Graceland

by Lynne Hugo

  Bill doesn’t answer, but his mouth is on Madalaine’s so that she cannot say any more. Madalaine unbuckles his belt and opens his pants while Bill undoes his shirt and her bra. There is desperation in their movement; the first gentleness of their comfort gives way to fierceness, though they are more tender with one another than they’d been for years before Bill left.

  Afterward, Madalaine gets up and pulls on a T-shirt and shorts. She roots through a bottom drawer and pulls out a pair of athletic shorts that had been Bill’s in their old life. She tosses them to him, along with an extra-large T-shirt of his that she had long ago taken to wearing as a nightshirt. “Let’s get something to eat,” she says. “I’m actually a little hungry.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “Listen, I…”

  “Don’t say it,” she orders, and for a moment Bill thinks that she is as she was when he left, but she says, softly, “please,” begging him with her eyes, not a trace of anger in them, and he thinks that everything is, indeed, different.

  They make sandwiches, and sit together at the kitchen table. Bill gets himself a beer. “Want one?” Bill asks rhetorically, and does a double take when Madalaine says yes. That’s the thing, he realizes, their past and this loss—beyond the grasp of anyone who isn’t Brian’s parent—make them the only person each of them can turn to, yet they are discovering each other as if they were strangers. After they eat, Bill gets them each another beer and, still at the kitchen table, they go through seven of the eight picture albums that Madalaine has kept since they were married, the ones with pictures of Brian.

  The baby pictures are nearly indistinguishable from the ones of Bill that his mother sent Madalaine when Brian was born. Hairless, squinty and mottled, a day-old Brian in the hospital nursery gazes back at Madalaine, and she strokes the picture as though it were the skin of her newborn. She and Bill turn the pages of his infancy. “Do you remember when he rolled off the changing table? There it is, safety buckle and all,” she says.

  “Oh, God, how could I forget? I thought I’d killed him,” Bill answered and when he hears himself his eyes fill again.

  “It wasn’t really your fault,” Madalaine says for the first time.

  “Yes, it was,” comes the answer, another first.

  “You were a good father.”

  “Not good enough. Look at what I put him through. He was so upset, when I left, you know…” Bill stands up to cover his emotion. He opens the refrigerator and stands looking into it vacantly. He closes the door without touching anything.

  “No, listen to me. That wasn’t about Brian and he knew that. You were a good father to him, even though I got in the way.”

  “I appreciate that, Maddie.” Bill turns around and looks at her, still seated with the toddler album in her lap. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sorry, too.”

  “I ought to be going,” Bill says, running his hand over the top of his head. “I’ll change out of your clothes.”

  “What do you mean, my clothes? They’re yours, and I thought you might stay tonight. I don’t want to be…I mean, Jennifer’s not even here and…”

  “I didn’t know if you’d want me to…with the situation, I mean.” Bill is flustered and his hands gesture meaninglessly as he stands leaning against the kitchen sink for support. It is the closest either will come to mentioning Melody, and Madalaine takes it as a reference to Brian.

  “I meant what I said. You were a good dad to him. You always loved him. Just because we didn’t always agree about how to be parents, I’d never pretend that your loss isn’t as great as mine. It’s our loss. I’m sorry for things I’ve said that sounded like…that.” She trails off, looking down into her lap where her hands hold the album of Brian’s preschool and early elementary school. She is caressing the dark green cover, which is cool and smooth as his cheeks at that age.

  Bill shakes his head, as though in disagreement, but stops and says, simply, “Okay.”

  “Do you want to look at the rest of these pictures?” Madalaine says.

  “Yeah, actually, I do,” Bill answers.

  “Hold on a minute,” Madalaine says, and leaves the room. When she comes back, she is wearing one of Brian’s long-sleeved shirts over her T-shirt. “I was a little chilly,” she says as she sits back down. “He wore this to church last Sunday. I’m so glad I hadn’t washed it.” Madalaine holds out her arm toward him. “Smell—he must have poured on that cologne.”

  Bill obediently sniffs the sleeve she proffers as he comes to the table to sit down with her. He recognizes his own scent, and flashes to himself giving Brian a new bottle of it the week before the prom. He doubles at the waist and puts his head in Madalaine’s lap, where she strokes the back of his head. His hair there is the color and texture of Brian’s.

  A half hour later while they sit in the twilight leaning closer to one another and to the pages of the album at hand, the phone rings. “Let the machine get it,” Madalaine says as Bill begins to rise automatically.

  “But it may be…” Bill begins.

  Madalaine misses his meaning again and interrupts. “I told Jennifer we’d call her. It’s probably Lydia and I don’t want to talk to her.” Bill sits back down. He is not a man who can attend to more than one thing at a time.

  CHAPTER 14

  My mind aches from darting from problem to problem, each one alone too much to encompass, and all together enough to blot the smallest particle of light from the future.

  I put the phone down thinking that Maddie knows it’s me and just won’t answer, even though I know that is ridiculous. She wouldn’t just not answer the phone, knowing how worried everyone is about her. There must have been twenty people who told her she shouldn’t be alone when she refused to let me go with her. You can only do so much; you can’t force someone to accept what you have to give. She wanted no part of the funeral limousine, and left with Bill. Poor Melody stood there trying to look dignified, and I did, too, embarrassed and ashamed, wondering who had heard what at the funeral parlor, and desperate to get back to Claire.

  When I go into the hospital room, I am alone, and I think Claire wonders where Wayne is, but doesn’t ask. She is awake, just staring at the wall, not watching television or even trying to read, too still. I gather a smile and show it to her. It must seem a bizarre grimace; I can feel it fail.

  “Tell me about the funeral,” she says. “I should have been there, I should have…” Claire’s eyes are making new tears, and suddenly I think that I myself may never cry again I am so numb, so far from tears now.

  “Oh, sweetheart. I don’t know what to say. It was very sad. Brian was in his basketball uniform, the warm-ups I mean, and well, there were the calling hours and then a simple service. Here, I brought you this little program they gave out, and a memorial card.” I have already decided I won’t tell her about Madalaine collapsing.

  “He loved basketball so much,” Claire says. “I just don’t understand it, how could God let this happen? Nothing was Brian’s fault.” Now she is sobbing. “It was more my fault. I was the one who said he could come with us.” Claire pulls the sheet up and buries her face in it.

  “It is not your fault,” I say, a certain hard defensiveness to my voice. I try to soften and stretch it out, like pulling too-stiff taffy. “It was not your fault, honey, not at all. You were doing something loving and generous, and it was an accident. Do you want to talk about what—how—it happened?”

  “No. I don’t know. We were having a great time. Kevin had been really nice about all the pictures, but we were running late. We took the back way, you know, to the restaurant and to the prom. Maybe he was going a little fast, but it wasn’t that bad, Mom, or I would have been scared. I did ask him to slow down once…then…” I can see the drama replaying itself across her face, so much that I think she may scream at the moment of impact in her mind. I put my hand out and try to pull her away from the memory, desperate as I am to pull her from that car myself.

  “It’s okay, honey, it’s okay,
you don’t need to.” The truth is maybe that I can’t bear it, but I hope it is her I’m trying to spare.

  “I had to tell the police about it,” she says dully. “Is Kevin going to get in trouble?”

  “I don’t know, honey,” I say softly, and begin adjusting the sheet that is crumpled over her chest to take my eyes off hers. “I don’t know. Do you think you could sleep a bit now?”

  “I can’t sleep. Kevin’s mother said she’d call me with any news. Anyway, I have to get plugged in pretty soon….” Claire juts an elbow toward the housing of the dialysis machine. “What’s going to happen to me? Dr. Douglas said I can be evaluated for a transplant, but meanwhile I have to stay on dialysis. I hate this thing in my arm. She said there’s a way I can do dialysis myself, peritoneal, I think. They’re going to talk to me about it.”

  “Honey, it was an emergency, the shunt, and you’ll just be on dialysis awhile. I’m sure you’ll be a good candidate for a transplant.”

  “If somebody dies…”

  I flinch. “No, not necessarily. I’ve been tested, and so has Dad, and we’re hoping a relative can donate a kidney.” I cannot meet her eyes so I get out of the chair and go adjust the venetian blind that slices the light like an onion. My eyes sting. I cannot tell her that I’m not a match. Not yet.

  “I can’t let you do that, Mom.”

  “It would be the only thing I’d want to do for the rest of my life, Anna Claire. Look at me. That’s the truth. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”

  I leave Claire’s room and just do it. I cannot not do it, no matter what Wayne says. In the hospital lobby there are some phone booths that are little rooms with a chair, a phone book and a pay phone on the wall. Complete privacy, except for the little glass window through which people peek to see if someone is using the phone. These are the places where people make the calls of bad news; I know that as surely as if there’s a neon sign over them, because there are other, out-in-the-open pay phones, near the reception desk where ladies with blue-tinted hair wearing pink jackets and name tags that say Volunteer give room numbers and directions. Those phones are so that joyous news can reverberate relief down the halls. Don’t be afraid, those open phones say. See? Everything works out for the best.

  My footsteps are muffled; the reception area is newly carpeted and painted in shades of muted rose. Hope. You can tell it’s meant that way.

  I pick one of the little private rooms with its own phone and shut the door. I dig around in my purse for my wallet, and from my wallet, from its hiding place behind a collection of updated pictures of Claire, I fish out the folded slip of paper with seven numbers written without a hyphen and backward. I haven’t figured out what to do if I don’t recognize his voice, or if someone else answers, but it turns out not to matter. Three rings is all it takes, long enough for seasons to change. I have to think to breathe, to have the air to get the word out. “John?” I say. “This is Lydia.”

  Wayne is asleep in his recliner in front of the television when I get home. It’s been completely dark outside for quite a while, though I’ve lost track of the exact time. Maybe he’d been waiting up for me, but on the other hand, the lamppost and the porch lights were both off when I drove in, so I guess he wasn’t. I move through the kitchen and put on only the light over the sink. I don’t want to flood any place with light just now. My living room, with its dated green carpeting, and green-and-gold flowered couch and chairs, looks cozy, especially in semidarkness. I’ve made it as homey as I can with pictures and brass lamps, but it’s not nearly as nice as Maddie’s, which is over in a subdivision where teachers and managers live. I used to envy her that. Imagine.

  “Wayne. Wayne, it’s me. I’m home.” I shake his shoulder gently. By the light that makes it this far from the kitchen, I see how old his face has grown. Did this happen in the last week, or was it coming on for months or even years? I realize how long it’s been since I really looked at him. Deep creases fan out from the corners of his eyes, a watery blue when they’re open, and now the hollows around them look nearly black, skeletal, and I know I am seeing bruises from the fist of suffering. He loves Claire; from a silent distance, like an invisible red rose he guards inside himself, he loves her.

  He startles a little and opens his eyes. “It’s me,” I repeat, seeing he is confused. “I just got home from the hospital. I’m sorry I’m so late. Did you get anything to eat?”

  “No,” he says.

  “Do you want me to fix you something?”

  “No.” He lowers the footrest and begins to unfold his body from the chair.

  “Maybe you should stay there a minute. I…need to talk to you.”

  “Is Claire…?” he asks.

  “No. Not Claire. No change, but she’s okay. The funeral hit her hard. Hit us all, I guess, but she’s…” I realize I am letting myself sidetrack, and switch back to where I must make myself go. I pause and then just plain force myself. Like I’m water being driven against my own current, that’s how much I don’t want to go where I must. “I have to tell you. I did it. I called John.”

  “No,” he says. “No way.” And his refusal is as emphatic as anything I’ve ever heard him say, even to a small gesture with his hand. The movement distracts me, and when I look down, I see it hard and balled.

  This next sounds as if it can’t be anything but a story, like someone saying that when she and her new husband came out of church on their wedding day, a perfect rainbow arched right in front of them. But it’s true, one of those times when it seems like the earth conspires with God to warn you. As I gather myself up to tell him, a shift in the weather that may or may not have been forecast—I hadn’t listened to the news for days—rumbles toward us on distant thunder.

  “Yes,” I say, while my heart sounds too fast, too loud inside me. I sit down on the chair nearest his, not all that close.

  “You promised. You said never. You can’t do this to me. You can’t do this to Claire. No. No way.” His voice is some strange new metal.

  “It’s too late, Wayne. I’ve done it. But there’s no choice, don’t you understand? I have to…” I cannot even finish. While I am speaking, his face closes down entirely, like an impenetrable vault door. Maybe, no matter what he ever said, I didn’t believe he wouldn’t see this was what I had to do in the end. But it doesn’t matter. I really mean it. Whatever will give her back her normal life. Whatever. I am strong and destroyed at the same time when Wayne gets up and stares me out of his way. I just sit there without moving, looking at how the stuffed arms of his recliner have darkened like a permanent shadow from the oil of his skin after so long.

  CHAPTER 15

  Neither one of her sisters cares about her in the least. Ellie hasn’t gone to work in a full week, she is too upset. Presley senses tragedy, animals always do, and she’s not wanted to leave him. Of course, Daddy just walks the yard pointlessly rearranging the fenders and tires he keeps out back by the shed and seeing to the withered tomato plants Mama wants, even though every year they get choked out by weeds. Weeds fringe the house like an old woman’s shawl. There’s some Queen Anne’s Lace that’s pretty, though. Ellie picked some last night and put them in a jelly jar on the kitchen table.

  Charles has been driving her flat crazy with his wide, mindless grin and his slurry parroting. Nobody understands, really, that’s the thing. She needs a man to talk to and a place of her own. It’s not as if anyone will leave her alone when she goes in her room, locks the door and plays Elvis’s songs, especially “Hurt,” and the others that are filled with the loneliness of his soul. Every time, though, not ten minutes goes by before Charles is pounding on the door, or Mama is calling her to fetch some fool thing. Mama is crying a lot, too, lodged in her chair like a rock in a river. Ellie will give her that, though she could show some consideration for Ellie’s grief.

  Brian was like a son to Ellie, it’s just like she has lost a son. She knows she is taking it every bit as hard as Maddie, though of course, no one recognizes it.
When did Maddie or Lydie ever recognize anything about their sister? As usual, they’re both just thinking of themselves, leaving her to take care of Mama and Daddy and Charles.

  At five o’clock, she prepares their soup. Chicken with Rice tonight, because Ellie is feeling uneasy at the stomach. She has some trays of meat and cheese, and some rolls that Maddie had Bill bring over, when nobody went back to their house after the funeral. No one comes to the table anymore, not that Ellie cares. She puts the food out and they can get what they want when they want it. Except she takes it in to Mama because it’s hard for Mama to get out of the chair. She needs to lose weight, and a lot of it, but there’s a lost cause if ever there was one.

  Ellie is swiping at the dishes dispiritedly when Wayne, of all people, knocks at the back door. She can see him through the screen, haggard and poorly looking, his face pasty behind his beard, which looks in need of a brushing at the very least. Ellie never has understood why a man would want all that hair on his face mixing into his food.

  “Hey, Ellie,” he mutters, glancing past her and craning his neck toward the living room where Mama and Charles are watching A Current Affair.

  “Hey, Wayne. Lydie’s not here.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, what’re you looking for, then?”

  “Nothin’…” The silence expands with the heat of the room.

  “So, um, have you had supper?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want something to eat?”

  “No.” Wayne is shifting his weight foot to foot. His raw-looking hands hang too far below his sleeves and he is altogether a picture of unkempt awkwardness, like an aged adolescent.

  “So what do you want?” Ellie is staring him down, now. Her sisters have married strange men, nothing like the one she’ll be with if she ever makes it out of here.

  Wayne opens his mouth and shuts it again. A hand goes into a pants pocket and comes back out with a handkerchief he uses to wipe his mouth and then the back of his neck. “Lydia’s not here. Madalaine here?”