Chapter Eleven: He Said, She Said

"How many things have to
happen to you
before something occurs to you?"

Robert Frost

When Daisy came to, she found herself in the front passenger seat of Dixie, parked under one of the lean-tos the high school kids had constructed for illicit Friday night partying and skinny-dipping at the lake. The air was laced with the crisp smell of Georgia pine, a slight hint of fish, and hickory smoke. A fire had burned down to large chunks of embers, which is why she didn't feel cold even though it was early February. And she was under a thick, warm quilt.

That's when she discovered she'd been cuffed to Dixie. The reasons she'd downed a bottle of liquor in the first place came flooding back to her – along with one hell of a hangover. It hurt to move her head, but she scoped out her immediate surroundings, trying to put more of the pieces of the day together into a cohesive picture, and figure out just how she'd managed to get to Quarry Lake.

Then it hit her when the ten-foot chain-link fence around the area came into focus. That part of the lake was riddled with deep sinkholes, tangled underwater vines, and pockets of quicksand that could suck deer, dogs, or a grown person whole in a few seconds. Some drunken sophomore from outside the county had nearly drowned there in the fall. After that, the fence went up, and the gate was always padlocked. Only three people in Hazzard County knew the combination: Sheriff Rosco P. Coltrane, Deputy Cletus Hogg – and Deputy Enos Strate.

Daisy's head started swimming as she was pummeled with a series of stereoscopic flash cards of a brunette, who looked a lot like Daisy Duke in a dirty wedding dress, drunkenly blathering out a lousy version of It's a Heartache and jabbering words from a play titled 'not her finest hour.'

Maybe it was the booze, or maybe it was the sense of mortification that made her want to hurl. It was bad enough she'd said those words at all – but Dear God! she'd said them to him – out loud.

Yeah, and now she remembered why. That just raised her hackles once again. He must be there somewhere.

"Enos," she tried to yell but cringed at the pitch of her own voice.

No response.

She looked outside her immediate surroundings and caught a figure silhouetted against the post-sunset glow behind the lake.

"Enos!" She cringed again.

He didn't answer – just chucked another stone into the darkness creeping over the water.

"Enos, unlock these handcuffs."

"No," he shouted back, then sent another stone flying.

Furious, she rattled the cuffs until they began to chafe her wrist. Opening the glove compartment with her free hand, she pulled out papers and hoop earrings and lipstick cases, looking for a nail file or paperclip to jimmy them herself. She stopped foraging when their marriage license fell out onto her lap, followed by a ring box she didn't recognize. Before she could reach for the box, Enos snatched it up and threw it into the bushes, then turned back toward the lake.

"Don't you dare walk away from me, Enos Strate!" Still hurt but managed to force it out anyway.

He kept on going until he nearly collapsed onto the wet ground, head bent to his knees a few feet away.

"You gonna get me outta these things?"

"No."

"Is that all you have to say to me?"

"Yes."

Beyond worrying about how her head felt, she clenched her teeth, balled up her fist, and seethed a few guttural but unintelligible curses.

"Please, take off the cuffs."

"No."

"Why not?"

"'Cause I'm still mad at you." He meant it and wanted to stay that way.

"Where do you get off bein' mad at me?"

"You done some real crazy things before, but drivin' after you had a snootful…Daisy, you coulda' killed yourself or somebody else!"

'Wouldn't have mattered,' she thought. She was sure Aunt Lavinia would never have allowed that. She wanted to say it so badly.

"In the first place, I didn't drive under the influence!" She pulled on one of the tattered and clay-stained lace ruffles on the dress. "How do ya' think Aunt Lavinia's dress got in this condition? Huh? I walked back into town, Enos!"

Actually, when Daisy left the Boar's Nest, knowing she would be spotted if she tried to take Dixie, she took Uncle Jesse's truck and drove to about half a mile outside Hazzard city limits where she finished off the Wild Turkey in Mrs. Huckabee's garage. She couldn't drive after that because the truck wouldn't start. Probably Aunt Lavinia's doing. Then, she shuddered at the thought she might have been behind the wheel had the truck cranked up.

"Well, I'm glad to know that. But it still don't excuse what you did at the radio station. You should'na said those things."

He was right, but she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. She was still mad at him too. Right or wrong about the time and place she ended up saying them; she meant every single word.

"You can say what you want about me, Daisy, but you should'na dragged' anybody else into it."

Did he mean Elton or Alice Jean? Funny, she didn't remember calling her by name. But she was under the influence, so she couldn't be sure if she said stuff other than the––Dammit to hell and back! Did Elton say the loudspeaker was on? Now, she just groaned.

"Alice Jean's a very nice woman who's lonely livin' in Atlanta away from her family. She just needed somebody to talk to." He'd known more than his share of loneliness in Atlanta and Los Angeles.

"Yeah, well, what about Joanie at the clinic and that sappy grin you were givin' her? And Helen-come-and-get-it from the diner, or Penelope (she drawled out the name theatrically) at the library? They just need somebody to talk to? Funny how you can find plenty of women to talk to other than me. Probably a bunch of um in L.A."

"You're one to talk. What about Darcy Kincaid and Joe Ward or…or…Jude Emery?"

Enos was getting uncharacteristically sarcastic.

"Now you're talkin' ancient history. Them women I named off? They're new, and while we're engaged! B'sides, only one of those guys came close to meanin' anything to me was Jude, and he'da never got that close if..."

"If what?"

"Nothin'. Don't matter now."

"Well, them women you're talkin' about probably ain't even real anyway."

Balladeer: Uh-oh, ya'll.

'Wait,' Daisy thought. 'Why would he think those women aren't real – and anyway, none of them were in this do-over. Or Alice Jean for that matter– she was same-damn-day seventy-two or three. He's still...he shouldn't…

"What did you say?"