“Let’s go dance,” Cake said loudly to Alma.
“Lord, no,” Alma said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
They all egged her on.
“I’m too drunk, and Cake’s too good a dancer,” she said. “I don’t know if I can keep up with him or not.”
“You’ll keep up fine,” Clay said.
“Go on,” Geneva said, and poked Alma in the ribs. “Dance with him.”
“I ain’t much of a dancer no way,” Alma said, leaning over the table so they could all hear her. “When I was growing up, my daddy wouldn’t let us dance. Me and Evangeline would sneak and practice dancing in front of the mirror with the radio turned down low.”
“Shit, now,” Geneva said, “I’ve seen you dance.”
Alma laughed loudly without knowing why. She caught herself laughing and felt absolutely free.
“Come on,” Cake said, and pulled her up out of her seat.
She bent down and kissed Clay on the lips and took off for the dance floor.
Evangeline was in top form tonight, moving seamlessly from one song to another, bringing down the house with her growls on a Lynyrd Skynyrd song, killing them all with her famous cover of Loretta Lynn’s “You’re Looking at Country,” which got her wild applause and moved people to stand up on their chairs, clapping and hollering. By the time Cake and Alma reached the dance floor, Evangeline was launching into “Sunspot Baby.”
Cake was a wild dancer, never staying in one place for long. At first Alma followed his moves, but then she took off on her own, circling him, shaking her hips. She closed her eyes and listened to her sister singing, to the band playing. She and Cake danced so well together that it seemed they had practiced their moves. He grabbed hold of her and twirled her on the chorus, laughing wildly in her ear, and she snapped her fingers and stomped her feet. She thought of nothing but the music.
Evangeline was dancing all over the stage, too. She had sung for the last hour without taking a break, and if she was tired, it didn’t show in her voice. The band members were all sober and had played their fingers nearly to the bone by the time they took action on their own, calling for a break. While Evangeline took a breath, Lige, the lead guitarist, stepped forward and announced that they were going to take fifteen minutes.
Cake walked closely behind Alma as they left the dance floor. “See, you’re a good dancer, just like Geneva said.”
“That was fun,” she said. “I’m having a good time. Ain’t been drunk many times in my life.”
“I see now why Clay’s so crazy over you,” Cake said.
When they got to the table, Geneva, Goody, and Clay clapped and laughed. “Best two on the floor!” Geneva yelled.
Alma bent down to whisper in Clay’s ear. “I’m going to go talk to Evangeline while she’s on break.”
Alma burst into the room behind the stage, where Evangeline was sitting in a metal folding chair, killing a whole beer in one long swallow.
“How’s it going?” Evangeline asked, taking the bottle from her lips.
“Good. Real good. I’m having a ball.”
“Hellfire, girl.” Evangeline looked into the mirror and applied a fresh coat of lipstick. “You’re in love with him. It’s wrote all over your face. God awmighty, a blind man could sense the hots from you all.”
Alma smiled and lay her head on Evangeline’s shoulder for a second.
“Plus you’re drunk as Cootie Brown,” Evangeline said nonchalantly. “You’ll be climbing into bed with him tonight.”
“Shut up,” Alma told her, and took the lipstick away to use herself. “I feel like playing some fiddle. Got anything you need me to play on?”
Evangeline stood up quickly and dusted off the lap of her dress. She eyed her sister. She put her hands on her hips, looking at Alma like she didn’t know what to say.
“What is it?” Alma asked.
“Alma, Denzel’s here.”
“What?” She felt herself grow completely sober.
“I seen him come in while I was doing the last song. He come straight in and started playing pool. He can’t see your-all’s table or the dance floor from up there.”
“Oh, God. Oh, shit.”
“Don’t freak out, now. He might not say a word.”
“I thought you told Frankie not to let him in. He’ll definitely say something if he sees me—he’ll show his ass good and proper.”
“Frankie wasn’t at the door when he come in, and besides, they’d had a hell of a time if they’d tole him he couldn’t come in. He’s just been up here two or three times and hain’t never caused no trouble.”
“I wouldn’t here when he come them times, though. I knowed we shouldn’t have come here.” Alma walked toward the door. “I’ll see you in the morning. We’re leaving.”
“No,” Evangeline said firmly. She grabbed Alma by the arms. “Honey, you can’t run away from him all your life. If you’re gonna live in this town, you’re gonna see him. Just have a good time, don’t worry about it. He can’t do much—I done tole Frankie to keep his eye on him.”
ALMA WALKED BACK through the crowd. She kept her eyes focused on Clay, who was laughing and slapping the table because of something Cake had just told him.
“Alma, you all right?” Geneva asked as soon as Alma reached the table. Geneva put her hand to Alma’s cheek. “You pale as a ghost.”
“I ain’t been drunk since I was a teenager. I guess I pushed it.”
“Did you throw up?” Geneva prodded. “Need me to walk outside with you?”
“Naw, I’m all right.”
Clay was drunk. He wrapped his thick arm around Alma again and kissed her on the jaw. She put her hand on his face and drew his lips to hers, suddenly not caring if Denzel saw them or not. I am in love with him, she announced to herself. She knew she should make up some excuse to leave, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She didn’t want to run from Denzel the rest of her life. She kissed Clay for a long time, and she felt tears well up in her eyes.
“Clay,” she said, but when he turned around and looked at her with his glossy, red eyes, she knew if she told him Denzel was there, he would go wild.
• • •
AFTER SEVERAL SONGS that she claimed she didn’t want to dance to, Alma finally got up the nerve to walk to the bathroom with Geneva. They had to walk right by the pool tables, and she breathed a loud sigh of relief when she saw that Denzel was no longer there. If he wasn’t playing pool, he must have gone home. There was no way he would be dancing.
“I know my head has to look like a rat’s nest,” Geneva said as they slid through the crowd, but Alma paid her no attention. There was a line to the bathroom, as always, and Geneva talked ninety miles an hour while Alma scanned the crowd. She didn’t see him anywhere.
As soon as they came out of the bathroom, Alma saw Evangeline step into the white glow of the spotlight and look out over the crowd silently while the band warmed up for a song. Alma heard the notes Lige strummed on the guitar and the slow, steady beat of the drum, and she knew what Evangeline was about to say.
“You all know that my little sister is the best damn fiddle player in Crow County, now don’t you?” Evangeline announced, and the crowd burst into clapping and wolf whistles. Everyone turned to Clay’s table to look for Alma, then looked around the room until they saw her and Geneva standing at the bathroom door. “Come on up here, baby.”
The crowd continued to clap while Alma shook her head no.
“They all want to hear you play for em,” Evangeline said. “Come on, now.”
It seemed as if she would never make it to the stage. She felt every eye on her. Evangeline handed her the fiddle that she had sent Frankie out to the car to retrieve. She capped her hand over the microphone and whispered, “He’s gone. Play your heart out.”
The band’s low strumming began to grow louder. “We gonna do a killer for you, now,” Evangeline said. “This is ‘Bile Em Cabbage Down.’ I know you all like to clog every
once in a while, so get the hell up.”
Alma began sawing away on her fiddle. It was a fast, exhausting piece that called for a banjo to back her up, but Lige and the band were keeping up. People rushed the dance floor. It was one of those songs that seemed to play on its own—the kind of song that let Alma know why people had once considered the fiddle the devil’s instrument. It was wild and loud and set everyone to dancing or squalling or stomping their feet.
Clay loved this song. He had said it sounded like the sound track to his life, and she loved that. So she gave the fiddle all of her strength, finally giving herself up to the song or the devil or whatever it was that filled her body with sensation and took control of her. She kept her eyes on the neck of the fiddle, moved her head back and forth to the sweet, spinning sound, and shuffled her feet to the beat. She could see Evangeline dancing, holding up her skirt and clogging so hard that the people in the crowd could hear her heels stomping along with them.
Clay and Cake clogged with their arms limp at their sides, but Geneva and Goody stood watching Alma, clapping and keeping time. When they came to the bridge, Alma let the fine guitar-picking of Lige take over for a moment. She tapped her bow against the strings and patted her foot. She grinned down at Clay, who was dancing near the stage. And then she saw Denzel making his way across the dance floor. He moved careful and stiff, like a man stepping across rows in a garden. His eyes were fixed on her face. He did not blink.
Evangeline looked up from her stomping feet just in time to see the smile sliding off Alma’s face. Lige waited for the fiddle to kick back in as the bridge ended, then started playing faster so the people might not notice that Alma had not put her bow back to the strings.
Denzel walked slowly to the stage, no sign of emotion on his face. He did not look angry, and he certainly did not look happy to see her. His eyes were slightly squinted, as if he were trying to be certain that it was her. Alma scanned the crowd for Clay, and when she laid eyes upon him, Denzel followed her gaze. He looked back and forth from her to Clay and then to her again.
“I’ve watched you tonight,” he hollered, but she couldn’t really hear him. Somehow she knew what he was saying, as if she were able to read lips.
He walked around to the little set of steps that led up to the stage. He intends to come right up here, then, she thought. She dropped the fiddle with a dull thud and moved back slowly. The microphone issued an awful shriek as she knocked the stand over. The whole crowd stopped. The band’s music faded for a moment, then picked back up.
Clay pushed his way through the people and got to Denzel about the time he stepped up onto the stage. The music stopped and Lige ripped the guitar’s shoulder strap off himself. The drums’ cymbals sent out a sweet, shivery splash as the drummer got up. Alma kept backing up, unaware of where she was going.
Clay caught Denzel by the shoulder and turned him around. When Denzel pulled his arm back, Clay hit him square in the mouth. Denzel’s broad back crashed against the side of the stage, but he came back with his fists ready. He hit one side of Clay’s face and then the other, landing each punch squarely.
Clay went at Denzel with fists flying. He struck Denzel’s face and then punched him in the stomach. Denzel fell to the floor again and Clay straddled his chest to punch either side of his face. Denzel bucked Clay off him and stood quickly, moving around in a half-circle, then pushed Clay down with both hands and leaned over him. Alma could see his elbows rising up into the air behind him as he hit Clay in the face.
Alma scrambled down off the stage and pulled at Clay, screaming and sinking her fingernails into Denzel’s face. She felt his skin peel back underneath her nails. She wrapped her arms around Clay’s head and she pulled him up onto her lap as Denzel’s fists pounded against her hands. “Don’t hit him!” she screamed, over and over, her voice a high, scratchy thing that she had never heard before.
Cake broke through to pull her away. He hooked his arms through Alma’s from behind while she continued to scream. Clay managed to get up and went at Denzel as if reinvigorated. As he pounded Denzel’s face, everyone in the honky-tonk began to fight. The crowd surged forward and people fell onto one another. Glass shattered. Tables were turned over; chairs were thrown. A lot of the women were fighting, too, but some of them stood up in their chairs to get a better view. They hollered and laughed. Geneva ripped a girl’s blouse half off. Goody attacked one of the pool players. The bouncers tried in vain to pull people apart.
A man pulled Clay off Denzel, who was lying in between table legs, with blood running out of the side of his mouth. The man held Clay back as Denzel got up, his big hands spread across Clay’s chest as he said, “He’s had enough now. Drop it.”
Denzel didn’t look at Clay again but stepped over an upturned table to go toward Alma, who was still being held by Cake. Cake let go of her, thinking that Denzel intended to fight him, but when he did, Denzel slapped Alma across the face.
Evangeline ran at Denzel and hit his face with open hands. She yelled close enough for her spit to land on his lips. Tears ran down her face in a black mess of mascara. The bouncers grabbed Denzel, hustling him across the dance floor.
The pool player released Clay with a little push, right into the grip of Frankie, who took his arm and began walking him out of the club. Alma was suddenly at his side.
People were still fighting as Frankie led them out. Cake, Geneva, and Goody followed, but Evangeline had to be packed out. A bouncer wrapped one big arm around her waist while she kicked and hollered.
Frankie sent them outside. He stood in the open doorway, out of breath. “God awmighty, Clay,” he said. “Don’t you know better than to mess with that feller? That sumbitch is crazier than hell, and on coke. Get the hell out of here.”
GENEVA DROVE THEM all back to Clay’s house. Alma insisted that Clay put his head in her lap, though Geneva assured her that he was fine, she had seen him in far worse fights than that.
“He ain’t hurt!” Geneva squalled out. “Damn, that was a rush. I ain’t been in a fight in five year. Uh, Goody, you bleeding!” Geneva let out a peeling laugh and beat on the steering wheel.
Clay sat up dizzily and blew his nose onto a wad of toilet paper that somebody had handed him. “Did I do all right?” he asked.
“All right? Hell’s bells, buddy, you whopped his ass, looked like to me,” Goody said. “I don’t see how he kept getting up.”
“Cause he was so coked up he didn’t feel nary punch, that’s why,” Geneva said loudly. She lit a cigarette and clicked off the radio. A light rain began to fall and the wipers grated across the windshield. “That bastard was higher than hell on coke. Couldn’t you tell that?”
“Who in the hell was that anyway?” Cake asked. “We didn’t even know him.”
“I never seen him before,” Goody said.
“That was Alma’s ex-husband,” Clay said.
Alma looked at Clay. “How did you know?” she asked, but Clay didn’t answer.
“Well, he won’t mess with you all no more,” Geneva said, driving carefully around the curves of the wet road. “I guarantee his nose is broke, plus a lot more.”
Alma ran her sweaty hand over Clay’s and leaned over him to breathe out, “I’m sorry, Clay. I shouldn’t have never went there.”
“They ain’t nothing to be sorry about,” Clay said.
14
“LORD GOD, BUDDY,” Gabe said, sitting upright in his seat at the kitchen table. “You are beat plumb to death.”
“He looks worse than I do,” Clay said as he sat down at the table.
Dreama came down the hallway, ready to start breakfast.
“Oh my God, Clay. You need stitches,” she said, and touched his face softly. She looked as if she was about to cry. “If Easter sees your face tore up like that, she’ll die, absolutely die.”
“Don’t touch that cut, Dreama, it’ll mark the baby!” Gabe boomed, and Dreama pulled her hand away quickly.
“Was it over that girl you seeing?”
Gabe asked.
“Naw. I tole you, I don’t know what it was over. He just come up to me and—”
“Buddy, don’t lie to me,” Gabe said, standing and hitching up his jeans. He walked to the counter and poured himself and Clay a cup of coffee. “You know I know everbody up at that Hilltop. They tole me that was Alma’s husband.”
“He signed the divorce papers today. It’ll be final in three months.”
“It don’t matter, son. They ain’t divorced yet, and you ought not be out with her.”
“Shit, Daddy, what are you so moral all of a sudden for?” Dreama asked, wild-eyed.
“What?”
“Like you ain’t had married women.” Dreama laughed loudly.
“They was separated when I met her. It ain’t like I took her away from him,” Clay said, eyeing his uncle for a response.
“Still, you can’t blame the feller. If he went in there and seen you two together, he didn’t have no choice but to fight you. When you going to realize how people work, Clay? How the world works?”
“All I know is, I’m marrying her soon as that divorce is final,” Clay said.
If anybody knew how the world worked, it was Gabe. Clay remembered the first time Gabe had taken him hunting. He remembered the sound of falling leaves, cooing like women whispering among the trees. Leaves had drifted down in fiery quilts, patchworks of gold and red and orange.
“You know this path, now don’t you?” Gabe had asked.
“Why yeah,” Clay answered. “I travel it ever day.”
“Well, you go on down yonder, and I’m going up on this ridge. Now walk easy, buddy, and kill you one.” Gabe straightened Clay’s camouflage jacket, which was much too big for him. “Walk like I tole you.”
Gabe slid away and Clay walked carefully down the path, trying to bear the feet of his ancestors. Gabe had always told him how their Cherokee blood allowed for them to walk silent as a spirit over the mountain paths. Clay moved down the mountain without making a sound. He fancied he could walk right up on the most timid bird without its knowing he was close.