Forever never ends

CHAPTER SEVEN

Jimmy Morris rolled over onto his back, sweat ringing his unwashed neck. The room smelled of chlorine and olives. Peggy curled into the crook of his tattooed arm, nuzzling his coarse chest.

"Jimmy, you sure know how to treat a lady," she purred.

Jimmy grunted and reached for the bottle that he'd left on the bedside table. He fumbled among the condom wrappers and cigarette butts and old dental floss until his hand struck glass.

He reached his arm over Peggy's damp stringy hair and twisted off the cap, then poured a slug of brown liquor into his mouth. He swished a couple of times to get the taste of Peggy off his tongue, and then swallowed. Fire raged through his gullet and he smiled in satisfaction.

Peggy lifted her head, making a splotching sound as her cheek lifted from Jimmy's sticky skin. She took the bottle from him and sipped at it like a baby taking suckle.

She don't know what she’s missing. If she ever got ahold of the good stuff, she'd be spoiled rotten. But she's happy with this four-dollar-a-pint antiseptic that passes for whiskey, so I might as well save that Jim Beam in the truck for the gals who need to feel pampered.

"That sure was fun, sugar," Jimmy said. He winced against the light pouring through the trailer window. It must be getting toward evening. He wondered how long he dared to stay. Sylvester could drive up any moment. Not likely, but a possibility.

But the danger was part of the thrill. And if he could get Peggy to go along with his idea, there would be a whole hell of a lot of thrill. He took another painful swig and put the bottle down. He cupped Peggy's worn chin in his hand. Dark grease filled the swirls of his fingerprints.

"You know you're good at that, darling. The best I know of," he said, in what he thought of as his George Clooney voice.

"Jimmy, you're just saying that," Peggy said, not hiding the happiness in her voice.

"I mean it. You're worth a little risk."

"You mean to do this, or do you mean it’s risky to love me?"

Jimmy frowned and looked for a different path, one that led away from fool emotions. "What I mean, sugar, is you're too good to waste on Sylvester. What kind of man stays out in the woods all the time when he's got something like this at home?"

He ran a hand over Peggy's freckled breast. Her nipple flexed and stiffened, like an earthworm caught with its head out of the ground.

"Now, Sylvester's a good man,” she said. “He's never raised a hand against me-well, at least not much. And he provides for me and the kids."

"Just what the hell do you got, Peg? Look around."

She looked. Leak marks on the ceiling resembled coffee stains. A hole gaped in the thin paneling where a shotgun blast had ripped through the siding. Mice had gnawed at the foamwood baseboard. The closet doors hung awkwardly off their tracks like two drunks dangling from a railroad trestle. Peggy took a sharp breath, as if he had just slapped her across the face with her own autobiography.

"If Sylvester loved you, he wouldn't keep you like this," Jimmy said quietly. No need for added cruelty. Awareness had heaped enough pain on Peggy Mull.

Peggy put her head on his chest and was still. Then he felt a small warm wetness on his skin, and the mattress quivered with her sobs.

"Hey, honey, it's okay," Jimmy said, stroking her matted and tangled hair. He'd have to get her to take better care of herself. Maybe he'd buy her some fancy shampoo. To increase the value.

"J-Jimmy. I just get lonely sometimes," she said in her broken voice.

"We all do, sweetheart. Misery loves company, too."

"I try so hard. But Sylvester don't make much, and he won't let me get a job. Says it would make him feel like less of a man.”

Jimmy chortled and went for the other nipple. "How much of a man is he? Can't even give his wife a little loving when she needs it."

"But he's my husband. And I love him, in some kind of screwed-up way." Her sobs eased and she craned her neck to look at Jimmy's face. "But I love you, too."

Jimmy smiled and looked into her smoky blue eyes. They were her best feature. He'd have to figure out a way to make them stand out more. Packaging was what made the merchandise.

"And I love you, honey," he said, touching her lightly on the nose with his index finger. "And I want you to be comfortable."

She burrowed into his chest hair. "I'm comfortable right here."

"I mean with money."

He felt her tense a little.

"Good money," he said, breaking the silence.

"How?"

"I got it figured out."

"What?"

"Five hundred dollars a week, free and clear."

He let that sink in. Twice what Sylvester probably made trucking feed all over Bumfuck. When he even worked, that was.

"What are you talking about, Jimmy?" Her words crawled across the air like baby spiders down a thread of web, fragile and cautious.

"I'm talking about putting you to work, woman. Turning pleasure into business."

She thumped him on the chest, the fleshy sound echoing hollowly off the cluttered furniture. "I ain't no hooker, you asshole. I like to do it. I like to do lots of things. But I got my pride, see?"

She sat up in bed, pulling the dingy sheet around her waist. The knobs of her spine flexed as she started crying again. Jimmy let her cry until the hurt and shock dulled. He took a drink of cheap whiskey while he waited.

Finally she turned, her eyelids puffy and red. He waited for her to speak. She shook her head from side to side. "I can't do it," she whispered, speaking more to herself than Jimmy.

"Think about it, sugar," he said. "You won't have to scrap for cigarette money. You won't have to beg for liquor."

Her fury returned, a storm blowing in from a half-forgotten wasteland. "If you think I've been loving you for liquor, then you better think again."

Jimmy reached out and touched her flushed cheek. "Easy, honey, I didn't mean it that way. I just mean a lady like you deserves good things."

He let his hand trail down her neck to her breast and he gave a gentle squeeze. "Stuff this nice ought to be wearing silk, girl," he said. He let his hand slide lower. "Cause it's silky smooth."

Not a bad little advertising pitch. I'll have to remember that, come Friday nights at the Moose Lodge when the boys are peckered up and out for foxtail.

Peggy relaxed a little under his caress. Her tears had stopped but the salt of their tracks still ran down her sharp cheekbones. As Jimmy stroked, he decided that this was seventy-five-dollar stuff if he'd ever seen it.

"I don't know, Jimmy,” she said, then gasped from arousal.

"Shh. Don't say nothing. Just think about it for a while."

"What about Sylvester?"

"You and me managed to work around him just fine. Don't you worry about that."

"And the kids?"

The kids. Might make evening business a little awkward, but Jimmy was an optimist. Besides, if this got rolling, he could branch out into dope peddling. And it would be convenient to have distributors in both the elementary and high schools.

"Just think of what you can buy for them," he said. "Won't have to run around in ratty-assed boots anymore. They can get Nikes like the rich kids. And they could have hamburger for dinner instead of macaroni and cheese."

"What if Sylvester starts noticing all the little extras?"

"Tell him you've been stretching the dollar. Hell, it's not like he notices things anyway."

Peggy trembled against his caress. A low moan escaped her lips.

Damn, she is a hot one. She can probably turn half a dozen tricks a day. Maybe even do a party scene once in a while. I'll have to work out a rate card for different positions.

"Jimmy," she said, breath coming fast now.

Jimmy rolled away. He wanted to leave her aching. Might make the idea of an endless parade of men seem more enticing. He started to get out of bed. She grabbed him by the most convenient handle.

"Jimmy, where are you going?"

"Got to run, honey."

He reached for his clothes as she wrapped her hands around his waist. Her lavender nail polish glittered in the sunlight. He stood and she fell back onto the bed, her legs wide. "Jimmy, don't leave me like this," she pleaded.

Perfect. If she could act this good with him, there was no reason why she couldn't pull it off on demand. He looked at her while he stepped into his pants.

"Think about what I said, Peggy." He tugged on one of his snakeskin boots, resting his other foot on the bed.

Peggy lay still and pouted, her lips curling. He picked up the whiskey and turned to leave the room.

"Jimmy?"

"What, darling?"

"What would that-you know, what you're talking about-do to us?"

"Not a thing, darling. You know I love you, no matter what."

"Wouldn't it make you jealous, knowing?"

"There ain't no room for jealousy. There's business, and then there's you and me. What we got is special."

Peggy scooted out of bed and wrapped a nightgown around her torso. She followed him to the door with quick, shuffling steps, kicking the dirty laundry away from her ankles.

Jimmy looked out the glass slats of the trailer window, making sure the coast was clear. Peggy was at his shoulder. He reached out and absently stroked her hair. "If you won't do it for yourself, do it for me," he said.

"How much did you say we could make?"

He looked out the window again. "I figure forty bucks a shot for the basics, fifty for special treatment. We split it fifty-fifty."

And Jimmy would keep the extra.

Peggy gnawed at a thumbnail, clattering her small sharp teeth. "I don't know," she said around her thumb.

"I'll round up the customers, and all you have to do is send them away happy. Everybody wins."

"But it's so- dirty."

Jimmy faced her and took her firmly by her bony shoulders. "Look here, Peg. It might be a way out of this," he said, jerking his head toward the interior of the trailer. "Maybe we can get away someday, just you and me."

"But the kids-"

"It'll take a few years."

"I don't know." She looked down at the ragged welcome mat.

"Think about it," he said, his hand on the door.

She leaned forward quickly and pecked him on the cheek. He handed her the nearly empty whiskey bottle.

"Are you sure you'd still love me?" she asked.

"Of course, darling." Just like he loved his Ford F-100 pickup with the Leonard camper top and CB radio. Just like he loved the hunting knives that he traded at the Piney Ford flea market. Just like he loved his silver Dale Earnhardt belt buckle. Like he loved all his favorite possessions.

"And things will be just like before?"

"Sure. Maybe better." Except there was no way in hell he'd be poking her after she started working. Not with the kinds of diseases people spread around these days. But she'd learn all about that later.

"I'll call you," he said, before putting his weight on the corrugated trailer step.

Peggy sat at the kitchen counter with the bottle in front of her. Jimmy's tailpipes thrushed as he backed out of the driveway and headed downtown. She idly scraped at a flake of dried gravy with her fingernail as she thought about Jimmy's offer. She took a sip of the whiskey, enjoying the numb tingling feel of her lips against the glass. Just for practice, she slid her mouth down the bottleneck. It went in easily.

Someone knocked at the door. She wondered who it could be at this time of day. The kids wouldn't be home for another hour or so, what with the long walk from the bus stop. She wrapped her nightgown around her waist and held it in place with her arm, then opened the door a crack.

It was Paul Crosley, wearing his terrapin grin.

Mayor Virginia Speerhorn looked down from her seat at the podium. She enjoyed her elevated view of the Chamber of Commerce members. She surveyed the pink tops of bald spots, the stray hairs that sprang free from severe barrettes, the seam lines of wigs and toupees. "Progress report, Mr. Patterson?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Melvin Patterson. He looked as if he'd love to put a tongue on the tip of her strapless dress shoe. WRNC provided good coverage for her during the election seasons, and Patterson was too dull-witted to know he was giving away free political advertising every time WRNC interviewed her.

"I've gone over security for the weekend with Chief Crosley," she said, her authoritative voice rattling off the oak rails and teak walls of the Town Council chambers. "That leaves entertainment, which I believe is your area, Mr. Patterson."

"Yes, Madam Mayor. The musical acts have signed contracts, and country star Sammy Ray Hawkins is headlining. And the storytelling group will be there. Except they perform for free, of course. Then there are the usual attractions like the Volunteer Fire Department turkey shoot-"

"With air pistols, correct?"

"Yes, ma'am. The library will have a book fair and the Baptist Sewing Circle will be making quilts for auction. And most of the vendors will have displays and free activities to draw children to their booths."

"Very good, Mr. Patterson. All family-oriented, correct?"

"Yes, Mayor."

She insisted on formality at town meetings even though everyone knew each other. It kept things on a firm footing. This was civic business, after all. "And who's in charge of the vendors?"

"I am," came a watery voice from the table where the Blossomfest Committee sat. It was Margaret Staley. Her husband Horace had run a weak campaign against Virginia eight years before.

Virginia had nearly ruined both of the Staleys. All it took was a simple background check to find out that the Staleys had not reported a tool shed, a speedboat, and a Ford Taurus on their county tax listing. Then there was the interesting fact that Margaret's sister had an illegitimate son by Margaret's husband's cousin. After the gossip had "leaked," the town had been whispering behind their hands for months.

Horace Staley had called Virginia, saying he wanted to respectfully withdraw from the race. Virginia didn't want to win an unopposed election. She felt that would make her seem politically vulnerable. So she had threatened Horace with the secret she had held back, that Horace had worked for the American Civil Liberties Union for a year after he had gotten his law degree.

Horace had stayed in the race and taken his beating, and had recovered enough to put his wife in the Chamber hierarchy. Virginia, feeling magnanimous, nodded at Margaret's trembling head.

Margaret stood, the legs of her chair digging into the parquet floor. Virginia winced. A few whispers fluttered in the back of the room among the two dozen spectators.

"We've got forty-one vendors enlisted, Mayor." She seemed to spit out the last word.

Some people just wouldn't let bygones be bygones. But Margaret is competent enough with fund management.

"And they have their state and local business licenses, Mrs. Staley?"

"Yes. Their fees are paid up front, with a rain date clause in the agreement."

"No need for pessimism, Mrs. Staley. Please knock on wood."

Margaret clenched her jaw and twice tapped lightly on the table.

"Rain is a fact of life, my friends," Virginia said to the room at large. "But it's never rained at Blossomfest since I've been in office, and I don't plan on letting it start now."

This wasn't entirely true. There had been misty sprinkles at last year's Blossomfest, but Virginia had refused to postpone the event. The vending fees were already in the city coffers. So everyone had shuffled through a miserable weekend, too chilled to dig through their wallets and purses and buy useless trinkets.

"Mayor, we have a variety of arts and crafts this year, pottery and woodcarving and weaving,” Margaret said. “A solid mix of mountain folk art and consumerist-type merchandise. Something for everyone, as you like to say."

"Is that all, Mrs. Staley?"

Margaret dipped her weary, defeated head and sat down.

"Mr. Lemly?"

Bill Lemly stood up, seemingly blocking out the polished glow of the woodwork with his shadow. "We've got the street plans drawn up, Mayor Speerhorn. I personally supervised the building of the stage in accordance with all the local codes."

"And how much of a bite did that take?" Virginia was tallying up the estimated cost of promotion and weighing it against the expected profit. She fondled the gavel that she had used only once, in her first year in office, and it seemed as if that single rap still reverberated off the walls like a threat.

"None, ma'am. I donated the labor and materials."

She searched his face for smugness and found none. She hoped she never had to run against him. He might prove to be cleverer than he looked. But she was sure she could find something on him, if it came to that. His ex-wife, for instance.

"Very good, Mr. Lemly. So we have everything in place. I'd like to personally thank the committee for all its hard work, and I'm confident that this year's Blossomfest will be the best ever."

She looked at Dennis Thorne to make sure he had gotten that last bit on tape. Patterson was looking at him, too. Dennis held his microphone in the air as wooden applause scrabbled across the council chambers.

"This meeting is adjourned," Virginia said, rising between the North Carolina and United States flags that flanked her like bodyguards. She watched as her subjects spilled from the room into the cool night air.

The kids were in bed. Tamara had tucked them in, although Kevin was starting to get a little squeamish about the good-night kisses. She had read Ginger The Butter Battle Book.

How true that was. If people wouldn't worry about how other people buttered their bread, the world wouldn't be so out of whack. Dr. Seuss was way ahead of his time.

"Mommy, what does ‘out of whack’ mean?" Ginger asked as Tamara was turning off the light.

"It means not sensible, not neat and orderly. Where did you hear that?" Tamara asked.

"I don't know. I just thought of it."

Coincidence. She probably heard it at school.

Tamara kissed Ginger on the nose. "And you're going to be all out of whack tomorrow if you don't get some sleep."

She went into the living room and collected an armful of papers, then sat on the couch beside Robert, who was watching basketball.

"Damn those cheaters," he said, his carotid artery swelling in rage.

"Calm down, honey. It's only a game."

"Only a game? Only a game?" He ran a hand through his dark hair, which was beginning to show the first signs of silver. "It's the Tarheels playing. Down by six with a minute left. And the Antichrist forces of St. John's are holding the ball."

Tamara almost made a remark about Robert living out a gladiatorial macho instinct by proxy, but she let it pass. There was enough friction between them lately that an innocent quip might flare into a free-for-all. Robert leaned back and took a drink of his chocolate milk. Tamara looked at him out of the corners of her eyes..

He pumped his fist as the Tarheels nailed a jumper.

Maybe if the Tarheels win, he'll be in a good mood. Maybe tonight. The Gloomies are away on vacation, even if they’re keeping in touch via long distance.

She looked at her work and the words swam without meaning. She needed a rest. From psychology. From thinking. From shu-shaaa. She put her books aside and leaned her head on Robert's shoulder.

She watched as the Tarheels made what the announcer called a "trey," and her head fell to the sofa cushion as Robert leaned forward. She put a hand on his knee and rubbed his thigh as a skinny Carolina player hit a pair of free throws.

“Comeback City, baby!” the announcer shouted.

The crowd roared as if they were at a Nazi rally. Tamara pictured that much excitement taking place as a library opened its doors or a community theater dropped the final curtain on a staging of Our Town. The suspension of disbelief was too much of a stretch. The final horn sounded on the television set and Robert was airborne, pumping his arms just like Kevin did when excited.

"The Redmen are Deadmen," Robert said, imitating the announcer. "Aw, baby!"

Tamara watched him pace excitedly for a minute as the sportscasters droned nasally about tournament brackets and Sweet Sixteens and Final Fours and seeds. Sports had its own secret language, just as psychology and academia and religion did. Just another competitive belief system, only the score was much clearer in sports.

Everyone needs their buzzwords. Even would-be clairvoyants need names for their Gloomies. Names like Shu-shaaa.

Later, in bed, Robert touched her, his palms still moist from the tension of watching the game. "How did your day go, honey?"

She smiled against the dark pillow. "Fine. No Gloomies."

"I'm glad."

"So, are you excited about Blossomfest?"

"I'm agonna buy me a Rebel flag ashtray, and maybe one of ‘em little wooden outhouses, you know the kind, what's got the hillbilly with the corncob pecker."

She laughed, surprised that she was surprised by it. Laughter sounded strangely out of place, the way their bedroom had been lately.

Robert spooned against the warm flannel of her nightgown. The night was a little damp and chilly, but she mostly wore the gown so that Robert could take it off. She hoped.

"Listen, honey. I know I've been a little distant lately,” he said. "Been worried about work and stuff, wondering if we did the right thing moving here."

"Robert, we've been over that enough. You like the station. I know it's not as demanding as a big-market FM, but it's just as important to the audience. And the kids really love it here."

"But what about you? I just feel so selfish, pulling you away from Carolina just when things were starting to happen for you."

"Things can happen at Westridge, too."

"Are you sure you're happy?"

She turned to him, close enough to feel his breath in her hair. Twin sparkles were all she could see of his eyes.

"Honey, I'm doing fine," she said. "I told you that. And you know I'm honest with you, and I trust that you're always honest with me."

There was a long heavy pause. Tamara was afraid that Robert still didn't believe her.

"Honey," he said. "There's something I've been meaning to tell you-”

SHU-SHAAA.

The Gloomies washed over her in a gray-red tide, pounding the cliffs of her mind. She sat bolt upright and listened to the dark world outside.

Crickets. A chuckling chipmunk. A dog barking down the street. There-a snapping twig.

"Something's outside, Robert."

"Honey, it's the middle of the night. Things don't move at this time of night in Windshake. It's against the laws of nature up here."

"Robert, you know me."

Robert sighed heavily and rolled out of bed. He leaned his face against the window and looked out into the woods that lined the backyard.

Robert turned and Tamara saw the black outline of his arms raise against the dim moonlit backdrop.

"Nothing there, honey," he said, the mattress squeaking as he slid under the covers.

"The Gloomies are back."

"I know," Robert muttered. "Do the bastards ever leave?"

Tamara was stung. Tears welled in her eyes. Then her pain turned to anger. The son of a bitch would not make her cry.

"You could be a little more sympathetic," she said. Her voice was cold. Her body was cold. Her heart was cold, like a shriveled dead star collapsing under the tired weight of its own gravity.

"I've been sympathetic,” Robert said. “For years. Your father's dead and you can't bring him back.”

"But it was my fault."

"No. You just had a dream. You happened to have a dream that he was hurtling through the dark in a metal tube and then it exploded into fire." Robert’s voice was flat, as if reciting an overly familiar line.

"But nobody believed me."

"It was just a dream."

"But see what happened?"

"Your father died in a car crash the next morning."

The tears tried to come back. She fought them and lost. "I tried to make him stay home," she said, her throat aching. "But he just tweaked one of my pigtails and laughed and said that he'd be fine. Only he wasn't fine. He was dead, ripped to pieces by metal and glass."

"And by bad luck. Fate. Coincidence. God's will, or whatever. It could have happened on any day, or never at all."

"But the dream."

"Premonition. You know it's fairly common. You're the psychologist, after all."

Tamara thought he said "psychologist" with the trace of a sneer.

"But what about the other times? When Kevin broke his leg?"

"We can't stop living every time you have a bad dream."

Tamara pressed her face into the pillow, drying her tears. She was afraid that the tethers were broken, that whatever connected her to Robert had snapped its mooring, that she and he were tumbling apart like lost astronauts, drifting into a nebulous gray territory. She was alone, at the mercy of the Gloomies.

The inside of her brain tingled, an itch that was beyond scratching. She wasn’t sure whether she had slipped into sleep and suffered a bad dream or if shu-shaaa was talking to her again. All she knew was that the noise was loud, a scream, as if the source of the signal had been turned up to ten and a half.

She wrapped the pillow around her head, thinking of the kids, psychological theories, her failing marriage, anything but the vibrations that shook the walls of her skull.