YOU MUST REMEMBER THIS - excerpt

For the last few weeks I’ve been enmeshed in the re-writing of my second novel, We Danced to Ray Charles. The night the story’s two life-long friends, Amy and Mark, first kiss is a key moment. In the book’s current version. The scene occurs about half-way through as a flashback/dream told from Amy’s perspective.

What I’m thinking about doing is adding Mark’s version of the same scene to the opening chapter. That’s what I’ll be posted today. In a few days, I’ll post the scene in which Amy recalls that evening. A third and final post related to the event, will detail what happens when they chance to return to that spot.

For those faint of heart and/or weak of stomach, they don't go, "All the way." Maybe they should. Maybe it's too detailed or not detailed enough. Maybe the whole idea is weak. Your feedback, whether it be brickbats or bouquets, hallelujahs or hand-grenades, posted here or sent by email, is needed and will be appreciated.

Bayou Bill

==

You Must Remember This

An excerpt from Chapter One of, We Danced to Ray Charles

by Bill Fullerton

Bebe fluttered her fingers in a goodbye gesture as she pulled away. There was a brief squeal when her tires hit the asphalt road. Mark watched the taillights vanish into the sultry night while touching the spot she’d kissed.

A warm breeze drifted past. With it came a faint scent of spring flowers and the succulent eroticism of approaching rain. It reminded him of another night and another girl. His hand droped, his smile faded, and he whispered, “Ain’t life a bitch?”

It was like a bad joke. The once unobtainable Bebe Boudreaux, the girl he always wanted, seemed interested in him. That would be great, except he’d just fallen in love with Amy, someone he could never have, someone he loved so much it hurt to even think her name.

Even the possibility of a well-financed shot at becoming a state representative couldn’t get Amy off his mind. Once, they both loved politics. He still did, and had always wanted to run for office. But after today’s meeting with local big shots, all he could think about was how, after what Vietnam did to her brother, she no longer cared.

Thank God he’d run into Bebe. What politics couldn’t do, she could, almost. With Bebe around, it was hard for thoughts of anyone else to slip in, hard, but not impossible. The moment she drove away, memories of that night with Amy came flooding back along with a familiar, sick, hopeless, soul-shriveling sensation.

A swarm of hungry mosquitoes began intruding on his thoughts. An absentminded attempt to wave them away failed and he headed for his car. He wanted to think, to try and figure things out, not feed mosquitoes.

The tree-lined streets of Pinefield featured more gentle hills than traffic signs. Even in the downtown area there were few other cars passing the lighted storefronts. Mark ignored these icons of his youth as he tried to focus on Bebe and what happened at the dance. But his mind kept going back to Amy and that night on the levee.

The party had been his dumb idea. To be dumped by a guy you’ve dated for over a year is tough. To have him do it for another guy—devastating. That’s what happened to Amy, and Mark had never seen her so confused and depressed.

So the idea, the hope, was that after a couple weeks of mourning and talking his ear off on the phone, a casual beer-bust with friends would kick-start her back to life. And while everyone else seemed to be having a great time, he could tell she was miserable.

That’s why he kept checking on her and noticed when she drifted away from the center of the party and then vanished into the late evening shadows. At first he thought it best to let her be alone. But he changed his mind when a tall, arrogant jerk with a long-standing case of the hots for Amy seemed ready to follow.

In the breeze off the river, he heard a faint, whimpering noise like an injured animal might make. He followed it to her hide-away behind a driftwood log.

They’d talked and talked about what happened and why she felt so damn depressed. There was more to her mood than just breaking up with a boyfriend, much more. But by now he didn’t know what else to say. So he just sat beside her and said nothing.

A fresh breeze came off the river and she shivered. He put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. With a low, anguished wail, she buried her face against his chest and began soaking the front of his shirt with what seemed like an endless stream of tears.

When her sobs began to taper off, she didn’t pull away and try to apologize. Instead, she continued to lie against him, silently sliding a fingertip across his soaked shirt. It felt good, very good, and he smiled

That’s when she lifted her head and looked at him. Even with all the crying, she was still beautiful. He’d never been “turned on” by Amy’s looks—neither had Amy. Maybe it was a trick of the mind to protect their friendship. Still, he understood why guys--.

His evaluation of Amy’s beauty came to a sudden stop when she slipped her hands behind his neck, pulled his face to hers, and began to kiss him, and kiss him, and kiss him.

Later, he wondered if that was when he fell in love with her. Did that first touch of her lips, her tongue, and the warmth of her mouth against his melt whatever barrier had stood between their friendship and love? He’d never know. What he did know was that by the time their lips parted, something in him had changed, forever.

There was a look of serenity, or something like that, on her tear-streaked face. But he sensed another, more subtle emotion. With a jolt of disbelief, he realized she was waiting for him to do something. The problem was he had no idea what that should be.

He tried to think, tried to be rational and decide what was best. Amy was wasted, hurt, vulnerable. He’d never taken advantage of a girl, and didn’t want to start with his best friend. But the memory of that kiss, and the way she kept staring into his eyes, made thinking about anything other than kissing her again, and again, and again, impossible.

This time she didn’t have to pull his face to hers. At some point it occurred to him that Amy was one helluva good kisser. He envied the guys she’d dated.

The next time they parted, he started to say something about stopping. Maybe joke that he wasn’t sure how much more of this he could stand. Only it wasn’t really a joke.

Before he could get started, Amy snuggled closer and pulled him back down onto her mouth. Though unsure if he’d fallen in love with Amy during their first kiss, what now followed made that a very moot point.

As if on autopilot, his hand slipped under her sweatshirt. Amy shivered and tried to pull him closer. He took possession of her breast, savoring its firm, silky smoothness. The nipple was already hard, as if waiting for him. As he gently rolled it between finger and thumb, Amy broke their kiss and moaned.

He took his time kissing her eyes, her cheek, her chin, letting his lips trail down to her neck. There was no resistance when he pushed the sweatshirt higher, exposing her small, perfect breasts to the pale moonlight. A moment later his lips encircled one of her nipples. Amy gasped and tried to press herself deeper into his mouth.

Once again he told himself he should stop, but his hand seemed to move of its own accord down her slim torso. When he began fumbling with her zipper, Amy made no move to stop him.

More than anything in his life, he wanted to make love with Amy Marshall. And he knew if he didn’t stop now, that would happen. Only it wouldn’t be love, it’d be screwing. And though aching with desire and need, he didn’t want to do that to his best friend. And he didn’t want to risk losing his best friend over what, considering his present condition, would probably be a two-second burst of ecstasy.

With a resigned sigh, he gave up on the zipper. His lips released her breast and returned to her mouth.

Their tongues performed a lazy dance from one mouth to another. He pulled her sweatshirt down, covering breasts he’d probably seen for the last time. For a moment, he allowed his fingers to caress first one, then the other. He wanted to remember their texture, shape, and warmth.

The kissing became less intense but didn’t stop. He hated to break that last contact with her. Besides, they both needed to cool down before returning to the--.

The irate blare of a car horn brought Mark back from the Mississippi levee to one of the few Pinefield intersections with a traffic light. A light he’d just run. He waved in apology at the offended driver, and headed out of town. If he was going to let himself think about that night with Amy, he better get off the road.

THE DANCERS - chap one

-

This is the opening chapter of my second novel, We Danced To Ray Charles. In it the novel's bad girl begins to weave her seductive web around our poor hero. This version reflects changes suggested by Robert Flynn. As always, any input would be greatly appreciated.

Bayou Bill

==

THE DANCERS
by Bill Fullerton

It was another turbulent evening in the spring of ’68. Student protests raged from the Sorbonne to Berkeley. Civil rights demonstrations and anti-war rallies were turning violent. Martin Luther King was dead; Bobby Kennedy would be soon. Hundreds of other Americans were dying each week in South Vietnam. Soldiers patrolled the streets of Saigon, Paris, and Washington. Soviet troops prepared to invade Prague. And in a nowhere place in Louisiana called Sandtown, an innocent black man was beaten and arrested.

But in nearby Pinefield, everything was perfect. At least, that’s what Mark Cahill kept telling himself. Bebe Boudreaux’s head rested on his chest as they moved in languid harmony to sound of Ray Charles singing, “You Don’t Know Me.” The petite, perfect form he'd always wanted was in his arms, molded against his body. It made for a perfect moment, in a perfect place, in a perfect world—at least it should have been perfect.

He almost hadn’t come. After three years in college, a Junior League, End-of-School, dance held little appeal. Still, he needed to keep connected with his hometown friends and remind them he still existed. That might be very important in a few years. So when his mother, a Junior League member, strongly suggested he stop by and check on things, he agreed.

Arriving late, he paused just inside the front door to shake hands and mingle. Thick cigarette smoke couldn’t mask the musty smell of the old American Legion hall. The Junior League had done its best to spruce up the place. Balloons, banners, and other decorations were everywhere but couldn’t hide all the World War II era posters and dated fixtures.

Black-and-white photographs of serious looking men in funny looking hats like those soda jerks wore filled the far wall. All were former post commanders. Among them were his father and grandfather. Fading pictures of American Legion and Women's Auxiliary activities completed the décor.

Aretha Franklin’s demand for “Respect” segued into the Rolling Stones frustrated search for "Satisfaction.” The sea of sweaty dancers paused, then broke into another spasm of jerking legs, flailing arms, and twisting bodies.

As Mark watched from the sidelines, congratulating himself on not being out among them, someone tapped his shoulder. He turned and saw Bebe Boudreaux smiling up at him. He'd last seen her during Christmas break. As usual, she looked great. Now, as he gazed down at that delicate face with the big, liquid-brown eyes that commanded your attention, he felt sure she never looked better.

As they spoke, Ray Charles began singing “I Can’t Stop Loving You.” Mark hesitated, then asked her to dance. To his surprise, she agreed. The next song was, “Crying Time” another slow Ray Charles country ballad. Bebe made no effort to extract herself from his arms, and they kept dancing. Without leaning away, she gazed up at him through long, thick lashes. "Ah didn't remember you being such a good dancer.”

Mark wondered when Bebe’s new “Gone With the Wind” drawl had replaced her soft Cajun lilt. Her unexpected compliment pleased him, though he couldn’t recall the last time last they danced. “Ray Charles always inspires me. Besides, you’re just saying that because I haven’t stomped on your toes, yet."

"No, really, it's true." Her familiar, sexy, little grin broadened into an all-encompassing smile. "You must have been practicing a lot down at LSU."

He felt his face flush and hoped she hadn’t noticed. "Only the juke-joint shuffle and the Cajun two-step.”

"Really? The Cajun two-step? Now you're talking about my people, cher.” She cocked her head and stared into his eyes. “You'll have to show me your technique sometime."

"If you've got the nerve, I've got the time.” What looked like a pleased expression crossed Bebe’s face before she laid her head back on his chest.

Mark forced himself to breathe. It wasn’t easy. Everything about Bebe, even her new accent and perfume, turned him on. He couldn’t figure the reason for her being so nice, but he liked it, a lot, and wondered where it might lead.

The song ended and they sat at a rickety folding table with some friends from high school, flirting, telling jokes, and catching up on gossip. Later, when everyone else got up for a fast song, Mark made no move to follow.

"I don't know about you, but I'm grateful we're sitting here and not working ourselves to death out there." Bebe stopped nodding to the beat long enough to give him a slow wink and say she agreed. To Mark, it seemed sexy beyond belief and convinced him to test the limits of her new and improved attitude.

He cleared his throat, then spoke in a voice he hoped sounded calm and casual. "Of course, the Cajun two-step and juke-joint shuffle don't take as much energy. Are you, uh, still interested in us looking into that situation?"

After a thoughtful sip of Tab, she tilted her head and gazed into his eyes. "What did you have in mind, Mark?"

For just a moment, he hesitated. "Well, I was thinking we might go down to Shep's in Mansura. It's a pretty long drive and I've never seen any real two-stepping going on there. Still, it's a first-class Cajun honky-tonk."

"That might be fun,” she said. “Shep's is one of my favorite places. When did you want to go?"

"Oh, I don’t know," he said, trying to act calm. “If tomorrow night’s too soon, what about next weekend? John Fred and The Playboy Band are supposed to be there both Friday and Saturday."

"Well, I’ve got to admit I'm getting a little tired of hearing, ‘Judy In Disguise.’ Ah mean it's been on every radio station around here just about forever.” She exaggerated the word, “forever,” and gave her head an amused shake which sent her long, dark hair into motion. “But other than that, the band's great and John Fred's really cute."

Not having an opinion on the cuteness of the state's current leading rock star, Mark just nodded. She seemed to be considering the alternatives. "Why don't we go next Saturday?”

The tension in his body began to ease. The age of miracles hadn’t passed. After all these years, he and Bebe were going on a date. While he tried to process this development, Bebe continued, "Ah really like Shep's better on Friday nights. To me, it's less crowded and friendlier. The problem is, Saturday mornings at the store can get really busy. Ah'd hate to try and handle a big rush after being down there Friday night."

Someone bucking for sainthood played a slow Ray Charles song "You Don’t Know Me” and they got up to dance. “Born To Lose” came next and they continued to move. Mark decided another Ray Charles fan must be running the stereo and silently blessed him.

As the song’s last melancholy notes faded away, Bebe said she had to go. "Ah really am sorry. But like Ah said, things can get really crazy at work on Saturday mornings, and according to that calendar over on the wall, tomorrow is Saturday."

Mark’s initial disappointment vanished in a flash of inspiration. “I should be calling it a night myself. Why don't I walk you to your car?"

"Ah'd like that. Just let me get my purse."

He watched as Bebe made her way toward the cloakroom. The sight of that celebrated Cajun derriere swaying in a seductive rhythm was always arousing. Over the last eight years, he'd witnessed that wonder of nature many times. Far too often after another rejection. This time he felt no mixed emotions. Tonight, she would be walking back to him.

Out on the floor, Penny Harrison and Ralph Lawson gyrated past him. Penny, a slender, pretty brunette, smiled and waved. Mark liked her, always had, and wondered if she and Amy were still fussing. Ralph, Penny’s long-time steady, pretended to be looking the other way. While Mark and Ralph were almost always civil to one another, their relations were, at best, tense. They’d almost gotten into it tonight. Ralph had made a crack about “niggers” and Mark responded with a joke at Ralph’s expense.

Little “Skeeter” Cummings, flashing her new engagement ring, danced by with Mark’s old football teammate, the aptly named, “Hoss” Driscoll. Back at the table, her question about Amy had caught him off-guard. But she didn’t seem to notice his reaction. Probably too excited about getting engaged to pay him much attention.

At the sight of Bebe coming back, all other thoughts vanished. Outside, they hurried past the swarms of June bugs circling the yellow porch lights, and stepped into the warm, muggy night. With the moon hidden by low clouds, the gloom in the gravel parking lot was almost tangible. The sounds of crickets and frogs had replaced the thump of rock music by the time they reached the 1966 Chevelle Super Sport Bebe’s father, Jack Boudreaux, had given her as a graduation present.

"Thanks for coming with me. Dark parking lots give me the creeps. Ah'm always afraid some crazy nig--, uh, nut might be waiting to, well, you know."

“No problem,” said Mark. He had noticed her double-clutching to keep from saying, “nigger,” but said nothing. Everyone knew he was “soft” on the race issue and that he and Amy were both life-long friends of Willie Carter, son of the town’s leading black preacher and civil rights leader. But he could recall Bebe, who had always been openly racist, ever trying to watch her language. Could she be getting better? God knows she couldn’t have gotten much worse.

She unlocked the door and then turned to face him. "By the way, what time did you want to pick me up?"

"Well, uh, what about six? If that's no good, name your poison."

"Six sounds great.” She reached up and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Ah’m glad you were here tonight. You made it a lot more fun. And you saved me from dancing with Hoss and Ralph or, even worse, high school guys."

Before Mark could recover from the unexpected kiss, she slipped into her seat and closed the door. The big engine sprang into life with a deep, almost sensual, growl. She rolled down her window and gave him another smile. "Ah'm really looking forward to next Saturday."

Bebe fluttered her fingers in a goodbye gesture as she pulled away. The tires made a brief squeal as they hit the asphalt road. Mark watched the taillights vanish into the sultry night while touching the spot she’d kissed.

A warm breeze drifted past. With it came a faint scent of spring flowers and the succulent eroticism of approaching rain. It reminded him of another night and another girl. His hand dropped, his smile faded, and he whispered, “Ain’t life a bitch?”

It all seemed like a bad joke. The once unobtainable Bebe Boudreaux, the girl he had always wanted, now seemed interested in him. That would be great, except he’d just fallen in love with Amy, someone he could never have, someone he loved so much it hurt to even think her name.

Even the possibility of a well-financed run for state representative in the next elections couldn’t get Amy off his mind. Once, they both loved politics. He still did, and had always wanted to run for office. But after today’s meeting with local big shots, all he could think about was how, after what Vietnam did to her brother, she no longer cared.

Thank God he bumped into Bebe. What politics couldn’t do, she could, almost. With Bebe around, it’d been hard for thoughts of anyone else to slip in, but not impossible. And the moment she drove away, memories of that night with Amy had come flooding back along with a familiar, sick, hopeless, soul-shriveling sensation.

A swarm of hungry mosquitoes intruded on his thoughts. An absentminded attempt to wave them away failed and he headed for his car. He wanted to be alone, try to figure things out, not feed mosquitoes.

#

The tree-lined streets of Pinefield featured more gentle hills than traffic signs. Even in the downtown area there were few other cars passing the lighted storefronts. Mark ignored these icons of his youth as he tried to focus on Bebe and what happened at the dance. But his mind kept going back to Amy and to what happened.

The party had been his dumb idea. To be dumped by a guy you’ve dated for over a year is tough. To have him do it for another guy—devastating. That’s what happened to Amy, and Mark had never seen her so confused and depressed.

So the idea, the hope, had been that a casual beer-bust with friends would kick-start her back to life. It’d been easy to organize. LSU students consider partying a sacred obligation. Springtime parties on the nearby Mississippi River levee are illegal which makes them doubly popular.

Everyone else seemed to be having a great time, but Mark could tell Amy felt miserable. That’s why he kept checking on her and noticed when she drifted from the center of the party and then vanished into the late evening shadows. At first he thought it best to let her be alone. But an arrogant jerk with a long-standing case of the hot’s for Amy seemed ready to follow so Mark changed his mind.

Once away from the noise of the party, Mark heard a stifled, whimpering sound. He followed it to her hide-away behind a driftwood log.

They’d talked for days about the breakup and how rotten she felt. There was more to her mood, however, than just breaking up with a boyfriend, much more, and they also talked about that. By now he didn’t know what else to say. So he sat beside her on the dry, sun-hardened sediment left by the receding early spring high water and said nothing.

A fresh breeze came off the river and she shivered. He put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. With a low, anguished wail, she buried her face against his chest and began soaking the front of his shirt with what seemed like an endless stream of tears.

When her sobs tapered off, she didn’t pull away and try to apologize. That’s what he’d expected. Instead, she continued to lie against him, silently sliding a fingertip across his soaked shirt. It felt good, very good, and he smiled

That’s when she lifted her face and looked at him. Even with all the crying, she was still beautiful. He’d never been “turned on” by Amy’s looks—neither had Amy. Maybe it was a trick of the mind to protect their friendship. Still, he understood why guys--.

The evaluation of Amy’s beauty came to a sudden stop as she slipped her hands behind his neck, pulled him close, and pressed her lips against his. The kiss was long and erotic and, for Mark at least, changed everything between them. No mental gymnastics could withstand the touch of her lips or the feel of her willowy body in his arms.

The moment Amy’s lips touched his, Mark fell totally, hopelessly in love with his best friend. What he didn’t know was how she felt. Their lips parted and he noticed a look of serenity, or something like that, on her tear-streaked face. But he sensed another, more subtle emotion. With a jolt of disbelief, he realized she was waiting for him to do something. The problem was he had no idea what that should be.

He tried to think, tried to be rational and decide what was best. Amy was wasted, hurt, vulnerable. He’d never taken advantage of a girl, and didn’t want to start with his best friend. But the memory of that kiss, and the way she now kept staring into his eyes, made thinking about anything other than kissing her again, and again, and again, impossible.

This time she didn’t have to pull his face to hers. At some point it occurred to him that Amy was one helluva good kisser. He envied the guys she’d dated.

The next time they parted, he started to say something about stopping. Maybe joke that he wasn’t sure how much more of this he could stand. Only it wouldn’t be a joke.

But Amy snuggled closer and pulled him back onto her mouth. As if on autopilot, his hand slipped under her sweatshirt. Amy shivered and tried to pull him closer. He took possession of one of her breasts, marveling at its firm, silky smoothness. The nipple was already hard. As if handling a sacred object, he rolled it between finger and thumb. Amy responded by breaking their kiss and emitting a low moan.

He took his time kissing her eyes, her cheek, her chin, letting his lips trail down to her neck. There was no resistance as he pushed the sweatshirt higher until her breasts came into view. They seemed to glow in the pale moonlight. A moment later his lips encircled one of her small, hard nipples. Amy gasped and tried to press herself deeper into his mouth.

Once again he told himself he should stop, but his hand seemed to move of its own will down her slim torso. As he fumbled with her zipper, Amy made no move to stop him.

In the most basic, physical sense, he wanted to this woman. And he knew she was his for the taking. But this was Amy, not just some woman. It was hurt, not love, behind her passion. And he wanted to make love with Amy, not screw her. Though sure this was a once-in-a-lifetime chance, and aching with need, he didn’t want to risk losing his best friend over what, considering his present condition, would be about a two-second burst of ecstasy.

With a resigned sigh, he gave up on the zipper. His lips released her breast and returned to her mouth.

Their tongues performed a lazy dance from one mouth to another. He pulled her sweatshirt down, covering breasts he’d probably seen for the last time. For a moment, he allowed his fingers to caress first one, then the other. He wanted to remember their texture, shape, and warmth.

The kissing became less intense but didn’t stop. He hated to break that last contact with her. Besides, they both needed to cool down before returning to--.

The irate blare of a car horn brought Mark back from the Mississippi levee to one of the few Pinefield intersections with a traffic light. A light he’d just run.

He waved in apology at the offended driver, realized they couldn't see the gesture, felt even dumber, and then headed out of town. If he couldn’t stop thinking about that night with Amy, he better get off the road.

COLD BEER AND GREASY FRIES - chap two

This is chapter two of my second novel, We Danced to Ray Charles. The protag tries to figure out life, women and himself. What follows reflects changes suggested by Robert Flynn. As always, any input would be greatly appreciated. Reading the two previous posts: Prologue and The Dancers is advised.

Bayou Bill

==

COLD BEER AND GREASY FRIES
by Bill Fullerton

The main cemetery in Pinefield was a large, landscaped, park-like area. The grandfather Mark had loved so much was there. So was the grandmother he never knew and even some great-grandparents. A nearby bench was his thinking spot. He headed that way.

But it was a date night. The cemetery’s secluded far-side served as the town’s leading lover’s lane. So much for being alone to think. Besides, hunger called. The one place in town still open, the all-night Hilltop Café Motel and Truck Stop.

He parked near the café’s front door, got out, and heard the insistent wail of approaching sirens. Out on the main highway, three Sheriff’s Department cars raced by heading toward town with their lights flashing. He wondered what all the excitement was about, then shrugged and headed for the glass door with its sun-faded sign that proclaimed,

“WE RESERVE THE RIGHT TO REFUSE SERVICE TO YOU”

He’d seen that sign, and untold numbers like it, many times during his twenty-one years on earth. Most went unnoticed—which he preferred. But tonight, something made him stop and study the old sign. It had once been bright and defiant. Now, like the hatred it represented, it was fading but still around.

Mark shook his head, as if trying to clear his mind of the past, then opened the door and stepped into the over air-conditioned, neon-lit café. A few couples were sitting in the back booths. None looked familiar. Out-of-town kids, he guessed. A lot of them stopped in after dates to check each other out for telltale signs of drive-in passion. After a quick burger, they’d rush home to beat the girl’s midnight curfew.

A familiar figure stood at the business end of the Hilltop’s pinball machine, The Blushing Beauty. By even the most tolerant of standards David Clyde Wright was a strange life form. By Pinefield standards he was way off the scale. His more distinctive features included long, stringy hair, and the beginnings of a beer gut. He also had a goofy, don’t-give-a-damn smile some girls insisted was cute.

Friends and law enforcement officers alike called him, D.C. Both groups agreed he was every bit as odd as he looked. Among other things he was a self-destructive, semi-alcoholic, anti-establishment free spirit.

D.C. was smart, but in an odd, D.C. sort of way. After being expelled from high school for repeated violations of most school codes, he got his equivalence diploma before the rest of his class graduated. Unlike his former classmates, he read Dylan Thomas and William Faulkner because he liked them.

Everyone in town knew he operated the printing press for his family’s weekly paper, “The Standard.” But few suspected he wrote many of the articles which appeared under his father’s by-line. Mark knew. By some strange amalgam of interests, they were long-time friends. And while total opposites, they could share certain secrets and count on one another for candid advice.

Unlike his anti-social friend, Mark was a big, easy-going guy. He’d been an athlete in high school. Back then he kept his hair short. Now it was a well-barbered, collar length. And while D.C. took the concept of casual clothing to an extreme, Mark dressed like the fraternity member he was. However, both men liked sports, Bob Dylan, and William Faulkner.

At the counter, Mark asked for two burgers and a large order of curly fries. The sour-faced, older woman D.C. had nicknamed, “Winona, the Woeful Waitress,” took his order in silence. After checking his hair in the mirror next to the “George Wallace for President” poster, he walked over and stood beside the machine. While a new ball was being put into play, he asked, “So what’s a guy like you doing in a nice place like this?”

Bells rang and lights flashed. D.C. kept his gaze focused on the shiny, darting, steel ball. “Getting my scrawny ass whipped by this damn machine.” As if to validate his remark, the ball ricocheted off a bumper at an unexpected angle, sped past the outstretched flippers, and disappeared from sight.

A short but emphatic string of obscenities followed, punctuated by D.C. slamming his palms against The Blushing Beauty. It responded to this assault by flashing, “TILT” and ending the game. Like two mourners viewing the body of someone who died owing them money, they pondered the treacherous machine’s dimmed lights. It was D.C. who broke the unnatural silence. “You know, it could be worse. I could be Chinese.”

“I’m going to hate myself for asking,” said Mark. “But, how do you figure that?”

“Just think, Cahill. There’s about a billion of them over there. And not one of those poor, thirsty, commie devils has a single Budweiser to drink.”

“Well, that does put your loss in a different perspective.”

His point made, D.C. turned his head and looked at Mark. “I wondered when you’d show up. Want a beer?”

“Why’d you think I’d come in here? And yes, I’d like a beer. I’ll even contribute the two burgers and curly fries I’ve got coming.”

“Cold beer and greasy fries. God is indeed good to the young and beautiful,” said D.C. his voice rich with solemn irreverence. “You had to show. Your head would be too screwed up from dancing with Bebe Boudreaux to go home.”

They’d been drifting over toward the worn counter. Now they sat on plastic covered, backless stools and waited for Mark’s order. “And you knew I’d danced with her because…?”

“Because who do you think took over the hi-fi when he saw you talking with Bebe and played all those slow Ray Charles songs? You owe me big time, Cahill.”

“It’s a debt I’m sure you’ll never let me forget. Not after you learn we’re going out next weekend.”

D.C. stopped lighting a cigarette to give Mark a look of genuine surprise. “A date? Damn son, you’re a fast worker.”

“With you as disc jockey, how could I fail?”

“So true. By the way, I didn’t see Amy at the dance. Is she still sick as the proverbial heaving hyena?”

Mark nodded. “Yep. But I called over there before I left for the dance. Her dad said she’s on the mend.”

“What do you think is gonna happen when she finds out about you and Bebe? Now I know you and Amy are just good buddies and all that jazz. But the last time I checked, she and Bebe weren’t what you’d call a mutual admiration society.”

“I’ve quit trying to figure out Amy Marshall. I suppose she may give me a hard time. But all we’re talking about here is one date. So she’s not going to care, at least not that much.”

D.C. reached for an ashtray. “Well, what about old buddy Bob and that time in high school when he asked Bebe to the prom? Best I recall, instead of just saying no, she called him everything but a one-legged son-of-a-bitch. And then there’s Willie, one helluva great guy, especially for a preacher’s kid, who just happens to be black. I suppose you know Bebe’s old man’s now the boss of our local sheet-heads.”

“That’s bullshit. He’s Cajun. They don’t join the Klan, much less become honchos. As for Bob, he’s so wrapped up with the luscious Libby I doubt he’ll even notice. And Willie, well, we’ve been friends about forever, give or take a day or two. I should be okay with him.”

“All right. But what about if you and Bebe click and go on more dates?”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“But what if it does? Outside of maybe being a tad envious, I don’t give a shit. But what if you had to choose between Amy, Bob, Willie, and her?”

The arrival of Mark’s order saved him from dealing with that uncomfortable question. A few minutes later they were in D.C.’s old GMC pick-up, drinking beer and eating curly fries while driving past the modern, soulless structure that served as both parish courthouse and jail.

As was his long-standing custom, D.C. spit out the window in the general direction of the courthouse. “Since you were sitting with Skeeter, I suppose you heard that Connie Jackson had a baby girl?”

Mark nodded. Connie’s husband, Tommy Jackson, was in Vietnam. A gifted, all-state, running back, he’d married Connie right after graduation and gone to college on a football scholarship where he started on the freshman team. But then he surprised everyone by dropping out and joining the Marines.

“I’ll never understand why T.J. pulled that stunt,” said Mark. “How long before he’ll get to see his baby?”

“And the baby’s good-looking mother,” said D.C.. “But to answer your question, over three months.”

The topics of conversation moved onto life, love, and Mark’s long-standing obsession with Bebe Boudreaux. “I was glad to help,” said D.C., “you know, by playing those records and all. But I’ve never understood why you’re so hung-up on that little coon-ass. Granted, she’s sexy as hell. I mean, I’d nail her for a quarter even if she didn’t pay me.”

Both grinned at his old joke, then D.C. shook his head, “But, man, you know the drill, ‘If they will, screw ‘em. If they won’t, screw ‘em.’ But it’s Bebe whose been screwing you over since the day she first came dragging into town. So why this fascination with her?”

They headed out of town in silence. Mark finished his beer and, in compliance with local, male tradition, tossed the bottle at a passing speed limit sign. He missed. “It’s like this. All my life I’ve been a nice guy. It’s just the way I am. I’m the peacemaker, the polite type mothers always like, a team player, a real competitor. But I’m also the one who’s always the runner-up. I might win a sportsmanship trophy or get ‘honorable mention’ but I never, ever, win it all.”

“Don’t give me that shit. You’ve won a lot of things.”

“Like what? Okay, maybe there has been one or two. But I’m talking about feelings as much as reality. And I’ve always felt like an also-ran in a world of winners. Just think about it, Willie won a state title in high school and now plays for Grambling. Bob was All-District before blowing his knee out, and don’t forget, he dates the luscious Libby.”

D.C. crossed himself and muttered, “Blessed be her name.”

Mark ignored this and continued the litany of his friend’s accomplishments. “Amy was a cheerleader, district MVP in basketball, and homecoming queen—twice. And she’s so damn good-looking. I swear it scares a lot of guys off. And then there’s her big brother, Walt. How’d you like to have ‘all-everything Walt’ for a role model? Don’t get me wrong. He’s been like the big brother I never had. He taught me everything from how to shoot a rifle to the facts of life. But there’s no way in hell anyone can ever match his style. Much less all the stuff he’s done. And now folks say he’s a war hero.”

Mark took a cigarette from the pack D.C. had laid on the seat and pushed in the lighter. “Did you know my dad was a Golden Gloves champ, you know, boxing?”

There was a note of admiration in D.C.’s, “No shit?”

“No shit,” said Mark. “Of course, the best I could ever do was honorable mention all-district in football. My mother was a homecoming queen. And we both know I’m never going to Hollywood with my looks. It’s like I got their worst features.”

Mark paused to light his cigarette. “Oh, you’re gonna love this one,” he said, shoving the lighter back into place. “Last summer, I was visiting some of mother’s relatives in Mississippi. One of my cousins, a real doll, wasn’t able to get me a last minute date. She gave me this apologetic look. Then she said I wasn’t that bad looking. The thing was, girls might give a guy like me a second look, but never a third.”

D.C. laughed. “If either of us has to count on our looks for a meal ticket, we’ll starve.”

“Speak for yourself, oh, skinny-assed one,” said Mark. Then his smile went away. “The thing is, Bebe’s just flat-out turned me on ever since junior high. But if there’s anything more to my wanting her than just hormones, it’s that for me, she’s the ultimate prize, the blue ribbon, the first place trophy I never won. Because I promise you, when she agreed to a date, it made me feel like a real winner.”

As they drove back into Pinefield, Mark flipped his half-finished cigarette out the window. “There’s one other thing. But this is just between you and me. Okay?”

“Lay it on me, big guy.”

“Just before finals, some of us threw a party on the levee. And, well, there was this girl, we were friends, but that’s all. She’s the type normal guys don’t stand a chance with. You know what I mean?”

D.C. nodded. “You’re talking high-class, drop-dead gorgeous, running around baying at the moon, beautiful.”

“You got it. Anyway, somehow we wound up making out. Nothing more, sad to say. But now I’ve got it bad for her, real bad. The thing is, every time we meet she acts like nothing happened. It’s pretty obvious I’m still just a friend to her. And that means if I try anything, odds are about a million to one all I’ll do is screw-up our friendship. I mean, there’s no hope in hell. She’s so far out of my league it’s not funny. So it makes more sense to try getting her out of my mind. And who better to help a guy do that, than Bebe Boudreaux?”

“That makes sense. Just one question.”

“What’s that?”

“Is Amy a good kisser?”

“She’s incredi--.” Mark caught himself and glared at D.C.. “Who did you say? I mean if it was Amy, you’re so full of shit you, uh….”

The emotion drained from his voice and the words trailed off as his anger turned to disgust at himself. “You always could read me like a damn book. You’re right. She was ripped and vulnerable and it’ll never, ever, happen again.”

They drove back to the Hilltop in silence. In the parking lot, D.C. stopped Mark from getting out. “Look, I promised to keep this between us and I will. But, you know, it’s hard to believe I feel sorry for someone who’s made out with Amy Marshall and has a date lined up with Bebe Boudreaux.”

D.C. draped his arms over the steering wheel. The red glow of his cigarette reflected on the cracked windshield. Mark was used to these sudden meditations, and sat back to wait.

With a sigh, D.C. looked over. “But after knowing Amy all your life, you go and fall for her just when Bebe drops in on the act. You didn’t ask for advice, but in my opinion you should tell Bebe to hit the road and then take your best shot with Amy. But you won’t do that. You’re too hung up on Bebe and too afraid of losing Amy. Besides, we both know you’re a nice guy who was born to compromise.”

Mark smiled. D.C. didn’t. “The problem is you could end up losing ‘em both, plus a bunch of friends and, what the hell, toss in your self-respect just for good measure. So I feel sorry for you. No shit, I do. ‘Cause unless you change your ways, something tells me you’re in for a very interesting summer.”

THE SEDUCERS

This is adapted from the opening section of a chapter in my novel, We Danced to Ray Charles, a 92,000 word, coming-of-age, mainstream love story. The central plot is a love triangle, set against a background of growing racial tension and social change in a small southern town in the summer of 1968.

Anyone wishing to read the novel on-line should e-mail me for the secret codewords to gain admittance into the mystic, password protected blog wherein it resides.

All comments and suggestions are welcome.

Bayou Bill

==

The Seducers
by Bill Fullerton

Velma Meeks sat enthroned at one end of the worn couch in her messy, haphazardly furnished living room. She lit a fresh cigarette with her old one, made a token attempt at crushing the butt, then left the still smoldering stub in the overflowing ashtray. Taking a deep drag, she leaned back and let the smoke come out in a long, thin stream. With her smoking chores completed, she propped her bare feet on a Sears catalog spread open on the crowded coffee table and prepared to wait for Bebe's return.

Waiting in patient silence was not her style, however. She turned her head toward the empty doorway to the kitchen. "You know it's hard for me to believe you're this screwed-up. You've always been so self-confident. Now, it's like you don't know whether to shit or go blind."

Bebe came back from the tiny kitchen carrying a Tab and a package of peanut butter crackers. "It's not that bad, really. I've just got this feeling, call it a hunch, that something's not right and I don't know why or what to do about it."

She reclaimed her spot at the other end of the sofa and found a place on the coffee table for the bottle. "The thing is, Mark and I went out a couple of times last weekend. One was a real date. On the other we just went swimming. Both times he seemed, well, sort of distracted. Like, it was nice to be with me, but it was no big deal, either."

"You think maybe he's just jealous and pouting because you went out with Darrell Ray?"

Bebe shrugged and reached for her own cigarettes. "Could be. That's what I'd hoped for. But now I'm not sure. He's never even asked about what I did while he was gone. At first, I figured it was because somebody told him about my dating Darrell Ray and, like you say, he was pouting. But now, I'm beginning to think he just doesn't care."

"I doubt it," said Velma, leaning forward to see if the new coat of bright red polish on her toenails was dry. "Maybe he's just trying to act cool. But judging from what you've told me, I doubt that, too."

Bebe squirmed in her seat. "Oh, did you hear about the crap he pulled this morning?”

Velma shook her head. “Not a word. What happened?”

“Seems he and Amy Marshall showed up at the courthouse with Willie, that nigger friend of theirs, and some nigger gal no one recognized. They talked about being old friends and wanting to register to vote together. Well, the nigger girl didn't, but the rest of 'em did."

"What happened? Was there any trouble?"

"Not a bit." Bebe sounded disgusted. "Sissy Bullock phoned right after they left and told me all about it. According to her, Mac Stringer, she called him an old fart, vanished and nobody could find the Sheriff. Seems like everybody knew what was going to happen, everybody except Sissy and me. What's more, that creepy D.C. Wright was there taking pictures. I guess for next week's paper."

"Mark didn't say anything to you about this?"

"Well, yeah, he kinda did. But he didn't make a big deal out of it. And to tell you the truth, I wasn't paying much attention. Like I said, he was acting so weird. I thought he was talking about politics or just his registering to vote."

There was a brief lull as both women smoked and pondered the situation. Velma sat up and started rummaging around on the coffee table. "You haven't seen my nail file have you?" She paused and looked over at Bebe. "You know, I just had a thought. Was he that way, you know, distracted like, when he picked you up? What I'm asking is, did something happen during the date that might have caused this?"

"Well, he seemed all right at first, I think." Bebe picked the file off the floor and handed it to Velma. "But I was carrying on, doing a lot of the talking. You know, trying to act like I was interested in what he’d done down in Baton Rouge. So I'm not sure. The one thing that was different from any of our other dates was those two damn niggers almost running us off the road."

Velma's eyes widened. "When did that happen?"

"On the way to the Catfish House. It was on that stretch of road with all those hills and curves. We were coming around a really long curve when this over-loaded pulpwood truck with two big niggers in it started coming right at us. I mean they were way over on our side of the road.”

“Damn. What’d y’all do?”

“Mark managed to dodge 'em, somehow. But it was close. I tell you, it just about scared me to death. I flat-out freaked and started yellin' that he should chase those niggers down and teach 'em a lesson. Then I noticed him giving me a kind of funny look and something told me I better shut up. He shook his head and said he'd rather spend his time wrestling with me than those pulpwood haulers."

Velma hooted. "You got to give him credit for coming up with a good line. I just wish you'd noticed how he was acting before then. But I doubt if it matters. I can't see something like that changing how he feels about you. Do you think something might have happened while he was in Baton Rouge, you know, with Amy?"

"I've been wondering the same thing. But I don't think so. Still, with her anything, and I do mean anything, is possible."

"I suppose there could be more going on between them than we first figured. They might of gotten carried away, you know, at one of those parties he told you about. If that happened, maybe he's feeling guilty and all."

Before Bebe could respond, Velma continued, "And while we're on the subject of getting carried away, I take it you two still haven't done the dirty deed?"

"Not yet. The timing just hasn't felt right.” Bebe winked at Velma. "Why do you think I went out with Darrell Ray?"

They both giggled, then Velma said, "Well, honey, maybe he's just getting tired of waiting for some action. Look, even if that's not the main problem, I promise you, a little back-seat boogie session will get you his undivided attention."

Bebe hoped she didn't come off sounding like a kid to her older friend. "You're right, of course. But what if the problem’s something else? Isn't there a chance doing that too soon could make things even worse?"

After lighting another Parliament, Velma said, "Not if you play it right. How you handle a guy after you do it the first time is super important. Nothing personal, but whatever you do, don't try pulling your roommate's old rejuvenating virgin stunt or, even worse, pretend it's your first time. It's 1968, for God's sake. You know better, I know better, odds are even Mark knows better. After all, he's bound to have learned something in college."

Bebe had to grin. "At least a little something."

"The trick is," Velma continued, "to act just a little confused and vulnerable, like it was so incredible you feel all shook up. Instead of saying you've never done it before, you say you've never 'felt' like this before. It's a sneaky little way of suggesting that, even if there might have been one or two others, he's the best."

Down at the other end of the couch, Bebe pretended she was taking notes. "Act confused and say, 'felt.' Is that right, Professor Meeks?"

"You got it. That way he'll get all full of himself and want to be your knight in shining armor and go around saving your honor—for himself, of course. Once he's your big, brave protector, you start hinting around about how it might be nice to have some sort of casual, just for the summer type, understanding. Maybe say something about how that way you'd have a good excuse to say no when guys like Darrell Ray ask you out."

"Velma, you won't do. Does any guy ever have a chance around you?"

"Not if I have my way, honey. They never have and never will. Just ask poor Buddy."

"So you think it's time I got it on with Mark?"

"A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do," said Velma. "And just between you and me and the walls, I've heard some girls say it’s kinda fun."

Bebe grinned, then checked her watch and stood. "I've gotta scoot. But do you remember that joke, the one you said you told Buddy, about how you were giving up sex because it was too messy, too much work, and the position was ridiculous?"

"Oh, yeah. I had Buddy going for a minute. You should've seen his face."

"Well, to tell you the truth, that's pretty much how I really do feel. I love everything leading up to it. You know, the flirting and the dates and even making out. And there are times when I do get a little turned on and really want the guy. That’s when doing it can be fun, at least for me. But most of the time, it seems a lot more about his wants and needs than my feelings. Still, I suppose if it has to be done, it has to be done."

"That's the spirit, girl.”

"Because I promise you," continued Bebe, in a voice that left no doubt about her sincerity, "there's no way in hell I'm going to let anyone, most of all Amy Marshall, keep me from winning this time."

TIRADE AT THE TV - short story

DOLLY PARTON
(Just in case you were wondering)

This short story is based on a chapter from my novel, We Danced to Ray Charles. The protag struggles to endure the racist rantings of his date's father. Check it out, if for no other reason than to learn how Dolly Parton fits into the story. Any comments, whether brickbats or bouquets, are welcome.

Bayou Bill

==

TIRADE AT THE TV
by Bill Fullerton

Jack Boudreaux walked out of his office and into a fight. The combatants were his daughter and Darrell Ray Sims, her sometimes boyfriend and his full-time foreman. “Bebe, what are you two carrying on about?”

Boudreaux was a short, energetic man with thinning hair, intense eyes, and skin a shade darker than his daughter’s olive complexion. A small scar on his right cheek gave his face a certain swagger.

Bebe Boudreaux smiled at her father, then reached for her purse and stood. “I was just telling Darrell Ray here, how it’s a good idea to plan ahead and not wait ‘till the last minute.”

Putting the purse back down, she began straightening her blouse, tucking it in tight. The gesture emphasized her breasts and small waist. All this time, she continued looking at her father while directing her comments toward Darrell Ray. “For instance, it might be important to know that you and I are going to be out of town tomorrow. Or that while I’m going out with Mark Cahill tonight, a date he asked me for days ago, he’ll be in Baton Rouge next weekend.”

Jack Boudreaux let his normal, business voice slide into the exaggerated, Cajun drawl he used when tired, mad, or teasing people. “I gar-on-damn-tee you I ain’t got no idea what da hell you’re talking about, girl. What’s more, I’m damned glad I don’t.” The sly, knowing look on his face contradicted his words.

By then he was holding the back door open, waiting for them to leave first. “You sure you locked up all the other doors?” he asked Darrell Ray when they were all outside.

“Yes sir.”

“That’s fine,” he said, back in his business-like voice. He glanced down at his daughter, then up at the tall, muscular boy who seemed a little uncomfortable. “Call me later if you change your mind about tonight. I still think you’re the best man for the job.”

Darrell Ray seemed to force a grin and promised to think it over. After saying good-evening, he headed over toward his yellow pick-up in the employee’s parking area.

“Daddy, what was all that mumbo-jumbo about?”

“Tell me the truth girl, you been giving that boy a hard time?”

“No more than he deserves.”

“You didn’t accidental-like tell him about where we’re going tomorrow, did you?”

“Of course not.” Bebe’s voice betrayed just a touch of injured pride. “I know better than that. I’ve told him and everybody else that we’re going to a one-day family get-together. He hasn’t heard anything from me about the boys having a big meeting down in Denham Springs.”

They walked over and got into the blue Chevrolet pick-up. Both doors carried the words, “Pinefield Lumber & Building Supply.” “I didn’t mean to ruffle your feathers. It’s just that I asked him about doing a job for me tonight, and he seemed a little shy.”

“And that job is?”

He backed out of the reserved parking spot next to the back door. “Oh, the boys kinda decided it’d be a good idea to remind that nigger lovin’ lawyer, Frank Williams, that white men still run things around here.”

Boudreaux never hesitated to confide with Bebe about his activities with “the boys.” When he joined the local group, it’d been little more than a big, ineffective, redneck social club. Now he was in charge and had given it a sense of mission and discipline. True, the membership was a little smaller. But the ones left were dedicated. Whenever needed, money could be raised, manpower found, and votes delivered. With FBI informants everywhere, he insisted it be referred to as, “the boys,” never by its more familiar title, The Ku Klux Klan.

“What’s Williams’ done to aggravate the boys?” asked Bebe.

“Oh hell, he’s using all kinda legal crap to keep dat nigger, the one Tobias arrested up in Rollins as a Peeping Tom, from being convicted.”

“Is that the same guy you said worked for Ike Carter’s oldest son, the bootlegger?”

“Dat’s him, cher,” he said, dropping back into his Cajun accent. “We done figured nailing his sorry hide would help Tobias get re-elected sheriff. It should also hurt Ike Carter and dat voter’s registration crap he’s pushing. The problem is Williams keeps stringing things out.”

Turning left, he cruised past the courthouse, smiling and waving at a group of old men sitting on a bench in the shade of an oak tree. Bebe had no interest in men who were that old and paid them no attention. “So y’all decided to leave a little present in front of Williams’ house. And you want someone who’s not a member to do it. And that someone is Darrell Ray.”

He waved at a couple in a passing truck while nodding. “You gots it. He’s always talkin’ a good fight. So I figured he’d jump at the chance to show his stuff. But when I brought it up, well, like I said, he acted kinda shy. Still, something tells me that after whatever it was you done did to him, he’ll do just about anything to make a good impression, most especially on you.”

They stopped at one of the few traffic lights in town. “Daddy, let me ask you something. What do you really think, you know, as a man, about Darrell Ray and, well, Mark?”

“All right, you done asked, so I’m gonna tell you. I like Sims a lot more, of course. He’s a good worker and seems to understand what the niggers and communists are trying to do to this country. That’s why I was a little surprised when he put me off.”

When the light turned green he gunned the engine and shot through the intersection. “As for Cahill, well, I can put up with him. But I’m not sure he’s the type you could count on in a foxhole, if you know what I mean. Still, for a country club, college kid, I guess he’s okay—even if Frank Williams is his uncle.”

He turned into the parking lot of Mack McCallum’s Chevrolet dealership, pulled around to the service entrance and stopped. Before Bebe could get out, he reached over and touched her arm. “Now speaking as a daddy, neither one of those redneck peckerwoods is good enough for my petite minou.” The old, familiar nickname earned him a smile.

“No child, I’m serious. Darrell Ray’s a good kid. But I think he’s a little ashamed of his family, and that’s just no good. But I figure it’s why he’s always putting on like he’s got everything all figured out when in actual fact, even he knows he don’t.” Bebe’s smile widened.

“Now I don’t know Cahill near ‘bout as well, but he seems to be just the opposite. I mean he don’t have to go around acting cocky and tough and all ‘cause he knows he belongs. But, maybe ‘cause of that, he don’t seem anxious to stand up for himself or have a whole lot of push or hustle.”

Bebe leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Thanks Daddy. I just wish one of them was more like you.”

He couldn’t help grinning. “I’m afraid you’ll have to do what your sweet mama did. Pick yourself out one of dem boys and start breaking him in.”

#

Later that afternoon the, “one of dem,” named Mark Cahill pulled up in front of the Boudreaux’s ranch style house. He’d picked Bebe up several times, but he still didn’t feel comfortable enough to use the de facto main door on the garage side of the house. Instead, he headed up the narrow concrete walkway which almost disappeared between dense growths of hydrangeas flanking the seldom-used front door.

Bebe was not ready, said her stepmother, after she let him into the house. In her quiet, steel-edged, country voice, Martha Jones Boudreaux asked about his family. Once the formalities were complete, she suggested he wait in the living room and watch TV.

A phone began to ring as she left. From his perch on the edge of a rust-colored couch, Mark could see her move down the polished wooden floor of a narrow, windowless hall. He looked away before she reached the phone nook. But he could hear her answer and then say something in a low voice before walking into a nearby room.

In the silence that followed, Mark studied the big, floor-model TV squatting on the other side of the living room. It was an impressive piece of furniture. But the sound was off and the image on the screen was rolling. That should be easy to fix, but he didn’t want to risk getting caught messing with the controls. The Boudreaux’s might be the type who felt protective toward their television. On the other hand, he didn’t want them to catch him staring at a rolling picture with no sound and think he was some kind of idiot.

After more indecision, he got up and hurried across the room. From his kneeling position in front of the big color Philco, he could no longer see down the hall. But moments later, he had no trouble hearing footsteps on the hardwood floor, followed by someone picking up the phone. Then he heard Jack Boudreaux’s voice. “What can I do you for, Darrell Ray?”

Boudreaux had been out the other times Mark came to pick up Bebe. Tonight, his luck had run out. But the bleak prospect of facing her father seemed trivial once he heard Darrell Ray’s name. Any scruples about eavesdropping were forgotten. Leaving the sound off, he started fiddling with various controls while listening to the conversation.

Jack Boudreaux was talking about niggers and a meeting at work. Mark had been afraid they were going to talk about Bebe or him. He didn’t care what they said about work. But he decided to leave the volume off, just in case, and begin trying in earnest to stop the rolling image on the screen.

Down the hall, Boudreaux was saying, “I’m glad you decided to handle tonight’s job. Remember, Buddy will have everything you need at his place. Make sure to wait until after dark to pick the stuff up.”

None of that made any sense to Mark. But he was still struggling to get the damn picture to stop its endless roll and only half-listening. The next time Boudreaux started talking, there seemed to be just a touch of exasperation in his voice. “Look, I already done told you all that at the office. Nobody’s ever there on Saturday nights. Ever. Tobias has had deputies checking out the place for weeks. They never, ever, come home before eleven. The only thing you gotta worry about is bringing a lighter. Okay?”

After another short pause, Jack spoke in a kinder tone. “You’re going to do fine. You know I’m leaving town early tomorrow morning, so don’t call me late tonight. Why don’t you come in to work a few minutes early on Monday and give me a report?”

It occurred to Mark that if Boudreaux headed for the living room after hanging up, he’d be caught either messing with the TV or eavesdropping. The former would be embarrassing. But the later could be fatal to any future dates with Bebe. So he slowly turned up the volume.

Moments later, he heard Boudreaux say, “Hello,” in a normal voice from across the room. It seemed like a good idea to ignore the greeting and act both deaf and dumb. With a beer jingle blasting into his ears, “Hello, mellow Jax, little darling,” it was an easy act.

Just as the jingle ended, Boudreaux once again said hello. Only this time it was in a loud, booming voice that originated a few inches behind Mark’s head.

Mark had been expecting something like that. But the shout still made him jump. He turned his head and looked up into the smirking face of Jack Boudreaux. “If I’d been a Jap you’d be graveyard dead, boy.”

“Good thing you guys won the war,” replied Mark, as he got to his feet. “Hope I didn’t make things even worse. But I couldn’t make the picture stop rolling.”

“It always does that this time of day, but only on that station,” said Boudreaux. He reached down and changed channels. “It’s just a damn good thing it’s not the one that carries the, Porter Wagoner Show. I suppose you’ve seen that new singer of his, the one who took the place of ‘Pretty Miss’ Norma Jean?”

Mark nodded. Everyone seemed to have heard and seen the new singer. Dolly Parton possessed a massive amount of teased, blonde hair and a voice that was every bit as impressive as her gravity defying bosom.

A short series of Dolly Parton jokes, followed. “Why are her feet so small? Can’t nothin’ grow in that much shade.” This kept conversation going until Mark managed to reclaim his spot on the edge of the couch. Boudreaux took possession of the large recliner that had to be his domestic throne.

The safest thing for two men unsure of each other’s attitudes and opinions to talk about is sports. Boudreaux began, “You’re going to LSU, right?” Mark nodded. “So how the Tigers gonna do this year?”

They spent the next few minutes talking about LSU football, “that Bradshaw kid,” up at Louisiana Tech and how the Saints might do in their second season. Then just as Mark was beginning to relax, Boudreaux changed the subject. “How were things in Baton Rouge after old, Martin ‘Lucifer’ Coon got shot?”

Mark knew Boudreaux was referring to the death of Dr. Martin Luther King. He also knew he was on thin ice. “Things were a little tense for a while. There were some marches and protests and everybody was on edge. The students at Southern University are a lot more militant than the ones up at Grambling. No one was sure what might happen. Of course, Baton Rouge wasn’t a real hot spot. At least, not in comparison to what went on in some of the towns over towards Mississippi.”

Mark wasn’t sure what, but something he said must have flipped a switch inside Boudreaux. “They can yell and scream all they want, we still control things down here, and we’re gonna make sure we stay in control. What worries me is out there in California, in faggot land, and up north, in places like Jew York City. Hell, all those niggers do is scream about their rights, collect welfare checks, and chase after white women.”

When he’d come home for the summer and heard Boudreaux was running the local Klan, Mark had been skeptical. Cajuns didn’t fool with the Klan, much less become honchos. But listening to Boudreaux, maybe the stories were true. But even if they were, that didn’t mean Bebe was involved. “Well, maybe so, sir. I don’t know. I mean I’ve never been to any of those places myself.”

“There’s no damn ‘maybe’ about it.” Boudreaux was almost shouting. “Niggers carry the curse of Cain. It’s in your Bible, look it up. They’re a sub-human, jungle race dat’s being used by the ACL-Jew and all those other commies and queers to take dis country away from the white, Christian race. And by God they'll do it too if we don’t stick together.”

Mark considered trying to ease the intensity by making a joke about how white folks aren’t actually white. But he shelved the idea. If he had to risk pissing Boudreaux off, he didn’t want the issue to be some imagined insult regarding the color of the Cajun’s deeply tanned skin.

“Mr. Boudreaux, I’ve got a lot of respect for you, for what you did in the war, and all. And I know I’m just a kid and you’ve seen and done a lot more than I have. But Mr. Boudreaux, one of my best friends is Willie Carter and he’s black. And I’m sorry if this disappoints you or makes you mad at me, but he and I have been friends forever. The thing is Mr. Boudreaux, Willie may be black, but he’s not a nigger, and he’s not sub-human.”

There was a moment’s silence. When Boudreaux began, his voice was a little softer. “I’m not saying there’s not some decent niggers. Hell, there’s always an exception to every rule. If you’ve known this boy all your life, then maybe he’s one. Maybe he’s got a little white blood that’s brought out the good in him. It happens. But what about that troublemaking daddy of his, the preacher who keeps going around stirring up the niggers? And what about his brother, the bootlegger? Hell, I guess it’s a family deal. One juices ‘em up Saturday night and the other stirs ‘em up Sunday morning.”

Boudreaux laughed at his own joke, but Mark couldn’t force a smile. He ached to shout, “For the love of God, shut up! I’m so tired of acting polite while idiots like you rant and rave all this brain-dead racist shit. All you sad-ass losers have done is discredit the South and the flag my ancestors fought and died under. Why the hell won’t you just go away?"

But he couldn’t say that to an adult, not to anyone from Pinefield. Most of all, not to Bebe’s father while sitting in his living room waiting to take her on a date.

Sometimes, he felt certain the losers would never go away. They were like the poor. They’d always be around. Now as he looked over at Boudreaux, the only thing Mark could think to do was make a non-committal shrug.

To his surprise, the shrug seemed to make Boudreaux even madder. “So tell me son, what are we supposed to do? I’m saying we can’t just let the commies and coons come in and take over. We gotta fight for our rights, for our way of life.”

Mark looked at the floor, ignoring the challenge in the older man’s eyes, and considered his response. “I’m a southerner, Mr. Boudreaux. According to Dad, my great grandfather fought the U.S. government from Shiloh to Stone Mountain. The thing is, he and all the rest of those men fought hard, but we still lost. And now, I’ve got it on good authority, those same Feds have the atomic bomb.”

Much to his relief, Boudreaux’s face broke into a small, pleased grin. “Does make it seem like a stacked deck, I guess. But just you remember, it’s not the size of the dog in the fight that counts, but the size of the fight in the dog.”

Before Mark could frame a reply to that old football cliché, Bebe made her grand entrance. She was wearing a short, white, summer dress that accentuated her long, dark hair and olive complexion. Even before she pirouetted and asked how she looked, all other topics of conversation had ceased to exist. After receiving the accolades of her male admirers, she gave her father a quick good-bye kiss and hurried out with Mark.

Unnoticed on the television, Porter Wagoner and the Wagonmasters were singing, “Feel fresh and clean inside. Black-Draught makes you feel clean from the inside out.”