Alena
Deewater

Ann
Helsel

Charles
Furey

Donald
Shephard

Doug
Fortier

Gloria
Jorgensen

Henri
Bensussen

Holly
Tannen

Jan
Edwards

Jewels
Marcus

Maureen
Eppstein

Motherbear
Scott

Nancy
McLelland

Nona
Smith

Norma
Watkins

Sharon
Gilligan

Susan
Fisher

Ty
Moore

N o r m a  W a t k i n s   &  L y n n e  W h i t i n g  R o b e r t s o n

Anabel and Skeeter

I never knew what Anabel saw in him. None of us did. At their wedding, out in Anabel’s garden on Miami Beach, we watched in bemusement. There was Anabel: tall, slender, swan-necked, her hair pulled up and dotted with flowers, dressed in something gauzy and wonderful, her fair skin flushed with happiness; next to her stood Skeeter, her cowboy lover, slightly bow-legged, several inches shorter, and though she’d dressed him for the occasion in new black jeans and a silk shirt, looking like he missed his hat.

They met at a South Beach bar called The Deuce, a bad sign we thought, but Anabel said Skeeter was the genuine article, a southern boy, born and raised one county over from her family in Georgia, and like them in every way, aside from the money and education. Anabel could do that—spin words so you doubted the evidence of your own eyes.

Skeeter’s were small and squinty. He didn’t seem like a mean person, more of a vacant one. Talking to him was like staring through one of those old glass milk bottles. You got nothing back for your efforts and we jostled one another not to have to sit across from him at the dinner table. His one addition to the conversation was: “Idn’t Anuhbel won’erful?”

She created a white bower of a bedroom for them and informed us the sex was amazing. Skeeter was a champion amongst the cloud of lace shams and comforters, which was some comfort to her doubting friends. Good sex can make up for a lot.

Skeeter had a dicey past, which he didn’t choose to talk about. We thought prison must be in there somewhere because the few friends he brought around were men older than their years, full of jailhouse yarns.

He was good with iron. Anabel set him up in a blacksmithing business. He made a beautiful gate for her garden. When that business failed—no specific reasons given, except it wasn’t Skeeter’s fault, she bought him a truck and tried again. This time it was used tires. None of us were sure what went wrong. Not enough tires to sell? Too many tires and not enough buyers? Not Skeeter’s fault. He was an innocent, Anabel claimed, and unscrupulous people took advantage.

The rest we heard second and even third-hand. While Anabel was off teaching at the college, Skeeter brought crack whores home and one bled on the pristine white comforter. Skeeter denied everything. These were ladies he’d offered a ride to, that’s all.

He got even more squirrelly. One day, riding up Alton Road, he spotted a police car behind the truck and panicked. He jumped out at a light, left the truck running, and ran into an alley. The police gave chase and—the story gets vague here—he resisted, there was a warrant out against him? They beat the living daylights out of Skeeter and hauled him off the jail.

Finally even Anabel had enough. Without a word of blame, she signed the truck over to him and followed Skeeter north until he crossed the line back into Georgia. She said, “I wanted to make sure he didn’t come back.”

One of her male friends said, “Anabel, next time you meet a cowboy, save yourself a whole bunch of trouble. Write him a check for $20,000 and walk away.”  

Innocence