Lord Willing and Load Bearing

If walls could talk, ya’ll think fellers would still be in the carpentry trade? That they’d keep building houses, with walls asking about their hammer-swingin' and whatnot? Only women could hold conversation and make a home at the same time. Hell, these good old boys would never even unbutton their trousers again indoors if they heard what I had to say. They’d chatter amongst themselves: “Heard tell that the Hen House walls could talk the hide off a cow, so we don’t care how pretty them girls are. We’ll get our jollies in an open field.”

Oh, but I couldn’t spook the patrons even if I wanted to. I can only hold my girls and their stories. Ain’t got gums to flap. It was 'cause of the Texas heat that Miss Tisha got air conditioning installed before the summer of ‘53, but she done told the girls that it was on account of me sweating with all them secrets. She’d worn a little sneaky smile when she said it, too.

Truth is, my wallpaper has been removed and changed, and I’ve definitely had a whiskey sour or two splashed in my direction, but I ain’t never buckled, creaked, or objected to this way of life. The world birthed these ladies unto me, and I’ve been standing silently for them since I can remember. I can't speak my pride, but sometimes I'm thankful that I'm load bearing, otherwise I'd just float away from sheer delight.

I'm feeling more reflective today, what with it being special for me and all. I reckon I’d been erected long before this date, but forty years ago I became conscious of who I am: a wall in the best brothel this side of Galveston. Whenever a new girl moves in, I done feel like my soul gets insulation (though as a Texas interior wall, I ain't have the faintest what that experience might be like). And each day with my babies affords me a better understanding of the beauty behind their own paint and decor. 'Sides, I think my gals and I are pretty similar: ya'll can strip us down, and we'll still be workin' hard.

---

Miss Tisha has all the girls wearing their party dresses for tonight’s summer soiree. And everyone is buzzing about, gettin' spruced up in tulle, silk, and lace.

Since I’m in the common room next to the staircase, behind the red Chesterfield sofa, I’m privy to the party prep, and I’ll get to see all that fawning and flirting once folks arrive. Mingling always appears frilly and innocent with cocktail glasses in hand – louder than a restless mule in a tin barn, too. It’s when those fellers follow my girls up to their rooms that the tomfoolery ends and the business takes place. And I like to picture the ladies as bigwigs, all powerful and keen once the boudoir doors shut.

Caroline saunters in my room first, her curlers still in. “I swear I heard it again last night!”

Miss Tisha is powdering Dolly’s bosoms in the hallway. “Child, I told you. The air conditioner is on the fritz and making all sorts of racket.”

“Sounded like a scratching sound,” Caroline says with a sigh. She parks herself in front of the brass mirror on my adjacent wall. Caroline's my pretty rooster who thinks the sun rose to hear her crow.

“Did Mr. Briscoe end up ponying up for last week?” Collette asks Miss Tisha. She sits her plump rump down on the sofa and slips on a pair of black kitten heels. She's planning to dance tonight, that liberated wild one.

“Plus interest, honey.”

I know they ain’t celebrating my anniversary tonight, but the anticipation of this summer party – with only exclusives invited – sure adds a special type of electricity to the air. I already feel all tingly and pert as a cricket, though Bill Haley & His Comets haven't even played on the radio yet.

Miss Tisha passes me by, with Dolly and her matte chest in tow, and she tickles Collette under her chin. Then she asks Caroline to take out those rollers before Johnny Fuller gets here and confuses the girl's rubber Spoolies for condoms. Miss Tisha’s blonde hair is a wavy cloud atop her head, and it’s fixin’ to rain down fabulousness. Her breasts are damn near spilling up out of her midnight blue bodice, but she tugs down her dress just for good measure.

“All right,” Miss Tisha announces to the room. “I want to hear what ya’ll think about Eisenhower’s bill.”

Both Ina and Summer traipse in, and Posey follows soon after. Posey is our newest girl, though she's older than the others - maybe even older than Miss Tisha. Posey's now been with us for seven months. She sure is smart as a whip, but she came to Miss Tisha frail, timid, and soggy from the rain. Miss Tisha got her fitted with the right brassiere. Our housekeeper, Yvette, made her some gooey sticky buns. Posey’s been walkin' tall ever since.

Summer tongues at her teeth absentmindedly. “Now 'under God' is part of the Pledge of Allegiance. For all kids. All Americans, too. Guess that includes me, so my mama finally won.”

“Do those young’uns even know what that means?” Ina says. “I remember picking my nose during the Pledge, all throughout it."

Linda laughs. “I think if my old man thought we was under God when he was considerin' gettin' the belt to whoop my hide, maybe I might have gone to his funeral last year.”

The girls consider and discuss some more, with Collette saying this bill makes her feel like her sister's kids won't see her as Godless no more. And Debbie talks about when she felt the holy spirit in math class as a little girl ("I got that answer right, and dagnabbit - I could hear the angels singing"). Miss Tisha asks for each lady to share her thoughts, as they all trickle in one-by-one and gather 'round the sofa. This is their time to speak and exchange, without no money or grabby hands muddying the waters.

Colette taps her chin. "You really think everyone in the Soviet Union is an atheist-type?”

“Uh-oh, you sound conspiratorial!” Posey shouts, hands on her hips while waggling her brows. “Oh, McCarthy, we’ve got a commie here. Quick! The brunette, with the green eye shadow.”

Collette giggles and points back at Posey. “Oh, I’ll take you down with me. I’ll say your little Aggie boy-toy turned you on to a classless society, filling your head with stuff he’s learning about in school.”

“Look around.” Linda straightens up on the couch and flips her wrist knowingly. “We already in a classless society, ain’t we?”

Mercy me, if the women down at the Piggly Wiggly heard my gals now. Ain't no matter that married men are coming to the Hen House illegally; it's this talk that would get my ladies driven out of town.

Yvette carries in a tray of champagne flutes, full to the brim with apple juice. The girls toast with their drinks, Miss Tisha shouting, “Under God!” as the glasses clink together.

---

The Chordettes are playing on the radio, and one of Effie’s hoity toity clients done lost his toupee after tearing his britches, so the festivities are off to a great start. Sure, overhearing any actual conversation with a paying guest can sometimes be about as exciting as waiting for my own paint to dry, but I do love me some dancing and shenanigans. And I love it when my girls are makin' money.

Standard is fifteen dollars for one roll in the hay. After a function like this, though, Miss Tisha and the girls are usually livin' in high cotton for a week or two. I reckon events are a great way to rake in extra, what with all these fellers getting drunk as skunks and showing off their wallets. Mind you, Miss Tisha don’t need anyone inebriated off of Mai Tais to get business swinging; she can damn near talk a bitch out of heat.

All of the customers this evening are high rollers and big-wigs, all except for Posey’s young buck. He’s been coming 'round since Posey first started at the Hen House, and he’s always mighty respectful. I’m surprised he made the guest list for tonight, on account of him being a broke student who wouldn’t bite a biscuit. Miss Tisha works in mysterious ways, and maybe she sees something in him that deems him worthy.

I'm in hog heaven, just takin' in the entertainment, but I've noticed that my Posey looks about as nervous as a woodshed waiter. Some of the girls are teasing Posey’s beau about his dimples, but she's barely paying them any mind. She swats their hands away from his face and looks past me to the corridor by the front door. I can sense something brewing behind her eyes as the merrymaking carries on around her.

There’s a clatter in the direction of the kitchen before Yvette scurries around the corner to tap on Miss Tisha’s shoulder. I’ve heard tell that the kitchen has a window where you can see the comings and goings, so I’m guessing Yvette caught sight of someone’s arrival. And this sure put a bug in her bonnet. There’s some whispering between the two women.

If I had my druthers, I’d be able to know all the happenings in every corner of this house, but it’s not meant to be. Just like me, no other parts of the Hen House are yappin'. Ain't no gate that can talk off its own hinges, so I just have to trust that my presence stretched out in this room can be felt in all the other spaces. I want each girl to feel my acceptance, from the pitched timber roof down to the hardwood floor.

Miss Tisha looks like she’s fixin’ to face a storm as she heads toward the door. The knocking is barely audible over the music, but a shift has happened. The party ain’t so riotous now, almost as if somebody’s daddy is hollering outside and everyone is pretending to pay it no mind while they listen to every word. Posey is chewin' her bit, following Miss Tisha with her eyes.

From the hallway, Miss Tisha opens the front door and doesn’t sound surprised. “Good evening, gentlemen. You here for proselytizing, and you here for pleasure? Or vice versa?”

“I’m here for what's mine,” a man’s voice returns.

Feathers unruffled, Miss Tisha says, “We got nobody inside with that Christian name.”

“Where’s Posey?” the stern voice demands.

Then he comes barreling in: a short, hot-headed, chili pepper of a man, followed by one of the ministers from the Baptist church just up the road a piece. Miss Tisha follows them with her hands on her hips. The preacher feller has been here once before, coming inside one spring day and telling Miss Tisha that his congregation is praying for their souls. Now, here he is with a pal, both as welcome as an outhouse breeze.

“This is a closed event,” Miss Tisha says to their backs. Her words contain a thinly veiled threat; all these folks know she has the county sheriff in her pocket.

The irate little jumping bean of a man pays her no mind and charges into my room of hushed anticipation. He’s clearly teeterin', and his white button-down shirt is full of more wrinkles than the living room rug after the girls do the jitterbug. Sloppily, he hones in on Posey and her boy.

“Deacon Elkin, what'd I tell you,” he seethes. “I'd heard she was back in town, but look'it here. With my own eyes, I can still barely believe it."

“Deacon Elkins, what in Sam Hill is the meaning of this?” Miss Tisha asks.

The radio cuts off. My girls, with their rouge, jewelry, and practiced smiles, all take a few steps toward the angry man and the holy man. Twelve sets of heels making moves; boy howdy, if that don’t make someone shiver in their drawers then that someone is a damned fool.

Posey ain’t the delicate girl she might have been on the front porch those months ago. She stands proud, with a protective hand on her date’s shoulder. But her young man seems concerned. Their eyes exchange a respectful recognition that I feel deep in my plaster board. It’s clear as day to me now, 'cause I’d know a maternal love most anywhere.

"Hello, Buck," Posey greets the man. She nods at the deacon. "Deacon Elkins."

"You come back, after all these years, and you don't even tell your own husband. I have to find out you're living this sinful life, back in my town, from Shirley Goddamn Miller, the town gossip?" This Buck, well he's slapping his thighs so hard that one might think he's fixin' to start square dancing. He ain't got no rhythm, though.

"What are you doing here?" Posey asks. She keeps silently checking in with her young man, and I can tell his jaw is clenched just as tight as them fists he has glued to his sides.

"Deacon Elkins and I can free you and get you back on the righteous path. It's not too late." Buck feels behind him to nudge the preacher. "Tell her she's been following those fleshy -- those whatchamacallits --"

The deacon is studying all the gentlemen in the room, probably knowing these Toms, Dicks, and Harrys from Sunday service. And he looks sicker than a dog passing peach pits. He croaks out, "Desires of the flesh."

"Bingo!" shouts Buck.

Posey gives the other girls a reassuring smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “He and I have a history, ladies.”

“Don’t we all, sugar,” Collette says.

Miss Tisha clacks her tongue, and sure enough she’s done with the warnings. “Ya'll said your piece. Think it’s time for you to get.”

Now it's Buck's turn to scan the loosened ties and pink kiss-marks on the fellers. The scorn in his glossy eyes bellows out louder than the yellow polka-dotted dress Effie is wearing. I wonder if he sees a bunch of lost sheep here, if he reckons that he’s a savior of some sort. When his eyes settle on the Aggie boy at Posey’s side, red stains his alabaster skin. His hand raises in an instant, lookin' to strike a blow.

Without a word, Posey plants herself in front of her boy, and then my other ladies hurry to do the same. And faster than a scalded cat, they all link arms. At the risk of gushin', I have to say these girls make one hell of a solid partition.

Ol' Buck is so mad that he could keep this argument going in an empty farmhouse, but he turns and faces the deacon with some resignation on his face. "This whore never had a mama to show her wrong from right. God can't save 'em all."

In one-half less than no time, Posey's male companion jumps around my girls and grabs Buck by the scruff of his neck. Before I can prepare for impact, he slams that man's head right through my plaster. A chill runs up inside me, and I sure do feel all cattywampus with this intrusion. The boy releases Buck and steps back, bracing for a brawl, but Buck is lettin' loose a cry that sounds like he's in pain.

“Something bit me!” He jerks his head out of my body and collapses to the floor with a bleeding nose in his hands.

Quick out the chute comes a rat, causing quite a commotion as it scurries between feet and furniture. Folks are stomping and shouting until, finally, it’s Betty’s ol' rich cowboy who catches it with his Stetson. Everyone cheers.

Miss Tisha asks that Yvette shows Buck and Deacon Elkins to the door, but not before taking a gander at Buck's bleeding face. She tsks and hands him a handkerchief. “We’ll pray for you,” she tells him. Then, quieter: “Bless his heart.”’

As the music comes back on and the drinks start flowing, my girls ask their male guests to wait just a minute while they inspect my damage. Then they assemble at my hole and furrow their brows. It's a tad disconcerting to suddenly get this much scrutiny. I ain't the queen, ladies.

"I promise to fix it," Posey's boy says. Poor youngster is clearly eating remorse by the spoonful.

"Oh, we know," Miss Tisha consoles him. "We know you will, honey."

---

After my plaster dust has settled and all the paying customers have long gone home, all my girls and Posey's son -- who I learn is named James -- come to me and gather again 'fore the night is through.

My girls give Posey and her boy hugs while Miss Tisha approaches my newly acquired crater (that Buck has an empty watermelon-sized noggin, I'll tell you what). Like a feather tickle, I can feel her touching around behind my rock lath. When she gives a gasp, I worry I have more rats in me.

"Something's here, wedged between the wood slats." Miss Tisha gives a grunt. Her hand pulls out with a black and white dusty photograph pinched between her fingers. She rubs it clean with her thumb.

As my gals peer over the picture, they muse amongst themselves. "Miss Faye! She's the one who bought this land and had the farmhouse built." And they realize excitedly: "It's her with her first group of girls!"

"Posey," Miss Tisha breathes. "There's your mama."

And just like that, Posey and her son gaze down at that picture. "She's pregnant," she whispers. "I knew I was born in town, that she passed away soon after, but you think she could've had me right here?"

"There's something written on the back," Dolly says.

As they turn over the photograph, I can guess what Miss Faye had printed. Like opening my eyes, now I can recall that my life began when Posey's mama closed her eyes after giving birth. She'd been right here, about forty years ago, bleeding in my room. And I don't think she ever fully left.

"My girls and God's children," reads Miss Tisha.

The ladies straighten their shoulders and some of them sniffle a bit. I feel like I'm all holes, all unmade, and I wish I could sprout arms from my exposure. Wish I could embrace and get embraced in return.

“Why didn’t you tell us you had a son?” Caroline asks Posey quietly, like she just caught her breath.

“Miss Tisha knew. Lets me make up my earnings in other ways, so I can spend time with him. I guess I didn’t know if ya'll would think I'm an unfit mother.”

“Nah,” says Betty. “We could never. 'Sides, none of us is just one thing."

"Yeah," agrees Summer. "You know, I think I want to get married someday. Find someone who really knows the color of my eyes.”

“You'd make a great wife," says Linda. "Me, sometimes I think I could talk with these men ‘bout politics, ‘bout my dreams. Other times, I think they see me as the closest they can get to heaven, that I’m a passage, not a passenger.” She puts her hand on my wallpaper. “Ya’ll think it feels as warm in Deacon Elkin’s church as it does here?”

“Depends on who’s in the pews and who’s at the pulpit,” says Posey.

“And if they got an air conditioner,” says Caroline.

Over the next couple of days, James repairs my hole. And wouldn't you know it, he talks to me as he goes along. Tells me how his daddy, Buck, don't know about him, but that he's doing just fine without that man in his life. Tells me how he's proud of his mama every day, how she didn't even know when her own birthday was, but how he makes her a cake every August. Tells me how he loves college. When he's all done and ready to re-hang my wall paper, I feel as fine as cream gravy.

And I sure do wish I could let him know, that I could talk and tell him he's a good boy, a good man. But I can't. Can't talk to him or even in support of him.

Walls can't pray or lie or gab like school girls, no. I can love, though. And now I know that I can sure as hell bite.