Sherry's Story

Introduction to New Orleans

Disclaimer: I don’t own anything associated with the Sin City franchise and I am not making any money from this.

lll

A month after he started work at Roarke Exports, Ben came home one night and told me that we were invited to a Sunday afternoon get-together at his supervisor’s home.

“George is a good guy,” Ben said. “He’s the chief of security. After he’d given me my shift duties the other night, he had some time to kill and we got to talking. He told me that his wife especially wants to meet you.”

“Why?” No doubt after Ben talked with George, he went home and told his wife how young I was and that’s what got the whole ‘we simply must meet your bride, Ben,’ thing started. I was nervous.

“If you don’t want to, we don’t have to go,” Ben said quickly, seeing my hesitation. “I didn’t promise him that we’d come over or nothin’, I said I’d check with you first.”

“I’d like to meet your co-workers,” I said, hoping that Ben wouldn’t catch on that I was lying through my teeth. “What should I wear?”

“How about that blue dress you just got? That should be okay.”

“I guess,” I replied with a cheerfulness I was far from feeling. “Who else will be there?”

“Well, every Sunday afternoon, some of the wives meet at one another’s houses to talk about cooking and sewing and stuff. This week, George’s wife, Doris, is hosting. I think he said there’s usually about eight or so.”

Now I was starting to get anxious. Meeting one or two of the other wives at once was scary enough, but eight? Good Lord, what the hell was I going to do?

I could see that Ben wanted to go; in this new city we called home, we only knew each other. As much as he loved me, he missed having male friends and I could certainly understand that a man needs to share a beer with the boys after a hard week at work.

There are times that a man wants to talk to other men, especially his own age. Because of the twenty-five year age gap between Ben and myself, it was nearly impossible for us to find common ground—we didn’t share the same tastes in music, movies or just about anything else.

My mother didn’t need to know where my father was every minute; she gave him his space as he gave her hers—as a result, their marriage was more solid and strong. I was going to follow their excellent example.

I knew very well that if I said no, word would get around Roarke Exports that Ben’s child-bride was a snob and that might make his life at work difficult. As much as I wanted to stay home, I couldn’t. It had been enough that we’d had to leave Sin City like we did—not saying good-bye to anyone and with our tails between our legs. No, New Orleans was a fresh start for both Ben and me. I wouldn’t be selfish and jeopardize Ben’s potential happiness. Besides, I reasoned, once I met the other wives, I might make friends of my own. That wasn’t likely to happen, but I could still hope.

“Okay, let’s do it. What should I bring?”

Ben smiled in relief and hugged me. “George already told me. I have to bring peanut oil. About five gallons should do it.”

Peanut oil? I wondered. Why in the world would Ben have to bring that? Then I decided that it didn’t matter. All that mattered to me was the feel of my husband’s arms around me, keeping me safe and warm.

His lips kissed the top of my head. “Thanks, babe. This means a lot to me.”

lll

After attending Mass, Ben and I drove around to several grocery stores before we found enough peanut oil. I smoothed the skirt of my dress down and tried not to worry. I had seen it in a consignment shop window. It was a deep sapphire blue, with an elegantly flared skirt. I thought it was perfect--modest and not too dressy. The talkative shop girl told me that the original owner had fallen on somewhat hard times and needed to sell it. I checked my makeup in the car mirror. The dark colour of the dress made me look pale, so to counter that, I went the whole way, covering my face with foundation, blush, mascara, and eye shadow. My lipstick was a bit dark but I hoped no one would notice in a dim room.

We then drove to the home of George and Doris Brady. Like my husband, George was a broad-shouldered, barrel-chested man. I had to admit that when he extended his hand to me, I was apprehensive. His huge, nine-inch long hand swallowed mine when he shook it. Despite the fact that he looked like he could crush my bones into oatmeal if he chose, George’s grip was very gentle.

Standing at his side was his wife Doris. She was a small, trim woman in her late thirties, with a wealth of golden brown hair that brushed her shoulders. Her intelligent hazel eyes were merry and bright, missing nothing of what went on around her.

The women were in the living room, the youngest being in her late twenties. In a segregated city like New Orleans, I was glad to see that there was one African-American in the group. I remembered Ben telling me that Rosemary’s husband, Matt, worked at the plant in the personnel department.

It was a pleasant surprise to learn that Senator Roarke the businessman--not Senator Roarke the lecher that I was all too familiar with--cared more about a person’s abilities than their colour or gender. His companies regularly hired promising women and people of colour for lower management positions. Both females and blacks still had a long way to go before being seen as equals of white men in the business world, but Roarke Exports had given them a chance; most companies thought that women were only fit for clerical work and blacks were only fit for janitorial duties.

As soon as I walked in the door, it was as if I were entering a flower garden. Everyone was dressed in soft pastel hues, it reminded me of the times I’d dye Easter eggs as a child. Not only that, the room smelled heavenly. Subtle fragrances of jasmine, lilac, and rose filled the air.

The moment I saw what the others were wearing, I realized how bad my choice of dress was. I stood out from everyone, the dark colour of my dress was completely inappropriate for a simple Sunday afternoon gathering. Instead of a dim room like I expected, the curtains were pulled back, engulfing the room in bright sunlight. My makeup was completely wrong--all the women in the room wore a hint of blush and light lipstick and that was it. Compared to them, I was attired and made up like a whore trolling for customers. I felt so embarrassed and out of place, I wanted to sink into the floor.

Introductions were made but I knew I couldn’t remember who was called what, so I associated each lady’s name with what she was wearing. Mary was in blue, Ruth in green, Jackie in lavender, and so on.

The other wives were curious and gracious to me, every one assumed that the only reason a middle-aged man would marry me was because I got pregnant. All of them looked at my belly and frowned, wondering why it was still flat. My being a married woman at fifteen was not as surprising as I first thought it would be. Still, even in the South, it wasn’t common for a high school girl to be married, no matter what the circumstances.

“Where did you live before you came here?”

“Sin…I mean, Basin City.”

“How do you like New Orleans?”

“Well, we’ve only been here a month but I do have to say that it is much warmer than I’m used to for this time of year. I don’t even have to wear a jacket and it’s late November.”

There was a chorus of interested ‘oohs’ when I said that. Judging by their response, I had the feeling that most of these Southern born and bred ladies had hardly ever been up North in their lives. It took some doing on my part, but I managed to convince them that people who lived north of the Mason-Dixon Line do not live in igloos, nor was there snow on the ground all year round.

I found that sometimes I had to ask some of the women to repeat themselves as their dialect and local expressions were hard to understand. However, these Southerners did not mind--they did the same to me although I did see a few grimaces at my harsh Northern accent.

But the next question made my stomach turn over as bad memories flooded my mind.

“Have you ever met the owner of the company? He’s the senator of the state you come from.”

I tried to keep a smile on my face and act as nonchalant as I could. “No, I haven’t met him.” I don’t know why I was deliberately lying to these women—the words came out of my mouth and it was too late to take them back.

“Oh? Are you sure about that?” A dark-haired woman in lavender asked, her sharp eyes focused on mine. “Two days ago, Roarke personally called my husband—the company manager in case you didn’t know--and told him to give your husband a job, no questions asked. In fact, I learned that Ben worked for Roarke for years in Basin City.”

Damn it!

“Yes, that is true. Ben was Roarke’s chief of security.”

“And you expect me to believe that you’ve never met him? Come on. I’m not stupid, you know.”

“I never said you were,” I replied as calmly as I could. I could feel my palms beginning to sweat.

The woman named Jackie leaned forward, giving me such a cold, steely glare that froze the blood in my veins. “My husband’s been to Sin City several times and he’s told me all about you.”

I clenched my hands together to keep them from shaking. What was it that this woman thought she knew? I was about to retort that if her husband knew me, it would be in the Biblical sense and that he’d paid for my body. Who was she to point fingers at my so-called moral misconduct when her own husband was guilty of the same?

I could feel the blood leave my face as the consequences came to me. Oh God, what if I had slept with her husband? What if he said something to Ben? What would Ben do? I remembered Ben saying that if a former client bothered me, he would knock the man’s teeth down his throat. Considering that my previous john was now his boss, it wasn’t pleasant to think about. The repercussions would ruin our future in New Orleans before it even got started!

I had to know more. I forced myself to pay attention to what she was saying.

“…you sit there all prim and proper and pretend to be a lady? How dare you!”

I was eternally grateful when Doris intervened. “Jackie, if you are not going to be civil to my guest, then you can leave.”

“Guest? Are you kidding me? Why are you taking the Yankee’s side, Doris? I know things about her that will curl your hair!”

“Just because my husband has to listen to your husband, that doesn’t give you the right to speak to my guest like that. This is still my house and I want you out of here. You know where the door is.”

“Look at how she’s dressed…and that amount of makeup makes her look like a whore!”

I focused my gaze on my folded hands in my lap as I listened. I was so ashamed of the censure I’d see if I looked around, I didn’t dare raise my head as I could feel all the eyes in the room on me. I made a mental note to never ask Ben for his opinion on what to wear again.

“She’s young. She wanted to make a good impression by dressing up. So what?” Doris countered angrily. “Your taste in clothes is far from perfect, so who are you to point fingers?”

“I know all about her! She’s nothing but a piece of trash!”

“Big deal. No matter what she has done, Sherry is no worse than anyone from your husband’s inbred Cracker family, you hypocrite! The whole lot of them are drunks, thieves and gamblers and you know it! Your great-grandmother would roll over in her grave if she knew who you married. If you don’t leave right now, I will drag you by your hair to your car. Don’t think that I won’t.” Doris was a small woman but there was something about her that even the taller and younger Jackie feared fearful of pressing her luck too far.

However, Jackie could not resist giving one last parting shot. “Your name will be mud in this town once words gets around that you openly invite whores and niggers into your home, Doris Brady. Mark my words.” Jackie cast one scornful look at me. “You may have been a whore before you came here, but at least you have good taste in dresses. That dress was mine before I gave it away to Goodwill.”

As soon as the door slammed behind Jackie, the women breathed a collective sigh of relief.

“She’s gone,” piped up a voice from the end of the room. “I thought she’d never leave….Good for you, Doris.”

My face was flushed from mortification. Jackie had revealed my sordid past to everyone as well as flaunting my tight financial state for all the room to hear. “I’m sorry for the trouble I’ve caused,” I mumbled.

“Don’t let her get to you, Sherry,” Doris said. “That abominably rude woman is Jacqueline Jenkins, but her maiden name is Thibodeaux. She thinks she is so much better than everyone else is because her family is descended from the Huguenots. Her husband’s family, Cracker through and through, founded the Klan in this state. Between the two of them, they combine every negative stereotype there is in the South: slave owners on her side and redneck white trash on his. As for calling you Yankee and Rosemary that awful word, she proves how ignorant she is to the fact that the War has been over for almost a century. There isn’t a family in these parts that doesn’t have Northern or black blood somewhere in their family tree.”

My past had come back to haunt me and destroy my new life before it had even begun; I could never face these women again and it was best if I left quickly. The back door was closest to me. Before I lost my nerve, I quickly got to my feet and ran through the living room toward the kitchen. My hand was on the door handle when I heard someone softly call my name. I turned and saw Doris framed in the kitchen door with Rosemary behind her.

“Sherry, please sit down—you are my guest and are more than welcome to stay. I’ll be damned if I let that woman tell me who I can invite into my home! And as for your clothes, no one here cares about that. There isn’t a woman in this room who never had to watch their money, especially during the first year of their marriage.”

Shame made tears fill my eyes. A handkerchief was pressed into my hand and I felt the comfort of gentle fingers as they closed over mine. I was gently guided to a chair where I could sit down.

“It’s all right, Sherry. We won’t judge you.” Doris warm brown eyes were understanding and kind.

“Yes, you will. When you hear….what I’ve done. What I was….Jackie was right about me. Wearing a hand-me-down dress is the least of my secrets.”

Rosemary put her hand on my shoulder. “Whatever you did that you think is so wrong, is in the past. Every woman in this house has done things that we are ashamed of. Or we have relatives that have done something that we blush in shame over. Hell, Rebecca—she was the one in the blue—her great grandmother blew a Union soldier’s head off and then buried him in her garden! In addition, Mary’s granddaddy liked young boys a little too much. Quite the scandal, I can assure you. And rumour has it that Jane’s uncle liked to wear his aunt’s unmentionables. Murderers, pedophiles, cross dressers--every one of us has skeletons of some sort in the closet. Everybody.”

“Take me for example,” Doris said. “I had to take a riding crop to my husband’s backside before he did right by me! I was nearly six months pregnant when I finally waddled down the aisle. Talk about a shotgun wedding…!”

“That’s nothing compared to what I’ve done,” I said. As a guest in Doris’ home and seeing how vehemently she defended me against Jackie’s meanness, I owed her the truth. The words came out in a rush, like the first spurt of blood from a new wound. “I sold myself for money. I was hired and raped by Senator Roarke and his two sons. Ben put me in a bath and washed away their cum and my blood from my body. I started to bleed and he took me to the hospital. I’ve slept with God knows how many men and Jackie Jenkins’ husband was probably one of them. I killed a man and that’s why we had to leave Sin City!” I shut my mouth in time on Richard’s name. “Jackie was right—I am nothing but trash. I’m so tainted with filth that once I leave, you should wipe down everything I’ve touched with bleach to get rid of my stink…”

“I will do no such thing. You don’t have to say anything else. When or if you’re ready to tell me the rest of it, I’ll listen. What you’ve just said will stay between us, I promise.”

I had no right to hope that she would keep her word, but I had just confided some of the worst secrets of my life to near-complete strangers, I had no choice but to hope. “You mean that?”

“Every word, I swear to God. Now, lift up your pretty face so I can wipe that mascara off. That’s better. Now, smile for me. We’d better head back to the living room. Who knows what juicy scandals we’ve missed! But it doesn’t matter as they’ll be gone soon.”

As was usual in these types of gatherings, women sat sipping coffee and talking about men, especially their own! I was treated to such frank revelations about their husbands that they would die of mortification if they realized I knew what turned them on in bed. I submitted no confessions of this sort about Ben, but I listened.

Because I was the youngest and had been married for the shortest time, I was given all kinds of advice on what to do to my husband behind locked doors. I kept my mouth shut; this was my first introduction into the midst of middle-class, genteel ladies and I wouldn’t spoil things by revealing just how extensive my sexual knowledge really was. Let everyone aside from Rosemary and Doris think I was a naïve teenage newlywed.

As I expected, the questions came as soon as there was a slight break in the conversation. How did I like New Orleans? How long had I been married? Had I been able to go sightseeing around the city?

It wasn’t until later that I realized that the other wives were doing; asking me harmless questions until I was at my ease, letting me know in subtle ways that they were completely different from snobbish Jacqueline Jenkins. Even though she was the wife of the manager, she did not speak for anyone but herself. It wasn’t mentioned in so many words, but I got the distinct impression that they didn’t give a rat’s ass what she thought of me. I would be judged by my merits, not by my actions of my past.

From time to time, I heard deep laughter and cheering coming from the basement where our men were gathered and I idly wondered what they were doing. Judging by what I heard, they were having a grand time.

I had no doubt that our men thought that we were, as Ben had guessed, only talking about cooking and sewing. If they could be a fly on the wall during the discussions I was avidly listening to, they’d be downright shocked at the carefully hidden yet wonderfully carnal side of their wives.

I heard the door open and our men streamed through the door. Ben immediately was concerned about my red eyes and always protective, strode purposefully toward me.

“Hey babe, you OK?” he asked, lifting my chin up so he could get a better look at me. “What’s been goin’ on here?” Ben scanned the room, his eyes narrowing as he looked at each woman in turn. “They givin’ you a hard time?”

I felt rather than saw that every lady in the room visibly gulped and froze in her seat. They were afraid that I would spill the beans about their pestering me for information. Like most women meeting Ben for the first time, they assumed his temperament was as fearsome as his appearance. But no matter what, I wouldn’t say anything. What was said in this house would stay in this house. My parents hadn’t raised me to be a tattletale.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Really. My eyes are watering because I was laughing so hard.” I certainly wasn’t going to tell him the truth! I looked at Ben and George. Both were perspiring as if they had just run a marathon and I was grateful for the chance to change the subject. “Why are you so sweaty?”

Ben grinned sheepishly. “George was showin’ me his exercise equipment and we got to it.”

“Got to what?” I asked.

“These two were seeing who could bench-press the most weight,” Matt said, slapping a hand across George’s shoulders. “When they got tired of that, they switched to arm wrestling.”

Men, I thought, looking at my husband and shaking my head fondly. That damned testosterone they’re so full of turned a simple get-together into a macho pissing contest. “How did it go? Who won?”

“George can bench press more, but Ben kicked his ass in arm wrestling, beating him six times straight, so I guess it’s a stalemate.”

“Why’d you guys stop?”

“We’re hungry and George is going to fire up the barbeque.”

I raised my eyebrows and looked at the five-gallon jug of cooking oil George was holding. “If there’s going to be a barbeque, why did we bring that?”

“We’re going to use it to deep fry the turkey.”

I raised my eyebrows. I’d never heard of anyone cooking a bird like that. I didn’t want to offend my host so I chose my next words carefully. “But won’t that be bland if you just fry it? I thought Louisiana food was supposed to be spicy...”

George smiled. “Hell, it sure will be, just you wait. Putting it in oil is just the first step. That’s why I use this.” He showed me something that looked like a giant syringe. “We inject a special sauce into the bird with this handy-dandy little gadget. It’s the sauce that makes it special. Prepare to have your taste buds awakened by real Cajun food, dawlin’.”

“I look forward to it.”

“Get my coat for me, will you, Ben?”

“You’re going to do this outside?”

“Sure am. There’s no way to safely heat all this oil in a house. A few people have burned their houses down trying to do this indoors or under a carport...”

“But it’s November. Isn’t it a little late in the year to cook outside?”

“This is New Orleans, girl,” George said, and it sounded like ‘New-Aw-lins’. “We don’t get the snow and cold that you Yankees…I mean, y’all are accustomed to.” He flushed as he realized his slip. “No offence,” he said hastily.

“None taken,” I replied with a secret grin. “I’ve been called worse than that today.”

“What?” Ben turned his head around so fast, I heard his neck crack.

Doris spoke up. “Jackie was here and called Sherry some names. Honestly, with the way that woman behaves, it’s hard to believe that her ancestors were titled French nobility!” She checked her watch. “I hadn’t realized it was so late. I’d better see my other guests to the door.” She left briskly and I could hear muted conversations coming from the living room.

“If you lie down with dogs, you get up with fleas, as the old saying goes,” George shrugged.

Ben spoke up. “Who is this woman who thinks she can call my girl names?”

“It’s nothing I haven’t heard before,” I said. I could see Ben was getting pissed and if Ben got pissed at someone, it usually did not end well. “Jackie is Clem Jenkins’ wife.”

Ben snorted in derision. “If his wife is anything like him, she’s not worth gettin’ upset over. But still…”

“Don’t let him hear you say that,” George warned. “He’s a vindictive little snot who thinks he’s king of the world. His wife is the same. You haven’t seen him yet, Sherry, so I’ll describe him to you in one sentence: the smallest rooster in the barnyard is the one that squawks the loudest.”

I didn’t say it but I knew exactly what kind of man George was describing. In my checkered career, I’d seen it a thousand times before: the men with the biggest mouths were the ones with the smallest dicks.

Then I remembered. I told the group what I had learned at the consignment store—with a generous helping of shrewish satisfaction, I had to admit. Doris re-entered the room.

“I heard through the company grapevine that they were hurting for money. Serves them snobs right.” George playfully smacked Doris’ backside. “Get to it, Maw. Time’s a-wasting.” He whispered something in her ear, while his left hand copped a feel from her breast.

Doris blushed. “Behave yourself. We have company. Get to it yourself; that turkey isn’t going to cook itself.” She shooed her husband out the door. “Scat and do your stuff while I marshal the troops to do mine. Now, ladies,” she said, turning to Rosemary and myself, “this is when we get to work.” She issued orders like a five-star general as she prepared to take charge in her kitchen.

The rest of the afternoon was spent preparing side dishes that would accompany the turkey: candied yams, mashed potatoes, black-eyed peas and Cajun sausage. Last but not least, pecan pie for dessert.

By the time everything was prepared, the turkey was ready. To my surprise, it wasn’t greasy and while the sauce George had injected it with was burning my mouth, I loved it.

“If you stay here long enough, you’ll get used to the heat of Cajun cooking,” Doris said after refilling my water glass for the third time. “By the way, have y’all been able to do any sightseeing around these parts?”

“Not yet,” I admitted, “but we’d certainly like to. New Orleans has a wonderful history that I’d like to see. What would you recommend?”