Short Story / Davenport McCue

At 8 years of age I learned two very important lessons. Number 1) Men were fickle malcontents hell bent on making the lives of women a complete and utter misery and number 2) If any woman was capable of changing a man then it would have been my mother. My mother, Cynthia Roberts Bassey was a strong, capable, and stubborn Southern woman. She was strong enough to snare my weak-willed father, and strong enough to let him go when he actually grew a spine. In 1984, after spending 10 years under her thumb, my father had changed enough that he walked out one morning carrying his briefcase, hopped into their 1972 Chevy Nova and took off down the interstate for a new life in Florida.

My mother and I moved to Marmosette County the summer before 2nd grade. My father had just left for  reasons my 8 year old mind had yet to grasp. After he took the car, the jewelry, and my mother’s mink coat, she decided that it was time for us to have a fresh start. This might have had something to do with an encounter at a supermarket where Mrs. McCartney  accosted us and stole the bag of frozen peas out of our cart prepared to beat us into submission, calling me the spawn of a traitorous infidel and my mother the breeder of sins. My father had apparently skipped town with about 5,000 of her hard earned dollars, causing her husband, Mr. McCartney a case of severe angina.  After some scorn and leering from the Glenn Campbell Elementary School PTA, my mother decided she had enough and pointed to a spot on the map, told us we were going on a road trip and that hopefully we would never set foot in Westchester county again. This was not what I wanted to hear. After all, Lucy Pate, my best friend’s sister, was just about to get her first training bra and the two of uswere going to try it on for size. I never even got the chance to see what a training bra looked like, as we drove off, without warning in the waxing light of a June sunrise. I remained silent as we drove north, passing countrysides and red-sided barns, cows sleeping in the dew-dropped grass, preparing for rain. I ignored my mother’s pleas for conversation about school, or books, or music to the point that in her exasperation and need for some diversion she turned on the radio. I remained silent as we unloaded our boxes and she wordlessly directed me where to put our belongings in our new apartment. And I was silent that late August day she registered me for school, responding only to the matronly school secretary that my name was Shirley, although I had thought to lie and say my name was Gessyka, but that would have required a bit more speech and energy than I actually had. The silence was my way of obtaining some peace in the frenetic world my mother had created. I wrote pages of letters to Anna in Westchester, but with no stamps to send them, and no possible way to ask my mother to buy them without using my voice, they remained hidden under my bed along with other treasured items, like my father’s busted fountain pen and a cheap knock-off silk tie I had planned to give for Father for Father’s day.

When school officially started I think we were both happy to have some private time amongst ourselves without the pressure of having to be around each other.  I needed to be around kids my own age drinking orange juice rather than watching my mother drink coffee and smoke cigarettes in the kitchen while talking to her sister Cori. Maybe it was the thrill of my first day of school where I was praised by Ms. Spearworthy for my penmanship, but I walked out of that classroom with my head eight feet high and had finally forgotten some of my animosity. In keeping with my burst of sudden optimism, I was destined to be deflated when suddenly, quick as a flash, Davenport McCue came rushing in beside me and launched me into a mud-puddle bigger than a Buick.  I’m not sure why he felt this sudden urge to fling me and my new frilly pink dress from Bloomingdale’s into a mud puddle, or why he laughed and called me an asshole. I barely knew who he was. He sat three seats behind me in class and I couldn’t recall even speaking to him let alone anyone else. But apparently I had offended him egregiously.

I ran home crying and launched into the whole sad story and explained the situation mud puddle, cuss words and all to my mother, who stood with her arms crossed during my hyperventilated monologue. When I finally stopped for breath to receive my hug and kiss for my wounded soul, my mother a proper southern belle with nary a hair out of place or a shirt untucked gave me a slap. A lady never cusses, was all she said, not caring that it wasn’t me who had really said it in the first place. This was not the reception I thought I would receive. I had hoped she would evoke some sympathy for my poor ruined pride and accept my unspoken apology for my irritating silent treatment. But, she realized I had only come crying to her now that I needed comfort and she would have none of it.  I had refused her presence and her emotions for many months and she would not accept mine now. She simply glared at me with an expression of fury and regret, launched into a sermon about responsibility and puberty, and told me all men were children and the sooner I realized this the better off I’d be. In essence, she wordlessly gave me an angry “Fuck you,” turned roundly on her heel and forced me to fix it myself. I should have realized from that very moment that Davenport McCue would make my family life hell.

Davey called me the other day, happy as a lark, just chirping away about his latest squeeze, some girl named Julietta. I thought it was a stupid name for any girl, pretentious and overblown. In my mind’s eye I pictured a prima donna, hair blown, lipstick perfect, nails manicured, in fact just the opposite of me and my mass of unruly hair and bitten cuticles.  Yet, Davey insisted that I would love her. She was sweet. She was kind. But above all, she was elegant. “She’s the cat’s pajamas” was actually a phrase he used. And to top it all off, she was coming to town for the weekend to meet his Dad and so therefore, I must meet her as well. “She has to meet the whole family, Shirl, father, brother AND my adopted sister.” I tried to play it coy and salvage my pride. “But Davey, you don’t have a sister.” But Davey was having none of it. “I mean you, you dumbass.” With words like that how could I avoid meeting this wonderkind?

We met up at The Acorn, a local bar down the road from our old High School. Davey wanted to show Julietta how and where he grew up and throwing her down the old corridors of Marmosette High and then through the swinging doors of the Acorn was about the best education anyone could get if they wanted to get a taste of Marmosette County.  Even just the simple fact that a bar was down the road from the High School gave you a pretty good idea just how serious we were about our education back then. In fact, the Acorn is basically a landmark in our little town, noted for its watered down beer and stellar whiskey selection, which may or may not be something to be proud of. Nonetheless, this is the bar that anyone and everyone visited for that night out on the town.  Sadly, The Acorn was the town. The fact that Jim Spivey, Marmosette Graduate of 92, now owns the bar, is a testament to its tradition.

When I walked through the bar I saw the back of Davey’s shaggy brown head at one of the tree stumps that the Acorn likes to call a table. In front of him and facing me must have been Julietta. For lack of a kinder phrase, she looked like a librarian, hair in a bun, cardigan sweater and a string of pearls wrapped neatly around her neck. I hated to admit it, but she did exude a quiet elegance that nearly frightened me out of the door. I stared at her for a good solid minute, either to screw up my courage or scare her into submission I can’t be sure. But finally Davey turned around and gave me one of his chipped tooth smiles that send me into a quandry and waved me over. While they waited for me to arrive, he had ordered me a Bud Light, probably in anticipation that I might order something stronger and hoping that I would actually take the hint. Hint taken, but whether I would actually stick to beer was anyone’s guess.

Julietta was as polite as she needed to be, while Davey and I chattered on like a couple of old women.  While Davey and I tripped the light fandango down memory lane, attempting to bring Little Miss Julietta in to our messy corner of our world, she sat demurely, smiling softly, an indication of her awkwardness. I felt somewhat bad about challenging her in this way. She seemed like a duck out of water sans pearls. But, there was no way for me to compete other than to exhibit my legendary wit and joie de vivre. So, I set my sights on Davey, taking every advantage to get him snorting his famous pig-like laugh. If I could have, I would have tried to make beer shoot out of his nose, but I did have some sense of restraint.  Yet, inevitably, as it usually happens to me, I struck a bad chord.  I called her Jules to lighten the mood, and then Davenport stopped me. “Oh no, Shirl, not Jules, maybe Julia or Julie, but never Jules. Right, hon?” I looked at her  warily for some indication of her personal preference, but she only nodded slowly in agreement and smiled wanly at me as I stared at her with a degree of insoucience not seen since I was 12.  And then, the moment of truth occurred. Davey kissed her. It wasn’t a passionate event. It was tender and sweet and would have made me swoon had it occurred to me. But it didn’t. Insoucience be damned. I was floored.

I quickly downed the rest of my beer and stood up to get another round for the table, thankful for having a task that would take me away from this discomfort.  While at the bar, I had Jim pour me a shot of bourbon for courage. Jim shook his head in silent disgust, his eyes boring into mine attempting to send a message to my sadly addled brain. But, I was having none of it.  I took the three beers back to the table, attempting to think of some safe conversation topics on the way.

It seemed inevitable that I would have to get rip roaring drunk to endure this situation and in an effort to do so I ordered myself a shot of Bourbon and brought 2 more back with me in case the couple wanted to celebrate inebriation with me, which they decidedly did not.

I don’t think this fine sense of mine made Davey very happy.  He has seen me on the wrong side of a bourbon bottle too many times. After I finished their shots and nursed my beer I was clear well drunk enough to see my dead grandmother. Upon thinking that I should indeed try to impress this girl that had captured Davenport’s heart,  my mouth took off running. I talked about anything I could wrap my head around and shove out my mouth. I watched myself as I discussed Davey’s suspension from school, his notorious girlfriend Jacqueline, his brush with Marmosette County law. It was a train wreck. All the things I loved and hated about him were thrust forth into the damp decay of The Acorn’s beer soaked floor. I cringed as I stated Davey’s penchant for swearing, his poor spelling, and the worst, how he cried when his dog, Fidget, was hit by a car. I watched as Davey’s hand snaked across Julietta’s shoulders territorially in order to shield her from any harm I might cause and his eyes bore into mine with such ferocious intensity I thought he could kill me on the spot as he listened to my drunken reminiscings about his little foibles. I didn’t have much choice, I would either mock her or lambast him. And as I could barely contain myself on half of bottle of Wild Turkey, there seemed very little choice. I finally realized  the danger I was putting myself in. I ran to the back room, slammed my ass on Jim Spivey’s makeshift keg of a desk and demanded he call me a cab to take me home so I could live my misery out in private.

Jim Spivey is a good man, not very attractive, but a good man. And he dutifully took care of me as I ran back to tell Davenport and his lady friend that it had been a most pleasant meeting but that I had many things to do and take care of and must be off, popular as I was, I couldn’t be wasting it with these assholes. I might have said that out loud, but I can’t be sure. Even still, I watched Davey shake his head sadly at me while I smiled and waved, ever the diplomat with Jim’s hand on my back guiding me out the door as Turk’s Taxi came around the corner to take me back to my sad little room in my mother’s house.

I had Turk take the long way home, which might not have been a good idea as the long way home consists of some grassy knolls that can plunge a car sideways and throw a nearly drunk person into a complete loss of motor control.

Turk tried to chat with me in the back of the cab, but he should have known better to attempt, having seen me drunk on numerous occasions both as my ride from The Acorn or as a patron, where eventually he would become my ride home from the Acorn anyway. I think Turk might be the only one in the entire place that wasn’t entirely sure that I was desperately and hopelessly in love with Davey, or if he did he never did say anything about it, but then he was that kind of man. And he kindly took me over the backroads of Marmosette, allowing me my own little tour of our town, the park I broke my arm at, the tree that killed Roberta Stevens after she climbed to the very top, and then we passed the rock. I didn’t remember the Rock was still there. And actually I hadn’t been by the spot in quite some time, so its presence as it passed the car shocked me for a minute and I lost contact with my heartbeat. But there it stood. I had Turk stop on the presence of mind that I might be sick, which was slightly true, and I opened the door and leaned my body out the door.

A bunch of us had gathered down by The Lane, a clearing in the woods about 2 steps away from the main road, easily distinguishable by a large rock that guarded its entrance. Normally in the summer the teenagers of the town would gather together on Friday nights and sit around on the logs that we pushed in a circle attempting to build an adequate bonfire for light and heat, drinking Milwaukee’s Best. On a particularly cool summer night, Davey, our friend Krista and I had quite a few beers in us and were likely acting a bit worse for wear, when we started playing Truth or Dare, not a very intelligent game to play while drunk, but certainly with its benefits. Being absolutely petrified to take a Truth on anything, worried that my love of Davenport McCue might actually be exposed (and how terrible would that be) I took every dare known to man, much to the delight of both of them, because as time went on the dares they came up with became more and more ridiculous.  What started out as me running topless around the bonfire, which although mortifying was not nearly as bad as some other things I did that night. And then suddenly, Krista got an evil look in her eye and guessing that she knew the reality of my situation dared me to kiss Davenport McCue square on the mouth, and “artfully use my tongue” for the better part of a minute. It is quite possible I could have kissed her or killed her at the time. I was so contorted I probably would have kicked my own ass if I could have gotten away with it.

Davenport, who was in a rare state of such ignorant bliss, as much as any 16 year old can accomplish, was not aware of his own name at that point, let alone what this dare actually entailed and simply stared dumbfounded at the fire in front of us, while I looked down to examine my socks. Red and white striped socks that had a hole in the heel and were somewhat dirty from my semi-naked run through the circle. When it became obvious that neither one of us was going to initiate anything, Krista demanded action, grabbed us by our ears and marched us away from the comfort of the fire toward the big hulking rock in front. Expertly she placed Davey’s hand on my waist and when he seemed to gather he was holding a woman he leaned forward and meshed his mouth on mine. It was not romantic and for the minute that Davey groped my breast and breathed beer down my throat I thought that perhaps this might be the dirtiest thing I had ever done, that the two of us had ever done. I was not drunk enough for this, unfortunately Davey was, seeing as he barely had any idea who I was let alone who’s mouth he was arresting, which just made me feel worse. I kept my eyes shut attempting to pretend that this was the end of a date, that the beer I smelled was after a night of revelry and chemical attraction, that the sloppy tongue in my mouth was expertly maneuvering me. And for a moment I actually believed it to be true. But when I opened my eyes, I saw the half-lidded look of my drunken best friend as he was being used for fun and amusement, and I was annoyed that I wasn’t even the one who had iniated it. I broke off from the kiss as I felt Davey’s hand move to my pants. I was not prepared for this, I might never be prepared for this. And as I glared at Krista and dared her to speak, Davey threw up on my socks.  

That was the first and last time Davey and I ever ventured close enough to a sexual relationship. And while I relived that kiss for weeks afterwards after the sensations started to disappear, I tried in earnest to forget that it had actually occurred. I had half-heartedly hoped that Davey would remember kissing me and that I had awakened his interest in me, but  I don’t even know if he remembers it. My guess is that he doesn’t. The day after he ambled up to me with all his charming swagger, swatted me on the shoulder and told me never to let him drink Beast again. The slight chuckle he gave made me think he might know what we had done and that he regretted it, but the vacant look he gave me, just made me think he hadn’t a clue and was just disappointed he was hungover on crappy beer. Either way, I was either a remarkably mediocre kisser or I was forgotten over crappy beer. It was a contest that I lost either way.

When I finally reached home after The Acorn, the porch light was on and while I fumbled for the change for the cab and Turk’s outstretched hand I contemplated exactly what kind of representation I wanted to give my mother. But wasn’t ready to face my mother, who would no doubt be waiting in her La-Z-boy recliner, her arms crossed over her pastel blue bathrobe over her pastel blue nightgown, with enough of a scowl on her face to scare a cat out of 10 of his lives. I honestly, couldn’t bear one more “I told you so.” Which is generally what she said everytime she saw the cab pull up and saw my drunken ass climbing up the stairs. She would hear me stumble at the door, turn the recliner around to face me dead on and growl at me under her breath, that I wasn’t fit for the eunuchs of Africa, let alone this Prince of Marmosette County. The house had a porch swing and at that moment with the moths circling above me and the mosquitos biting my arms and gnats swarming in my ear, I thought this would be a better place to stop for the night. I sat down on the seat and swung my legs out in front of me daring the swing to move, but it was too heavy for just one person. It feebly emitted a squeak as I rested my head against the arm. Thinking of my mother inside and her distaste for such behavior, her dislike for Davenport, and her disapproval of me, I couldn’t even bear the action of stepping over the her threshold. I didn’t even bother taking out my keys. Instead, I simply rested my purse down on the swing, curled myself up and closed my eyes.

Reviews

There are no reviews of this item.