Welcome to The Bern
Katie Lee woke up with an impressive welt on her head, making the raw scab directly under my bra strap look like a mere shrapnel scratch. Figuring the Bar Brawl Bitches would seek revenge, we mutually agreed to avoid the Holiday Inn for a few weekends. The bar scene had given me a party fix with an ending I didn’t want to repeat. We planned to search for another venue, where I hoped I’d have another sighting of the guy in the green jacket. I’m the kind of girl who preps for tests and picks out clothes the night before class. For an in-case encounter, I jotted down one-liners that ranged in topic from “I’m lost” directional-type questions to compliments on shoes.
Saturday afternoon I hadn’t found the strength to shower and nursed an ice water from a straw. The only energy I mustered came from shifting my butt so it didn’t go completely numb in Macy’s black beanbag. Katie Lee lounged in her floral robe and debriefed us on the latest in the Nash-car-accident-turned-trespassing-prescription-forgery saga.
“Y’all, Daddy’s not pressin’ charges. Nash went over to our house and apologized. He’s goin’ to wash and wax our cars and boats to pay for the grief and minor damage he caused at the house. The entire misunderstanding has been forgotten.”
I stared at Katie Lee in wonderment. Did she make this stuff up? A car wreck that involved detectives from the police department, patrol cars at the 7-Eleven, a pharmacist, and Dr. Brown’s office receptionist. How could Katie Lee and her parents brush the incident aside?
When Katie Lee’s updates wound down, my eyes hung on her in a hypnotic stare. I wasn’t sure of an appropriate response, and an uncomfortable silence clouded Macy’s room.
Macy drenched a cotton ball with polish remover and offered her two cents of insightful feedback. “That’s fucked up.”
I laid my head back and closed my eyes. “You need to find another boyfriend.”
I LAUNDERED MY BEDDING every Monday, whereas Katie Lee was of the do-laundry-when-you-run-out-of-clean-underwear mind-set. She hadn’t developed a relationship with the basement washing machines and electric dryers since we arrived, and her closet floor held an avalanche of clothes. I suspected she regarded her underwear as reversible.
Frustrated that I wasn’t in a regular party scene and hadn’t met a selection of available guys, except Hugh, I slumped around our dorm room and smoked cigarettes. After squaring the corners of my freshly laundered sheet, I sprawled on my bed and told Katie Lee, “Waves of guilt wash over me regarding my newly acquired habit of nicotine consumption.”
Huddled over her notebook with her back to me, Katie Lee wrapped her ankles around her desk chair legs. “Fortunately your memory becomes a blank slate when you pick up a lighter.”
I bent a row of matches back before I ripped one out. “The nagging conscience I possess is the kind that only extremely crafty PUs are capable of instilling in their children, even though they are physically hundreds of miles away.”
“Come on, Rachael. You feel guilty even though your mother’s in Sedona? She hasn’t even called. Her behavior doesn’t exactly set an example.”
“Maybe the guilt is from my mom being gone. Like I should be the model student, perfectly behaved, otherwise I’ll end up like her—chasing illusions.” Pretending to have a spasm, I dropped to the floor and winced. “PTT—parental telepathy transmission—coming through.”
The slim white filter I placed between my lips bobbed like a teeter-totter as I spoke. I pointed to it. “I have a love-hate relationship with these. Damn. Two transmissions. One from Ohio and another, which pisses me off, from Arizona.”
Without glancing up from the love letter she penned to Nash, Katie Lee asked, “What’re they telling ya?”
“It’s serious. I can’t shake the image. I’m being escorted by the earlobe into the Order of the Nuns of Perpetual Silence for permanent residence to refurbish Bibles—forever.”
Capping the pen, Katie Lee licked the back of a lavender envelope. “Damn, Rachael, where do you come up with this stuff?”
I didn’t have an answer.
She relocated her backside on the edge of my desk and bummed a Benson & Hedges slim cigarette from the open pack. “Next weekend is New Bern’s high school homecoming football game. Wanna come? All my girlfriends will be there. It’ll be a blast, and I’ve found someone to drive us.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Hugh.”
“The guy from the Holiday Inn who wore the beer down his pants?”
She nodded. “He’s headed to his dad’s house in Wilmington, and he’ll drop us off along the way. My mom will pick us up from Warsaw.”
More than once, Katie Lee had droned on about how her hometown on the coast was “an official historic North Carolina tourist location, founded in 1710.” She would ramble, “New Bern is the second-oldest town in North Carolina, with over one hundred fifty landmarks—some dating to the eighteenth century.” She also swore it was a hell of a place to party.
Katie Lee liked drama—her boyfriend was proof—and she had a tendency to exaggerate. I suspected she added umph to New Bern’s fun factor attributes, but it didn’t matter. I kept my expectations low. Going away for a relaxing weekend, eating normal food, and getting ahead on my studies were my only requirements. “I’d love to visit New Bern,” I told her and meant it.
IT WAS ONE OF THOSE weeks that went on forever. When Friday arrived, I could barely contain my excitement to leave town. That is until I took a good look at the students behind me in my psych lecture. Katie Lee and I were meeting Hugh in half an hour. My head was in the clouds, and I’d dawdled outside my class feeling bittersweet. Wait until I told the girls. Mystery man has been behind my back, literally, since day one. The lecture hall I’d left had over two hundred students, and I always sat near the front of the auditorium, away from the arctic air-conditioning vents. Plus, I liked to decipher the scribbly notes the professor etched on the board in case they ended up on a test. Today I’d had a Where’s Waldo sighting. The hot guy in the green jacket I’d spotted at the Holiday Inn freakin’ sat in the nosebleed section. On the plus side, I hadn’t seen any tall, blue-eyed redheads near him. Maybe someone had the foresight to lock her in a padded room. Now I just had to figure out if Hot Guy and She-Devil were involved.
HUGH DROVE HIS POOP-COLORED rusted Datsun hatchback well below the speed limit the entire trip. He and Katie Lee carried on a conversation in the front seats of the car, which I couldn’t hear above the busted muffler that hummed in my ears. Shifting in my seat, I leaned forward to avoid the cracked plaid plastic upholstery stuffing that pricked at my shoulder and the underside of my bare knees. The gray duct tape that held the passenger door together had lost its money-back-guaranteed adhesive stick, and I listened to shredded strips flap like a flag in high winds. Driving above fifty would’ve left generous mementos, in the form of vital engine parts, on highways across the state, so neither Katie Lee nor I grumbled about Granny-Snail-Speed behind the wheel.
By the time Mrs. Brown picked us up, an hour outside of New Bern, daylight had succumbed to dusk. The trip across the state took four excruciating hours, and Katie Lee complained, “As sweet as Hugh is, his car is a dump. We’re lucky we made it to meet my mom.”
Mrs. Brown had a heavy foot, and in no time, her headlights reflected neatly aligned magnolia trees that led to a detached garage. I stepped out of the car and inhaled a pine tree woodsy smell. Clustered like matchsticks, the dried needles formed a carpet along the berm. Soft churns of rippling water lapped against the shore I couldn’t see, and a night owl called.
“Come on, y’all,” Mrs. Brown said. “Let’s get inside.”
Following Katie Lee, I paused. Gas porch lights flickered on a two-story brick home. Moss baskets draped with beech ferns and vinca vine hung between half a dozen columns on an elevated porch. Rushing past a pair of high-back plantation rocking chairs, Katie Lee vanished through the front door. I admired the handmade needlepoint bolster pillows and watched the rockers sway in harmony with the night breeze. Mrs. Brown rested her hand on my shoulder. “Late at night, I sit here to rest my bare feet on the floorboards and ponder. It’s my favorite spot.”
I turned to her. “If I take one of these chairs for a test rock, I may never go back to school.”
“Hey, Daddy!” Katie Lee shouted above hound howls. Past the entry in a room tucked in the back, Dr. Brown sat resting his neck against a soft leather recliner. I guessed the two furry companions with droopy ears had been keeping his feet warm until we arrived. She wrapped her arms around him from behind and planted a kiss on the peak of his graying hair before cooing at the dogs that stuck their wet noses into her knees. “Okay, Uncle, okay, Sims. Settle down.”
Folding what looked like a medical periodical, Dr. Brown stood and hugged Katie Lee. I’d briefly met him the first day on campus, and he was dressed exactly the same in khaki pants with pressed creases down the center. He probably rotated between dark polo shirts in the winter and bright ones in the summer. Tucking the folded paper between the arm of the chair and the cushion, he greeted me, “Well hey there, Rachael.”
“Y’all must be hungry,” Mrs. Brown said. “Come on into the kitchen. I have crab cakes and slaw waiting.”
Mrs. Brown liked decorative plates, and Dr. Brown killed furry things. Both their tastes merged in a display on the high shelf that wrapped around the eat-in kitchen.
“Mama, you shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble. I hope you don’t mind, but we have to eat and run, otherwise we’ll miss the game.”
Pulling the crab cakes from a warming drawer, Mrs. Brown set them on a lazy Susan. She offered me a clear ketchup bottle with pink sauce. “It’s my secret recipe. Puts kick in your crab cakes.”
“Daddy, I still get the van tonight, right?” Katie Lee confirmed. She’d told me that her dad was particular about who drove the car and normally only used the vehicle for special occasions and on road trips. Tonight Katie Lee had volunteered to chauffeur. She told her parents, “I’m picking up a few friends, and there’s more room in the cruiser.”
Mrs. Brown lowered her red-rimmed glasses down the bridge of her nose. “What friends, exactly, are y’all drivin’?”
“The usual. Patsy, Shelby, Addie, and some other friends.”
With piercing eyes, Dr. Brown told Katie Lee, “No Nash. Understood?”
“Oh, Daddy, he’s old business.”
That was news to me.
“All right then,” Dr. Brown said. “Drive safe, and don’t be too late.”
A PLASTIC ODOR CLUNG to the van interior, and a light dust coated the dashboard. Clicking the power window switch, I let river air subdue the upholstery smell. “We’ll pick up Patsy first. You’ve probably heard me talk about her. We’ve been friends since the fourth grade. She’s a senior at New Bern High.”
Riding around in a van full of girls didn’t hold much promise for meeting guys and partying. I figured we’d go to the football game and then end up on someone’s porch, shooting the shit. I guessed I’d shadow Katie Lee as she caught up with her high school buddies. I would try not to be the clingy roommate, but not knowing anyone in New Bern, that could prove to be a challenge. Not my idea of a killer night, but it was better than staring at dorm room walls.
A mile from her house, Katie Lee eased off the gas and glided into an oyster-shell-covered driveway that popped and cracked under the Michelins. Headlights illuminated Patsy McCoy. Wisps of honey-streaked hair entwined her thin gold loop earrings, and she wore a silk scarf as a headband. Patsy’s patchwork denim skirt had been several pairs of Levi’s in a prior life. She leaned on a mermaid mailbox while she tapped her flip-flopped foot. As we pulled up alongside, she uncrossed her arms, uncovering the peace sign logo on a tie-dye tee.
“Patsy,” Katie Lee said. “Rachael.”
Patsy slammed the slider door shut. “Y’all are late. What happened?”
Katie Lee had never fully depressed the brake, and the van lurched when shifted into reverse. “Lord, Patsy, our ride, as sweet as he was, drove below the speed limit the entire way home is what happened. Then Mama went and made crab cakes. The table was set. We couldn’t leave.”
Holding her hand on her heart, Patsy gaped. “With the pink sauce?”
“Rachael and I are wrecked. The trip took an hour ‘n’ twenty longer than it should’ve. Hugh’s car isn’t road trip safe. We’re not ridin’ with him on Sunday.”
“How are we going to get back?”
“You just leave that to me.”
Patsy unzipped her purse and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Pick up Shelby next. Leslie is over at Addie’s. I told Trish, Sarah, and Delany we’d be there in twenty.”
“No smoking in the van. If Daddy smells tobacco, he’ll make us look at x-rays of lung cancer patients again.”
Katie Lee may as well have driven an oversized yellow bus. Lost in a maze of names and conversations, I decided to stop paying attention to the body count at the fifth driveway. I knew there were enough girls in the back to clear a drugstore’s shelves of lip gloss and hair spray in a single sweep. With the van seating at capacity, Katie Lee pulled into the 7-Eleven.
Sucking on an unlit cigarette, Patsy held out her hand. “Everyone who wants BJs, pitch in a five.”
“Sounds good. I’m in,” voices mumbled.
Handing five singles to the back of the van, I thought BJ didn’t sound right. I’d lived in North Carolina for a month and still found myself confused when a southerner spewed slang, tall tales, colloquialisms, or idioms. “So,” I asked Katie Lee, “they’re getting BJs?”
“And cigarettes,” she told me.
I still didn’t have a clue what my five-dollar donation would be purchasing.
Two girls left the van, and moments later, a rap, rap, rap noise startled me. They climbed back in and emptied paper bags in the middle of the seats. Patsy handed me a green glass bottle with a silver label. “You like Bartles & Jaymes wine coolers, right?”
Katie Lee spun the driver seat around. “Y’all, listen up. I’m drinking tonight, so who’s gonna drive?”
Moments lingered between whispers. Without a volunteer, we were stuck at the 7-Eleven until I heard Patsy grumble about already having missed the first half of the football game. Yielding her wine cooler to an open hand in the back, she called out, “Move over,” and clambered her way into the driver seat. Turning the ignition over, she twisted her head to the passengers. “Ladies, next stop, the football field.”
Sitting in the front with Patsy, I listened to gossip and guy-scoop from Chapel Hill, Meredith College, and NC State, but if tested on who said what, I’d fail miserably. Katie Lee relaxed her no cigarette rule, as long as the girls exhaled out the window.
A hand from behind passed a makeup bag forward. “This is for Patsy.”
Stuffing the small case between her legs, she unzipped it with one hand and pulled out a bowl, a palm-sized baggie of weed, and a stubby metal pipe. Using her gift of ambidexterity, she alternated steering with her left then right while she packed the bowl. For an encore, she lifted both hands off the steering wheel and drove with her knees so she could light up.
“Are you okay there?” I asked.
Patsy sucked the pipe and ballooned the sweet smoke in her lungs. She exhaled out the open window. “I’m great. Want some?”
I found it curious that Katie Lee wouldn’t drink and drive, but it was okay for Patsy to inhale and drive. I’d never smoked weed. It was on my “to-do” list, but I thought it best not to stink up the Browns’ van. I didn’t want Dr. Brown lecturing me on the hazards of inhaling. “Naw, I’m good.”
Patsy’s post-pot driver foot powered through three yellows. Beneath the traffic lights, she licked two fingers and stuck them onto the carpeted roof above her head.
“What’s the saliva finger thing all about?”
She informed me, “It’s good luck to lick and stick under a yellow light.”
When we entered a residential neighborhood, she executed two stop sign roll bys. I would’ve been more comfortable in the back where I couldn’t see Patsy’s navigational finesse flash before my eyes. Since I was trapped in the cockpit, I reached behind the visor flap and familiarized myself with state maps.
Oak trees framed the underside of an illuminated stadium, and autumn leaves had gathered between the parked cars. Patsy drove up and down the aisles looking for an open spot. “Crap, y’all, we’re late and there’s no parkin’.”
Turning a fast, not-wide-enough left, we heard a CRUNCH-SMASH noise, and Patsy locked her eyes with mine.
“Shit, y’all,” someone shouted. “Was that a fender bender?”
Another voice sent a news flash. “I see a hunk of metal lying on the ground back there.”
The hairs on my arms stood straight, and I thought three lick and sticks had been overkill. The third one had probably jinxed us. Midway down the aisle, Patsy put the van in park, and everyone piled out. As we assessed the situation, we saw that no one seemed to be around, and the noise from the cheering crowd stayed contained inside the stadium. After a pause, the consensus of our huddled group became: What crunch? What noise? Fender? I don’t see a fender lying in the parking lot without a car attached to it.
In a serious tone Katie Lee professed, “Y’all, what just happened, didn’t happen.”
My internal bells and whistles blared. I worked hard to block an urgent PTT—parental telepathy transmission—but not wanting to create a confrontation or add to the drama, I quickly rationalized: It’s their town. It’s Katie Lee’s van. These girls must know what they’re doing.
The dozen girls from inside the van who’d been witnesses were eager to move away from the accident and scattered like fiddler crabs beneath the rising tide. Patsy, Katie Lee, and I found a distant parking spot and examined the van under the haze of a street lamp.
From the curb, Patsy and I watched Katie Lee pace. “There’re a few nicks along the side,” she said to herself. “No big dents or missing parts. When the van is in the garage, the scratches will face the wall. No one will notice.”
Katie Lee had mentioned that New Bern was a hell of a place to party, and I found myself wondering if she meant to say, “New Bern is a hell of a place to get arrested.” Her “No one will notice” proclamation seemed an ostrich-head-in-the-sand fantasy. Someone could go to jail. It had better not be me.
NOTE TO SELF
Katie Lee’s home is over-the-top southern. If I were from New Bern, I’d brag about it.
BJ. Get your mind out of the gutter. It’s a wine cooler brand.
Hit ‘n’ run—imagine it never happened. My gut tells me that’s highly unlikely.