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Fireworks
by Cesca Janece Waterfield Published in RVA Magazine Clarke tells me the hostess is coming to the wedding. We're at the Video King and I pretend I don't hear him over the movie. I study the New Releases. When we're picking out candy by the register, he reaches for my hand that's holding the Twizzlers. He says, "You're going to love her." I sort of yawn a sweet smile and take back the Twizzler hand. Clarke met the hostess in high school when he worked at Mize's Archery & Taxidermy out by the strip mall. She used to come in with her daddy and they would do target practice. She was some kind of county champion with bow and arrow. But then, Cumberland County is filled with wild turkey. Draw, aim, hold, release. Clarke talked about her on our second date. He said he had a friend who was in Italy and wouldn't that be the coolest. We were at Olive Garden and I gestured with my fork, I said, if this food is any sign, well, yes it would. He said his friend worked four days on, three days off on a boat for a rich family. I said, oh, my, so far away. That's very brave. When the tiramisu–gelato cheesecake arrived, he said that she (Oh, so the friend is a she…) was somewhere on the Mediterranean. She had sent him a postcard, the hostess originally from Fayetteville. He pulled it from his billfold. It had a picture of a beach tucked away in rocks, shaded by palms. Hanging in the azure sky was the word, Italia. That was two years ago this month. I thought Clarke had seen the last of azure skies. On the way home from Video King, we go to the Dairy Freeze drive-through. It's Betty Elliott's voice in the speaker, How can I help you would you like to try our double combo today for four eighty eight? I lean over to tell my order to the cone. I am scootched right next to Clarke, the long gearshift of the Bronco neatly between my sandals. After Clarke pulls the little cardboard tray from the window, we park so that we can be seen enjoying our milkshakes. "So what does Shayna do these days?" I ask Clarke between sips of strawberry. "Other than shoot at turkeys?" A whistle from the Silver Palm blows from the Amtrak station. "Still doing that work for boaters?" "Yeah. Still doing stewardess work." "How did she get into that, anyway?" I ask, a bit of hair wrapped around my finger. "It was accident. She was waiting tables in Tallahassee and some business guy asked her to fill-in for somebody on his staff." Clarke sucks the last bit of his chocolate. The straw makes that sound sliding in and out of the cup top. I want to know more, but just like that! End of discussion! So I wait a minute or so and say, "Does she just follow rich people around?" "No, Bethaline. She gets jobs mostly through the private marina but sometimes those rich folks have a plane they need somebody to make drinks for their friends on." Clarke's voice is telling me he is tired of the subject. "Like when they fly to Hilton Head or something, you know?" He throws his cup in the floorboard, turns the key in the ignition, and pats my knee underneath my skirt. "You'll understand." I don't think so. On the way home, he adds absent-mindedly, "And she don't hunt." A new song on the radio begins. "It's more for sport, I think." Well, now I've heard it all. Archery for fun. The next night Clarke tells me that the hostess is coming into town, that she can't wait to meet me. We're at the Food Lion loading up for the July 4th cookout. I guess he wants me to buy something special. I look down into the cart; hot dogs, hamburger meat, sloppy joe sauce, buns, boxed pasta salad mix, Coors Light, Cheerwine, etc. I think about this. What does a hostess-for-hire eat? Clarke has always had some photos of her left casually in the old military trunk he keeps locked under the bed. In the pictures I'd seen, not that I went out of my way to look at them or anything, she looks like she doesn't eat anything at all. I say, "She looks like she doesn't eat anything at all," but I drop another package of Ballpark Franks in. "And we'll have plenty of leftovers from the cookout." "No, she only eats vegetables." Clarke says. So she's one of them. I'd seen them at Golden Corral, picking through the collards, turning down their noses at the roast. They looked pale. That night I watch t.v. Clarke stops abruptly in the living room. What is so interesting to him on the E! Channel, I wonder. We watch the screen as big boats move across turquoise water, and then lower little boats onto the water from the side. The people step down into those boats and suddenly they're at a row of old buildings, everybody grinning. Then walking through tiny shops, now they are eating in front of a sunset, and then a toast, instantly it's night, some are dancing. I am thinking how fast things can go when Clarke says, "So that's Ibiza." I know then. That's where she is flying in from, the hostess-with-the-mostess. July 4th is the usual. Somebody brings a roast pig. There are three kegs, four cases of beer, corn liquor, and more food than could feed two armies. All I can think about is the one advancing west from Ibiza. I realize that this time tomorrow, Clarke will be waiting at the Fayetteville Airport, and I will be waiting at home for them, Clarke and the hostess, girl gone gypsy, redneck who went jet set. The next afternoon, an hour before the plane is supposed to land, Clarke gives me a kiss, keys in hand: "I can't wait to see my girls hanging out together." Today it's the Silver Meteor train I hear. "Shayna is going to love you." After he leaves, I watch E! Channel for a little while, until they cut to Hungary. Shayna. What country is that name from? I walk over to the phone nook where our engagement photo, the one the paper ran, sits framed. I wonder how a girl could live like that – with no mind toward tomorrow or a man to marry. It seems forever I've been waiting on those postcards to stop showing up. Last summer came two in one month; glossy pictures of Myrtle Beach. Before I lost them somewhere there in the post office, I read she was working as a nanny for the season. Why bother Clarke with such? Myrtle Beach is only two hours south. I wonder if anyone could ever warm up to a girl so wrapped up in herself, that she won't settle down and leave me alone. I envision Clarke looking across the wide front seat of the Bronco past the spot where I usually sit up close. When he does, he sees a woman who's fished with his brothers, but never gone shopping with his mama. A girl who's gotten drunk with him at a Hank Jr. show, but never slow-danced with him in the living room. What man could see anything special in a woman who's ridden three-wheelers with him at Guilford Mountain but not lay under him at Cherokee Lake? (Oh, no, had they been to Cherokee Lake?) As I practice my smile in the reflection of the microwave, I hear Clarke in the hallway, using his happy voice. Before I can assume a relaxed way to stand, they are in the door. She seems a little nervous. Clarke is anything but. He smiles wide, he says, "Shayna, this is Bethaline." He looks between the two of us, big grin on his face. "Bethaline, Shayna." She comes at me: "So nice to meet you, Bethaline!" She hugs me tight. Well, I hug back. There is lots of polite talk but I'm waiting. Finally, she comes up, she holds my left hand with the thumb and index finger of her right. "Bella," she says softly, almost to herself. Then she seems nervous again and says in a hushed breath, "Be-au-tiful." Even though I see she has a little tattoo on her wristbone, I smile. Then she lets go, turns, and says loudly, "I didn't know you had it in you, Weber!" She calls Clarke by his last name. She slaps his raised hand like she's a guy drinking a beer somewhere, not a hostess and a guest in our home. She didn't even look long enough to notice the Empire cut or the Empress setting. Does she even hint around about how many karats? She does not. I get up and make us drinks, three Midori Sours. Clarke and Shayna talk about Cumberland County High School Class of 94 and who ended up where. In the kitchen I say a little prayer that cable doesn't go out again so I'll have something to do while they blab. I bring in a platter of corn chips surrounding a bowl of hot cheese dip. Shayna looks up brightly and gestures for me to sit down. Well, it's my home, after all. "So Bethaline, so when is the big day?" She seems to make a point to turn to me. I answer, but I hope she doesn't think she's going to be in the wedding. I don't want a boat hostess for a bridesmaid. Bad enough she'll be standing there for all the good people of Liberty Baptist Church to see. After we've eaten all the chips and are almost finished with our second drink, Shayna stands up with her glass and just helps herself toward the kitchen. "Bethaline, have you ever had Limoncello?" I look at over at Clarke with no idea what she's talking about. I try to ask him with my eyes, Where does she think she is going? But he's already up with my glass and his, following Shayna. By the time I make it in there, she has poured three little glasses of something and she hands me one. Then she says,"Saloo-tay!" At first, I sip. It's very cold and lemony but not sour at all so I drink the rest in one swallow. Shayna laughs and watches our faces. Clarke lifts his empty glass to Shayna and he quickly downs another. Clarke thinks he has some firecrackers left over from yesterday so they go out to the little patio that opens from the tiny dining area to the parking lot. I stay in the kitchen and make more snacks. But I keep my eye out. The oven has made the kitchen hot so I put their beer in the fridge. On the patio, I hear them laugh and clink glasses. I look out and see that the bottle of Limoncello is half gone. I turn back to the bowl I'm making vegetable dip in. Silence, as they drink and refill. Then more laughter. They are getting drunk. Clarke runs in for beers. "Are you having fun, sweetie?" he whispers. He looks cute with his cheeks all flushed. So I don't really answer but I kiss him lightly. He smiles and turns to dig through the junk drawer for a Bic, then hurries back to the patio. While I'm leaning into the oven to pull out a pan of Pillsbury breadsticks, I hear the first of the firecrackers explode. I walk to the screen and smell the sulphur. "Here, Shay," Clarke says tossing her a brick of firecrackers. "You light some." "I don't know, Weber, the fuses are small." "It's not the size of the fuse," Clarke starts in, but Shayna groans. I go back to the fridge and pop open a beer. Outside, Shayna pulls something from her bag. "Weber, check this out," she demands. "Close your eyes." "Shay –" "No, serious. Close your eyes," she repeats. I watch as she turns away from him. Abruptly she snaps back: "Ta-da!" She is wearing black-rimmed glasses. The ends taper and rise just slightly at her temples. Clarke is motionless, then he says, "How long you had to wear those?" "Just a couple months," Shayna answers. "We're getting old, Weber. They don't make my head look big, do they?" I don't hear what Clarke says. I dump a jar of salsa into a ceramic crock. I'm opening the sour cream when Shayna slides the screen door open and sprints to the bathroom. In a minute she's done. She comes over and actually tweaks my cheek, her hand damp and smelling of my coconut oil soap. "Bella donna!" she exclaims. I don't know what that means, but she hugs me. I guess she means well. After awhile, I join them on the patio. I pour myself a rocks glass of the lemon stuff and sit down in a lawn chair. I sit through two girandoles, a head bomb, a bunch of lady fingers, even a bottle rocket and a dud Roman candle. We all go inside after the neighbor leans out his sliding glass door and asks if we could please keep it down. They are still laughing even though we have left are some sparklers. Clarke keeps calling Shayna, "Four eyes." I am all laughed out. I am collapsed on the couch searching for something to look at but the cable's out again. The TV screen looks like the lint basket in a clothes dryer. I notice the cheese dip is still on the coffee table. It's cold, a red pepper dice stuck in the middle like a capsized sailboat in a Velveeta sea. After I take it to the kitchen, I stretch conspicuously. Clarke asks attentively, "Shayna, you sure you don't need anything?" I yawn behind him. "Another drink?" Shayna shakes her head and removes her glasses. "Not at all." She folds her eyeglasses and says gravely, "This has been a real delight." She looks at me and shakes her head some more. "Che buona notte." Then she says, "Actually, I have a little surprise for you two. Nothing much, now." She takes Clarke's keys to the Bronco from the coffee table and says, "I'll be right back." I tidy up the living room, and take the beer cans into the kitchen. I wipe the counter, rinse the sink, and turn off the light. Shayna comes back in. She's a little out of breath and says, "I can't find it, guys." "It has to be here. Why don't you put your glasses back on," Clarke jokes. But she's glum when she says, "No, I left it on the plane." She looks down at her hands, fiddles with her rings. Then she says, "Well, let me tell you what it was going to be…" She pauses, and then says enthusiastically, "An Italian cream cake! The genuine article! It was beautiful, it said, 'Amor vincit omnia.'" As she waits for our reaction, she is beaming, I mean, ear to ear. I look at Clarke. He looks at Shayna, who looks between both of us and repeats, "Amor vincit omnia." Finally Clarke says, "I don't know what that means, Shay." Shayna gestures dramatically. She might as well just say, "Duh." But then she drops to the Lazy Boy. "It doesn't matter. Forget it." I'm thinking this might be a good time for us all to head to bed when Shayna up and bolts to the kitchen. She's making more drinks. It's time I put my foot down. "It's late, Clarke. We have work in the morning," I whisper. "I need to hit the sack." The silverware drawer opens and then bangs shut. "You do too." Clarke drops his right ear to his shoulder a little bit but he says nothing. In the kitchen, a plate scrapes the countertop. "Go see what she is doing in my kitchen," I plead. Just then Shayna steps out from behind the dark island, holding the platter of cold cheese dip in front of her, a lit sparkler ablaze in its center. She's wearing her glasses. She hollers, "Congratulations, Weber and Bethaline!" The sparkler hisses against the fuzz of the TV as she moves our way. Then she says something I guess what makes me okay with her. She says, "Love conquers all!" < p> She bends down to set the cheese dip on the coffee table before us. Light from the sparkler turns into one white rosette turning, filling each lens inside her thin black frames. Back
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