What the hell does that mean? Mattie wondered. And then there was Sonny, standing beside what looked like a barbecue, in what must have been someone’s backyard. It was an unusually good photo, although Sonny never took a bad picture in his life, not even with his eyes closed. When his eyes were closed, you could see those butterfly eyelashes just lying there on his face. Beneath the picture were the words “Contributed Photo,” and Mattie supposed that a Marigold Drive neighbor had dug it up. Sonny had his usual grin spread across his face, that devil-may-care smile. The rest of the article stated only what Mattie already knew: a recap of how Sonny saw John Lennon’s face telling him to speak out for poor people, the bank, the women, the poodle, the trailer, and Sonny’s demand for public negotiations, rather than private. Waco, Texas, was mentioned and that crazy David Koresh, which displeased Mattie. Sonny might’ve been a live wire all his life, but he was as sane as the next person. And it seemed that the Bangor Police Department, keeping Waco in mind, wanted to achieve just the opposite results. “As soon as Mr. Gifford states his demands,” said Chief of Police Patrick Melon, “we feel confident that they’ll be met. For now, he’s asking to speak with his estranged wife, Sheila Bumphrey Gifford, who is rumored to have gone to Atlantic City for the weekend. We urge anyone who has any information on Mrs. Gifford’s whereabouts to come forward at this time. We want to assure the families of the hostages that we’re doing everything that can possibly be done to avoid any kind of mishap.” Mattie put the paper aside.
“What about the family of the hostage-taker?” Mattie wondered aloud. “I could use a little assurance, too.” A board creaked on the front porch and Mattie felt her heart lurch. Maybe it was all over and Sonny had come home. This thought, accompanied by a splash of logic, soon faded, and Mattie then hoped it was Elmer. Elmer would drive her to Bangor. Just that morning she had changed her mind again, had decided that she would ignore Sonny’s advice about staying put and letting her teeth soak. The boy was slowly turning into a movie star, and with that future in store, Mattie feared for his safety.
Nobody likes for the hero to walk away, Mattie thought again as she waited for a face to appear in the window of the front door. One did. It was Roberta, Mattie’s only granddaughter, soon to be the mother of Mattie’s first great-grandchild. Lumbering along behind her was Willard Plunkett, Rita and Henry’s six-foot-three oldest child, the boy with kneecaps the size of softballs. Robbie waltzed right in, but Willard had to bend in the doorway of Mattie’s house so as not to hit his green hair on the doorjamb.
“Why, Robbie,” said Mattie, rising to give her granddaughter a hug. “What brings you out on such a nice morning?” Robbie hugged her back.
“We just come to see how you’re handling everything,” said Robbie, “what with Uncle Sonny and all.” Willard finally made it inside the door.
“Hey,” he said to Mattie, his right shoulder jerking and his left eye blinking uncontrollably. “How’s it going?” He seemed to be looking for a place to spit.
“If it ain’t Willie,” said Mattie. She stretched upward in order to give Willard a loose hug. Her arms could reach just above his thin waist, so she squeezed that part of his long body. Willard stiffened in this embrace. Like most Mattagash men, he wasn’t big on displays of physical emotion. Bending down toward her, Willard appeared almost cartoonlike, Big Bird, maybe, from Sesame Street.
“Hey,” Willard said again. Aside from the nervous blinking, and the twitching of his shoulder, Mattie sensed something else amiss with her grandson. The rims of his eyes seemed abnormally red, and for a person with green hair, well, the eyes stood out more than was their bodily duty.
“We just came to see how you are,” said Robbie, “and we were wondering if you need anything in Watertown.” Mattie looked at her grandchildren hard and long, Robbie with her sweet little face, a face already talking about sadness and rushed lives. Willard, looking like a leftover from a bad yard sale. Blood of her blood, bone of her bone. She gave Willard the longest look, having not seen him in a few months, not since he’d dyed his hair and begun experimenting with marijuana, if what Rita said was true.
“Hey,” Willard said, shifting his long legs inside their big long shoes. Shoes designed for a circus clown. And twitching his shoulder as his crossed eyes worked overtime. Maybe the boy would grow into something worth looking at a few years down the road. Maybe all his features would straighten themselves out. But right now he was all limbs and shoes and nervousness. He reminded Mattie of something you’d construct from a can of Tinkertoys. Her heart did a little flip-flop. Poor boy, poor Willard, what with Rita poking him daily with a pitchfork of criticism. Mattie looked back to Roberta, to her tie-dye dress and her short hair, cropped like a boy’s, and her Black & Decker big-soled shoes. Clunkers. Army boots for little girls. Everyone wanted to act tough these days, even Robbie, with the tiny face of an angel, lips painted almost like a doll’s, skin as white as a porcelain dish. Her only granddaughter.
“Whose car are you driving?” Mattie asked.
“Mama’s Buick,” Willard answered. Mattie looked out into the yard. Sure enough, there was Rita’s big black Buick. The Road Hog, Henry called it.
“Willard ain’t got his license yet,” said Robbie, “so Aunt Rita is letting me drive the Buick.”
“Where’s the For Sale sign?” Mattie asked. She knew Henry had made one for the back window of the Buick. Good Condition. Tires Like New. Will Accept Best Offer. She had heard Rita telling Gracie about it. Mattie assumed that Henry was finally flaunting signs of good salesmanship. How could tires possibly be like new with Rita at the wheel?
“Mama don’t put the For Sale sign in the window unless Daddy’s around,” said Willard. “She’s afraid someone will see it and want to buy her car.”
“Any gas in the Buick?” Mattie wondered. Roberta gave a quick little nod, her angel lips pursing themselves into a smile.
“I know what you’re up to, Granny,” she said. “I already been grilled about whether or not you’ve asked me to take you to Bangor. You know Gracie will kill me if I do.” Mattie looked down into her grandchild’s eyes, down to where the good stuff about a person’s life is kept, the meat of their soul. That’s what makes them stand up to the winds of adversity or fall down. There was all kinds of good stuff about Robbie there in those eyes, the things Mattie knew about her from when she was just a little girl. She loved animals and flowers and was kind to all living things. She loved her grandmother, too, and used to sleep on Mattie’s back porch while Mattie weeded the garden, just so that she could be close by. She was a good child, a good pregnant teenager. Lucky Lester hadn’t lived to learn the news about Robbie. He liked to take women to bed himself, but he wouldn’t look kindly at Peter Laforest doing it to his granddaughter. Mattie turned her attention upon Willard.
“I’ll pay you well,” she said. “We can go to the Bangor mall after we talk to Sonny, and shop for us a nice little present, all three of us.” She winked at Willard. What would it take? Some loud record? A movie video? More colored hair dye? She’d dip—no, she’d dive headfirst into her rainy day money. Robbie put a hand on Mattie’s shoulder.
“Granny,” she said, “Mama would kill us. And then Aunt Rita would kill whoever is left.” She shook her head sadly. Willard shifted about on the great boats of his feet. His shoulder twitched fiercely. Sunshine filtered in around his head, through the top glass in the door. In its sheen, Willard’s hair was suddenly beautiful, like the pot of shamrocks Mattie kept in her bedroom window, green and billowy. It was as if Willard were carrying a small hill upon his head, a virgin meadow, a peaceful place where one could go and lie down and rest.
“I’m sorry, Granny,” Robbie was saying.
Mattie patted her tiny hand. “Will you at least think about it?” she wondered, and Robbie promised that she would.
“Why don’t you come to town with us?” she asked. “I need to pick up a prescription a
nd Willard is looking to rent a movie. We’ll be back in no time.”
Mattie shook her head. “I got to stay in case there’s any new developments,” she said, remembering Gracie’s words, remembering the new language she was now learning, thanks to Sonny’s latest world dealings.
“Stop in again, Willard,” Mattie said to the long, retreating form of her grandson.
“Hey,” Willard said, and waved back at her. Mattie realized now that hey didn’t just mean hello, yes, thanks, maybe, okay, and so on. It also meant good-bye.
“I’ve been to see the doctor,” Robbie now whispered to Mattie. “Everything looks just fine.” Mattie smiled. She squeezed Robbie’s hand. Everything looked just fine for a pregnant eighteen-year-old, in a crazy-colored dress, wearing shoes fit for a storm trooper, and chauffeuring a twitching, blinking cousin with green hair. This was the new world, but after having lived for almost seventy years in the old world, Mattie was beginning to like this new one better. Things were strange there, but the kids seemed to make a little bit of sense. Robbie and Willard were doing strides better than their own parents. And one thing was certain. Mattie wished she’d have had Robbie’s clunkers to wear on the day she actually married Lester Gifford, instead of those tall, pointy-toed things. She wished they’d been shoes she could run in. She wished she’d had a driver’s license. Who knows what mountains she might have scaled with those two things on her side. Mattie watched as the car pulled away, Robbie’s tiny body hanging on to the big steering wheel, Willard’s green head rubbing the top of the car’s roof, like the head of some exotic parrot. The new generation.
Mattie went immediately to the telephone. There on the counter was the number she had asked for just that morning, from information, the number of the Bangor Police Department. She had been afraid to punch in the numbers after the operator gave them to her, afraid that once she told the truth, that Sonny wasn’t adopted, that his mother was alive but not well because she feared the worst for her son, that all hell would break loose. At least that’s what born-again Rita had been prophesying for the past three days. “All hell’s gonna break loose when them reporters find out the truth,” Rita had said. “When they find out Sonny’s got relatives up here, we may as well head for the hills.”
The phone rang twice, way down in Bangor, at the police department, before Mattie heard a woman’s voice answer with a curt, crisp “Police department, can I help you?”
“I want to talk to the chief of police,” Mattie told her.
“And what is this regarding, ma’am?” the voice asked.
“Sonny Gifford,” said Mattie. “It’s regarding Sonny Gifford, who’s holed up in that house trailer.” The voice on the other end of the line sighed.
“And what message would you like to leave for Chief Melon?” the voice wanted to know, a bored voice, a voice tired of the conversation already. And Mattie hadn’t even begun.
“It’s personal,” she said.
“Ma’am.” The voice was annoyed now. “You’ll need to tell me what this is in regard to. Chief Melon can’t take every call that comes in. He’s a very busy man right now.” The voice waited, impatiently. Mattie could hear some kind of rhythmic tapping on the other end. A pen against a metal desk, maybe.
“It’s personal,” she said again. Now she waited. Sunshine was beating its way through the kitchen window and Mattie felt instantly warm. Too warm. Tiny beads of sweat broke out above her upper lip.
“Well, you’ll need to tell me first,” said the voice. “And if I decide that it’s important, I’ll see that Chief Melon gets your message.”
“But I’m his mother,” said Mattie. “I’m Sonny Gifford’s mother. Ain’t that reason enough to talk to the chief of police?” The voice was now more annoyed.
“Ma’am,” the voice said, a city voice to Mattie, a voice of some authority. “John Lennon himself called here about an hour ago. He wanted to talk to Chief Melon, too. And ten minutes after that Hillary Clinton called and said she wanted to make Sonny her running mate in 1998. And just after Mrs. Clinton called, Shirley MacLaine took time out of her busy schedule to phone and say that Sonny is really just a mouthpiece for a four-thousand-year-old Tibetan priest. And yesterday Boris Yeltsin called, offering Sonny political haven in Russia. And in between all those personal phone calls were dozens of calls from just plain ordinary folks who wanted to wish Mr. Gifford the best. Now, do you think I can bother Chief Melon with each and every one of those phone calls?” The voice waited. Mattie’s mind was reeling. At first, she had taken what the voice said to be the gospel truth. Boris Yeltsin? Hillary Clinton? Shirley MacLaine? After all, with CNN carrying the story, it was more than likely that all kinds of important people now knew about Sonny. But then she remembered the John Lennon call. John Lennon was dead, or so Sonny himself had announced during his first phone conversation with Chief Melon. Now Mattie’s mind was able to process what had been said. The woman with the stern voice was getting all kinds of crank calls and she was fed up.
“And as soon as you hang up,” the voice continued, “I’m sure that Steven Spielberg will call for the movie rights, and then Elizabeth Taylor will call for a dinner date. She likes the wild, scruffy type these days. And then, more than likely, the Martians will call.” The voice waited.
“But I’m his mother,” Mattie said softly. She almost doubted herself in this matter. She could hear the voice telling the next caller, “And just after Shirley and John and Boris and Hillary called, his mother called, which is unusual for a woman who is dead and buried in Mattagash, Maine.”
“You’re his mother?” The voice was entertained by this.
“Yes,” said Mattie. “I’m his mother, from Mattagash, Maine, and I want to talk to Chief Melon.”
The voice sighed again. “Leave me your number, ma’am, and I’ll see that Chief Melon gets your message.” As soon as Mattie delivered the last digit, the voice disconnected her without so much as a thank you or a good-bye. Not even a hey.
14
And then, it all seemed to happen at once, as though the years of Mattie’s life had piled up on each other, all sixty-six of them, waiting like logs in a slough for the one major event that would mark her existence on the planet. And when that finally happened, those years came cascading down around her. The years of her life tumbled out onto the floor like marbles that she would never be able to gather up again in one bowl. The years of her life had been a made puzzle that one day gets unmade, the pieces all scattered. It had begun with her not planting a garden for the first time in years, with Sonny turning up on Channel 4, with her best friend, Elmer Fennelson, disappearing like smoke, with her three big girls all back inside the little house trying to live their teenaged lives over again, with Robbie turning up pregnant, with Mattie now sleeping late, with time trolling a second chance before her eyes, another chance to save Sonny. And then the rude, impersonal voice on the phone, a voice that suggested to Mattie that Sonny now belonged to other people, not to her. It all came undone, unmade, in a matter of days. Or was it years? Seconds? Does anyone know the spot in time when something happens that will snowball into a future event? If she had beaten Sonny for his windowpane art, if she had made him wash his own laundry, take down his dirty pictures, could she have prevented the next few hours? Could she have changed his life for the better?
Mattie had hung up the phone and was now in her bedroom, with Lester’s old suitcase opened onto the lavender bed, waiting for a few items that she would carry to Bangor. She would get there some way, she knew that.
“All God’s children got traveling shoes,” she said aloud as she placed two folded pairs of underwear into the empty suitcase. Funny, but she still couldn’t call them panties. The girls laughed aloud whenever she said bloomers, but until the day Mattie died, she would consider them such. And a bra was a brassiere. And she would never use a Mr. Coffee, or a microwave oven. She would fry her eggs in bacon grease and b
e damned, thank you very much. But those thoughts were all lost in the wave of events that happened next.
First, Rita came running into the house. She’d hitchhiked a ride with Rachel Ann Parsons, who was responsible for Rita finding Jesus in the first place. Rita ran in all aflutter, just the way she did three days earlier, on Monday afternoon, when she came bearing the bad news of Sonny. Rita the messenger. But now she had different news.
“Have you seen Willard?” Rita panted. “Where’s Robbie? Where’s my Buick?” At first Mattie thought there had been more of those blasted new developments on Sonny. But no, this was something nearer and dearer to Rita’s heart. Her beloved Buick. Her big black Road Hog.
“They’re gone to Watertown,” said Mattie. “Now calm down and tell me what’s going on.” But Rita was at the telephone now, frantically licking her thumb and dabbing it at the flimsy pages of the phone book.
“They’ll be going to Watertown Video,” said Rita. “I can catch them there.” She threw the phone book onto the counter and began dialing. Through the kitchen window Mattie could see Rachel Ann Parsons, waiting in her little blue car, her white arm resting against the glass of the driver’s window.
Beaming Sonny Home Page 17
