“I have to go to work,” he told the Assisted Living Staffer. “Can she be left like this?”
“The final stages could go on for hours. Or days.”
Jerrell noted stages, plural. So there would be this stage, and then that stage. Assisted Living was likely to withhold from him the secrets and torments of the future, and anyway it didn’t occur to him to ask what came next.
“We’ll notify you of any change in your mother’s condition.” The young woman gave him what he supposed was meant to be a reassuring glance but appeared sly, a prompting, a knowing exchange. What was he supposed to know? His father had dropped dead of a stroke. Only one stage to that passing.
The Assisted Living Staffer checked the pump and left. As soon as the apartment door clicked shut, Ruth’s eyes fluttered open. A flush rose to her cheeks, as if the blood the braces had drawn was rising to her skin. She flashed the hideous smile. The brackets glittered, the blood washed away, swallowed, or healed. Her hand flew to cover her mouth and her ugly puckered chin. Both Jerrell and Ruth smothered mirth with their open palms. Crowding was their shared trait. Their narrow jaws stabled horsey teeth. Their canines jutted like rock outcroppings over the lower teeth twisting half-cocked. For all of six months in high school, Jerrell’s braces had fixed the problem. He endured two years of painful adjustments. The old-style wrap-around bands pushed deep into his gums, ended up causing permanent recession. But after the suffering, he’d flashed a perfect grin. He’d broken the habit of slapping his hand to his mouth when he smiled. He laughed more often. He’d worn his retainer as directed.
But in the end, the teeth buckled back to where they’d always been.
The rage stirred again. Dr. Frank and his chintzy work.
“Don’t worry about those braces anymore, Mom. They’re coming out, I promise. Here’s your Werther’s. Open wide.”
The mouth yawned open hungrily. White scales blanketed the tongue like unraveled lace. He tucked in the candy. Left his hand there a moment, tunneled back a bit to feel the warm soft pressure. Her eyes widened, flashed their flinty metal. Her jaw stiffened, snapped shut. Her teeth sank hard into the back of his hand.
Jesus! He grabbed her jaw sockets with his free hand, pinched hard, hard! Rammed his hurt hand down her throat, down, down, thrusting with all his might to the place where he began.
She gagged and let go.
Jerrell yanked out his hand. Goddamn punctured. Blood bubbled from the wounds. Her teeth and brackets imprinted his skin in a craggy oval. He wrapped the wet towel around his hand and stared at her. Was she out of her mind? Or was hurting him, even now, her natural reflex?
Was that a bruise rising along her jaw line, seeping through her wrinkles’ waterfall?
She stared at him, clear eyed. He followed a movement of her throat. The butterscotch candy eased down the stubborn gullet.
His hand moved to the morphine pump, her gaze attached. He punched the button. His arm tingled with the machine’s hiss. How much juice would it take to get her to quit staring at him? To assist her to sleep? To ease his pain?
“Do you feel like a zombie now, Mom?” Come again. He willed her to speak. Third time’s the charm.
Her arm sailed. The keening rose from a low place in her throat. Jerrell pulled his finger from the button. When the machine fell silent, she looked right through him again, unruffled. No matter how strongly he came at her, she would always come right back at him stronger. He hated her with a searing hot flame. He loved her with all his heart. No decline would ever be the decline.
Jerrell had stepped away from the bed, pulled on his Gold Star jacket. He’d stop for Vernors on the training run with Tammy and Mr. Salisbury. He’d return to quench Ruth’s tormented thirst, pour that butterscotch right down her hatch.
“It’s Dad’s job to find fault because there has to be someone to sue. Although you can’t really sue Kleenex for a freak incident, Dad says.” Mr. Salisbury’s face was level with the front headrests, his pale skin backlit with excitement over his old man’s outlook on the freakish.
Tammy nibbled another nail.
“Both hands on the wheel, Tammy. Proceed through the intersection.” Jerrell glanced at Mr. Salisbury with an uptick in the strict act. “Let’s sit back in our seat, Ace. Your job right now is to observe.”
Mr. Salisbury sat back dutifully. The next four-way stop, the last one before they arrived back in town, was a mile down the road. Traffic picked up, glided past at a fast clip. A Chevy Suburban passed Tammy with a roar. She jumped. “Never mind that, Tammy.” Jerrell resisted the urge to pat her knee. “You’re doing fine.”
The glove box rattled on a gravelly stretch of pavement. Tammy fiddled nervously with the rear view mirror. “What is that noise, Mr. Jerrell? Is something wrong with the car?”
“Do you see a warning indicator lit up?”
Tammy’s lovely green eyes flickered down to peer between her hands. “No.”
“Then there’s nothing to worry about. The cause of a dash rattle is notoriously tough to pin down. Could be a screw, or something with the wire harness. But it’s not serious. Not if there’s no warning light.”
Tammy looked at him with the feminine doubt hardwired to assume that any niggling noise meant that something critical to the vehicle’s operation was about to blow the car up. His reassurance speech had never worked on Lydia, either. She was always complaining that Jerrell never kept the Bronco tuned up, but a woman didn’t leave a man just over minor lapses in auto maintenance.
Jerrell wadded up the bloody tissue and stuffed it in the glove box. Checked quickly for the rattle’s source but found only the expected soft detritus. Vehicle manual and registration in the cheap vinyl pouch, some ketchup packets from the Burger King. The box of Band-Aids he’d left open had toppled over. His silver flask was stashed in the back, real silver, too, but filled with whiskey there was no way it was making that much noise. The car definitely needed a tune-up. Just in case, Jerrell stuffed the bloody towel he’d thrown on the floor mat around the flask.
“Knocks and pings are just routine engine sounds. Get ’em checked at the earliest convenient opportunity, is all there is to that. Turn right at the cemetery up there.”
Tammy pulled the turn indicator. “You ever hold your breath, Mr. Jerrell?”
“Come again?”
“When passing a cemetery.”
“I used to do that.” Mr. Salisbury fidgeted with his lap belt.
“I still do.” Tammy caught her breath the moment the Gold Star fender drew parallel to the town cemetery’s iron fence. Her slender fingers gripped the steering wheel. Her knuckles, smooth, fleshy half-moons, flashed white.
“Let’s breathe through the intersection, Tammy,” Jerrell suggested. But Tammy held her breath through a roll past the stop sign. Her cheeks pinked. Her lips tensed in a pout. Her thighs flexed under her tight jeans. Jerrell fastened a stare on the windshield. No future in noting stimulating changes in a little girl’s physique. He covered the instructor brake, checked for any cars barreling through the intersection, blessedly none. “That’s called a rolling stop, Miss.”
Tammy breathed, a moist whoosh that blended with the air vents’ hum. “Sorry, Mr. Jerrell.” The glove box rattled over the uneven pavement in front of the Brilliant Ford dealership. Tammy white-knuckled the center line to avoid the broken asphalt.
“You can’t observe traffic safely if you don’t bring the vehicle to a full stop.”
“Especially if you don’t breathe. Stupid little-kid trick,” Mr. Salisbury muttered.
Tammy shot him a furious look in the mirror. “It’s not. The souls of the dead can ride right inside you on your air.”
“So, I breathed. Why don’t I have dead people in me right now?”
“Who says you don’t? Didn’t kids ever hold their breath in your day, Mr. Jerrell?”
Somewhere along the way Jerrell’s youth had become your day to the young people. “Proceed for a half mile. No, I never did hold
my breath,” he added when Tammy glanced at him, a brief, sidelong disappointment. He’d always felt something was dead inside of him, anyway. And the town cemetery, beautifully manicured, populated by regular funerals and cheery blossom sprays left by the adoring living, was a damn safe sight, in his opinion. He’d welcome in any dead so well loved.
“Aren’t you religious?” Mr. Salisbury piped up.
Tammy chose to ignore Mr. Salisbury by keeping her gaze firmly on the gentle curve into downtown. Good call. “Start slowing down past First Lutheran,” Jerrell instructed when the familiar gold-tipped spire glided into view. “The posted limit there is twenty-five. Take a left at the four corners.”
“Your mom taught Sunday school, right?” Mr. Salisbury had decided on a persistence he never brought to bear on mastering his driving skills.
“So what?” Tammy flicked him a brief, dismissive glance in the mirror. Braked mildly at the four corners’ stoplight. Lucky Drugs and the tavern stood opposite one another on Michigan Avenue. The home-decor shop where Ruth used to buy her Hull Collectibles was long gone. So was the Kresge. A bank and an optometrist occupied those storefronts now. Tammy eased into the left-turn lane next to a silver Volvo. The driver, a real Ozzie Nelson type, glanced doubtfully at the lurid Gold Star decals. The company mascot, a cartoon car with rubber balloons for wheels and a blubbery grin, filled the passenger door. Garish yellow stars splashed the side panel. A real carnival to announce the student drivers.
“Left blinker, don’t forget,” Jerrell reminded Tammy. She dutifully pulled the turn indicator.
“So, you believe that souls rise to Heaven. So, in that case, there wouldn’t be any souls of the dead left on earth to get inside you. So, why hold your breath?”
“Not everyone gets to Heaven.” Jerrell couldn’t help defending Tammy’s superstition, harmless and cute. Just the type of girlish habit that would make her a kind, spirited woman to love.
“So we’re talking zombie souls here.”
Jerrell’s hand throbbed. Across the intersection, two men dressed in blue Con Ed overalls walked across the UAW lot on their way to Jackie’s Tavern. With the workday shift finished, the drinking shift could begin. Jerrell used to be one of the Jackie’s late-afternoon regulars, but the driver’s training after-school schedule prevented him from joining in now.
“There’s no such thing as zombies.” The light clicked green. Although the oncoming traffic cleared quickly, Tammy’s sneaker didn’t move from the brake. “That’s dumb kid stuff.”
“Proceed cautiously through the intersection,” Jerrell reminded her. With a swift, careful sweep of her slim neck, Tammy took the turn down Michigan Avenue.
“So all I’m saying is, if you believe in Heaven and you don’t believe in zombies, why hold your breath?” Mr. Salisbury persisted.
“How do you know my mom taught Sunday school? You don’t go to my church.”
Mr. Salisbury clicked his tongue. “I just know.”
“How do you know?” Tammy stared at Mr. Salisbury in the rear view mirror.
“Eyes on the road, young lady. I’m gonna have you parallel park up there at the meter outside Dr. Frank’s office.” Jerrell turned as if to check the traffic and instead fixed a warning glare on Mr. Salisbury to lay off. Unlike the tough guys he used to deal with on site, young Ace shrank into his seat. His turn next, was what he understood from Jerrell’s glare.
Tammy slowed to a creep. Glanced doubtfully at the tight space between a tan Ford Expedition and a burgundy Dodge Ram. “Think there’s room?”
The Gold Star sedan could fit into any dinky crawlspace. Jerrell ought to know. “Plenty, Tammy.” Tammy relaxed a bit. Fatherly reassurance offered at just the right moment was the best part of the job.
Tammy positioned the vehicle just as she’d been taught. Rear fender aligned with the rear of the Expedition. She craned her neck backward, rotated the wheel, released the brake. Jerrell glanced back to check her aim. Saw Mr. Salisbury guiding her with a low flutter of his hand. Keep coming, keep coming. An unexpected kindness from the smart aleck. Jerrell tamped down a flicker of annoyance.
After the endless amateur jerking back and forth, Mr. Salisbury guiding every adjustment to her alignment, Tammy pulled the gearshift to park and beamed at Jerrell. She glowed with relief at the successful completion of what the student driver thought would be the hardest test.
But Jerrell was saving the real tough stuff for kind guide Ace back there, the maneuver that had quickly made Jerrell a legend. The dodgy turn, the one his former students always talked about, past Beech to Fuller where the road teed into State at the old train bridge. There the old bridge column completely obstructed the left sightline. The student driver had to nose out practically to the middle of State to see. Even for an experienced driver, the turn was a wing and a prayer. The kids always accused Jerrell of trying to trick them by taking them to the one impossible turn in the worst part of town, where no one ever goes anymore, anyway. Well, it was his job to prepare them for even the most unlikely scenarios, wasn’t it?
“Well done, Tammy.” Jerrell scratched some notes. Mr. Salisbury flashed a thumbs-up. “Tell you what, kids. Gotta run a quick errand here at Dr. Frank’s.”
“He was my ortho.” Tammy’s sculpted jaw and perfect grin was a damn testament to that.
“Mine, too,” chorused from the back seat.
“Stretch your legs, why don’t you, and switch drivers.” Jerrell glanced into the back seat. “Ready for your spin, young man?”
Salisbury nodded, all contrite. Actually followed the affirmative with sir. We’ll see about that, was Jerrell’s reaction. Golf clubs and Kleenex would be the least of Mr. Salisbury’s concerns this afternoon. Jerrell heaved stiffly out of the vehicle. Didn’t mean to slam the passenger door so hard. The chintzy Gold Star corporate stars wobbled under the impact. The mascot flashed a perfect picket line of white teeth. The sedan looked real rinky-dink between the Detroit steel boxing it in.
Inside the car, Tammy had swiveled to face Mr. Salisbury. Her slim leg was slung over the armrest, swinging girlishly. She twined her golden hair between two slender fingers. Jerrell felt a sudden stab of longing. Not for the girl, no future in that thinking. He loathed admitting he missed Lydia, but she’d taken his soul when she left, no denying it. She could blame the recession all she wanted, but a woman didn’t abandon a man just over money. Always more to it than a man’s fortune.
Tammy nibbled the frizzy ends of her golden hair. Rinky-dink Gold Star clown car. Rinky-dink recession job. Jerrell would have to find his way to change, and soon.
Frank’s work on Ruth had been shabby from the start. The wires were always popping their sockets. Ruth’s gums bled torrents when she was cut so Jerrell was forced to schedule frequent repairs between routine appointments. Dr. Frank insisted that Ruth must be violating the Brace Watcher’s Diet by eating popcorn or hard candy. Dr. Frank was a real Snidely Whiplash, in Jerrell’s opinion, and besides no way could the Werther’s cause that much damage. Chintzy materials and poor workmanship were the cause, just like the construction shoddiness he’d spent his career mitigating before the whole industry went down the sinkhole. No one built anything like they used to.
Jerrell should have known the work would be a bust. Hadn’t his own teeth shifted? His father, too, had asked Jerrell’s orthodontist for a refund in his timid-ass way. The orthodontist was a real bully, not that it was tough to bully Jerrell’s dad, a real Stan Laurel except Dad’s wimp act wasn’t funny at all. The doctor pointed out that to ensure sure-proof results Jerrell should have consented to have his jaw broken and rewired. Well, having his jaw broken once had been plenty for Jerrell. Ruth hadn’t insisted he give in to the ortho, either, which was one of their covenants.
His teeth were a real shame, and so were Ruth’s. She’d wanted braces her whole life. But she’d grown up with a stingy father and had married a pragmatic man with bad teeth who loved her the way she was and so what if in their day, prefluorid
e, preorthodontics, everyone’s teeth were freak shows. Back then, teeth were a level playing field between men and women. Ashes to ashes, mouth to mouth. But Ruth carried the shame of her flaw like grief. Maybe because she was a woman, the shock to her vanity never faded.
In all other respects, she’d been beautiful. Had even modeled for a local designer once. A real knockout on the UAW hall velvet runway, with vivid upswept hair and perfect skin. All decked out in fancy skirts and tall slender heels skinny as pipe cleaners and wide brimmed hats with bright-pink polka dots. During the modeling stint, they’d all enjoyed a few months when Ruth was a stunning woman with a minor flaw, a flaw easily hidden behind her graceful hand.
But at the UAW benefit banquet, Jerrell had acted out when his mother was pirouetting down the red-carpeted platform. All he did was wave at her. Maybe he’d called out to her. He was a teenager, old enough to behave himself, not cry out like some baby startled to see his mother behind clown-red lipstick and white face powder. She’d pretended to smile but hadn’t covered up with her hand in time because she was hissing at him to pipe down. Big horsey teeth, ugly puckered chin. Not runway material, not even for the local designer outfit. She’d never been asked to model again.
So when Dad dropped dead and Ruth, in Jerrell’s view, had no choice but to move to Assisted Living, why not fix her teeth to ease the transition? A total waste of money, Lydia had called the gift when he’d dipped into their dwindling retirement to cover the work. The last straw, she’d called it. Well, a woman never left a man just over making his mother happy, and the gift had made Ruth deliriously happy. Her dream come true. Made all the crap he’d put up with all his life almost worth it. More to the point, the gift made her docile for the move to Assisted Living.
States of Motion Page 11
