Straight Up

by Lisa Samson

  Mom turns. See? You would have made me famous!

  Okay, so that makes me feel like refuse.

  “Georgia Bishop has done more to further jazz piano performance and composition than any woman preceding her, and tonight we celebrate her contribution to the world of jazz music.”

  A large screen drops, and a film segment begins, a typical awards-show montage. Just the right amount of cheese too.

  There I am in my first recording session, smiling and young and pretty. My marriage to Sean, various performances, trips, sweet shots of me with inner-city children as we play “Chopsticks” or do some hopscotch.

  Enough, Mom. Grandmom, please. Enough.

  Mom turns and rests her forearms on the back of her seat. This was the original plan. Record your first album, marry Sean, do all the things Wynton said, travel all around the world doing amazing things. He’s going to go on after the film and talk about how you and Sean made ten albums together, him singing and you playing, and how you set up several foundations. But you didn’t show up to play at the club the next night when Janet and her producer were there. And guess why?

  Are you deliberately trying to be cruel? What can I do about this now?

  Nothing really. You’re not supposed to. You’re simply getting the opportunity to give up all the perceived wrongs you think God’s done to you.

  I feel like someone has thrown me into a mud puddle, so thick I’m unable to feel, see, hear. But wait!

  What about the monastery, inner-city ministry, and all that? Wasn’t I supposed to end up there with Sean?

  Plan B. That was your second chance, Georgia. And I have to admit, I’ve seen the movie already, and it was a plan every bit as wonderful as the first.

  So did I do anything worthwhile?

  You loved me, purely and truly.

  Is that enough?

  Only you can be the judge of that, Georgie.

  Fairly

  I don’t know why we didn’t think of it sooner, and it’s not like the rector had any way to contact us. Georgia’s cell phone died weeks ago. The poor man must have been wondering why she never showed up and why he couldn’t contact her.

  Sean’s new job at Subway consumes the bulk of his day, which if that doesn’t break your heart—a beautiful man with heavenly pipes making sandwiches all day—I sincerely can’t imagine what will. So that left me to carry out the task. I could have called on the phone, but Della-Faye’s VIP isn’t far from the church, and I figured some ribs and cobbler afterward would suit me like Chanel on Audrey Hepburn.

  Pretty church, even in the dimness with a storm brewing outside. Loved the stonework, the old-time craftsmanship, the screaming red doors.

  “May I see the vicar?” I asked the secretary, a woman who’d obviously tanned so much and thinned down so much at some point that she reminded me of one of those freeze-dried ice men they uncover in the tundra every so often.

  She showed me into a study with two lit hurricane sconces by the window and a general hurricane theme, if scattered books and papers, old coffee with a thick skin on top, wild rug fringe, and blowing curtains constitute a theme. The rector’s white hair was consistent with the overall motif, and he ran his red British hands through it before shaking hands with me.

  Okay, so he seemed a tad awkward, but I liked him right away. “Ah yes, Miss, ah …”

  “Fairly Godfrey.”

  “What can I do for you today?”

  “I just came to tell you about Georgia Bishop.”

  The invisible string of surprise drew his brows up like window shades toward his hairline. “I’ve wondered what happened to her. I called her cell phone repeatedly.”

  “So I gathered. May I sit down?”

  He threw his hands up. “Oh dear me, what poor manners I have. Sit down, and we’ll have a cup of tea. Ms. Sparks!”

  The beef-jerky face appeared. “Yes, Reverend?”

  “Tea if you would, please?”

  She shook her head and made a tsk sound.

  “My new assistant. Work release. What have you.”

  “Good of you, then.” I tried to broadcast as warm a smile as I could.

  “Work release or not, my old secretary put her to shame.”

  Beaten down by the women of the parish, I supposed.

  “Anyway, Reverend, Georgia is my cousin. Two months ago she had … an accident.”

  “Oh my! Is she all right?”

  “Not really. She’s been in a coma. I’m sorry I didn’t think sooner to come and tell you.”

  The past month had been a blur, really. Three short buying trips, helping Della-Faye and Jonah with Sunday school, the cult, and the vigil. And thank my lucky stars, Braden finally got it through his head that we were over, and thank the good Lord, Solo thinks maybe a fresh start in Lexington is exactly what he and his boys might need now that he’s finished his MDiv. I practically burst his eardrum I hollered so loudly into the phone. He laughed his great, loud laugh that always fills my soul with warm tapioca pudding.

  Reverend Smithers sat down behind his desk. “Terrible news. Is there anything All Souls can do to help?”

  “No, thank you. We’re fine.”

  Ms. Sparks entered with two mugs of very weak, barely warm tea as if to say, “That’ll teach him to ask me to make tea.”

  She disappeared without a sound, almost daring him to thank her.

  He peered into the cup and set it down. “Oh my. Sorry.”

  “I have an idea, Reverend. Have you been to Della-Faye’s VIP Restaurant?”

  “Not yet. I’ve only been in town for a year and have been meaning to get there.”

  “Can I interest you in partaking of the most delectable, the most delicious, the most …” I searched for the perfect word.

  “Diabolical?”

  “Yes! If you’re talking calories. The most diabolical fried chicken you’ve ever tasted?”

  “We may get the vestry talking. I am single, you know.”

  We chuckled together. It felt nice to chuckle. “Let’s go then. I’m new in town too. Actually, I haven’t even moved in yet. But I will soon. Down on Jefferson Street.”

  “Welcome to Lexington then, Fairly.”

  He reminds me of Hort, somewhat. Just a little.

  Two blocks from the VIP, the clouds cracked open, spilling their contents right on top of our heads. Reverend Smithers resembled an English sheepdog and I some waterlogged rat terrier when we huffed and puffed ourselves, him growling and me yipping, into the restaurant.

  Della-Faye laughed until she finally had to sit down at the only table and wipe her eyes with her apron. “Oh, you two made my day. If you’re the only business the storm blows my way, it’ll be worth it.”

  “Just hand over some chicken and a piece of fried corn bread, and we’ll call it even. This is Reverend Smithers, by the way, from over at the Episcopal church.”

  “An Episcopalian, huh? Well, we don’t discriminate here at the VIP!”

  “Thank God for that,” the reverend said.

  Della-Faye squinted her eyes. “You’re not from Kentucky, are you?”

  And we all laughed, the sound of it filling the tiny place.

  “Be kind to him,” I said. “He’s from England. He’s not used to good food.”

  She made her way behind the counter. “Then he’s definitely not used to some good soul food.”

  “No ma’am, he’s not.”

  Meanwhile, Reverend Smithers examined the menu, wire half-eyes resting down his nose. “Are you ladies finished discussing my disadvantaged palate?”

  “Never!” I said. “Right, Della-Faye?”

  The level of wonder rose inside me. I belonged somewhere, a place where I not only felt at home, but a place I wanted to share with an almost-perfect stranger.

  I should have gone and visited Georgia. But I didn’t. I stayed there at the VIP with Reverend Smithers and Della-Faye, and her strung-out niece tumbled in and asked for money, ten men ordered lunch, and we talked abo
ut everything, nothing, and maybe something of import in between. We didn’t solve the world’s problems or figure out how to end sickness, loneliness, and poverty. We just waited out the storm, sheltered from the rain, together. And somehow that was all we were called to do on that gray afternoon.

  Jonah walked in, served himself up a heaping measure of banana pudding, and joined us at the counter.

  Sean met me at Third Street Coffee later that evening. He’d been to see Georgia, and he looked as though he’d been scraped off a shoe.

  I set down a mug of decaf onto a hand-painted table. Sean went off caffeine years ago in Richmond. “So spill it. What happened? You look horrible.”

  “We’ve got to make up our minds about the respirator and the feeding tube.”

  “She’s not coming back, is she, Sean? Is there any hope?”

  He shook his head. “Not really. She’s totally gone.”

  And he set his face in his hands and sobbed and sobbed.

  What seems like a lifetime ago, I would have felt a little embarrassed there in a coffeehouse seated next to a large bronze man with copper hair who was crying in anguish. Honestly, nobody looks good when they’re crying gale force.

  I simply held his hand, squeezing every so often, smiling at the passersby with an “I know this isn’t really the place for this, but if you’re a big person like I am you’ll understand” apology. And I sipped my latte, hoping he didn’t notice, and I remembered once again it was somewhat my fault he was weeping at this round table, that I’d set the gears in motion with my sense of revenge, and that maybe I wasn’t only acting out against Georgia, but against God, too, who seemed to think it was okay to take away the only people who ever really cared about me.

  We come to these realizations in the strangest places, don’t we?

  But I realized something else, foam atop my lip. That faith can be full of doubt, too. As long as the doubt recognizes that it is the intruder and not the landlord.

  “You need to be singing again,” I told Sean after the crying jag. We sipped on our second round of coffee. He’d pretty much cried himself out and didn’t really want to talk about everything, which was fine by me because I’m a dreadful consoler. “I mean, you can talk all you want about me working with children, but, Sean, you’re working at Subway.”

  “I just can’t focus with Georgia like she is.”

  True. “Did you do much singing in Richmond?”

  “Oh yes. Quite a bit. Nothing like I would have done had Georgia and I been together, though.”

  Georgia, Georgia, Georgia.

  “Does she have any idea what she cost others?”

  “She’s in a coma, Fairly. I doubt it.”

  “Before that.”

  “Probably not.”

  “What was your favorite song to do together?”

  He smiled. “You’re going to laugh.”

  “Oh, I doubt it. Not after that crying jag.”

  “ ‘You Are My Sunshine.’ ”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. That’s it. Just that.”

  Lovely. And that made me sad, as sad as I should have been a long time before this.

  “Yeah, we really had a special groove.”

  I heard that.

  Clarissa

  The girl feels the simple pleasure that new makeup in a drugstore bag dispatches. She swings it as she walks down the warm sidewalk. Fourteen years old! The mother said she could wear a little blush, some mascara, and pink lip gloss now. Just pink, though.

  She leaps up the front steps onto the wooden porch, shoves her key in the lock knowing she should have a couple of hours to herself to experiment.

  After emptying the bag into the spotless sink in the bathroom, she breathes deeply, splays her fingers on the edge of the porcelain, leans forward, and looks herself in the eyes. “Okay.”

  And she begins.

  First a bit of blush. Not bright pink, for she’s more peachy in tone. The contours of her cheeks are new as she brushes on the color. Not too bad for a first try.

  Okay, not the actual first try. She did go to a slumber party once. The mother grounded her for a month when she found out.

  Then the mascara. Very tricky. And she keeps blinking, dotting her lower lids with the inky blackness. She reaches for the roll of toilet paper.

  “Clarissa!”

  A fist pounds the door.

  Oh! He shouldn’t be home yet. Think, think.

  Calm yourself. Remember how fun that party was, though?

  “Reggie? You’re home early.”

  Say it nice and bright and sweet. And young. Remember how young you are. Oh, Megan’s mother thought you were so nice, didn’t she?

  She begins to put the makeup back in the bag.

  The way you helped set out the food when all the other girls were listening to CDs.

  “What are you doing in there, ’Rissa?”

  “Going to the bathroom!”

  They’d done their nails and their hair, too.

  “What’s that noise?”

  “Just … girl stuff, Reggie.”

  “Let me in.”

  The door shakes as he yanks it again and again. It’s an old house. An old door. Her hands shake as she throws the mascara into the bag.

  The door opens with a loud bang. Fiery eyes below the blond curls send her stomach into tumbles.

  “I knew you were lying to me! Give me that.”

  The cousin has been drinking.

  The girl hands him the bag. He upends it, the items crashing to the black-and-white tile floor.

  “Makeup! What do you need makeup for?”

  “Mom said—”

  “Don’t lie to me. You want to party, don’t you? I see how the guys look you up and down. You’ve been sneaking out at night, haven’t you?”

  “No,” she says. “No, no, no. Nothing like that.”

  He grabs her arm, grimy nails digging into her bicep, and why wasn’t he working at the garage? Did he get fired again?

  “If you want to party, you can get it right here.”

  “Reggie! No! Get away!”

  And she tries to beat him off, but he grabs her other arm and smashes it against the wall. She cries out as he presses his mouth against hers, crushing her lips into her teeth and his. She kicks, but he leaps clear.

  “You’ll get it when I say! And when I want to give it to you.”

  She cries out again as he pulls her hair and forces her into his bedroom. But as she falls onto the bed, the girl sees the small dumbbell on the nightstand. The cousin falls on top of her, and the weight, held tightly in her fist, crashes down on his head.

  Just once.

  Timed like a pro.

  She runs from the house and longs to scream out for somebody to help her. TV Mom and Granddaddy Man are on a winter vacation in the Poconos. And nobody else is home these days, and if they are, they’ve turned up the afternoon running of Friends just a tad too loud.

  Georgia

  I’m scared of dying, to be honest. I know they’re going to have to take me off of the machines eventually, when they’re ready. And that’s okay. I mean really, I made UG’s and Sean’s lives miserable. I can at least give them the time they need.

  The ladies are coming for another show. I told them I liked the movie better than the play, and both Mom and Grandmom agreed, but, Hey, it’s always worth a shot, right, Georgia?

  And I said, You said it, as expected. Family dialogue, you know. So we agreed the next display would be a movie.

  According to Mom, I still haven’t let go of my offenses against God, which is why I’m subject to yet another display. Yes, Mom’s doing fine, and that comforts me somewhat, but something sticks in my soul like a big piece of roast beef in my esophagus that just won’t go down all the way no matter how hard I swallow.

  And isn’t that what it’s all about? Trying to do more than accept the hardships and pain of life; to see the purpose, the grand design; to know there’s a happy ending before w
e find ourselves walking the streets of gold? I mean, if all there is here on earth is heartache, what’s the point? Why does God continue the game? If it was all about salvation and our eternal destiny, why didn’t God just let Herod kill Jesus as a baby and be done with it?

  But Jesus grew and loved and gave and showed us the way God would be if He were human.

  Is that what I’ve missed, the imitation of Christ?

  Is that what Sean always understood and I failed to recognize, even resented, and finally rejected? Is that why he gave me that book so long ago, because he knew?

  They should be here any moment, I guess, but until then I close whatever eyes I have that feel like they’re closing. The rest here in the pink feels like none other. Certainly not like a drunken stupor, I can tell you that! Can you imagine what it’s like to be on a soft bed with lots of covers and pillows and down quilts, a bed as big as a king-size bed is to a baby, with bedding every bit as thick as it would be to a small child?

  Well, there you have it.

  Do we get to rest once we’ve passed on? Another question for Mom, I guess.

  Yes, dear, we do. At least I do. But then I’ve always loved to sleep. Not like your father.

  Oh good, you’ve come. Dad didn’t like to sleep?

  No! In fact, he still held on to those funny little-kid ways of bedtime feeling like a punishment. He didn’t even like for me to go to bed early!

  I never knew that about him.

  He was a bit of a mystery to almost everyone.

  But you?

  Yes. I sometimes found it hard to believe he let go even around me. He didn’t have an easy time of things, you know.

  Dad? Oh please. He was the most confident person I ever saw. What do you mean?

  It’s his story to tell.

  Mo-o-om!

  Really. But let’s just say you might try giving him the benefit of the doubt. Something you never did before.

  Was that really my job? I was his daughter, for pity’s sake.

  Fair enough. He had a very hard time talking about his life before we met.

  His childhood?