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“This can’t be real life. It just can’t.” For the life of me, I couldn’t understand what exactly a talk show host could do to warrant a fan club, be it official or unofficial.
“It’s best if you just roll with it, baby. That’s what I do, and it always seems to work out for me,” Mom said.
“Kent?” Bernice called out from behind me. “Sugar, what were you going to do with a fan?” she asked, pointing at the discarded cooling device beside the living room archway.
“Someone screamed. I thought we were being robbed.”
“Yes, but a fan? Don’t you have a gun? A knife?”
“He’s a Democrat, sweetie,” Elmyra said. “They don’t do guns, do they?”
Bernice’s eyes widened in horror. “A Democrat?” She turned to my mother, shaking her head. “Oh Cat, it’s just one thing after another for you, isn’t it?”
“Anyway,” I said, much louder than necessary. “Leah Grant-Carter fan club?”
The concern left Bernice’s face, replaced with a look of pure joy. “West Clark division,” she said, her face flushed with unearned pride.
“How and why?” I asked.
“I can answer that,” Elmyra said, lifting her hand and twinkling her fingers in the air. I wasn’t sure if it was because she wanted to dominate the conversation, as was her way, or if she just wanted to show off her tacky, press-on nails again. “It was Dottie’s doing. She picked up one of her albums down at Miracle Music.”
“She sings?” I said with a scoff.
“Oh honey, no. Dottie can’t sing to save her life,” Elmyra said.
“I meant Leah Grant-Carter, and you know it,” I said through gritted teeth. Dottie glared at Elmyra and muttered something under her breath.
“She tries,” Mom said. “And God bless her for it.” She motioned toward Dottie, who was pulling a CD out of her purse, and I couldn’t help but gape at her.
“You just carry around CDs in your purse? Why? Is this 1998?”
Dottie glanced down at the back of the album, reading the fine print at the bottom. “Says here, copyright 2004, dear.”
“Fuck my actual life,” I groaned.
The denim debutantes gasped, but Mom snorted. As Elmyra began speaking in tongues, probably praying for my eternal soul, Myrna stopped dead in her tracks, reaching for the prayer cloth and anointing oil in her purse.
“Oh, no, you most certainly do not,” I said.
“Would you like to join the fan club, honey?” Dottie asked. “It’d be great to have a man in the midst.”
“Well, sort of a man, at least,” Bernice added, though no one had asked for her input.
“I’ve got six inches of manhood, and every one of them takes offense to that statement.”
Every single jaw fell to the floor once again, and then Elmyra cocked her head to the side, pursing her lips. “Just the six, sweetie?” She glanced at Dottie, who had a look of disappointment in her eyes. “He must be a … what are they called, again? Lowers?”
“I think they call them bottoms,” Dottie chimed in.
“Et tu, Dottie? Et tu?”I said with a mouthful of betrayal. My mother walked forward, and I nodded my head, smirking at each of them. “You’re all in for it now.”
She reached over, taking my hand, and she smiled. “He’d love to join.” Leaning toward me, she whispered into my ear. “It’ll be good for you, honey. Hearts don’t change by themselves. Be the spark in the dark.”
“I don’t know what the hell that Hallmark greeting was supposed to mean, but I’m filing a petition for emancipation. Today.”
***
Rhonda was waiting for me when I came through the sliding doors Thursday morning. She was leaning over the checkout stand, her chin resting on her palm as she swung a pencil back and forth, tapping it against her neck.
