Hung Out to Die

by Sharon Short

  Rachel looked at me, impressed. “You have a column?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing, it’s just about stain tips, and . . .”

  “And everyone loves it,” said Sally. “She just doesn’t like to admit it.”

  “My mother swears by Josie’s Stain-Busters columns. Clips them and puts them up on a bulletin board by her washer,” Cherry said.

  “I’ve talked to the manager of Arquette Publishing,” Caleb said. “He’s interested in talking to you after Thanksgiving about expanding your column to all their regional weekly papers across Ohio. That’s nearly thirty, Josie. You could be weekly instead of monthly!”

  I shrank down in the booth. “Now, Caleb, I never said I wanted something like that . . .”

  He patted me on the shoulder. “Just get your current column in by the Monday after Thanksgiving,” he said. “We’ll talk about it then.” Then he winked at me and sauntered off.

  Damn him, I thought. I didn’t need the pressure of a weekly column. I was happy with how things were in my life. I didn’t want change . . . not with Owen, not with my work life . . .

  “Josie, you didn’t tell us Caleb is sweet on you,” Cherry said.

  “What? He’s not! He’s just . . .”

  “I saw those deep brown eyes of his flashing at you,” Sally said. “And you have to admit, he’s kinda cute.”

  “Shut up,” I hissed. I looked at Rachel. “In case you don’t remember, Sally and Cherry are idiots. I already have a boyfriend. A very nice one. He has a PhD. Several, in fact,” I added, and immediately regretted it. Why was I trying to impress Rachel?

  “Yeah, a boyfriend who is out of town for Thanksgiving,” Cherry started.

  “Oh, Josie, how awful! And Mama has kept me up on Paradise news, so I know your aunt and uncle have passed on. Why don’t you come on over to our house for Thanksgiving?”

  I stared at her, thinking . . . what? Why would she want me, practically a stranger, to come to her parents’ for Thanksgiving? Did I seem that pathetic?

  I admit it. I panicked. I thought, perfect, Rachel’s here visiting her perfect parents, and I’m all alone . . . but why should I care what she thought of that? We hadn’t been close, years ago. In answer, though, the memory-tease started again, like an out-of-focus photograph. Then it faded, again, before I could figure out what I was trying to remember.

  And I heard the following words tumble: “Oh, I’m having dinner with the Toadfern clan,” I said. “At my Mamaw’s place. You know. Just down from your folks.”

  Rachel gave me a genuinely happy smile. “Oh, I’m so glad to hear you’ve reunited with the Toadfern family!”

  She knew I’d been estranged?

  “Yeah,” said Sally. “So am I.”

  I kicked Sally under the table while keeping a bright smile on my face and my eyes on Rachel.

  “Josie, do you think you might have some time Thanksgiving to drop on by? Say, around four-thirty? We’ll be having tea and drinks then, before a light meal of leftovers,” Rachel said. She looked at Cherry and Sally and added hastily, “you gals, too.”

  “Oh, thanks, but I’m afraid I have plans for that afternoon,” Cherry said.

  “My boys will be so tired by then, I’ll have to pass,” Sally said.

  “I’ll be there,” I said, a little too fast, a little too eagerly.

  And Rachel looked immediately relieved. “I’ll count on it,” she said. She glanced at her watch. “Oh my. I’d better get going. Mama wants me to meet her up at the Masonville Country Club to discuss next Sunday’s brunch menu.” She stood up. “This brunch is on me.”

  We watched her trot over to the register, give Sally a wad of bills, wave away any change, then rush out the door.

  I looked at Sally. “Don’t start with me.”

  Sally lifted her eyebrows, all wide-eyed innocence. “Who, me? I’m just so glad you’re coming to Mamaw Toadfern’s for Thanksgiving. It doesn’t matter a bit to me that while the news of Mamaw being near death’s door didn’t convince you, saving face in front of Miss Perfect did . . .”

  I kicked her under the table again. “I said, don’t—” I winced as she kicked back, hard.

  “Girls, stop it,” Cherry said. “The real question is, what does Rachel really want?”

  I glared at Cherry. “To catch up on old times, to reconnect with an old friend . . .”

  Cherry rolled her eyes. “Oh please. You weren’t really buddies with Rachel in high school. Think about it. Everyone thought they were, because Rachel was so nice to everyone, but no one ever, ever really got close. In case you don’t recall, she and I were on the cheer-leading squad together, and she never went out with any of us, no matter how many times we asked her. She always had some excuse. And she never had any of us over to her house. But she was so perfectly nice to us, we kind of thought of her as being close, but looking back, she wasn’t. So, believe you me, she’s up to something.”

  My stomach rolled over my biscuit and gravy, which had suddenly turned into a big lump. I pushed my plate away. Oh, Lord. Cherry, amazingly, was probably right.

  “Don’t worry, you can tell us all about it next Friday night,” Sally said.

  I moaned. Why was I so eager to go to Rachel’s . . . and, more importantly, just what had I done . . . saying I’d go to Mamaw Toadfern’s for Thanksgiving dinner? No way would Sally let me off the hook, now.

  4

  I don’t know how I got to Mamaw Toadfern’s bed after I passed out. I reckon that Sally and Mamaw Toadfern somehow got me there, or that I half-awakened long enough for them to help me to her four-poster bed.

  In any case, when I came to, I was on Mamaw’s bed, under the quilt that Mamaw had been showing me. I vaguely recalled that she’d also been about to share a family secret, just when Sally burst in to say that the couple that’d just careened up to Mamaw’s house in a red sports car were actually my parents. Mama and Daddy . . . together.

  I closed my eyes and moaned, half-hoping I’d pass back out again. I didn’t. I snuggled back down under the quilt. Truth be told, its warmth—even with its faint scent of Youth Dew, even though it was forevermore stained with my ancient erp of eggplant—was comforting to me.

  Still, I could hear distant chatter and dinner noises and knew that just below me, the Toadfern clan was gathered, sharing Thanksgiving dinner.

  And I was, after all, alone. And hungry. And feeling very, very sorry for myself.

  Not to mention a little nervous.

  After all, my parents were probably down there, too. Unless, I thought hopefully, they’d turned around and left again.

  I crawled out of bed, stood still a minute to test for dizziness, and feeling none, went over to the window and peeked out.

  Sure enough, there it was—the bright red sports car, its nose plowed into the nose of the motor home. The two vehicles were stuck together in a V, like some strange sports car/motor home hybrid. Would that be a motor coupe? A sports RV?

  I was letting my thoughts blither as a distraction to the situation, and I knew it.

  My parents.

  What did I know of them? Uncle Horace never said anything at all about his much younger sister, my mama. I sensed, in the way children know such things, that she was a forbidden topic with him.

  So I’d asked my Aunt Clara to tell me what she knew about my parents just once, while we were hanging laundry out on the backyard line. And all she’d said, while snapping a damp sheet to the line, was that my parents were each troubled young people when they ran off. Considering I was about twelve when I asked, I was very confused by the word “young” as a description of my AWOL parents. Then Aunt Clara said that she and Uncle Horace gave thanks to the good Lord every day for me.

  After a comment like that, it seemed uncharitable to ask more questions about my birth parents—even though I was curious and sometimes wanted to.

  Much later, after Uncle Horace and Aunt Clara died, I sorted through their things and found a few pictures of my mama and Unc
le Horace, from when they were kids. They looked like just average, happy kids—he about seventeen, with a protective arm around his little sister, about five.

  The photo made me realize I didn’t know a thing about their childhood or about my maternal grandparents.

  As for my daddy’s side, well, I’ve already made clear that—with a few happy exceptions such as Sally—my paternal kin had cast me aside at Mamaw’s behest until that particular Thanksgiving dinner.

  So there I was, up in my Mamaw’s bedroom, knowing I should go on down and meet my parents, but feeling stuck, rooted to the floor. Maybe, I thought, if I could remember something, anything about them, that might help us get beyond, “how do you do.” Saying “it’s so nice to meet you” to one’s own parents seemed more than a little strange.

  Here’s what I remembered about my mama.

  When she watered the pots of flowers around our trailer, she’d use the special hose that connected to the kitchen spigot, run the hose out through the tiny kitchen window, then holler at me to turn on the tap. I’d wait for her holler on tiptoes, my eager body bent over the porcelain, rust-spotted sink, my hand at the ready on the spigot.

  But sometimes she’d get to talking with Mrs. Arrowood—usually about that damned man, or this damned man (Mrs. Arrowood, despite the Mrs. and her six kids, was also without a damned man)—and by the time she’d recollect she needed to holler at me, my calves would be cramping. But then, at last—or sometimes right off—Mama’s holler would spill into the kitchen and I’d turn on the spigot.

  Then I’d run outside and she’d have her forefinger right over the end of the hose, to make the water spray out. This made it look like the water was coming out of the tip of Mama’s finger. I liked that. It made her look powerful. Mama, the source of life-giving water.

  And I think she liked it, too, because she’d hum, and forget herself, and spray the flower pots until they ran over with dirty water into our scrap of scrabbly yard that remained indifferent to greening up, no matter how much water it got.

  And I remember that there was a wishing well at the entrance to Happy Trails. And if Mama was in a good mood, she’d give me a coin from a small, felt bag the color of goldenrod, and tell me to take the coin to the well and “wish us something good, Josie.” I’d run to the well, trying to think of something good, and offer up the coin to the well along with my wish, which always felt more like a prayer.

  And I remember the night of the fire. She’d hung out our clothes, on the clothesline that ran between our trailer and Mrs. Arrowood’s. On the line were jeans and socks and graying white bras and you couldn’t really tell where our clothes ended and the Arrowoods’ began unless you knew that Mrs. Arrowood was much bigger chested than Mama.

  That night, we’d come home in a hurry, no stopping at the wishing well. The flowers had dried, nearly dead but not quite, in their pots, and I thought about telling Mama we needed to water them, but something had put her in a tight-lipped, angry mood, and I didn’t dare talk to her.

  As it turned out, it wouldn’t have mattered, anyway. The flowers and the clothes were all destroyed in the fire. After that, we stayed for a little while at the home of the then police chief and his wife, who took us in as a charity case. Then Mama disappeared one morning.

  Here’s what I remember about my daddy.

  Nothing, except his scent, which was of Lava Soap.

  I didn’t know this, though, until just a few years ago. There was a sale at Big Sam’s on Lava Soap—twenty-four-pack for the price of the twelve-pack. I bought it just because it was cheap and twenty-four packs of soap would last me a good long time. And when I opened the first bar, and the scent filled my bathroom, I thought “Daddy,” and I stared in surprise for a long time at the gray soap bar, realizing that my daddy must have smelled like this soap, that maybe he’d showered with it after work, and then after his shower, he must have—might have, could have—scooped me up in a bear hug, pressing my face to his neck. But I didn’t know that. I didn’t remember it. I just made it up to fit the fact that the smell of Lava Soap made me think “Daddy.” I was two, after all, when that damned man left.

  I threw away the opened bar of soap and donated the other bars to Stillwater.

  These were the sum of the memories I had of my mama and my daddy.

  And, I realized, my eyes pricking, I didn’t want those memories demolished by reality. It was hard to imagine the woman in the red sports car humming while watering flowers by a trailer, or the man smelling of something so ordinary as Lava Soap.

  Before I knew it, I was fishing in the pocket of my khaki pants for my cell phone. I never go anywhere without it, and always have it close, on account of Guy, my cousin with autism at Stillwater.

  I dialed Owen’s cell phone number.

  It rang a few times. Right, I thought. He probably doesn’t have the phone with him. Knowing Owen, I thought with a sudden pang of longing, his cell phone is probably tossed on his hotel bed, while he’s at his ex’s for Thanksgiving dinner with his son.

  Probably, I thought, he was also having an awkward time—long silences, unsure what to say, in the midst of his own family reunion with his son—so it was just as well he’d left his cell phone in his hotel room, so he wouldn’t have the extra awkwardness of answering the phone, and really, I didn’t need his comfort and encouragement just to go downstairs and meet my own mama and daddy . . .

  Owen answered, third ring. “Hello?” He was breathless, laughing, giddy.

  “Hey, Dad, wait’ll you hear this next knock-knock joke!” I heard a young boy’s voice. That would be his son, Zachariah.

  “Wait until your dad’s off the phone. It’s probably important.” That had to be Tori, his ex-wife. She was laughing, giddy, breathless, also. As if they’d all just had a rip-roaring good time with knock-knock jokes and a tickle fight.

  My heart clenched.

  “Oh, right,” I heard Owen say, his voice a little more distant. I could imagine him holding the phone away, to address Zachariah and Tori. “Nobody more important than the two of you today.”

  “Hello?” he said into the phone, a note of irritation creeping into his voice.

  “Tell ’em a knock-knock joke, Dad, maybe that’ll get them to answer!”

  More laughter. Then Owen, again, “Knock, knock . . .”

  I disconnected, flipped my cell phone closed, tucked it back in my pocket. I squeezed my eyes tightly shut for a moment, telling myself, no . . . no tears.

  I heard the voices, downstairs.

  I had choices, I thought. I could nudge open Mamaw’s bedroom window, jump out into the snow-covered junipers, and then—assuming I didn’t break anything—take off, without so much as ta-ta, just like my mama and daddy had done.

  I could curl up under the quilt and hide.

  Or, I could satisfy my growing curiosity and go meet my mama and daddy for the first time in decades. Well, for the first time, really, in a way.

  No wonder my nickname’s Nosey Josie. Curiosity always wins out with me.

  I opened the door, and stepped out to the top of the stairs.

  5

  Mamaw Toadfern’s Thanksgiving table stretched all the way from the window at the front of her dining room, clear on into the kitchen.

  Truth be told, her table was really her dining table adjoined on either end by several card tables of varying heights and surrounded by all manner of chairs—dining and folding and even lawn.

  Even so, it looked like a Norman Rockwell Thanksgiving scene . . . at least, Toadfern style.

  The tables were covered by various holiday-themed plastic tablecloths, some dotted with fall leaves, some with turkeys, in a dizzying patchwork of yellows, oranges, browns, and greens. An impressive collection of holiday candleholders graced the table. I was immediately taken with the set of him-and-her Pilgrim candle-holders, with bright orange candles sticking out of the tops of their little Pilgrim hats.

  And in between all the serving dishes of sweet potatoes and
green bean casserole and corn and stuffing and cranberries and rolls and turkey and mashed potatoes and gravy were a scattering of at least two dozen pinecone-and-construction-paper turkeys. These were, I realized, made in the school years of Mamaw’s children and grandchildren and even great-grandchildren.

  Of course, I was focusing on what was on the table because I wasn’t as ready as I’d thought I was to focus on the people around the table. My Mamaw. My uncles, aunts, and cousins. My . . . parents.

  At the head of the table—the end where I stood, feeling more than a little awkward, sat Mamaw. At the opposite end, disappearing into the kitchen, was Uncle Otis and his descendents, Sally and her four brothers—Manny, Leo, Clarence, and Otis Jr., and their wives and kids, seventeen in all. The table, I realized, made a left turn at the kitchen entry. I could hear Sally and her siblings and children all fussing at each other in the kitchen.

  I wished I could just turn around, dash through the tiny foyer, through the living room, and into the kitchen through the other entrance. Even as Sally hollered, “Harry, put that gravy spoon down! Stop aiming it at Barry!” I thought about making a break for it. Only Uncle Otis, from his part of the Toadfern clan, was on the dining room side of the table. Uncle Otis was the oldest of Mamaw’s four sons, widowed, and generally considered the family goof, Sally had said, not seeming to mind the assessment of her own father. Given that I’d helped her the previous summer get him out of a ginseng-poaching pickle—and that’s a whole other story—I understood why and how she’d come to accept her daddy for the strange, lovable oaf that he was.

  He tilted his chair back so far I felt sure he’d fall over backward sooner or later, and clasped his beefy hands over his ample belly, which made the buttons on his flannel shirt bulge ominously. He stared at me as if he wondered what I was doing there. I’m not sure, Uncle Otis, I thought.

  Next were Uncle Randolph and Aunt Suzy, and two of their children—Bennie and Fern. (Billy, the only cousin besides Sally to pay attention to me despite Mamaw’s warnings, lives in New York.) Uncle Randolph was skinny opposite to Uncle Otis. He looked a bit lost in his too-large dress shirt while Aunt Suzy gazed around with an air of faint disapproval for her husband’s family. Fern’s husband, Roger, and their son, Albert, sat next to Bennie and Fern. Albert, who was about seven, was happily picking his nose even as his mother swatted at his hand and glared at him. I feared for Albert making it to age eight, but he was the only one who looked happy in that branch of the Toadfern clan.