Читать книгу Country Ham - John Quincy MacPherson - Страница 5

First, Ham had to pick up his tux—black trousers with a lime green jacket with long tails to match Nora’s dress. Since it was 1976, almost everything and everybody would be decked out in patriotic red, white, and blue. But Nora decided to go with a lime green dress, because it went well with her features. So, of course, Ham would have a matching jacket. After the tux, Ham had to swing by Snow’s Florist to pick up Nora’s corsage. Then back home to wash the Studebaker.

He opened the door to JoAnna’s Boutique. A little bell over the door rang, announcing his arrival. Mrs. Joanna Weaver came from the back to the counter.

“Hi, Miss Joanna. I came to get my tux,” Ham said.

“Hello, Ham. Just a minute.” Mrs. Weaver went to the back and emerged a moment later with a plastic covered hanger. “All paid for, I see,” she said, as she lifted up the plastic cover. “Pink jacket and matching cummerbund and tie. That right?”

“No ma’am. It’s supposed to be a lime green jacket with matching cummerbund and tie,” Ham replied.

“Hmmm, well, the ticket order says, ‘pink.’” She held the paper out for Ham to examine. “Do you remember who helped you?”

“Some young woman I never seen before.”

“That might have been Julie. We have a lot of temp help during this time of year. I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do about it now, Ham. Winter Waltz is tonight. I’ll give a 10 percent credit toward your next purchase, but you really should have come in earlier in the week to make sure the order was right.”

“Yes ma’am. My mama said the same thing ‘bout coming in early. All right, then, thank you Miss Joanna.” Ham took the hanger and left the shop. The little bell announced his departure.

Things went better at the florist. Nora’s corsage was ready, and it was just what Ham (or more accurately, his mother Nina) had ordered. By the time he stopped for lunch at Arby’s (he loved their roast beef sandwiches) and got home, it was nearly two o’clock. He went in to the house and took a catnap. A little after three o’clock, Ham pulled his 1948 Studebaker closer to the garden hose to start washing it, despite the slight chill in the air.

After fifteen minutes or so, he looked up and saw a strange sight coming down the driveway. A gray and black Pontiac hearse with black tinted windows was rolling slowly toward the house. Ham watched, puzzled. What was a hearse doing here?

As the hearse came to a full stop, the driver turned the flashers on and sat on the horn. Then Uncle Carl opened the door and got out. In his early forties, Carl Calloway Brookshire was tall and thin, and he had a black goatee and ponytail to complement his balding head. He had on his trademark white T-shirt and bib overalls.

“How do you like your ride, Ham?” Carl asked.

“What the hell is that thing, Uncle Carl?”

“Why, it’s a hearse, of course. I call it Mr. Ed.” Then Carl began to sing. “A hearse is a hearse of course, of course, and no one can talk to a hearse, of course, that is of course unless the hearse is the famous Mr. Ed.”

“Uncle Carl, have you been drinkin’?”

“Ham, what kind of question is that? It’s the weekend and I’m your Uncle Carl. Of course, I’ve been drinkin’.”

“I can’t take Nora to the Winter Waltz in that thing!” Ham shouted.

“Why not?” Carl asked. “It’s the same length as a regular limousine. I checked myself. Besides, Nora is goin’ to love it!” Carl winked.

“It’s for carryin’ corpses, not dates.” Ham cried.

“In my experience, Ham, sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.” Carl quipped. “Ham, this is a real classic. It’s a 1954 Pontiac Barnette two-door hearse, for Christ’s sake. And did you know that there are Hearse Clubs where owners drive in parades just like they do classic antique cars?”

Ham ignored those comments. “Where in tarnation did you get this?”

“From a colored funeral home.” Carl said. “It was a real bargain, too. Plus, there haven’t been any corpses in the hearse in over two months. Business was bad, which is why, I reckon, they sold it.”

“What in God’s name made you decide to buy a hearse, Uncle Carl?”

“Why I’ve always wanted a hearse, Ham.”

“I never knew that. Why?”

“Well, don’t you know people are dyin’ all over the place to get into a hearse?” Carl laughed at his own joke until he started coughing. He reached inside his overalls and retrieved an inhaler. He inhaled the medicine, waited a moment until his lungs cleared, and then said, “Seriously, Ham, I’ve always liked the look of a hearse, and when this one came available, I jumped on it. Ridin’ in a parade next weekend. But you get the honor of bein’ the first one to take it out in public.”

“What happened to the limo you were supposed to get?”

“Oh, my buddy Jimmy knew a fella with a limo, but that deal kinda fell through. I should’ve known not to trust Jimmy.”

Yeah, thought Ham, and I should have known not to trust you.

Carl changed the subject. “Ham, why are washin’ your car in this cold?”

“Because I figured this would happen.”

“What would happen?”

“You wouldn’t come through with the limo, Uncle Carl, that’s what! I’ll just take the Studebaker. She’s all cleaned up now.”

About that time, Jimmy rolled up in his red, flatbed truck. Carl opened the passenger side, jumped in and rolled down the window. “Well, the keys are in the ignition if you change your mind.”

“I thought you were goin’ to get us a driver.”

“Only room for two in the front comfortably, and I’m bettin’ you don’t want to ride in the back by yourself! I’ll be back to get it tomorrow afternoon either way. Have fun tonight, Ham! And be safe.”

Before Ham could reply, Carl rolled up the window, and he and Jimmy took off down the road.

Ham looked at the hearse in disgust. He had to admit it had a certain air about it, and it was very clean. But he knew there was absolutely no way Nora would go to the Winter Waltz with him if he showed up in Mr. Ed.

Ham went inside and showered. He put on his hot pink, long tailed jacket and black trousers, topped off with a pink bowtie and cummerbund. He was in the kitchen drinking a glass of water when his mother came in the back door. She had been preparing the ground in the garden for the spring planting and had missed her brother’s visit altogether. “Hammie, why are you wearin’ a pink tux?” (His mother was the only one he’d let get away with calling him “Hammie.”)

“They got the order wrong, Mama.”

“Oh Hammie, I told you to go earlier in the week so this wouldn’t happen.”

“I know, Mama, I know. I gotta go.”

He put the glass down in the sink and headed out the front door. He got into the Studebaker and turned the switch, but the car didn’t turn over. “Crap,” Ham said. He turned the ignition key again. No sound. Either the starter or the battery, but either way it was too late to do anything about it. He looked over at Mr. Ed, took a deep breath, got of the Studebaker, and walked over to the hearse.

He could hear his mother yell through the screen door. “Hammie, where did that hearse come from?”

He pulled out of the driveway and turned Mr. Ed in the direction of Nora’s house.

Just as Ham feared, Nora took one look at the hearse and declared, “Ham, I’m not ridin’ in that thing!”

“Nora, I know. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have trusted Uncle Carl. But the Studebaker won’t start, and we don’t have anythin’ else to drive, except the farm truck, and it’s filthy.”

“Well, I’d rather go to Winter Waltz in a filthy truck than in a hearse!”

“Oh come on, Nora, it’ll be unique.” Ham knew he was sounding like Uncle Carl. He began singing, “A hearse is a hearse of course, of course . . . ”

“Shut up, Ham MacPherson!” With that Nora got in the passenger side of Mr. Ed and slammed the door shut. She folded her arms across her chest and looked straight ahead.

“And why are you in a hot pink suit?”

“They got my order wrong.”

“You should have gone earlier in the week!”

“I know. That’s what Mama and Miss Joanna said,” Ham said. “You look real pretty, though, Nora.”

Stone silence.

“Tonight’ll be fun, Nora, I promise.”

“Shut up and drive, Ham!” So down the road they went: Ham in a pink tux and both of them in a hearse. The slight smile of amusement that crossed Nora’s face did not go unnoticed by Ham. It was a look Ham had seen before.

The dinner and Winter Waltz were uneventful. In the last slow dance of the night, Ham whispered in Nora’s ear. “Notice anythin’ different ‘bout this year from last?”

“You mean besides the fact you’re in a pink tux and we came here in a hearse?”

“Well, yeah, besides that. There warn’t no cats with firecrackers tied to their tails runnin’ through the gym.”

Nora giggled. “Well, that’s true.” In fact, it was true. But the real fireworks this year came after the dancing was over. By then, Nora had relaxed; she loved to dance, and Ham had been extra thoughtful, always making sure she had a refill of her coke and dancing every dance, even the fast ones (which he usually balked at). But tonight that was part of his penance.

Around midnight, they got into the hearse, and Ham drove to their “make-out” spot, a pullover spot near the top of the Brushy mountains that overlooked the Yadkin River Valley and the lights from Wilkesboro and North Wilkesboro. It was one of a dozen such “lover’s lanes” tucked into the back roads of the Brushies.

Ham looked at Nora in the passenger seat. Small, petite, thick blond hair, with piercing green eyes and a killer smile. They had gone steady for three years. Ham and Nora had never done “it,” though by Ham’s reckoning, they were standing squarely on third base. He wondered who came up with the baseball analogy for making out, but it was well known in Wilkes County:

first base = kissing

second base = light petting on the outside of the clothes

third base = “heavy petting” underneath garments

home run = going all the way, doing “it”

Football really didn’t have any kind of equivalence. Basketball either. No wonder baseball was America’s favorite pastime!

The hearse had an after-market eight-track tape player and a bucket of Soul and R & B cartridges on the floorboard of the passenger side, presumably from the previous owner. Ham pulled out a tape.

“How ‘bout the Staple Singers?” Ham asked.

“I never heard of them,” Nora replied.

Four versions of “Let’s Do It Again” played while Ham and Nora made out. He shut down the engine; the tape deck continued to run on auxiliary.

The front of the hearse was not very conducive to heavy petting.

“This thing was made for the dead not the livin’!” Ham declared as he hit his shin on the tape deck. Somehow Ham had managed to get his hand down Nora’s spaghetti-strapped dress and was fumbling with her bra strap, feeling around for the clasp.

“It’s in the front, Ham,” Nora gasped.

“What’s in the front?” Ham heaved.

“The clasp!”

“What the heck is it doin’ up there?”

“It’s a strapless bra with the clasp in front.”

“Well, that’s confusing,” Ham grunted, as he freed the clasp and simultaneously hit his funny bone on the steering wheel and his head on the overhead interior light. Curtis Mayfield was crooniing through the speakers,

If you will count up to ten That’ll give me a chance to get my breath back Then . . . we’ll do it again an’ again!

They looked at each other and then both looked at the tinted sliding glass window separating them from the back of the hearse. Ham opened the sliding glass, wondering why a hearse driver would ever need to communicate with the back of the hearse.

“Wanna go back there? There’s more room.” Ham asked tentatively.

“The back of the hearse?”

“Sure why not?”

They hopped out of either side of Mr. Ed and met in the back of the hearse. Ham threw open the back door. They both stared inside, then turned toward each other and began laughing. There was a mattress with a fitted sheet in the back of the hearse. A thick, neatly folded blanket sat in the middle of the mattress. Ham recognized it as one Uncle Carl had purchased on the Cherokee reservation years ago.

“Did you put this in here, Thomas Hamilton MacPherson? Pretty presumptuous of you!” Nora demanded, trying to feign an indignant tone.

“No, I promise I didn’t,” Ham said. “It must have been Uncle Carl.”

“What did your Uncle Carl think we were goin’ to do?”

“I’m sure it warn’t for us, Nora. You know, Uncle Carl’ll sleep off a drunk spell in his car. He probably put this back here for him next time that happens.” Ham tried to sound convincing, but he certainly wasn’t sure what Uncle Carl was thinking. He did remember his wink and his words, “Nora’s gonna love it.”

“Aren’t you just dying to try it out, Nora?”

Nora giggled and took Ham by the hand and led him onto on the mattress. They shut the door to the hearse. There wasn’t much vertical room, Ham thought. Nobody was expected to sit up in the back of a hearse. But he decided there was plenty of horizontal room, and the mattress was soft. He covered them with the blanket. The Staple Singers continued to sing. By the time they got to the seventh song on the tape, Ham and Nora had reached “home.” Ham had hit his head on the hearse’s ceiling more than once, but now they were lying close together, arms and legs entangled listening to the melodic instrumentals of “After Sex.”

“I love you, Nora.”

“I love you, too, Ham, but we shouldn’t of done that.”

“Do you regret it?”

“Of course not, but we can’t do that again til we’re married, okay Ham?”

“Okay, Nora.” The tape ended with “Chase.” Ham listened to Nora’s steady, rhythmic breathing, and his mind wandered. He thought about the warning his baseball coach gave the day before every game. “Don’t have sex, tonight, boys,” he said, “it’ll mess you up.” Since Ham wasn’t having sex, he didn’t pay much attention. What was it Coach Maynard said after that. You’ll lose your edge? You’ll lose your legs? Ham couldn’t remember. But Opening Day wasn’t until the following Friday, so he thought he surely would recover by then. He was scheduled to be the Opening Day starting pitcher.

Then he thought about Miss Turnage’s English class. She recently introduced the class to “Freudian psychoanalytic” ways of reading literature. Best Ham could make out, psychoanalytic readings were all about sex and death. Wonder what a psychoanalytic critic would make of him and Nora having sex in the back of a hearse? “That’s what literary critics would call ‘irony,’” he could hear Miss Turnage saying. Kinda like dying of a heart attack in a whorehouse, he mused.

They slept soundly for a couple of hours; to a casual observer they might have passed for corpses. At 3:00 a.m. they both awoke abruptly.

“We gotta go home, Ham.” They put their clothes on and got back into the front seat of Mr. Ed.

By now the Staple Singers’ eight track had looped back around back, and they began again singing seductively, “Let’s do it again.”

“Turn that off, Ham!”

“Sorry Nora.” Neither of them had been prepared for tonight; “good” Southern guys and gals seldom were.