Semiprecious Page 3

  Opal’s drama club had performed at the retirement home last spring, and the sight of all those sick old people had depressed her for weeks.

  “Well, it’s certainly nice to know you have so much confidence in my abilities, Opal Jane.”

  Five minutes later we were parked in front of Sadler’s Music. Mama grabbed her purse. “I’ll be right back.”

  Opal slid down in the seat and shook her head. “She has no idea how much I hate her.”

  “Daddy says we aren’t supposed to say we hate anybody.”

  “Fine. I won’t say it. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”

  I chewed the insides of my cheeks until I tasted blood. I wanted to hate Mama too, so it wouldn’t hurt so much to let her go. But down deep I still had a soft spot in my heart for her, because of how bad she wanted her dream to come true.

  A few minutes passed and then Mama came out of the store with a guitar case in one hand, her purse and a paper sack in the other. She handed the sack through the open window. “Those are my picks and extra strings. Don’t lose them.”

  She set the guitar case in the back and braced it with the suitcases, then got behind the wheel. “Is everybody ready?”

  When we just glared at her, she looked away. “Okay,” she said under her breath. “Okay. Here we go.”

  She put on her white-framed sunglasses, turned up the volume on the radio, and started her concert. She knew every song by heart—the words, the artist, the year it came out, its highest number on the Billboard chart.

  “‘Heartbreak Hotel,’” she shouted as we reached the highway, and the last of Mirabeau, and the last of my old life, slid away. “Elvis’s first gold record. Nineteen fifty-six.” Another song blared. At the hop, hop, hop. “Danny and the Juniors!” Mama informed us. Like we cared. “Now that was a great dancin’ song.”

  It was after one o’clock when it finally dawned on Mama that her children hadn’t eaten a bite all day. In a dusty town off the main highway, we stopped at a grocery store for a loaf of bread, some bologna, and Moon Pies. Mama gave Opal a handful of change and we went to the back of the store, dropped the money in, and slid three cold Coca-Colas out of the cooler.

  There was no place to sit down to eat in the store, so we got back in the truck. Opal made sandwiches and passed them around. Mama hiked her skirt and drove with the cola bottle between her knees. “If I have to downshift, darlin’, you grab this Co-Cola fast,” she said to me.

  For a while we were busy eating, and the only sound was the truck engine and the songs on the radio. Then the traffic slowed and we saw a detour sign. “Shoot!” Mama said. “Hold my Co-Cola, Garnet.”

  I grabbed the bottle and she popped the clutch and drove down a steep hill to a rutted track below. She sped past all the cars stopped on the roadway, until we came to a gravel road. There she made a hard turn that sent me crashing into Opal’s shoulder.

  “Ow!” Opal shoved me with her hip. “Get off me.”

  “I can’t help it if she’s driving like a maniac!”

  “Hush up!” Mama said. “Look at the map, Garnet, and tell me where we are.”

  I unfolded the map and tried to get my bearings but it was impossible, with Mama whipping along the rough road, the truck sliding on the loose gravel, the radio blasting, and Mama asking me every ten seconds where we were. Plus, trying not to spill her Co-Cola.

  Opal grabbed the map just as we flew past a road marker. She squinted at it for a minute and yelled to Mama, “We’re on some farm road, about forty miles south of Mount Springs. You can get back on the highway there.”

  Mama nodded. “Where’s my Coke?”

  I handed her back the bottle and she drank it down, her eyes on the road. The radio station faded to static, and Mama worried the dial until she found another one. She kept singing and announcing the play list: Buddy Holly, Bobby Darin, Patsy Cline.

  We rounded a curve and Mama hit the brakes. In front of us was a truck with a sprayer on the back, spewing fresh tar on the gravel. The stench rolled through the truck. My eyes watered. Moon Pie and bologna burned sour and hot at the back of my throat.

  Mama leaned on the horn. The driver stuck his arm out the window and turned his palm up, like he was asking her what she expected him to do. The road was narrow and too curvy to pass, and we’d come too far to turn back. Mama backed off, and we inched along behind the tar truck, following it up one hill and down the other.

  My stomach tingled. Cold sweat rolled down my back. “Stop, Mama!” I said. “I’m going to be sick.”

  “Oh, you are not. Mind over matter, Garnet. Think of something else.”

  But then I threw up all over my sandals, the sleeve of Opal’s blouse, the map, and Mama’s bucket purse. Mama pulled off the road and stopped. Opal jumped out, yelling something, but I was too sick to care. My stomach heaved and heaved. Heat shimmered on the road. Black spots danced in front of my eyes. Mama ran around the front of the truck and caught me before I fell. She said something to Opal, but her words sounded far away.

  “Get your head down,” Mama said. “That’s right, down between your knees. Now breathe.” It seemed like Mama kissed the top of my head then, but maybe I imagined it. When the world came back into focus, I saw that Opal had changed her shirt. She handed me a clean one too, and gave me the rest of her Co-Cola. Mama cleaned the map with a wadded-up tissue. “Looks like there’s a town between here and Mount Springs,” she said. “We’ll stop there for tonight.”

  She rubbed my back the way she used to when I was little. Back then when I was sick, I’d lie in her bed that smelled like sunshine and lemons, eating strawberry Jell-O and chicken noodle soup, playing with books of paper dolls she’d bought at the five-and-ten. She gave me pink stuff when my stomach hurt, and cherry cough medicine when I caught a cold. Pretending to be a good mother. Pretending she cared. But now she ran her fingers through her hair, sighed deeply, and said, “How about it, Garnet? Can we go now?”

  When I tried to talk, a loud burp came out instead.

  “Oh, that’s attractive,” Opal said.

  “Leave her alone.” Mama wadded up our soiled shirts and tossed them into the back of the truck. She wiped off the dashboard and sprayed the cab with perfume to kill the smell. Then she noticed the gobs of black tar sticking to her good summer shoes. She shot me a hard look, toed them off, and threw them in the back too. She yanked open the door. “Well, what are you waiting for? An engraved invitation? Let’s get a move on.”

  We got back in the cab, which still stank of bologna and puke. Mama gunned the engine and we took off again. I must have slept, because the next thing I knew, it was getting dark and Mama was pulling into the Sunset Motel. There were nine cabins, an office with peeling paint on the door, and a flashing neon sign that said VACANCY. Opal and I waited in the truck while Mama went to the office. When she came back, we hauled our stuff into number six, a room that smelled of sweat and cigarettes. There were two sagging beds with dirt-brown spreads, a table and chair, and a speckled mirror. In the bathroom the faucet dripped rusty water into a cracked sink.

  “Charming place, Mama,” Opal said. “Who’s the innkeeper, Norman Bates?”

  Opal had seen that new movie about a psycho boy who ran a motel. I wasn’t allowed to go, but I heard all about it from Opal. She said Tony Perkins was so cute, it was hard to believe he could be that creepy. But he scared her so bad that for a while she was afraid to take a shower unless I stood guard outside the door.

  “I am much too tired for your sarcasm, Opal,” Mama said. “If you don’t like the accommodations, you’re free to leave.” She opened her suitcase. “You can pout all you want, but I am getting cleaned up, and then I am going to that drive-in we passed for a burger and a shake. You can come along or stay here. I don’t care.”

  When the bathroom door closed behind her, Opal threw herself onto the bed. “Wow. She is really off her rocker. Wait till Daddy finds out.”

  “That’s what I’m counting on,” I said.
“As soon as we get to Aunt Julia’s, we’ll call him. Maybe he’ll come and get us in time for your dance.”

  “I just hope we’re not stuck with this Julia person for the rest of our lives,” Opal said.

  “You reckon she’s as crazy as Mama?”

  Opal snorted. “Nobody’s as crazy as Mama.”

  And then, right on cue, Mama’s voice came sliding out of the shower. “Crazy they call me, sure I’m crazy …”

  Opal snickered, and that set us both off. We laughed until our sides ached, until Mama twirled out of the bathroom in a cloud of Shalimar and blue satin, her face shiny clean, her hair done up in a halo of blond curls. “If you’re going with me, girls, shake a leg. I’m starving.”

  She unpacked her makeup case and put on fresh powder and lipstick. Opal and I took turns in the bathroom, and an hour later we pulled into the drive-in. Mama found a space near the end of the row and gave our order to the carhop. Music poured from a dozen car radios all tuned to the same station. A couple of teenagers started dancing. Halfway through the song, others joined in. Under the flashing neon lights Opal’s face was the very picture of sadness. I knew she was thinking about missing the howdy dance, and I got mad at Mama all over again.

  The song ended and another one began.

  “Be-Bop-a-Lula!” Mama opened the truck door and grabbed my hand. “Come on, Garnet. I’ll teach you to dance.” In her high-heeled sandals and tight blue dress, with the light shining on her golden hair, she looked so beautiful I could barely breathe. Looking at her was like looking at a painting you could never afford to buy. Part of me wanted to fall into her arms and hold on for dear life, but another part didn’t want any more memories that would make it harder to let her go.

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Fine.” She let go of my hand like it was a hot coal, but she kept swaying to the music. “Opal? Want to dance with your mama?”

  Opal stared. “Do I want to dance with you, after you’ve ruined my entire life? No, Mama, I don’t believe I do.”

  “Oh.” For a moment her face fell, then our mother smiled like she was doing a commercial for toothpaste. “Suit yourself, but it’s sure a waste of a good song. Gene Vincent. Nineteen fifty-six. Boy howdy, that was a great year for music.”

  The carhop brought our order and we ate without talking. On the way back to the motel Mama was quiet, and I could tell she was thinking hard on something. Sure enough, as soon as we were inside number six, she sat us down and said, “Listen, girls. I know you’re mad at me and you think I’m not being fair. But in this life, if you want something real bad, you’ve got to pay the price.”

  Opal crossed her arms, Daddy-style. Mama went on. “You two have your whole lives ahead of you, but look at me. Past thirty, even if most people think I don’t look a day over twenty-five. If I’m ever going to make a musical career, I’ve got to go now, before it’s too late.”

  She took a clipping out of her bag and passed it to us. WIN A RECORDING CONTRACT! it said in red letters. PRODUCERS LOOKING FOR NEW TALENT. IT COULD BE YOU!

  “I almost threw this out with the trash,” Mama said. “It was lying under a tuna fish can, but I saw it just in time. I’m telling you, girls, when fate sends you a present, you don’t dare send it back unopened.” She folded the clipping. “I’m going to get one of those contracts. You’ll see. One day you’ll thank me for getting you out of Mirabeau, Texas.”

  “What’s wrong with Mirabeau?” Opal said. “It’s a nice place. I like it there.”

  Mama laughed. “That’s just because you’ve never been anywhere else. You’re just like your daddy. No imagination. Believe it or not, there’s a whole wide world beyond the Lone Star State, and I intend to see it all.”

  She thought for a minute, tapping her shiny red nails on the tabletop. “I’ve been thinking about a new name.”

  “How about Judy S. Carriot?” Opal threw herself onto the bed.

  “Very funny, Opal. Be as mean as you want, but I need a stage name. Nearly everybody in Nashville has one. You know what Conway’s real name is? Harold Jenkins!”

  “If I was stuck with a name like Harold Jenkins, I’d change it too,” Opal said.

  Mama ignored her. “I can’t very well go to Nashville as Melanie Hubbard.”

  “Why not?” I asked. “It’s your name. But I guess you’re throwing it away too, along with me and Opal.”

  “I’m not throwing you away. I am sending you to visit family! It’s not that I don’t want you.”

  “That’s not what you told Daddy,” Opal said.

  Mama’s face turned red. “I’m sorry you heard that. But that’s what you get for sticking your nose where it’s got no business being. Besides, I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”

  “How did you mean it?” Opal’s voice cracked, and my own throat felt tight.

  Mama’s eyes filled up, and for a minute I felt sorry for her, but then I thought about having to leave my whole life behind, and how she was running away from Daddy, and my insides went hard.

  “There’s no sense in talking more about it,” Mama said. “It’s plain to see you’re both determined to be mad at me.”

  Opal dug her pajamas out of our suitcase. “I’m going to bed.”

  “Me too,” I said. “My stomach feels funny again.”

  I got ready for bed and climbed under the covers. Opal slid in and turned her face to the wall. After Mama switched off the lamp, I lay wide-eyed in the dark, bone tired and achy, but too keyed up to sleep. I kept wishing I was back home in my own bed. And I couldn’t stop thinking about Daddy, wondering if he’d called home yet. I turned over and punched the musty-smelling pillow, trying to sort out all the feelings churning inside me, flipping like a coin from one side to the other.

  Mama was brave for going after her dream; she was the world’s biggest coward for leaving Daddy and sending us away. One thing I knew for sure: A longing for the extraordinary had grabbed ahold of her and was burning her up inside, so hot and fierce that her heart had gone stone cold toward everything and everybody standing in her way. That was Mama.

  Fire and ice.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The next afternoon, one detour, two wrong turns, and one flat tire later, we passed the signs for a bunch of Texas towns named for other places—Reno, Bogota, Paris—and then we crossed the Red River into Oklahoma. We drove north through towns so small they didn’t even have stoplights, and then we left the main highway and took a blacktop road that seemed to go for a million miles before it became a washboard barely wide enough for two cars to pass.

  “Almost there!” Mama said, with such a happy look on her face you’d have thought she was announcing our arrival into New York City. Trust me, Willow Flats was about as far from New York as a person could possibly get.

  For as far as I could see, there was nothing but hard brown land under a pale sky. A sluggish river shaded by willow trees ran by the side of the road. We passed a water tower that said WELCOME TO WILLOW FLATS. HOME OF THE 1948 STATE CHAMPION WARRIORS. On down the road was a redbrick high school with a gym at one end and a gravel driveway at the other.

  “That’s where I went to junior high and high school,” Mama said, laughing, “when I had nothing more exciting to do. Graduated dead last in my class. Julia was first in hers. People always said I got the beauty and she got the brains.”

  “All the kids go to school in the same building?” Opal asked.

  Mama stopped the truck on the side of the road, as if her school was a world-famous tourist attraction we didn’t dare miss. “Everybody from seventh grade through seniors. When Julia was a girl, even the elementary school kids went there. But they finally got a school of their own.”

  Then I saw that across the road from the high school was a smaller school made of the same red brick. Behind a chain-link fence was a weedy playground with a couple of seesaws and some swings.

  “Can we go now?” Opal shifted in the seat. “I feel like a sardine squished into a can.�
�

  Mama ground the gears and we took off again. Through the windshield I saw tin-roofed houses and miles of pastures dotted with faded barns and falling-down chicken coops. In one yard an old car with no tires sat atop concrete blocks. We passed a feed store, a stinking cattle yard, a Texaco gas station, and three Baptist churches.

  I decided Aunt Julia wasn’t nearly as smart as Mama gave her credit for. How else could you explain why she’d spent her whole life in a place like Willow Flats?

  “What a dump,” Opal muttered.

  It was true. Nothing looked like it did back in the piney woods of Texas. Not the road, nor the pastures, nor the buildings. Even the sky looked different, harsh and washed out.

  A flatbed truck pulled out in front of us. Mama leaned on the horn, but the man behind the wheel was in no hurry. Since we couldn’t pass him without breaking an axle, we slowed to a crawl and followed him past a hardware store and a bait shop advertising live worms. We passed the courthouse, a squatty-looking building with a clock tower and an arched doorway. On a bench out front sat the world’s oldest living human being. His skin was the color of an old baseball mitt, and his long gray hair fell to his waist. He wore a beat-up ten-gallon hat, a pair of jeans, and a pair of black high-tops. As we inched past, his eyes followed us for a moment. Then he went back to his whittling.

  “Well, I’ll be!” Mama said. “That’s Charlie Twelve-trees. I thought for sure he’d have passed on by now.”

  “What kind of a name is Twelvetrees?” Charlie was the first interesting thing I’d seen since we arrived, and I twisted around in my seat for another look.

  “Cherokee, I think,” Mama said.

  The flatbed driver turned onto a dirt road and honked at us. Mama gunned the engine and the truck jerked and bucked on the rutted road. Hot wind poured through the cab. Mama went on. “When I was a girl, Charlie lived in the caretaker’s cottage at the old Higby mansion out on the highway. It was a museum in those days, and he had a little shop where he sold his carvings to tourists.” She laughed. “He used to tell them the carvings were magic. Imagine!”