Straight Up

by Lisa Samson

  “I needed training.”

  “For what?”

  He leaned back on his elbows, and the sun shone on his copper curls like a halo. “Fairly, have you ever felt like God was calling you to do something?”

  “Never. It’s why I’m in the mess I’m in.”

  “You’re not in a mess.”

  “Go on. I don’t want to talk about me.”

  “Okay. Well, it was like this: I knew I was supposed to be down in the rough sections, ministering to forgotten people in their forgotten places. You know. And Richmond is one of those places where the divide between rich and poor seems so decisive, so wide.”

  I sat up straighter, cross-legged. “Kind of like you were ministering at the bottom of the Grand Canyon?”

  “Yes! And I felt like I was supposed to do that in Baltimore. So I went to train, to learn. For six months. That’s all. I didn’t leave with the intention of staying away completely all that time. I planned on visiting every other weekend.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “The first couple of times I was supposed to visit, Georgia had some excuse. And then when I’d show up anyway, she’d pretend she wasn’t home and wouldn’t answer the door. I used my key and she pretended she had been asleep. We had what I thought was a good weekend, but … two weeks later when I showed up, the locks were changed. Then she got a new phone number. Unlisted.”

  “She shut you out.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why didn’t you go after her more aggressively?”

  “I’m not sure how I could have, unless there was some sort of legal thing I could have done. But how can you force someone to want to be with you?”

  “You can’t.”

  The wind that blew through the park began to dry the sweat on my forehead. I rubbed his shoulder. “For the life of me, Sean, I can’t figure out why you’re still in love with her.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Then why are you being so faithful?”

  “I’m not in love with her, Fair, if you’re talking those early days of love feelings. But I love her. I hope I’m not delusional in thinking that if we tried to make it work—if she got some help, if she wanted to repair our life—that the feelings would return.”

  “For your sake, then I wish that too.”

  “But what about you? Why haven’t you married since Hort died?”

  “Not ready to take the chance.”

  “At least you’ve figured that much out.”

  “Plus, nobody measures up. Well, maybe you do, Sean”—I tried to go for an impish smile—“but you’re taken.”

  He nodded with a wide, close-lipped grin. He took my hand, squeezed it, and let it go. “I don’t have a cousin, Fairly.”

  “Me either. Well, except for Georgia, and the jury’s out on her.”

  He winced.

  “Sean, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Listen, I’m hankering for some of Della-Faye’s cobbler.”

  “Me too.”

  Hand in hand we walked across the park, up Limestone and down Sixth. And we sat on the stools, ate our peach cobbler, and chatted with the folks at the VIP Restaurant, and I thought how there’s always a world of trouble wherever you go, and what’s the sense in that? If you don’t have much family, well, it stands to reason you must make some. And Sean needed family as much I did.

  I spooned a bite of warm cobbler into my mouth and had to admit that somehow we all manage to find some sweetness somewhere.

  “Della-Faye, I need a big helping to go.”

  “You got it, baby.”

  So I dropped Sean off at Georgia’s apartment and headed up to the hospital. I wrapped my arm around Uncle G, who’d fallen asleep with his head on the end of Georgia’s bed, and I whispered, “I’ve got something for you!”

  He sat up with a start and thirty seconds later was eating the cobbler in large bites, savoring yet gobbling, and I willed the love to go down with it, straight to that corner of his heart that had grown cobwebs and hadn’t seen the light of day for years and years and years.

  Georgia

  I’m tired of pink. So I’m wondering if I could order up some kind of change. Blue would be nice. It’s awfully like a sky, but that might help me picture heaven or something.

  A little elevator music might be nice. Cool Jazz 77.7FM. Playing all your celestial favorites. Coming up at the top the show, Empyrean, with their new hit “Supernaturally Sound.”

  Listen!

  There it is. Oh, I think I can take the pink some more if this keeps up. Sounds a little like Vince Guaraldi’s “Mass from Christ Church Cathedral.” I expect to see him someday, I really do. And listen to the harp in there. Very Harp 46.

  Care if I interrupt your concert?

  Hi, Mom!

  Pretty sounds. I can’t tell you how relieved I was to find jazz up here.

  It’s hard to imagine anything free-form in heaven.

  She laughs and a chair appears. This time it’s a gorgeous chaise. White brocade with an ivory fringe circling the bottom. I figured I’d bring something more comfortable today. I’ll be here awhile.

  What’s up?

  We’re going to watch a movie.

  I love movies.

  I know. By last count, you’ve spent about five thousand hours watching movies.

  If I could get nauseated I would.

  So I figure another stint in front of the silver screen wouldn’t hurt you. Besides, you have the starring role.

  Oh great. Is this some big lesson?

  Bingo, baby doll. Movies really are a great way to get something across. She’s sitting there with a big bowl of popcorn. I’d offer you some, but…

  I’m not dead yet. Is that butter?

  Tons. No calories after you pass on.

  Okay, I’m convinced, she really is in heaven.

  Told you.

  The pink fades to dark, and from behind me a light beams and words appear upon the—screen?

  No. God doesn’t need screens.

  Oh, of course.

  Music rolls in—lots of brass and kettle drums thrumming into a crescendo until—

  This Could Have Been Your Life

  —dissolves onto a black background in white letters. And then—with ears to hear and all

  —bleeds in underneath.

  Very smart—tony. The lowercase is nice there.

  Thanks.

  You did this yourself?

  You don’t honestly think we really sit around and play harps all day, do you? But I had a little help. And she crunches some popcorn, points at the screen. Listen now. You won’t want to miss this. Of course, I’m biased because it is you, and there’s something moving about seeing your daughter as the star. Now pay attention, Georgia!

  I settle in as the story begins in a time and place I recognize.

  Sean walks into our apartment. “Look, Georgie, I got a letter from Bart.”

  Movie-me jumped up from the couch and hugged him.

  “What’s up with Bart?”

  “He’s moved to downtown Richmond. To the slums, apparently. Crazy stuff, I’m telling you. Read this letter.”

  He hands me the note, and as my eyes trip over the lines, a voice layers into the experience, Bart’s voice, raspy and deep. “Hey, guys, it’s me.”

  Nice job, Mom.

  Sh!

  “Just when you thought I couldn’t get any more whacked out, I decided to join up with this group of seminary students in Richmond. They moved into an old crackhouse, and you should see what they’re doing on this block. Redemption city. Come down and visit, okay? Or send some money. Ha ha. Anyway, there’s always a floor to sleep on, and we really do have fun. My cell phone’s still working. It’s about the only luxury I’ve got, and I’m determined to keep it. Keeps my mom from being too worried about me.

  “So what’s up with you guys …?”

  The voice fades out.

  Sean, by this time, is heating up a can of tomato soup in
the kitchen and slicing cheddar for grilled cheese sandwiches. “What do you think? Want to take a drive down? It’s only three hours. And man, wouldn’t it be good to go have a beer with Bart?”

  I shake my head. “Why don’t you go though?”

  Fade out.

  Two weeks later.

  And there I am again, kissing a very excited Sean good-bye. No sooner is our little Stanza around the corner than I pull out my bin of winter clothes and unearth a bottle of gin.

  Oh man. Do I have to watch this?

  Yes.

  So there I sit on the floor by our bed, bottle in hand.

  I remember that day so well. Something inside me said, “Call him. Call him. This could be your last chance.” But of course, that’s not in the movie. Even Mom isn’t privy to that information, I guess.

  No, I wasn’t, Georgia, you’re right. I’m not omniscient. Pay attention now, this is where it gets good.

  Suddenly, I’m calling Sean on his mobile phone as I pour the contents down the sink. “Sean, come get me. I want to go. I need to go.”

  Fade to black.

  Six weeks later.

  Sean and I are laughing as we scoot our double sleeping bag away from the leak in the attic ceiling. You can tell we’ve done our best to make the room as cozy as possible. Some old yard-sale lamps with different-color light bulbs cast a warm, festive glow. Carpet remnants stapled to the walls remind me of a preschool room, and on a desk a study lamp casts its light on a supplies list in my handwriting. The camera pans down the list: turkeys, bread, potatoes, corn bread, sweet potatoes.

  It must be a list I’m making up for a Thanksgiving or Christmas meal we’ll be dishing up sometime in the future. Sean and I collapse on our sleeping bag, laugh at the drops in his wiry, puffy dreads. And I kiss him and he kisses me.

  The screen goes dark.

  Mom turns toward me. There were other times after he left for the weekend that you turned away from it, weren’t there?

  Many times.

  She’s sitting on one of the kitchen chairs now, and she’s swiveled at the waist to rest her forearms on the back. How many times did you expect God to come after you, Georgia?

  One more?

  How many “one more’s” did you need?

  Apparently one more.

  She laughs. You always could be so funny. God put that in you to help you get through what He had planned. To help other people through too. She leans forward. I’ll let you in on a heavenly secret.

  Okay, I whisper even though nobody is around for … what? miles? millennia?

  God designed laughter as a sort of anesthetic.

  Really?

  So when Christians get all serious about stuff and act like some things are beyond a joke, guess what? It’s like slapping God in the face! Did you know that?

  I’m not tracking with you, Mom. Give me an example.

  Okay, remember when you were little and we went to that baptism service of my bass player, and the minister tripped in the baptistery and went under?

  Yeah.

  Remember how nobody laughed, not even him?

  Yeah.

  See, that fall was supposed to ease up my friend Jack. It was designed to make his baptism a joyous occasion. Instead, it’s something he looks back on with dread because he inadvertently tripped the minister!

  Okay, I get it.

  You didn’t laugh enough. You could’ve, Georgia. Remember how we used to laugh together?

  But you died.

  And even that was funny.

  Oh, good night, Mom, you’re going way too far with this.

  The way Aunt Drea played “Abide with Me” at the service? It was horrible!

  You saw?

  Sometimes we get a peek.

  I’m tired again.

  I don’t blame you. I’ll see you later, sweet girl. I’m going to go compose anyway. Got a big gig soon, and man, oh man, are we going to jam.

  Will Coltrane be there?

  But Mom just raises her brows.

  Fairly

  I’m not sure how I found myself in a church basement with ten five-to seven-year-olds, Sean, and the story of the rich young ruler, but it happened more quickly than Della-Faye can throw together a broccoli-and-cheese casserole.

  Most of Uncle G’s cult members were away visiting family, so Sean and I decided to go to Della-Faye’s small cinder-block church. We walked in, and Della-Faye hurried over, her pink pumps with black clip-on bows echoing on the aged, golden wood of the entryway.

  “I’m in a state. I’m in a state!” Her hands fluttered like ruddy moths, and the feathers on her pink-and-black straw hat did much the same. Della-Faye, in that pink, crisp linen suit with the polka-dot shirt and matching handkerchief peeking out of the pocket, somehow pulled it off.

  Man, I wish I were black sometimes. African American women just have it, don’t they?

  “What’s wrong, Miss Della?” Sean asked.

  “I’m in charge of the Sunday school, and my primary class teachers didn’t show up. Didn’t bother to call me. Oh no! Della-Faye don’t deserve no call! Didn’t do nothin’! I can’t sit with you chil’ren ’cause I got to go downstairs. But I brought you some cobbler.”

  Sean’s eyes twinkled. “Hey, the class sounds like fun. Why don’t we join you?”

  Della-Faye bestowed her toothless grin. “Well, all right, then. Follow me.”

  As we clacked down the steps, I felt as if I was entering a place I never knew existed, much like when you walk down … well, a set of steps for the first time, like a set going down to a school friend’s basement where video games and board games and who knew what else awaited. And then the smell was different, just like in your friend’s basement. Nothing malodorous or anything, merely a collection of aromas you’ve never been around before because that family goes camping and your family doesn’t, or they do decoupage and your family doesn’t, or maybe they raise exotic birds, and of course, your family definitely does not.

  I was the only white face in the basement, and I marveled at all the luscious brown skin, the shades varied and warm, and the brightly colored dresses and shirts; the way the children ran around laughing and playing; the way Della-Faye, swatting them on their behinds as they passed by her, caused them to laugh even harder.

  She opened a door off the main room and showed us into a spare little room with a short-legged table and short-legged benches. “Now let me get my flannelgraph set up.”

  “I haven’t seen one of those in years,” I whispered to Sean.

  “Me either!”

  Della-Faye set her hands on her hips. “Now what’s wrong with flannelgraphs?”

  I pointed to the Jesus. “Oh, look. Jesus is black!”

  “Of course He’s black. He’s our Savior too.”

  Sean grinned and shook his head.

  “Don’t you be laughin’ at me, young man! The Savior said He ‘come to seek and to save that which was lost.’ There ain’t no black sheep that’s going to follow some white shepherd to safety. At least not in North Lexington.”

  “Ahh. There you go then.” Sean.

  “There I go where?” But Della-Faye laughed, her great chest bouncing with ha-ha-ha’s. Then she laid a hand on Sean’s arm. “You poor lamb. You neither black nor white.”

  I put my arm around him. “Then Jesus is that color too.”

  “I heard that!”

  Soon the children filed in, boys in shorts and bow ties, girls in sherbet-colored dresses, their feet shuffling in shiny church shoes. They sat on the benches, wiggling like worms, poking one another, until Della-Faye said, “Chil’ren!”

  Zip-zip—zip.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Monroe!” Like a chorus of singing stars shining in a brilliant sky of silky blue.

  “Now let’s pray. Fold your hands, and bow your heads. And I don’t want to hear one peep.”

  They did. Still wriggling, but not daring to breathe heavily.

  “Our Father …”

  They joi
ned in. “Who art in heaven …”

  Something about the singsong sweetness caught my heart in a glossy net, and I remembered the little church my parents attended before we moved to the house in Essex. No, it wasn’t perfect, really. There was a grumpy man who yelled at the kids when we ran around on the lawn after church. “You’re wearin’ a path in my turf!” This one lady always grabbed my arm too tightly if I got in the front of the buffet line without thinking. “The old people should go first!” she’d hiss, looking like a skinny dragon with a lace collar. And my, could she squeeze those talons into little-kid flesh.

  But we prayed this prayer.

  I’d forgotten this prayer, really. It had stopped being a breathing poem, a communication, at some point in time. When, I couldn’t say. I guess I just never really owned it. It all seemed to belong to my parents.

  I closed my eyes and allowed myself to mouth the words. I didn’t feel I deserved to say them out loud, but something inside me longed to play a part here in this undemanding scene, a scene that seemed to be written with me in mind in a small way.

  Dad would have joined in. And he would have arranged that black flannelgraph Jesus on that background so He would have come alive, winnowing fork in His hand.

  Winnowing fork in His hand?

  Where did that come from, and what did it even mean?

  “… for Thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever and ever …”

  “And ever!” a little boy in striped shorts said.

  “Amen!”

  “Now then.” Della-Faye laid her hands atop her Bible.

  A light rapping vibrated the hollow plywood door, and upon hearing “Come on in!” from Della-Faye, Jonah’s head appeared through the crack.

  “Sorry to disturb you, Ms. Monroe, but your niece Marjorie is outside on the church steps. She says she won’t leave until you come out.”

  Della-Faye heaved her wide shoulders in a sigh, and in that moment I saw past the food, and somehow even past the faith to that burdened part that I don’t guess humans ever rid themselves of until, as my mother always said, “The Lord comes again.”

  “Tell her I’ll be right there, Mr. Jonah.” She turned to us. “I’ll find a substitute, just hang on.”

  “We’ll take the class, Miss Della.” Sean.

  She closed her eyes briefly. “All right then.” And opened them. “If it wasn’t Marjorie …”