“I thought your business was done here?” Lu puts her hands on her hips and looks at my uncle. “Thomas, I actuallydon’tthink there’s any room at the B&B right now.”
Tommy crosses his arms and levels an annoyed look at her. “Lu, don’t pretend like you aren’t keeping tabs on what goes on over there.”
“Quit flattering your fragile ego, Thomas,” she bites back.
While there’s always been rumors swirling around my family, Tommy stays out of most of them. My mother, however, is the centerfold of many.
The name Tallulah Crowne is Rumor, Tennessee lore that picks up every few years when someone either becomes a widow or gets divorced. When I was sixteen, my English teacher went on a bender and showed up to school still wasted on pinot grigio, carrying on about how Lu Crowne was the kind of good time she was missing and it was her pleasure to watch her work hermagic—whatever that meant. That was a fun one to try navigating as a teenager, trying to understand why I should care if my mother was a lesbian like Greta Cooper called her, or if I should be more concerned about why my English teacher went from married to a widow shortly after that.
“First of all, sexuality is fluid, so you can tell Greta Cooper to go fuck herself before she starts throwing out preferences as if they’re bad words. And second, your English teacher is having a hard time, and if people would stop judging and start opening their tiny minds, maybe they would stop gossipingabout the parts that aren’t important,” Lu said, pointing to her chest.
My mother glances at me, sizing up the situation in front of her. I know how much she hates not knowing everything. “Don’t get lost out here,” she says to me as she gives Julian a full-body scan, from his legs to his head and back down again. “Birdie is expecting you to bring those bottles,” she says to me, seemingly unaffected as she glances at her wristwatch. “Her clients are arriving shortly.”
“Don’t let the door hit you on your ass on the way out,” my uncle says under his breath as she leaves the way she came.
“Get off my property, Tommy,” she croons from the pathway outside.
My uncle sniffs a laugh to himself. His thick gray ’stache tilts as he adds, “She’s the fucking worst.” When his eyes meet mine, he says, “Sorry, Wyn.”
Tommy and my mom have been like this my entire life. Hot oil and cold water. He’s never been married, taught me more about the things I’ve grown to love than anyone else—aside from Birdie. He’s one of the toughest men I’ve ever met, and he does it without trying to posture or prove something. If I could’ve picked my dad, he would’ve been my choice. But that’s not how it works.
My uncle looks at Julian with his calming smile. “Plenty of vacancy,” he says in a not so quiet whisper. “Wyn, I don’t know what’s going on between the two of you, but if you’d rather he leaves, then I’ll rescind the invitation.” I can feel Julian’s attention on me, but I ignore it.
“I don’t care,” I lie.
With a nod, he gives me a kind smile before looking more seriously at Julian. “Whatever you’re wrapped up in with Birdie and Lu, keep her out of it,” he says, pointing at me. “Wyn doesn’t need to be anywhere near the viper’s bullshit.”
If Tommy only knew the things I’ve been wrapped up in, the things I’ve seen and survived...
“Fuck yourself, Thomas,” my mother singsongs from outside, where she was obviously lingering and eavesdropping.
“My favorite pastime, Tallulah!” he shouts after her, eyes rolling as they come back to Julian. “You can follow me over there now, if you’d like.”
And instead of saying anything more, Julian gives him a respectful nod. Then his eyes land back on me as he steps closer. “Looks like you’ll know where to find me.” His hand wraps around my bent elbow as he quietly adds under his breath, “We are nowhere near done here.”
Swallowing roughly, I feel out of sorts as I watch him walk away.
I’m still wearing the same clothes from a day ago, I was drugged, I’m almost certain there was a dead body at my family’s bar, Birdie and my mother are very much involved, and the man who cleaned it up is also the same one I never thought I’d see again.
I rub along the leather cuff fastened to my wrist.Breathe. Out of all those things, the one I hate the least is him.
The Whispering Foolhas always been in its own class. If you were to throw together the chaos of a roadhouse like the Swayze movie from the ‘80s, with a small-town watering hole, a college stop at the end of a crawl, along with the music and hype of a cowboy bar you’d find on Broadway in the heart of Nashville, then you’d come close to describing this place. It may havestarted as a stain on the sweet Southern vibes of a town like Rumor, but it’s evolved into something so much more. When people mention Tennessee, they know of three places: Nashville, Memphis, and The Whispering Fool.
I glance up at Ralph, The Fool’s talisman, the head of an alligator that lived along the river surrounding this place. Birdie used to say he looked out for us and died of old age or maybe indigestion. He’s been decorated over the years; sometimes, it’s a seasonal string of Christmas lights, or a top hat for the New Year, but he always has bras hanging from his half-open mouth.
I’ve spent more energy avoiding this place than I should have. I hate how much I let other people’s opinions shape so much of me. But the truth is, this bar was, and is, my family in a nutshell. It’s almost funny that now, in my mid-thirties, after so much time fighting for space from it and my family, I live across the river, within walking distance.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Jo shouts over the microphone, her ass perched on the trapeze-style shot swing that’s gliding through the air above the crowd hooting and hollering below. “Shot swing shots are seeerrrved!” she croons as she leans back. Her fishnet stockings and tight black shorts leave barely anything covered to the gawking crowd beneath. Long red hair flows behind her as she scoots back on the swing’s bar, dropping her body from sitting to hanging upside down. “Show me those pretty throats, ladies, and open for your goddess.”
Anyone who would see this for the first time would bark out laughing at the audacity. But they listen. More than two large groups of women disperse throughout the crowd, opening wide, tongues out, as my baby sister pours out her premade shot swing special of the night all over them.
I skirt around behind the bar and off to the side, waiting for the chaos to subside so I can make my way up the spiral staircaseand toward Birdie’s lounge. Her sign is lit, which means she isn’t seeing anyone just yet.
As soon as Jo sits back up on her swing, and at least half the crowd is doused, “I Touch Myself” kicks in over the speakers. I count about eight motorcycle club members and a smaller crowd of men, who look like they’re on a longer-than-planned after-work happy hour, shift their attention to my other beautiful sister. It’s impossible not to smile when Stevie’s smiling. She has that way about her—charming and disarming. Her dark hair is pulled back in a bubble braid that looks like a faux-hawk snaking halfway down her back. She stomps her boots in time with the beat and is instantly flanked by two young bartenders. When I take a look around the sea of people, enraptured by the spectacle, I spot Gina and Gail standing on each side of the double doors, just waiting to haul some assholes out. They are, and always have been, late-night crowd control.
There are plenty of feminist practices that my mother and grandmother lean into, and Birdie’s firm about keeping this a women-owned and women-run establishment. There would never be a man behind that bar pouring drinks, at least not while the name Crowne is on the deed.
“Professor Crowne,” someone shouts from behind me. It would be just my luck to be recognized by a student while being back here for the first time.Shit.
