It suddenly dawned on me as I watered the Peace Lily in her dining room that I could do something for Bertha. Bertha assumes that every one knows the caring thing to do in every situation like she does, but most people don’t, me in particular. I swear to God I don’t. It’s not because I don’t care. I have no idea what Bertha wants me to do, so a lot of the time I don’t do anything. Bertha takes this as not caring. She can be one of the most cold and withholding people I’ve ever met. But that day, that day at her house, I felt so relieved to think of something to do for her. I loved Bertha in my own way you know. So I’d gathered all of Sam’s clothes and stuff. I took the clothes to the Salvation Army. Everything else, I boxed and took to the attic. Let me tell you, that was a job. I wanted everything out of the way, so that Bertha had a chance to move on without Sam. She could always sort the stuff in the attic later if she wanted to, when the hurt was not so raw. If it were me, I’d give it all away.
But the day that Bertha got home she came unglued. “How dare you? How dare you intrude into what is mine? Mine, do you hear me, mine not yours. Can you understand that concept? I wanted Sam’s clothes here with me. They were the last things with his scent, with a little of his presence. How could you?” She’d collapsed on the floor crying hysterically.
I told her I’d thought it would help her move on in her life. I told her I was sorry and that I’d go to the Salvation Army to see if I could get everything back. But we both knew it was unlikely, after all, it had been several days. Besides I doubted that Sam’s scent still lingered on clothes that had been mixed with so many others, even if some of them were left. I know that Bertha was really upset. But I still think it was best, even though it hurt. How could she get over him with all of his stuff there? I’ve always hated good-byes myself. It’s best to just move on, don’t dwell on it.
Chapter 7
“BERTHA”
I rearranged the white lilacs, Sam’s favorite flower. The uneven dirt on his grave caused the vase to tilt at an awkward angle. I finally gave in and propped it next to the foot stone. Saturday, almost sunset, not a soul at the cemetery but me. I laughed. There might have been lots of souls here, so far as I know, just none in living bodies. Anyway, I liked to spend Saturday nights with Sam. I brought his favorite music, Dean Martin, Frank Sinatra, Nat King Cole, and sometimes a little BB King. I’d always drink a toast to us, sometimes my favorite wine, but most of the time it was hot coffee from my thermos, heavy on the cream, heavier on the sugar. We talked, Sam and I. About the weather, about Beth, about what the Marines had been up to lately, but we mostly talked about us. I guess I should correct myself. I talked. Sam listened. Quite a switch. When Sam was alive I preferred to listen. My Sam could talk. Talk, not chitchat, really talk.
But tonight we had something special to discuss. We had a problem to solve. I didn’t intend to leave until we’d worked out a solution. The letter that Sam had written to me, the one Doug Greeley told me I couldn’t open until a year after Sam’s death, that letter scorched me through and through with pure temptation. I mean, if Doug Greeley had kept the letter locked away so that no matter how much I longed to open it I couldn’t, that kind of temptation I could handle. But this—I held temptation in the palm of my hand, a startling white marred only by the small bruise of my name inked in black. I could feel its weight. I could see the edges of the letter inside the envelope with dim markings faint like ghosts. Somewhere on this letter, maybe more than one place, I could touch Sam’s fingerprint. Smudge it with my own until our fingerprints could no longer be distinguished individually.
Nine months had passed. Beth, promoted to a supervisor over blood collections, had moved into an apartment after staying at our house for the previous year and a half. I’d turned into a thin woman that Sam had never seen. Pandie and I had scheduled a Friendship Cruise to the Caribbean islands just months away. Now, I hated myself for agreeing to go. How could I go on a cruise without my love? And the whole nine months the thing that never left me was this letter from Sam, a letter with real Sam words, and Sam thoughts. Something more tangibly Sam than our Saturday night discussions.
How I longed for Sam to make his presence known. I’d read about women who had smelled their husband’s cologne, or had heard his voice, or had dreamed him into life once again. But for me, nothing. I was a beggar pleading generosity from a tight-fisted rich man. Sam’s absence filled me with a rage that I had never known. This rage slapped and kicked anything or anyone that had the misfortune to cross my path. This rage lived and grew. Each day it grabbed more of me. I wondered if there’d be anything left when it finally finished.
“It’s not fair Sam, to make me wait to hear your words when they have the power to resuscitate me once again to deep, full breaths of life.” I jerked the dandelion as if it had given me personal insult. “Why should I wait? Give me one good reason.” I blew my nose in the overused tissue. Then I leaned back against the cool stone letting my fingers touch the letters of his name as I had once wanted to touch his face but hadn’t.
Sam and I had had the same argument for months, really ever since Doug had given me the letter. Until now, I’d lost every argument. But tonight patience drained from me like a leaky bucket on a dry day, nothing left.
“Sam, you of all people know that the only moment we can be sure of is the very moment we’re living. I mean, what if I died without reading it? Listen to reason Sam, please.” I wanted his permission, but I didn’t get it. Pastor Wallace had reminded me yesterday when he came by to check on me, “Bertha, life is for the living.” And every part of my being had resisted that truth until now.
“Sam, I’m alive and you’re dead. My heart can’t wait any longer.” I touched the letter to my lips, caressed it with my hands, and then stuck my fingernail inside the tiny unglued slit. I listened to the tear with eyes closed. My breath became short and I wanted. I wanted Sam back. I wanted him back more than I’d ever wanted anything in my whole life, but even I knew that was too much to ask from a single letter. Surprisingly now that I’d made the decision to open it, I delayed, paused in the foreplay of hope, but not for long. Desire pressed me to open it. I began to read.
Darling Ellie,
My heart’s desire is that you’ve opened this letter before the year has passed. If so, woman, I know that you’re going to be all right. Ellie, deep down you’ve always been a rule breaker, you just never knew it. But I’ve known it all along. So here’s some advice from a salty old Marine who’s broken one or two rules himself.
Ditch the bitch. The kind of friend you have to buy is never worth the price. Darling Ellie, Pandie’s a user. Where was she when you were waiting for the doctor to call and tell us whether I had cancer? After all those years of your giving, a real friend would’ve have been close by. A good friend might’ve called. But no kind of friend forgets a thing like that. Folks remember what’s important to them. Pandie is no exception. I’ve heard that gal tell you the price she paid for every piece of crystal in a house overflowing with the stuff. Enough said.
Let me tell you girl, once again that what you and I had can’t be taken away, ever. Our kind of love will outlast the sun. I’ve no doubt that when it’s time Babe we’ll be together again. Don’t question that for a minute. We had a kick-ass time of it didn’t we girl? I intend, Ellie, for you to go on with what we started, but I believe you might need a little something to boost your confidence.
First. You’re beautiful, the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known. But that doesn’t mean squat unless you know that yourself. All the psychology in the world didn’t help you see what was right before your eyes. You made up your mind that a woman with your chin couldn’t be beautiful, and you’re a damned stubborn woman on some things.
Let me tell you about Turner Chapman. He’s a surgeon I met on one of those “men only” camping trips. The last night of camp we just happed to be the only two left standing. Beer and poker had been too much for the wimps! I did something I’d never done before, I told anot
her man about you, my feelings for you. For some reason I wanted him to know what kind of woman you are. Men don’t talk about stuff like that. Now, I think it was God who led me there.
I told Turner how you made me a better man than I ever could’ve been without you. I told him about the kindness you showed when no one else was looking, only me as a witness. But damn girl, I told him about that chin you’ve been longing for all your life. Turner Chapman informed me he could give you just what you wanted without too much fuss.
Chapman’s been paid in full. It’s up to you. With my death you have to become a new woman. Won’t hurt a bit for you to look like a new woman. In a way, it would mean that no other man would ever touch the woman I touched.
Now, about that other man. There has to be one for a woman like you. Love him good. Let go, and let some other woman be the saint for awhile. I promise you that I’ll be cheering from the sidelines, because I’ve no doubt you’ll come back to me.
Ellie, I believe the surgery would let you see yourself with my eyes, see the undeniable beauty. But the choice is yours. Turner will return the money anytime you want.
Ever your love, ever your lover, ever your man.
Sam
Chapter 8
“BERTHA”
I couldn’t share Sam’s letter with Pandie, although I knew Pandie could keep a secret. She and I had told each other things that no one else knew. But inside me, I realized that both of us feared the power of those secrets we’d told. Pandie knew that I had fallen in love with one of my professors at college, before Sam and I got together. She knew that Professor Sherrill had invited me to his home to discuss a paper I’d written. Whenever I mention the name Sherrill, my body cries in the way that bodies do sometimes, not with tears but with pain. But the pain eased off a bit when I’d told Pandie about what had happened.
I expected it to be just the two of us when I went to Sherrill’s that night. He’d focused exclusively on my work and me in his class. I’d basked under the umbrella of his approval. His approval awakened within me a true recognition of my own womanliness for the first time. With that recognition came a longing for more than just approval. I longed for conversation, for touching, and for so much that remained unspoken, even to myself. That night I’d worn tight jeans and a tighter sweater, my roommate’s idea. But the most revealing thing I’d worn was my heart. It had escaped my body where now it flitted around me like a butterfly ready to land on some sweetness.
When I got to Professor Sherrill’s house, I wasn’t disappointed. It was just the two of us and the age-old cliché of cold wine, a hot fire, and soft music. But right before we’d started to make love he’d asked if he could do me from behind. Yes, he’d used those words, “Do you.” My face was a turnoff he’d said in the same breath. With one stroke of words he shattered me into a thousand shards of pain. The vulgarity of a man that could say such a cruel thing to a woman made me vomit on his fine carpet.
When I’d told Pandie about that night some of the pain eased. Thinking about her acceptance and the comfort of talking with her brought me back to Sam’s letter. My initial impulse because of the way she accepted me, even after that shameful disclosure, was to edit Sam’s letter leaving out his advice about our friendship, but reading the rest of the letter to her. I wanted her to know what Sam thought about corrective surgery and I wanted someone to witness what a loving man he’d become. I really wanted her to hear Sam’s opinion about corrective surgery before I asked for her opinion. And I wanted a witness that someone had thought me beautiful just the way I was. But something held me back. I hesitated to expose the letter to her sometimes scorching wit. I knew that Pandie had a much higher tolerance for a man’s gross vulgarity than she ever had for a man’s tender care. I didn’t want Sam’s tender care belittled because it was so fine to me, so very fine.
Although I had second thoughts about Sam’s letter, Pandie’s understanding acceptance of me measured heavily in my decision to disregard Sam’s advice about terminating our friendship. I couldn’t believe that Sam hadn’t understood how hard her childhood had been given the difficulties he’d faced as a child. Raised by an uncaring grandmother, Pandie learned that physical beauty was her only asset. She learned to measure her worth by the status of the men she attracted. Pandie had missed out on the finer principles in life, the ones that gave life a sense of integrity. Not only had she missed out on the kind of loving that nurtures the best in a person, she’d missed out on how to love other people. I liked to believe that in exchange for the glamour and excitement she brought to my life, I loved her in that nurturing way that she’d always needed. Besides, Sam couldn’t see the changes Pandie had made since her divorce. Her new vulnerability made me feel closer to her. I felt a new equality in our friendship. I’d been right in my initial assessment so many years ago; Pandie had substance to her that most people missed. I felt sure of it, didn’t I? Sam’s wisdom wasn’t absolute, even he could be wrong some of the time. I just had to have a friend. I couldn’t bear to lose Sam and Pandie both.
* * *
I waited for Pandie to say something. In the silence I thought that maybe she hadn’t understood, that I had told it all wrong. So I started in once more.
“Bertha, you don’t need to tell me again, I heard you the first time.” Pandie’s cold tone hurt me. “Sam’s lawyer told you that Sam had made arrangements with some surgeon for you to have corrective surgery on your chin. He’s already paid for it, but you can get the money back if you decide not to get the surgery. Right?”
“Okay, you did hear me, but you were so quiet all of a sudden.” I did my nervous giggle. “Don’t you think I’d look better with a chin? Be honest now?” I held my face up pressing under my chin to make it look stronger, more defined.
“So you’d look better, what’s the point now, at your age? Be practical Bertha. Good God, you’re not already looking for another man are you?”
I felt a fist in my gut at that unfair accusation. Didn’t I have the right to feel good about myself? Did the fact that I wanted to feel pretty for once in my life really automatically have less to do with me and more to do with snaring a man?
Pandie got a cola and popped the tab. “What would you do differently with a chin than what you do now? Isn’t that the question?”
“I guess you’re right. It’s just that I thought it could let me experience my life in a different way, a new woman sort of thing.” I couldn’t finish the brownie that Pandie had insisted I should eat. Nothing really tasted good to me anymore. I left unspoken that Sam’s death had killed the woman I’d been. No matter how hard I’d tried to revive her at the cemetery on Saturday nights, a woman could not be with a grave. A grave could never substitute for Sam.
Pandie sat the can of cola on her kitchen counter. With her back to me she said, “Sure, I had some of those same feelings after John and I divorced. So I lost some weight, started exercising. I bought new clothes.” She turned to face me. “Nothing so drastic as cosmetic surgery.”
“But Pandie, I don’t call it cosmetic surgery in my mind. I call it corrective surgery. If I’d had some other more pronounced deformity, no one would question whether I should take advantage of what medicine has to offer.”
“No matter what you call it Bertha, it’s cosmetic surgery. Do I sound like I’m arguing with you? I hope you know I’m not. But I just want you to think about this for awhile. Wait for a couple of years. If you still think it’s right for you, then you’d be satisfied that you’d made a thoughtful decision, not a rash one.” Pandie tossed the cola can into the trash. “Bee, you need to ask yourself what kind of example you’d set for Beth. Do you want Beth to think that her identity depends on how she looks?” I started to interrupt her, but she lifted her hand to quiet me
“One more thing, then I’ll shut up. You’ve always been proud that despite the way you looked people who got to know you thought you were one of the smartest, wisest women they’d ever met. People took you seriously. Let’s say you do
have the surgery are you going to get the bimbo response from people? If you do, can you handle it?”
“I don’t know Pandie, I seem awfully old to be a bimbo. I’ve somehow never thought a fifty-year-old woman qualified for that title.” I took some time to really look at her but she turned away. “Besides, you’re pretty. People take you seriously. No one treats you like a bimbo. Why would it be any different for me? Pandie?” I wanted us to connect on this thing. “The people who count in my life already know me. I don’t want any new relationships with the kind of people who make decisions before they get to know someone. I just don’t see the problem.”
“I’m not trying to make a decision for you Bee. I want you to be happy, but there’s a lot of risk involved in any surgery, and Beth does only have one parent now. Think it over carefully.” Pandie stood up as if to dismiss me.
I wondered to myself if she’d learned from me how to use guilt so skillfully. I didn’t even say goodbye before I left.
The wind felt good on my face. I loved walking by the river, especially during the week when the weekend warriors were some place else. I’d always resorted to walking when I had a problem to solve. I guessed that whether I had surgery or not was a problem to solve. At least that’s the way Pandie had seemed to see it. Before our discussion I’d been excited, sure that Pandie would support my desire to experience life with a new confidence. I felt so disappointed. More than disappointed. I felt betrayed in a way. All those times I’d encouraged her to be her best self should have counted for something. My sigh got lost in the wind. Pandie had always done the best she could. Don’t we all?
By the time I’d reached the pedestrian bridge, I’d also reached my decision. The shaded bridge felt cool after the hot sun. I rolled the rock I held against the palm of my hand. I looked to make sure no one could hear the talk I needed to have with Sam. I saw that the man below the bridge so absorbed with fishing wouldn’t have any interest in me. The young mother pushing the baby stroller as she jogged nearby was so consumed with the effort of it all she wouldn’t have noticed the sound of a train whistle blowing right into her ear.
Chik~Lit for Foxy Hens Page 24
