by Jack Cady
Lona-Anne-Marie believes they will. She waits and watches. In the vacant lots, the poppies have give way to scarlet runner beans. John and Sarah seem to have the touch. Their crop is thrifty.
John thinks Em is right; Jim isn’t sure. The rest of us are waiting. When summer dawns throw silver light in patches through the trees, we watch the sky. The roof of Kingdom Hall is pebbled gold, not much has changed. On Sunday mornings folks pass to and fro. They wave and go their ways when services are done. The neighborhood falls quiet, save for children’s play, while in the parking lot of Kingdom Hall two white dogs dance, or sniff at oil spots where the cars were parked.
Daddy Dearest
It began in a tearoom in Seattle, one with rose-colored tablecloths and stained glass lamps. A tearoom, I ask you. A tearoom with pictures of bunnies and duckies quilted on the napkins, the whole show run by a granny-lady named Mrs. Perkins.
In addition to bunnies the tearoom sported furniture like riff-raff from an antique store, you know the kind; a late Victorian breakfront, 19th century reproductions of 17th century chairs, and kitschy washboards, trivets, and unwarranted junk from rural America of seventy years past.
Into this tearoom, on one of those rainy northwest days specifically designed for funerals, slipped two quiet people who murmured to each other while touching hands. One, the man, carried a jar. The man (who looked like someone named Harold but who was actually named Aubrey) seemed nondescript in spite of grooming. His slender frame stood topped by brown hair, and he gazed about with brown eyes, a man eminently suited to brown; a man, one assumed, accustomed to brown thoughts, and it looked like he’d been thinking them for about thirty years. He dressed not in brown, but elegant tan cashmere and wool, most expensive.
The woman, smashingly beautiful, tended to the green of springtime. If the man seemed sad, the woman seemed only mildly serious. A touch of girlishness chased away rain and wind and gloom of streets where cars ran wet and umbrellas turned inside out. Whereas the man looked like a shirt advertisement, albeit a depressed one, the woman looked like an artist, which in fact, was the case. A bit bohemian, perhaps, but an artist who knew her business. Her piled hair looked Norwegian, her features classic Greek. She stood taller than Aubrey, not so elegantly dressed, but a green wool skirt fell just far enough to display trim ankles, and her green wool jacket snugged tidily around narrow shoulders. Name of Patsy.
The jar was one of those funerary things crematoriums give the bereaved, and which hold ashes. This cream-colored jar carried a gold leaf inscription reading: “Blessed is he who don’t dip his finger into this jug-a-trouble ’cause he’ll sure-God get it bit.”
“I wanted a really nice inscription,” the man murmured sadly. “Something from the Bible. But, Pop had to be snotty ’til the end. The whole memorial ceremony was compromised.”
“It’s been your problem all your life,” the jar said. “Making compromises. Cutting deals where you come out on the short end of the stick. I tried to pay attention when you was growin’.” The voice spilled from beneath the lid of the jar, no more than a whisper, but steady as wind across Montana. Aubrey looked at the jar, looked mournful, but not a bit surprised. He looked like he had been expecting something like this all along.
“Being dead doesn’t seem to shut him up.” Patsy suppressed a giggle.
“I had many a doxie in my day,” the jar whispered proudly, “but nobody prettier than you.” The jar chuckled, its voice not a little horny.
“I wish I’d known him better,” Patsy said. “He’s the sort of rascal who seduces entire convents.”
“He had that reputation,” Aubrey admitted in a brownish voice. He held a chair for Patsy, then seated himself. “This is a nice place,” he hissed to the jar. “Just this one time try not to embarrass me.”
“I thought the memorial was actually very nice.” Patsy looked around the room, at prints of kitties, piggies, and sunny children. She wrinkled her nose.
“My father’s friends,” said Aubrey, “were various.”
“Apple knockers,” the jar whispered, “and lonesome cowboys, railroad station agents, bar girls, torch singers, lady truck drivers, plus bozos, battleaxes . . . I’m talking here about ex-wives . . . lumberjacks, used car salesmen . . . .”
“She gets the picture,” Aubrey muttered. He also looked around the tearoom, looking at nicely dressed women at lunch. The women chatted about dreams and plans of husbands, sons, grandsons, daughters, nieces; chatted of piano lessons, while making distressed noises about Democrats and orthodontists. A few women cast cautious glances at the jar. They pretended nonchalance. The jar chuckled, the chuckle lascivious.
“I suppose one never gets completely away from his father,” Patsy said. “But yours is a special case.” She glanced through a menu. Her hair held just a touch of russet. She smiled generously and reached to touch Aubrey’s wrist. “I’m not sure why or what you need . . . .”
“For openers,” Aubrey said quietly, “what do I do with him? I can’t park him on the mantel at home. He’ll just hit on the cleaning lady. I can’t dump him. He’ll turn into dust, and the dust will have a million teeney-weeney little voices. I’ll be surrounded.”
“We’ll think of something,” Patsy said, her voice a trifle cool. “You should look at your menu.”
“There was a time when I dreamed you and I would become much closer.” Aubrey blushed while Patsy brightened. He started to speak, blushed a deeper red, then waffled. “I feel uneasy with decisions unless we’ve talked.”
The jar expressed a disgusted sniff. Patsy smiled. The owner of the tearoom, Mrs. Perkins, arrived to take orders. She hovered above the table like a beneficent deity of doilies, a lacy, gray-haired lady capable of expressing cupcakes with the wave of a hand, capable of cookies.
“Sadie,” the jar whispered mournfully in the direction of Mrs. Perkins. “You must-of sold the brothel. You and the girls must-of retired.” The jar sounded appalled. Then it began to hum, the hum sounding suspiciously like “Long Ago and Far Away.”
“Did someone say something?” Mrs. Perkins sounded puzzled. “Is someone humming?” She gave a grandmotherly chirp. “At my age one gets to hearing things.”
“. . . got a birthmark on her right leg, well above the knee . . . .”
“Excuse me.” Aubrey stood, removed his jacket, and placed it over the jar.
“Cucumber sandwiches, Darjeeling tea, and a pair of your lovely lady fingers,” Patsy told Mrs. Perkins. Patsy smiled happily at the thought of lady fingers, certainly not at the thought of cucumbers.
“That one’s gonna cost.” A muffled whisper came from beneath the jacket. “I’ll keep you up nights singing, ’cause I ain’t sleeping, I’m only dead.”
“A period of mourning is appropriate,” Aubrey said after Mrs. Perkins left. “I can even get leave from the office. One does not lose a father lightly, even that father.” He pointed to the lump beneath the jacket. His eyes shone a little misty, a man with more to say, a man about to stutter. Then he sat quietly.
“I’m not at all sure you’ve lost him.” Patsy could not suppress a chuckle. “When you stop to think of the power of fathers, and how they live in your life and your dreams, I’m not sure any of them are truly lost.” She sat quietly, perhaps remembering her own father; or perhaps wondering when Aubrey would get to the point, if there was a point. “In your case,” she said, “I’m sure you’ve not lost him. Have you wondered why this is happening?”
“Solar flares?” Aubrey asked. “Radiant energy from the center of the earth? Spaceships? Malicious gods? Time warps, bad luck, karma . . . do you believe in karma?” He reached to touch her hand, his touch tentative. “At first I hoped it a simple case of madness. Hearing things, you understand? I hoped it an aberration of grief. But, you’re hearing him as well.”
“And so is Mrs. Perkins.” Patsy giggled. “You may be crazy. I may be crazy. But I double-guarantee you that a sweet old bat like Mrs. Perkins is not crazy.”
&nbs
p; “It’s an out of body experience,” the jar whispered from beneath the jacket. “I kid you not.”
Tea arrived ahead of the sandwiches. Patsy poured two cups, raised hers in a toast. “To fathers.”
“To fathers and to lonely nights,” Aubrey replied. Another blush began, although his first blush had not yet finished. “Was there ever a chance for us?” Beyond the windows, in the gray light of autumn, traffic reflected in the polished surface of a store’s large front window. Images passed back and forth as people mirrored in the glass. A teenage boy wearing a red baseball cap strolled past, hands in pockets and with a faraway look. He did not whistle. A policeman waited at a traffic light while three other people jaywalked.
“I love autumn,” Patsy told him. “The world is just a little gusty before it goes to sleep for winter.” She smiled, but her hand trembled slightly as she rearranged a napkin. “There still is a chance for us. Still is, but with alterations.”
Aubrey stared brownly into his teacup as if reading leaves or searching for ultimate wisdom. “You’re talking about my melancholy.”
“You can do better,” the jar advised Patsy. “With a bod like yours a girl could get to Vegas.”
Patsy stood, took off her jacket, and piled it on top of Aubrey’s jacket. Whispers of indignation barely sounded through the folds of cloth.
And it is true, without the jacket, Patsy displayed a delicate combination of features which would turn the head of any statue, if the statue were male. She touched her shirt front, realized she drew attention to some assets, blushed . . . then leaned back in her chair as cucumber sandwiches arrived.
Mrs. Perkins glanced at the pile of jackets as she set plates on the table. “We can’t allow pets.” Her mouth formed an unhappy line. “You cannot believe the strictness of the health department. If you have a little one there, he’ll have to wait outside.”
“It’s not a pet nor ever was,” Patsy assured her. “It’s not alive.” Patsy looked beyond the window and into the day of rain and wet leaves. She smiled at Mrs. Perkins. “A lovely day.”
“I count myself lucky,” Mrs. Perkins murmured. “So many friends have gone before me, yet here I am healthy and cozy in my little shoppe.” Her voice trembled. “One does miss friends, though. Rather badly, in fact.”
Unintelligible whispers rose from beneath the pile of jackets as Mrs. Perkins returned to her kitchen.
“Melancholy,” Aubrey said. “It’s all around us.”
“A brown study,” Patsy told him. “That’s what old-time poets would have said. You’re always in a brown study. Your mind must look like a piece of English tweed.” Her voice, though critical, sounded tender. “My dear, dear man, with one life to live why must you choose only gloom and sorrow?”
Aubrey mutely pointed to the pile of jackets. He seemed near tears. Even his tan cashmere sweater appeared affected.
“Because a girl can’t live with gloom,” Patsy told him. “At least this girl can’t. I’m basically a happy person.”
“I think an evil jinn causes this.” Aubrey pointed to the pile of jackets. “When I was child that . . .” his finger shook as it pointed “. . . that man denied my childhood. He made me clean out a chicken house. Worst day of my life.”
“A chicken house?”
“Among other indignities.” Aubrey sighed, but did not sound particularly sad.
“I’m looking at you in disbelief,” Patsy told him, “because I don’t believe a word of this.” She stood, carefully removed jackets from the jar, and hung them over the backs of chairs. To Aubrey she said, “It’s the restroom for you, my man. Get in there for at least ten minutes.” Her tones were those with which one did not trifle.
Aubrey, bewildered, passed toward the restroom and beyond hearing. Patsy turned to the jar, her voice changing to tones most raspy. “Crap me around one time,” she said, “and we head for the ladies’ can. A royal flush will be dealt. Only one of us will return.”
“Even if you can’t do better, you can do different.” The jar’s whisper sounded impressed.
“I can’t do either,” she told the jar. “Even if I can, I don’t want to. Artists are surrounded by people with weird egos. You can guess how a quiet and attractive guy . . . .” She shrugged. “So, explain love? Go ahead.”
“I have the time,” the jar whispered sadly, “but you don’t. You still have some livin’ to do.”
“What’s this chicken house business?”
“The whole family had chores during a time when we went broke farmin’. He’s not feeling sorry for himself, he’s protecting his mama’s good name. She pretended we weren’t broke. Put on a few airs.” The jar paused, the pause thoughtful, or almost. “He’s his daddy’s boy. He’s got a sense of humor. He just never learned how to laugh.”
“When he returns,” Patsy said, her voice grim as graves, “I’ll head for the can. You have ten minutes. Teach him to laugh.”
“You two kids are gonna get along just fine,” the jar murmured. “You are soundin’ exactly like his momma.”
“Ten minutes. He’s on his way back here right now.” Patsy grabbed her purse and left.
“One advantage in bein’ dead is bein’ able to tell the future,” the jar whispered to Aubrey, after Aubrey returned looking unsettled. “. . . . Or rather, futures, because everybody’s got a lot of them, depending on their choices.”
“Give it a rest, Pop.” Aubrey stood, looking like a man who did not know whether to stay or flee. He looked a little lost, and plenty lonesome.
“So I’m gonna tell you about a boy who could be you, a good boy ’til he married the wrong woman. He may hook up with the right one later on, or maybe not.”
Aubrey sat, elbows on table, looking into the wet street. He pretended not to listen. He pretended he did not feel befuddled.
“This boy’s daddy was a famous buffalo-rider of the old school,” the whisper continued. “Won loving cups and stuff. When the buffalo-rider’s wife had a little kid, he named the kid Spike; only the wife didn’t like it and named him after some artsy-fartsy guy who moped a lot and died young. The kid grew and turned into the boy who married the wrong woman.”
“Spike?” whispered Aubrey, and he seemed interested. His mouth twitched in a way that said it would be hanged if it was going to smile. “All my life you flipped b.s. Aren’t you ever ashamed?”
“Did I ever lie?”
Aubrey considered, looked at wet streets, wet leaves, slicky sidewalks. “. . . told some pretty wild stories.”
“Every one true,” the jar whispered. “This boy I’m tellin’ about married this gal . . . she sold his furniture . . . rearranged his place . . . bought a goldfish named Clarence and a hamster named Rasputin. She donated his suits, all brown and tan, to a home for delinquent Arabs, and she decked him out in stuff that would get him shot in Milwaukee. He had to grow a mustache. The mustache shed down his shirtfront. Hair worked under his belt and tickled his crotch . . . caused a case of the hots . . . he goes home in a hurry . . . she’s not home . . . he takes his case of the hots to a cowboy bar. Boy gets a snootful, ends up with a bargirl famous for card tricks, sharpshooting, bareback riding, and occasional hustles . . . they run off . . . live . . . you’re chuckling, what’n’the hell’s so funny?”
“You’re trying to con me out of something. What?” Aubrey tried to make his voice brownish, and only managed something close to dark ivory.
“I got it on the line here, boy. Listen up, ’cause this is what happens with the second choice.
“Boy still marries the wrong girl. Boy still goes home with the hots. Goldfish intact . . . hamster happy . . . girl is home, copulation certain. Lots of hollering, rolling around, and in nine months out pops a kid. Name of Aloysius. Boy secretly names him Studs. Goddammit boy, there’s a third choice, quit giggling . . . .”
“Can’t help it,” Aubrey said. “You’re running a con, and I’m seeing through it, and for once your b.s. isn’t . . . hush, here comes Mrs. Perkins.”
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“Is everything all right?” Mrs. Perkins sounded the way a woman might, if a young man sat in her teashop talking to himself.
“Sadie,” the jar whispered loudly as it could. “Long time . . . .”
Mrs. Perkins stopped, paused, looked around her tearoom. She checked out tea-drinking ladies, pictures of duckies, doilies, and lace. She quickly took a seat. “One of the boys from better days,” she whispered to Aubrey, and looked fondly at the jar. “. . . give you fifty bucks for him . . . .”
“He’s my father.”
“Forty bucks,” Mrs. Perkins said. “I thought he might be someone else.”
“Don’t let her shove you around,” the jar whispered. “A dozen times I’ve seen her run that number. You can easy get a hundred.”
Aubrey laughed, practically helpless. Patsy, returning from the ladies’ can, heard the laugh. Aubrey tried not to laugh, messed up royal, and laughed some more. Patsy took his arm, smiled happily, murmured something unintelligible, and Aubrey blushed. In the street, watched over by gods and flying saucers, by radiant energy and plain-dumb-luck, rain paused as if pondering a spot of sunshine; a new beginning, a blessed dawn. Then rain seemed to shrug its shoulders, puffed a gust or two, and decided to drizzle.
“I’m staying here with Sadie,” the jar said to Aubrey. “You’ll know where to find me.” To Mrs. Perkins the jar said, “It’s you and me, kid. You gonna display me on that sorry breakfront?”
“On my nightstand.” Mrs. Perkins whispered so low Aubrey could not hear. Of course, by then, Aubrey had already helped Patsy with her coat and the two were nearly to the doorway, doubtless headed toward intimacy.
“On your nightstand?” the jar whispered, a whisper between awe and mild excitement. “You always was creative.”
“We’ll figure something out,” Mrs. Perkins said, her voice throaty and bright as she watched Aubrey and Patsy step into the wet street. Aubrey raised an umbrella. He looked ready to tsk.
