One Bad Clam
The sky was cloudless, and intermittent gusts of warm air tossed my ponytail. I rested in a front porch rocker while Bacon, Katie Lee’s tabby, wound figure eights around my legs. Patsy’s turquoise Chevy Nova streaked up Katie Lee’s driveway before it clambered to a halt. Clive rode in the front and Mitch in the back. Before she’d cut the engine, Nash coasted Big Blue in behind them. Patsy rolled her window down. “Wanna ride with us to Jackson’s?”
“I’ll grab a sweater and let Katie Lee know.”
As I returned, Clive fiddled with the cassette case, and Mitch hopped out of the back, resting his arm on the roof. “Hey, Raz,” he said, “it’s been a while.”
Mitch’s hair was wet, and he smelled freshly showered. He held the back door open until I buckled myself in. Despite being considerate and cute, he wasn’t a big-enough distraction to ease my mind about Katie Lee’s lackadaisical reaction to Bridget’s confession. And then there were Nash and Billy Ray. I didn’t have a fuzzy feeling about being at a party with those two. I went through the motions of conversation as Patsy drove us across town, but my mind spaced. I needed to get a handle on what was inside Katie Lee’s head. Maybe she’d concealed Bridget’s admission under a smokescreen of self-preservation. But tonight, she could very well pop her top. And when she did, I didn’t know if I could guarantee my own self-control. Bridget could be wearing two purple eyes at the party.
In less than fifteen minutes Patsy was cruising a quaint street of retail stores with scalloped awnings over storefronts. New Bern, with its postcard-perfect shops and marina alcove, had a Norman Rockwell charm. Searching for somewhere to park, she glided into an unmetered space near the pier.
A block-paved sidewalk with evenly spaced willow trees framed a dozen shops. Digging deep into her canvas purse, Patsy took her time getting out of the car. When Mitch and Clive spotted a docked Hewescraft fish trawler, a magnetic force reeled at them to take a closer look.
She found what she’d rummaged for and paused to light a cigarette. I leaned against a black streetlamp and waited for her.
Across the street, a small art gallery nestled on a corner next to a restaurant outdoor patio. The brick exterior had been painted periwinkle. Glossy black paint trimmed the display window and the Dutch door. Together we walked to the front, where a handwritten note read, Be back soon.
Inside, the lights were off, but I could see an eclectic mix of southern-inspired paintings, sculpture, and pottery. The backlit window display illuminated an oil painting called Baptism, by Clementine Hunter. Patsy offered me a cigarette. I declined. I’d resolved not to smoke until I had a buzz. Pointing to the painting, I told her, “My dad is restoring some of her pieces for a museum in New Orleans.”
“Cool,” Patsy said, more interested in her drag than the art. Happy to lean against the brick-clad exterior, she waited while I scanned a framed biography that rested on a plate-sized easel.
Clementine Hunter, a self-taught artist, specialized in African American folk art. Born outside of New Orleans in 1886, Hunter was the granddaughter of a slave. Having never learned to read or write, she didn’t sign her paintings but instead overlaid her initials. She chose to paint simple landscapes of early 20th century plantation life, depicted in bright colors on scraps of wood, doors, and even fabric blinds. Once established, she transitioned to canvas as a medium.
I loved her primitive style, the free whimsy, the layered colors, and I couldn’t stop staring at the creativity behind the raw talent. Then it hit me. Halloween. I honed my eyes on the signature. Shadows were cast on it, and I wished I was on the other side of the glass. The insignia rested about four inches up from the bottom right, the same as the one I saw in Stewart’s frat loft. Why did he have a copy of a Clementine Hunter and all those other artists?
Stomping out her ciggy, Patsy turned her attention back to the small, unframed painting. “Eight thousand dollars. Hell, I’ll paint something like that for a quarter of the price.”
“Painting a work of art isn’t easy. If it were, we’d all be doing it.”
BOAT SLIPS JUTTED OUT from the pier, and at the end rested a captain’s oasis, the Marina Supply Store. Weathered wide-plank siding gave the building vintage appeal. A briny film clung to the windows, and I could barely see inside. In addition to selling a wide selection of candy bars, beer, and cigarettes, the store also sold fresh and frozen bait. As far as I could tell, it was an overpriced 7-Eleven.
Beyond the dock, a fishing boat churned a chop. On its way out of the harbor, it puttered past Patsy and me. She led the way around the perimeter of the building. Behind the store, there was a set of Dumpsters piled high with cardboard boxes and a staircase that spiraled up to Jackson’s second-story deck where smoke billowed out to sea.
Halfway up the steep climb, I leaned back against the wood rail and strained my eyes upward into the late afternoon sunlight. A snow-white seagull squawked as it hovered above the tin rooftop where the rest of a flock rested with their beaks facing the wind.
Mitch and Clive and dozens of others I didn’t recognize were already on the deck and inside the apartment. The nautical location with a 360-degree view of the water was killer. Jackson’s décor was less astounding and more of what I’d call beachy-bachelor mix and match. I never knew crab traps were multifunctional as end tables. An old buoy, rigged with a yellow flashing emergency light, added an alternative whimsical touch to one of the corners. Only a guy would have a plaid sofa piled with Mexican blankets instead of cushions. And only a guy would set up a clambake on a deck just outside his living room.
In the center of the elevated patio, six knee-high Smokey Joe charcoal grills snaked like a Matchbox track. The foil-lined grill tops heaved with mussels, clams, and fish fillets. Plumes of fish smoke wafted through every apartment door and window, permeating my hair and clothes with eau de clam.
“Where is Jackson?” I asked Patsy. “And does his apartment always smell like this?”
Patsy curled the corners of her mouth. “Jackson’s tall, thin, and always has a pinch of Copenhagen under his lip. You met him at Billy Ray’s on your last visit.”
“Pre- or post-Bathtub Dew?”
Patsy giggled. “Pre. He ladled you a glass.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Are you going to eat any?”
“The clams are amazing, but don’t open closed shells or you’ll be hugging the porcelain all night.”
“Who are all these people?”
Patsy pointed at the doorway. “Two of my brothers are over there.”
I hadn’t met Patsy’s parents, but from what I saw, they carried an extraordinary gene pool. She told me she was the only girl and second youngest of eight.
“Isn’t there a fable about seven brothers with supernatural powers?”
“Did the superpowers involve burping, farting, and wrestling?”
Patsy and I secured spots on the Mexican blanket sofa, and I asked, “Are you and Clive an item?”
“He hasn’t made a move, and it’s starting to annoy me. I think he’s worried if we fool around, one of my brothers may kick his ass. I can’t wait until next year when I go to university. I’ve got to get away from The Bern.” Without a pause, she asked, “Do you like Mitch?”
“Of course I like Mitch. What’s not to like?”
“Romantically? Because he likes you.”
“Patsy, the age difference flips me out. Besides, I like hanging out with the McCoys too much to screw things up.”
“That’s too bad, ’cause he’s a terrific guy.” Leaning into my ear, she whispered, “My favorite brother.”
I heard familiar voices from outside the open windows before I saw the Grogan Girls’ faces. Katie Lee led Macy and Bridget into the apartment. There was a brief delay, and then I spotted Nash, Stewart, and two more people I didn’t know beyond the glass slider deck doors. If Katie Lee knew that Bridget had slept with Nash, they all were acting civil about it.
Patsy leaned in. “Looks like the mischief-makers have arrived.”
Bridget spotted some guys holding a beer bong and asked, “Can I try?”
It was then that I knew I’d misunderstood her conversation with Katie Lee. She hadn’t revealed “the favor” she’d done for Katie Lee. I broke my self-imposed rule of not smoking until I had a buzz and bummed a lit one from Patsy. Rewinding my memory, I chewed on what I’d overheard. Had Bridget confided having sex with someone other than Nash? I inhaled deeper. Busy night. It was petty, but it irked me that even she had slept with a guy or two before I had. Not that I wanted to be intimate with Nash—’cause I’d stay a virgin if he were my only option.
While demon-eyeing Bridget, I exercised my thumb on my beer can pull-tab. She was no southern delicacy. This beer bong connoisseur had a naughty habit of luring her friends’ men into bed. Her competitiveness, especially where Katie Lee was concerned, had to be stopped. Unfortunately, no one else seemed to notice her devious tendencies. Her candy-coated blonde exterior was a deceitful illusion that hid rancid liquid goo. The game she played didn’t have rules, but I knew one thing: Bridget Bodsworth wasn’t going to win as long as I was around.
Red nails dangled two frothy cups of beer in my face. “Hold these,” Macy instructed. Resting her backside on the sofa arm next to me, she said, “Stewart Hayes doesn’t know it, but he and I are going to finish what was started last night.”
Steadily downing liquid bravery, Macy prepared for a pounce, but she didn’t swallow fast enough. Another cat, with a southern meow, moved in. Bridget ran her finger around the rim of her beer cup. “Hey, Stewart. Wanna join me in the back room for a game of foosball?”
Abruptly Macy stood. “Fucking-A.” She grabbed me by my arm and pried me from my prime viewing spot. Leading me down a hallway, she halted short of a bedroom where Bridget and Stewart had disappeared. “You and I are joining them.”
“Macy, I don’t foos.”
“This’ll be a quick intervention. I just need to send Stewart some signals.”
I waved my hand at the air that stung my eyes. “I hope you know Apache. In here the only signals you’ll be sending are smoking ones.”
Before I stepped into the bedroom, Mitch handed me a plate of assorted seafood. I would’ve stayed to chat, but Macy wouldn’t let go. In passing, I told him, “Thanks.”
A maroon sheet secured with duct tape hung over the only window. In addition to the budget-conscious curtain, the bedroom also featured three pieces of furniture: an unmade corner mattress, a barstool, and a foosball table.
Since when had Bridget become interested in Stewart Hayes? If she had penciled a spot for him on her “to-do” list, she wasn’t going to get far. Macy knew what she wanted, and her moussaka was a bigger force than anything I’d ever cross. I wasn’t a betting girl, but I would double down on Macy any day.
Twirling a wisp of dark hair around her finger, Macy transformed her voice. “Stewart, can we play?”
Palming a white ball, Bridget said, “Foosy is a two-person game. You and Rachael can have a turn when we’re finished.”
Pulling a wad of cash from his pocket, Stewart selected a twenty and suggested a wager. “Macy and me against Bridget and Rachael.”
“Perfect,” I said and moved next to a soured Bridget who pouted her lips at Stewart.
“How do we play?” Macy asked.
He reviewed the game rules and demonstrated everything from the proper stance to a wrist rotation technique for moving the rods that held the plastic blue and red players.
As I set the plate of clams on a nearby stool, my brain did a cartwheel. Stewart’s team idea was brilliant since I wanted to have a word with Bridget.
Across the table, Stewart personally attended to Macy, helping her get a feel for their blue men. While they practiced toggling, I drained my beer then asked, “Did you confess?”
She picked at a corner of toasted bread from the plate I’d set down. “Confess what?”
I took a long, hard look at Bridget, gritted my teeth, and unintentionally added squeak to my voice. “You screwed Nash.”
Bridget cleared her face of expression. She handed me an extra beer cup that she’d brought in. “I’d never do that.”
Stewart stood at the opposite end of the foosball table. “Which of you ladies is first?”
“I am,” Bridget said. She took her time, challenging Stewart’s toggle rods as she knocked the little white ball around his plastic players.
To settle my fury, I drank half the beer I held even though it tasted stale. When Bridget finished her turn, I turned my back on the foosy game and confronted her. “If you don’t tell Katie Lee, I will.”
Bridget poked at the clams with a dull-edged knife that rested on the plate. “What are you going to tell? How you stake out bedrooms at parties?”
Flames leapt inside of me. Her daggered threat immobilized my reflexes. “Pry the closed shells apart,” I slurred. “They’re fresher.”
“Your turn, Rach,” Macy said.
Motioning to move forward, my feet stumbled backward, and I bumped into the stool. Bridget laughed. Pointing my finger at her like a gun, I clucked my tongue and puffed air in her face before snaking out of the room to clear my dizzy head.
I didn’t go far. Weaving through a crowd, I leaned against a wall in the hallway and closed my eyes. My insides were in motion, and I concentrated to find quiet. Spider legs brushed against my cheek. When I opened my eyes, Billy Ray’s fingernail drew an imaginary line to my forehead. “Your cheeks are the color of a rose petal, and your crooked eyetooth makes an endearing smile. Has anyone ever painted a portrait of you?”
I made a raspberry. “I’m no masterpiece.”
“Let me paint you before you decide.”
My brain was fuzzy and my responses slow. Billy Ray’s face took on a striking resemblance to Elmer Fudd, and I jeered, “You paint?”
Billy Ray sipped his beer and looked across the crowded room. Nash stood behind Katie Lee and stared in my direction.
“I been paintin’ since before I walked.”
“All kids finger-paint.”
Billy Ray finished his beer and reached across the hallway. Sliding a closet door open, he motioned me toward him. “Wanna see my work?”
I tripped on my feet, and he caught my arm. “Did you paint Jackson’s place?” I giggled.
He looked right then left. No one paid him any attention. Reaching into the back of the closet, he slid a canvas out of a cardboard sleeve and held the edges in his palms.
“Damn,” I shouted.
Billy Ray shushed me.
“You paint folk art?”
“I’m in business with my cousin in New Orleans. If you’re good to me, I’ll paint anything you want.”
My ears stretched his words and muffled them in my head. Someone opened the deck slider doors. Black smoke began to fill the apartment, and I heard screams. Billy Ray handed me the painting. “Put this back,” he said and ran toward the front door.
I dropped to the floor and fixated on something familiar in the painting, until someone from behind took it from my hands.
“I’ll take care of that,” a southerner I’d never seen said.
“What are you doin’ down there?” Mitch asked.
A red life vest and an oar caught my attention, and I crawled into the closet.
“Who is she?” the man holding the painting asked.
“That’s Rachael, Katie Lee’s roommate,” Mitch said.
“She’s toast,” the stranger said.
“I’ll keep an eye on her while you call the fire department.”
“Why would I call the fire department?” the southerner asked.
“Jackson, your deck’s on fire.”
NOTE TO SELF
Bridget is an überbitch with a short memory.
Tell or don’t tell? Neither option is going to earn friendship points.