He handed me the Big Texan menu, shaped like a giant trifolded one hundred dollar bill. “Oh, honey, we can do better than that!”
I looked at the brown and white menu he handed me and had to smile at the Rick Was Here scrawled across the front of it in green crayon. Well, Rick, so was Audrey.
“Look here,” Bar Guy said, opening the menu and pointing at a row of appetizers, “why get a plain ol’ hamburger when you can have fried rattlesnake or buffalo quesadillas.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” I said. “I’m rather craving a hamburger.”
He was much too pleasant to press it, and soon he called over a cute little waitress to take my boring order back to the kitchen. That’s when I learned Bar Guy’s name was Wayne, as in “Sure ’nuff, Wayne.” While I waited, Wayne took me into the huge dining room and showed me the table, center stage, where thousands of people have tried to eat the seventy-two-ounce steak with all the trimmings in an hour, the requirement for getting it free. I don’t recall the sign I’d seen back home mentioning that technicality.
“You sure you don’t want to try it,” he asked, “instead of taking home a measly hamburger basket?”
“I’m sure. So sure.”
“Well, at least let me take your picture sitting behind the table with that timer over your head. It’ll make a good one.”
I told him I didn’t have my camera with me. He thought that was a shame, but a party of eight or so was coming through the door, and he had to get back to his post. I was able to escape with my burger basket a few minutes later, waving at Wayne on my way out. The home of the free seventy-two-ounce steak is quite a colorful place, and I’m not sorry I went there.
I can’t say that about the Cadillac Ranch on down the interstate. According to Wayne, it was something I should see, and I did, but from behind my windshield. Getting out of the car didn’t seem necessary. For once, I’m not sad that Tom missed something I’ve now seen.
My level of activity has increased dramatically since I left home, but I still seem to tire easily and I want to curl up on the bed and watch television. That is what I planned for tonight, what I still plan for tonight, but first I read a passage from Tom’s Bible and checked my e-mail.
Checking e-mail isn’t as simple as it used to be. Now when I click on the envelope icon, I don’t assume I’ll hear from only Mark and Molly. I expect Willa to continue badgering me until I write in my blood that I’ve put Phoenix on my list of destinations. And although his note gave no indication that he would, I’ve been afraid Andrew would write again.
Today he did.
“I didn’t hear from you,” he said. “I hope you’re okay.”
Two lines came to me from the old Phil Collins song “Separate Lives”: “You have no right to ask me how I feel; you have no right to speak to me so kind.”
I thought about writing those lines as a reply. But I chose no reply at all. Doesn’t silence mean go away?
Probably not to Andrew. His picture is by the word charm in Webster’s. No one ever sent him away. I doubt that has changed.
He used to tell our eleventh-grade language arts teacher every single day that she had on a “lovely ensemble.” And every single day she laughed. It was their little joke, though the rest of us laughed along with them. He was the president of our junior class, and it seemed like every student and teacher knew Drew Ackerman and liked him. Language arts was the first class I had with him, though I was hardly aware of it since Mrs. Henry, hard as this is to imagine, seated us in alphabetical order. He sat in the first seat of the first row. I landed three seats behind him, after Sarah Allen and Billy Atwood. Willa, my main entertainment in that class, sat behind me.
It was in Mrs. Henry’s class that he first noticed me. We were starting a poetry unit, and Mrs. Henry asked if we could name an emotion a poem had aroused in us.
I thought of one in two seconds and took the opportunity to raise my hand.
“Miss Austin?”
“Fear,” I said.
“Fear?”
She must have been expecting something else.
“When I was in the eighth grade,” I explained, “my English teacher, Mr. Belk, closed the blinds, turned out the lights, and walked up and down the aisles quoting ‘The Raven.’ In the blackness, he bent down and stage-whispered a nevermore right behind me, and I almost fell out of my desk.”
“So, you’re saying Poe’s ‘Raven’ had the power to elicit fear from you?”
“Yes, I think it did. But not as much as Mr. Belk did.”
“No kidding!” Willa said, evidently caught up in the image.
Mrs. Henry smiled at both of us and moved on to the next raised hand. Meanwhile, Drew Ackerman leaned out of his seat, looked back at me, and smiled. He looked at me so long and so intently that Willa nudged me when he turned back around.
That was our only meaningful encounter until our senior year.
It was a lifetime ago.
I do not want to go there.
Instead I’ll think about the passage I read earlier.
The disciples are in rough waters three or four miles from shore on the Sea of Galilee when they see someone walking toward them on the water. They are terrified until Jesus says, “It is I; don’t be afraid.”
The comforting words of Jesus resonated with me.
Two other verses came to me, also perfect for calming the rough waters of my soul, and I added them to my promise verse of the last fifteen months. Together, I think they have the capacity to dispense the calm and courage I need so much: “I will fear no evil, for you are with me”; “It is I; don’t be afraid”; “I am with you always”; “I will never leave you nor forsake you.”
When I find it hard to sleep, these verses will be the sheep I count.
August 28
“When do you think you’ll be here?” Willa asked.
I read that and gasped.
“You know the casita is like your own little apartment,” she continued. “You know I’ve always supported whatever you need to do. You know I’ll give you your space.”
The last time I stayed in their casita, Tom was with me. The four of us played golf in the mornings, though Willa and I merely rode in the golf carts and putted, played cards in the evening after dinner, and relaxed in their hot tub under the stars late at night before Tom and I took ourselves out to the casita and made love like we were at an upscale resort on an exotic island. Can I enter that suite without him?
Willa was right, though, she does give me space, and given an exuberance that almost matches little Helen’s, that’s saying something. And she has always supported my decisions, most notably the one to transfer to SMSU in Springfield after our sophomore year at Oklahoma State University. This support was no small thing for Willa; we were two of four girls sharing an apartment together and loving it. The fact that she had met Ed Foster and was spending any free time with him might have made my decision easier for her; nevertheless, I appreciated her making that break less painful for me.
She put Ed on hold while we worked in our room, gathering my things, packing them in suitcases and boxes.
She attempted conversation. “I can’t believe you’re leaving me here alone. Summer school will be horrible without you!”
“Ed is still here. It won’t be horrible.”
“Your aunt won’t be as much fun as I am,” she said.
“That goes without saying, but she’s very nice. You know that.”
Actually, we talked little during the hours we packed up two years of my college life. We both knew this move was drastic, but I would not put myself in the position of running into Andrew again.
I stared at Willa’s message for a while; then I wrote her that I would come for a few days, but I could not tell her when. That would have to be good enough.
I have planned for years to take violin lessons when I get to heaven. I told Tom he’d find me practicing in the far northwest corner if he needed me. But since I’m pretty sure I’ll be a slow
learner, I said he might not want to trek back there for the first ten thousand years or so.
My children, like their father, could hardly fathom my devotion to orchestras, and parts thereof. Even a cello solo used to thrill me. Tom loved music, but he only attended concerts featuring something like a string quartet for me. I reveled in those hours; he simply tried to stay awake. This evening, thanks to the Amarillo Opera, I had the chance to combine two former interests: botanical gardens and stringed instruments. I brought a blanket from the hotel and left it in the car until I retrieved it for Music in the Gardens, which took place in the amphitheater at seven thirty. I actually felt something resembling excitement at the thought of hearing the classical violin and cello.
I finished strolling through the garden in time to find a strategic spot for my blanket. Hardly anyone was there when I arrived, but it wasn’t long before blankets and lawn chairs were filling up the space around me. I looked at a young couple down from me, talking and drinking their gourmet coffee, and decided if they turned around and noticed me sitting alone, I could say, My husband will be back in just a minute.
What a nut I am.
Not long before the concert began, an elderly gentleman, easing his way through the maze of blankets and chairs with his wife, tripped and fell to his knees practically onto my blanket. I hated that for him. And it scared me.
“Sir,” I said, reaching out to him, “are you okay?”
He made a production of feeling the bones in his arms and legs and said, “Well, young lady”—it must have been the outfit—“everything but my pride seems remarkably intact, despite this little mishap.”
I stood up and, together with his wife, helped him to his feet.
“Would you like to share my blanket?” I asked. I really thought they should get settled. They both thanked me profusely but said they were looking for their children, who should have chairs for them. Apparently they were supposed to be in this area.
“Do you want me to help you look for them?”
I hardly got the question out of my mouth before I heard a deep voice calling, “Dad! Mom!” A man about my age, maybe somewhat older, weaved his way toward us and put his arms around each of his parents. I was happy they’d been found.
“Enjoy the concert, sir,” I said as they turned with their son to find the rest of the family and two sturdy chairs to sit in. The old man, his thick white hair shining, his eyes lively and kind, came back and took my hand.
“Call me Jack,” he said.
“Call me Audrey,” I said.
He patted my shoulder and said, “Thank you for your sweetness, Audrey, and I plan on enjoying the concert. I hope you have a lovely evening as well.”
Soon the violin and cello began to play, and when dusk descended, I lay back on my blanket, closed my eyes, and let the music come to me.
The girl looked younger than Molly. I saw her when I got off the elevator. She seemed to be trying to get into the room across from mine the whole time I walked down the long hall to my room. As I got closer I saw she had dropped her purse on the floor beside her while she inserted her card and tried the door handle again and again. When I neared, she leaned her head on her door and said, “Oh, God.”
I’ve been miserable myself. I felt like an intruder.
I wanted to get into my room as quickly as I could. But as I slipped my card into the slot, I heard her behind me trying her door again, once more in vain. I would rather have done anything than try to think of the right thing to say to the distraught woman. But I didn’t have much of a choice. I had to do something. With an inaudible sigh, I took my card out of the slot and slipped it into my pocket.
“Miss,” I said, walking over to stand next to her, “do you need help?”
“I can’t even open my stupid door,” she said, tears brimming in her eyes and slipping down her face.
“Could I try?”
She thrust her card at me.
When I slipped it into the slot, the tiny red light appeared.
“See!” she said.
“Maybe they gave you the wrong key,” I said, looking at her envelope. I was thinking of asking if I could take it down to the lobby for her when I noticed the number on the envelope didn’t match the door she was trying to open.
“Here’s your problem,” I said, patting her arm. “This is the wrong room. It looks like you’re next door.”
“Well, that figures!” she said, wiping the tears off her face with the back of her hand.
I thought about opening the correct door for her, I thought about asking her if she needed anything else—it even crossed my mind to ask if she wanted to come to my room and have a nightcap Coke with me. I assumed she was alone; she certainly looked alone, and I thought she needed to take a deep breath and calm down.
But before I had a chance to decide what to say, she jerked the card out of my hand, mumbled a thank-you, and hurried the few steps to the door that matched her card. I stood there for a minute after she entered her room, glad she had no further irritation, glad after all to go to my room alone. I was tired.
Tired or not, I lay awake for quite a while, worrying about the poor girl. Why hadn’t I acted on my impulse? Couldn’t I have said, You seem upset. Will you let me buy you a Coke or something? I have a daughter about your age, you see. What might have happened? Could God have loved her through me? Might I have entered that hallway at just that moment for that very reason?
I’m not the only one who needs to know that God is near.
eleven
August 29
“Okay, okay,” Willa wrote. “Just so you come. Would it be too much to give me a day’s notice? Whatever, I’m so excited! But I hear you. I will plan nothing except places for Ed and me to go so we can stay out of your way. You so owe me a visit, though. Can’t wait!!!”
I wrote her back and said I’d give her at least one day’s notice, maybe two.
“And you’re right,” I added. “I do owe you a visit.”
I owe her more than that. Willa had not left me in my room, desperate and alone.
She had arrived at the house the day after Tom died. She grabbed first Molly and then Mark and hugged them ferociously, and then she looked around until she saw me sitting in my chair with my feet tucked underneath me. She came over and sat in front of me and rested her head against my protruding knees.
“I love you,” she said.
Then she looked into my eyes, tears pooling in hers, and said, “I’ve come to help.”
She and Rita stayed at the house answering the phone and receiving plants and flowers while Mark and Molly and I picked out a casket, took clothes to the funeral home, wrote an obituary, and planned the funeral. Looking back, I think when I completed the things I had to do, it began—“death in life.”
Willa and Rita were there to help me and the kids, as far as I remember, every moment from the time they heard about Tom until the day after the funeral. Willa stayed almost a week longer, helping Mark with all the necessary paper work, running errands, helping me with thank-you notes.
“What else can I do?” she asked one morning after placing a plate of toast and a glass of orange juice in front of me. “You aren’t ready to go through Tom’s things, are you?”
“No, no, I’m not ready for that. The kids and I can do that later.”
But although Mark and Molly have both taken several things that were especially dear to them, we have yet to go through his things. Tom would have laughed at that since I gave him no longer than one hour to read the morning newspaper before I had it in the recycling bin, or so the story goes. But it is not a joke that if I haven’t used or worn something in a year, I find someone to give it to. Cleaning out my things when I’m gone should take Mark and Molly thirty minutes.
But Tom’s things remain. Not in an attempt to cling or to deny, although I do dread his things not being there. I have simply never found the energy or desire to complete the task competently. And this is a task that I must do, no one else
.
After the kids left, Willa spent a few days alternating between trying to feed me and trying to get a real smile out of me, or any sign of life. I thanked her for her help and for loving me so completely, and then I told her to go home to Ed. In the last ten days, she had seen him only the day of the funeral.
“I will if you promise to come see us later this summer,” she said.
“I’ll see.”
But I didn’t, and now I understand why she pressed me, why she didn’t trust the “I’ll see” I wrote earlier this week. She, like my children, deserves better.
I’m trying.
Today I explored the Wildcat Bluff Nature Center. Not too far from downtown Amarillo, it is advertised as an opportunity to imagine a different time.
That sounded good.
The fact that Wildcat Bluff was aptly named by early cowboys for a den of wildcats that lived under the bluff gave me some pause, but nothing in the literature suggested I might run into one as I walked the trails that threaded through six hundred acres of rolling grasslands. Though the material suggested these acres were inhabited by many interesting creatures, I figured at best I’d run into a horned lizard.
With two bottles of water, an apple, and some granola bars stuffed in my canvas purse (it’s become my version of a backpack), I put on my straw hat and sunglasses and started down the trails. I wasn’t the only person there by any means, but at times it seemed like I was. I heard distant voices often enough to comfort me, but much of the time I had the prairie to myself. I had stopped to drink half of one of my bottles of water, thinking how delighted I was that I had not run into a rattlesnake or horned toad, when I heard a loud, cackling call and saw a striped creature—two feet long, head low, long tail—zip across the road. I think I actually giggled, I was so surprised. I had just seen a roadrunner. Maybe he’d come from a late, lingering lunch and that’s why I hadn’t seen a lizard or a snake.
If that weren’t enough, not long before I decided to turn back, I found a place that could almost be called shade and sat down to relax and eat a snack. I was thinking about that roadrunner, wishing he’d zip by again, when I noticed a couple of critters a few yards off the trail nibbling on grass. They took turns looking at me, but after a while, since I sat quietly, hardly making a move, they didn’t seem the least bothered about me. I was snacking with prairie dogs! At least, near them. Though they are supposed to be kin to the squirrels that visit my backyard and ravage my bird feeders, the chunky little things seemed much more interesting, much more adorable. As I watched, one scampered away into the grasses, but the other one sat on his haunches by his burrow and kept an eye on me. I gazed at him, and he gazed at me. I really couldn’t believe I was sitting there making eye contact with a prairie dog. I don’t know how long we sat staring at each other, but quite a while, until voices on the trail dispersed the magic and my friend disappeared into his underground home.
Tender Grace Page 7
