by Webb, Peggy
“Furniture making is my hobby,” he says.
His hands are smooth and olive skinned with wonderfully curved thumbs, and I picture them running down the length of a cherry leg, smoothing and polishing. His are the kind of hands that can create a finely turned piece of furniture or slice roast beef with careless ease or mend a broken heart.
Not that Stanley broke mine, not entirely, but no matter how much you want a relationship to end there’s a little piece of your heart that says, Wait, this is familiar; if I leave who will I talk to, who will I build memories with, where will I put my cold feet when I’m searching for a warm spot underneath the covers on a chilly December morning?
Rainman would make cold feet a moot point, because how could any part of you be cold with hands like that all over your body? Hands that can carve a rose?
Hands that belong to somebody with a brain? Lord, now he’s talking to Mama about poetry. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Love poems.
Who will I love? That’s what the split-apart heart wants to know, and here sits a man who speaks of love at the dinner table.
Charlie makes a beeline for me after dinner, but Rainman smoothly cuts him off. Taking my arm, he says, “Maggie, will you show me your sister’s place? I haven’t seen a lake like that since I left Chicago.”
I could kiss his feet. Instead, I settle for enjoying the delicious tingle in my arm where his hand touches. We slip through the French doors and into the moonlight.
“Thank you.” I step apart, expecting him to let go, but oh, he doesn’t, and I feel attractive and desirable and giddy all at the same time.
“No problem.” I like it that he doesn’t make a negative comment about Charlie. This shows character, an old-fashioned virtue, hard to find.
The lake in the moonlight is one of the most romantic places on the farm. Did Rainman pick it deliberately?
“When I was sixteen I wrote a poem about a lake,” he says. “Lake Michigan.”
Yes, yes.
“This one doesn’t compare”
“But it does. It’s not the size but the feelings. There’s something about a lake in moonlight that makes you think you can have everything you want, whether it’s a different life or just a lazy evening fishing.” He slides his hand down my arm, twines his fingers through mine. “What do you want, Maggie?”
This list is short and mundane, but I don’t say, a contract, a mortgage and a dog of my own because he hasn’t asked that kind of question. What I say is, “Magic.”
He kisses my hand, just that, but it feels like more, and we stand at the lakeside with the moment pulsing between us while we watch the venturing moon leave silver tracks across the water.
Finally this word-struck man with the talented hands says he has to go and I escort him to his car.
“Thank you for inviting me, Maggie. I don’t often get to be part of a family gathering.”
Why? I wonder, but I don’t ask. I don’t want him to think I’m interested. Well…I am, but not in a personal sort of way that would lead to dinner for two and music in the moonlight and crisp white shirts on the floor. Currently I’m a ship with a hole in its hull, not the kind you’d want to climb aboard and set sail with.
“I’m glad you could come,” I say.
“I’d like to see you again. Friday night? Dinner…for two this time.”
Does he read minds? I hope not. In spite of my ship-wrecked condition, mine is tangled on the floor with his white shirt and his briefs. Skimpy ones. Black. I know because no man with long, muscular legs like his would be caught dead in boxers.
I would wear something soft and feminine, a crinkled silk broomstick skirt, rose like the carvings on his furniture, and I’d go bare-legged, toenails painted shiny vermillion. Maybe I’d put glitter polish on top so it would look like I’m walking among stars.
Yes, is what I’m thinking, but I say, “Mama’s health is not good, and I’m taking care of her right now.” Does he think I’m making excuses, that he’s not my type? It’s been so long I don’t even know if I have a type.
Neither of us moves. Do I shake his hand? Turn and go into the house? What? I feel old and out of practice, an Edsel that got scrapped because it was a market dud, a bad idea, a terrible design.
Suddenly I feel Rainman’s hand in my hair, and he’s twining one untamed curl around his finger. “Some other time,” he says, and then he’s gone.
Oh…. I never even told him that sometimes he’s the only person I can talk to.
*
“Maggie, are you still out there?” Jean is calling to me from inside her house, and when she steps onto the porch with me, the moonlight turns her hair to fairy dust. “What are you doing?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Just breathing.”
“It feels good, doesn’t it?”
Jean kicks her shoes off, and we stand side by side looking up at the stars. Without the competition of city lights, they’re so brilliant they seem to burn in the night sky. A huge advantage of country living.
Another is the night sounds. Instead of the hum and drone of traffic outside my apartment window, I hear the summer song of cicadas, the violin chirp of crickets and the deep bass note of a big bullfrog in the pond south of Jean’s house.
“The guests have all gone,” Jean says.
“I know. I can’t go back in just yet. I need some time to think.”
“About Joe? He seems like a nice guy.”
“I don’t have time for men. I’ve got to do a writer’s workshop. Earn a little money. I can’t continue living on Mama’s charity.”
“It’s not charity. We’re family. And you’d better not let Mama hear you say that. She’d kill you.”
“She probably will anyhow. We’d better get back in there.”
Mama and Aunt Mary Quana are having a big argument – they call it a discussion – about whether Mama ought to go to Atlanta and live with her sister in the Golden Age Retirement Home.
“I’ve got my own house, Mary Quana, and I’m not fixing give it up to live with a bunch of old farts who eat prunes for breakfast.”
“You’d better be careful who you call names, Victoria. For your information, I’m the only one of us driving.”
“I’ve got Maggie…and Walter, when he’s here.”
Instead of getting into the middle of this fray, I excuse myself, go into the kitchen and start pouring coffee. Decaf because I don’t want insomnia.
By the time I get back to the den with coffee, Jean’s sitting in Walter’s recliner biting her fingernails and Mama and Aunt Mary Quana are sitting on opposite sides of the room not speaking.
“Let’s all drink and make up,” I say.
“Nothing wrong with me,” Mama argues. “It’s Mary Quana who’s got her nose out of joint.”
“Well, all right,” Aunt Mary Quana says. “Put a little Jack Daniels in there, and I’ll drink to that.”
Jean fetches the bottle, and while Aunt Mary Quana is getting tipsy and Mama’s falling asleep in her chair, we slip into the kitchen to do dishes.
“Maggie, will you be all right with Mama and Aunt Mary Quana for a few days? Walter’s flying into San Francisco, and wants me to join him.”
Her face is flushed and her skin shines as if it has been polished with Ajax. Desire winds around the kitchen like a strangler fig, and I have a hard time keeping my mind off a pair of fine olive-skinned hands on a clean white shirt, popping buttons and ripping aside restraints.
“Go ahead, Jean. Have a big time. We’ll be fine.”
Aunt Mary Quana goes home with us, following my Jeep in her outrageous Caddy, and it’s midnight before I get them settled into bed.
At two o’clock I startle awake with a unicorn dancing through my head. Dream? Prophecy? Past-life memory? He’s so real, so splendid and still so vivid that I know he’s important.
I snap on the light, and by the time I’ve found my bedside notepad, I already know what he is – the beginning of an idea, a magnificent science-fic
tion/fantasy that’s nothing like my cozy cat mysteries.
With everything blocked out except the words that tumble forth so fast my hands can barely keep up, I scribble until the pink fingers of dawn touch my windowsill.
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Chapter Eleven
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“July is coming in with a bang, folks. As my granddaddy used to say, it’s raining cats and dogs out there. Man, what a storm. Don’t drive in it unless you have to. The streets are dark and wet and slippery.”
Rainman
Jean has been in San Francisco for four days, and here I am on a midnight run to the emergency room. Mama’s in the back seat in a nest of blankets and pillows and Aunt Mary Quana’s perched on the edge of the passenger seat like a small yellow bird about to take flight – yellow terry bathrobe unbelted, yellow fuzzy-duck slippers beating a tattoo on the floorboard and yellow night shirt declaring Who Made You Queen? I Didn’t Resign.
“Go a little faster, Maggie,” she says. “Lord, we’re never going to make it at this speed.”
Mama raises herself from the pile of pillows on the back seat and says, “Mary Quana, will you shut up? I’m the one dying here, not you.”
Fifteen minutes ago when I found Mama heaving on the side of the bed, she asked for the doctor instead of Pepto-Bismol.
I called Dr. Holman, and he’s waiting for us at the hospital.
“Gallstones,” he finally tells us.
“Cut me open and take them out,” Mama says.
“Let’s get you in a room tonight and get you comfortable.”
“I’m sick and tired of putting up with these old things. Lately, I’ve been sick as a dog. Go ahead and get them out.”
“We’ll discuss options tomorrow,” he says, and for once, Mama doesn’t talk back. But only because the pain medication has taken effect and she’s falling asleep.
While the staff settles Mama into a room and Aunt Mary Quana’s occupied with a hot cup of coffee, I have a private talk with Dr. Holman.
“This is serious, Maggie. The gallstones could go into her bile duct and cause pancreatitis, which could be fatal. But with her weakened heart, the surgery might also kill her.”
I feel as if I’m climbing a mountain with no end in sight.
“Mama’s strong-willed and determined,” I tell him. “Doesn’t that count for something?”
“It does. Still, the risks of surgery are monumental.” He pats my hand. “You look tired, Maggie. Sleep on it.”
“I will.”
But first I have to climb another little hill - call Jean, which I dread. Problems have a way of getting inside her and eating her alive. To thrive, she requires “normal.”
I don’t even know what that is anymore.
I dial her cell phone, and when she answers, sounding perky and rested, I almost say, I was planning to do a workshop two weeks from Tuesday, and I wanted to confirm that you’ll be home to take care of Mama.
But then, what if they do surgery and Mama dies? Jean would never forgive me.
I tell her about the seriousness of Mama’s current situation, leaving out the part that she might not survive. I won’t let myself think about that.
“Walter and I will get the next flight out….” Jean’s crying. I can’t tell. “Maggie…did you hear me? I’m coming home.”
My sister’s words let me slump against the wall, drained. How do you accept a situation that is intolerable? How do you keep on putting one foot in front of the other when the only person who knows the road is drifting slowly away and might not come back?
“Maggie.” Aunt Mary Quana is standing in the doorway of Mama’s room. “Are you coming in?”
“Just a minute,” I say, and it’s only after she goes back inside that I realize I’m crying.
I wipe my face, take a deep breath and tell myself, Buck up, Mama’s in there fighting and so should you. Then I push open the heavy door and walk through.
There’s a word for what I’m doing. It’s called faith. And sometimes it’s the only thing that lets you go on.
*
At 5:00 a.m. I leave Aunt Mary Quana snoring in the lounge chair beside Mama’s bed and drive home to take care of Jefferson. The radio dial is still set to WTUP. When I hear Rainman saying, “It’s going to be a nice day today, folks. Plenty of sunshine after the big storm last night. Don’t forget the big Fourth of July celebration at Ballard Park. WTUP will be here all day, broadcasting.”
I could use a celebration – brass bands and marching music, red-white-and-blue cabanas and Rainman smelling of Irish Spring soap, charming the crowd – and me – with his patter.
There’s a wistfulness in this kind of thinking, a sadness that feels as I’m in mourning. And maybe I am. My coming-alive feelings are withering from neglect.
Rainman plays something jumpy and nerve-wracking that jerks me out of the doldrums, hi-hop stuff by a recording artist who probably has a name like Ham and Jam or Big Bad Mama.
Mama looked so pale and small lying under the white hospital sheets. Faded. Like a photograph that’s been left in the sun, the picture slowly bleaching until all that’s left is an outline, a faint shadow of the vibrant person who once occupied the frame.
I switch the radio off because even if Rainman had called, I’d have said no. It’s lovely having him as a disembodied voice, somebody who listens to my problems and never judges, never overreacts no matter what I say. He’s like a pen pal in Switzerland or New Zealand, somebody I’ve been corresponding with for years, a distant friend who understands. Always.
Well… It’s a darned good thing I’ll never see him again because he’d have a hard time living up to that fantasy.
I park the Jeep under Mama’s magnolia tree and go to the kennel to tell Jefferson about Mama. Not that he doesn’t already know. Dogs have a sixth sense about these things.
His ears are flattened and his mouth is drooping in mournful lines. I lean down, wrap my arms around him and press my face into his fur. He smells like kennel dust and summer sunshine and loyalty. He smells like home.
I want to take him into Mama’s house and lie down beside him on the rug, put my head on his chest and fall asleep with the sound of his big, solid heartbeat in my ear. I want to forget about hospitals and emergency rooms and surgeries that can destroy battered, worn-out hearts.
I need a break. I don’t want to think about tanked careers and shrinking bank accounts and failed relationships and workshops that might net enough to plug a small hole in the dam but will do nothing to shore up the walls and stop the plummeting flood of finances.
Inside, I check my e-mails and run my fingers across the items on my day planner: call editor, assemble workshop notes, check want ads for temp job, create unicorn file. The last notation is my shorthand way of launching a novel that burst into flames the night Rainman came to Jean’s dinner party. I’m raring to write, itching to tap into that beautiful flow, but, oh, I can barely keep my eyes open.
I lie on Mama’s sofa and close my eyes, just for a moment, while Jefferson stretches on the rug beside me. When he jars me awake with feet-flailing, mock-bark dreams of chasing rabbits, I slump with my head in my hands, groggy and guilty. Good daughters don’t sleep while sickness stalks their mothers.
I ease up so I won’t wake him, then go into Mama’s room to pack her good nightgowns, the ones she saves for special occasions. I want to open my mouth and scream until I’m hoarse. Nobody’s special occasion should be the hospital.
*
By four o’clock, Jean and Walter are back from San Francisco, and we all gather in Mama’s hospital room discussing options.
Mama’s sitting up, her color partially restored. I don’t know whether it’s from medication or a reflection of her red gown. Whatever the source, she’s revived enough to put an end to our endless agonizing over whether she should risk surgery.
“I’m having it,” she says. “It’s my body, and I’ll do what I want to. You might as well not say another
word.”
And so we don’t.
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Chapter Twelve
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“It’s another sunny day in July, and if you didn’t catch the Independence Day celebration at Ballard Park, you missed a treat.”
Rainman
“We didn’t catch it, Rainman,” I tell him, “but we have another reason to celebrate. Mama made it through her surgery…and she’s already home.”
Jean stops biting her fingernails long enough to reach over and turn off the radio. I expect her to give me a look, or even a lecture, but she merely sits in the passenger side of the Jeep staring out the window.
“Are you depressed because Walter’s gone again?” Ireland this time, I think.
“No.”
“Well, you’re going to have to perk up and tell me where to turn. We’re fixing to hit the first red light, and I need to know where we’re going. And it had better not be Peaceful Rest Funeral Home. I’m not in the mood to casket hunt.”
“Wal-Mart. And that’s all I’m saying.”
I drive Jean to Wal-Mart all the time while Walter’s out of town. Why should picking up toilet paper make her look as if she’s just witnessed the massacre of elephants for their ivory tusks?
When she called this morning I was giving Mama a bath. “Light candles, Maggie,” she told me. “Put on a CD. I want to celebrate coming home again.”
Although Mama was not in the tub, merely sitting on a bath chair while I sponged her, I lit candles all around – rose scented, pink and rose and ruby red, candles that cast both of us in flattering light while Eric Clapton crooned “Wonderful Tonight.” When he came to the line about brushing your long blond hair, Mama said, “I might get a wig.”
“You’ve got plenty of hair and it’s not even gray.” This is her Cherokee heritage, this thick black hair that’s barely sprinkled with silver.
