“Okay,” Lana said as she plopped in her seat, buckled her belt. “Let’s go, you’re in such a hurry.”
Lana had coordinated her outfit, a black and white flowing top and black Capri pants. Her toes were done. Her toes! She had managed to look chic as usual. Not that Sylvia didn’t care about how she looked. Some women would go to town looking any old way, pink sponge rollers in their hair, housecoats and slippers in the grocery store. Not Sylvia. She would never do that. Never. Sylvia would see somebody she knew, some neighbor, some friend of a friend who couldn’t wait to talk to her. Sylvia believed in propriety, in time and place for things, in an orderly world with rules. Times had changed. The town had changed. Nowadays she could go anywhere most of the time in her hometown and not speak to a soul. That didn’t mean she wanted to go out looking like she just got out of bed. Despite her many efforts, she had still managed to look disheveled, unlike the women who wore linen, had manicures and beautiful haircuts, hair and makeup that stayed in place, shoes without scuffs. They were the very girly, feminine women that if she was being honest, she realized that she had always envied even as she mocked them. Women with ruffled shower curtains and dressing tables in their bedrooms, powdered and perfumed as loved babies. Women who never looked down at their hands at the dinner table and saw arcs of ashy skin in the space between thumb and forefinger or dirty, bitten nails. She hadn’t felt so unkempt until she saw Alma Parks at the gas station. Her husband had just left her, and her two grown girls were states away. None of that seemed to have fazed her, since she looked maybe just that side of forty-five, a few wrinkles on her forehead, but no waddles or marionette mouth that distracted. She could be a model for some menopause cream or adult diapers. If she was suffering Alma Parks would never let it show.
Sylvia had long ago understood that she would never be one of those pulled together women.
“Where are we going?”
“I want to find that girlfriend of Marcus’s.”
“What! That woman might be blind, crippled, or crazy. No wonder you didn’t tell me. I’m not going. I thought you were going to Hickory.”
“Come on and go with me. I need some help.”
“For what? To get cussed out? I don’t need a stranger cussing me. I’ve got you for that.”
“Marcus says she’s a nice girl.”
“What’s he going to say?” Lana said. “This is not a good idea. That is an understatement. Do you understand what understatement means?”
Sylvia hadn’t talked to Marcus for a few days, but she would find his girlfriend. Maybe the girl could be convinced to send Marcus a letter or maybe even go see him. Her visit was bound to take some pressure off Marcus and give him enough energy to do his time out. It was worth trying to find out.
“We won’t be a minute. She’s just on Main Street in one of those houses you like. Don’t you want to see what one of them looks like inside?” Charlotte and their daughter, Dena, lived just off Main Street. Those old houses were now mostly rentals, a few of them had been turned into apartments. All of them showed their age. Still the luster of long ago money was there in the high ceilings, fireplaces (not functioning anymore, but still lovely to see), hardwood floors, and charming features that made a body feel rich, like pocket doors and leaded glass windows. Nothing that would keep you warm or safe, but there was more to life than warmth.
“What if she won’t let us in? Then what do I get?”
“How many times have I helped you? Do you always have to get something?”
“Yes, I always do,” Lana said. “Otherwise this is all just ridiculous. What are you talking me into? Drive then.”
Charlotte’s house was a small Colonial, a charmer in its heyday. Pink azaleas were at the end of their flower in the curved beds on either side of the door. The houses in the neighborhood had been some of the best in the town—the homes of factory bosses and line managers. These were places that people had cared about that wouldn’t take too much to set right again. Sylvia passed by slowly in her car.
“Is that it?” Lana said.
“I think so, but I don’t see any toys or anything”
“Well, she could be neat. You’ve heard of that, haven’t you?”
“Maybe this should be a silent trip,” Sylvia said.
There was a car in the driveway, but she didn’t know what kind of car Charlotte drove. Sylvia passed by the house fully intending to turn around and go back. Instead she pointed the car back to Church Street.
“What are you doing?”
“I don’t know,” Sylvia said. “I’m not sure.”
“Well you better get back to the house. I didn’t come out for nothing.”
Sylvia turned the car onto Highway 18, speeding in the opposite direction of the street.
“Are you turning around?”
“Yes,” Sylvia said, but she continued down the road.
“Stop up there at Teague’s Meats,” Lana said. Past the light was the butcher they all went to for special occasions. “I need some ham,” Lana said. “Gus loves their ham and I live to make him happy as you well know.”
Sylvia pulled into the parking lot. “There’s a lot of things I well know, but that’s not one of them.”
“You coming in?” Lana asked.
“You go ahead.” Teague’s Meats was at the south end of town. About this time of year every year she used to go there to get her ten-gallon bucket of chitterlings. The kids would complain at the cooking and hold their noses like they were being gassed, roll on the floor in agony, especially Devon. He was the worst. And no matter how many times it happened, Sylvia thought it was hilarious, though she pretended to be offended. “You all don’t know what good eating is,” she’d say, but neither one of the children would touch the finished product, the grayish mush like scrambled breakfast eggs on the plate. “Try just a bite,” she’d offer. “You can’t even smell anything,” she’d say. “The secret is to cook them with a potato,” she’d offer to Ava, like her child was taking notes about how to feed her future family. The smell of pig intestines cooking for hours on a stove meant celebration to Sylvia. It meant everybody was home. For many years she had passed by Teague’s Meats and never stopped. She didn’t care how good the ham was.