Rodgers. Mother Maybelle Carter. Sara Carter. A.P.
Carter. Jimmie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Mother Maybelle Carter. Sara Carter. A.P. Carter.
Jimmie Rodgers and Carrie Rodgers and Mother Maybelle and Sara and A.P.—the Carter Family—in a Mirror Maze.
“Fangs?” Maybelle says.
“Fancy clothes?” she says.
“Fancy haircuts?” she says.
“Yes, yes, yes,” Carrie says. “How did you know?”
“We’re the Carter Family,” Maybelle says. “Down-home singers by day, vampire killers by night!” She cocks her arm like a choir conductor. Carters start to sing. A signature song—“Keep on the Sunny Side.”
“Vampires love clothes,” Maybelle says. “Vampires love carnivals. Folks dolled up, parading down the midway, flirting in the Funhouse, fornicating on the Ferris wheel—pardon my French!
“Vampires smell vanity!” she says. “Vampires smell sin!” The Carter Family is not camera-friendly. Sara’s squat. A.P.’s a tent pole. Maybelle’s built like Marie Dressler. She’s gray beyond her years. The reverse of vampires. And movie stars. “We sing our hymns in the opry.” Rag opry is carny slang for a tent show. “We sing, then we—”
“Stake!” A.P. says. “I see a vampire, I stab him in the heart!”
“You see a vampire, you poop your pants,” Maybelle says. Sara’s silent. “That’s true,” she says.
“This is your fault, Jimmie!” Mother Maybelle says. “You stand in here, preening and primping—it’s not natural! It’s not right!”
“Amen!” Sara says.
“I don’t always poop my pants,” A.P. says.
“Stop sulking!” Maybelle swats him.
“You’re not being fair, Maybelle,” Carrie says. “Jimmie never asked for any of this. Look at him, he’s—”
“You’re just as bad, Miss Carrie! French clothes and French jewelry and French perfume.” Maybelle’s dress is homemade. Worn out by washboards. Sara’s in hand-medown hose. Runs darned, darned, and darned again. They bulge like varicose veins. A.P.’s suit is second-hand. It shows. “You’ve got Jimmie dressed up like some kewpie doll,” Maybelle says, “smelling like a whore! There’s no place for fashion in country music!”
Jimmie: Coughs. Coughs. Coughs. Coughs. Coughs. Barfs blood. Blood doesn’t come out of clothes.
Carrie Rodgers.
Carrie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers.
Carrie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers.
Carrie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers. Carrie Rodgers comes to me in a Mirror Maze.
“Déjà vu!” I say.
“Where is Mrs. Schiaparelli?” she says.
“She’ll be here shortly,” I say. “She’s flying in from France.”
V.
Carrie Rodgers. V.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
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