The Living End

by Lisa Samson

  “Who’s Eduardo?”

  “This voodoo practitioner.”

  “What?!”

  “Yep.”

  “Oh, goodness, Maida. This is getting to be too much.”

  “That’s what makes it fun, Pearly. If it was like everyday life … well, I get enough of that on my own!”

  “Ain’t that the durn truth,” Shrubby mumbles. He pushes off from where he stands at the counter and leaves the room.

  Matthew begins to strum the travel guitar outside.

  “He’s a special boy,” Maida says.

  “Yep, he is.”

  “God’s got plans for that one.”

  Oh, great. Maida too.

  God, God, God. You’d think He was everywhere or something.

  I call Yolanda from our hotel room in Lowell, Massachusetts. We arrived last night around 9:00 P.M. and ate a late dinner in a place called Four Seasons. Don’t let the name fool you. It’s a glorified bar with Portuguese food. Now I’ve never eaten Portuguese food, but the clams and potato dish that slid across my palate deserved an entire page in Gourmet magazine. I kept thinking of that old song “Brandy, You’re a Fine Girl,” and I saw Brandy in our waitress’s eyes and wondered if she would be a good wife, or if she was already. Goodness, I sound like Joey. Lord, help me if I start writing this stuff down!

  “Hello?”

  “Yolanda, it’s Pearly.”

  “Pearly Everlasting!”

  Okay. Not sure what that was supposed to mean. Don’t want to ask. “It’s me. We’re leaving in just a few minutes for Maine.”

  “You getting on the trail today?”

  “Nope. Lobster in Freeport tonight.”

  “Oh, you roughin it!”

  I love the warmth of Yolanda’s voice. “Well, who goes to Maine and doesn’t eat lobster?”

  “A fool?”

  “Precisely.”

  That warmed syrup chuckle stirs my heart over the phone.

  “How’s my boy?” Yolanda asks.

  “Great.”

  “I saw his mother at church last Sunday.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “I brought her myself.”

  “Yolanda, you don’t let any grass grow under your feet.”

  “Nope. Something wrong in that family that only Jesus can fix.”

  Here we go again.

  “Well, He sure can’t hurt.” That’s the biggest commitment I can make at this time. Saying the name “Jesus” fills me with discomfort, and the holy pronoun isn’t much easier.

  Time to change the subject. “Yolanda, I know you have children, but I never hear you talk about a husband.” I’ve been wanting to know this, but until now I haven’t had enough of a reason to ask. I hate to pry. But really, this is a case of self-defense.

  “I’ve never been married.”

  “Oh.” Goodness, I should have kept my mouth shut.

  “They’re all adopted.”

  I sighed.

  “Whew!” she blew. “I hear that relief. I was kind. I could have kept this one going for a long time, Pearly.”

  “I know it. Thank you.”

  “Pearly, one day you’re going to meet Jesus face to face, and you just better hope you’re alive when you do. Because if you’re not, well, there’ll be nothing I can do for you then.”

  “I don’t even know what you mean, Yolanda.”

  “That’s a fact.”

  I shake my head and grip the phone. “I’ve sure been meeting a lot of people like Joey lately.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Joey was a man of great faith. In Christ.”

  “Oh. Well that explains a few things.”

  “As usual, I don’t understand.”

  “He prayed for you all his life, I’ll bet. Well, at least since he’s known you. Was he saved when you met him?”

  “Saved? You mean like the ‘save your soul’ stuff?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “He never really called it that.”

  “What’d he call it, then?”

  “Coming to faith.”

  “Same thing. Just different words. Well?”

  “Yes. The first time I laid eyes on Joey, he was playing guitar and singing a hymn.”

  “Good. So, this is the thing, Pearly. The Bible says, ‘The fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much.’ Was Joey righteous?”

  “I never met a better man in my life.”

  “Well, then there’s a lot of availing going on right now, I’d say. Prayers being answered and all.”

  “It would be nice for God to let me know, if that’s what’s really going on.”

  “Oh, it is. Believe me. I’ve seen it all. You a walking target for the Holy Spirit, which means the faithful will pop up all over the place.”

  There she goes again. The Holy Spirit. Talk about a spooky mystery toan outsider. But hey, I’ve always liked mysteries.

  “I’ve got to go,” I say. “We’re going to head on out.”

  “Be safe, honey.”

  “I will.”

  “And keep me posted. Call me when you get off the trail in a couple of weeks so I don’t worry.”

  I smile. “That’s a nice thing to say, Yolanda.”

  “Everybody needs to know someone worries about her.”

  A Month of Psalms

  Day One

  I am a young man, but I love a God so ancient, so full of grace and mercy and a desire to give to those who seek Him a heart of wisdom.

  Do my eyes witness pain and suffering for which God cannot provide a healing balm?

  Do my eyes witness grief that the Spirit of the Lord cannot turn to joy with the softest wind of His breath?

  Do my ears hear cries of anguish and distress that the Savior of mankind does not hear and for which He does not ready a blanket of peace?

  No. My eye has not seen, nor has my ear heard a single moment of sorrow that the Savior is not waiting to release, in one way or another, for those that ask Him.

  I read the words in my head. Then I read the words to Matthew. “Do you believe all that?” I ask him.

  He nods. “He sent you to me just when I thought I couldn’t go on any longer. You’re living proof of that psalm, Mrs. Laurel.”

  My goodness.

  Did God really use me? Aren’t peace and healing just things that suddenly come upon you, a rather magical gift, if they’re from God? Why in the world would God use me when I don’t really know if I want all that much to do with Him?

  Well anyway, we’re spending our second night on the trail, and I’ll use the words of my dear mother and say, “This camping stuff is for the birds!” Only birds don’t need to set up tents every night. I hate this.

  Joey, why you wanted to do this, I do not know. I mean, yes, we camped in our time. One site, one setup, one teardown.

  I hate this.

  But here I sit in a clearing of oak and maple trees, looking down into a ravine. The sun sets and all the trees sway in silhouette, stick figures clasping their hands overhead, and Matthew plays the guitar. Something soft and, yes, Spanish, and soon the sky will darken and stars will appear, and perhaps I’ll get a glimpse of something that lets me know I am not alone.

  I suppose that is the only thing that makes me want to believe in God. I do not want to be totally alone. We are all alone in some way, each of us encapsulated within our own frame, within our own mind, our own feelings. No person truly penetrates another person. Not even Joey and me, for I was not his one and only, and I knew it. Perhaps those in situations of abuse and slavery feel they do not own themselves, do not travel like a bullet among bullets. But if there is a God, then He must surround all. And I would be inside His creation, His plan, and His movements. I would be part of something bigger, not some lone little ship in a sea of not much really.

  I breathe in the scent of hills and trees, dirt and water and flame. I take it inside me.

  Matthew still plucks, and the stars swim in the depths of night. The question is no
t whether I am glad to be here but whether I will last twelve more days. Still, I revel in the knowledge that here only the atmosphere separates me from Joey.

  How I can be sure of this, I do not know. Matthew is playing a song Yolanda always hums, “Open the eyes of my heart, Lord.” Matthew has spiritual eyes, open eyes. So why does he ask this of God?

  Now for me, this would definitely be a prayer worth praying.

  The watch still keeps time, although I suspect it’s a little slow. This does not bode well. I’m actually a little angry at the pesky thing. I extended it way too much authority. Now what kind of idiot gives that much responsibility to a watch, an inanimate object, a completely objective measuring device? At the least, I should have extended this sort of lordship to something or someone I could manipulate in some way. But a battery? It does its own thing. That is the point.

  We’ve been at the same campsite for a week now. I cannot bring myself to leave. Matthew doesn’t mind. We hike. We fish. We eat the fish. We play the guitar, and we sleep. Matthew sings me to sleep each night. I stink under my arms—all over, in fact—and I am ready to go home. Sorry, Joey.

  But oh, I’ve breathed and I’ve breathed. I’ve relished the smallest of scents: the grass crushed beneath our boots, the sweet aroma of maiden’s bower, old leaves and newly grown.

  I’m thinking of doing a little research on famous suicide victims.

  What drove them to live? What convinced them life wasn’t worth it after all? How did they accomplish their goal? What fallout occurred afterward?

  Yesterday, I left a picture of Joey beneath a fallen log. I took the picture one day as we sat on the lawn at JHU. Oh, wow, I can remember the day so well. I’d been focusing my 35mm on him and other subjects for an hour at least. Just framing shots, viewing my world through a lens, getting more comfortable with such a limited scope. Finally Joey pointed at me and cried, “Good grief, girl! Take the picture!”

  I snapped that shot. Oh, it’s glorious. He’s so young and virile. Eyebrows knit, eyes intense. Joey snapped so rarely that I enjoyed it, though I hate to admit that. In fact, it rather turned me on to see him lose control every once in a while, to watch him fall off the pedestal. During those times I would reach for him, kiss him passionately, and welcome him to my world. During those times, I would make love to him and not the other way around.

  I’ve returned to the cabin on the Bay. Matthew, firmly entrenched at Lafayette, has already formed a trio consisting of his guitar, some light percussion, and a bass. They perform Friday nights at The Crazy Swede, and all the diners love their breezy renditions of show tunes and standards. He visits one weekend a month, and how I look forward to that. I’m taking him back to Luray for Thanksgiving. Yolanda’s hosting all of us.

  Before I drove off, leaving him standing there at the curb all alone, I gave him Joey’s wallet, stuffed with five fifty-dollar bills. He’s one of Joey’s boys now. Every boy who enters those halls will somehow belong to the man who made that school into what it’s become.

  His eyes misted when I told him it belonged to my husband. He promised never to lose it, told me he never thought he’d own an heirloom.

  “It’s just a wallet, Matthew.”

  “No, it isn’t, Mrs. Laurel.”

  What a kid.

  But right now it’s Halloween. My jack-o’-lantern glows out there on the deck, and there are no trick-or-treaters here by the Bay, but I’m ready just in case. If nobody wants the full-size Snickers, I’ll just have to eat them myself. I threw out all the cereal boxes when I came back here after that stab at the Appalachian Trail. Matthew and I ate like real people. A meat, two vegetables, and a starch for dinner each night. It felt good to cook like that again, and I owed it to him. He’s dropped a few pounds eating real food instead of all the junk that must have been the daily fare in his house.

  I’m writing down everything I know about my parents. I have no one to pass these details down to. I regret having no children more than I ever have before, and it’s selfish, because I just want to have one for me right now. Why didn’t we adopt? What had I been thinking not to force this issue?

  Joey and I were just too stinkin’ polite, I guess.

  Sylvia Plath. I just had to find out more about her due to the suicide and all. Unfortunately, I don’t see any similarities between this poet and myself. I’m in no ways a genius and have no mental illness to speak of, so I can’t blame my yearning on those things. She couldn’t have possibly felt as though she had lost her reason for being Sylvia, could she? She had too much going for her. Unlike me. Of course, her mental illness may have confused her a bit.

  I should have given myself the gift of self-prescribed purpose years ago. But now it’s too late for that. And anyway, I’m quite comfortable now with having lived for love. The clock ticks, and even if I wanted a new purpose, I have no idea what it might be. I’m too old to start all over again. Surely I am.

  I am reading The Bell Jar, trying desperately to feel some sort of kinship with Sylvia, but I cannot. I thought maybe her time in the mental institution might set off an inner chord, but it only alienated me more. In fact, it’s left me wondering if I am even qualified to commit suicide. Underqualified to off myself? That is indeed an extremely sad state of affairs.

  “Moron!”

  “Retard!”

  “Dumbbell!”

  My fists curl and rise. “Harry, just stand here by that tree.”

  Harry sweetly smiles and nods. And I am in for the fight of my life, but I don’t care. I look around the schoolyard for Shrubby and Marsh, but they must be in the bathroom. They’d help me. They like Harry.

  I’ve always hated this group of kids. Margie Phelps, Donnie Lindquist, Phillip Stark, and Terrence McHugh. The Three Stooges and My Little Margie. They’re so stupid.

  “So, Pearly Hurly,” Terrence sneers from between his blubbery, pale pink lips, “you gonna do something with those fists or not?”

  “You gonna take up for that half-wit brother of yours?” Margie sneers. I swear I’ve never known such a blinding hate before now. I hate her utterly. She is throw-up; she is dog poop. I watch as my fist smashes her face. Even as the three boys charge, one lifting me, then slamming me down on the parking lot, one holding my arms, one my legs as Margie comes forward and begins to punch my face, I imagine Harry smiling and my mother and father nodding in pride. I am a good big sister. I am doing the right thing.

  A Month of Psalms

  Day 13

  I’ve heard men cry that You are a trickster, that You send Your bolts of lightning or fling buzzing burrs our way so that You can sit in Your heavens and laugh.

  But You are not a cosmic comedian, chuckling at our struggles and our humanity. You count every tear that falls, saving them for the day when we cry no more, when all of our painful memories are enveloped in Your love and Your light.

  Wait, my yearning soul. The day will come when only love and the embrace of Divine light will rule my heart forever.

  I’m glad Matthew accompanied me on the Appalachian Trail. I might have put feet to my thoughts and wandered far enough into the wilderness not to make it back alive. Of course, I thought of bears. Now yes, I really don’t relish the thought of living much longer, but I think I’d live to five hundred if death could come only by mauling. I’m sorry, but life has got to be better than that.

  Thanksgiving arrives the day after tomorrow, and I can’t believe the watch still runs. I’m quite angry at it but, at the same time, a bit relieved. I’m running out of palatable ways to do myself in and need more time to think about it.

  I’m picking Matthew up at school, and then we’re heading down to the Mimlyn. Yolanda will serve up a big dinner at her house, and she’s invited Matthew’s family and probably all her relatives and lonely hearts from the Rib Room. I’m looking forward to meeting this family of hers, these people that took a pale, skinny white baby in and made her their own. But before I pick up Matthew, I have another item to tick off my list.


  How does one choose something she’ll have to live with for the rest of her life, no matter how short that life may be?

  Let me say up front that I cannot believe I’m sitting here at On Yours! Tattoo and Piercing Parlor. Why in the world did Joey include this one? Surely he could have done this at any point in his sixty-some years of life. I’m just now wondering if this decision I made to finish Joey’s life for him was sound. Surely not! But “sound” is a bit too watered down. I should be doubting my own sanity at this point. It’s been a year. I haven’t “moved on” one iota. No, I’m still going from deed to deed and finding my life once again encased within someone else’s dreams.

  “I’m going off to find myself.” Remember that one?

  I always thought of that as a load of nonsense. Some indefinable act or ambition. Some excuse for inaction or indecision. Some inane sixties-speak buzz phrase for those who don’t know their rear end from a hole in the ground.

  Now I know differently. And I’m still vain enough to think that my years-ago compadres were just making excuses for the fact they had no real discipline or any real belief in any real cause—other than belligerence. I saw too many casualties of that mind-set at Lafayette School. Thank God Joey dedicated his life to them.

  Even so, it’s true: I don’t know who Pearly Kaiser is anymore. I look down at the gold band Joey slid onto my finger all those years ago, I see all the hopes and plans dancing in a circle around my flesh, and I almost lose myself in the grief. Yes, I lived for love, and now it’s gone, and so am I.

  But there I am in that gold, a tiny reflection of myself stretched out long and thin and distorted. And I know what my tattoo shall be.

  I take off the ring. “Can you tattoo a ring onto a finger?”

  The tattoo artist, an aging biker type with very thick brown hair pulled into a braid, nods. “Sure ma’am. I’ve even got some band designs.” He reaches behind him, the denim of his jacket creasing into a topographic map of the Blue Ridge, pulls out another book, and turns to a page filled with delicate borders. But I already know what I want.