John is strumming the notes to John Prine’s “Level-Headed Dancer” on the same battered Ibanez acoustic guitar I remember from previous visits to Green Turtle Bay Marina. The corn-whiskey fed, slightly balding Kentucky boy is plying us with Schlitz beer. Trish sings along with him in a strong, pleasing alto, exhorting us to move to the country, eat peaches, blow up our TVs and find Jesus.
I expected to run into John during our stop here; he’s managed the boatyard for years and is constantly on and off the docks tending to customers. He’s also Commodore of the local yacht club and keeps his sailboat Wild Hair at the marina across the peninsula on Kentucky Lake. There was no other choice but to stop here. It’s the only option for boats 30 feet or larger. The other marinas are either too small or too shallow.
So as soon as we tied up Blackout, I went over to the boatyard offices to say howdy and give him a story about Derek having too much work this year and me doing the loop with some girlfriends. I even ask him to come meet my traveling companions after he clocked out for the day.
It was risky. John and Derek hit it off from the second John saw the guitar on Chinook. Derek bought it just before the trip, intending to learn to play. It was another impulse that given his short attention span would probably result in pawning the instrument off in one of the shops along the Intracoastal Waterway. John could play fairly well though. He picked for hours after showing us how to run the boat engine’s stuffing box efficiently (it should drip, not stream).
I don’t think Derek saved John’s number in his cell phone. He wouldn’t go to the bother. He instructs me to write contacts down in our address book, which I took with me. But I left our business-card black books on Chinook. John’s yard-manager card is in one of them. Derek can find it if he looks. Which is unlikely.
Odds are Derek hasn’t called John. But John might down a few more beers and decide it would be fun to call Derek. He’s definitely a drink-and-dial guy. I’m sure he has Derek’s number from last year’s repair invoice or other office records.
Robin is holding up like a hard-core stoic but we can tell she’s hurting physically. Her movements are stiff. She’s short of breath and shorter tempered. Though I’ve never seen one, I’m 98.7-percent sure that a full-fledged lupus flare-up is brewing. If Robin’s incapacitated where does that leave me?
Yesterday morning while she was pulling on ugly gray tube socks banded at the tops with royal blue stripes I noticed the white adhesive pain patches on the soles of her feet.
The socks are not exactly a fashion statement when paired with deck shoes and cargo shorts. But October mornings in Kentucky are chilly, the dew cloying and heavy. Footies lack sufficient ankle coverage. Besides, Rob is one of the few women I’ve met in my life who honestly doesn’t give a crap how she looks. “As long as I’m warm and clean, that ought to be good enough,” she says anytime Trish and I try to “fancy her up.”
Her appetite? Zilch. Except for the beer, the omnipresent beer.
“Schitz, happens,” she grumbled good-naturedly when I warned her about John’s rule: “Anybody who drinks with me drinks my beer.”
When he showed up at 5 p.m. she grudgingly accepted a Schlitz, downing it quickly like bad-tasting medicine. She grimaced then burped. John joked with her a little, “See, ain’t that better than the crap you drink? Damn, that light beer isn’t really beer at all. Might as well drink water.”
John has eyes for Trish, and she for him. We couldn’t begrudge either one of them their mutual attraction.
“Let it fly,” Robin whispered.
“Maybe there’s someone around here for you,” I tease.
“Getting laid is the last thing on my mind.”
All Robin seems to care about lately is the stray black dog, a female Labrador mix that the marina staff informally adopted. The meek little thing had a water dish and food bowl in the front of the accounting and yacht sales office in the boatyard, near the prop garden, where amidst petunias, marigolds and red geraniums rests the chunked, snapped and corroded remnants of engine propellers beaten up by bottom obstacles and floating deadheads.
Robin named the dog KC, as in “KC and the Sunshine Band.” Nobody seems to know or care where KC had come from. After a few visits to Blackout, KC figured out we weren’t going anywhere fast and we became family. The black dog with short legs, a broad chest with a V of ruffled ebony fur, and long silky ears was more often on the boat than anywhere else.
“Wasn’t she the good girl?” Trish asks. KC pants obligingly, placing her head on Rob’s lap, plumed tail wagging a mile a minute.
“She’s the sunshine, yes she is,” Robin croons. KC snuggles in. She is never far from Robin. I wonder if she can sense an impending flare-up the way some dogs can detect cancer.
KC moans low in her throat, a twisty, gargly sigh. We’ve never heard her bark. She talks, low communicative noises, deep frequencies that rise in her throat up from her belly. She also has a high whine in nearly perfect pitch.
“She’s talking to me,” Rob says.
“Yep. She’s telling you to eat,” I say, balancing on her lap a plate of scrambled eggs topped with melted American cheese product. “You need your strength to battle the Laundry Bitches. So hang on to this and dig in!”
About the Laundry Bitches: there are a few at every marina this time of year. Washers and dryers are at a premium during fall migration. Ladies accustomed to doing laundry at home in their own clean, private washers and dryers whenever they please are prone to severe separation anxiety. They aren’t used to overflowing hampers or standing in line with a plastic bag full of quarters. Cycle 20 to 50 women who are running out of clean undies and time through a tiny room equipped with two washers and one dryer, and you’ll hear a continual stream of gossip, speculation and dirty laundry of another variety being aired.
The Laundry Bitches think they have the system figured out. They’re the first to tell you where you are in the line and which washer will be open next. They offer unsolicited advice on the hottest dryer, the longest washing cycle and where you should stow your basket or bag. They smile as they instruct, although they are not particularly friendly. They enjoy directing, questioning and holding forth. But they won’t watch your laundry for you. It’s your duty to stand and wait and pretend to be interested in their stories.
Woe to the boater who throws a load in the washer or dryer and is not there to immediately empty the machine as soon as it stops. The hapless launderer will face the passive-aggressive ire of the Laundry Bitches, those mavens of the machines full of insincere jocularity and an overbearing fervor for enforcement of the rules.
It’s a danger spot for me, even if I just dart in to see if there’s a machine open. They love to lovingly bash their better halves, as in, “Al worked in the engine room all day and talked about it all night. Men and their boats!" (simpatico chorus of titters).
“I stole a boat and ditched my rotten husband” might be more of a conversation stopper than starter. Especially if anyone remembers Derek and me.
A few of the women hovering around the “Laundry Mat,” look familiar, but maybe it’s more the type than specific individuals. They’re hyper-focused on cleaning every washable item in their boats: rugs, blankets, bumper covers, pot holders, you name it, it’s being laundered with a vengeance. They dissect whoever has just left the room, the people in the boats on their pier, the condition of the clothes they see, the right kind of fabric softener-any idle topic that can keep them occupied while they wait out agitate, spin and fluff cycles.
Yesterday Robin broke the most serious code in the laundry etiquette book: she left a load in the dryer. The strident one I call High Bitch of the Laundry Mat, accosted her when she went to retrieve it.
“I folded your clothes. You were holding up the line,” the indignant matron informed her, the shelf of her ample bosom literally quivering with outrage. Then to me, not missing a beat, “You look familiar. Which boat are you on?”
“Thank you so much!” Robin gushed, “I really, really, appreciate it. Hailey, look how nicely she folded everything!” Then to me, as we beat a hasty retreat, “They’re rags. She folded my rags in precise thirds.”
“The Gladys Kravitz of the Laundry Mat,” I say. “I wish you hadn’t said my name.”
“Shit. Sorry.” She brightens. “She was so busy reaming me a new one she probably didn’t even hear it.”
I don’t think either one of us buys that. But the laundry’s done, we’re leaving soon and I’ll just stay away from the High Bitch of the Laundry Mat and her court.
Rob gets a few forkfuls of egg down; KC eats most of it, hand-fed by her adoring mistress.
“Hailey? There’s a gangplank down in the engine room. It’s pretty easy to assemble. It’ll make it easier for her to get on and off.”
“Aye aye, Cap. I’ll set it up after breakfast. Just remember, somebody could claim her at any second. If you get too attached …”
Robin’s a goner. She’s dozing on the couch, KC curled protectively in the curve of her belly, both of them snug under the comforter.
“What a pair,” whispers Trish, snapping a phone photo as she comes in from her “power walk around the resort,” also known as sneaking off to see John.
“Get a grip,” I retort, when she tries to tell me she was toning up and taking in the scenery. “I know you were over in the boatyard flirting with John.”
“He has a Kool-Aid smile,” Trish has her own dreamy smile going.
“What’s that?” I’ve never heard the expression.
“Oh, something my Aunt Ada used to say, some manner of Florida Cracker colloquialism.”
“Whoa — is that a word?” Robin mumbles.
“You’ve heard of Kool-Aid, sleepyhead.” Trish rolls her eyes.
“No, I mean the giant, show-off word,” Rob says, more alertly. The sarcasm doesn’t warrant a response. Her vocabulary is just as extensive as ours and in a good mood she’d be batting around her own 75-cent words. She’s hurting.
“Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed,” Trish observes gently. “Why don’t you go on down and stretch out in the cabin? We’ll keep the noise down so you can rest.”
Now that we’re at the docks with hot showers and other accoutrements available, Trish is in full-lashed, uplifted-boob regalia. Packed into her tightest jeans and a deep-cut form-fitting lilac t-shirt, her glorious curly mane is held back from her face by a jeweled band. She has the glow of a woman pursued by an ardent suitor. For his sake, I hope John has a pretty penis. I have a feeling that we’ll soon hear more about that than Robin wants to.
Already the sexual overtones are heightened by my discovery of the Chicken Ranch “Pleasure Menu” and a typewritten copy of the official “House Rules” that I discovered while rooting around — with permission to find a shirt that might fit me — in Trishie’s duffle.
“Who’s Valentine?” I asked.
“That was my working name,” Trish says.
“So you’re the one who drew the little hearts all over this and wrote ‘It is customary to tip’?”
“Yep, that’s me.”
“Let me see,” says Robin. I plop down next to her on the couch so we can read the Pleasure Menu together:
Appetizers
Massage-Exchange Massage — Breast Massage — Lingerie Show — Bubble Bath — French Oil Massage
A La Carte
Body French — Full French — Around the World French — Hot and Cold French — Devices of Pleasure
Ranch Specialties
VIP Lounge — XXX Movies — Mirror Room — Jacuzzi Party Rooms
Entrees
Straight Lay — Half and Half — Combo Half and Half — 69 Party — Two Girl Show — Two Girl Party — Fantasy Session — Salt & Pepper Party
Desserts
Banana French — Frappe French — Flavored Pussy Party — Shower Party
Entrees To Go
Out-Dates — Escort Services
“Did you have to do whatever the customer ordered?” I’m not judging, just curious.
Trish tosses her hair. “We were never forced to do anything we didn’t want to do. And Lord knows, there were girls there willing to do anything, as long as the price was right.”
“Some of this stuff sounds pretty kinky,” Robin says.
“Kinky is in the eye of the beholder.” Trish laughs, but there’s a cynical edge, a hard gleam in her eye. Suddenly I feel extremely grateful that she’s here with us, out of that life. “Most men want to talk, then they want a blow job, then they want to talk some more.”
“Sounds like marriage,” says Robin.
“How long did you work at the Ranch?” I ask.
“Two years. That was enough. I saw the writing on the wall, made good money and got out. The hookers say that five years is the limit. After that your face changes. You’re jaded. The clients can see it, anyone can see it. The nastiness doesn’t wipe off anymore. Although,” she muses, “blow jobs are a great facial exercise. All that sucking defines the cheekbones.”
“You quit without any hassles?”
“Hailey, it’s a brothel, not a harem. I never saw any woman held there against her will. And the medical and vacation benefits were excellent.”
Trishie’s phone sounds the five-note tone that signals a text message.
“Who dat?” says Robin.
“It’s John.” While she’s texting him back, Rob and I peruse the Chicken Ranch Rules:
Rule 1: Ladies in Line-up:
a) NO smoking or holding cigarettes behind your backs. (If you happen to burn someone’s dress in Line-up, you will pay for it.)
b) NO chewing gum, eating or holding drinks.
c) No Laughing in Line-up. (It makes customers feel uncomfortable)
d) No more than one girl in black per shift.
e) Do Not wear the same clothes everyday!! Use variety.
f) Must have hands behind your back, holding only your purse.
Rule 2: You are to take customer by the arm or hand and take them to your hallway. When your party is over take your customer over to the bar or entrance way and tell them to come back and see you. Always make them feel welcome. The customer is your money!
Rule 3: Girls are to go through parlor when booking money or signing out, even though there is a Line-up.
Rule 4: Nylons are to be worn by all girls unless you have a nice tan. If you have Lumpy Legs, nylons are a must even with a tan.
Rule 5: Heels are to be worn unless you have 2 Doctor’s Excuses. One from a chiropractor and one from Dr. Nelson. Even then an effort must be made to wear heels on weekends & Holidays.
Rule 6: No books or games when 2 or more customers are in-house.
Rule 7: If you have a customer that wants a 69 party & you are on your period, or a special party that you don’t do — don’t let that customer walk — tell him you will get another girl for him (Leave Man In Your Room)
Rule 8: Clean up your own mess in parlor (kitchen at night). Floormaids aren’t here to pick up after you. Throw away soda cans. No eating soup & chips in parlor.
Rule 9: Ask your floormaid if you can go to your room or kitchen.
Rule 10: Girls are being late for the floor. This Must Stop. Some girls are goofing off too much. This Must Stop.
Rule 11: Girls out of C&E halls, take customers through B&F hallways, so Floormaids can see you and your customer.
Rule 12: Vacations are required after 3-4 weeks. You have to leave for 5 days or more days.
Mr. Conforte wants short timing stopped!! Make sure your customer is happy and walks out of here with a smile on his face and comes back to see you.
“I bet you were one of the goof-offs,” Robin guesses.
“Nope. I’m a Rules Girl. I was strictly business.”
“So girls,” clearly she’s weary of the subject, “John wants us to come over to his place for a cook-out.”
“I dunno,” I say. “Robin needs to rest. I’ll stay with her.”
“I’m fine,” Rob insists. “You two go.”
I’ve been to John’s house, when it was John and his ex-wife Laura’s. Ivy twines up the walls of the red-brick ranch with attached garage. It’s tucked back in a cul-de-sac on a winding country road bordering Kentucky Lake, perched on a forested hillside, the back porch hanging over the water. Furnished in restful beige-and-cream tones. Laura filled it with hardbound books, hand-stitched needlepoint pillows, crocheted throws, silk flower arrangements and Hummel figurines. A vintage Grandfather clock kept time.
Laura is afraid of the water. They never had children, although she wanted them. It isn’t surprising to me that they are separated.
They had separate spaces in their house. John’s smoking den was a screened-in porch off the garage, chock-full of sailing trophies, yacht club regalia and Tiki Bar slogans: “I don’t skinny dip, I chunky dunk,” “It’s Five O’clock Somewhere,” “My Attitude Depends on My Latitude.” I wonder if he’s moved that stuff into the house.
The garage walls were covered with racing news bulletins, clippings and framed photos of John’s past and present boats, WhodaCap’n, Dagnabit and Wild Hair, small, swift craft built for speed with a modicum of comfort for the occasional overnights in the bays of Land Between the Lakes.
“Hailey, meet my wife Laura,” John said. “You can learn a lot from her, Laura. This is a lady who ain’t afraid to heel.”
I laughed, uncomfortable with the surly cant of his voice. “Actually, I don’t like it when the boat tips. Derek’s the one who really loves sailing,” I demurred. “It’s his world; I’m just along for the ride.”
Laura managed a medical-supply warehouse. She’d just come home from work and was still in her neatly tailored pantsuit and crisp white blouse, her black hair carefully French-braided, a long, glossy plait halfway down her back.
“Welcome, Hailey. I’m going to put together a salad. Come on in the kitchen and I’ll get us some wine.”
“She drinks beer,” John said.
“Actually, wine sounds good tonight,” I said.
We could hear John and Derek regaling each other with racing exploits and storm stories. Can-tabs popped and we could hear them tuning up their guitars. As they chatted easily, bonding over a discussion of the best guitar strings and the finest music stores in Paducah, it struck me as it had many times before how nice Derek is to others. I can’t say that it’s phony. He’s genuinely warm, sincere and courteous.
I wondered again why he was never that way with me. If Trish and Robin met Derek, they would probably think that I made the abuse up. They would think he was a nice guy, that I’m a drunken, nympho slut who brought trouble on myself.
Zip it, Hailey. They’re your friends.
KC whines, a higher pitch. It’s not my mind she’s reading.
Robin stirs, sits up, face blank as if sleepwalking, and immediately lays back down, limbs stiff, eyes rolled back in her head.
KC jumps off the couch, the soft fur ruff around her neck electrified, standing on end. She barks, three short, staccato commands.
Robin seizes, limbs jittering, heels beating a macabre tattoo on the cushions. She stiff-arms a half-full can of beer off the coffee table. It rolls, leaving a wake of foam on the rug.
All I know to do is hold her firmly, to keep her from flailing off the couch. I tilt her head back and gently squeeze her jaw, reminded of a cat, Tina, who got hold of a baby bunny in our yard when I was a little girl. I had to beat Tina on the skull with a shovel to make her let go.
“Don’t let her swallow her tongue,” Trish warns, grabbing her cell phone and punching digits urgently. “I hope to hell they have 911 here.”
The episode lasts about 30 seconds though it feels like much longer.
By the time Trish has gone up to the marina office at the head of the docks to meet the ambulance Robin is conscious, wrung limp but insistent that she doesn’t need to go to the hospital.
“Bull,” I say firmly, picking up the beer can. KC’s already licked up the spill. “Let’s at least get you checked out. Please!”
Her lips are a tinted a deathly blue-grape, color drained from the rest of her face save for hectic red mottling on her cheeks and over the bridge of her nose: the classic lupus butterfly rash.
“Is this a flare?” I sponge her face with a cool cloth.
“Ya think?” she chuckles weakly. “No, actually, the flare comes after the seizure,” she says in a bone-tired, rasping whisper.
KC insistently shoves her head into Robin’s dangling palm.
“S’OK, Kace, S’OK,” Rob tells her.
From the salon window I spot the Emergency Medical Services crew rolling a gurney toward our pier.
“I will go,” says Robin, “if you make sure she’s fed and walked. Let her sleep on the boat tonight. It’s supposed to rain.”
“I’m going with you,” I insist.
“They won’t let you ride in the ambulance,” she tells me, as one who knows. How many ambulance rides, I wonder.
She’s right. The EMS crew is courteous but implacable. We are not next of kin. “We’ll have her put you on the visitor list,” they assure us.
The marina staff is understanding. “As soon as the courtesy van comes back — it’s signed out ‘til four-y’all can take it for the night,” says the cute, pony-tailed dock attendant. “I cleared it with the marina manager, he said go ahead and stay in town for the night if y’all need to. We sure hope Miss Robin is gonna be OK. Send her our prayers.”
It’s 2 p.m. “Should I ask John if he’ll take us now so we can get there sooner?” Trish says.
I’m tempted to say something smart-ass about Knights in Shining Armor on white horses, but I know Robin is Trish’s main concern, so I don’t push it. “It will take a while to get her checked in and examined. How about you go ahead and have dinner with John and I swear I’ll call if I need you? I’ll just wait for the van and take the GPS so I don’t get lost.”
Damn. I don’t have a valid driver’s license. The police cut it up. The Michigan Secretary of State’s office won’t even consider re-issuing a license for another year. I can’t borrow the courtesy van without a license and proof of insurance.
“Wait a minute, change of plans,” I say. “I’m a little shaky; maybe it would be better if John drove us.”
I fill with self-loathing, especially since the lies are unnecessary. Robin knows about the drunken driving charge; I should have told Trish. Both of them have heard about the Four Lovers. And Joey’s bullshit gang rape charge. We were headed down the Cumberland. Trish asked about the kids. What they were like. It just came out.
“She told him she was 17. He knew the Age of Consent rule. And both kids got multiple wear-a-condom lectures from Yours Truly.”
“What a fun mom,” Robin says.
Trish narrows her eyes. “Is it the same everywhere? The age?” I pick up a tone. The judgment. I don’t think I can handle it again. The look. The turning away. Like you’re slime because your kid fucked up. Fucked up while you were fucking around. And I’m the bad guy because I blame the girl.
“She took him over to the back of an SUV. She took off her pants. She unzipped his fly. He put on a condom. Entered her.” I recite by rote from the police report. I will never tell this story again. “He pulled out right away. It felt wrong.”
“I bet it did,” says Trish.
“Can we talk about something else?” says Robin. For all her bawdiness, Robin’s not comfortable discussing the actual mechanics of copulation.
“Yes. Please.” I didn’t like thinking about the women who came out to the Elbow for Friday night fish fry or post-ladies-golf-league cocktails. Serving the women I’d served with on Elementary PTA committees. Looking in askance at my low-cut hip huggers. Was my thong showing? Asking how I was. In that tone. Voices lowered. They all knew. They all judged. The Laundry Bitches are angels in comparison. But who was Trish to talk?
“I saw girls like her every day. At the Ranch. I hope she got help.”
“Me too, Trishie, me too.”
Trish thinks there are no secrets between us. Now I really do feel shaky. Lying to a friend will do that to you every time.
“We’ll get back with you in a sec, thanks,” I tell the dockhand. “But we would like to have the option of getting the van at four.”
“No problem, it’ll be here if you need it,” she says.
“Let’s talk to John,” I motion Trish out of the office.
As we head down the dockway leading to the boatyard I blurt out the truth.
“I can’t drive. They took my license when I was charged for impaired driving in Michigan. I’m an idiot. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier.”
She hugs me. “Hailey, hey, it’s OK. The picture’s God-awful, but other than that my Nevada license is good to go. I can check out the van at four, no worries.”
“What about John?”
“Him,” she snorts. “Honey, the men will always be there. Nothing like a little delayed gratification to keep Mr. John on his toes.”
John makes us promise to show up for the cook-out the following day. As we head to the hospital in Paducah I share the sordid details.
“My lawyer hanged himself just when I needed him most.”
Trish clucks in sympathy, shivers at appropriate intervals and interjects “oh-my-goshes” and “you’re-kiddings” as needed as I tell her about Ricky the Dick and my night in a jail cell. She isn’t approving or condoning, just supportive. Like everyone else she wants to know what it was like.
“They put me in a woman’s cell with white-painted cinder block walls. There was a barred window. In the right-hand corner of the cell someone had written ‘I hate myself’ in blue Magic Marker.”
Wrapped in dark thoughts and a cheaply woven tatty brown blanket I sat cross-legged in half-lotus on a crackly blue plastic mattress the thickness of a yoga mat, waiting for dawn. It was so cold, one of those damp northern August evenings that foreshadow the coming of winter. Loathing my existence, utterly humiliated, my offense magnified by self-perpetuating paranoia, I irrationally began to wonder if anyone would come to get me out or if I’d just be left to rot. Would they keep me here all weekend and on into Monday and Tuesday until the usual Wednesday morning arraignments in the district court next door?
“I hated myself and I wanted to die.”
I realized that even in a democratic society, when you’re in police custody your power is gone. You’re told what to do and if you do not do it of your own volition you will be forced to comply.
“At the station all the cops acted nice. But you knew they would slap you down if you tried anything funny. So I acted nice, too. I didn’t have to pretend to be ashamed and remorseful. I was.”
Trish nods.
Guilt and shame: although these buzz killers travel hand-in-hand, there is a difference. “The psychiatrist I went to for court-ordered counseling told me that guilt is healthy. She says shame is another story; it breaks you down.”
Trish is nodding.
“My homework was to jettison the shame. Get rid of it by replacing it with behavior that made me feel good about myself. But every time I saw my mug shot on Derek’s laptop, the shame came back.”
“He didn’t.”
“Yep. Screensaver. Nice.”
“We have all screwed up and been screwed over — that’s the gospel according to Aunt Ada,” Trish says. “What matters is picking yourself up, dusting yourself off and starting all over again.”
“Thank you.” I stroke her shoulder.