ALONE AGAIN
Vitus cheered me up from that mess with Marcos by showing up at my door with a wicked little smile. He came on through the door, set me down in my chair, and told me to close my eyes. When I opened them, there was a pack of Malboros sitting on one thigh and a twenty-dollar bill on the other. Vitus grinned from ear to ear. “My nephew came though with a little money,” he said. “I want you to have this ‘til you get back on your feet.”
What a week. I was so occupied with Vitus, I didn’t get a chance to write here at all. He came with a posy in his hand each and every night. I didn’t realize how lonesome I’d gotten, how I missed having a man around. For the first time in forever I remembered how I felt right after Abel died. He passed at home at 4:10 in the afternoon with a whole mob around him: all three kids and their wives, the hospice woman, even the busybody from next door. The mortuary came and got him just before dinner and Glenda stayed ‘til bedtime. I didn’t want anyone to spend the night. It’s funny, but I slept like a stone.
Well, he’s gone, I told myself when I opened my eyes the next morning. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and got up, walked around the house like I had for the past forty years. The feeling of him being not there was thick in the house—in the bathroom where he wasn’t having his morning crap, at the breakfast table where he wasn’t slurping his coffee and spreading peanut butter on his toast. All his things lying around the house, in the closets and out in the garage—grass shears, jockey shorts, toothpicks, razor—they didn’t have no more use. No one to wear them, use them, curse over them, or care for them. No more seeing him walk out to the driveway to pick up the morning paper, or clean his ears with a bobby pin, or dance a bare-ass jig to make me laugh when he got out of the shower.
Now here was Vitus visiting every night, sitting beside me while we watched TV, sharing some snacks while we had a chat. I got used to the smell of him, the space he took up in my room. My mind got to working. My imagination got the better of me. I tried to curb it because I dreaded the same thing happening to me as before—being left alone, rattling around by myself, losing my mind and slipping off into the ether.
Turns out there was good reason.
Night before last I fixed myself up. Put on my nice earrings even though they pinch the hell out of my lobes, some lipstick, and the gold flats that are a little tight but not bad if I don’t have to walk any distance. I got a cotton shift I never even wore out of the closet and slipped it over my head. It has some kind of leaves on it, bamboo or fern. Some White Shoulders perfume, even a little rouge.
I sat down in the armchair and waited. Waited and waited.
He never came.
THE BEGINNING OF THE END
Here I sit, alone in this room, with plenty of time on my hands. For all I know, Vitus is gone for good. I took a few of my happy pills. That’s what they’re for, isn’t it? Depression? Sadness? For when you feel like hell. Whenever I hit bottom, my mind strays back there to the past, where it all began. I feel like the only way I can stand it is to get out in the open. All those things that happened so long ago—that’s the story I want to tell.
Edward had a car. I couldn’t get over how he’d drive out to fetch me and I’d climb up there and ride around for all the world to see. It was a 1915 Model T Ford, black like they all were, open to the elements, but it could have been Cinderella’s coach for the way it made me feel. I prayed that kids I knew in school would see me. I made him drive round downtown Neosho just so people would say, “Lookee there. Is that Cora Spring I see riding in that car?”
The wind whooshing past your ears, the engine sputtering, and your teeth rattling over the rutted road, you couldn’t hear a thing, so we didn’t talk much. That first time we went to the movies, I don’t think we exchanged a word. I’d got myself up in good clothes: white stockings and button-up shoes, a navy blue suit with a tailored top and tight skirt. The buttons had a target pattern, white and blue stripes. Even a hat, a white turban Ruby leant me. We matched: Edward wore navy blue slacks and a white shirt pressed just as perfect as the iceman outfit he’d worn the week before.
The picture was Tarzan, I remember that. People packed into the movie house on Saturday afternoons, and there I was, sitting right up front, in the third or fourth row. When the newsreels ended, he took my hand. My jaw went slack, but I didn’t look at him. His skin was clean and dry, like the rest of him. I kept my eyes on the screen, breathed in his smell, listened to the music, and felt all those people around us in the dark. In a little while he let go of my hand and started feeling my leg through my dress. He worked his fingers so my dress hitched up little by little, up over my knees. I couldn’t move. His fingers pawed my thigh, inching the hem higher and higher, until I glanced down at my lap and saw both my legs were showing. He stroked my leg through the stocking, running his fingers in loopty-loops all over my thigh.
I watched the movie like my life depended on it, though I wasn’t taking in a thing. Edward was the same. I sneaked a glance to the side, and his profile was like on a dime or a penny, his eyes glued to the screen, his lips pressed together. There were empty seats on either side of us. From a distance we must of looked like two well-behaved kids enjoying the movie, minding our manners.
He managed to get his hand all the way up to the top of my stocking and worm a finger under it. They didn’t have anything like panty hose in them days. You wore stockings with a garter belt, and because my legs were big those things cut into my thigh at the top; there was no extra space. He really had to work to weasel that finger in there, but he kept at it, hoisting himself up on one hip and putting some muscle into it, boring with that finger like an oil rig.
I bolted upright when he hit bare skin. Lord Almighty, I almost jumped out of my seat! I sneaked a glance out of the corner of my eye. Even though his eyes were still fastened on the screen, the tip of his tongue was stuck out at the side of his mouth like he was concentrating with all his might. He worked his way in to the second knuckle, then he ran his finger around the top of the stocking, trying to move in deeper, but like I said that stocking was so tight it must have been cutting off his circulation.
Just when I thought something was going to give, I felt a pop and a snap and boy oh boy, his hand plunged in to the hilt. Damned if he hadn’t unhitched my garter! Next thing I knew, he was all over the inside of my thigh, grabbing and kneading and squeezing, not hiding it much anymore, rocking me in my seat.
I latched on to the armrests to steady myself and clamped my legs together like a vise. He used his hand like a wedge, trying to pry my legs apart so he could get in there and squeeze more of the flesh at the top of my thigh. He grabbed handfuls, squeezing it like dough. All the time he shimmied his hand up higher, getting so close to my crotch that, if I hadn’t been so scared of being caught like that, I would have cried out. He was breathing hard now, his elbow moving back and forth on the armrest between us, pumping like a lever to get him where he wanted.
All this going on and not a soul in that theater had any idea—or if they did they didn’t show no sign. Their eyes were too latched on to Tarzan swinging on a tree. God knows who else might have been up to the same tricks. I was too busy with my own state of affairs to pay any mind to anything else.
Edward’s fingers inched their way up, got hold of some skin, scooted up and grabbed hold a little higher, like he was climbing a wall. Tight as I kept my legs together, his hand managed to make progress. That’s how determined he was. Then his finger, that same one that had snaked into the top of my stocking, nudged the elastic leg of my underpants. It nosed and sniffed like a dog searching for a chink in a fence.
Edward still hadn’t looked at me, hadn’t said a word. I prayed for the movie to get over. His finger wiggled in through the leg of my underpants. I was in a downright panic by then, sweating bullets. My stocking where he’d undone the garter was dangling loose, bagging around my knee. I felt like I was naked in that movie house, splayed
out for everybody to see.
I couldn’t take it no more when his finger started grizzling around in my pelt. I slammed both hands down on top of his, trapped his hand through my skirt, and dug my fingers in. It had to hurt. Anyway, he got the message. He pulled his hand back and folded it in his lap. I hooked my stocking, smoothed down my skirt, and folded my hands the same way. We sat like we were in church for the rest of the movie, and for the life of me, I don’t remember one thing about it.
Well, that was the beginning of the end. Neither one of us said a word about what went on in the movie house once we stepped out into the bright afternoon. We chatted a little about other pictures we liked, and Edward told me about living up in Joplin. He was going to school to be a druggist, to work in his daddy’s store. I studied him, out in that summer light, wondering at his dimples and gray eyes, that gold glow that seemed to come off him, while he talked serious and steady, already sure of himself.
It would’ve been natural to go to the soda fountain after the picture for a Coke. I wouldn’t have minded at all sitting on a stool next to Edward, but he said, “Let’s have a drive,” and so we did, up and down those back roads ‘til we came to a stopping place near a clearing. Lord, what a mauling he gave me—the two of us rolling and banging around in that car like bears. It only went so far, though, then he drove me home in one piece, more or less.
That was around the middle of July. For a month or two he wore a track out to my house. He’d come get me and we drove anywhere and everywhere, always with the same thing in mind. That car was the first nail in my coffin. Every time I got in, I swore it would be the last. I was scared to death and guilty as hell, but before you knew it we’d be tearing out to one of our places, where we’d go at it again, lickety-split. I was head over heels for that boy. He was beyond my wildest dreams. Didn’t matter that we hardly talked, that if you asked me I wouldn’t have the faintest idea what went on in his head.
All of a sudden, my whole future was laid out in front of me. Once I started keeping company with Edward, any questions I had about what I was going to do with my life disappeared. My life was going to be better than I’d ever hoped. Once him and me got married, we’d live in town, own the drugstore, drive a car. I’d have an inside toilet and electric lights. I saw the kids we’d have, my invalid mother-in-law, the people who’d be our customers. I pictured everything, right down to the linens on my bed and the silver ware on my table. I’d get to stay there near my ma and daddy, but I’d still be living in town, which was a damn sight better than scratching out a living in the sticks. All in all, I’d struck it rich. I’d staked my claim and was on my way. If anything came of my and Edward’s hanky-panky, well—we’d just get married sooner rather than later, which was fine with me.
You’d think I’d catch on, wouldn’t you? But the same things keep happening, over and over. Look at me now, still sitting here alone, wishing and hoping.
TO HELL AND BACK
Last night I fixed myself up and waited for Vitus, just like always. Hair, lipstick, earrings. I sat in the chair and even though the TV was on, I didn’t watch it. Every time there was a noise, my eyeballs darted to the sliding glass door. Eight o’clock, nine o’clock. It ate at me. How he came and gave me flowers. How we laughed and talked. How I hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him at my door for three nights running. Oh, I spotted him in the dining room all right, chatting and smiling with all the women. He worked the room like he was running for president. He fluttered his fingers at me from across the room, that cutesy wave I’m starting to hate. I tried to signal to him, to wave him over, but he acted like he didn’t see. The minute I got myself up and headed over in his direction, he vanished into thin air.
At 9:30 I couldn’t take it no more. I hefted myself up out of my chair. I never been out in the hall after dinner, not once, but I had to find Vitus. I had to know why he stopped coming. I didn’t know where his room was. I couldn’t walk very far. Still, I switched off the TV, changed out of those shoes that kill my feet, found my key, went over there, and opened the door.
I poked my head out. The fluorescent lights were brighter than ever after having just the lamp in my room. It bounced off them white floors like an ice-skating rink. With all the noise, you’d think a party was going on. It was like a whole city celebrating right outside my door, and every night in my room with the TV on I hadn’t even known about it. Buzzing around like a human beehive. Two aides leaned against the wall right across from me, talking with their heads together like they didn’t have a care in the world.
In the other direction, a rangy colored man was sliding trays full of dirty dishes into a rack about two doors down. Must have been from the people who ate in their rooms; those nasty plastic dishes were covered in chewed-up food and cold gravy. A doctor brushed past my nose, then a short square woman with a man’s haircut pushing some old fossil in a wheelchair. Don’t ask me where they were going that hour of the night. I stepped out in the hall, closed the door behind me, and turned the knob to make sure it was locked.
I decided to head down to the nurses’ station and see if they’d tell me where Vitus’s room was, or at least try to, even though it was about twice as far as the dining room. I felt like I was setting off to the North Pole, but I told myself that whenever I got tired I’d just stop and rest and if worst came to worst I’d call out for a wheelchair and have somebody push me back to my room. So I took one last look at my door, and off I went. I don’t mind telling you that I was scared. Scared, and maybe a little excited.
No sooner did I get started than down at the end of the hall I see that scarecrow Nuella Whit headed right for me. She’s a beady-eyed woman with a turkey neck and hair so thin you can see her scalp. She’s—what-you-call-it? Hyperactive. Skinny as a stick because all she does all day is walk and walk and walk, up one side of the building and down the other. It makes you tired just to watch her. She has a little man with her, a Chinese man with a navy blue stocking cap pulled down over his forehead, who she drags by the hand like a pull toy. He shuffles behind her taking teeny tiny steps. “This is my husband, this is my husband,” she says over and over to everyone she meets. She don’t turn her head or move her lips, and the man, he don’t say a word. Maybe he don’t speak English. When they get to one end of the hall, they turn around and go back. It’s a wonder they haven’t worn a groove in the floor. They must walk five hundred miles a day, so I thought they’d stop at night and get some rest, but there they were, same as always.
I’d only gone about ten steps when they whooshed past me. “This is my husband,” she said, so fast you could hardly make it out.
I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, because I had so far to go. I’d watched a program on TV about people climbing up Mount Everest, where there’s no oxygen, and that’s just what it felt like, every step like lifting a hundred pounds. TVs played behind a couple doors; when I got about halfway down the hall, I heard an old woman singing that old hymn “God Lifted Me” at the top of her lungs. There was a railing at the end of the hall. I made for it like it was the edge of the pool and I was drowning. When I got there I grabbed hold and leaned on it, huffing and puffing.
I could see down the next hallway from there. Not too far away a guy with the biggest muscles you ever saw was waltzing a mop across the floor. His head was shaved and shaped like a fireplug; his arms were thick as barrels. You could have parked a car on his chest. Tattoos covered his whole body, all the way down to his wrists and ankles. He was blue all over, like he had on a sweater and long pants.
My eyes bugged out. “Why would you do that to yourself?” I asked when he got within hearing range.
He wiped his forehead with the back of his arm and pumped the mop up and down in the bucket.
“What’re you talking about?” he asked, none too nice.
“That business all over your skin. That mess you’re wearing. If you was one of my kids, I’d skin you alive.”
&nb
sp; “Good thing I’m not,” he said, not even looking up from his mopping.
The disinfectant smell was strong, but it still didn’t cover up that piss stink that must have soaked into the floor and woodwork. His mop smelled sour, too. He swirled it around like he was icing a cake.
“Didn’t it hurt?” I asked when he got so close he was practically mopping my shoes.
“Yeah, that was the good part.”
His face glistened. His neck was big around as a missile. He made a little half-circle around my feet, still not bothering to look up.
“You’re a smart-ass, aren’t you?” I said.
He straightened up, leaned on the mop handle, and looked me full in the face. “Yes, I am,” he said, and smiled. Even though he was a young guy, a couple of teeth on the sides were missing. “You are, too. I can tell,” he added before he started in on the mopping again.
“You do all these floors?”
“Yes, ma’am. I do. Every night, rain or shine. The whole place. Upstairs and down.”
His butt looked hard as a rock. He finished mopping around me and started down the hall I’d just walked up.
“You still didn’t answer my question,” I said. “Why’d you get them things?”
He looked down at his arms. A big fish with rows of scales curved from his shoulder to his elbow. The other arm had jagged designs, like lightning.
“They protect me,” he said.
“From what?”
“Anybody who wants to do me harm.”
“You have any cigarettes?” I asked him.
He put his hands on his hips and clucked his tongue. “Why would you do that to yourself?” A smart-ass, like I said. “Be careful. The floor’s wet,” he added before he turned his back on me and went on with his work.
Breaking Out of Bedlam Page 8
