I agreed with her, but it cost us a few friends. After we stopped giving, they stopped coming around and started rolling their eyes at us in public and calling us “uppity Uncle Toms” behind our backs. It hurt when Buddy and Sadie told me some of the things people was saying about us, but it didn’t change nothing. The only friends that didn’t ask us for frequent handouts was Yvonne and Milton. I had a feeling that would eventually change because the first night we drank with them, they dropped a few hints about how some of the guests they’d entertained in their previous residence had been slow about paying up their drinking tabs. The subject had come up after me and Joyce had gulped down three drinks apiece that we’d been told was “on the house,” so we didn’t think to offer no tip or nothing else. But I couldn’t decide if they was lumping us in with that deadbeat bunch, and I didn’t ask. Me and Joyce had discussed the issue and like always, she went right along with whatever I said. We decided that until they straight up asked us to pay for our drinks, we’d continue to enjoy every freebie we could get from them. She’d joked about us having a “callous” attitude. But she changed her tune when I reminded her how freehanded we’d been to other people such as us loaning money, giving free rides, and whatnot. She agreed real fast that it was time for us to reap some benefits for our generosity.
Right after my other two boys had come home from Alline’s house, I helped Betty Jean give them their baths and tuck them in for the night. After that, we went back out to the porch and relaxed with a pitcher of lemonade. The streetlight in front of the house had been out of order for weeks. But there was a lot of light coming from the coal oil lamp we had set on a brick near the front door in the living room. Mosquitoes, moths, and lightning bugs buzzed around our heads. I got so tired of swatting them with my hand, I gave up. Them creatures annoyed the hell out of me, but it could have been a lot worse. I recalled the lie I’d told Joyce about a swarm of yellow jackets attacking me the night I’d come home with sucker bites up and down my neck after my first date with Betty Jean. We had come such a long way since then. And I’d never felt better in my life. I walked around with my chest puffed out every day.
I had told Betty Jean about my new plan to visit and spend the night a little more often.
“Is your daddy really sick enough for you to get away with using him for a excuse for a few more times every week?” she asked with a worried look.
“Yup. Daddy is sick enough for me to use him as one of my most frequent alibis until the day he dies. I just wish I had thought of using him sooner so I could have been spending more time with you and the boys. One day real soon when I can spend the night, we’ll drive over to Mobile and eat at one of them fancy restaurants. We might even go fishing and shopping and anything else you want to do.”
“Baby, I’d love to do all that. I’d also like to take the boys to that duck pond they love so much, pick some blackberries if we come across a patch that ain’t already been plucked clean, and we can have a picnic before the weather get too cold.”
“Whatever you say, sugar.”
“Odell, you so good to me. You sure know what to do to keep a woman happy.” Betty Jean stopped talking long enough to clear her throat, which usually meant she had something to say I didn’t want to hear. I was right. “By the way, how is your wife doing these days?” Her question caught me completely off guard. In all the years we’d been together, I could count on one hand all the times Betty Jean had asked me about Joyce. She hadn’t even seen a picture of her, and I’d never even told her what she looked like.
“Who?”
“Your wife? Joyce is her name, right?”
“Yup, that’s her name. Well . . . um . . . she’s doing real good. Loves her job, is always busy, and don’t give me no trouble at all. On top of helping out during summer school, now she is thinking about tutoring some of the slow students in the evenings. Joyce is a good wife.”
“But not good enough . . .”
I had to take a deep breath before I could respond to Betty Jean’s comment. “Not good enough for what?” My heart was ticking like a time bomb.
“Not good enough for you to be faithful to.” I didn’t like her tone. I couldn’t tell if she was complaining, whining, joking, or just talking off the top of her head.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Her next question made my chest tighten. “Is she fat, pitch black, and ugly?”
“No. Um . . . compared to some women, she is a good-looking woman . . . in her own way.”
Betty Jean held up her hand. “Hush up. You don’t need to say nothing else. What you just said told me everything: Joyce is as ugly as homemade
