Vinita Hampton Wright

by Dwelling Places (v5)

  Jodie turns to look at her daughter. “Why would he not want that?”

  Kenzie raises her shoulders high. “Most doctors depend on the drug companies, right? And the drug companies want to keep selling people drugs. So maybe the doctors look for reasons to keep people on medications.”

  Jodie gives an uneasy laugh. “Where did you get all that?”

  “Just open your eyes, Mom. The first thing a doctor does when you go to him is push pills at you. They never ask about your whole life, like your relationships or your lifestyle. They don’t ask about the important things, like what you’re afraid of or what you believe in.”

  “Sweetie, fears and beliefs are not what doctors get degrees in. They study the body. They’re scientists.”

  “And most scientists believe in evolution.”

  Jodie sits down. The conversation is unsteadying her. “Kenzie, what does believing in evolution have to do with a doctor’s ability to care for your body?”

  “Evolutionists don’t believe in God, and without faith in God, you can’t be sure that anything else in your life is right either. No matter how smart you are or how important or rich or whatever, if you don’t have faith, none of it matters. And you can be totally misled. Doctors may be smart, but that’s not the same as having God’s wisdom.” Kenzie sits down too, as though she were an attorney who has just finished her summation.

  For a moment, Jodie is speechless. Part of her wants to laugh at this ridiculous line of reasoning, but the sheer earnestness in Kenzie’s eyes prevents her.

  “Sweetie, who’s been teaching you this?”

  Kenzie looks away. “You know, at church and youth group. And it’s right in the Bible. You want to see the verses?”

  “No, I’m familiar with the Bible. But I didn’t know that you were hearing this kind of thing at the Baptist church.”

  “Why does it matter where I hear it, if it’s true?”

  “You’re making some really big assumptions, and I don’t think they’re completely true.”

  Kenzie looks down at her arms, which rest on her lap. “I know you don’t believe. Dad doesn’t either. I don’t know what happened to everyone’s faith around here.”

  “Well, whatever faith we have—or had—never included some of the stuff you’re talking about now. Do you think people should just not go to doctors?”

  “Sure, but they should be doctors who have faith.”

  “Oh, I see.” Jodie sees the agitation in Kenzie’s expression and decides not to take the conversation any further.

  “I was hoping Daddy wouldn’t have to stay on all those pills.” Still, the child won’t look at her.

  “I wish he didn’t either, and he probably won’t have to forever.” Jodie makes her voice as gentle as she can. “But we remember what he was like before he had the pills, don’t we?”

  Kenzie nods and gets up abruptly. “I’m glad he’s home anyway.”

  Mack walks in a few minutes later. He looks tired but in a good way, exhausted from hoisting machinery and solving machinery problems. He washes up and greets Kenzie when he sits at the table. She tells him that she’s glad he’s home.

  “Young Taylor’s with friends,” Jodie says, putting the last dish on the table. Mack nods. He doesn’t seem as worried about Young Taylor as he used to be, and Jodie hopes this is a good sign. Since the incident at school, Young Taylor has been calmer, less hostile. Mack is tight-lipped about it all, but Jodie suspects that it’s just as well. Fathers and sons should be able to confide in each other without sending out bulletins to everyone else.

  It’s when she enters the bedroom a while later that she’s stopped cold. All over the top of the dresser are little bunches of silk flowers. When she looks closer, she sees that each bunch is attached to a small card with Bible verses written on it. The handwriting is Kenzie’s. Jodie is pondering over all the fake blossoms when Mack walks in quietly.

  “She’s something, isn’t she?” His voice is right behind her.

  “Did she put all of these here?”

  “No, she left one for me in the car every day I took her to school. Never said anything about it.”

  Jodie picks up some little pansies with Psalm 23 dangling from them.

  “We can put them someplace else, if you want,” says Mack. “I couldn’t throw them away.”

  “No. This is fine.” She feels guilty, suddenly, that her daughter has worked harder to encourage Mack than she has.

  “It’s all she knows to do, I guess,” he says. “Can’t hurt anything.”

  “You never know what will help.” She says this more to herself than to him.

  Mack

  Very recently, George confessed that he used to be a Presbyterian pastor.

  “You lose your faith, or what?” Mack asked.

  “When I realized how badly prepared I was to deal with people’s troubles, I went back to school for a degree in counseling.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  A little shrug. “Decided to get some experience before working with a church again. Believe me, it’s much easier listening to folks like you than trying to sort out the very odd family dynamics that get going in a congregation.”

  “Folks like me?”

  “You’re here because you recognize the need for a little assistance. You’ve come to a point that you’re willing to change some things if need be, if that’s what it takes for life to get better. In so many church situations, nobody thinks they have problems. They simply have convictions, and they’re trying to get everyone else to live up to them.”

  Today George is settled into his chair, looking rumpled. His chin rests on the hand he’s brought up to scratch his cheek. Mack wonders what kind of pastor this guy was, but he can’t linger on that thought. Instead, he dives right into the conversation, all business.

  “I used to think that if I could just get over the hump, make the money, keep things together, I’d be okay. For a year I worked at the school bus barn during the day and farmed nights and weekends. Then we lost the farm.” Mack is just a few minutes into today’s session. It’s easier to get started nowadays. He just starts talking without thinking too much. “Then I thought that I needed to find new work to do, more steady income. I’ve been at Hendrikson’s for nearly two years, and the pay’s all right, but that’s not enough either.”

  George’s eyes are steady. It occurs to Mack that those eyes are a lot like the eyes of his father, or Ed, or the other men he’s spent his life with. No nonsense. A lot of things hidden there.

  “And now…it feels like nothing’s enough. Like I need other reasons to be here.” Mack stops and takes a sip of coffee.

  “You want to know why you’re on this earth.”

  “Something like that.”

  “That’s a big question. A lot of brilliant philosophers have failed to answer it.”

  “Well, I don’t care about philosophers. I don’t live with them or meet them on the street.”

  The bushy head of hair dips a little deeper, and George stares over his glasses at Mack. “So who do you care about?”

  “My family, I guess. I don’t know. Maybe I don’t care one way or the other.”

  “Do you want to know just for yourself?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What I mean is, what do you think? Why does it matter to you that you’re here?”

  Mack looks straight at the blue eyes. “I honest to God don’t know. I’m not sure it’s that important anymore. I used to think I needed to be around for the kids. But kids do whatever they want to do. Both of mine seem to be surviving, and they’re not that interested in being involved with me.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “I try to talk to them, but they never say much. It’s like they’re being polite but they’re keeping the important stuff close to the vest.”

  “Keep in mind that they’re teenagers.”

  “I know that. That’s my point. They’re nearly grown, and if I’m here or not,
they’ll find their way.”

  “You think they don’t care if you’re around or not?”

  Mack sniffs and shrugs, turning his gaze to the window he has come to know so well. At last George straightens up in his chair. He uncrosses his legs, then recrosses them at the ankles.

  “In my professional opinion, I think it’s safe to say that it does matter to your kids whether you’re around or not. Children feel a need for their parents, in different capacities at different times. Does it matter to you that your own father’s not around anymore?”

  “Yeah, but we worked together. In a lot of ways we were partners. Young Taylor hasn’t known me in the same way.”

  “So you’re sayin’ that not only did the farm define your work but it defined your relationship with your father.”

  Mack sighs. Here comes another little path to walk down. Another topic full of sneaky turns. He decides that George probably likes to play chess.

  “See, what you’re doing, Mack, is redefining your whole life. It’s not enough to just get another job. Something fundamental has changed, and the old ways of dealing with life aren’t going to match up anymore.”

  Mack rubs his eyes. “I don’t have the energy to reinvent myself.”

  “I don’t think that’s what you have to do. More like finding yourself. There are other parts of yourself that’ve always been there but just didn’t get much time or attention, because of the particular life you had. Now that life is over, and you’ve the opportunity to get to know more of Mack.”

  “I don’t see that.”

  “Okay. I suppose I’m getting pushy.”

  “Not pushy, just too psychological.”

  “Oh no, not that.”

  Rita

  She got to bed at midnight and has been up since five. At ten A.M. she is wrapping the last of the date breads and tying up little baggies of peanut brittle. The cookies have been done since yesterday about this time. She surveys her work and declares it good, but not before a coughing fit bends her double. She curses, but only in her mind. It took her strongest will to lie in that hospital bed and take what they gave her until she could go home. Now the cough is working its way back. When did she get to be so weak?

  All the treats are divided into piles and labeled with the names of their recipients. Each pile she transfers to a clean paper grocery sack; she’s been saving them for months. Everybody hands you plastic now; she’s got enough plastic bags to wad up and use for insulation. Bud the grocer knows that she likes real grocery sacks. Now she loads up a sack for each person on her list, packing and repacking so as to avoid breaking fragile sugar cookies or mashing bread loaves. There are sixteen sacks, and it takes more than an hour to pack them to her satisfaction. She coughs and sips tea with lemon and honey, deciding to hold off on the brandy until she’s finished driving for the day.

  Finally, she folds over the tops of the sacks and is able to put four to a box (also from Bud’s) by stacking them two deep. The boxes are labeled and sorted according to which sacks will go to houses in the same general vicinity and which sacks contain treats meeting special dietary requirements. Two boxes are for diabetics only; unfortunately, her diabetics are scattered all over town, but she packs them together anyway. It’s only after the sacks are packed into the boxes that Rita remembers she was going to put holiday stickers on them. (She found two packs of them for a quarter at a flea market last March.) She puts stickers where she’s able, without taking the sacks out of the boxes. She’s too tired to be a perfectionist today.

  For the second time this week, she calls Amos for help. She can’t lift the boxes when they’re full. She can’t ask Mack or Jodie for help because they are insisting that she stay inside for a few days, while the wind is so sharp and until her cough is completely gone. That’s easy for them to require, since they are not sick and do not have holiday deliveries to make. It may be a full two weeks before Christmas, but the point of these gifts is to provide good eating up until, and even after, Christmas Day. It’s called the Christmas season for a reason: one day is not enough to pack everything in. So she will not call her son or daughter-in-law and listen to them harp about her health. Amos does not interrogate her about her health, and he’s right next door. Two minutes after she calls, he comes over and loads up the boxes. He offers to drive her, and Rita almost turns him down without considering it. But then she thinks it will be easier to get in and out of the car if she’s not behind the wheel. She decides that this is the perfect time to let Amos be her chauffeur.

  Naturally, as if the Good Lord planned it to try her patience, the snow begins the minute they get in the car. It would be pretty were it not horizontal; the wind has come into town like a razor. For a moment the two of them sit and watch the flakes shoot past, neither one daring to suggest that the weather might keep them from their appointed rounds. Amos clears his throat and starts the car. It makes a sound not unlike Rita’s hacking cough but turns over after a second or two. Amos pushes on the gas pedal ever so lightly. Rita stares at him.

  “Something wrong with the gas?” she asks.

  “No, no. I always like to get the feel of the gas and the brakes before I pick up speed.” Amos is staring into the rearview mirror as if expecting to back off a precipice at any moment. He backs up another foot or so, while Rita holds back a sigh. Poor Amos. Either he can’t see or he’s got a cramp in his leg, but God forbid he just say that. Once they’re out on the street, Rita pulls a sheet of notebook paper from her coat pocket and begins directing.

  “Go left, down to the end of the block, then right.” She watches, eagle-eyed, while Amos makes the requisite turns. “Now right for another block. There’s a stop sign, Amos.” Her voice sharpens, and he slams on the brake. “Not yet—at the corner. Okay, now go right…and right again. It’s that second drive on the right. Now…pull in—watch out for the ditch. There you have it. Good.” She gets out of the car, opens the back door, and very carefully pulls out a bag from the second box. She taps on the front door of the yellow frame house and walks in without waiting for a response.

  Bertie Russell is in her recliner in the sitting room, the television on, a little artificial tree twinkling lights from a small table in the front window. She is surrounded by plates and cups, and her phone is off the hook again. Bertie’s palsy makes everything haphazard these days, but she’s chipper and ready to visit when Rita makes her entrance.

  “Bertie, hon, I can’t visit just now, but I’ll come over this evening when I finish making my deliveries.”

  “That’s all right, Rita. You just come over whenever you’re ready. Oh my!” Bertie acts as if she’s never seen food before. Rita takes out every item (she can reuse the sack) and places it on the coffee table just a foot away. “You’ll have to come over and help me eat all this! Now, put that down.” She motions Rita to leave the dirty dishes where they are. “Evelyn will be over in a while, and she’ll take care of all that.”

  “I’ll just put them in the sink.” Rita clears the dishes, then hurries back in and replaces the phone on the hook. “Your phone was off again, Bertie. Have Evelyn rearrange things so it’s closer to you. I’ll see you later.” She gives Bertie a peck on the cheek and is out the door, feeling bad that she didn’t at least sit down. But Bertie’s the cheerful understanding sort and won’t read it as poor manners.

  When she gets in the car, Amos is grinning.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Why, we’re practically across the street from your place!”

  “I know that.” She tries not to sound irritated but doesn’t appreciate his grin.

  “You had me drive all the way around the block when you could’ve walked across the street. What sense does that make?”

  “The sense it makes is that I don’t want to walk across the street. That wind’ll blow me over, and it’s snowing, in case you didn’t notice.”

  “Well, I could’ve walked it over, or just backed all the way across and into this driveway.”

&nbs
p; “Amos, the point of having a car is to drive where you’d otherwise have to walk. And we’re not directly across—you could’ve backed into Bertie’s ditch. Now don’t argue with me, or I’ll drive myself.”

  Amos backs onto the road with a bit more speed this time. “Just makes no sense. Waste of gasoline—but I’ll not say any more. Just tell me where to go—so to speak.” He chuckles at his own joke. Rita ignores it and begins with the next set of directions.

  For most of the afternoon, Amos drives and Rita delivers. They stop at the Lunch Hour for a bowl of soup. Rita sucks down three cups of hot tea and pops in two throat lozenges at once. Because the coughing originates from her lungs and not her throat, the lozenges do no good, but the menthol feels comforting roaming through her nasal passages. They have six more deliveries to make, and Rita can’t wait to go home, fill the tub, and soak for a while. Amos has mentioned a Christmas classic movie that’s on in a bit, but she doesn’t accept his invitation to watch it with him. At that point, they are both tired, and she knows that he will conk out on his couch and sleep through the movie anyway. She knows this not because she is familiar with his habits but because old men sleep in the afternoons as regularly as housecats. And even though all he’s done is load some boxes and drive her around, the afternoon is taking its toll. She feels a stab of guilt at how little affection she feels for Amos. The older and more tired he becomes, the less attached she becomes. It’s a cold way to be, but no sense dwelling on it.

  When they pull back into her drive, there’s an inch of fluffy snow all around them but nothing in the air. The wind has let up some too.

  “Amos, let’s put the car in the garage. I’m not going anywhere else today.” She doesn’t relish watching him maneuver the car into the small space, but she’s not sure she can get back to the house on steady feet, let alone get in and out of the car another time. Yesterday Mack cleared the little walk between the garage and back door, and it will be easier to walk on than the uneven chat of the driveway, even with the fresh snow. Amos goes all the way up the drive to the garage, which sits near the alley. He parks the car, then helps Rita out. He helps her carry the boxes and folded-up, empty sacks into the house. One of the boxes has some loose items in it—last-minute changes made when she remembered that John can’t stand bread with nuts in it and Louisa gets headaches from chocolate.