Something She Can Feel
“You get used to it. I’m so used to it, I hardly know any other way to live,” I said, thinking of how country and old-timey I must’ve seemed to her. Thirty-three and caring what other people thought of how much I drank? But this was how things were done with my family ... with my community. Image was everything. I was a Cash. I was a DeLong. And new times or not, everywhere I went, that went with me. Now being a PK wasn’t easy. I always had eyes on me—eyes that judged and tended to hold me in a higher regard than it did other kids. Unlike other PKs I knew (including Jr), I fought not to let the trappings of other people’s ideas rule my life or add to my circumstances. When I was just eight years old and discovered that Nana Jessie had Krazy-glued the clothes onto my Barbie and Ken dolls—for fear I’d ever see them naked—I decided that I had to discover the world on my own. I’d soon see that that was easier said than done.
“What do you do to really enjoy yourself ?” Kayla asked.
“Oh, we find ways,” Billie said mischievously.
“Yeah, Billie’s been quite the understanding friend,” I said, petting her hand playfully on the table.
“Not like Ms. May,” Billie jumped in. “She’s good and saved.”
“Who’s that?” Kayla asked.
“That’s my sister-in-law,” I responded. “She’s a bit of a holy roller.”
“Jesus was her first boyfriend.” Billie giggled.
“You laugh, but he must’ve been, for her to put up with my brother!”
“Yeah, I saw her on Monday night at the gas station. She looked so sad,” Billie said.
“Really? You didn’t tell me.”
“I forgot all about it. Mustafa and I were filling up and she pulled up and got out of the car.”
“Was she alone?”
“Yes. And I called her name, but she just kept on walking. So I didn’t say anything. I figured she must’ve been coming from Monday night Bible study or something.”
“You guys have Monday night Bible study here?” Kayla asked.
“Please, we have Bible study every night around here,” Billie said. “We study the Bible so much down here that some pastors just be adding their own chapters. Talking about what Martin Luther King, Jr., did in the New Testament.”
“Stop playing,” I said, slapping Billie with my napkin as we all laughed. “But enough about us. What about you? What brings you to Tuscaloosa? And I know it wasn’t to come teach at Black Warrior.”
“Love,” Kayla answered as if she’d anticipated my question.
“Love?” Billie and I said together.
“Love in Tuscaloosa?” Billie added. “Is he fifteen or fifty-nine?”
“No,” she laughed.
“Well, you must’ve left him in New York City with the Prada, because there are no single men down here,” Billie revealed.
“Who is it?” I asked.
“His name is Richard. Richard Holder.”
“Holder?” I repeated, running through faces and names in my head.
“Little Dickie?” Billie jumped in, taking her third martini from the waitress.
“Yeah. You two know him?”
“Know him?” we said again together as our eyes widened and we looked from Kayla to one another in amazement.
“Girl, please, Tuscaloosa’s the size of a squirrel’s nuts. Of course we know him,” Billie said matter-offactly but with a hint of a question surrounding the word “know.” Not only was Richard a traffic cop that led the way for me to the church every Sunday, but Little Dickie was also newly divorced from his wife of fifteen years. Without speaking, I knew that both Billie and I were wondering if the Kayla Kenley sipping blue liquor out of the martini glass at our table was the woman behind the rumored e-mails that split them up.
“I met him three months ago when I was up in Birmingham at my aunt’s funeral,” Kayla said to eyes that I’m sure were wide and still on her. “I’d never been there before and he was in town for the day. He showed me everything there was to see. I fell in love with the place ... and then him. And here I am.”