American Boy - Larry Watson [21]
She was wearing an ill-fitting, too-tight cotton dress, and I remembered it from the days when she was scurrying back and forth behind the lunch counter at Burke’s. But now it looked as if her wardrobe had been supplemented from the closets of the Dunbars. The fraying blue cardigan she had on was so large it must have once belonged to Dr. Dunbar. It fell from her broad shoulders like drapery, hanging down to her thighs, and the sleeves were turned up multiple times. And she was wearing a pair of slippers that had been Mrs. Dunbar’s.
“This isn’t a party,” Johnny said. “This is an antiparty.”
“Sad,” she said, nodding in understanding.
“We were invited to a party,” I rushed to explain, “but we didn’t want to go.”
“Why the hell not?”
“You had to have a date,” said Johnny.
“Gotcha.” And then she flashed a smile that made her look as if she were preparing to take a bite out of something.
I had an impulse to say that we could have found dates if we wanted to, but I kept my mouth shut. That remark would only have made us seem more pathetic. Besides, upon her arrival the attic became the place I most wanted to spend New Year’s Eve.
Johnny sat down in the children’s chair, and Louisa sat where Johnny had been. She pointed to Johnny’s record player, where Larry Kert’s version of “Maria” emanated from the mesh-covered speaker. “You’re sure wearing that out. I could hear it down in my room. What are you listening to?”
“West Side Story,” said Johnny. “But this isn’t the movie soundtrack. It’s the original Broadway recording.”
The distinction meant nothing to her. “Don’t you ever play anything else?”
I reached down and picked up the stack of albums we’d brought to the party. “What do you want to hear? We’ve got Dave Brubeck. The Kingston Trio. The Brothers Four. Odetta.”
“You have any Ricky Nelson?”
“Nope,” Johnny answered. “Sorry.”
“Bobby Vee?”
“No Bobby Vee.”
She shrugged and pointed to the bottle at Johnny’s feet. “What are you ringing in the New Year with?” Midnight was hours away.
“Blackberry brandy. Want a drink?”
“You have any more beers?”
“Sorry.”
“Okay. What the hell.”
“You want me to get you a glass?” offered Johnny.
Louisa laughed. “Don’t bother.” She reached for the bottle, twisted the top off, and then did exactly what a teenage boy would do: she wiped the rim with the palm of her hand.
After two swallows she grimaced and handed the brandy back to Johnny. “You could put that on pancakes.” Nevertheless, after the bottle passed from Johnny to me, she accepted it when it came back to her.
For a long time no one said anything. We simply circulated the bottle and listened to Larry Kert and Carol Lawrence profess their doomed love. As Tony and Maria approached their fate, Johnny grew increasingly drunk. Louisa was visibly bored, and she didn’t even know how the story ended....
Louisa spoke up. “This must be a real fancy affair your folks went to tonight,” she said to Johnny. “I saw the red dress your mom was wearing. Jesus, was that something!”
Johnny nodded. “They go to that dance every year. It goes on all night, and then when it’s over the McDonoughs—they own the hotel—open up the restaurant and fix bacon and eggs for everybody.”
The music was over, but no one got up to put on another record.
“But she won’t wear that dress again next year, will she? It’s a new dress every year, I’m sure.”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“She’ll probably wear it once, and then it’ll end up over there.” Louisa pointed to a standing wardrobe filled with garment bags.
“Could be.”
“Damn fancy dress for this town,” she observed. “Is your mom from Willow Falls?”
“Detroit. She and my dad met at the University of Michigan.”
“How the hell did they end up here? A doctor—he can go anywhere.”
Louisa may not have been from Willow Falls, but it hadn’t taken her long to understand why so many people in our town worshipped Rex Dunbar. He wasn’t like the mayor, whose family had become wealthy selling Chevrolets to the residents of Willow Falls for decades. Nor was he like