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“But I’m not dressed to go out.” I ran my hands down my sides. I was wearing a faded and formless old sundress, something I’d thrown in the suitcase without thinking the day I came to the Vernons’. This morning, when I’d spotted it in Sissy’s closet, the dress’s worn, familiar look had been comforting.
“You’re fine,” said Bunny. “You’re dressed just like me.”
I was uncertain about leaving, but Bunny was insistent and I didn’t want to argue. Just in case, I scribbled Mrs. Vernon a note and left it on the table near the phone. Her church meetings sometimes dragged on until midnight, and I was sure I’d be back before then. But in an emergency I wanted her to know I was with Bunny.
We drove aimlessly for a while, down toward the center of town, past the News Depot, around the square, which was already shrouded in leafy darkness, up West Morgan, past the Congo. A light was on in the minister’s study. Reverend Vaughn was back from his trip. I felt a quick pang that he hadn’t called me.
“How’s your boyfriend?” asked Bunny, when she saw me straining to catch a glimpse of him through the tiny window in the side of the church.
“Don’t call him that.”
“Why not? He’s kinda cute, in a skinny way.”
I folded my arms and didn’t respond.
The lines at the Dairy Queen were surprisingly short. “I guess everyone’s at the fair,” said Bunny. “You want a chocolate dip?”
I shook my head, remembering what had happened the last time I stopped there. Bunny continued out Walker Street, past the farm equipment store, the Hide-Away Motel, the Dog ’n’ Suds. After half a mile or so, the buildings stop abruptly and a field of corn spreads out, a cool green sea lapping up against the town. The sun was down now, and little islands of bright farmhouses or dark clumps of trees stood out above the flatness.
We followed Walker for a short ways, then turned off on a gravel road that slices between the fields. We were alone. Behind us, the taillights of Bunny’s car made fiery clouds shining through the road dust. Bunny was quiet and seemed distracted. I guessed she was contemplating life without Eddie. She’d never understand, of course, that she’d be better off that way. I thought of all the nights that he’d yelled at her, or walked out, or just drunk too much and fallen asleep on the couch, a useless sack of a man. I’d wander into the living room Sunday morning, and he’d still be there, asleep and pathetic, curled up like a baby trying to keep himself warm. Now that he was gone, Bunny wouldn’t remember any of that. Her capacity to forget unhappiness was incredible, maybe even a little crazy. As soon as the man was out of her life, the bad things had never happened.
Still, I knew, there was something different about Eddie. It wasn’t exactly that he was sad—it was more that he was sort of separate, apart from the rest of us, as if there were a small space between him and everything around him. Reverend Vaughn was a little the same way. They both had that quality, and it was alluring, it gave you some place to crawl into.
Poor Bunny. I looked over at her without turning my head, so she wouldn’t know I was staring. Lately, I’d been noticing that the lines at the corners of her eyes had deepened and spread. She’d smile or frown, and the wrinkles would suddenly appear, standing out like the angel’s wings on Mercury’s helmet. The skin over her cheeks was starting to get shadowy, too. You’d hardly notice, except in certain lights or at the times when she was feeling low.
I wondered—did she blame me? That wouldn’t be like her, but maybe she really did believe that this was her last chance for a great love. Now, she has to give it up, because of me. Through all Tom’s troubles and her problems with men, I’d always been there. She used to call me her anchor, she’d say it all the time. I was the one she could rely on. I was always at her side. Once, when I was nine, I stayed home from school and cared for her for a week after Wayne Wadlinger betrayed her. She thought she was in love with Wayne, and he’d been making promises. Then he showed up at the Tennessee Lounge with a woman named Nora. Within ten minutes, three people called to tell Bunny, and the phone rang four more times that night after she’d stopped answering it. Bunny went to bed and didn’t get up for a week. And the whole time, I was there—bringing meals in on a tray, fetching magazines from down at the News Depot. I even climbed in bed and slept with her, putting up with Bunny’s constant thrashing. I’d wake up in the morning, and she’d be spooning me, her arms around my chest, her face in my neck, her heavy morning breath on my cheek. And then one morning, she got up and went back to work, as if a week had been set aside for mourning, and once that was over, life went on. But I’d been there. When she needed me, I’d been there.
Outside the car, the fields streaked by, smooth and regular. Mack Creek meanders around this part of the countryside, and Bunny slowed every now and then to cross one of the small stone bridges spanning the murky water. Frogs were croaking back and forth. The air was warm, but the young corn gave it a crisp, fresh smell.
Bunny came to a paved highway, took a right, continued for a few miles, and then took another right on another gravel road. She was making a big loop around one side of Katydid. Pretty soon, we were pointed back toward town and could see the dome of colored lights reflecting off the sky. Then we were just outside town, staring at the circle of colored bulbs on the Ferris wheel, spinning high above the fairgrounds.
“Why don’t we park and go in for a few minutes?” said Bunny. It was the first thing she’d said in a quarter hour.
“I don’t know,” I said. But she’d already slowed down in front of the field they use for parking. A boy waving a red flashlight guided us down a bumpy lane, past a long line of cars. At the end, another red light swung back and forth, indicating our spot.
Bunny parked and started to get out. She could see I was reluctant. “We won’t stay long,” she said. “I just feel like getting cheered up a little. I could use a little cheering up.”
Still, I sat there, staring at the dashboard.
“Jesus!” said Bunny, jumping out and slamming the car door. “Sometimes you really depress me, you really do.” She stomped around for a few seconds, then leaned back inside the window. “You really depress me,” she repeated.
“Why can’t I just wait here?”
“Jesus!” she muttered again, turning away. She started walking down the line of cars toward the entrance to the fair. She was taking short, jerky steps and swinging her arms rapidly. Her baggy dress rode up and down clumsily on her hips. From the back, I hardly would have recognized her.
She did blame me, I thought. She blamed me, and she’s right, it’s my fault. I’m all she’s got and I depress her. I depress my own mother.
I hurried out of the car and ran after her. She heard me coming and slowed, taking my arm in hers when I caught up. “We’ll only stay for a bit,” she said. “Just enough for some cheering up.”
The outside of the entrance gate was hectic and noisy. People milled around a cardtable covered with Eisenhower stickers and buttons. A balloon man stood in a colorful thicket of plastic. A man in a top hat offered little toy farm animals that dangled from key chains. People were laughing and calling out to each other, talking above the sounds of the fair.
“I hope I don’t see anybody I know,” I said, after Bunny had paid our way in.
“Why not? Hold your head high.”
We wandered down the main path, getting used to the lights and commotion. Babies were crying, and dust
covered everything. Each step on the hard, worn ground kicked up a little explosion of dry, yellowish clay. One year, I remembered, I wore sandals to the fair, and, when I got home and took them off, they were still on, in reverse—perfect white lines from the straps across the tops of my feet, and everything else dark yellow.
