for?”
“It’s not like regular insurance.”
She waited.
“It’s hard to explain,” he offered. “It’s like, I don’t know. Like
secondary
insurance.”
“What’s that?”
“Oh. Well, it’s like if all the people you loved went out to a field in a thunderstorm? I mean, we could tell you the odds
they’d get hit by lightning, and how much money you’d get if they did. But that’s secondary because we can’t give you anyone’s
life
back.
You know?”
“I need a drink,” she said. “Buy me a drink?”
“OK.”
She checked the time. “Everything’s closed, but we could go to Pigeon’s out in Sterling. They’ll let us in. That’s where we
should go.”
However, they wound up not going there.
When they stepped out to the Huddle House parking lot, there was all that heat again, and next door were the remains of a
pickup truck immersed in kudzu, and out of the night came a deep-throated train whistle. It was sort of like the South as
Romeo had imagined it, except for the Huddle House itself, which looked to him like any box-shaped interstate diner anywhere.
Wynetta asked him, “Where you staying?”
“Blackbeard’s Motel.”
“That’s a real shithole, isn’t it?”
“I guess.”
“But all of Brunswick is a shithole, to tell you the truth. I got a trailer out on Balm-of-Gilead, if you want to stay there.
Really it’s my Dad’s trailer, but he’s in the hospital.”
“What’s he there for?”
“Congestive heart failure.”
“Whoa.”
“Yeah.”
Romeo supposed that this trailer would turn out to be some kind of redneck nightmare, with cockroaches as big as owls. Still,
it’d be a lot more private than Blackbeard’s Motel, and it wouldn’t hurt to take a look at it. So he got in the Tercel and
followed her. She drove fast and made a lot of turns, and it was a challenge to keep up — but also sort of relaxing, like
a low-level video game. He let her lead him along, this way and that, no questions. He wouldn’t have minded if she’d led him
clear out of Georgia.
He wondered why he’d ever said yes to Shaw.
What’s the matter with me? Shaw says I need you — I say, OK, at your service. Why don’t I tell him I can’t do this?
Wynetta led him through a neighborhood where everything was built out of cinder-block. All the houses looked like outbuildings
at a sewage-treatment plant. The churches also. He kept following Wynetta as best he could, and he remembered the first time
Shaw had ever said to him, “I need your help.”
They had been twelve years old. Shaw had come to Romeo’s house — a visit that Romeo thought miraculous. And they were up in
Romeo’s room, and when Shaw said, “I need your help,” he said it in a voice as throaty and resonant as an adult’s, and that
little lopsided smile went crawling up his face, and Romeo had been dazzled, in awe, and had no chance.
OK, he thought. But now I should tell him: “I’m not good at this. I love you but get someone else.” Why not say that? What
is the
matter
with me?
Wynetta took another turn. The street sign said Balm-of-Gilead Road. Romeo turned after her, and in a few minutes they came
to the trailer. He pulled up behind her. They went in together. To his surprise, the place turned out to be clean and shipshape.
Wooden models of shrimp boats, and on the walls were neatly framed photos of little Wynetta and her mother. Romeo said, “So
that’s your mom?”
“Yeah.”
“Where is she now?”
“Dead.”
She gave him a Pabst Blue Ribbon; she turned on the TV and ate a can of Vienna sausages while they watched one of those famous
Christy Brinkley infomercials. Then she came on to him. It wasn’t so bad. At least she was brisk and matter-of-fact about
it, and although drunk, not sloppy. Once, with her weight splayed out over him and his face wedged between her great white
breasts, he imagined himself stuck between the
Titanic
and the Iceberg, and this
“It’s not like regular insurance.”
She waited.
“It’s hard to explain,” he offered. “It’s like, I don’t know. Like
secondary
insurance.”
“What’s that?”
“Oh. Well, it’s like if all the people you loved went out to a field in a thunderstorm? I mean, we could tell you the odds
they’d get hit by lightning, and how much money you’d get if they did. But that’s secondary because we can’t give you anyone’s
life
back.
You know?”
“I need a drink,” she said. “Buy me a drink?”
“OK.”
She checked the time. “Everything’s closed, but we could go to Pigeon’s out in Sterling. They’ll let us in. That’s where we
should go.”
However, they wound up not going there.
When they stepped out to the Huddle House parking lot, there was all that heat again, and next door were the remains of a
pickup truck immersed in kudzu, and out of the night came a deep-throated train whistle. It was sort of like the South as
Romeo had imagined it, except for the Huddle House itself, which looked to him like any box-shaped interstate diner anywhere.
Wynetta asked him, “Where you staying?”
“Blackbeard’s Motel.”
“That’s a real shithole, isn’t it?”
“I guess.”
“But all of Brunswick is a shithole, to tell you the truth. I got a trailer out on Balm-of-Gilead, if you want to stay there.
Really it’s my Dad’s trailer, but he’s in the hospital.”
“What’s he there for?”
“Congestive heart failure.”
“Whoa.”
“Yeah.”
Romeo supposed that this trailer would turn out to be some kind of redneck nightmare, with cockroaches as big as owls. Still,
it’d be a lot more private than Blackbeard’s Motel, and it wouldn’t hurt to take a look at it. So he got in the Tercel and
followed her. She drove fast and made a lot of turns, and it was a challenge to keep up — but also sort of relaxing, like
a low-level video game. He let her lead him along, this way and that, no questions. He wouldn’t have minded if she’d led him
clear out of Georgia.
He wondered why he’d ever said yes to Shaw.
What’s the matter with me? Shaw says I need you — I say, OK, at your service. Why don’t I tell him I can’t do this?
Wynetta led him through a neighborhood where everything was built out of cinder-block. All the houses looked like outbuildings
at a sewage-treatment plant. The churches also. He kept following Wynetta as best he could, and he remembered the first time
Shaw had ever said to him, “I need your help.”
They had been twelve years old. Shaw had come to Romeo’s house — a visit that Romeo thought miraculous. And they were up in
Romeo’s room, and when Shaw said, “I need your help,” he said it in a voice as throaty and resonant as an adult’s, and that
little lopsided smile went crawling up his face, and Romeo had been dazzled, in awe, and had no chance.
OK, he thought. But now I should tell him: “I’m not good at this. I love you but get someone else.” Why not say that? What
is the
matter
with me?
Wynetta took another turn. The street sign said Balm-of-Gilead Road. Romeo turned after her, and in a few minutes they came
to the trailer. He pulled up behind her. They went in together. To his surprise, the place turned out to be clean and shipshape.
Wooden models of shrimp boats, and on the walls were neatly framed photos of little Wynetta and her mother. Romeo said, “So
that’s your mom?”
“Yeah.”
“Where is she now?”
“Dead.”
She gave him a Pabst Blue Ribbon; she turned on the TV and ate a can of Vienna sausages while they watched one of those famous
Christy Brinkley infomercials. Then she came on to him. It wasn’t so bad. At least she was brisk and matter-of-fact about
it, and although drunk, not sloppy. Once, with her weight splayed out over him and his face wedged between her great white
breasts, he imagined himself stuck between the
Titanic
and the Iceberg, and this
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