1968--Charleston, South Carolina

By W. E. Turner

At first glance, Al Bonet guesses the woman who answers the knock on the duplex door is about his own age: eighteen. But when she looks up through the straggly brown hair falling over her face and smiles a crooked smile, the yellow glow from the bare bulb above the stoop falls on two broken, discolored molars on the upper left side of her mouth. Al revises his estimate of her age upward about ten years.

"Henri Bonet?" she asks sweetly. "Sure, he lives here." The woman turns her head and yells over her shoulder, "Hey, Chief." her voice is a bellow, now, aimed toward the rear of the apartment. The voice is deeper; coarse and grating, like a bastard file scraped on the edge of a piece of sheetmetal. "Someone here ta see ya."

Her voice changes again as she opens the door wider. "Come on in," she says, girlish once more. "He'll be out in a minute."

Al stoops down to pick up his athletic bag, then turns to gently kick at Willie's feet. His brother is leaning against the brick wall beside the door and is almost asleep again. Willie blinks his eyes and looks around, as if trying to re-orient himself. It's close to midnight and Willie slept most of the way in from Columbia.

"We're here, Willie," Al says. "Go on in."

Groggily, Willie staggers through the door and Al follows, all the while trying to take in his surroundings and follow the movements of the woman ahead of them. Her ample posterior stretches the vertical ribs of the cloth robe, its swirling contours making a statement of her zaftig figure. Al recalls the glimpse of deep cleavage the front view afforded as she swung back the door. The room, he notices, smells of dirty diapers.

The woman turns and plops down indelicately on the couch and picks up a drink glass from the coffee table in front of it. "You boys from the Holland?" she asks, then takes a drink from the glass.

Willie grins sheepishly and sinks his head down into his shrugging shoulders, making him appear even younger than his sixteen years.

"No, ma'am," Al says, gravely. "I'm Al. This is Willie. We're Chief Bonet's sons."

"His boys?" she exclaims, sitting up, then reaching down to demurely pull the corner of her bathrobe over one exposed, cellulite-dimpled thigh. "Why, he told me y'all 'uz comin', but he didn't tell me when. Didn't think it 'uz gonna be this soon." She turns toward the back rooms of the apartment and again the foghorn bellows. "Chief. Get yer fat ass out here. Someone ta see ya."

The chameleon act continues as the woman turns back toward Al. She's all sweetness and light again. "Y'all drive straight on through from Oklahoma?"

"No, ma'am," Al says. "We stopped in Chattanooga last night. Stayed the night before last over in Arkansas, then took a ferry 'cross the Mississippi yesterday morning. Willie wanted to see the Mississippi in the daylight."

"Oh, yeah?" She turns toward Willie and he grins back at her, then lowers his eyes. "How'd ya like it?" she asks.

"It's biiiiig," he says with an embarrassed laugh.

Still giggling, Willie plops down in the easy chair set at right angles to the couch. Al hangs his letter jacket on the back of a kitchen chair in one corner of the room, then sits on the front edge of the chair's seat.

"It sure is big, all right," the woman says. "Biggest damn' river I ever seen." She looks from one of the boys to the other, smiling slightly. Willie can't meet her glance but Al stares at her stoically.

Her cheeks are smooth, round and slightly freckled, he notices. Her lips are full and softly formed. Her eyes are green.

"They call me Spider, by the way," she says. "Name's really 'Samantha,' but they been callin' me 'Spider' ever since I got this." She holds up the back of one forearm to show the boys a large black arachnid tattoo. "Me an' my kids live here with your dad."

"You shackin' up with 'im?" Al asks, hoping he's using the vernacular correctly.

Spider turns sharply and peers at Al through her hair for a while before answering. "Yeah," she says, throatily, then pulls a cigarette from the pack on the coffee table and places it between her lips. "We're shackin' up." She uses a cigarette lighter and closes the lid with a loud snap.

"Hey," Spider says, suddenly sweet again. "I was real sorry ta hear about y'all's mama."

Finally, Al lowers his gaze. "Well," he says. "It don't matter, really. She's probably better off, now. She'd been sick a long time."

"Oh. Did she have cancer, or somethin'?"

"No, ma'am. Cirrhosis of the liver."

"Yeah," a gruff voice says from the doorway into the hall. "Goddam half-breed Injun bitch done drank herself to death. Just like her old man."

Chief Boatswain's Mate Henri Bonet stands in the doorway. His stained skivy shirt stretches across his protruding stomach and the boys can see the fouled anchor tattoo on his right arm. Under the belly, the khaki uniform pants are wrinkled, like they'd been slept in.

It's easy to see Al's sandy brown hair and square jaw favors his father's appearance. Willie's features are darker and softer.

Henri travels unsteadily toward the couch where Spider sits and plops down heavily on it. "Goddam Injuns can't hold their liquor," he says. "Ain't like us Cajuns." He gives a long, rattling belch and the air is saturated with the aroma of stale beer.

"Hi, boys," Henri says at last. "How ya'll doin'?"

"Just fine, Pop," Willie says with a smile.

Al just glares at the man from under his lowered eyebrows.

"How's yer Gramma?"

"Gettin' old," Willie says. "You know Aunt Bev an' Uncle Paul put her in the Rest Home, don't you?"

Henri nods, looking glum. "Well, I see ya'll done found this place all right," Henri says. This observation effectively stifles conversation in the room.

Henri sits on the couch and stares sleepily at the rug. Both Al and Willie dart their eyes around the room, taking in its features; familiarizing themselves with their new surroundings. After a few minutes, Spider picks up her drink glass from the coffee table. She takes a drink, then swirls the ice in the glass. They all hear the tinkling of ice cubes.

"What grade you in this year, Willie?" Spider asks, setting the glass back on the table.

"A Junior."

"Well, I hear the schools here in Charleston are pretty good," Spider says. "You play football, too, don't you?"

"Did last year. I was a wide receiver on offense an' a safety on defense."

"Willie made the varsity last year at Pawhuska," Al volunteered. "He was one of only two sophomores on the team."

"Yeah," Willie said. "An' me an' Al was both safeties. They called us the Warbonnets. Big Warbonnet and Little Warbonnet. We was pretty good."

"But not good enough ta get no scholarship nowhere," Henri says. He raises his eyes and looks at Al, who returns the stare. "Or did ya get offered one, somewhere, and just didn't take it?"

"No," Al says. "I didn't get offered any scholarship."

"So I guess you expect me ta pay for college. Huh?"

"I don't expect you to pay for nothin'," Al says. "I ain't goin' ta college."

Henri stares at his son for a long time, then finally turns his eyes away. "Figures," he says.

Both father and son decide now is a good time to look at the walls.

Spider takes another drink from her glass, then begins cleaning her nails with a nail file she picks up from the coffee table. Her eyes occasionally flick upward as she works, flitting between Henri, Willie and Al.

"So, what are you gonna do?" Henri asks, after a while. “Sit here on yer ass until they draft ya?”

Al shrugs. “Well, if that happens, it happens.”

“You know what that’ll mean, don’t ya? Vietnam. They’ll send your sorry ass right to the fuckin’ jungle. Then they’ll shoot the son-of-a-bitch off.” Henri leans forward to peer intently at his son. “But let me tell you somethin’, Alphonse. You don’t want to go to no ‘Nam. You don’t want to go there at all.”

“Don’t seem to have hurt you none,” Al says. “Like when you was over there on them PT boats and stuff.”

“PBRs,” Henri says, disgustedly. “River Patrol Boats. Or Patrol Boat, River: PBR, the way the Navy abbreviates things.” He leans back on the sofa again. “But I tell you somethin', son, you don’t wanna go over there.”

"OK,” Al says. “I heard ya. Guess I'll just get me a job, then. Somewhere."

Henri nods and silence returns to the room.

"Tell ya what I'll do," Henri says after a while. "I know some guys, yeah. We'll see if we can't get you into the Shipbuilders' Local, then get ya on as a helper out at the shipyard at the Naval Station." He turns and looks at Al, who returns the look. "I think a Union card'll run ya 'bout two-fifty. I'll loan it to you, then you can pay me back after ya get hired."

"OK," Al says. "Thanks."

“That way,” Henri says, “You can get classified 1-Y. Defense worker. Only get called up in a national emergency.”

Henri stands up. "You wanna beer?" he asks Al.

"Can I have one?" Al asks in return.

"Sure. Eighteen's legal age for beer here in South Carolina. Same as Kansas. And I know how you an' you friends usta slip up there to Sedan from Pawhuska ever' chance you got to buy beer."

"Where'd you hear that?"

"Yer Grandma. She kept me posted 'bout you guys."

Al grins and nods his head.

Henri stands up and starts for the kitchen. He pauses and looks at Al, who is still sitting on the edge of the kitchen chair in the corner. "Well, come on, if you want a beer," Henri tells Al. "I ain't no fuckin' waiter."

Al gets up and follows his father into the kitchen.

After Henri gets two bottles of Miller High Life out of the refrigerator, he opens them both with a church key and hands one to Al, then stands at the kitchen sink, leaning his backside against its curled porcelain edge. He stares down at the green-tiled floor of the kitchen.

Al stands awkwardly in front of Henri, self-consciously sipping on the beer.

"You know," Henri says, his voice at times lapsing into a hint of his native cajun sing-song, "your mother never really could hold her liquor, no. Her an' me usta go out drinkin' ever' once in a while. She'd always try to keep up wit' me -- drinking shots and chasin 'em wit' beer." He pauses and half smiles, his eyes unfocused. "Hell, wasn't no time 't all 'fore she was under the goddam table -- just drunk on her ass. Then she'd wanna dance." The Chief takes a drink of his beer and stands there, looking down the neck of the bottle. He sighs. "So we'd get out there on the dance floor, but it wasn't really dancin'. It was more just me jus' movin' 'round, holdin' her up. Ever'ting was a slow dance wit' her. Didn't matter what the band was playin'. She was there with 'er hands 'round my neck an' we'd go shufflin' 'round. 'Course, th' other men'd try to cut in, thinkin' they might be able to take advantage o' this drunk woman, but I never let 'em, no."

"Is... uh,..." Al starts out, slowly. "Is that why you busted up? Got divorced? Because o' her gettin' drunk an' all?"

Henri looks up at his son. "What your mama tell ya 'bout that?"

"Not much," Al replies. "She just said you couldn't get along. But I always wondered...." He lets the sentence taper away.

Henri shakes his head. "No. It wasn't her drinkin'. It had more ta do with me goin' off to the Far East. The destroyer I was in got sent over to Korea. We'd just run back an’ forth 'tween Korea an' Yokosuka. Only got back stateside for a little bit back in '51, then went right back out three months later." He paused and thought a moment. "She just couldn't take it. Went back to Oklahoma."

"Well, didn't you try...."

"I did. Tried ever'ting. Even took 30 days leave an' went to Pawhuska ta see 'er." He gives a half-grunting laugh. "Hell, how do ya think Willie got here?"

Henri takes another drink of his beer and looks away from Al, toward the refrigerator and the wall behind it. "Even put in for transfer to some kinda shore duty, somewhere, just so's we could be together." He shakes his head and goes on, slowly. "But they don't need Bo'sun's Mates on shore stations much. An' hell, I'd only just made 2nd Class.... Didn't have enough time-in-grade... or even time in the service, for that matter... to qualify for anyt'ing 'cept a shipboard berth."

"So you split up?"

"So we split up," Henri says, nodding. "She filed for divorce just after Willie was born." He looks back up at Al and takes another drink of beer. He shrugs. "But, what the hell. That's a sailor's life." Henri stands up straight again and heads back toward the living room.

Al, in his father's wake, can think of about a lot of things to say or ask, but he can't get any of them out before they're back in the presence of Willie and Spider.

Willie sits huddled in the chair, his head down between his shoulders again. He looks up as the other two enter the room and they can see his swarthy complexion blushing a bright crimson.

"What the hell's this whore been doin' to ya, Willie?

"Nothin'," Spider says with a laugh. "I was just askin' 'im about his girl friends. Then he goes an' tells me he's a virgin."

"No, I never," Willie says, giggling. "You drug it outta me."

Henri gives a little laugh as the two men reseat themselves in their former positions. Al can't really tell if his father's laugh has any humor behind it or not.

"Well, that ain't all she'll drag outta ya if ya give 'er a chance," Henri says. "She'll roll ya an' leave ya in th' gutter, boy. That's what whores do ta sailors. Ain't that right?" he says, his eyes flicking over in Spider's direction. "They roll 'em an' leave 'em in th' gutter."

"Oh, hell," Spider says. "I ain't never rolled a sailor in my life."

"Says you," Henri says. "But you were a whore, weren't ya?"

"That's right," Spider says. "That's right, I was." She directs her answer more toward Willie and Al than Henri but looks directly at none of them. "Worked up at 'The Pines.' That usta be a whorehouse, up north o' town, there. It's closed, now."

"Hell," Henri says. "You know what she done first time she met me? It was in a bar down on the strip, just outside the gate o' the Naval Station. Hell, she started blowin' me. Right there in the bar."

Spider laughs, swirling her drink with her finger. She smiles slightly as Henri continues, looking up at Willie as Henri tells the tale.

"I was dressed in civies that night," Henri says. "I had on a maroon dress shirt and under it I had on one o' those little turtleneck collar things... What d'ya call 'em?..."

"A dickey," Spider says.

"Yeah. A dickey," Henri goes on. "Anyway, I had one o' them on an' a jacket... er, a blazer over it, an' all. Ol' Spider, there, she tells me I look like I'm a priest." Henri laughs. "Can you 'magine that? Me? A goddam priest?"

"Well, hell," Spider says, "ya did kinda look like one. 'Course, I 'uz drunk then, like I always was in those days." She holds up her drink glass and shakes it, slightly, so the ice tinkles against the sides again. "But this's all I drink, now. Coca-Cola."

"Anyway," she goes on, laughing, "I'd always said I wanted ta give a priest a blow job, someday, an' I figured that 'uz my chance."

"So she ain't just a whore, Willie," Henri says. "She's a sacrilegious whore, at that." Henri laughs again, then looks over at Willie from under his shaggy, graying eyebrows.

Al, still sitting on the edge of the kitchen chair, notices his father's smile is no more than a baring of gritted teeth.

"But, anyway, Willie, if you want ol' Spider, there, ta grow ya up some.... If you don't want ta be a virgin, no more, after tonight.... Now's you chance."

Willie just looks down at his hands in his lap. Al alternates his glance between Willie, Spider and Henri.

"Look at 'er Willie," Henri commands. "Look at 'er. Look at the way she's lookin' at you. She wants ya, Willie. She wants to grow you up, some. She wants ta make you a man."

Al watches as Willie slowly raises his head and Spider smiles at him. Willie quickly looks back down, pulling his head down farther into his jacket.

"Go ahead Willie," Henri says. "Take 'er. Take 'er inta that bedroom back there." He jerks his head over his shoulder to indicate the direction. "This is Free Love, boy," he says. "It's like all them dam' Hippies is always talkin' 'bout. Go on, take 'er."

After several more silent moments pass, Spider takes another drink from her Coke, sits the glass down and slowly rises. She straightens out the folds and wrinkles of her bathrobe, walks up to Willie's chair and holds out her hand. "Come on, Willie," she says, softly. "Let's go."

Slowly, Willie reaches one hand up toward her, then allows himself to be pulled to his feet.

Henri does not look at the woman and the boy as they walk past the end of the couch. His eyes remain fixed on the far wall, but unfocused. After a few moments, he lays his head back until it rests on the back of the couch. He heaves a deep sigh.

"Why did you do that, Dad?" Al asks from the corner where he sits.

Henri's head jerks up and he turns it toward Al. He looks at the boy curiously, as if he had forgotten his son was even in the room. He takes a drink from his Miller High Life.

"Don't call me 'Dad,'" Henri says, looking away. "I ain't yer 'dad.' I may be your father, but I ain't nobody's fuckin' 'daddy.' Spider's always tryin' to get her kids ta call me 'Daddy.' I ain't their daddy. I ain't nobody's fuckin' daddy."

"What should I call you, then?"

"Call me 'Chief.' Ever'body else does. Even Spider."

"We used to call you 'Daddy.' Me an' Willie. When we was little." Al takes another drink of his beer.

Henri waits a long time before he replies. "I know," he says, finally. "Your mama used to call me 'Daddy,' too." He leans his head back until it rests on the back of the couch again. The awkward position of his head and stretched neck muscles constricts his throat and raises the timber of his voice.

"She had this little dog... a Pekinese... that she usta call her 'baby.'" Henri chuckles. "This was before you even came along, boy. Anyway, she usta baby that dog somethin' awful. Called herself 'Mama' an' me 'Daddy' when she was talkin' to it. I always usta tell 'er I wasn't that goddam dog's 'daddy.'" Henri pauses and sighs again. "But then, when you come along... I didn't mind bein' called 'Daddy' so much. She called me that. 'Daddy.' I didn't mind it, then. But I mind it now."

There is silence in the room for a long time.

"You still didn't answer my question," Al says at last. "Why did you do that thing you just did? With Samantha an' Willie? And how come you keep callin' her a 'whore?'"

"'Cause she usta be. Still is, in my books. Once a whore, always a whore."

Al stares at his father. "Is that why you sent Willie into the bedroom with 'er? 'Cause she's a whore?"

"No," Henri says, slowly. "I sent him in there... because... 'cause she's a woman." He pauses. "And women,... need certain things." Henri raises his head again and looks directly at Al. "Things I can't provide no more. Know what I mean?"

Al looks at Henri for a long time. His brows are knitted as he contemplates the import of his father words. "Oh," he finally says, the sound barely audible. He can't meet Henri's eyes now, and looks away to stare at the floor.

Henri lays his head back down.

"You know," Henri says, "I guess I kinda lied to ya before. Little bit. When I said your mama went back to Oklahoma while my ship was overseas.... Well, she didn't. She didn't go back until I come back to th' States in '51." He raised his head back up. "Ya see, Al,... When I came back... I had a case o' syphilis. So, when I finally did get back after bein' gone so long.... Hell, I couldn't even make love to 'er. That's when she went back to Oklahoma."

Henri pauses a long time.

Al sits and stares open-mouthed at his father, wondering why the old man is telling him all this.

"Hell," Henri goes on, finally, "I guess I musta had the syph and the clap, both, a total o'... three?... no,... four times since I been in the Navy. Sent me up an' down the rate ladder a few times, let me tell you." He gave a mirthless chuckle. "And, even though the doctors is been able ta get me over it, ever' time.... Well, I guess it done took its toll. I just can't seem ta be able ta get it up no more."

Al can't look at his father, now, and turns to stare at the wall across from him again. "So,..." he says. "Since you can't... can't do it no more,... you decided to fix Samantha up with your son. That it? You want Willie to... to... to service 'er for you. Is that it?"

Henri raises his head again and looks over at Al. "What th' hell's buggin' you, Alphonse?" he asks. "Are you jealous o' your brother? Wish it was you, 'stead 'o him in there with 'er, right now? That it? You want 'er ta make you a man, too? Want 'er ta grow you up, some?"

"I'm grown up enough, already."

"I doubt that," Henri says, chuckling as he lays his head back down. "Aw, don't worry 'bout it, none, son. You'll get yer chance. Hell, you can have 'er tonight if ya don't mind sloppy seconds."

"You're disgusting," Al says finally, leaping to his feet. "Mom always told me you were a sick, disgusting,... filthy old man. Well, she was right. I never saw it before, when we came to visit ya. I guess you were on your good behavior, then. Now that she's gone, I reckon you think you can say an' do anything you dam' well please." Al reaches for his letter jacket on the back of the kitchen chair. He shoves one hand into a jacket sleeve. "Well, maybe you can. Daddy. But I don't have to stay here and listen to it."

Al has the letter jacket on, now, and heads toward the door, picking up his athletic bag as he passes through the foyer. "I won't be back," Al says. He goes through the front door and lets the screen door close behind him with a loud bang.

Henri continues to sit in the chair, unmoving except for the hand holding the beer bottle. The bottle lifts to Henri's lips and he drinks deeply, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he swallows.