The fingers and thumb of his left hand curved around the red rubber ball, brushing it. As I watched, he slowly uncurled his hand, then curled it once more.
“That’s wonderful!” I hovered over him like a proud parent. “Can you pick it up?”
“Uuhh.” He frowned, concentrating every ounce of energy on bending his fingers just a little more. They moved slightly.
“There! Now try it.” I dropped to my knees and we stared at the ball, willing with all our might for it to raise the slightest bit. His fingers trembled. “Come on, come on,” I whispered to the ball, “you can do it.” Daddy began to raise his arm and the ball slipped through his fingers. “It’s okay,” I encouraged. “Try again.”
Twice more he failed but he was unwilling to give up. “Don’t worry about it, Daddy,” I said soothingly. “A few more days and you’ll have it.” “Nuuh! I doo.”
He tried one more time, breathing heavily through his open mouth.
The ball began to move. Slowly he raised it a good three inches before it fell.
“Yay!” I shouted. I jumped up to perform a little dance step, then hugged him tightly. His shoulders shook with glee.
That triumph marked the end of our third week and gave way to a rush of improvement in speech as well as physical dexterity. Mama was ecstatic when Daddy demonstrated his new ability. She grabbed his face with both hands and kissed him, then turned to hug me with arms that were warm and real, not stiff like a mannequin’s. A wave of childlike emotion splashed over me.
After that our therapy sessions shortened, for Daddy constantly pushed himself throughout the day to raise his leg a little higher, lift his arm a little more, hold the ball tighter. The left side of his face began to firm, his lips dragging less, his smile straighter. We would review all these improvements formally in our sessions, Daddy showing off his latest trick as I pushed him to “do it again, more.” Mama still dressed him to his waist, then I would take over, urging him to put on his own shirt. Buttons were still impossible, but even his efforts helped improve the nimbleness of his fingers. His red ball always lay on his lap and he continually worked to press it, the squeezes slowly growing in strength.
“Hey, I’ve got an idea!” I announced one morning after I’d buttoned his shirt. “Let’s see, what we need is a box or something that’s not too high.” I cast my eyes around the bedroom. “Oh, I got it.” I pulled out the paper supply drawer of Mama’s dresser and positioned his wheelchair a little to the right of it, about six feet away. “There! Now, what you need to do is, see if you can bounce the ball into the drawer. The exercise will help your strength plus give you hand-eye coordination.”
So we had a new game. Daddy was terrible at it, and I kept returning him the ball after it had dribbled to a stop in front of the dresser. “Let’s move you closer,” I suggested.
“No!” he said stubbornly and continued trying.
A black look crossed Mama’s face when she saw that her dresser had been disturbed, but it dissipated when we showed her our game, Daddy’s face full of determination.
As Daddy improved during those days, his desire to be out in the sunshine grew. Finally I told him I would take his chair down the porch steps if he was willing to place his life in my hands. “Awlruddy is,” he replied. Once we were on the porch, Mama hovered like a nervous hen until I told her to get in front of the chair and help me tip it back as we counted to three and let Daddy down one step at a time, as John had instructed. She concentrated so hard that she forgot to pester me, which is what I’d intended. We made it to the sidewalk without a mishap.
“Awl right,” Daddy exclaimed as Mama set out to push him around the block, “letsss go!”
John continued to come twice a week and I began counting the days in between. The expression on his face when he looked at me told me he was counting them as well. We fell into the habit of walking together to his car, surreptitiously on the lookout for neighbors’ eyes, a glimmering current of awareness between us. One day as he took Daddy’s blood pressure, the sky burst forth in a downpour, and I ended up running him to his car, our bodies pressed together under Mama’s green umbrella. When we parted, the desire in his eyes shot right through me, leaving me nearly breathless. From then on, every time we saw each other the feelings intensified, until I knew the only thing keeping us from each other’s arms was that we were never alone.
As our anticipation of seeing each other increased, so did my terror of where it would lead. Over and over I told myself this could not be, that John was promised to someone else and I was only encouraging his deceit and mine. How could I even begin to allow myself such thoughts? Hadn’t I learned anything after the hurt I’d caused Bobby and Melissa? And I couldn’t imagine disappointing Daddy again. Particularly now, when I held so much of his recovery in my hands. How hurt he would be if I made a foolish choice, once again blackening my name and leaving a destroyed relationship in my wake. And how terribly that pain could affect him! What if he became depressed, lost his determination to improve? Just as deeply I worried about Mama, knowing that if she saw the truth in our eyes, she would blame me solely for it.
And even if the situation were different, if John were free, why should I think I could handle a relationship? I’d tried with Roger and Michael, wanting to love them. Yet in the end neither could push aside the much deeper love for Danny still imbedded in my heart.
As the days passed, the conflicting emotions raged inside me until I thought I would burst. Thoughts of John intermingled with memories of Danny, making me ache with loneliness. I fought to maintain my cheerfulness in front of Daddy, digging deeper and deeper within myself to dredge up energy for our therapy sessions. Meanwhile I had to remain on an even keel with Mama while the whirling inside me made me testy and defensive.
One evening at supper, prompted by no one, Mama brought up the subject of John and Sharon’s wedding. She spoke of how Miss Jessie would probably be the one to sew the bridal gown and attendants’ dresses. How pretty the church would be, all in red and green for a December wedding. How beautiful Sharon would look, and how pleased everybody in town was at the match. Mama’s face remained impassive as she spoke, but I could have sworn she was talking just to me. I imagined John’s wedding and couldn’t eat another bite. When I pushed my plate away, Mama shot me an irritable look at my ungratefulness for her cooking. It was all I could do to be polite. Washing the dishes after supper, I managed to break a glass and cut my finger. And Daddy wasn’t as motivated as usual in our evening therapy session, so I had to pull him through it, gritting my teeth and trying to look happy. When it was finally over and Mama put him to bed, I retreated to my room, exhausted from the day and sick at heart.
Falling on my bed, I buried my face in my pillow and sobbed. I couldn’t stand another day of this turmoil. Part of me wanted to pack my things and steal away in the night, never to return. I cried and cried until finally, in despair, I did something I hadn’t done in years. I began to pray. It was anything but a prayer of meekness. I railed at God, asking why he had brought me back to Bradleyville only to hurt me more than ever. What had happened to his promise that I would find rest for my soul? And what had happened to his promise to Granddad that I would be the one to reach my mother? What a laugh that was!
“Just help me with Mama and John and Daddy,” I begged God, my body shaking with sobs. “Please! I don’t know how I can do this anymore.”
Finally I cried myself to sleep, holding on to the hope that God would do something—anything—to rescue me from the path I found myself on. But as I tossed and turned that night, my fitful dreams were full of John.
In the midst of this upheaval I called Little Rock less and less often. I’d fallen too far out of the loop and could give little help. Surprisingly, it failed to bother me. I was simply too caught up in my current situation. One day Quentin Sammons listened to me proudly recount Daddy’s improvements and commented, “You’ll have him ready for work in four weeks after all. We’ll be happy to have
you back.” I hung up the phone, not knowing what to feel. Four weeks. How could I say good-bye to John in four weeks? I imagined sitting in the silence of my small white house in Little Rock, still loving Danny, missing John, and was filled with a longing that terrified me.
By the time my fifth week in Bradleyville drew to a close, Daddy could stand with support. John ordered him a walker, and on Friday afternoon I drove to a medical supply company in Albertsville to pick it up. I also revisited the hardware store, buying more paint for the house. Having completed the kitchen, I had offered to do the hallway and bathroom, desperate to keep busy.
“Look what I got for you, Daddy!” I exclaimed when I returned, showing him the walker. “We’ll start tomorrow morning when you’re fresh, okay? Wanna do something now until supper, play our game?”
We laughed like a couple of kids as he tried to bounce the rubber ball into Mama’s drawer and failed repeatedly. “That floppy wrist of yours will get better, you’ll see.” I fell to my knees, fetching the ball once again. He tried another time and the ball bounced weakly and rolled under the bed. “Oh, great,” I teased, “now you’ve done it.”
He kept at it diligently for ten more minutes, then gave up. “No more,” he said, sighing.
“All right. We’ll try again later.” I pushed him into the living room. “You haven’t been out today; want to go for a walk?”
Mama instantly appeared from the kitchen, drying her hands. “I’ll do it.”
I was struck by her possessive tone. “Fine.”
Seeing Daddy’s eyes flick back and forth between us, she softened her expression. “There’s chicken baking in the oven,” she informed me. “We’ll eat when we get back.”
Together we bumped Daddy down the porch steps, a chilled silence echoing between us. She made a light comment about the weather as she began to push him down the sidewalk, and I marveled at her unpredictability.
Suddenly alone in the house, I sank onto the couch as depression began to seep through me once more.
After a few minutes a knock sounded at the door. Lifting my head tiredly to see who’d arrived, I froze. John. My heart skipped a beat. Somehow I raised myself from the couch.
“You’re early,” I heard myself say as I opened the screen door.
“Got through quicker than usual.” He looked around. “Sounds awful quiet.”
My throat went dry. “Mama’s taken Daddy on a walk; they won’t be long.” I hesitated, debating. “Can you wait?”
“Sure.”
We looked at each other.
“Do you want some tea?”
“That would be great.”
“I’ll just . . . go get it.” Numbly I escaped to the kitchen, feeling the house’s emptiness around us. John followed. Hadn’t I known he would? Leaning against the counter, he affected nonchalance as he asked me about Daddy and painting the house and was I done yet or did I intend to paint the roof as well? I reached into the refrigerator for the tea, into the cupboard for a glass, extracted ice from a tray, listening to his questions and answering so casually, aware of our aloneness, aware that he was aware. I offered him the glass and was sure he would notice my trembling hand. “Here you go.”
“Thank you.” He took a drink, watching me. I wandered toward the window, remarking about how long it had been since we’d seen rain. He set the glass down and it clinked against the tile.
“Celia.”
I focused on the old oak tree Kevy and I used to swing on. My heart performed an odd little dance.
“Celia.”
John stepped in front of me, forcing my eyes up to his. He placed his hands gently on my shoulders and before I knew it, the space between us disappeared and our arms were around each other, his mouth on mine. We clung together, kissing, drinking in the taste of each other, and then he pulled away, his hair thick between my fingers. “I’ve wanted to do that since the first day I saw you,” he breathed, kissing me again, and I was falling as I responded, my loneliness spinning away. “You don’t know how much I’ve wanted it,” he murmured. “You don’t know.”
Yes, I did.
I was shaking. “They could come back anytime.”
He cupped my face in his hands. “Promise me we’ll find a way to see each other.”
“John, I . . . we can’t—”
“Yes, we can. We can.”
“But—”
“Listen to me, Celia; listen to your heart. I’ve given up trying to push this away; you’re all I think about.”
“I’m afraid.”
He drew me to him. “Don’t be.”
I melted against him, remembering how Danny used to hold me so long ago. I couldn’t let go of John; I was terrified and I could not let go. I didn’t know how long we were there, his hand stroking my head. Only when my parents returned, Mama calling for help to get the wheelchair up the stairs, did we wrench apart, my body on another plane, my feet moving through the living room, my hand opening the screen door as I remarked that I was just getting Dr. Forkes some tea and did they have a nice walk? John appeared behind me, collected, glass in hand.
“So glad you’re getting out, William,” he said casually. “You’ll have no excuse now; we’ll expect to see you in church Sunday.”
The actions and words swirled around me. The azure sky, Daddy’s exuberance, Mama hovering while John maneuvered the wheelchair up the stairs, the smell of baking chicken permeating the house—everything was the same and nothing was the same as John efficiently conducted his medical examination, chatted with us briefly, then left. As he drove off, I announced to Daddy that we were due for a therapy session, and soon I was urging him to lift his arm, curve his fingers, rotate his ankle, while memories of choices, love, and secret meetings tumbled through my head . . .
~ 1979 ~
chapter 44
Mary Lee,” I begged, “get me out of here. I’ve got to see Danny.” I’d called her on Saturday, the day after the reading of Granddad’s will. I could not think, could not study. I couldn’t stand to see Granddad’s empty place at the supper table and so did not eat. Nor could I stand to be near Mama, whose streaming hurt over Granddad’s last wishes had funneled into cold indifference toward me. Surely Granddad’s prediction about me and Mama would prove to be nothing more than a desperate deathbed wish.
Mary Lee hesitated, saying her parents were home.
“Please. I’ll do anything.”
So my bad little good-hearted friend picked Danny and me up and drove three miles into the chilled country, where she dropped us off on a dirt road, saying she would return in an hour.
“Where are you going? You can’t be seen!” I cried. “I’m supposed to be with you.”
She waved me away. “Relax; you underestimate my abilities.” And she was off, my beautiful and rich friend who would travel Europe in the summer as a graduation present and drive her fancy car to the University of Kentucky in the fall.
Danny and I perched on a fallen oak stretched across the rutted road. “Tell me now,” I said, shivering against his chest, “about your job.”
He wrapped his arms around me, stroking my hair. “Cousin Lee’s great uncle, Joel Case, found me a job down at the Miami port, where the big cruise ships come in. He says they’re as big as buildings, holdin’ hundreds of people. They got ballrooms and bars and theaters, bowling alleys and even swimming pools, just like a grand hotel. There’s crews that sail with ’em, but when they pull into port, they need extra going over. Cleaning, checking the engines and instruments and all the machinery, making sure the thing’s in tip-top shape. Workin’ on machinery comes easy to me; what I don’t know I’ll learn right quick. Mama’s got a job, too, cleaning rooms. And we can stay with the Cases until we save enough money to rent a place. It’s perfect, Celia.”
I was silent. Perfect was having him beside me. Perfect was my mama saying we could date this year. Perfect was anything but being left behind.
“Well, what do you think?”
“I’m gl
ad for you. I know it’s what you want.”
“It’s not what I’d choose, Celia. But it’s what must be, under the circumstances.”
I buried my face in his neck. “You’re excited, I can tell. You’re just bein’ quiet because it’s been such an awful week for me. I know you, Danny. You’re thinking about the ocean and beaches, thinking about sailing on one of those ships to other places, other people. I know you love me, but your thoughts aren’t here. They’ve left already.”
“That ain’t—that’s not true. Sure, I think a going. And in a way I can hardly wait, because I’ll be gittin’ outta this town. You know what I think about? The first night away, when I can really sleep, not having to worry about Daddy beatin’ Mama senseless. I think about her being free and happy for once. She’s been so good to me. It’s time I paid her back.”
I dug my fingers into his jacket. “I don’t want you to go! I just lost Granddad; I can’t lose you too. Daddy’s working most of the time, and when he’s home, he’s not really there. Mama hates me. Kevy’s really all I’ve got and he’s only a kid; he’s not you. I want you.”
“Celia,” he said, holding me tightly, “don’t do this. Please.”
“I can’t help it. I can’t.” Clinging to him, I cried and cried. Cried for him, for Granddad, for a mama like his that I never had. I cried for his mama’s fear and his stinking daddy touching my hair at Tull’s, for Danny’s kisses and my lonely nights spent feverishly drawing oceans and beaches. Even as I cried, I knew I was being selfish, that he deserved this lucky chance. I wished desperately for Granddad’s money now. So willingly I would give it to Danny so he could buy a house nearby. “Why can’t you work at the mill?” I accused, hating myself for asking it. I felt his shoulders slump.
“Celia.” His voice was quiet. “I can’t stay here. Mama and I got to sneak off without Daddy knowin’, to somewhere he can’t find us. He’d kill her for sure if he knew she was planning on leaving, and turn a gun on me next. We wouldn’t be safe living anywhere around here. You know that.” Yes, I did.
Color the Sidewalk for Me Page 26
