“But not with that line through Miss Suzanna’s name.”
“What’s so funny about that?”
“I can’t explain it. Just come look.”
“Is this some kind of trick?”
“No.”
A sign in the activity room, taped to the wall above the microwave, reads:
PLEASE! ! ! ! !
DO NOT USE MICROWAVE WHEN
ANY OF THE FOLLOWING
ARE IN THE ROOM:
PEGGY JOHNSON
GERALD SWENSON
MAUDIE LOWE
SUZANNA DAMPIER
BETTY WISE
VIRGINIA MCDONALD
“See that?” says Carrie.
“I been seeing it for three years.”
“But not with a line through a name like that.”
“She went home.”
“I know that, but it look like the microwave killed her.”
“What’s so funny about that?” Latricia scratches behind her ear with her long blue-and-white fingernail.
“Did I say I wish I had my mind and your body?”
“I think you probably did,” says Latricia, turning and heading back to the night desk.
ON THE COUCH in their living room, Faye Council is telling her husband, Manley, about the preacher’s plan. “He was practicing on me yesterday afternoon in therapy—this sermon. It goes all over the place. Going to change the world. He preaches like some of them oldtimers on the radio, and he’s going to lay it on the line tonight.” She looks at her watch. “Already has.”
“Hand me that remote,” says Manley.
CARL MOVES HIS RADIO into his bedroom, then sits on the side of the bed with the bass guitar across his knee. He turns the radio on, adjusts the volume, finds 92.3 FM, the bluegrass station, and listens. The third song he recognizes; he finds the key, B, and starts playing. It’s fast, but he is keeping up. It goes from a B down two frets and then back up to a B. He is playing along. He stands, looks at himself in the mirror. “Yonder stands little Maggie,” he sings. He gets off somehow, but then gets back in. It doesn’t sound great, what he’s doing, but he still likes the way he looks with the guitar hanging around his neck, kind of low at his waist. He stands, waiting for the next song.
Mr. Flowers Needs to Go
CLARENCE RHODES IS FURIOUS. He drives over the speed limit—rare for him. A phone-mailbox message, in a voice he didn’t recognize, has just told him that an L. Ray Flowers is starting a religious cult at one of his convalescent homes. Clarence remembers the name from twenty years ago or more—something in the papers about IRS problems or something.
Clarence will go straight to the horse’s mouth, something he is good at. He will talk to Flowers. Rosehaven is about to be sold to Ballard College, and this cult business is just the kind of thing that could turn Ted Sears, the college president, away. Sears is a solid Christian, and Rosehaven is going to be a good place for Sears to retire some of their donors to, elderly, rich donors, mostly old ladies whom Sears and his men have—what’s the word?—asked to donate their life savings to Ballard. A Ballard lawyer prepares wills and trusts, while others at Ballard provide services such as lawn mowing, painting, nursing care. There have been a few lawsuits about it, but they don’t go anywhere, of course. What better use, what more Christian use of an old person’s money, than for the Christian education of America’s youth? Those children who have sued are just showing the world what kind of selfish, mealymouthed offspring they are. If they’d taken care of their parents, their parents wouldn’t be leaving their money to Ballard. Kaput. Simple as that. And now, just as his people and Sears’s people are nearing agreement on a price, here’s this L. Ray Flowers character. What in God’s name is he up to? You can never tell about a Pentecostal. You can never tell. Fringe stuff.
He pulls into the parking space marked DOCTOR. It’s always empty.
And there sits Anna behind her desk, poring over notes. Clarence wishes all his workers were as dedicated. “Hello, Anna. Which is Mr. Flowers’s room?”
Anna stands. “202, sir.”
“Do you know anything about him starting a religious cult of some sort?”
“I don’t think it’s a cult, Mr. Rhodes. It’s more some kind of movement he’s dreamed up.”
“Movement?”
“Something about making churches and nursing homes interchangeable. That’s all I know. I don’t think it’s going to amount to much.”
“What is he . . . ? I need to talk to him. We don’t need his kind of church work. I’ll be right back.” He starts down the hall, stops, returns to Anna’s office, sticks his head in her door. “When is he scheduled to be out of here?”
Anna stands again. “Theoretically, as soon as he can bend his knee ninety degrees and walk comfortably. His niece is working with a neurologist to get a recommendation for him to stay, I think—something about some seizures a few years ago. She thinks he has mental problems. The ladies like him, I can tell you that. He sings gospel music and funny songs, and—”
“I’ll be right back. I just need to find out what’s going on.”
Clarence has never had a better social worker than Anna. And she is so attractive. So efficient. He’ll actually go out of his way to stop in and talk to her. And she always seems to know what is going on everywhere in the building. If he were to create some kind of assistant CEO of Caregood, Inc., she would be the one. A woman, at that. No problem. And she always has that twinkle in her eye. One reason he is able to keep her happy is his own concern for the elderly, his own understanding that he is answering a call from God. He runs a good, clean, wholesome business, a business that at base relies on the foundation of family, the sanctity and sacredness of the family. The family—an institution that seems doomed by a greed-driven entertainment industry run by weak-kneed, infidel sniff-heads the nation over. And yep, his nursing people wear caps and uniforms. One of the best ideas he ever had. It makes the old people feel safe.
L. RAY IS UNDER a lamp, rewriting a sermon. He has finished five now, and figures about twelve will be needed to launch his movement. He is trying to think of a word other than seven or eleven that rhymes with heaven. Leaven? As in leaven bread?
Two hard knocks on the door.
“Come in.” The door opens and there is Rhodes, the fellow who owns the place, looking like he always looks—busy. What does he want? “Mr. Rhodes. Come in, sit down—just put that stuff in the chair on the table there. What can I do for you?”
“Mr. Flowers,” says Rhodes.
L. Ray takes the extended hand; it’s big for a relatively short man. Rhodes is dressed up in a navy pin-striped suit with a white shirt and a red tie. His big face is flat and pale. He’s got cancer or something, thinks L. Ray. Bad color.
“I need to ask you a few questions.” Rhodes picks up several magazines and a yellow pad from the armless chair, sits down while glancing at the pad, lays them all on a table beside the chair, looks at the pad again, then at L. Ray. “About this movement you’re starting.”
So that’s it. “Mr. Rhodes—may I call you Clarence?” L. Ray rolls his chair a couple of feet forward, his eyes on Rhodes, now seated across the room.
“Certainly.”
“How old are you, Clarence, if I may ask?”
Clarence pauses. What the heck is going on here? he thinks. “Fifty-nine. But I—”
“I’m sixty-two. I can answer your questions, I think, with a brief overview: I’ve had four open-heart surgeries and suffer from fatigue sometimes. So I’m at a place in this old world where my life has caught up with me, and the other day I had a vision from God, through two Rose-haven ladies, that will bring to fruition Jesus’ commandment to care for the wretched of the world. I aim to start a volunteer movement to turn all nursing homes into churches and all churches into nursing homes. That’s it. That’s the show. What will come after that—given the potential spirit of love and concern created among strangers and people of all ages and religions—will be no telling what
.”
“ ‘People of all religions’? Mr. Flowers, America is in danger. Danger from within. You no doubt know that. We’re starting a new millennium with Christianity more watered-down than at any time in history. Watered down by Americans. We can’t afford watered-down Christianity. And frankly, I’ve gotten some complaints.”
“About . . . ?”
“About your movement, religion, whatever it is, and that’s why I’m here. I’ll be frank.” Clarence leans forward, drops an elbow to his knee. “I’m not a philosopher or theologian. I don’t read books except for the Bible and Tom Clancy. So my point is, I want to know exactly what’s going on.”
“Let me say it in a different way, Clarence. This all started a while back when I was fishing out on McGarren Island and . . .”
OUT ON THE PORCH, in her wheelchair with her back against the wall, sits Darla Avery. She has seen the owner of the place go into L. Ray’s room. He must be a friend. L. Ray is Mr. Connections; he can win over the devil—until he shows his hand.
Mr. Albright, her teacher, had been standing at the library door greeting students. She and L. Ray got in line behind a few couples. They had to show the tickets handed out in school that day.
In the big library room, a book smell held on above the punch and cookie and balloon and crepe paper smell. There was a record player, operated the whole time by Paul Douglas, who was also in shop. Paul was certified retarded.
Darla could dance like a fool—Glenda had taught her—and so could L. Ray, so that’s exactly what they did. They danced just about every dance, bebopping. People would stop dancing and stand to watch them. Dancing turned her on. Like nothing else. When she did it real hard, she could pick up a leg and twist and turn and bend in a way that felt like little lightning bolts of gold. And the way L. Ray moved when he was dancing made her hungry for love, even at her age, or maybe especially at her age.
That’s how it was—people dancing, and she and L. Ray dancing like fools, sweating their heads off—and she was having one of the best times of her life. They danced and drank punch and danced and drank punch and ate cookies and potato chips, and more than once, people stood and watched them dance all over the place, all that gold lightning zipping through her, and she was thinking to herself, This is what my life in high school is going to be like. Boys would watch her dance and would be asking her to football games and dances all the way through high school, and she’d be a cheerleader and popular and very happy.
Parents came to pick up their children, sticking their heads in the library to look for their son or daughter, or stepping inside for a minute or two to watch and wait.
She and L. Ray were among the last to leave. They walked down that long wood-floored hall and out the door. She remembered that door, how heavy it was, the clanky handles. On this night, L. Ray held it open for her.
“Boy, that was fun, fun, fun,” he said. “Want to go out to the Club Oasis for a little while?”
“Sure.” She was game for just about anything.
They stopped at the Blue Light, and inside, L. Ray bought two tall Busches, then brought them out to the car in a paper bag. “Reach in that glove compartment and get me that church key,” he said. He opened each beer with a swoosh, and then punched a little hole at the other side of the can top. “Drink up, Darla. Here’s to a long and happy life.” They clunked their beer cans together and she took a swallow. It was cold and it helped her move right on toward the top of the world, where she knew she was headed. Then he pushed in the lighter, and since he was driving, she lit them both a cigarette. She was in the boat of her life heading down the River of Heightened and Met Desires.
Inside the Club Oasis she didn’t know too many of the girls, because for one thing they were all older. But she and L. Ray danced and danced and danced and sweated and sweated and sweated and went outside and smoked a cigarette, and Darla thought L. Ray might try to kiss her, but he didn’t, and then they showed the stamps on their hands and went back inside.
• • •
DOWN IN 202, Clarence makes himself listen to Flowers.
“Like the entertainment we’re fed these days,” continues Flowers. “I’m sure you’ll agree it’s sick. Right?”
“Yes.” The man can talk, thinks Clarence.
“Very sick. Well, I’m starting with old people. And I’m—”
“Okay. I have no problems with that, but what you’re doing can be better handled at Mount Gilead Baptist Church, or Bethel Baptist, or any number of fine Southern Baptist churches we have in Hansen County.”
“My movement is not unlike America. It’s—”
“America was founded by Christians, Mr. Flowers. It’s never needed more than that, and that’s what it needs now. It’s a Christian nation, under God, indivisible. It doesn’t need—”
“I intend to do all I can to make Jesus proud. And this nation, by the way, was founded by men who were not Christians, exactly. I can’t remember what they were—something. And ‘under God’ was stuck in there in the fifties, in the McCarthy era.”
Clarence rises to leave. He knows it’s the exact right moment. “This is not a threat, of course, but you need to know,” he says, looking around the room—for what, he isn’t sure—“that I own this establishment, and if my residents feel in any way threatened or insecure or afraid, or worried, then I’ll have to do something about it, pronto.
So that’s all I have to say right now. I just mainly want to get our conversation on record.” He needs to move on.
“Thank you for stopping in.”
Not as impressed upon as he ought to be, thinks Clarence.
“And pick up an apple there on your way out,” says L. Ray. “They’re Galas. I just discovered them. Got tired of the Delicious and decided to innovate.”
Back in Anna’s office, Clarence tells her, “When he gets his leg straightened out, Mr. Flowers needs to go.”
O Brother
CARL PULLS HIS TAURUS into a spot in the parking lot of Meadow Hill Gardens. It looks like Anna lives in a corner town house. As he climbs the brick steps, he notices that they have separated an inch or so from the wooden porch. He rings the doorbell and concentrates on relaxing his vocal cords. “Hello, Anna,” he practices in his lowest voice. “Hi there, Anna. What’s up?”
The door opens. She is dressed in a plain black dress. A little girl with clear brown eyes holds to her leg and looks up at him.
“Hey, Anna,” he says, his voice back up.
“Come in, Carl.”
He steps up into the house, looks straight ahead—eyes level—at Anna’s mouth, then up into her eyes.
Anna steps back. “This is Ruth.”
“Hey,” says Carl.
Ruth moves behind her mother.
Carl looks around; he hadn’t known what to expect. The place looks comfortable and nice. If he’d been asked to picture where she lived, this would have been it.
“Have a seat,” says Anna. “I’m in back with the sitter. I’ll be right out.” As she turns, Carl looks at the heels of her shoes. They are flat. He’d been hoping for heels.
He checks the words inked into the palm of his left hand as he sits down in a big, comfortable chair: flowers, children, kidney infections, your job, Mr. Rhodes. He doesn’t want to end up in the middle of long silences. The chances are lower, he figures, with Anna. She has energy and force, and character. Or seems to. In his mind he rehearses asking, What do you think about Mr. Flowers?
He looks up. Ruth is sitting in a chair across the way, staring at him. Anna and the sitter are talking in a back room. What can he say to Ruth? He looks in his hand. Nothing there. “And your name is Ruth?”
“Yes.”
She doesn’t say, Yes sir. Who does anymore? “That’s a pretty name.”
“My mama has a boyfriend.”
“Oh, is that right?”
“Yes. And he’s a policeman.”
“Oh. Is that right?”
“He’s got a gun, too.”
“That’s good to know.” What the . . . ? Was she joking?
Ruth says nothing. She slides from her seat and starts toward the back bedroom.
“I hope he doesn’t shoot me,” says Carl. He is thinking she might laugh, but she doesn’t; he guesses she’s too young. A policeman? Was that true?
Anna and the sitter are coming down the hall. He stands. Ruth has joined them.
“What are you two talking about?” Anna asks Ruth.
Ruth says nothing.
“I was just asking her name,” says Carl.
“Mama, he’s short.”
“Sweetie, no, he’s not. And what if he is?”
Oh boy, thinks Carl.
“Carl,” says Anna, “this is Jennifer, our sitter. I’d introduce you to Lauren, but she’s just about asleep. She’s not feeling very well.”
“How do you do?” Carl steps forward, extending his hand. Jennifer steps backward and holds out a limp hand.
“You’ve got the cell number,” Anna says to Jennifer, “and Ruth, Jennifer has some dessert for you in the kitchen. And remember, bedtime is at eight-thirty.” She turns with a smile to Carl. “Ready?”
“Let’s hit the road,” says Carl. He relaxes his vocal cords, but too late. If he says something now, it will sound funny.
• • •
HE IS HAPPY to see O Brother again, and afterward at the Slam Dunk Sports Bar, he sits with a 7UP on ice in front of him. Anna drinks from a glass of Diet Coke. He thought about drinking a beer, just to show her he can and will, but she ordered first, and he decided to play it safe. He doesn’t want to offend her in any way. A small bowl of bar mix sits between them. They talk about the movie for a while. She doesn’t seem to have liked it as much as he did, but she does ask him questions about the music, about Ralph Stanley and the Whites. He’s seen them perform live. There is a period of silence. Ball games are on the four TV screens. She smiles.
Lunch at the Piccadilly Page 7
