by Han Nolan
I don't know, but maybe I was. 'Cause I was thinking, Why should her life just fall right back into place? How can she breeze in, stir up this whole town, and then just run away to Paris and live happily ever after? It's just like Mama, her running away. Why, she was probably running away from something when she came here. That's what she does. She hides behind her paintings until even they can't block out the trouble, and then instead of facing them, she runs. But what I figure is she'll never know what it's like to stay and fight and to feel the ground always solid beneath her feet. She'll always be running.
When I looked up at her and smiled, I knew I wasn't mad at her anymore. She was human, just like the rest of us. Just like Daddy and Mama and me.
She smiled back and said, as if she'd read my mind, "I've never been good with people, Charity. I tried to come out from behind my easel, and look what happened. I'll never understand why I was shown those visions. What good did it do?"
"None, I reckon." I picked up the plastic wrap and covered a plate of corn bread. "Seems like being able to see into the future never changed it any. I guess 'cause folks are going to be who they're going to oe, no matter what. It's all just bound to happen."
"Then why did I see it? What was the point?" Adrienne stepped away from the sink.
I shrugged. "Maybe there was no point. You just saw it 'cause you were setting still long enough and listening hard enough to see it Maybe we could all see it if we did that. I don't know."
Adrienne closed her eyes a second and then opened them and looked at me. "I'm going to miss you, Charity."
"Thanks."
She moved toward me, hesitated, and then gave me a kiss on both cheeks, only she missed the second cheek and kissed the air. "Well—uh, good-bye, then."
"Bye."
She took up her umbrella. "Say good-bye to your father for me. Oh!" She reached into the pocket of her suit coat and pulled out a key. "Here's a key to the house ... My sister's planning on moving down in the fall."
Adrienne saw the look on my face and said, "Don't worry, she's nothing like me, and you'll love her kids."
Adrienne went to the door and when her back was to me and I realized I might never see her again, I said, "I'll miss you, too."
Adrienne gave me a sad smile. "I left you something," she said. "It's over at the house. In the kitchen, with your name on it."
"Thanks," I said, wondering if she could be crazy enough to leave me the chair.
"Well, 'bye." She opened the door and raised her umbrella, clicking it open. "If you're ever in New York..." she called behind her, not looking back.
I stood at the door and watched her climb into the taxi and ride away.
27
Sunday morning I woke from another one of my nightmares. I looked out my window and saw the graveyard below. Three new graves had been dug. I pulled my curtain closed and got out of bed. Keep busy, I told myself. Miss Tuney Mae said to just keep busy. I got dressed for church and knocked on Grace's door and told her to get ready, too. Then I went down the hall to Daddy's bedroom. He wasn't there. I checked his study and then went into the kitchen to prepare him some breakfast. I took it out to the church. He was standing facing the cross hanging on the wall. I noticed the food I'd left the night before hadn't been touched.
"Daddy, you got to eat. Daddy?...I fixed you some bacon and eggs, extra dry, the way you like."
He didn't move. I left the hot food and took away the old.
I went back to the kitchen and cleaned up the dirty dishes. Then I posted a sign on the church door saying there would be no worship service and went away crying, thinking about Mad Joe and how he always loved to make signs.
Grace came down all dressed and ready for church.
"There won't be any church today," I told her.
"Yes, there will. Look out the window yonder."
I went to the window and she was right. Folks were walking right past the sign and on into the church. Me and Grace hurried on over there. As we came through the doors, I looked about me and saw everybody setting where they usually did, and talking just like always. But when they saw us they got real quiet.
I set my umbrella against the wall with all the others and we started down the aisle, and folks reached out their hands to us, patting us and saying how they were sorry, and how awful it was for me to witness such a thing, and how we were to come on over for some iced tea and cookies real soon. I nodded to them all, Old Higgs, the Boles, and the Pettits and Anna Cobb and Jim Ennis, Boo and his folks, all of them, and then I got to Sharalee. She was setting with her mama and papa and looking like a fashion model with her hair in a swirly bun and a new pink pinstriped dress.
I wanted to talk to her. I had so much to tell her, so much I wanted to say—about Vonnie and Velita, and just remembering them with her, and about the Incident, and how it felt like something good had been cut out of me and wouldn't ever grow back—but I knew it would have to be later.
She winked at me and then her mama stood up, blocking my view of her. "Did you know Miss Adrienne took off? Left yesterday in a huff. Shows what she's made of. But you smile, child. Smile. Look at all the folks standing by your daddy."
I looked, and saw everyone was looking my way, smiling and fanning themselves, nodding at me as I caught their eyes. And then I looked at Daddy. He was still standing facing the cross, his back to the congregation.
Then I saw Miss Tuney Mae march in with the choir behind her and set herself down at the organ. She started playing the opening hymn and Grace and I moved in next to Mrs. Marshall and grabbed up a hymnal. The rest of the folks stood up to sing, but before we could get a note out Daddy turned around and raised his hands out to us. The music stopped.
"Suicide," Daddy said, and then paused, glaring out at all of us. "Suicide is a sin! Let us offer up our prayers in silence."
He knelt down on the floor, fell forward on his chest, and stayed there the rest of the hour. Nobody talked. We all just sat there, and when the hour was up, Miss Tuney Mae played a processional and everybody started going down the aisle, muttering a word or two to Daddy, and then heading back up the aisle and out the door. Finally, everybody had gone. Everybody except me.
I went up the steps and sat down on the carpet next to Daddy. He was chanting or praying or something and didn't even see I was there.
"Daddy, the funeral's tomorrow. You got to get ready."
Daddy raised his head and stared out beyond me, still praying.
"You got to give the service. You got to do a nice job for Mad Joe and his daughters."
He focused his eyes and pulled the Bible to him. "He will burn in hell for his sin," he said, his voice hoarse. He shoved the Bible at me and I knew he was wanting me to read some Scripture, but I didn't. I shoved the Bible back at him and stood up.
"No, I won't read it, Daddy. You said Jesus is inside. You said the kingdom of God is within, and that it isn't a block of wood, or a chair. You said that. Daddy. But I'm thinking you don't really believe it, 'cause your god isn't inside you, it's—it's here!" I picked up his Bible and I slammed it shut and dropped it back on the floor.
Daddy sat up, startled.
"It's true. Daddy. Your god is just words and rules, and—and I don't see how you can believe in the resurrection if Jesus doesn't live beyond that. I mean, isn't that why He rose again? So His spirit could live on inside us? Isn't that what you're always saying, Daddy? Isn't that what you're always preaching?"
Daddy looked up at me, squinting through his glasses like he was studying me, like he was trying to figure out who I was.
I kept on talking, spitting out everything I had been thinking about the past few days. "Miss Tuney Mae said she believes in the Lord showing us Himself who He is, not just in the Bible but today, right now. And I'm thinking she's right, 'cause I know there's something stronger than those rules inside of me telling me what's good and right, and it's loving people, whatever they do, whoever they are, just like Jesus."
Daddy was getting to
his feet and I didn't know if he was wanting to grab me and shake some sense into me or what, so I jumped off the steps and ran down the aisle partways and then turned around.
He was standing in front of his pulpit, his hands gripping the sides, his Bible left behind him on the floor. He started speaking. "Mad Joe..."
"Mad Joe!" I jumped in. "You want to know where Mad Joe is? Well, I just bet he's setting in heaven right this very minute, planting him a garden and laughing at us fools. 'Cause, Daddy, God knows. God knows why he did it, and He loves him anyway. That's what I think. God loves us all anyway."
I turned and ran the rest of the way down the aisle, and I heard Daddy say something. It sounded like, "Lord, have mercy," or "A Lord of Mercy," I wasn't sure which, and I was too upset with him to stick around to find out.
28
The sun was shining when I woke up Monday morning, and its warmth and light gave me the courage I needed to go over to Adrienne's house. I wanted to walk through it alone and be with the memories, or the ghosts, or whatever it is the people who take part in the life of a house leave behind. I needed to say good-bye one last time—my way.
I got dressed for the funeral and walked through the fields, letting the mud suck at my sandals. It had a lonely sound, and every once in a while I'd stop and wonder if maybe I should turn back, but I didn't.
When I reached the house I unlocked the front door and stepped into the hallway. I remembered the only other time I had come through the house that way was when Mad Joe had the gun on Daddy. I stood there and remembered, keeping the door open behind me in case I wanted to bolt. And I almost did—the memory was so painful—but then I told myself, No, not this time. I won't run away.
I crept along the hallway and made myself go into the living room. 'Course the first thing I looked for was the Jesus chair, but although everything else was the same as always, the curtains drawn, the fan in the comer, the worn furnishings, it wasn't there, and I wondered again if it was waiting for me in the kitchen with, as Adrienne said, my name on it. The thought gave me the shivers and I decided to march on out to that kitchen and find out. I gave the living room one last glance, letting the memory of Mad Joe and all that blood flash through my mind.
It's okay, I told myself, marching toward the kitchen. It's over. It's all over.
The kitchen didn't look like the same kitchen atall. There were no dishes setting out, or boxes, or sheets; the whole room had been swept clean of Adrienne. It was a kitchen like any other, all except for the painting.
It was her painting, the one she did right after her experiment. I walked up to it and felt that same feeling come over me as the first time I caught sight of it, like my soul had been wiped clear. There was a tag hanging from it. I read it.
"The Holy: Dedicated to Charity Pittman, who always looks for the best in people. Charity, this is my best—Adrienne."
I heard a sound behind me and I jumped away from the painting.
It was Daddy. He stood in front of me in his black suit, his right hand smoothing down his hairpiece.
"Hey, Daddy," I said, wondering if he had come to scold me.
Daddy studied my face, saying nothing. Then he shook his head and said, "You're all grown-up."
"Yes, sir."
He frowned. "I'm going to miss you."
I took a step toward him. "I'm right here, Daddy."
He dug both hands into his pockets and studied his polished shoes awhile. Then he said, still studying the shoes, "You know, I've spent the past few days going over the whole summer in my mind, presenting it to the Lord, and the more I saw what I had done, how I had sent a man to burn in hell, the more I felt—well, that I couldn't forgive myself, and I couldn't expect the Lord to, either. I looked everywhere for an answer—a way out. But each answer just seemed to pull the noose of guilt tighter and tighter around my neck. I was trapped. Lord have mercy, I was trapped. The same way I had trapped you and the family, and this whole town, especially Mad Joe. And I couldn't forgive him for setting me on the wrong side of the Lord, for dragging me down in his sin."
Daddy came up to me and rested one hand on the painting and one on my arm. He looked into my eyes. "Then the Lord spoke to me in the voice of a fourteen-year-old girl, and Lord have mercy, I felt His love, His forgiveness."
"Daddy."
He held up his hand. "My sins—" He cleared his throat. "My sins are even greater than you know. I never cared about the chair. I never really wanted it."
"Oh, but you did. You did. Daddy. We were idol worshiping. You wanted to bust it up with the ax. Remember?"
"Because I wanted you. I was losing you, just like I had lost your mama, and I couldn't have it. Now I see—" He paused, and then said, "I want you and Grace to go stay with your mama."
"Stay with her? Isn't she ever coming back?"
Daddy looked back down at his feet. "No, not to stay." He frowned at me, almost like he wanted to cry. "I'm sorry. Charity. I should have told you and Grace sooner."
I nodded. "Yes, sir, you should have. But—well, I think we already knew. I think we knew the day she left. I think all of us knew, we just weren't saying."
He nodded and dug his hands back into his pockets. He started jingling his change. "So," he said, his voice coming out in a whisper, "this God you believe in, you think He's forgiven me?"
"Yes. Yes, Daddy, you taught me that." I reached out to touch him and he grabbed ahold of me and hugged me.
"I don't want to leave here, Daddy," I said, and he squeezed me tight. "I want to see Mama. I want to talk to her lots, but I don't need to leave. Someday I will, maybe, but not now."
"Praise the Lord," he said. "Praise the Lord."
The two of us carried the painting out to Daddy's car setting in the drive. It took a bit of a struggle, but we finally managed to fit it in the trunk. Then Daddy called to Grace and Boo, saying, "Get up out of that dirt, both of you, we've got us a funeral to go to."
Grace and Boo scooped up the weeds they had pulled from the herb garden and tossed them in the rusted-out wheelbarrow Mad Joe had always used. I watched the two of them wheeling the weeds around to the back of the house, struggling to keep the wheelbarrow straight. I shook my head and looked over the roof of the car at Daddy. He was watching them and laughing. It had been a long time since I'd heard him laugh, and it was this he-he-he kind of laugh, and it reminded me of Mad Joe.
"You know what I believe. Daddy?" I said.
He turned his head.
"I believe when a body dies, a little piece of his soul lives on in the folks he leaves behind. And, Daddy, I believe there's a little bit of Mad Joe in you."
"Well, that's all right, isn't it?" he asked.
I smiled. "It sure is. It sure is."
Chat Page
What is the purpose of Adrienne's sensory deprivation project? Why does it disturb the townspeople?
What qualities does Charity admire in Adrienne?
Why does Reverend Pittman want to destroy the chair? Why does Charity want to save it?
Each character has a different reason for believing in the chair. Why does Sharalee believe in it? Why does Mad Joe? Boo? Charity?
How does Charity feel about her mother's absence?
Many characters in this book are faced with the choice of running away or staying and fighting. Does Charity make the same choice in every situation? Why or why not?
When Adrienne asks what good came of her visions, Charity tells her, "None, I reckon." Do you think any good came of the visions?
Chatting with Han Nolan
Question: How long have you been writing?
Han Nolan: I started writing stories as soon as I could write, or so my mother says. What I remember is reading Nancy Drew mysteries and wanting to write some of my own mysteries. I was about nine years old at the time. Harriet the Spy also influenced me back then. I started spying and keeping a journal. I soon realized that I didn't make a very good spy (I kept getting caught), and that I wanted to write more about my own
thoughts than about the people I spied on. Still, that was the beginning of keeping a journal, and I've kept one ever since. I wrote my first novel-length story in the hopes of getting it published back in 1988.
Q: What is your writing process? Do you work certain hours or days?
HN: I use a computer to write, and I try to write from about five or six o'clock in the morning until about four o'clock in the afternoon. When my children were living at home, I wrote during the hours they were at school and stopped when they came home.
Q: Are your characters inspired by people you know?
HN: I guess they would have to be in some way—but not really. I never sit down to write and think I'm going to write a story based on this person I know. The characters evolve as I'm writing and they act and react to the situations I've created. I never know who I'm going to meet when I write.
Q: How do you come up with story ideas?
HN: I write about things I care about—those things closest to my heart or things that scare me the most. My ideas come from inside me, but they are stimulated by conversations I've had, things I've read, and stories I've heard.
Q: Do personal experiences or details ever end up in your books?
HN: Yes. All the interiors of the houses in my stories come from houses I've been in before. They never come out just the way they are in real life, but in my mind's eye I am picturing a certain familiar house. Casper, Alabama, in Send Me Down a Miracle, was based on a street in Dothan, Alabama, where many of my relatives have lived. The street is named after my great-uncle. I created a small town based on that one street.
Q: Your characters often face a life without one or both parents. What do you hope readers will take away from your exploration of this situation?
