me from flopping back into bed.
“Buster?” I shield my eyes from the sunlight streaming in through our picture window. “What’re you doing awake?”
My brother normally sleeps all day after working the night shift at the cement plant. But no, he’s sitting on the couch, muttering to himself, a scowl on his face.
“Can’t sleep.” Buster shifts, wincing. The arm of the couch no longer blocks half his body. His arm is barely visible beneath a bag of ice.
I gasp. “What happened to you?”
“That dimwit Kenney Rogers happened, on my shift last night; could barely keep his eyes open.” Buster’s forehead creases in anger, or pain, or both. “End result was my hand stuck between two slabs of cement.”
I bite my bottom lip. “How long do you think ’til you’re back at work?”
Buster shakes his head. “Thanks for the concern, Bonn. I was on my way to manager.”
“Sorry. I am concerned.” But ’cause the bold red text from our electric bill flashes through my mind, not ’cause Buster’s promotion will be delayed. I don’t think bringing up our overdue bill will help matters, so I say, “But we need you bringing in money.”
“No shit. But what can I do? Foreman says I’m no use to him ’til it heals. Won’t promote me, either. Says I need more time under my belt on the floor first.” Buster mutters a curse, shakes his head again. “Ma went into the factory early to see if they have any extra sewing for her. I could kill Rogers; she already works herself too thin.”
We all do. But we’ll barely be able to get by on just Ma’s and my salaries, even if she works more, and ’specially if Mr. Banks keeps taking hours from me.
“I’m having my hand looked at tomorrow,” Buster says. “Should know more then. Here, open this. I sure as hell can’t.” Buster tosses a pill bottle, the rattling sound stopping as I catch it. “At least Rogers was kind enough to give me these beauties after bashing me up.” He rolls his eyes, his last comment obviously sarcastic.
I turn, go to the kitchen to get him water so he can take what I assume is pain medicine. My voice cracks, and I’m relieved my back is to Buster to hide the fear on my face, when I say, “We’ll be okay.”
I lift the faucet handle and my mind rushes, like the water into the glass, ’bout how that may be nothin’ more than wishful thinking. How long before the lights turn off? How long before the pantry’s bone dry? Do we have a month, a week, a day?
I hand Buster the water and a pill and slump down on the sofa next to him. At least I’m due at the diner later, and I’ll be sure to bring my best smile to get my tips up.
“Roy stopped by,” Buster says, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.
I take the glass from him before it spills and raise an eyebrow at the fact Roy ain’t sleeping either, after working all night. “How long ago?”
“Just a few minutes. He’s down the street at that old house he bought. Said to tell you to also come down, after you woke up.”
“What’s he doing there?” He mentioned he was going to start fixin’ up the house, but right away? We still got a couple more years of school.
Buster opens one eye. “I had other things on my mind, so you’ll have to forgive me for not playing secretary.” He smirks. “Go see for yourself. I’m good here.”
“Where we going?” Blanche struts into the room in one of my nightgowns, way too short on her. She’s got gams as long as an old tale. Somehow, she’s also perky as ever. “Hey there, Buster Boy,” she adds.
Both of Buster’s eyes are now wide open. He nods hello like a cool cat.
Blanche’s hand flies to her chest. “Oh my, Buster, are you oka—”
I shove her down the hallway, trying to keep the lingering scent of alcohol that wafts ’round her away from my brother. “Buster will be fine,” I say, tired of her antics. “Now, I’m off to see my fiancé, and you’re going home.”
Blanche frowns, pouts, stops short of stomping her foot. But she eventually heads on back to Dallas, not bothering to apologize for last night.
I quickly clean myself up, irked by Blanche on many levels. The secret drinking, the way she wrapped herself ’round a boy she barely knew, the openly mean way she spoke to me. My poor face is nearly rubbed raw by the time I’m done fuming and ready to leave the house.
Roy is leaning against the rickety fence of our new home when I spot him down the tree-lined road, his face pensive. Simply seeing him washes away some of my Blanche-fueled anger.
“There you are, sleepyhead,” he calls.
“Sorry. Blanche kept me out late.”
“Yeah, figured. Saw her car out front. What were you two—”
“What’re you still doing up?” I ask first, and cringe internally at the bowling ball–size heaviness in my stomach. He’s already got suspicion in his eyes, and I’m sure he’d be surprised—and not so jazzed—by where Blanche took me last night, even though I stayed in Big Bertha.
“Wanted to start on the house,” he says.