[ EIGHTEEN ]
GEORGE, GOLDIE’S HUSBAND, tossed a cigarette butt out their Buick window onto the school parking lot. I glanced over my shoulder to see if Mr. Howard was watching. How weird to think of that.
Goldie took my suitcase and put it in the front seat before crawling into the back with me. No one said a word. I closed my eyes, praying that when I opened them I would be in Mr. Apple’s classroom learning about the evil tax the British had imposed on tea.
George started the car, grinding the engine. I turned my head away from Goldie and stared out the window where I saw a red and purple and yellow blur of grade-schoolers on the playground. I gnawed on my lower lip until the taste of blood came into my mouth.
“What happened?” Was that my voice? It sounded far away.
“Your daddy asked us to pick you up and tell you your mama was gone, to heaven, like I said.” Goldie patted my knee, her breathing heavy. “He wants to tell you the rest.”
“He won’t tell me.” I turned and looked into her eyes. “I know he won’t. He’ll gloss it over, make up some story about everything working out for the best. My mother is dead. That’s what you said.”
“I’m so sorry….”
“It wasn’t an accident, though, was it? You would have said, ‘Your mother was killed’ or, ‘There’s been a terrible accident,’ but you didn’t.”
Goldie’s face sagged with little bags around the corners of her mouth.
My insides twisted together as I tried to imagine what Mama had done. How? Why? When? My eyes burned, hot and dry. The blood from biting my lips had a metallic taste like the way a penny smells when you hold it in your sweaty hand. What did Mama do?
“Did she slit her wrists? Swallow some more pills? Please… you have to tell me.”
Goldie didn’t say a word. Just sat there, her jaw muscle twitching.
“She was my mother. I have a right to know.” Inside I didn’t want to know. If Goldie spoke the words out loud, it would be true. Mama killed herself. I waited for the answer, my muscles bunched into knots.
“Your daddy should be the one to tell you, but…” Goldie stopped, looked at George, and then told me in a voice like sandpaper. “Slim Wallace drove his truck along your street this morning, checking which incinerators needed to be cleaned out. He found Scarlett yipping and squirming out by your row of garages. He thought your mama forgot to let her back in, so he picked her up and took her to the back door. When no one answered, he opened the door and called. Scarlett nipped him on the arm and jumped down, running back to the garages and pawing at the closed door. That’s where he found her.” Goldie patted my hand, then picked it up and held it in her cold, clammy one. “Honey, your mama died from hanging herself.”
Liquid rose in my throat, more bitter than a green persimmon, and I leaned my head against the hard vinyl seat of the Buick. The world swirled gray around me, and when I tried to speak, my mouth felt as dry as a cotton ball. No words would come. My fingers and toes went numb, then my arms and legs. When I tried to swallow, my throat filled with even more bitterness, and I screamed, “Stop. Stop the car!”
I waited until George pulled over before yanking on the door handle. I jumped out and heaved in the dry grass, letting slime and vomit pour out of me. Every time I retched, tears sprang from my eyes. Over and over, I puked. Twice, three times. Six. I lost count, just letting my insides roll out every time a cramp came until at last the puking stopped, leaving me empty. And hollow.
Goldie wiped the mess from my face with George’s handkerchief and guided me back to the car. She held me quivering in her arms all the way home. Then she guided me into the house where Daddy sat like a stiff wooden soldier in his rocker. Other people were there too—faces I don’t remember, standing like they’d been waiting for me to arrive. No one said a word, just looked from Daddy to me to Goldie.
Daddy pushed himself up and came to me. “Sis…” He wrapped his arms around me. “It’s Mama.”
“I know. Goldie told me.”
He ran his rough hand over the back of my hair and everyone kept on not saying anything. When a knock came at the front door, George opened it and nodded for Daddy. A man wearing a black suit said Daddy needed to sign a paper. He stepped out onto the porch. I went to the window, saw Daddy shake hands with the man, and then the man in the suit walked to the end of the sidewalk. A long, black station wagon with darkened windows drove up, collected the man, and they drove off. No one said, but I knew Mama was in the back of that car.
I wanted to run after them and yell at Mama to come back. Don’t leave me. I’ll be a better daughter. I’ll stay home from school and take care of you. The words pounded in my head so loud I figured everyone in the room could hear them. I watched, and when the black car turned onto the road up the center of camp, I bit my lip, then lifted my hand to my mouth and blew Mama a kiss.
Mama! The voice in my head screamed. My insides started shaking so hard I thought I would burst. Daddy came back in and put his arm around me, but I shoved him away. Daddy had done this. He could have stopped Mama. All that talk about going back to that hospital did it.
“It’s okay, Sis. There tweren’t nothing we could do.” He put his hand on my arm, but I flung it off.
“It’s all your fault! You wouldn’t listen to her.” I glared at him, his outline fuzzy through the tears staining my eyes. “She said she would die before she went back to that place. You could have stopped her.”
I ran into my room, threw myself on the bed, and hammered on my pillow with my fists. I wanted to hammer Daddy and all those people who said Mama would be fine. Just fine. She would never be fine again, and neither would I. I beat on the pillow until my arms ached and I couldn’t lift them anymore. Then I curled into a ball and shut my eyes to keep back the river of tears. Dead. I wish I were dead like Mama.
Inside I felt as cold as if I were.
I must’ve fallen asleep because when I woke up, a woolly blanket had been tucked around me. The morning haze filtered in my window, and far away, in some other world, Goldie’s parakeets chirped. A faint smell of maple syrup drifted to my nose, and it surprised me that I still had on my school clothes from the day before. A small tan circle of the washed-off maple syrup remained on the front of my blouse. Maybe Mama made waffles again this morning.
A knot formed in my throat.
I turned to face the ceiling and noticed for the first time the faint pattern of lines left by a paintbrush. I followed the lines back and forth, up and down, not letting anything come into my mind. My stomach growled, and I needed to go to the bathroom, but my legs and arms felt like they had weights attached to them. Moving would take all my energy.
Daddy poked his head into my room, and I turned my head the other way.
“Sis…” He sat on the edge of my bed, but I shut my eyes tight to keep from looking at him. “Some of the neighbors brought food. It’d be best if you got up and ate a bite.”
How does he know what’s best? The urge to pee got stronger, so I swung my legs over the bed and, without looking at Daddy, shuffled into the bathroom. My mouth tasted sour, so I brushed my teeth and then let the water run hot so I could wash my face. In the mirror I saw the same old Sammie and wondered how I could look the same when inside I felt shriveled and old.
I found Daddy in the kitchen hunched over a cup of coffee. He looked as ancient as Slim. Our kitchen counters had enough food for a church bake sale. Cookies and pies covered with cellophane. Unknown dishes hidden under tinfoil. “Where’d all this come from?”
“Neighbors. Church ladies. I can recommend Irene Flanagan’s cinnamon rolls, right there by the toaster, if you’re hungry.”
“I’m not…. Maybe some juice.” Hams, casserole dishes, and fried chicken jammed the icebox, but no juice. “Who’s supposed to eat all this food?”
“You and me, I guess.”
My stomach lurched up into my throat.
Daddy took a slurp of coffee. “Gotta go to the funeral home later
and take the clothes for Mama to wear. I thought her blue dress with the lace collar. The dress matches her eyes.”
“What difference does it make? Her eyes won’t be open. Not now. Not ever.”
“I just thought… well, that’s the one I’ll take, if it’s okay with you.”
I shrugged and got a glass of water.
“I’ll have Goldie come over while I’m gone.”
“I’ll be fine. Just leave me alone.”
“Sis…” He stood up and was fixing to hug me, I could tell. I turned around and ran into my room and slammed the door.
I waited until I heard Daddy leave before I got up to change clothes. When I opened my underwear drawer, I noticed something I’d never seen before. A little brown book with gold letters. Holy Bible. Inside it said New Testament, Psalms, and Proverbs. It had thin pages with gold edges. I flipped to the second page and found Mama’s name written in blue ink. Marguerite Samuels, presented on the day of her baptism, June 6, 1937. Underneath the date, in a child’s writing, it said Me, Rita, age 10.
I studied the page and wondered how the New Testament got into my drawer. Somewhere, floating around in my head, I knew Mama had left it for me to find. Why? That’s what I couldn’t figure out. A ribbon hung from the bottom, marking a page with some words underlined.
Ask, and it shall be given you;
seek, and ye shall find;
knock, and it shall be opened unto you.
I read them over and over. Did Mama mean to tell me something? Maybe she left a note for me somewhere and meant for me to find it. A note that told me how much she loved me. My chest had a tight feeling, and I tried to think where to look.
Then I remembered something else I’d seen in my underwear drawer. There on top of my nylon panties I found a smooth leather case about the size of a deck of cards, the color of honey. I opened it, and curled on black velvet inside the box, a strand of pearls, each pearl exactly the same size, shone with a luster. Not the flat, plastic look of the pop beads in my dresser, but smooth and satiny. With my finger I traced the curve of the strand. I lifted it out and looked under the velvet, hoping to find the note where Mama told me she loved me. The bottom of the case stared up at me. No note.
I lay back on my bed, clutching the testament and the jewelry case. When my fingers grew numb, I let the Bible rest on my tummy and opened the case. I lifted the pearls and closed my eyes, hugging the strand to my chest. Then with both hands I worked my way around, noticing that the pearls weren’t perfectly round like I thought earlier. Each individual bead had a rise or a dent, small bumps that I could feel. When the clasp touched my fingers, the metal felt lacy, web-like. Beginning with the first pearl, I counted my way around. Eighty-four pearls joined to form a circle. I opened my eyes and stared at them, trying to think why Mama had put them in my drawer.
Scarlett jumped onto the covers beside me, her eyes like two lumps of dull coal. Tears rolled down my cheeks and Scarlett licked at them. Time seemed frozen, and even though it seemed I should be doing something, I couldn’t think what.
The front door opened, and Alice Johnson yoo-hooed. “Anybody home?”
Quickly I coiled the pearls back in the case and stashed them with the New Testament under my pillow. Then I went to the front room. Mrs. Johnson had a peanut butter pie in one hand and a feather duster in the other. She went right to work stirring the dust around, chatting nonstop about how sorry she was. “Benny Ray just feels dreadful about your mama. Said she had the best time riding in the Edsel, and he went on forever and a day about how much she had improved over the summer. Which proves, you never can judge a book by its cover.”
I plopped onto the couch while she kept on dusting and straightening. “I tried to get Tuwana to come with me, but she’s in an awful state. Just one thing after another for her this week. Not getting to be a cheerleader. Finding out Gina Hardy didn’t invite her to her slumber party. Not to mention your mother. Adolescence is such a difficult age, as I’m sure you’ve guessed by now. I lost my own mother when not much older than you. At least you’ve got a father you can depend on.”
Daddy? It was all his fault, but I wouldn’t tell that to Mrs. Johnson if she threatened to yank my hair or pull my teeth out. It was none of her business, and the more she dusted and chattered, the madder I felt. Who did she think she was, swooshing in here with her feather duster?
“Where do you keep the sweeper?”
“In my bedroom closet, but I don’t want you to…”
She ignored me, and soon the whirring of the Electrolux filled the air. I stretched out on the couch, propping my feet on the arms to fully extend, thinking about nothing.
“All done.” Alice wiped the back of her hand across her forehead. “Now, if you’ll come in the kitchen, I’ll show you what I’ve done.”
She handed me a list. “These are the people who’ve brought food with what each one brought. If you’ll notice, I’ve numbered them and Scotch taped the corresponding number on the cake plate, casserole dish, or whatever. This will simplify things when you write the notes, thanking people for their particular dish when you return the various containers. I would explain this to your father, but men are hopeless with this sort of thing so it falls on us women to take care of the niceties.”
My head felt swimmy, but I took the paper from her. “I don’t feel all that nice at the moment. My mother is dead, in case you hadn’t noticed. I wish everyone would just leave me alone.”
“Oh dear, I was afraid this would hit you pretty hard. Would you like a hug?” She held out her arms to me.
“No! Please don’t touch me.” My body started shaking again, just like when Goldie told me about Mama, but I took big gulps of air and glared at Mrs. Johnson. “I don’t need you or Daddy or anyone else. I want to be left alone. A-L-O-N-E.”
I ran from the room and flopped onto my bed, letting sobs escape from my throat and lungs. All I ever needed was Mama. And she’s never coming back. I bawled until I thought my insides had turned to mush. Under my pillow, I felt for Mama’s Bible and her pearls. They were all that was left of the only thing in the world I ever wanted—a regular mother like everyone else had. And I didn’t think I could stand another minute of my life without her.
Somehow I made it through that day and into the next. Daddy tried to talk to me, but I wasn’t having any of it. From my spot in bed, I heard people come and go, bringing food, food, and more food. At this rate we’d have enough to feed half the starving children in the Congo. Once I thought about getting up to number the dishes like Alice suggested, but I didn’t. It was too hard.
Along in the afternoon, Daddy came into my room.
“Sis, we need to talk about some things.”
“There’s nothing to say.” I turned and faced the window.
“At least hear me out. What your mama did was terrible. I know you blame me, and I can see where you might. Truth is, if I could, I’d be the one laid out in that casket, not your mama. I loved her. You need to understand, no one could see what was inside her, what she was thinking. That’s what depression does.”
Depression? That’s the first time I’d heard a name for her sickness. Always before it was nerve problems or those spells. It had a name. I repeated it in my head. I turned over and looked at Daddy. He looked terrible. Eyes drooping at the corners, whiskers sprouting all over his face, and sadness coming out of his eyes. A twinge of something fluttered inside me. Then, just as quick, I remembered his arguing with Mama, and I didn’t know what to do. Mama was dead, and all I had left was Daddy. I lifted my hand to him, and he took it and knelt down by my bed. He put his head on my covers, holding my hand in both of his. His shoulders shook and gurgles came from his throat. He stayed like that a long time, crying beside my bed.
With my other hand, I touched his shoulder. Tears fell out of my eyes too, and after a while Daddy sat on my bed and hugged me to his chest. I could hear the thump-thump-thump of his heart through his shirt. It sounded good in my ears. Steady.
Strong.
Inside I didn’t feel quite so cold.
When a knock came at the front door, Daddy got up to answer it. A voice crackled from the front room.
“I swear, Joe Tucker, I thought I’d never get here. But here I am, plumb parched and as weary as a lost lamb. Where’s that sugar-dumplin’ niece of mine?”
“Sis, we’ve got company.”
My stomach rumbled as I went to the front room in slow motion. “Aunt Vadine?” I hung back and eyed her for a second. “I… I didn’t know you were coming.”
“Of course I came. Now, come, give me a hug.”
My legs moved me across the floor, each step slower than the one before, until I reached the outstretched arms of my mother’s sister. I braced myself and felt her arms around me, pulling me to her plump bosom. Her breath reeked of Juicy Fruit.
“It’s good you could make it.” The words stuck like a wad of gum in my throat.
[ NINETEEN ]
IRENE FLANAGAN PLAYED the piano as I sat squeezed between Daddy and Aunt Vadine in the second pew. Shivers danced up and down my spine while my eyes fixed on the paisleys in Mrs. Flanagan’s shirtwaist dress. She swayed ever so slightly, each paisley swinging like a tiny noose.
In my head Mama swung back and forth in time to “Precious Memories” as I counted each tiny loop on Mrs. Flanagan’s dress. I shut my eyes to stop the image, but they burned behind my eyelids, and I couldn’t stop counting. When I reached fifty-four, Irene rose from the piano and took a seat off to the side of the platform. Brother Henry walked slowly to the podium. His words got lost in the muddle in my head and Aunt Vadine’s sniffling beside me. The air felt thick and heavy; Brother Henry’s words slurred together. I wanted to run away and hide from all the eyes I felt boring into my back.
Someone sang “In the Garden”—Deacon Greenwood, I think. I kept my head down and looked at the toes of my shoes when Irene went back at the piano. Brother Henry spoke again, but this time stood right in front of us. I raised my head and saw him holding his Bible and pointing to a page. I held my breath.
Chasing Lilacs Page 11
