Sue just happened to go into Brock’s one day and was surprised to see my mother working there. They struck up a conversation and my mother came home that night with Sue’s number. I called her and we picked up right where we’d left off, becoming instant friends all over again. She hadn’t heard from Glenn in a couple of years and was now married.
“Doyle has a good job and you should see the cute little house we bought,” she told me during our first phone conversation. “I feel so lucky to be married to a man who goes to work every day and wants to take care me. I love staying home and being a housewife.”
As it turned out, Sue and Doyle lived a short way from me and my mother in East Bakersfield. Sue made a big thing out of the fact that Doyle didn’t drink or carouse with women, and I guess that was important to her since her mother had been an alcoholic and a whore. Sue wanted to be upstanding and she was proud of her new life, her little house, and the fact that she had left the country slums of Janice Drive. That’s something we had in common: our desire to start over and shake off the chaos and filth of that terrible place.
When we got together, Sue looked so different I barely recognized her. She’d always been a pretty girl, and she still was, but a lot of her glimmer had faded. Her hair, which had been long, shiny, and sparkling blond was now short and mousy brown. Her once clear blue eyes were grey now, and her mouth turned down at the corners in a permanent look of sadness.
The house Sue was so proud of was little more than a dollhouse sitting smack dab in the center of a rather large lot. Although she kept it immaculate and it felt cheerful inside, with lots of light streaming in through the two picture windows, the rooms were tiny and there was only one bedroom. But you’d think it was a mansion the way Sue talked about it. They did have two swamp coolers, one in the living room and one in the bedroom, and the cool temperature felt like a real luxury to me.
Sue had her own car but because Doyle called her several times a day and she wanted to be home to answer, all we ever did was hang out at her house and play cards all day long. At the time I thought it was strange that he called so often, but I figured he just really loved her. She’d pick me up around noon and we’d spend the day playing canasta, smoking cigarettes, and drinking sugary iced tea. It may not sound like much fun, but to me it was. I was out of my dark apartment and spending time with someone other than my mother—someone who seemed to like me and could make me laugh.
Around five o’clock, just before Doyle finished work, Sue would take me home, oftentimes starting dinner before we left. One day, however, the time got away from us altogether. We were laughing hysterically about something, feeling a little batty after hours of iced tea and canasta, when Doyle’s car suddenly drove into the driveway. Sue scrambled up out of her chair and went into a panic. “Put that cigarette out!” she yelled, waving her hands wildly in the air, trying to clear the air of smoke.
When Doyle walked in, Sue’s face turned pale in contrast to his, which was beet red.
“What the hell are you two up to?” he bellowed. “It looks like a poker den in here!”
Sue silently walked into the bedroom, put on her flip-flops, grabbed her purse, and motioned for me to come with her to the car. As the screen door thudded behind us, I heard Doyle in the house yelling, “Goddamn woman doesn’t even have my dinner ready! What am I, a meal ticket or what?”
We drove to my house in silence. I was worried about Sue— she’d told me Doyle had a bad temper—but I knew better than to say anything to her. She was a private person who never shared her feelings or her problems. Even when her mother was murdered, she hadn’t talked about it with me. She never cried in front of me, and I don’t know if she ever did at all. That was just the kind of person she was.
I was worried about what would happen when she got home. Later that night, she called. “Would it be all right if I spent the night?” she asked in a quiet voice.
Without asking any questions, I checked with my mother to see if it was okay.
“Of course,” my mother said. She liked Sue. She thought she was a good influence on me and always said, “That Sue has a good head on her shoulders.” She didn’t know she let me smoke or that Glenn had been sent to prison. She did know about Sue’s mother, though, and she felt sorry for her because of it.
It was Friday night and Florence and the girls were already on their way over to pick me up, so I was gone before Sue got to my house. But Sue was almost as much my mother’s friend as she was mine. Even though she was only four years older than me, she was far more mature.
My mother and I agreed before I left that Sue would sleep in my bed and I’d sleep on the couch so I wouldn’t disturb anyone when I got home late.
I got home at midnight that night, and as soon as I came inside, Sue came out into the living room.
“Go ahead and sleep in your own bed,” she said. “I’ll be okay on the couch.”
I could tell something was wrong by the look on her face. I assumed she and Doyle had had
