by Lisa Samson
Gene Shalit never changes. I mean, they talk about Dick Clark, but he’s finally starting to show his mortality like the rest of us. But Gene Shalit quite possibly knew Moses, and he probably hasn’t changed since!
I click off the morning show having no idea which movie he just reviewed. I’ve never been much of a moviegoer anyway. And, at the risk of sounding like a curmudgeon, they just don’t make them like they used to. Sex equals romance these days. Joey always said that the screenwriters are just being lazy in that regard, plugging in a false emotional bond, a quick joining of hearts, so that they can move the plot forward at a rapid pace. He said, “Pearly, I fell in love with you like lightning without that.” Sex or cancer, that’s what they rely on these days, he always said. He’d have had a field day with his own death and what it’s done to my life!
I pick up Richie King’s note and call the number at the bottom. They patch me through right away.
“So you’ve only got one working kidney, Miss Pearly!”
“Isn’t that a kick?”
“But it’s fine. No polycystic kidney disease.”
“That’s good. My cousin has developed hers.”
“That’s a shame. It’s not an easy illness.”
“I know.”
“Other than that you look great. Nothing in the lungs. Yet.”
“I don’t know how.”
“Neither do I. You still cutting back?”
“Yes. Two a day.”
“Good for you.”
“It’s been a nightmare.”
He laughs. “I’m sure. But you hang in there.”
“Oh, I will. That’s something I somehow always end up doing whether I want to or not.”
I’ve postponed the Alaska cruise until next May. I’ve got Matthew to think of now, which means more to me than seeing some whale’s tail crash into the sea.
“Are you sure you want to spend the money on this?” Matthew asks me. He fingers the fretboard of a travel guitar.
“It’s really not that much. And we’ll make good use of it on the trail.”
“It’s going to be hot. And buggy.”
“I know, Matthew. I’ve got bug spray. And did you see those crazy citronella bracelets? They’re a hoot.”
Now Joey wished to walk the entire Appalachian Trail. Fat chance of that! I mean, having loved the man so dearly, I’m trying my best to fulfill these wishes, but the entire Appalachian Trail? Well, enough is enough! Not to mention that wristwatch ticking away. Why I factored that little timepiece into this mix is a wonder. It seemed like such a good idea when I thought of it, but now—well, I hate the pressure. Maybe without the annoying thing, I’d actually complete the entire trail.
Or maybe not.
“How long does it take to hike the whole trail?” I ask Matthew.
Matthew’s been reading guidebooks for the past two weeks since he moved in with me at the Mimlyn. “Depends how fast you walk. If it was us, it would take months and months.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“You know, though, people do phases at a time. Year by year.”
“That’s interesting.”
“We could take two weeks every year, Mrs. Laurel. And someday we’d finish.”
Oh, I’ll be finished long before that. I least I hope so. I’ve only got four more things to do.
“That sounds like a nice plan.”
I’m careful to agree to nothing.
We are on our way up to Havre de Grace to gather a few things from the house before we begin our two-week hike. We’re starting at the northern end of the trail, up in Maine. I told Matthew that hot isn’t an option. I can stand almost anything if I’m not sweating profusely and panting like a dog. Matthew’s a little chunky, so he naturally agreed.
We set the guitar on the counter at Beverly’s Music. A smiling, young blonde hippie girl says, “Get everything you need, darlin’?”
“Uh-huh.” Matthew blushes, his eyes staring at a large rock wrapped with silver wire suspended just above her breasts. Her skin shines like sunsoaked buttermilk.
I smile and feel a bit of Joey right then. There’s so much beauty in the world. Music, youth, infatuation. So many small, everyday triumphs. God is winning. Isn’t He?
Nothing compares to the feel of your furry old cat purring in your arms. Pumpkin returned to Maida’s from another foray only yesterday, looking fatter than ever. Matthew scoops him up with ease as we negotiate Maida’s front walk. “Boy, did you give him the right name, Mrs. Laurel. He’s almost as fat as a pumpkin.”
“You’re telling me.”
“He’s a purr machine.”
“It’s nice, isn’t it?”
Matthew scratches Pumpkin around his ears. I’ve always thought that must feel so good if you’re a cat. “Some of Mom’s cats are aloof, but we have our share of nice ones too. Although I tried not to let any of them into my room.”
I saw Matthew’s room that day. Neater than a dry martini, air-freshening devices hanging, sitting, or stuck to various horizontal and vertical planes. The smell still encroached, however, infesting the otherwise perfect chamber like lice.
He shrugs. “Except for one. A little cat named Billie. Little black female. I named her after Billie Holiday.”
“That’s a whole lot more creative than Pumpkin.”
He lifts the corner of his mouth. “But Pumpkin fits.”
Poor Matthew. Where does he fit right now? This must be horrible for him.
“Let’s see Maida,” I say.
I climb the stoop and rap on her door. When she answers, her eyes swell and her cheeks redden. “Pearly! What a surprise!”
My radar tells me something’s going on. Especially since she clutches at her bathrobe like a virgin priestess caught in hanky-panky with a palace servant, à la Brock and Shelby.
“So … Shrubby in there?” I ask.
She nods. Sighs. “You might as well come on in.”
Shrubby’s sitting at the kitchen table, the blond wood, tile-top design Wal-Mart always has on special. “Pearly!” He begins to rise.
“Don’t get up, Shrub.” I open the cupboard and grab myself a mug. “Just point me to the coffeepot.”
“Right there by the fridge.”
“Well, sir, you know this place pretty well already, don’t you?”
He smiles. “A man can get lonely, Pearly.”
“And you’ve never had anything but a well-oiled zipper.” I pour the coffee into a mug that says, “America: Love It or Leave It.” “Wow, Maida. How long have you had this mug?”
“Yearzzz.”
I turn to Matthew. “Let this be a lesson to you. Fornication isn’t a good idea to begin with for various reasons I won’t go into, as I am not your mother, but look at these two. At their age, it’s downright seedy.”
Maida slaps my arm. “Well, Miss Morals, it just so happens that Shrubby and I eloped a month ago. So get down off your high horse, thank you very much.”
“You’re kidding! You actually married him? This is his fifth time!”
“I’m fifty years old, Pearly. Time’s awastin’. It’s not like I can be choosy at my age.”
Shrubby rubs his morning stubble. “Not sure I like where this conversation is going.”
Maida gives him a peck on the cheek. “He may not be much, but he’s all mine!”
“Oh, dear heavens,” I say. “Well, does this mean I can stay over at the house tonight, then?”
“You’re actually going to sleep over there?”
“Yep.” That sounded brave.
“Sure. Shrubby’s brought his stuff over here anyway. It’s back to being all yours.”
Shrubby’s eyes met Maida’s.
This is very, very good. Just lovely, in fact.
“The tent’s in the shed around back,” I tell Matthew as I unlock the kitchen door of my house. “It’s in an orange drawstring bag. Get the two sleeping bags, too, and lay them over the clothesline right there by the pine trees to ai
r out.”
Matthew salutes. Charming. The boy is absolutely charming. If he lost weight, he could make it in popular music, I bet. I hope he keeps to classical though. Seems a safer world, that.
But then again, what do I know?
I gather up our camper’s kit. Two plates, cups, bowls, knives, and forks. A tin fry pan and a pot. “We’ll stop at Sunny’s for the rest!” I holler out the kitchen window I opened upon entering the house. “Do you like tea?”
“Yeah!” Matthew heaves my bag over the line. It’s red. Joey’s is blue, and it hangs there, sucking in fresh air. Hardly fair.
I grab that box of green tea again, still sitting in my tote bag, staler than ever, but the price is right. I reach into the counter under the sink for canteens. I feel a surge of wonder hit me. I’m actually going hiking along the Appalachian Trail. I didn’t ever picture this. I mean, camping on the beach is one thing, but this is a completely different level of outdoorsiness.
Matthew enters the kitchen with a gust of air. “This is going to be great. I can’t believe I get to do something so cool.”
What if the watch stops tonight?
Matthew’s sweet face, smooth and open, smiles. His eyes glow. “Fix yourself a glass of water,” I say, and I turn toward the steps. “I’ll be right back.”
Obviously Shrubby didn’t sleep in our bedroom. It’s just as I left it.
Oh goodness.
My heart drags itself through its motions, tumbling through grit and dirt and rocks. I steady myself with a hand against the doorjamb. My blood pressure plummets, and orange and purple checkerboards spiral and twist in front of my eyes, small explosions of violet pulsating as though pushed through a colander.
I throw myself on the bed as the nausea takes over. I will it to stop. “Matthew!”
“Yeah?”
“I’m going to take a little nap. Go ahead and watch TV or something. Is that okay?”
“Sure. I may do a little fishing. If that’s all right. I saw the gear in the shed.”
“Go ahead. Use Maida’s dock.”
I burrow beneath the covers, close my eyes, and sleep in my bed for the first time in more than nine months. The last time I slept here, Joey did too.
What would happen if Matthew just found me dead? Dear God, just let me die and let Maida find me.
I’m awake again. Pulse still present. I had an idea I’d react like this. Why else would I stay away so long?
I must choose which book of Joey’s to take on the trail. There’s one of the journals, naturally. Or his people notes. I am torn.
I throw back the covers on our bed, flutter back into Joey’s shirt, and descend the stairs.
“Matthew?”
No answer. I look out the living room window toward the Bay. He’s casting with one of Joey’s fly rods at the end of Maida’s dock. Has a nice rhythm going too. Not surprising. I watch the fly flick and settle, flick and settle, near the marsh grasses.
On to the den. I settle onto my haunches in front of Joey’s little bookcase. There are so many clothbound and leather-covered volumes. All small. I knew my husband loved words, but I never knew to what degree writing consumed him. Truly a lifetime of collected observations stand in display before me like mysterious fruit in some Middle Eastern market stall. Begging to be chosen? I don’t know. Perhaps. Joey left them in plain sight. He never told me they were private. In fact, sometimes he’d leave one open, face up. But I respected him too much to peek, for I’ve always suspected writers are very private people. They’re also nosy. At least Joey was. There wasn’t a detail too small for him to find some fascination in it. I asked him about that once, how life could so utterly intrigue him.
“Why, Pearly, imagine how God felt when He created the first blade of grass.”
No other explanation was needed, he gathered, for he said nothing else.
I slide from my haunches down into a cross-legged position. Slide? Hardly. Sliding presumes some measure of control. And I’m going to hike for two weeks up and down mountains? Needless to say, I’ve done no running or hiking since that marathon. I have read War and Peace in its entirety and cannot relate one concrete idea or occurrence. But I did it. I am so easily satisfied I even have to wonder about myself. All my items are completed, and I don’t feel all that accomplished. In fact I’m a little disappointed, but what’s done is done. I met a goal really, so hey, why not pat myself on the back for once? Joey would. He’d be downright proud of me.
A volume covered in floral chintz catches my eye. Floral chintz? What possessed him to pick that out? I can picture Joey in Barnes & Noble, standing before the blank-book rack and thinking, “Well, isn’t that lovely?” And he’d walk right up and pay for it without even the first blush of embarrassment.
My hands shake. Dealing with his absence was all much easier away from home. A pinky-peach ribbon ties the book shut, and with trembling fingers I pull one strand, feeling the tug of fabric, the soft release, the complete surrender of the knot. I am Joey for just a moment, reveling in the microscopic, the smell, the sight. The ranuncula and stephanotis on the cover caress my eyes, and I think of weddings and babies and satin shoes. Why this volume? Why this lovely cover with its transporting ribbons?
I open the page, the woody scent of handmade paper surprising me.
I inhale and turn the first page, blank, and read the words, scribbled in Joey’s atrocious handwriting: A Book of Psalms.
I weep once more, and I don’t know why. We will not stay the night here in this house. I must run. I must stay the course. Finish the journey.
I scramble to my feet, march to the kitchen, shove the volume in my backpack, and put the collection of people observations in as well. I just can’t choose between the two, and so I won’t. The watch ticks, and I’ll simply take two books with me if I choose.
“Matthew!” I yell out the front door. “Let’s get packed up. We’ll be leaving in a couple of hours!”
He turns, nods, and begins gathering up the fishing gear. Now why is this? Why do some of the most unparently parents get obedient children? I find that more unjust than the boy we saw at Trimper’s. You see parents doing their best, attending all the soccer games, all the art shows, every parent-teacher night, and the children treat them like the plate of hardened liver and cold mashed potatoes they refused to consume the night before. Then there are parents who do absolutely nothing—believe me, I saw both kinds at Lafayette School—and they produce children with such drive. This bothers me. And yet I’m happy for children like Matthew who instinctively rise above their parents’ apathy, who possess intelligence and common sense. Now if Joey had been having this conversation with a table full of students here in our kitchen, he would have raised his index finger and said, “Ah, therein lies the grace.”
I’d shake my head at the counter where I chopped up celery and carrots and think, Goodness, Joey, how in the world do you bring everything around to God?
But the more I read of his thoughts, the more I begin to understand. I still think, however, that spirituality is an almost genetic quality, which would account for Joey’s ears hearing the voice of God with such acuteness and me just accepting things the way they are and not trying to attach a greater significance to them than they deserve. I’ve begun to fear that Joey thought I despised that side of him. But the truth is, how can one despise what she doesn’t even want to understand? No. That isn’t the truth. I was jealous of God. Jealous that although Joey was my greatest love, my only love, I was hardly his. And how can a woman compete with that?
Maida’s lips curl down, and she shakes her head, clicking her tongue as if I’m four. If she waggles her finger at me one more time, I’m going to bite it off!
“Running away again, Pearly.”
“Oh be quiet, Maida.”
“I’m only calling it like I see it.”
“Well, since you don’t know the half of it, I’d say you’re only making a half-good call.”
She raises her eyebrows.
“Really, Maida,” she mimics.
Oh, great.
She’s actually got me rolling my eyes. “You know, Maida, you shouldn’t make it so obvious that you work around schoolchildren all day.”
“Whatever, Pearly.”
“Now you sound like a middle-schooler.”
Her mouth sets into a hard line.
“See?” I say. “It’s not so much fun when the shoe is on the other foot.”
“Oh well. It was worth a try. I thought I might embarrass you into staying.”
Shrubby enters their kitchen. “Car’s loaded up, Pearl.”
“Thanks.”
“That Matt’s a good kid. This is a real nice thing you’re doing for him.”
I just smile. “Well, when school starts, I’ll be depending on you all to do right by him.”
“Oh, we will,” Maida says. “That won’t be a hardship at all. It’ll be good to have a young person around the house when he deigns to come into the presence of us old fogies every once in a while.”
I nod. “We sure had our share of them in the old days.”
In the old days? Oh, God, please let that watch stop soon. I deserve it.
“I’ll let you know what’s happening on Loves, Lies, and Lifetimes. Right now Brock and Shelby are in a good stage. She’s almost ready to give birth to their first child. And they found out it couldn’t be Damien’s. He’s as sterile as Tom Cruise in a pair of latex gloves.”
“Are you sure it’s Brock’s child and not some spawn of Satan or something?”
“Well, there is a little room for doubt. See, Shelby had this strange dream where the ghost of this sea captain, a pirate really, came in and ravished her. Right around the time she had been ovulating—”
Shrubby winces.
Maida bats him. “It’s all right, Shrubby. ‘Ovulating’ is a perfectly acceptable word. Anyway, she wonders whether it was really a dream, but she hasn’t told Brock. In fact, the only person she’s told is Eduardo.”
