Mouthful of Stones

We can only hold those stones for so long.

————

“I hate it when that fat spic runs the vacuum cleaner right outside of my room first thing every morning.” Mr. Bluebird is, hands down, the most annoying ‘guest’ in this sad excuse for a hotel. “Can’t she jest say no to the Mickey D’s? Hell, I can’t hardly get past her in the hallway.”

Marjean’s enjoying the breeze coming in the front door; smells a little like rain. There’s some good, old Motown playing on the radio and she’s got a cup of Brenda’s coffee. Be nice if that new one would sleep in once in awhile or at least keep his nasty bigoted yap shut.

Isn’t it just a blessing that Arnaud never finishes up the night paperwork and now she has that to focus on? As Mr. Bluebird lumbers by on his way out to the porch she thinks that he has his nerve. He’s north of three hundred pounds.

Then, bang, and she’s aching to be back in Atlanta. It’s been two years since she gave in and moved down here to Gulfport with Frank. He loves it here and it’s nice enough that he’s happy. It got to be such a trial, how miserable he was in the city, always wanting to go out driving in the country and stopping at every ‘for sale’ sign they passed. When he got the chance to transfer, well, it wasn’t as if Marjean had any kind of great career going or anything. Most of her people are still down around here. She wants a city; there’s New Orleans right on down the road.

“Jesus, it’s quiet here. Drives me nuts.” Mr. Bluebird is back.

He’s got his morning paper and settles into one of the sagging, leatherette couches. Mr. Bluebird retired down here after driving bus up north for forty years and his hometown paper is delivered daily. His boy lives over in Mobile; doesn’t come around but once a week though. What a shocker. Old Bluebird always goes straight to the obits to see who he’s outlived today. It doesn’t seem to faze him much that the paper is three days old. For the next ten minutes the only sounds in the already too-warm lobby are rustling papers, the radio and the occasional swish of a car on the road out front. There. Marjean’s got it straight now and neatens up the pile, fitting it into the night slot.

“How can you stand it here?” Bluebird’s voice makes her jump. “You weren’t born around here. I can tell.”

“It’s nice here.” Marjean says, keeping it short.

“Yea, if you got a room temperature IQ. It’s a goddamned morgue without the formaldehyde.”

“Oh, there you are, Mister Bluebird!” Miss Jameson trips into the lobby as if balancing on bound feet. “You don’t want to be late for breakfast, now do you?”

“Wouldn’t kill me to miss a meal or two.” Nevertheless, he begins heaving himself up out of the creaking sofa. “Nice talking with you, Missus Baxter.” Gaining his feet, he pauses and turns back to Marjean. “You need to work on your sincerity. Either that or quit lying.”

Marjean won’t glare as he stumps out of the lobby with Miss Jameson attached to his flank like one of those suckerfish you see on sharks on National Geographic specials. Then, as they turn past the stairway, she automatically pulls a bland, professional smile into place just in case either of them look over towards her. They don’t.

The day gets darker and Marjean notices how people begin to kind of creep through the lobby. The elderly ladies cluck and tuck wadded tissues into their sleeves. The old men sniff the still air like saggy, tired hounds; then they shake their heads and retreat to the parlor where Judge Judy rules. No one is foolish enough to bring up names like Camille, Andrew and Hilda. This is not superstition; it’s just common courtesy.

The Gulfview Plaza had been a grand place back in the day; although in those more genteel times it was called The Mayfair Hotel. Set a good twenty miles inland, the new name is a lame attempt to draw the tourist trade. This owner’s version of antebellum sophistication includes heavy velvet swags that cut the light in the lobby. The carpet is a conference room busy print: fleur de lis stack up in a dizzy, diagonal sweep.

The trick name hasn’t really worked to get tourists in the door. Gulfport still draws its share of snowbirds, but they’ve either got time-shares or stay in places that actually have views of the gulf. Most of the guests at The Plaza are monthly paying residents whose rents are subsidized by this or that government program. In the fusty old novels that Marjean’s mother favors, they would have been called pensioners. Here and now, they are just old people and mental cases who forget to take their meds.

“Man, there was almost no better way to fuck up everyone’s day than to have a second wheelchair waiting at the stop.”

It’s dinnertime and Mr. Bluebird is holding forth from his place at the head of one of the tables.

“I mean, yeah, it’s too bad an’ all when someone’s stuck in a wheelchair, but I gotta tell you, I could feel it all around me onna bus. Everyone hated it when I gotta stop and spend all that time dicking around with the lift. That ADA was one misguided piece of legislation; let me tell you.” He waves his forkful of roast pork and gravy at the rest of the table. “An’, ya know, most of them cripples are fat! They must really build them chairs to last. I seen some of them women had to tip the scales at two three hundred easy. The whole damned bus would list to the side when I’d get ’em onto the lift.”

Marjean usually has dinner here with the guests after clocking off her shift. Frank’s never home til whenever; no point in rushing home to sit around by herself. That old gasbag Bluebird is unbelievable but she keeps her own mouth shut. It’s enough to listen to the other guests. Miss Jameson, now she sees the sun rising behind Bluebird’s head every morning; he can’t say a wrong thing to her way of thinking. But others mutter to themselves, mostly at the other tables. Old Bluebird will light into anyone who disagrees with him, and it’s just easier to let him yammer on.

Marjean never sits at his table though she gets quite an earful from the gallery. Sometimes it’s all she can do to not laugh out loud. Little, bitty Missus Myers is the best. She’d been a grammar teacher and then principle at Francis Xavier Elementary for more years than anyone could count and she knows what to do with that vinegar on her tongue.

“Hope Bluebelly stayed on the other side of the bus when he was operating that lift, otherwise that bus would have gone over for sure.”

Some of the other ladies at the table titter and cover their mouths with their napkins. Missus Myer’s sharp eyes crease and she raises her eyebrows in Marjean’s direction.

“Now then, our Mrs. Baxter, she is a true gentlewoman and a professional. I ought to be ashamed of myself, carrying on like this in your hearing, Mrs. Baxter.”

Marjean dips her head ever so slightly. It wouldn’t do to be seen as agreeing with one guest in regards to another’s shortcomings. Mr. Bluebird is droning on over at the other table and Marjean notices that there are more empty places over there tonight. But his stalwarts remain; a covey of timidly bitter old fools who nod and guffaw, but never come up with anything themselves. Good thing this place never gets filled up. There’s always room for other guests to avoid Bluebird.

Marjean had been on the desk the day Bluebird arrived with his silent daughter in tow. The look on that poor woman’s face said it all. Mr. Angelo Bluebird had responded to forced retirement by having a major stroke. Therapy had left him looking only slightly lopsided, his thick lips almost meeting on the left side and just a bit of a droop to that left eye. He scanned the lobby critically and gestured for the girl to set his bag down.

“My boy call? The name’s Bluebird and save the jokes.”

Marjean decided not to waste time with empty welcoming and pulled out the call log. “Yes, sir, Mr. Dante Bluebird called last week to arrange your room. Would you like to have your bags taken up? Lunch is being served in the dining room.”

“I hate a bossy woman. If I wanted to know about lunch. I’d have asked.” He turned to the mortified daughter. “Where the fuck is Dante?”

The girl stammered, first going red and then white, managing to choke out something about Dante having a meeting and that he planned to come by later to see that his father was settled in all right.

“Meeting, huh? ‘Bout time that lazy shit got off his ass and started making things happen. What kinda meeting?” Almost immediately he backed off from that, “Oh, never mind, Belinda. Just see that my stuff is taken up. I’m gonna have some lunch.”

And with that Marjean was left looking at Belinda who managed a shrug but not much in the way of a smile.

Marjean’s pulling on her coat when the phone rings. Arnaud answers it and then gestures to her.

“Hey, dollface, where you at?” Frank could be so clueless.

Marjean should resist, and if she were a better person she might, but in her driest tone asks, “I don’t know. What number did you dial?”

“You know what I mean!”

“I’m on my way out the door now.” She doesn’t have the energy. “What’s up?”

“This storm is set to hit sometime tomorrow and they’re making noises about evacuation along the coast.” Frank is a geologist whose computer models predict where best to drill for oil. He spends more time out on the drilling platforms in the gulf than Marjean’s happy about, but there’s nothing for it. It’s not like he has to be out there, either, but it makes him feel like a real man or something. At least he’s in for this storm.

“Did you call my mom yet?” Marjean’s mother, Carla, is pushing 90 and won’t be budged from the tiny house she’d been born in down in the Gentilly neighborhood of New Orleans. Against all odds, the old place has survived Katrina and so has Carla. Her kids might be scattered to the four winds but Carla Marie Leveaux is not leaving New Orleans except in a box.

“No answer. I left a message. We might need to get outta Dodge.”

“You eat yet?” Marjean says; everyone was so jumpy about storms anymore.

“Yeah, got a sandwich at Hurley’s. You already et, right?”

“I’ll see you in a few.” Marjean looks over to Arnaud as she hangs up. “Frank says they’re talking evacuation again. Better keep an eye on the weather channel.” Arnaud nods and reaches for the remote to the little black and white behind the desk.

Marjean’s almost to the door when Bluebird stumps into the lobby with several of his birds in tow. All she needs to hear is the word ‘Jews’ and she’s on her way out the door with her coat only half on. One of the little old men, a new guy, throws a pleading look at Marjean, but she’s fresh out of lifelines tonight and can only muster a sympathetic shrug before making her own escape. Arnaud remains focused on the little television. The poor old guy is on his own.

The rain comes in the night. Not a lot of wind yet, just sheets of rain; rain you can’t see through. Marjean’s glad all over again that Frank is in tonight and, even though they’ve both already eaten, she makes a little meal. She even finds and opens the last bottle of dago red that Frank’s brother sent from his vineyard in upstate New York. The clatter of the rain on the tin roof of the back porch becomes deafening, so she closes the back door and takes the food into the living room where Frank’s, where else?, in front of the computer.

She kisses the back of his neck and barely notices that he doesn’t respond. Marjean sets his food on the table beside the computer desk, it’s where he usually eats, then settles into the big wingback chair by the window. The street lights are ripply smears in the rain. No traffic to speak of. Sipping the heavy, red wine, she clicks the TV on and turns to the weather channel. This gets Frank’s attention and he’s surprised to find food has magically appeared. They eat and watch the latest Doppler images.

The storm had been downgraded to a tropical depression after crossing south Florida but has regrouped out there in the Gulf. Marjean’s doubly glad Frank’s not out on one of the platforms. There’s been no word from her mother; but Marjean’s not worried. She’s got three brothers down near there and Mommy’s house has been through some hundred and twenty years of hurricanes. Stubborn old bird’ll survive Armageddon.

“Nothing from Carla?” Frank’s just making conversation. He knows Mommy.

“Not a word. Marcus and Antoine’ll be over there by now.”

“Why don’t you call Denise?”

“You think?” Marjean asked.

“Sure, you know she’s not gonna be trailing after Antoine. No point in dragging the kids over there.”

“That’s true. Never have seen anyone less interested in her grandkids than Mommy.”

“She got her fill with ya’ll. Don’t blame her,” Frank said.

“Watch it, bub.” Marjean mimes throwing her spoon at him but reaches for the phone. She dials, listens and then hangs up. “Lines are all tied up.”

“Or down.”

“Don’t say that!”

“Don’t worry. Ain’t no storm mean enough to face Carla Marie down.”

“I’m not worried.”

Frank gets up and comes over to her chair, tucking himself in next to her. It’s good not to have to say every damned little thing out loud.

The rain is steady in the morning as Marjean pulls out of the driveway. Frank’s been gone for hours but had set the alarm fifteen minutes early so they could snuggle before he left. The radio’s all about the weather and the evacuation. Marjean was able to get through to Carla Marie this morning. She didn’t waste her breath trying to get Mommy to evacuate, just made sure she had plenty of bottled water and that there was gas in the generator. And that she had shells for the shotgun. She pulls into the lot next to the Plaza and cuts the engine off. She needs a minute.

“We got us a full house, Marjean.” Mr. Tanner, the manager, greets her the minute she walks in the front door.

“No kidding.” The lobby is packed with milling people and piles of luggage and blankets. Marjean wonders about the universal need to bring blankets along in almost any kind of emergency. Mostly these are folks from nearer the water, who don’t have cars or another way further inland although some just didn’t want to be sitting out on the interstate waiting for the storm to get worse. A twenty-mile buffer isn’t much to count on but it’ll have to do.

Tanner comes over and drops his voice, “See what you can do with that asshole bus driver. These people are jumpy enough, Lord knows.”

“Got some duct tape?”

Tanner laughs and walks off, leaving Marjean to hang up her wet slicker and get to work. The desk is a mess; it’s a good thing Marjean likes Arnaud. She’s just getting things straightened out when the front door crashes open and more wet, cranky people cram into the lobby. Marjean gets real busy and loses track of time. Residents poke their heads out of their rooms, get another look at the chaos and retreat. Mrs. Devlin and her kitchen staff do the impossible and put a plate of food into every hand.

As Marjean rushes upstairs to help a porter clear out a back storage room, it occurs to her that there’s been no sign of Bluebird today. Then, just as she turns to go back downstairs, she hears that dissatisfied rumble. Maybe he’s just got one of his usual victims cornered but she’s got to check. No such luck. There he is, blocking the hallway and scolding a middle-aged black man. Marjean stomach shrinks into a sour ball the size of a walnut.

“What the hell are you fools thinking of, living on the coast like that? What do you think is gonna happen every hurricane season? And then, you’re gonna go right back on down there, wanting the government to fix everything when you find everything you own is flattened and lost.”

He’s underestimated his target. This isn’t some frail, old grandfather.

“You don’t know me. You don’t know where I live. And you will get out of my way, you fat sonuvabitch!” The other man is exhibiting astonishing restraint to Marjean’s way of thinking as she bears down on the scene of the crime. She’s almost there, but not — quite…

“Why you mouthy n-” Bluebird suddenly appears to get a clue as to where he is and who he’s talking to the way he bites off that word.

Marjean sees the man clenching his fists and gets to the end of the hallway right at that moment.

“I am so sorry, Mr. — ” Pause.

“Linders.” He’s tight and ready.

Without even looking at Bluebird, Marjean insinuates herself between the two men and makes room for Mr. Linders to get to the stairs. He glares at Bluebird and Marjean hears the rattly breath being pulled. Snapping her head around, she fixes Bluebird with the look and is mildly surprised when it works. The fat man stays silent and Marjean gets her angry guest down to the lobby. What to say now?

“Mr. Linders, please accept our apology for Mr. Bluebird’s unacceptable behavior. May we offer your room gratis?” She’ll just have to make it right with Tanner.

Linders is still furious and now there’s only one target available: herself. She will take Bluebird to pieces and leave him on the ashpile out back later but now she composes herself and waits.

“I could close you down. I could sue this place and own every cheesy piece of fake velvet in here; you know that? And you, what the hell are you doing working in a place that allows that kind of garbage? You think you have to take that shit just because the boss gives you a paycheck! It’s not 1958 anymore, woman, wake up!”

Secretly, shamefully, she’s grateful Linders can’t know she’s married to a white man.

“Mister Linders, sir, please don’t give our Mrs. Baxter such grief. The burden this poor woman bears for the rest of us is not to be believed, sir.”

And there’s Missus Myers, standing like a Citadel cadet next to Marjean.

“The old fool you had the misfortune of crossing paths with upstairs, Mr. Angelo Bluebird, is a relic and something of a laughingstock here. We tolerate the ignorant SOB in a way that we’re aware he’d never tolerate any of us.”

Marjean watches the expression on Linders’ face as Missus Myers leads him over to one of the sagging couches. The ferocious lines between his eyes have eased; he’s listening. Seeing her opening, Marjean makes a fast trip to the kitchen for tea. When she gets back, there’s Linders laughing with Missus Myers like they’re old friends.

“Mrs. Baxter, I owe you an apology. That kind of stupidity sends me into a blind rage every time. But taking it out on you is as unacceptable as anything that came out of the old bigot’s mouth,” He skooches over a bit, “Please join us?”

“Much as I’d love that, I’m afraid I’m on the desk and there are still a lot of people to get settled.” She pauses briefly, then sets the tea tray down and extends her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Linders, you are a real gentleman.”

Tanner isn’t happy about offering a free room, but Marjean figures he’s angrier at old Bluebird than at her. She gets real busy again and sort of forgets about the storm outside. Marjean, like anyone born and raised up in this part of the world, respects the power of weather but knows you can’t let it get the better of you. You take your precautions; you don’t be foolish and then you get on with stuff. Frank’s been checking in regular; he’s good that way.

“Look, babe, I don’t want you out in that. You sit tight and I’ll come by after I finish up here.” Frank never sounds worried no matter what’s coming out of his mouth.

“Ok. Tanner says we can bunk here in the lobby if you want.” Marjean says.

“Big of him, but this one’s gonna have to throw more than 100 mile per hour winds to keep us off the road.” Frank loved it when there was an actual, practical reason to drive his big, yellow Hummer.

“Honeypie, have you looked outdoors lately?”

“I don’t need to; I’m surrounded by state-of-the-art monitoring gizmos. Wind speed’s only up to 80 mph. She’s gonna weenie out.”

“From your lips to the ears of God.” Marjean sees Tanner hurrying over. “Look, don’t rush on my account. We’re good here and I’d rather you stayed in that bunker til we get the eye, ok?”

“Maybe I should just bring you back here.”

“I’ll call.” Marjean hopes he’ll catch her tone.

“Good enough, dollface. Later.” He does.

She hangs up and faces the manager. Tanner is never particularly comfortable in his own skin and this afternoon he’s hopped up good. He’s wanting to pitch his voice low but the wind is howling right outside the plywood up over the windows and finally, he just has to speak up to be heard.

“We’re gonna need to double the residents up to make room. I got the boys setting up cots, three to a room.” He’s pausing now, staring down at his shoes like a kid. “Guess we can’t really put anyone in with Bluebird. Right?”

“Oh you best believe it, boss.” This doesn’t make it out of Marjean’s mouth but Tanner gets the gist.

As if prompted by some amateur stage director, the door crashes open and another gang of wet, crabby people arrive. Tanner’s panicking. Isn’t this just marvelous?

“Look, I’ll take care of it.” Marjean’s already on the move and Tanner’s just going to have to take the desk. She heads into the back parlor and there’s Bluebird’s gang looking to be about as animated as an empty balloon without him there blowing hot air. Where is the son of a bitch? Probably holed up in his room with a chair propped under the doorknob lest management tries to foist any niggers or spics on him.

Hours later, with the wind really whaling and most everyone bedded down, Marjean finally gets to call Frank. He’s still at work.

“Dollface, don’t even try going out there, k?”

“I won’t if you won’t.” Marjean’s too damned tired to go anywhere.

“This isn’t looking good.” Frank, the master of understatement, actually sounds unsettled.

“It’s gonna hit New Orleans, isn’t it?”

“Looking like.”

“I been trying to get through to my brothers; they may need to get Mommy out of there.”

“I’m going down before it gets worse.”

Marjean shakes her head and stretches her mouth wide open without making any noise.

Frank waits. There was nothing for it; she can’t leave here and he can. “Thank you. And, look you, stay in touch, hear?”

“Count on it, babe, and please do not leave there.”

“Right.”

“Get some sleep. I’ll call when I get down there, let you know how things are.”

Like she’s going to be able to sleep. “Ok, then, I love you.”

“I love you, too, dollface.”

And he is gone.

Marjean sits up, surprised that she slept, and reaches for her cell phone. Nothing. He said he’d call. He’ll call. The roar outside has steadied. The desk is piled up with Arnaud’s undone work and he’s gone leaving the little black and white TV on. Marjean doesn’t want to turn the volume up and leans down to hear what’s going on now. Mandatory evacuation down there. She flips her phone open again and tries Frank’s number. Nothing. May as well clean up that mess on the desk. Time is congealing and going static. After what feels like hours, she looks over and finds that less than forty minutes have passed.

When that top step squeaks under Bluebird’s bulk, she grits her teeth. He glares at her and says not one word. She knows that after the scene with Linders, Tanner had a little talk with Mr. Bluebird but doesn’t know exactly what was said. Since then, though, the old bus driver has stopped talking. Let him sulk.

“It’s like having a smoking volcano stumping around the place, isn’t it?” Missus Myers comes over to the desk to see if the mail’s run. It hasn’t, of course, and both women know it.

“It is what it is, Missus Myers.” Marjean shrugs and works to keep a neutral tone without coming off as rude.

“Amanda.”

“Excuse me?”

“Call me Amanda, please.”

“Uh, well, yes, if you’d like — Amanda.” Marjean is not comfortable with this, but doesn’t see a way to refuse without offending. The older woman has always been forthcoming and friendly but now she acts as if the two are co-conspirators. Unable to figure out how to re-establish the former boundary between guest and employee, Marjean settles for hiding in her work. Amanda is not put off.

“He’s going to blow, you know.”

“Missus — Amanda, please don’t take this the wrong way, but I have a lot of work to do and…,” Marjean pauses. Missus Myers is not stupid.

“Oh, dear, Mrs. Baxter, I’m sorry. You’re right, of course. Please forgive me for a meddling old lady, out here gossiping and carrying on.”

She leaves and it isn’t lost on either woman that Marjean has remained ‘Mrs. Baxter’. Silence returns to the lobby and Marjean resists the temptation to go the kitchen for another cup of coffee. Any more caffeine and there’s no telling what could come out of her mouth next. She’s not going to be sucked in again. Making friends with guests is always a mistake, no matter how friendly and smart they are.

By morning this one’s given all it’s got. As storms went, it wasn’t all that but then again Marjean and Frank aren’t trees, are they? Stepping out of the Gulfview in the morning, Marjean sees that just about every tree and shrub in every direction was flattened. It’s going to be some clean up around here.

In her pocket she feels her cell phone vibrate. It’s Frank and he puts Mommy on the phone. Carla keeps it short; she’s got some clearing up to do and has food for Frank to be bringing back. Marjean listens, sagging a little in relief.

Old Bluebird is a tough one all right. Weeks pass and he holds fast; glaring at everyone and saying nothing. Dante must be taking the brunt of it, Marjean thinks, judging from the dark circles under his sad eyes that get darker and deeper each time he brings his father back from their Sunday afternoon out. Looking at Dante, pretty and slightly pudgy, you could see the younger Angelo Bluebird and Marjean thinks that maybe the old jerk wasn’t always a fat, hateful old racist.

Right. Once he was a young, pudgy racist.

On a Sunday right before Thanksgiving, Dante’s SUV pulls up out front and the two men get out and come up on the porch.

“Hear this one?” It’s the first time Marjean’s heard Mr. Bluebird’s voice in weeks. She’s right by the door, getting her jacket and she freezes, eavesdropping in spite of herself. The two have settled into rocking chairs right outside the door and Mr. Bluebird continues.

“Why does Mike Tyson cry during sex?”

Dante says nothing. Maybe he nods.

“Mace’ll do that to you!” Bluebird explodes into his spitty, guttural laughter and something inside Marjean pops. Setting her jaw, she pulls on her coat. Banging the door open she stops to glare at the suddenly choked-off Bluebird. The two lock eyes and Dante shifts nervously.

“What do you call it when an Italian has one arm shorter than the other?” Marjean asks like it’s a real question.

Mr. Bluebird blinks in surprise. Marjean, loving the confusion in his eyes, lets him wait it out for three solid beats.

“A speech impediment.”

And just that quick, both Bluebird and Marjean are laughing their heads off. Now Dante’s looking bewildered.

Unfortunately, after this, Mr. Bluebird becomes her best friend.

It’s not what she intended. It’s not what she wants. And no amount of professional courtesy and distance gets through to the old fart. He’s no Amanda Myers with an ear set to hear another person’s discomfort. Waddling importantly across the lobby, he slaps a thick hand onto the counter and inquires as to Marjean’s health. She shifts and avoids eye contact. She calls him Mr. Bluebird and he calls her Marjean even though she never told him her name.

At dinner he adopts the practice of calling over to where Marjean is sitting, seeking her opinion about the Crimson Tide’s chances or the weather tomorrow. Wearily, she shakes her head and is aware of Amanda Myers’ watchful eyes.

There’s always some point in the meal where Bluebird just has to go off on some godawful rant or, worse, crowing about how well one of the “bucks” of the “his” team did, winning him some money.

The tension around the room is as palpable as it is familiar. No one likes this and no one says a word about it. No one challenges him. Everyone sits with their heads down pushing their food around their plates and feeling bad.

“Mr. Bluebird, I wonder if it would be too much to ask you to please watch your mouth, sir?”

Bluebird stops in mid-guffaw and stares at Marjean.

“I can only speak for myself, you understand, sir, but sitting here listening to you carry on about “coons” and “niggers” and “spics”, turning the word Jew into a slur, I don’t know, sir, but I’m thinking you certainly wouldn’t care for it were Arnaud and I to begin referring to your grandchildren as greasy, little wops.” She stops, her face is burning and her hands are clenched under the stiff, white tablecloth.

No one is eating. Everyone is silently watching Bluebird’s swollen face getting more and more red.

“Does it never occur to you that I find your racist blithering to be so offensive that I want to throw up?”

Bluebird is spluttering now.

“But…you ain’t black, Marjean.”

“What the hell difference would that make, you loud, obnoxious idiot?” If she says one more word, Marjean’s going to either throw something at Mr. Bluebird or burst into tears. She leaves. She just gets up, throws her napkin on her chair and walks out of the dining room without looking at anyone. Thank goodness no one follows her.

“Frank. I think I might have lost my job today.” She’s home to their empty house and calling Frank at the office. She listens and gets a beer from the fridge.

“Well, I — remember that guest I told you about, the jerk from Cleveland, used to drive a bus?”

Listens. Opens the beer and gets a glass.

“Yep, that’s the one. No, sure, go ahead and get it, I’ll wait.”

Snaps on the television and mutes it, reads the closed captioning for the MacNeil Newshour and waits. She knows Frank’s ridiculously busy but has no one else to talk to about this. No way is she calling her mother.

“Yeah, I’m here.”

Listens.

“Well, I lost it with him tonight. I went off on him at dinner.”

Listens, sips the beer.

“Another load of crap about ‘coons’ and ‘nappy-headed brats’.”

Waits.

“Yea, that’s what he said all right. Christ, Frank, I’m sorry.”

Listens.

“No, no one said anything. I guess if no one calls me tonight, I’ll just go on in tomorrow and find out.”

Waits, changes the channel; it’s pledge drive time.

“You’ll be pretty late then tonight?”

Catches the end of the weather report on channel eight. Rain tomorrow.

“Ok, no. I won’t wait up.”

Listens.

“No. No, I won’t worry. I know I’ll find work all right.”

He’s being as much help as he can and Marjean knows it. It’s not his fault that it’s not anywhere near enough.

“Ok, sweetheart. Thanks for listening.”

Waits.

“Don’t work too hard.”

Listens.

“I love you, too. Bye.”

And she’s alone. Sure, sure, she’ll find work. But the sick knot in her stomach won’t ease. Maybe another beer. Is this why she’s kept her mouth shut all these years? Is this why she stopped Frank from saying anything to those assholes on their wedding day? What good is standing up to the idiocy if all it does is to lose her a job and make her feel like shit? Shouldn’t she feel some small triumph at the look on his face tonight?

Checking the fridge, Marjean finds leftovers from last night’s carry out that Frank brought home and five more bottles of beer. Screw it. She’s not hungry and she is lonely and scared. She takes all five beers and stretches out on the couch, flipping through the channels without seeing or hearing what’s on. Halfway through the third beer she’s not so scared and is starting to get a little angry. Why should she be expected to just take that kind of crap? Because she’s a good girl, that’s why; because she’s a woman. If she were a man, she could have punched Bluebird right in his big, fat gut and that would have been that.

Finishing the fourth beer, Marjean’s really mad (yeah, she’s what Frank calls a real lightweight when it comes to the sauce). She reaches for the last beer and eyes the telephone. They can’t fire her. Not if she quits. And — hey, they can’t say squat because she can call the EEOP and the NAACP and the ACLU and she’ll just sue their ass, that’s what she’ll do, dammit. 

Getting up, she sways over to the phone pausing to take a very macho slug off her beer and almost falling. Just as she regains her balance and reaches for the phone, it rings. Shocked, she falls for sure this time and lands in Frank’s computer chair.

“He — hello?”

“Mrs. Baxter, Marjean?”

Marjean holds the receiver away from her ear and gazes at it in wonder before putting it back to the side of her head.

“How — how’d you get my number?”

“I’m sorry to bother you at home, especially after what happened here earlier, but I thought you should know that Bluebelly went and had another stroke tonight….but, listen, Marjean, it’s not anything to do with you or what you said.” 

Marjean’s gone totally blank.

“Marjean? Marjean, are you still there? Are you all right?”

“I — uh.”

“Marjean, you sound funny. Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Missus Myers, look I — well, I just — I mean…,” Marjean pulls in a long, ragged breath, “Why did you call me?”

“Why, Marjean Baxter, you are drunk as a lord!”

“Uh, and so what?”

“Bless your heart, woman, I am so relieved. I was beginning to wonder if there was a human being in there after all.”

“Fuck off.”

Click. There, enough of all of them. Oh shit, Bluebird’s gonna go off and die now and it’s all her fault. She crawls back over to the couch, kicking over that last beer and huddles up, rocking and weeping until she passes out.

Marjean hasn’t felt this bad in ages. Between the hangover, the pounding rain on the roof of the car and the dread of what she’ll be facing when she gets to the Plaza, she just wishes she could have a stroke herself. Arnaud’s pickup is still in the lot; not a good sign but what the hell did she expect anyway? He gives her his most soulful look when she comes in, shaking her umbrella and inwardly hunkering down, getting ready for the blow. When she turns from hanging her slicker she’s surprised to see Dante Bluebird approaching her with his hand out.

“Mrs. Baxter, I hope you’re all right.” His grip is surprisingly warm and firm.“ I asked Mr. Tanner if I could speak with you. I hope that’s all right?”

“Oh, I — , Mr. Bluebird, I’m so awfully sorry about your father. Is he going to be ok? Do you have any news?” Marjean keeps her mouth and legs moving even as her heart sinks. Yea, she knows Tanner’ll want to ‘talk’ to her all right.

“Pop’s in bad shape, but the doctors back up north had warned him about this what with his weight and the way he drank and smoked and all. We all knew it was just a matter of time, y’see?” He’s leading Marjean over to sit down his eyes never leaving her face. He looks real worried and Marjean figures she must be a sight.

They sit down and when Dante reaches for her hand she doesn’t pull it away even though she wants to.

“I bet I’ve apologized for Pop more than you can imagine and you probably have a pretty good idea what I’m talking about. See,” he pauses and averts his eyes for a moment, “Pop wasn’t always this bad. He’s never been an easy one. He was a tough father and kind of a mean guy to Mom but it wasn’t until after that first stroke that he got so — obnoxious.”

Another pause.

“Anyway, I’m just real, real sorry about the crappy things he said and for the way he behaved around here. I’m sorry you had to be in the line of fire the way you were.”

Marjean’s mouth feels like it’s full of stones. She can’t move her arms and her mouth seems stuck. Somewhere deep in the back of her throat a furious voice is demanding to know what difference this lame ass apology is supposed to make. It’s a voice she’s quelled all her life. She’s quelling it now. What would be helped by more anger, more mean words? Summoning vestiges of dignity, she gently removes her hand from Dante’s.

“Thank you, Mr. Bluebird. I’m truly sorry for your father’s bad turn. I think I’ll need to go and see Mr. Tanner now, if you’ll excuse me?” It’s a question that she doesn’t wait to have answered; merely rising and walking away from the younger man and going over to the overall manager’s office.

She taps and Tanner’s muffled voice comes through the door. Opening it, she wonders if she’ll ever dare allow this pent-up fury to show. Whole planets could be rocked out of their orbits if she did.

“Mrs. Baxter, come in, come in. Pull the door closed, please? Coffee?” Tanner is all jovial and hearty, very bad sign. “Are you feeling all right, Mrs. Baxter?”

“Frankly, no, Mr. Tanner, I am not feeling the least bit all right.”

Tanner is taken aback but gestures for her to have a seat on the other side of his desk with the rain sheeting down the window behind him.

“First, we all want you to know that no one blames you for Mr. Bluebird’s stroke.”

“How reassuring.”

“Uh — well, that’s important, you know. I imagine his son told you that the doctors were pretty sure he was heading for another stroke no matter what — right?”

“He told me.”

“Are you sure you won’t have some coffee?”

“I’m sure.”

“Well, uh — see, irregardless of Mr. Bluebird’s current condition, well, your conduct last night in the dining room was, shall we say, most unprofessional.”

“Mr. Tanner?”

“Yes, Mrs. Baxter?”

“Aren’t you just flat out tired of how those drunken rednecks keep running over the Plaza’s lawn knocking that lovely wrought iron fence down again and again?”

“What?”

“And how about those lazy micks, sitting around out by the Rite-Aid, leering at the girls from Francis Xavier?”

“Mrs. Baxter!”

“I don’t know about you,” and here Marjean leans in towards the shocked manager and drops her voice, “but I am just sick of yankees and honkeys coming in here and taking honest black folk’s jobs away. Do you know how many honkey-assed northerners we’ve had as overall manager when there are highly qualified people, people such as myself, who have been passed over?”

“Mrs. Baxter, I believe that will be enough!”

“It’s a bitch, isn’t it?” 

“What!”

“It is one real bitch to have to sit still and listen to that kind of poisonous garbage and worse without being able to say one single word, isn’t it?” She gestures towards the closed door. “That man should never have been permitted to use that kind of language here.” Now she rises and walks back to the door, looking down her nose at the open-mouthed manager.

“My attorney will be in touch.”

She’s shaking as she walks out, so she walks real slow with her head, her poor, pounding head, held high. Arnaud is holding out an envelope, probably her last paycheck. He looks like he thinks she’ll bite but it’s taking all her effort to stay controlled and on top, so she can’t smile to reassure him. She takes the envelope and turns to get her coat and umbrella when Missus Myers walks over and hands her a folded piece of paper. She opens it; it’s a telephone number.

“I’ll call next week and we can get together for lunch, Amanda.” 

“Wonderful, Marjean. I’m looking forward to it.”

Out in the car, with hands trembling so hard she barely open it, Marjean tears at the envelope. Inside is a letter from some law firm. From a firm that is representing Mr. Augustin Linders in a lawsuit against the Gulfview Plaza and Mr. Angelo Bluebird.

In the middle of tight lines of type is a figure, five figures. Five big figures. She scans the letter on its heavy parchment paper. They want to settle. She was right, she can sue the velvet off the wallpaper in that hole.

She sits listening to the rain and doesn’t start the car right away. The fury is spent and she feels better. Not much, but some better. She even hopes that old Bluebird isn’t in pain, poor, old fool. 

Running her tongue around the inside of her mouth, she’s pretty sure she’s spat out the last stones.

By Remington Write

Website: https://anomalyworksnyc.blogspot.com/

Twitter: @RemingtonWrite