“Miss Englund is real nice,” she said, and I saw that as she looked ahead she squinted, just as Darva had done when she was trying to concentrate. “I saw her eating Life Savers when we were practicing our letters.”
“Did you ask if you could have one?”
Flora chuckled. “No. But I wanted to say, I thought you said there was no eating in class!”
“She said that?”
“Mmm-hmmm. Almost right after the bell rang, after she had everyone say who they were. She said, ‘These are the class rules and I expect you to follow them.’ And ‘no eating’ was on the list.”
“Maybe you should turn her in to the principal,” I suggested. “You can’t have a teacher breaking her own rules.”
Flora laughed again, a high note in a score full of bass ones.
“Caitlyn Anderson is my new friend and so is Erin…I forget her last name—it’s real long. I sit next to a boy named Tony who wears glasses, and another boy named Jason said he had four eyes at recess. What does that mean?”
It means Jason’s an asshole, I thought, but instead I said, “It means Jason needs to learn better manners.”
“That’s what Miss Englund said when Caitlyn told on him. She said one of the most important rules of the class is to respect your neighbor.”
“That’s a good rule.”
“I think it’s funny that she says neighbor, though. Mr. and Mrs. O’Keefe are our neighbors. And Mr. and Mrs. Kingsbeck. But not the kids in my class.”
“Sometimes neighbor is a word for everyone around you.”
A young woman walked toward us, trying to reign in a golden retriever puppy with little success.
“Oh, can I pet him?” asked Flora, kneeling down on the sidewalk.
“Sure,” said the woman as the puppy leapt up on Flora, its tail moving like a propeller, its tongue slathering every inch of Flora’s face.
It was a real tonic; after the owner pulled her dog away, Flora got off the sidewalk. She was weak from laughter.
“I love your dog!” she called after the woman.
“Thanks!” she replied as the dog yanked her down the street.
Flora took my hand as we continued our walk home.
“Caitlyn has a dog. She says he’s really old, though, and not much fun. Caitlyn says her mom’s old too but pretty fun. Erin goes to day care after school, because her mom works. She’s a nurse.” Flora sighed. “I think I’m the only one in my class who doesn’t have a mom.”
It was a beautiful day; the afternoon sun was buttery, not bright, the sky was a pure deep blue, and the trace of melancholia that I’ve always felt was tucked under September’s balminess deepened.
“Do you want me to carry you again?” I asked.
“S’il te plaît,” she said, and I gathered her up in my arms again and walked home.
Thank God for my tightly woven, extra-strength safety net. My mom and Len, Flora’s grand-mère et grand-père, and Tantes Beth and Linda were over so much that the surprise was when they weren’t in the kitchen cooking dinner or baking cookies, when they weren’t in the living room watching MacGyver or Murder, She Wrote with Flora or helping her with her spelling, when one or two of them weren’t there defrosting the refrigerator or doing my laundry when I got home from work.
Because I had to work, of course. Actually, I fled to the store like the lifeboat it was. It was the one place where things hadn’t changed. The cornflakes and oatmeal were still in the cereal aisle; the coffee and tea were still positioned next to the juices; the chips and snack food were still across from the candy. I could walk down any aisle, past any counter, and know exactly where everything was. And I knew my cashiers, my bag and stock boys, my butchers, and my assistant manager, and I knew my customers.
“Here, I made this for Flora,” said Eileen, my head cashier, giving me a quilt with a small French flag and an artist’s palette appliquéd on it. “It’s in memory of her mother and the things she loved.”
“Here,” said Mr. Snowbeck, giving me a package of Twinkies he had stolen just minutes earlier. “Give them to Flora.”
“Here,” said Millie Purcell, handing me a homemade sock monkey that smelled vaguely of cigarette smoke. “I made this for Flora.”
Most of the time I was touched by all the gestures of goodwill and thoughtfulness, but occasionally the kindness of my customers and staff was almost a burden, a weight I felt I couldn’t bear, and I’d race to my office and sit in my swivel chair, rocking until my composure returned.
I had done just that—run to the shelter of my office—after Mrs. Rog gave me yet another plate of her “world-famous fudge.” Both Flora and I, upon trying the first batch, decided it deserved its title, but it was the words that accompanied the gift that made me choke back tears.
“It’s not a magic pill,” said Mrs. Rog, who at eighty-seven still drove to the store every Monday afternoon for her weekly shopping. “But they do say that chocolate releases some kind of feel-good hormone in the body, and if anyone deserves to feel good, it’s you and Flora.”
There used to be a “cry room” in movie theaters—a small room off the balcony where mothers could take their babies or small children and watch the movie behind a glass window. Sometimes it seemed to me my office had become my cry room.
The phone rang, but I left it to someone in the back room to answer and was going to ignore the red blinking light that signaled the call was for me.
Reluctantly, heavily, I leaned forward and picked up the phone.
“Hello?”
“Joe, it’s a girl!”
“Kirk?”
“We finally got our baby! Eight pounds, six ounces. Twenty-one inches, in case you’re one for stats.”
My mood climbed out of the basement as I fully comprehended what he was telling me.
“A girl! That’s great! How’s Nance? What’s she look like? How’re you? What’d you name her?”
Kirk filled me in with all the details. Nance was fine; it was hard to tell who the baby looked like—“their faces are kinda squished up, you know” he was fine; they’d named her Coral—“you know, because we both think the reefs are about the most beautiful things we’ve ever seen.”
The happy news buoyed our conversation for a good long while, until Kirk apologized.
“Nance feels so bad she wasn’t at the funeral, Joe—but who’d have thought Coral would come three weeks late? Anyway, she just wanted me to let you know Coral’s middle name.”
Sometimes it hurt to hear Darva’s name, and I tensed, preparing myself for him to say it.
“It’s Rapturia—after that painting she gave us for our wedding. We thought it might be nice to name a work of our art after Darva’s.” Kirk laughed. “Shit, that sounds pretentious, doesn’t it? What I mean is, we thought it was a nice way to honor Darva…and also because it sounded a lot better than Coral Darva.”
His laugh was still self-conscious but eased up when I joined in.
“I think it’s an all-around excellent choice,” I said. “Darva would be thrilled—I just hope Coral is when the kids at school learn what her middle name is.”
“Are you kidding me? Have you heard the names parents are giving their kids these days? Rapturia’s like Mary or Ann compared to them.”
He filled me in on the birth (“Man, I’ve seen dophins and manatees get born, but this was something else”), on Nance (“At one point she told me to eat shit,” he said happily. “I guess it’s common at a certain point in labor to attack the father”), and his mother’s reaction (“I can’t remember when I’ve seen her so happy”).
“Sorry,” he said finally. “I guess I’m being an ass going on and on about all these great things in my life.”
“Believe me, I could use some good news for a change.”
There was a short pause. “It still doesn’t seem real.”
“What?” I asked. “Having the baby?”
“No…Darva.”
My sigh could have blown out an octog
enarian’s birthday cake.
“It’s just in the last couple days that I don’t expect her to come through the door,” I said. “Listen, Kirk, I should get back to work. Give Nance a big kiss for me, and Coral too. I’m really happy for you.”
“Thanks, Joe. I know you are.”
After I hung up the receiver, I picked it up again and did something I had done dozens of times since Darva died: I called my mom. She, more than anyone, understood the mind-bending, soul-numbing state I was in.
I told her Kirk’s good news, and while she was happy to hear it, she knew I had something else on my mind. That’s why it was so easy to call her; she could read my moods like a seer.
“So what is it today?” she asked, her voice gentle in the way only a concerned mother’s can be.
“I can’t stop thinking,” I began, “how none of us is safe from anything. I could be hit by a guy on his way to sign divorce papers, you could be hit by a guy on his way to sign divorce papers, Flora could be hit by a guy on his way to sign divorce papers.”
“But it was Darva,” my mother said softly. “It was Darva who got hit by a guy on his way to sign divorce papers. Just like it was your dad who went up in that airplane that crashed.”
“So what’s your point exactly?” I said, bothered that she had failed to console me, the thing I’d counted on her to do.
“My point is that a guy who had an appointment with a divorce attorney ran a red light and hit Darva’s car. That’s what happened to her. It doesn’t mean it’s going to happen to any of us.”
“I’m just so…afraid,” I whispered, even though I was all alone in my office. “Afraid that anytime, anywhere, something terrible can happen.”
“It can,” said my mother, a response that made me hold the receiver out and look at it, as if I could see the flip and thoughtless person who’d intercepted my call from my mother. “But odds aren’t it won’t.”
“Odds didn’t work for Darva.”
“No, they didn’t, Joe.”
“I feel…I feel like I blew it. I loved her so much, Mom—she was my best friend. I should have protected her more. I should have driven her to work that day.”
“Joe, you know how I beat myself up when your dad died. Why did I let him go up in that plane with Miles? Why didn’t I make him stay home and go drapery shopping with me? Why didn’t I, why didn’t I, why didn’t I? As many times as you ask those questions, you’re never going to get an answer.”
“Life stinks.”
“You’re right, Joe. Sometimes it does.” After a moment she said, her voice a tone brighter, “Are you and Flora coming tonight?”
“It’s Tuesday, isn’t it?”
“Good. Can you bring a pint of cream?”
“Yes, Mother,” I said, like the good mama’s boy I was.
Twenty
Hello, listeners. Before we get into your calls, I’d just like to take this opportunity to tell you about a wonderful new product I’ve been invited to endorse. As you can imagine, I get a lot of these invitations, but trust me, the Kristi Casey stamp of approval only goes on products that bless your life.
Like the Perfect Rose skin care line. Now, I happen to think that the gifts God gives us are gifts we need to take care of. And ladies, we can do that with the Perfect Rose astringent. And Perfect Rose cleanser. And lastly—but not leastly—Perfect Rose moisturizer. God doesn’t make mistakes, but we do. And if you haven’t taken care of your skin, if you’ve overtanned, overeaten, or undercleansed—what I’m saying, ladies, is if you’ve sinned against your skin—Perfect Rose will help you restore the bloom, the petal softness of the gift that is your perfect skin. Try it today—it’s available at drugstores everywhere!
The scandals of televangelists in the late 1980s didn’t touch Kristi; in fact, her appearance on the newly revamped Hour of Christian Love was said to have helped herald the new age of HCL, as it was called by its legions of followers.
I watched her, enthralled as an entomologist looking inside the hive at the queen bee.
“Elle est belle,” said Flora as Kristi strode out onto the sparkly set, wearing a long flowing gown and carrying, like a pageant winner, an armful of roses.
“She is pretty,” I conceded.
“For you,” said Kristi, and the new host (whose hair was so perfect it looked like he wore a toupee of plastic) who had replaced the ousted and jailed one held out his arms.
“Not you,” said Kristi with a laugh, “For your better half.”
The host’s wife, whose hair had its own teased and lacquered magnificence, accepted the flowers, drawling, “Bless your heart, Krissie.”
I was probably the only viewer who saw Kristi’s radar go up, saw that glint in her eye that said, Well, let the games begin.
“Did I just lose my t?” she asked comically, then lifted up several cushions of the guest’s couch, finally waving at the camera to let everyone know, “I’m just joshin’.”
The studio audience laughed and their applause turned into a chant: “Kristi. Kristi. Kristi.”
“I believe those are your fans, the Kristi Corps, speaking,” said the host, Johnny “How could you not be a man of God with a last name like mine?” Priestly.
“Yup, they’ll correct your pronunciation every time!”
Jean Ann Priestly held up her hand. Looking at her lethal red fingernails, I thought, I wonder if Johnny lets her pick the pimples on his back with those things.
“As God is my witness, Kristi, I’ll never forget one of your consonants again!”
This got a big laugh and more applause, so I turned to Flora to get a normal person’s reaction. She looked less amused than puzzled.
“So if Maman and you went to school with her,” she said, “how come she looks so young?”
I couldn’t be offended, it was true; at thirty-seven, Kristi still had that smooth-faced, bright-eyed what’s-next look of youth, whereas I, well, at least I had all my hair.
“And Uncle Kirk says she’s mean, too,” said Flora. “She doesn’t look mean at all.”
“You don’t have to look mean to be mean,” I said. “Remember Breanna what’s-her-name?”
“Breanna Brell,” said Flora disdainfully, referring to the cherub-faced girl who’d formed the Fourth-Grade Five, a club that liked to remind everyone who hadn’t been invited to join—especially Flora—of its exclusiveness. I had been thrilled when Breanna’s mother told me at a PTA meeting that her husband had been transferred and the whole family would be moving to Denver during the Thanksgiving holiday.
“Now isn’t it true that the Kristi Corps will clap back a beat that you play on the drum?”
“That’s right,” said Kristi, and the fabric of her white gown pleated as she crossed her legs. “We all like causin’ a ruckus for God!”
“Why didn’t you bring your drum tonight?” asked Jean Ann, whose accent Kristi had subtly been mocking.
“Well, I would have brought it out, but I didn’t want to crush your flowers! I do happen to have one right here, though.”
To the audience’s delight, Kristi bent over the back of the couch, giving us a view of her backside, chastely draped in white.
When she revealed the snare drum and sticks, the crowd went wild. Sitting back down, she smiled at the HCL hosts and said, “I think of drumming as my external heartbeat. My external heart that beats for God.”
Oh, brother, I thought.
She played a simple rhythm, and the audience clapped back.
“Our external hearts that beat for God,” she amended.
“Can I quit the clarinet?” asked Flora.
“Hmmm?” I said, taken with the frenzied interplay between Kristi and the audience.
“I think I’d rather play the flute. Mr. Benson says it’s okay with him, because we have way too many clarinet players already.”
“Sure,” I said. “I like the flute. But what made you want to switch? Last year you were all excited.”
“Mr. Benson played a re
cord in band yesterday. It was this guy, Jean-Pierre Rampal is his name, and I don’t know”—her voice grew soft—“maybe because he was French and his music was so pretty…it reminded me of Maman. And Mom. That’s why.”
“Good reason,” I said, squeezing my daughter’s shoulder, and just as Kristi was telling a story that had Johnny Priestly genuinely laughing and had Jean Ann Priestly looking defensive, my wife walked in.
You heard it right: my daughter, my wife. Or should I say, my pregnant wife. Nearly three years after Darva’s death threw me in life’s ditch, I had not only climbed out, but I was practically on top of the mountain. Do not think, however, that I took my placement there for granted; I knew at any moment I could go tumbling back down into the abyss. But not wanting to sour the sweetness of my life, I was trying, as a book Beth had given me suggested, to “be here now.”
My wife, of course, was thrilled that Flora wanted to play the flute, seeing as that was the instrument she played.
“I’d love to give you lessons,” she said as she maneuvered herself and her big belly onto the couch, “but I’ll understand if you’d rather take from someone else.”
“Toi,” said Flora. “Je veux que tu me l’enseignes.”
“Merci,” said Jenny, patting the hand Flora had slipped through her arm. “Nous bons passerons des moments.”
But she was wrong—we were already having a good time.
Fifteen months after Darva’s death (I had kept track of the weeks since Darva died, but somewhere around thirty, I switched to months) I was in my office, looking over my order from a vendor who specialized in foreign chocolates and cookies. Thanks to Beth, who’d been ahead of the curve as far as her international pantry went, I had a very popular section (half an aisle and a refrigerator case) stocked with foods from all over the world. The previous week there’d been a run on Swiss chocolate, and I was trying to figure out if it represented a trend or some school or language club had bought them for prizes. Thinking I’d ask Eileen if she’d had any single purchaser of a large amount of Lindt and Toblerone bars, I got up and went to look out the window to see if she was busy. She wasn’t at her register, and, figuring she was probably taking her break, I was ready to go back to my order when I saw Jenny Baldacci in aisle 7. My heart quickened as if my desk was fifty yards from the window and I had sprinted the whole way. I switched on the mike, my mind racing as much as my heart.
The View from Mount Joy Page 25
