“Do you want me to pray with you?” Rachel Ann asked. She seemed about to collapse from exhaustion. After all, it was a big, big world, and there were so many wretched souls to salvage. Just the follow-up on saving Rita had obviously worn her down. “I’m more than willing to pray with you,” Rachel Ann offered again.
“Thank you, Rachel Ann,” said Mattie. “I appreciate your offer, but I been praying alone now for over sixty years, and well, I’ve grown kind of accustomed to it.” Still Rachel Ann lingered, looking back again at the kitchen, listening to the music of Rita’s shrill voice.
“God first spoke to me in 1972,” Rachel Ann said now, as though she were answering a question on some test. She looked at Mattie, her small eyes expressionless. “And now He’s talking to Rita, too.”
“Ten!” Gracie announced from her spot in front of the television set. She was doing sit-ups now, her legs having stopped their useless cycling.
Rachel Ann went on out to her little blue car. Mattie stood in the door and watched as it pulled out of the driveway and pointed itself toward the life Rachel Ann had chosen to live for herself, her own Mattagash version of time spent on the planet. Then Mattie closed the door to her mushroom of a house.
“I wish God would tell you how to make a BLT,” she heard Marlene tell Rita.
15
They waited. Within a half hour the house had filled with grandchildren. News travels fast, especially in Mattagash, Maine. Robbie was back, in her crazy tie-dye dress, her face eaten up with concern for Uncle Sonny. Willard had found a spot on the corner of Mattie’s sofa and was reading some magazine while he twitched and blinked. With his greenish head bobbing, with his long stick arms bent at the elbows, he reminded Mattie of a praying mantis. Steven and Lyle, Marlene’s two boys, were sitting cross-legged in front of the set with Gracie, who looked younger than ever, a neon sweatband encircling her forehead, her fetlock stockings about her ankles in neon colors. Mattie feared that Gracie was growing so young, so fast, with each passing day that Charlie stayed gone, that she might just up and disappear. She might die of young age, instead of old age. Rita’s younger son, Josh, had fallen asleep in the recliner. Marlene was taking a shower and Rita had water boiling in a pan on the stove, hoping to make a big enough pot of spaghetti to feed this unusual family reunion.
“Henry’s coming over later,” Rita told Mattie, and she nodded. It’d be good to have Henry around. He was solid, the way Elmer Fennelson could be solid. “Wesley’s fishing,” Rita added, “or we’d all be here, the whole family, all except Sonny, of course. I wonder if this is what Gracie means by bonding.” She broke a handful of spaghetti in two and plunged it into the boiling water.
“If Wesley Stubbs had been born Indian,” said Mattie, “they’d have named him Skidoo That Rides Like the Wind.” She looked at Rita, and Rita smiled. “They’d have named him Brave Who Cheats Workman’s Comp.”
“It sounds like Sonny is here,” Rita said.
Mattie fixed herself a glass of vinegar and water for her varicose veins, not knowing what else to do. Waiting for news of Sonny, she felt as if she were at some kind of funeral wake. But not a wake like in the old days. In the old days, when someone died, folks skilled in funeral things would come to a person’s house and dress the dead body, get it ready while family and friends set up a vigil downstairs. There was a softness in this kind of waiting, with the clock ticking on the wall, with someone boiling tea, someone stoking the fire. Mattie had seen her father leave the world this way. She had brought a funnel cake to Eliza Fennelson’s home, while Eliza lay upstairs in her own bed, struck down by cancer instead of Cupid’s arrow, but free of sin. And Constance Mullins. Horace Craft. A whole bundle of Mattagashers. And then people started dying in hospitals, where rules existed, rules that said, “You can touch your loved one between the hours of such and such. Outside of that time, toodle-oo.” These days, when people died, they were whisked away by professionals, whisked away in a hush-hush manner, as though dying was an embarrassment, as though dying had disgraced the whole family. And when the body appeared again, in its casket, in some joyless room built just for holding dead bodies and not for raising up big families like a real home is, when the body surfaced again it would be all prettied up. Mattagash women who’d never worn rouge in their lifetimes went to paradise with cheeks round and red as a clown’s. Mattagash lumberjacks who’d never had clean fingernails in the flesh would be manicured to the hilt. This was how Mattie felt, waiting for news of Sonny. It was a sterile feeling, as though the house had been disinfected. Professionals now had her son’s living body, and they would let his mother view it again when they were good and ready. Mattie let out a weary sigh. There was nothing quiet in this present waiting. How could she hear her old clock ticking from its spot on the shelf when a living room full of noise was competing with it? Steven and Lyle were now fighting over some handheld video game. Gracie was watching Channel 4, the volume ricocheting off the walls. Robbie was washing dishes. Willard was flipping the pages of his magazine with a steady, annoying flick, flick, flick. Rita was shouting instructions to the boys. And Marlene had yet to get out of the shower and add her own two cents. Maybe in her bedroom, Mattie could find a lavender patch of quiet from the newly gathered family.
“Call me,” she said to Gracie, “the minute something happens. I’m going to take a nap.” Gracie nodded, a thick ponytail bouncing like a teenager’s off the left side of her head.
It was on the way to her bedroom that Mattie spied the little piece of puzzle, the blue eye of Jesus, lying beside the leg of a kitchen chair. She picked it up before anyone could see it there, and stared down into the sad pupil, into the very soul of a young man who had all of humanity resting upon his narrow shoulders. As she slipped the piece into her apron pocket, she felt from far down within her a surge of anguish rise up, a mother’s anguish for a lost boy. But Sonny was more than her boy. He was the side of her that she herself had never developed. He was her sense of humor, a thing she had owned once as a girl and then lost somewhere, maybe at the bottom of that trunk where she still kept her wedding picture and Martha Monihan’s friendship plate. Only with Sonny had she truly felt the power of pure laughter. Theresa Something-Polish had said that very thing, on the phone to Mattie, from her new home and life down in Connecticut. “I heard that Sonny won a hundred dollars in the lottery,” said Theresa, “and that he quit his job as a result.” Mattie smiled, remembering. It was true. Sonny quit his job with Watertown Electrical Repair, which he had held for almost three months. “I did it for all them folks too stupid to quit when they win millions,” Sonny had explained. And the event had gone into the big book of laughs Mattagash had been keeping on Sonny Gifford. “Nobody in my whole life since I left Mattagash, Maine, has ever been able to make me laugh the way Sonny did,” Theresa told Mattie. Mattie knew what she meant. That’s how she herself felt around Sonny, that she was his favorite girlfriend, the one he would never walk away from. She felt courted, didn’t she, the way Lester had never courted her. All Lester had done was wear his army uniform and look handsome until one warm August day when Mattie heard herself saying, “I do,” and then it was all over.
From her window, Mattie stared at the river while the yellow walls of her bedroom rose like pale wheat all around her. This was where she had stood, all those lonely nights, pondering the whereabouts of her husband. Now the window seemed like a picture frame, designed to encircle a picture puzzle. Woman Waiting at Window, the puzzle might be called. It had bordered a good part of her life, this window, this frame, and now here she was again. It reminded her of the day she had stood at the window of her childhood bedroom and tossed her mother’s valentine out to the wild winds. A mother’s heart is always true, even if her heart is blue. And now, nothing could change Mattie’s own blue heart, for she knew things were not going well in Bangor. Never mind that Pauline said it would all work out. Never mind what Donna, the reporter, said. Or what Chief Melon
was hoping for. Never mind all of that. Mattie knew. Just like that mother whose son had been aboard the space shuttle when it exploded and came falling back to earth. She told everyone who listened that she knew her boy was still alive when he went into the ocean. And that he lived for some time after that. Never mind what NASA said. This mother knew. And so did Mattie, even before Gracie screamed out from the living room, from her vigil in front of the television set, to come quick, Mattie knew.
“That poor boy!” Mattie thought she cried out, in answer to Gracie. Then she realized that she hadn’t said a word.
“Them poor dead boys,” Mattie now said aloud. And she reached into her pocket and touched a finger to the blue piece of eye puzzle.
“Turn it up, quick!” she heard Rita shouting from the kitchen, and then the scuffle of feet, the tinny voice of a newscaster. Didn’t those newspeople have better things to do? Didn’t they have their own children to fret over?
“Sonny’s coming out!” Gracie shouted.
“Stevie, quick!” Marlene’s voice. She must have finished her shower. Mattie knew without seeing her daughter how she’d look, a towel wrapped about her wet hair, wearing Mattie’s old tan bathrobe, which tried to mind its own business on a nail behind the bathroom door. “Make sure the VCR is taping!” Marlene instructed. “Your uncle Sonny is about to make his splash!”
And so Mattie came out of her bedroom and stood before the great set, surrounded by all of her family, grandchildren and children. They were all there but Sonny. She stood before a box of magical dots and wires and transmissions, things she didn’t understand, things no one she knew understood. You just turn a button and it speaks to you. Mattie stood before the television and hoped the dread that had settled into her heart was not a real dread but a mother’s fear. She stared at the reporters, those midwives to her son, those people who now saw him more often than she did. They had all materialized. Like ghosts, their bodies had used those magical dots to take on shapes. They had all come.
“There has been a remarkable turn in the Gifford hostage case, Dan,” said Donna. Her small face seemed almost sad, drained of energy. Rita cranked the sound up yet again and now Donna’s words seemed to be rocking the house, pitching it to and fro with excitement. “As I stated earlier, Sheila Gifford, the estranged wife of Sonny Gifford, who has barricaded himself inside this trailer with two hostages, has now come forward.” The camera was back to its usual panning, capturing all the principal players. Chief Melon had returned for an encore, busy with instructions and concern. Sheila Bumphrey Gifford stood straight, looking like a zombie. The house trailer loomed sharper than ever, the pinstripe running like blood across its middle. Even the crowd seemed more lively. Maybe it was a stunt crowd, flown in just for the occasion.
“Apparently, Dan, Sonny Gifford wished his wife well a few moments ago in a telephone conversation,” Donna was saying. “All he wants now, he says, is his dog, Humphrey. But once the hostages are released, the question will be whether or not Mr. Gifford will surrender himself to Bangor police. We understand that Sheila Gifford has offered to take the dog into her trailer, in the hopes of talking her estranged husband into giving himself up. But Sonny Gifford has declined this offer.” Mattie wasn’t surprised. Sheila had run off with another man, after all. Sonny had his pride, especially while he was on television.
“And attention,” said Marlene. “All he wants is attention.”
“What does he see in that woman?” Gracie asked, her ponytail wiggling.
“It’ll be over soon,” Robbie whispered to Mattie. “Uncle Sonny’s gonna be just fine.” She put her small hands on Mattie’s shoulders and began kneading, the way Pauline had done earlier. Did the Egyptians knead shoulders with their toes?
The television picture jerked about as the camera rushed into a new position, Donna keeping just ahead with her microphone.
“We’re told that Sonny Gifford is getting ready to release the hostages now, Dan!” Donna said excitedly. Mattie could see the chief of police talking on a handheld telephone. He must be talking to Sonny. She wished she could butt in, interrupt the call, hear Sonny’s voice for herself. Take it easy now, boy, she’d tell him. Take it easy and keep your head. You can still walk away from this movie with some dignity. You can still avoid this big fire blazing away under your pants. Hillary Clinton has called. Shirley MacLaine. Boris Yeltsin. By the looks of things, after a few months in jail, you might even get your own talk show. Her heart started to thump and Mattie wondered if Robbie could feel it, right through the bones of her grandmother’s body.
Rita and Marlene kept up their running commentary, on everything from Sheila Gifford’s hairdo to how the lawn in front of the trailer needed mowing. Their voices filled the house with noise. Shutting them out as best she could, Mattie kept her eyes welded to the action on her television set. She noticed policemen at the edges of the screen, poised, holding rifles with scopes.
“Oh my God,” Mattie heard her mouth say. And then the camera pulled back enough that the door of the trailer zoomed into view and Mattie saw it open, saw two women step out onto the porch, Sonny’s face appearing in the door behind them.
“The hostages,” Marlene whispered. One had long brown hair, just as in Mattie’s dream, pretty brown hair. The other one, with short blondish curls, said something to Sonny, over her shoulder, and Mattie could see him nod. They appeared to be working well as a team, these hostages and their captor. The two women stood on the porch, their hands at their sides. Mattie could see only one of Sonny’s hands, the left one, which he had clasped around the upper arm of the long-haired woman, holding her firmly before him. Did he have the plastic water pistol in his other hand? Mattie had known right from the very beginning that Sonny wouldn’t hold a real gun on human beings. And not because holding a gun was too much work, as Marlene had said earlier, but because Sonny had another way with people. He didn’t need a gun. He held most folks to him just by being Sonny, just as this huge wild crowd was now held to him. Sonny should’ve gone to Hollywood, that’s one thing for sure.
The hostages stood stiffly, staring out at the crowd as though they were a couple of mannequins. Or two of those blowup dolls Sonny was always threatening to order one day. Mattie still couldn’t see Sonny’s right hand, which was concealed behind the long-haired woman’s back. He had stepped out of the trailer now, the hostages inching forward on the tiny porch to give him room, reporters still vying for the closest spot to the plastic yellow ribbon. And then Sonny was telling the camera hello, bidding America good day. Questions began to fly instantly, like a swarm of summertime blackflies, good old Maine blackflies, with reporters shouting out to Sonny as they pushed and scrambled about on the lawn. “Is Sheila Gifford willing to give up the dog?” “Will you give yourself up?” “What will happen once you release the hostages?” This last question came from Donna and was the one that Sonny accepted, smiling down at Donna’s little dog face, selecting her from out of the crowd. She had been, after all, his first reporter on the scene, and Sonny would remember her the way one remembers that first true love. Sonny had a loyal streak running through him the way white runs on a skunk. Mattie wouldn’t be surprised if, this very next Valentine’s Day, Donna found an anonymous valentine in her mailbox.
“I can’t believe this,” said Marlene. “They’re letting him have another conference?”
“That’s because he’s still calling the shots,” Rita prophesied. “But wait until he turns them women loose. I daresay this is Sonny Gifford’s last press conference.” Gracie threw a pillow from off the sofa at Rita and it bounced off the top of Rita’s head. But she didn’t seem to notice this. Rita was accustomed to having pillows thrown at her head during made-for-TV movies and family functions of all kinds.
“Park your lips, Rita,” said Gracie. Sonny had used one of his famous long pauses while he pondered the answer to Donna’s question, the camera lingering on his face while it waited.
“I intend to spend some quality time with my dog,” Sonny finally told her. “Whoever said a man’s best friend is his dog must’ve been married at least once in his lifetime.” This said, Sonny produced his explosive grin. The crowd roared with approval. It was good to see Sonny’s face again, without the window screen hampering his fine features. Funny how a camera adored Sonny Gifford, lit up all his best intentions. Mattie had never seen a picture of herself, in all her sixty-six years, that she felt comfortable with. Sonny had inherited his friendship with the camera from Lester’s side.
“In that case,” said Marlene, “I hope they allow dogs in prison, ’cause that’s where that brother of mine is headed.” Then another question flew into the air that Sonny seemed to like. He pointed at someone in the crowd and then cupped his ear, asking for a repeat.
“Donnie Henderson says you’re the inventor of the Le Mans Birth Method, Sonny,” the reporter’s voice cried out. Mattie couldn’t see where the question came from. A male voice. Maybe that thin-faced, thin-haired man. “Could you tell us what the Le Mans Method is?” Sonny shook his head, a look of great fondness on his face, as if he might be remembering Donnie. He and Donald R. Henderson had been such good friends, burning up their childhood years in pursuit of baseball and mischief, which developed, later, into girls and mischief.
“Oh please, God,” Rita wailed. “Don’t let him tell that story and embarrass the daylights out of me on television!” Sonny stood on the porch now, his left hand still holding the long-haired woman’s arm, the reporters waiting, the fans waiting, all of America waiting.
“Now, that there,” said Sonny, “is a scientific secret and Mr. Donnie Henderson should know better than to think I’d reveal it here on TV.”
Beaming Sonny Home Page 19
