by Lisa Samson
The Port of Peace Hour is a hit all across the South!
We really do have Peter and Vinca Love to thank. I’ve been on their show every other week since Christmas. I file out there with the rest of them to sit on the couches and I wave to the crowd.
Harlan is beside himself. “Twenty stations and counting!”
I’m excited for him and sick for me. But my album debuted two weeks ago and the first pressing is already gone! Talk about feeling like the blessings of God are falling all around. Showers of blessing.
Just like the song says.
People write to our show like crazy, telling about deliverance of all kinds. Telling about getting back to the Bible and actually listening to it for a change. Telling about the healings that have resulted. Broken lives repaired, torn relationships mended.
We even started a twenty-four-hour-a-day help line for counsel straight from the Word. Tanzel’s in charge and doing a wonderful job. Some professional Christian counselors even volunteered to man phones. They give advice straight from God’s word. And then there are the older and wiser folks who have seen it all, lived it all, and can listen with a wise ear.
Isn’t that what counseling is anyway? I’m not sure why there’s such a big uproar about this sort of thing. I think maybe Harlan’s beginning to see that God sometimes speaks through other people. Just as long as you don’t use the word “psychology.”
His brother E.J. is dating a nice girl now. Divorced, too. Bee says she’s a sweet thing.
I am scheduled to sing on The PTL Club for the second time, the first being after I started appearing regularly on Jesus Alive! and on The 700 Club, too! Those publicity fellows at BrooksTone have taken that ball and run with it! They said they haven’t ever had an artist do this well straight out of the starting gate.
Hallelujah!
Grandma and I head to the fabric store. There’s just nothing like a fabric store in my estimation. It is literally the world at your fingertips. Silks from China and Japan, woolens from Scotland, and cottons from India.
Grandma and I look at scissors. She said it’s time I treat myself to a decent pair.
“What do you think of these ones, Grandma?”
I heft a pair of Wiss scissors.
“They’re wonderful scissors, sweetie.”
And they come in their own, velvet-lined, beautiful box. But I’m not going to say that because Grandma is more worried about the blades, I’m sure.
“Oh, yes. These cut fabric like it was butter.”
They’d better. Imagine spending fifty bucks on a pair of scissors.
“But it’s worth it, Charmaine. Good tools last, too. You’ll never need another pair.”
“Well, I’m sick of orange handles, I can tell you that.”
I place them carefully in the red plastic cart and we move on to fabric. I need some new outfits for Gospelganza and my own Ten Thousand Lilies tour.
I finger a length of purple leopard-print cotton. Now this will make quite a sarong. “Do you think this would be too wild to wear on Jesus Alive!?”
“Not one bit. People find you so endearing, sweetie, you can get away with more.”
Endearing.
That’s the word everybody uses to describe me. I mean, that’s nice, but I can think of a lot of other adjectives that would denote more of a presence.
Witty.
Charming.
Intelligent.
Insightful.
But there’s me. Good old endearing Charmaine Hopewell. Then again, maybe that’s why my music hits a true chord with folks all over. Maybe it’s better to be loved than respected. I’d rather not have to choose, though.
Dovey called us the other day. He said he’s checking mental institutions now in the search for Mama. Grandma cried all night and I got scared. I wonder how much of that still lives inside of me?
“Charmaine? It’s Tony Sanchez.”
“Tony!”
“It took some doing, but I found her.”
“You found Grace?” I put my hand over the phone. “Harlan! Tony’s found Grace!”
He runs in from the bedroom.
“Tell me what happened?”
“I think she was out of town for a while. Or went underground or something. You never know with addicts. But I’ve got a friend who runs a rescue mission downtown, Jamal Weaver. He’s been keeping a lookout for her ever since you called me. Nothing, until this morning. She wandered in for a meal.”
“So where is she now?”
“Down at the mission. They’re arranging to get her into a rehab place not far from here.”
“She’ll never go.”
“I’ll escort her there myself. She wants to go. I’m not sure what has happened since she talked to you last, but she says she’s ready to get her life together.”
How can a person be so happy and so sad at the same time? I look at Leo watching TV.
“Thank you, Tony. You’ve probably saved her life.”
“Anyway, I’ll have the home get in touch with you. It’s one of those Christian homes for women only.”
“Good. That sounds like it may just be the ticket.”
I plaster Leo to me tightly after dinner. We sit on the couch as he does his math homework. He lays his head back against my shoulder, feet up near his rear end as his legs support his folder.
Oh, this sweet little boy. My sweet little boy.
I hear some voice within say, “I love her, Charmaine. I love Grace Underhill.”
And I say back, “But what about my heart? Isn’t my heart worth anything?”
How does a woman go about her day when her day is spent in front of thousands of adoring fans. Fans? Oh, my lands. I just prefer to think of them as listeners. How does she smile and wave when the little boy she’s come to love as her son is more dear than ever, when that child’s mama is getting better, when that child’s mama will come and take him away? How can she smile when what’s best for her isn’t best for everyone?
We now have a singing ensemble on the show. The Sounds of Peace. I know that’s a direct rip-off of The Sounds of Liberty on Jerry Falwell’s Old-Time Gospel Hour, but I’m not all that creative and no one could think of anything better.
It could be a lot worse.
My concert tour starts on the first of June. I’m booked in some of the bigger Assemblies of God churches and some state fairs and gospel fests. Of course, I’ll be with Gospelganza, too, and guess what? I’m taking our old RV on the road so I can keep the kids with me.
I keep getting this picture of Marilyn Monroe on the USO tours as she walked onto the stage just waving her hands to all those GIs. Blowing kisses and smiling. But instead it’s me. And I’m not sexy. Or voluptuous. Or blond. Or that beautiful, for that matter.
Okay, maybe I should just change the image altogether because that one depresses me!
Speaking of depression, I saw Dr. Braselton yesterday. He’s a nice enough man but he says I really should be getting exercise and eating better. “All that caffeine from those Diet Cokes isn’t helping you get off medication, Charmaine. And wouldn’t you like to get off the medication eventually? You don’t have to be on this stuff forever, Mrs. Hopewell.”
Well, of course I’d like to get off it! But who has time to exercise? And no Diet Cokes? My lands, a pill is a whole lot easier, even with the incessant dry mouth I have. And how can I find time to exercise with all my singing engagements? The invitations have been coming in one after another.
So many letters have arrived since the album debuted. I can’t even read them all anymore. I’ve hired Tanzel on in the evenings to help me with my correspondence. She writes the letters and I read them and sign them in between phone calls and sewing my costumes and baths and meals. I actually bought six yards of purple silk yesterday for a two-piece pants outfit to wear on The 700 Club. I’m thinking I’ll truly make purple my signature color.
I enjoyed my time down at Heritage USA.
Heritage Yooo Esss Aaaay!
They treat their show guests first class all the way. And don’t you know Tammy Faye cried the entire time I sang “Ten Thousand Lilies.” And she smiled into my eyes. She’s as short as I am, so it was nice not to have to look up. I felt like there was one person in the world for that space of time that understood me, and it was Tammy. Now I don’t guess she and I will ever be friends and hang out and eat French fries at McDonald’s together. But that’s okay.
I am sitting at my sewing machine, threading it with purple thread for that sarong I’m making. I set it up here by the sliding glass doors in the den so I can watch the kids play and Grandma garden. The flowers around our house look every bit as pretty as the ones she planted in Suffolk. Grandma makes things grow.
Harlan comes in the room. “Well, Shug. I’ve got great news!
“More stations?”
“Even better! We’re going to be on the TBN network! They saw our show on the Loves’ new network and want to get in on the act, I guess.”
“Oh, my lands!”
“Now, it’ll be at one in the morning, but you’ve got to start somewhere.”
“Still. Nationwide!”
“That’s right.”
He pulls me from my chair and folds me into his arms and I am so happy for him. Then he looks at me in horror. “What about this summer?”
“What about it?”
“You’ll be on the road most of the time. What are we going to do about your musical numbers?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Record a bunch of them beforehand?”
He claps twice and points at me. “That’s the ticket! You’re so smart, Shug. Just a savvy thing you’re getting to be.”
Savvy?
Myrtle Charmaine Whitehead, the nosebleed queen?
I wondered then how many years it would be before I looked in the mirror and turned away at what I saw.
“I think it’s wonderful you’re getting a real signature look about you, honey. You and purple go together so well. Its kinda like Vinca Love and her big skirts.”
I picture Vinca and wonder if she ever sits back and thinks, “Who is this man, Peter Love, and does he bear any resemblance to the man I married? Any at all?”
I can only pray I don’t feel that way about Harlan ever. I can only pray that these worms of doubt that crawl around my heart every so often when I see him rant and rave on stage will not worsen with time.
Sometimes his fervor embarrasses me.
After sunset, Grandma comes back into the kitchen. Sarongs are simple so it’s already half finished. She sits at the chair opposite my sewing machine. “I just saw a terrible news report.”
“Oh, no. What happened?”
“Apparently, Peter Love’s pilot got killed going in to rescue a missionary family in the Sudan.”
“How?”
“Peter got word that the lives of this family, the Dallards I believe they called them, were in imminent danger. Anyway, he asked his pilot, Mack Something-or-Other —it sounded Russian to me—to go in and get them out.”
“That’s awful. Did his plane crash?”
“No. That’s the worst part. He got to them and the villagers put him in a car with the Dallards and set the whole thing on fire.”
Oh, dear Lord! “Oh, Grandma! I don’t ever remember meeting him. Was he married?”
“Yes. She works at Forger’s Creek. Runs the pool and spa, they said.”
The whine of the machine stirs the evening air around the table. Hope and Leo have been down for over an hour now and I’m glad they don’t have to hear this story.
2
Dovey sits in front of us at Bill D’s. We are right in the front window. Grandma Min and I are scared because on the phone two days ago he said, “I don’t want to tell you this over the phone.”
I never knew private eyes were so caring.
He’s wearing the same sort of suit as before. A bow tie of blue and red stripes tops the mother-of-pearl buttons lined like Christmas lights up his front. I’d bet my life they are tuxedo buttons.
He reminds me of the bow-tied politician-type today.
I hear a toot and look outside, peering between the branches of a blossoming cherry tree. I wave to Ruby as she passes by in Henry’s new little Pontiac Firenza. A large green Impala, the color of an iguana, zooms by next.
We order some drinks. Coffee for Grandma, Diet Coke for me, and Dovey gets a butterscotch milk shake.
Grandma lays her hands flat on the table. “So tell us.”
“I found her. She’s still alive.”
Grandma’s hand flies up to her mouth and she gulps down one big sob.
I am stunned.
She is alive.
She is alive and she left me and she never came back.
SHE NEVER CAME BACK.
I can do nothing.
I am heavy, I am light. I’m numb, I’m keen. I’m enlightened even as I am plunged down into a foreign darkness. I am Myrtle again. Just stupid old Myrtle with big teeth and ratty hair.
Dovey sits patiently as we react. I realize, looking at Grandma, that she isn’t capable of doing anything. I realize it is up to me.
“Where did you find her?”
“In Crownsville, Maryland.”
I remembered the folks in Baltimore talking about Crownsville. If somebody did something crazy they’d say, “Next thing you know they’ll be carting me off to Crownsville!”
I say, “So she’s at the … ?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“What’s Crownville?” Grandma manages to say.
I put an arm around her and pull her close. “Grandma, Crownsville, Maryland, is home to a mental institution.”
Her hand returns to her mouth and she sobs more.
“But Grandma, we thought this might happen.”
“I know. I know,” she mumbles into her hands.
“What condition is she in? Do you know what her diagnosis is?”
“Paranoid schizophrenia.”
Oh, Lord.
“Grandma, do you know what that is?”
She nods. “It’s what my sister Rachel probably developed before her suicide. She was never diagnosed though.”
“Can we visit her?”
Dovey reaches into the inner breast pocket of his suit and pulls out a business card. “Here’s the card of the clinical director of the hospital. He said to give him a call anytime you want. He was very helpful.”
Grandma asks. “Will you call for me, Charmaine?”
“Yes, Grandma. I’ll make the call for both of us.”
I have a nosebleed later on.
And I thought I had come so far.
3
The phone rings. At this point in my life it could be so many people: Harlan, Tanzel, BrooksTone, the doctor at the mental hospital who I called yesterday and hasn’t yet returned my call, Ruby, the folks at Forger’s Creek, and I could go on. I remember those days at the bowling alley when no calls ever came in for me.
“Hopewell house.”
“Charmaine?”
“Grace.”
She sounds normal.
“Hi, Charmaine.”
“Hi, Grace. Where are you?”
“Still at the home.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I’m doing well.”
“I’m glad for you.”
“I’ve a month behind me. Only eleven more to go!”
“Yep, eleven more.” Eleven more. “You coming back here, then?”
“I’m not making any plans yet. One day at a time and all.”
“I guess that’s what they say.”
“It helps knowing you’re taking such good care of my baby.”
Your baby? He’s my baby. You left him behind and you’ve never come back.
I can’t say “I love Leo like he is one of my own” because Leo and I have more in common than a mother and her biological child could ever have. Love Leo like my own? Leo is my own. Leo is me.
“They treating you okay there?�
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“Sure. I get a little tired of all the Bible stuff, but if it works, hey, who am I to knock it?”
“You never know. Maybe you should rely on God to get you through.”
“I’m trying. But it’s like anything else, Char. Baby steps. You know.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“Can I speak with Leo?”
“Oh, honey, I’m sorry, he’s at a friend’s house.”
“Oh. Well. Maybe another time?”
“Of course.”
“I’d better go.”
“I hope you continue to do well, Grace.”
“Thanks. See ya, Char.”
“’Bye now.”
I lied. Leo is in the next room painting a picture of a jet plane.
Harlan deserves to know all about Mama. “What’s Really Eating at You” or not. He is my husband and I love him. And he loves me. This I know.
I put the kids to bed hours ago. Grandma reads in her room. She loves Mary Higgins Clark. I’d love to be a reader like that.
Harlan’s already laying in bed and he’s reading, too. His books are the nonfiction types, though. He got reading glasses last week and he looks so cute in them.
“Harlan?”
He lays the book on top of the covers. It’s entitled Old Testament Exegesis. “Hey, Shug. You coming to bed?”
“Uh-huh. But I need to talk to you.”
“Okay. You all right?”
I nod. “It’s about Mama.”
He takes off his glasses and lays them on the book. “Come sit here with me then.”
I climb in bed, put my arms around him, and rest my head in its place atop his heart. I can’t see him this way, which is good. “We found her.”
“Alive?”
“Uh-huh.”
He tightens his arms around me. “Where is she?”
“In Maryland. In a mental institution.”
“Oh, Shug.”
“I know.”
I tell him everything. I tell him everything.
Mama’s illness and how she acted when I was a kid. My depression.
Everything.
He deserves to know he’s been preaching while a hypocrite wife stands next to him singing and acting all spiritual.
