A Storied Man

Bernie is a poverty-stricken woman whose life takes an unexpected turn when an old friend returns to town. This is Part Nine.

Parts: 1|2|3|4|5|6|7|8|9|10|…

Related reading: Talk With a Killer, Wall

Part Nine

Leaning over, Bernie wedged her thumb and index finger into the denim-blue, square-toed Annie Kia ankle boot and pulled up the inside zipper. She stood up straight to look at herself in the dirty mirror, but also saw Shonda’s reflection stuffing filthy clothes into a plastic garbage bag. She couldn’t believe she had been wearing those less than an hour earlier.

Bernie loved her new look. Besides the spot between her eyebrows — the makeup thicker there to cover the redness caused by the plucking — her face looked natural. The bra provided a little lift that helped her fill out the gold sweater. The jeans, not an easy item to pick for someone else, fit almost perfectly.

“Now what’s that stuff you put in my hair?” Bernie asked.

“Shaping putty. Mainly at the roots. With your natural curl, you don’t need anything else.”

Shonda dropped the garbage bag and stepped over to the mirror. She handed Bernie a pair of small, gold hoop earrings, then turned on the faucet and started washing her hands. “You look great. The jeans are a little short, but the boots help hide that,” she said. “Your butt looks good. You can always tell an older woman from behind these days because you can actually find her butt. Teenagers have completely lost theirs.”

Bernie laughed. “I don’t understand those low-rider jeans, either. Most of them don’t need to be showing off their bellies, anyway.”

“See, Bernie, all these years separated, and we agree on fashion. We’re kindred spirits,” Shonda said as she yanked a paper towel from the dirty dispenser.

Bernie clipped the earrings onto her lobes and turned her head back and forth slowly to see how they looked. Her eyes were drawn to her hearing aids. “Since I got these, I haven’t had much reason to worry about the way I look,” she said.

“If I didn’t already know they were there, I wouldn’t notice,” Shonda said. She pulled the red handle-ties on the bag of Bernie’s old clothes and cinched it shut. “I’ll carry these. I think I’ve been in this room long enough. You ready?”

“Ready, Freddie,” Bernie said through a smile.

They strolled down the hall, past a handwritten sign that read, “Soaps and clean towels available on request. Deodorant available in store. Thx, Mgmt.”

Shonda turned right, around the end of the refrigerated drink cases. She slid open one of the glass doors and grabbed a 20-oz bottle of Diet Coke. “You want one?”

“Sure,” Bernie said. She couldn’t remember the last time she spent money on a soda. “But I prefer Dr. Pepper, regular.”

“Dr. Pepper it is.” She pulled one out and handed it to Bernie.

They approached the counter together and set their wares next to Pop’s crossword puzzle book.

Pop finished filling in a “G” and looked up. “Together?”

Both nodded, then looked at each other and smiled knowingly.

“That’ll be two American dollars and two bits, lovely ladies.”

Shonda handed him a five dollar bill. Pop made change.

“Thanks, Pop,” Bernie said.

Pop’s mouth opened slightly and his eyes brightened. “Is that you, Little Bernie?”

“A hundred percent. What do you think?”

“Well I’ll be dipped. You clean up real nice. What are you ladies up to?”

“Dinner at the Red Apple,” Bernie said.

Pop looked back down at his crossword puzzle. “Trouble. Starts with ‘t’ and ends with ‘e.’” He pointed his pencil at them, “And you be somewhere in the middle.”

——-

The radio in Jeremy’s 300zx showed 105.1, a station Bernie started listening to when she was 14. She had trouble making it out, but thought she heard the last few bars of Lynrd Skynrd’s “Freebird.” Any time that song was over, she was glad. Shonda took her hand off the gearshift to turn up the volume, and out of the speakers came the unforgettable opening to “Sweet Child O’Mine.”

Bernie had not heard it like that since the last time she and Greg had parked his truck near the lake. She and Shonda sang in unison, every word of every verse and chorus, until Bernie took the “where do we go” background to Shonda’s lead. Worry floated away with the words and freedom found a place in Bernie’s heart.

As they drove down Main Street, every corner held memories for her, but the former site of Whitaker’s Drug, along with the cold, sweet sips of Dr. Pepper, transported her back to 1977. Her first time buying her own soda also served as her first real-world lesson about money.

She sat atop a barstool with a padded red seat — the kind that spins. A skinny, severe-looking woman with short brown hair stood behind the rich, maple wood soda fountain bar, patiently waiting until the seven-year-old little girl finished turning circles.

Bernie stopped and let the dizziness fade, then looked up at the menu. “Cherry ice. Twenty-five cents. I’ll have that, please,” she said as she rubbed the shiny quarter in her pocket.

The woman flipped open a metal lid and scooped ice from under the counter into a glass. Next she poured thick red syrup that divided into thin strands that inched their way slowly over the ice cubes and joined back up at the bottom of the glass. Finally she pulled out a hose with a head that looked like a futuristic gun, aimed it into the glass, and pulled the trigger. Bubbly water filled the glass to make a bright red concoction that tasted like none Bernie had found anywhere since.

“That will be twenty-six cents,” the woman said and set the drink in front of Bernie.

Confused, Bernie pointed to the menu. “But it says twenty-five cents,” she said.

“Well, the extra penny is tax.”

“Tax?”

“Just give me what you have. Don’t worry about the penny.”

From that point on, cherry ice was the only thing she ordered from the soda fountain at Whitaker’s, and she always made sure she had a quarter and a penny.

Bernie wanted to live that way again. She wanted to know the cost, pay the price, and not worry where the money would come from the next time. Although she tried not to get her hopes up, she began to believe that perhaps Shonda was her doorway back into that world.

Beyond town to the west, however, along the same road, she was jarred forward to the day only one year after her first cherry ice. They passed the dentist’s office where she and her brother, Scott, had been playing when the bright blue 18-wheeler roared over a hill and took his life.

Less than a half mile farther along, she saw the hospital where she had undergone the rape exam. At the other end of town was Sugarloaf, where Kenneth Wymer had drawn his last breath. She wondered whether, with or without money, she ever could live happily in a town that evoked so many painful memories.

Shonda glanced at Bernie and then accelerated, slowing little as the road led them downhill, sharply to the right. Bernie’s head pressed back hard against the headrest as they reached one of the long earthen dikes bordering Greers Ferry Lake. The cool blue water that opened up on the right contrasted with the forest on the left. Hardwoods, still standing like gray skeletons, were interspersed with dark green pine trees.

Needing answers, Bernie grabbed the radio’s volume knob and turned down Dire Straits’ “Walk of Life.” Shonda looked over at her.

“You’ve done a lot for me already, Shonda, and I appreciate it.” She took a quick breath and let it out slowly. “I need to know what’s going on. I don’t know that my heart can take coming off the streets and then going back.”

“If you work this right, then you won’t ever live on the streets again.”

“Work what right?”

“I can’t tell you that yet. I want to, but I promised Jeremy I would wait.”

This entry was posted on Friday, February 29th, 2008 at 1:08 am and is filed under Drama. You may follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed, and/or leave a comment below.