An Invitation From the Last Single Girl in Town

Underneath that dress, Carmen is wearing the kind of lingerie that drives grown men crazy…

It was a warm, still day in Marchville town square. From a canvas marquee next the church came the muffled sounds of a small wedding party. Inside, the bride and groom were goofing like kids; dancing, spilling champagne, shouting to friends and relatives. Everyone seemed to have forgotten there was a storm coming, due to hit around five, if the radio guys were correct.

The church clock struck twelve. As if spellbound by the chimes, Timmy Breslin -TB to his friends- took off his glasses and pulled Carmen, his bride, into a long French-kiss. The older couples clapped, stamped and muttered lewd remarks.

“Get a room!” yelled Tully Rossi, from a table by the doorway.

Carmen waved at her half-sister and slapped her new husband’s butt. “Got me a live one!”

Although his marquee could hold a hundred, Danno the bartender counted only fourteen guests. TB hadn’t paid for lighting so you could hardly see across the room. Country music was squeaking from a cheap radio on the main table, next to the half-eaten wedding cake. That cake was the entire catering budget; a typical Marchville party.

“Nice to see Carmen again,” said India Maguire.

Conspicuously young and attractive, India was very much the novelty. After a year interning in Washington, she had confidence to burn and a matching attitude. Heads turned as she and Tully snapped a selfie, cheek-to-cheek. As the flash went off, a dozen pale faces appeared for a split second. Desire and jealousy flickered.

India preferred the darkness of the tent to the world outside. Marchville was not her kind of town.

“Nice to see her smiling,” said Tully. “Girl’s gotta smile on her wedding day. Timmy Breslin’s a lucky man. In more ways than one.”

“How so, cousin?”

“There’s a surprise waiting for ol’ TB when he gets to the motel. Underneath that dress, Carmen is wearing the kind of lingerie that drives grown men crazy.”

“How do you know?”

“This ain’t Washington D.C. hun. You can’t keep anything secret in Marchville.” Tully winked.

They watched as Carmen shimmied past, a bottle in each hand.

“She’s got the figure alright. ” India grinned at the thought of stocky, short-sighted TB watching Carmen strip for him.

“Absolutely. And I helped her pick the items out.”

“Naughty Tulls. You said TB’s lucky in more ways than one. What did you mean?”

Tully hesitated. “Well…that there storm’s coming. Could’ve nixed the whole wedding. But now they say it ain’t due till five, so TB got lucky, didn’t he?”

India sniffed. “That wasn’t what you meant. You were thinking of something else, Tulls. What are you not telling me?”

“Oh, ain’t my little cousin the big know-it-all.”

India dug her in the ribs. “Hey Tulls - ‘you can’t keep anything secret in Marchville’- right?”

Tully’s eye’s wrinkled in a smile. Young India was too sharp -and far too pretty- for her own good.

“Alright then. Don’t you go broadcasting it, but Carmen and TB have decided to have one of them…open marriage things.”

“So they’re poly. You know -polyamorous?”

“You kids call it what you like, hun. I’d say that’s just a fancy word for cheatin’. Makes no sense to me. Why get hitched if you’re gonna screw around anyways? I guess plenty of young guys think it’s a good deal. I just thought TB and Carmen were old enough to know better.”

India -aged twenty- assessed her older cousin, wondering what kind of body-count Tully had notched up. India was already into three figures. Her big-city life was a shameless, hookup see-saw. On good days you felt proud, on bad days, guilty.

“Poly’s a tricky business, Tulls. I bet you the open marriage was Carmen’s idea. She’ll get all the action. Seriously -how many singles will be fighting for a crack at TB?”

Tully gave a hoarse laugh.

“Singles -in this town? You gotta be kidding. India mah deer, let us drink a toast to the last single girl in Marchville. Raise your glass puh-leez, for the one and only Tullula Rossi.”

They clonked glasses and gulped the cheap fizz down. A second bottle appeared as if by magic and Tully launched into the familiar story of The Guy Who Got Away. India arranged her ‘listening’ face and let her mind drift. The marquee walls rippled gently as a south wind rolled into town. Through the doorway, India saw pages of newspaper dancing in the street outside.

By two o’clock Danno was aching to wrap things up. If the Breslins finished by three he could drop the marquee, load up the truck and be home by four, a good hour ahead of the weather. The older guests had gone, leaving the young and the drunk. TB was leaning unsteadily on the makeshift bar -a barn door Danno had propped on beer barrels. Carmen was high as a kite, talking trash with her half-sister and that foxy-looking babe from out of town. Danno sidled over.

“Lookin’ good TB. I was thinkin’ maybe you and the wife might wanna head for that motel? I gotta sting ya an extra fifty if we ain’t wrapped by three. An’ that storm still comin’ in.”

TB pushed his bifocals tight against his nose and straightened up.

“I hear you Danno. Roundup time.”

India’s outfit lay on the bathroom floor: platinum choker, designer dress, white socks, desert boots, thong. Stepping into the shower she purred with relief. Tully’s sprawling house had been India’s sanctuary getaway since childhood. Tully had always been more like an aunt than a cousin, but that was cool. A week hiding out here and India could face going home to Portland.

She turned her long hair in the warm spray, pulled the tresses apart to feel the warm jet on her upturned breasts; it was so good to relax. Next week’s homecoming would be a real soap-opera. Dad would be over-emotional and Steph the Stepmom would -what?

Something crashed outside and the lights blew out. The showerhead coughed and died, leaving India naked, wet and confused in total darkness. Where am I? A yell from downstairs brought her senses back.

“Tully! I’m here! Tully!”

She fumbled through the plastic curtain, around the door and into the hallway. Tully appeared with a torch, grabbed India’s soapy hand and led her down the steps. Shutters were banging and a savage wind shrieked in the wires outside.

“Power’s out. I think a piece of the roof’s gone. Storm’s hit early but we’ll be okay hun, don’t you worry now. We’ll be safe downstairs.”

Tully’s late father had built the best storm-shelter in Marchville. She opened the hatch and scuttled down a thin steel ladder. India followed cautiously, her skin chafing on the narrow hatchway.

Tully lit an oil lamp and as her eyes adjusted India found herself in a long, narrow room stacked with boxes and crates. There were four bunk-beds, two on each side. Random thuds and a persistent whistling from above said the storm was in full spate. Tully was busy clearing space, opening boxes. India looked a little woozy, but seemed not at all self-conscious about her nakedness.

“Goddamit Tulls, I left my phone upstairs.”

“Hun, there aint gonna be no phone signal round here for a while. Just gonna have to live without texting for a spell.” India couldn’t tell if her cousin was joking.

“Got some clothes ’n stuff here.” Tully flipped open a basket. There were towels, jeans, all sorts. India, still dazed, chose a gigantic black v-necked jumper that came down to her knees. She dropped onto a bunk and put her face in her hands. She could hear Tully muttering about things to do. After a minute she sat up.

“I’ll say this much. You country folk sure do know how to party.”

“Very funny.” Tully was filling a couple of shot glasses from an amber bottle. “This’ll sort ya out. Here’s to — what the hell?-”

India cocked her head at the sudden clattering on the floorboards overhead. “Maybe the furniture…blowing around?”

Tully shook her head. “Footsteps. That’s people.” She reached into a box behind the ladder and produced a serious-looking pistol.

India’s eyes were out on stalks. “What is that?”

“A Glock 43X,” said Tully, checking the magazine. “Can’t be too careful livin’ alone in these parts.”

The clattering had stopped. Tully swung her gun up two-handed to cover the hatch. It creaked open about six inches. Almost drowned by the roaring wind came the sound of giggling.

“Woah there sis — you can’t plug a girl on her weddin’ day.”

“Carmen. Jesus.”

“Ain’t got no Jesus. Got a husband tho.” Carmen giggled again.

TB’s voice sounded a touch nervous. “My old lady thought you might just invite us into your parlour. Being as we’re family an’ all.”

Tully laughed and lowered the gun.

“Consider yourself invited. Come on down.”

It took an hour and most of Tully’s bourbon for the newly-weds to finish their tale. Partly because they had left town so drunk neither was 100% sure what had happened.

The second reason was the absurdity of everything; four bedraggled adults on bunk beds in a dark cellar, all of them mildly shocked. Two in mud-spattered party clothes, one wearing only a pullover and Tully -ever paractical- in dungarees and a shirt. The combination of booze, adrenalin and fear had given rise to a nervous tension that demanded release. Again and again they would burst out laughing -a little too loud and a little too long.

“It was the damndest thing,” said TB.

They had driven down Shakers Lane, taking the short-cut to the Pathfinder Motel. TB had pulled over because “we were…uh…it kinda seemed like a good idea to let Carmen finish…ah…what she was doin’.” (India cracked up at this and Tully nearly choked.) They had no sooner parked and moved into the back seat when a massive sycamore tree crashed down on the bonnet, sending the Mitsubishi up onto its nose.

“One minute I’m in my happy place with my eyes closed,” said TB, shaking his head, “next thing I’m upside down with my pants on my head and Carmen howling like a coyote. After that things got kinda crazy.”

In Carmen’s opinion TB had banged his skull and got himself concussed, because “the damn fool kept singin’ all the time I was dragging him out the passenger door.”

“Singing what?” India asked.

“I Will Always Love You -in his best Mariah Carey voice.”

The four of them collapsed in hysterics, and it took yet another round of shots to restore order. TB took up the story.

“There was trees and fence posts all over the road and dirt flying every which way. I guess it was all too much for Carmen -she jus’ went loco -screamin’ and swearin’ and cryin’ to God.”

“I did not!”

Two huge mascara starfish round Carmen’s eyes said otherwise. TB grinned.

“Anyways, I give her a smack and she went all weak. Then I picked her up thinkin’ we’d best head for the train station-”

“But the train station’s on the other side of town, “ interrupted Tully.

TB shrugged, embarassed.

“Yup. Guess I must of hit my head after all. Turned out for the best though, cos just round the corner was Bonnie Turner’s tractor, parked by the water tower. Every driver in town knows Bonnie leaves his keys in the exhaust. I slung ol’ Carmen into the cab and drove straight here. Didn’t reckon we’d make it to the motel.”

A sudden roaring overhead was followed by a metallic groan and the crackle of smashed glass. Silence fell in the cellar and all eyes turned upwards. TB stuck out his square jaw and whistled like the storm was a dog he could bring to heel.

“That wasn’t good,” India whispered. The oil-lamp flickered, painting the four strained faces yellow.

“That lamp’s fading,” said Tully. “I’ll turn it down some. No telling how long we’ll be stuck in here.”

With the light dimmed the storm seemed farther away somehow. TB lay still with his eyes closed. Carmen was stretched out on her own narrow bunk. The hem of her muddy dress rode up, revealing a scarlet stocking-top and the clasp of a matching suspender-belt.

“Nice kit.”

She looked up and saw India smiling at her from the opposite bunk. Hollow-eyed, hair wild and tangled, bare legs crossed, the youngster looked all-in.

“That’s a real nice tattoo you got there.” Carmen indicated the gold and red butterfly on her ankle. India smiled.

“So tell me, Mrs Breslin, how are you enjoying married life?”

Carmen rolled her eyes, acknowledging the joke. The atmosphere had softened; the hysteria gone.

“Not a lot. Hey TB, whaddya think of it so far?”

TB lifted his head and peered across the room at his wife.

“Five stars, darlin’. Got myself hitched, drunk, hit by a tree and threatened with a Glock. Don’t recall the last time I had so much fun.” He winked at India, who winked back.

“Pretty, ain’t she?” Carmen threw TB a look.

“Damned if I know. Can’t see a thing without my glasses.”

Tully yawned, stretched and dropped onto the bunk nearest the ladder. “I’m gonna try and grab a little nap. Wake me up if anything occurs.”

The clock on Carmen’s phone said 23.59. Tully and TB were snoring in their bunks. India and Carmen were wrapped around each other in the narrow bunk-bed, warm skin damp with sweat. They were watching, for the third time, the cellphone videos of TB moving between India’s legs, India kneeling between his, and the finale: Carmen between both of them. Overhead, the storm wind had faded to a hiss, like waves on a shore. India put her lips to Carmen’s ear.

“Tully told me.”

“Told you what?”

“About you guys wanting an open marriage.”

Carmen snorted.

“That figures. You can’t keep anything secret in Marchville.”

More from Solomon Sinn Seer

Join in with this month’s Tantalizing prompt?