Cavedweller by Dorothy Allison

Author:Dorothy Allison
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin USA, Inc.

Dede finally found the limits of the Datsun one summer night on the Bowle River overpass. She was allowed to drive the Datsun now and then, but only when Delia was with her. She was not supposed to go driving at night alone, but Dede had driving in her blood, and Delia seemed not to understand the risks of leaving the car keys on the hook by the kitchen door. The first few times she took them, Dede felt a momentary qualm, but the feeling passed. She wanted to drive on her own at night, to speed down the nearly empty roads and feel the cool, damp air on her face. She was fifteen, she was careful, and she knew what she was doing.

Dede waited until Delia was sound asleep, and carefully pushed the Datsun down the driveway until it was safe to turn on the ignition. From the first night, she was intoxicated. Night was the best time to drive, the very best. With the breeze swirling in the windows and the crickets booming, she opened her mouth and started to sing. She pretended she had run away from home, that somewhere ahead waited the man she loved, a man rich and strong and longing for her to lie down beside him and croon into his neck.

“Whoa, sinner man,” Dede sang. In her voice, the hymn Grandma Windsor had loved became rock and roll, the best kind of blasphemy, call and praise for the sinner who waited for Dede’s kiss. She had a select batch of tapes acquired secondhand or as gifts sent from Rosemary. Her favorites were the Patti Smith Group and Todd Rundgren, music she sang with raw passionate emphasis. “G-L-O-R-I-A!”

“They never play Patti Smith’s best stuff on the radio,” Dede complained to Delia. “Just that one she does with Bruce Springsteen, none of her kick-butt stuff. I think they’re scared of her.” Dede even tried telling Amanda that Patti Smith was a kind of gospel singer if you paid attention. “God is her subject. Listen to the words.”

She might have had more success with that argument if she had not been so fond of quoting the introduction to “Gloria” where the cadence drawled and Patti dragged out the phrase “Jesus died for somebody’s sins—but not mine!”

“You are demented,” Amanda told her. “Seriously demented.”

“Jesus died for somebody’s sins,” Dede sang at her. “Must have been yours.”

The night Cissy climbed into the Datsun, Dede had the tape of Wave primed and ready to play as soon as she got well down Terrill Road. They fought in raging whispers.

“I want to go.”

“I an’t gonna take your ass.”

“You take me or I’ll tell Delia.”

“You damn tattletale whiny bitch. You better tell nobody.”

In the end, Dede let Cissy come, but only after extracting a sacred promise. “You swear? You swear you will never betray me?”

“I swear.” Cissy put one hand on her belly and the other on her heart.

Dede laughed but accepted the oath. It was easier with Cissy helping her

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