What Doesn't Kill You

by Virginia DeBerry

Ha! Who was I kidding? I was vibrating like a mad woman and on the verge of chucking it all and ordering pizza. That’s about the time I realized how quiet it had gotten in the living room. Clearly the action in the kitchen was more interesting than some old fourth and goal, so I guessed my cat was out of the bag. I was going to have a hard time being thankful about that. Then Ron poked his head in the kitchen. He looked at me. I looked at him, and then I said, “The turkey’s frozen,” and burst out laughing because…I don’t know why. At that moment it seemed hilarious. Ron said he had a blowtorch back at the shop, which sent my brain someplace it shouldn’t have gone, so I directed it back to dinner. Turkey Lurkey was way too big for the microwave, and if he went back in the oven he’d have been done just in time for a midnight snack.

  Then I saw the lightbulb come on over Ron’s head. “The grill.” It was the first home furnishing J.J. purchased. Amber was looking at armoires and ottomans, but as long as J.J. had a bed and his 36,000-BTU, stainless-steel, three-burner gas grill he’d have been fine. Baby Son-in-Law comes from a long line of men who cook—with fire—and sell big wolf tickets about secret sauce, so I guess Cousin Ron’s suggestion came pretty naturally. I wasn’t sure how we were going to get twenty-five pounds of semipolar poultry on a grill, but then he took off his leather sport jacket, rolled up his sleeves and went at it with the meat cleaver. He worked up a sweat, but he actually cut it into semirecognizable pieces, kind of like the nine-piece buckets of fried chicken where you can’t tell a breast from a thigh from a back. Next thing I know he’s on the patio firing up the barbie.

  I persuaded J.J. to persuade Amber not to return to kitchen duty. Then I dug around for the pressure cooker the happy couple got as a wedding gift and filled it with the greens, because chewy collards is more fiber than anybody needs. I wasn’t sure what kind of secret sauce went with barbecued turkey, but I whipped something up. The hardest part was leaving the kitchen. Having all those folks looking at my jobless self, I couldn’t have felt more exposed if I was naked—OK, that may be an exaggeration, since I had not forgotten the last time I saw Ron. Anyway, the only way to get the turkey parts to the auxiliary cookery was to pass through the living room, so I threw my shoulders back and came out talking—about the slight menu deviations, the football game, whatever came to mind.

  By the time I grabbed my coat and the tray of underdone bird, Ron had the grill cranking. I watched while he adjusted the flame and the height of the racks. He had big, strong workingman’s hands, but there wasn’t a trace of grime under his fingernails, and I could see he had used lotion to smooth the skin on his scraped knuckles. Which I know has absolutely nothing to do with the story. Anyway, let me tell you, it was cold out there, but the frosty air was quiet, relaxing in a way. And I was surprisingly warm by the fire—I will not give him credit for that, except I felt kind of weird, holding the tray, not knowing what to say, wondering what he was remembering about me. After the bird was on the grill, he turned to me and said, “The name’s Ron. Nice to meet you.” Then he tipped his imaginary Kangol and disappeared inside. Guess he was giving me a second chance to make a first impression. And as much as I wanted to say, “Who asked you for one?” given my position, it was best that I shut up and take it. We would have made a pretty baby, though—OK, I need to stop.

  Princess Puffy Eyes emerged from the bedroom eventually—kept trying to talk to me about what I was going to do without a job, but I was having none of it. I even sat at the opposite end of the table so she couldn’t bring it up. Nobody else did either. I think Amber’s maid of honor’s boyfriend was about to, but he got the evil eye and a kick under the table, and he asked for the stuffing instead. And you know what? Barbecued turkey is really pretty tasty.

  At the end of the evening I told Ron it was good cooking with him…on the grill, and to drive safely. It felt a little less weird, but I sure was worn out. And as I left, I asked Amber not to mention about the job to her grandparents. I’d tell them when the time was right.

  But that night I could not sleep. Don’t know if it was the excitement of the day, insufficient hormones or too much sweet-potato casserole, but I rolled around, wrestled with the sheets, knocked pillows on the floor, and all I kept hearing, over and over, was myself yelling, “They laid me off, alright?” It bounced off the walls and hit me right between the eyes. Those people had taken my job, like I was some shiftless, lazy, half-steppin’ loser. I didn’t deserve that. I figured one day I’d retire, on my own terms, when I was good and ready. There would be a luncheon and speeches, then maybe Olivia and I would make a return trip to London. Except then I’d see her on that porch, dead, and me in the HR office with that man and his condescending attitude and irritating voice telling me about my loyal service, and my security escort off the premises. By dawn I could have taken the Grinch in a steel-cage smack-down because my usual championship Christmas spirit was out for the count.

  And as December rolled along it only got worse. I was not interested in decking a hall, singing a carol or jingling a bell. I couldn’t bring myself to address Christmas cards I’d already bought, open the ones I received or accept invitations to parties I always attended, because when people asked how I was, I didn’t want to tell it and they wouldn’t want to hear it, so what was the point? I didn’t want to see Santa’s workshop store windows, a sugarplum fairy or a Christmas pageant, and for the first time in my life I didn’t put up a tree because I didn’t feel like celebrating. And to remind me why I was in such a foul mood, I had finally gone through my last paycheck and the one they cut for my vacation time, so December’s bills came directly out of my pocket. Ho ho ho.

  Gerald and I didn’t usually see each other much this time of year, which always made me blue, but this year it was a relief. It was all I could do to spruce myself up on Christmas Eve eve, our traditional night together—dinner out, a few drinks, then back to my place for dessert, if you get my drift. Tell you the truth, that didn’t even cheer me up and it always does. Oh, and he gave me a very generous gift card. I had him stop shopping for me years ago—never did get the sizes right. So I’d add to whatever he gave me and get something I really wanted—usually eighteen karat.

  Then one night Amber shows up, full of fire, to tell me she and J.J. had a big fight after she told him she wasn’t going to his parents’ for Christmas because I’d be all alone. I sat her down right that second, told her that job or no job I was still the mother, that I was fine and that she needed to go pack and get on that plane to Dallas with her husband. It was an award-winning performance, since I was feeling sad and sorry and would miss them both like crazy, but that was not her problem. She need not be fighting with her husband on my account.

  So Christmas Day I watched old movies in my pajamas, had a tuna sandwich for dinner and kept the answering machine on. The kids and my parents, who were all sure I was out having a little extra eggnog at somebody’s house, left me messages because I didn’t have the energy to fake jolly.

  So one afternoon I’m hanging out, counting down the days ’til the new year because I was too through with the old one, and my doorbell rings. I saw the postal truck, so I figured it was a late Christmas arrival, but the mailman hands me a letter I have to sign for. When I saw three names on the return address my knees got wobbly. Whose lawyer had something certified to tell me? It sure wasn’t an inheritance—I don’t have those kinds of long-lost relatives. I stared at it a long time, like it was going to speak to me, but when I finally ripped it open I was stunned. Attorneys for Markson were demanding I return property that I removed or destroyed—namely the corporate history I shredded accidentally on purpose—or risk forfeiture of my severance payment and possible prosecution. For something I’m sure they were planning to bury in an archive? I didn’t know whether to be mad or scared first, but it did make me open the other correspondence in my fruit bowl in-basket.

  Most of it was about their so-called stolen property, each one nastier than the last. Who did they think they were talking to? A cri
minal? Then quick, fast and in a hurry I needed to arrange for something called COBRA. Reptile family—it figured. Anyway, without it I’d have no health insurance, just like before Amber was born. Poof, twenty years of progress gone, one snakebite at a time. And I couldn’t believe the size of the payments—every month? But that’s all right, I’d only need coverage until my next job. Then there were pension papers, which didn’t mean jack for another twenty years. I shoved the whole wad back in the bowl since I couldn’t shove it where I wanted to, but I had to give them some kind of answer to let them know I was not to be messed with. Right. The mind is a terrible thing to lose.

  Being mad gave me momentum, so down to the basement I went to excavate my house-closing papers, since that was the last time I needed legal advice. Hint: try not to need an attorney during the holidays. They’re either skiing or in the Caymans. After a lot of phoning and referring I found somebody who could see me New Year’s Eve.

  Basically she charged me $325 an hour to tell me Markson could do what they threatened. Great. Well, I didn’t have the files, which is basically what it said in that very expensive letter from my shark to theirs. Nor did I recall what happened to them, which I believe is lawyerese for, “I’m not going to tell you because it makes me look bad.” If they wanted to be hard-assed about it, I suggested I could re-create them, given some time and access to Olivia’s old records. I was sure we could come to some civilized understanding, which also meant I declined my attorney’s offer to be put on retainer. That basically meant I was supposed to give her $2,500, just to hold in case I might need her services. Do I give my doctor extra money in case I have a heart attack? No. I figured I could hold my money as well as she could. Besides, I wasn’t looking to buy the company. Just get their attention so we could be done with each other.

  On the way home I picked up a plate of takeout barbecue, with cornbread and black-eyed peas on the side for luck. The clerk gave me a noisemaker too—like I looked like I wanted to party. I never cared much for the whole lose-your-mind, party-like-it’s-1999 thing anyway. It was amateurs’ night out. So I fluffed the sofa cushions and stared at the TV, doing my own personal countdown until it was time for the ball drop. Given my state of mind, I would like to have seen the ball explode into a million pieces, but I at least wanted to see the year out to make sure it was over. I was counting on a clean slate, a new page to start the next phase of my life.

  Around eleven-thirty the phone rang. I let the machine answer, but I heard Mom’s voice. I was kind of surprised—thought Daddy would have found someplace for them to shake a tail-feather, as he would say—so I decided to pick up. “The perfect way to end my year. Talking to my mother,” I said with all the energy left in my tank. She said, “I just wanted you to know I’m leaving your father.”

  4

  Ignorance is not bliss.

  It was 1:07 a.m. by the clock on the microwave, and my lang syne was already old by the time I convinced Mom not to take the bag she had packed and get a cab to the Ocean City railroad station. What train she was planning to catch in the middle of New Year’s Eve night, I don’t know. And I didn’t ask where she was heading because “your house” was not a good answer. I had enough happening in my life without plopping her in the middle to do play-by-play commentary—like she was really going someplace.

  According to her, she could not live under the same roof with “that man,” meaning my father, one minute longer. Now, I’m not saying they didn’t have their share of arguments in forty-some years of marriage, but it was always more fussing than fighting. And if they ever came close to calling it quits, I wasn’t in on it, so I admit I was having trouble taking Mom’s announcement with the proper degree of seriousness—with any degree of seriousness. When I asked where Dad was, she sucked her teeth and said, “At the clubhouse with all his new friends.” I don’t know. Seemed like a good spot for a party—no driving involved, plenty of room for dancing and a whole wall of windows that looked out on the water. People pay good money to spend their vacation in places like that. All they had to do was go down the block, except I made the mistake of asking if they had been out together. I mean, Dad likes to party as much as the next guy, and he’s not usually the one wearing the lampshade, but we all have our moments—no need to remind me. Maybe he was having one of those high-voltage nights and she got sick of him and came home. Well, she about came through the phone telling me about those people he had taken up with. “All up in your face grinin’ and tryin’ to act like they known you forever.” Huh? So she was mad because the residents of The Seasons at Shoreline were too friendly? This would only make sense to my mother, and you can see where Amber gets her flair for the dramatic. After an hour’s worth of trying to talk her into rolling up her hair and going to bed, I realized the only way to tame the hot in her tamale was to pay an impromptu visit. Definitely not on my to-do list, but I promised I’d arrive before the Rose Parade was over if she would just stay put. “Suit yourself,” she kind of sniffed and informed me she would be sleeping in the guest bedroom, which by the way hadn’t had any guests since I helped them move in, not that she was keeping track or anything.

  Happy New Year to me. I dumped the rest of the black-eyed peas and cornbread—clearly they had not brought me luck. Then tossed some clothes in a tote bag. I figured I could smooth things out and be back on the road before I needed the third pair of panties, because I still had to straighten out my little misunderstanding with Markson and get myself reemployed, which was way more than a resolution.

  I caught about ten winks and headed out before dawn. By the time I hit Route 1 I had convinced myself this trip was a good idea. I mean, what made me think I could go the whole holiday season without seeing my parents, at least long enough to eat some sweet-potato pie and unwrap my annual slippers? Mom must have thought I wore them hiking—something I would never do even in the proper footwear—because every season she bought me new ones. After I got married I informed her I did not need any more fuzzy bunny scuffs, but I would appreciate something slinky, maybe with marabou feathers. Talk about somebody with their lips poked out, but she came through. They were white, with come-catch-me heels, kind of like the pair I found under my parents’ bed when I was ten and nosing around where I didn’t belong. It wasn’t until I was grown I realized that meant she didn’t always sleep in flannel nightgowns—which I didn’t exactly need to know. Anyway, I still have those slippers. Sad to say, these days they don’t get as much use as the scuffs, so I was about due for another pair.

  Thought about lots of old stuff like that while I drove, singing with Luther on the CD player. In the middle of “A House Is Not a Home” it came to me that Daddy was the one who said they’d be alright on their own for the holidays. I don’t remember Mom speaking on the subject, which I guess was her silent protest—unusual tactic for her. And since Amber wasn’t around, it was kind of like making them go family-free cold turkey.

  It felt strange taking the turnpike south to see them. The car practically knew the way home to Brooklyn, but now that was somebody else’s address. Well, they had earned a sweet retirement. Lord knows, they clipped enough coupons, scrimped, saved and made do long enough building their nest egg—which is what I thought I was doing at Markson. But I had to stuff that subject in the glove compartment until I got back.

  By the time I was belting out “Any Love” I was squarely focused on the fact that Gerald hadn’t called with our regular phone signal—two rings, hang up and two rings again—just a way to say he was thinking about me. On New Year’s he usually called in a quiet moment, after the midnight madness, so I decided maybe I didn’t hear the click while I was on the phone with Mom. Anyway, when “Don’t Want to Be a Fool” came on, I switched to Teddy and a little “Love TKO.” Then we were into “Bad Luck,” and I could see Daddy and my uncle acting like they were the Blue Notes singing backup at a backyard cookout. Mom shook her head and smirked, but I could tell she was having a good time, which isn’t always easy.

 
When I drove up to the brick-and-wrought-iron archway with the brass plaque announcing I was indeed at The Seasons at Shoreline, I was thinking about crab cakes and where to take my parents for lunch, since I was sure everybody’d had a good night’s sleep and was back in their right minds. Somehow I’d forgotten I had to stop at the guard house before entering the complex. I have to say the place was pretty grand—not Beverly Hills grand, but a world away from Ralph Avenue. I had to tell the guard whom I was visiting, then she activated the camera hidden in the bushes before the gate slid open—very high tech. She asked if I knew how to find the address. “Of course,” I said. How could I not know how to find my parents’ house? Right.

  The trees and shrubs along Shoreline Boulevard looked like they had been planted longer than the year since sections one and two opened. I mean, I live in a nice neighborhood. And mine was a planned community too. It was just planned around 1968. Nothing about this place screamed old folks’ home, and I thought, Wow, good for them, while I was trying not to think, Will I ever be able to retire? Those thoughts were supposed to stay in the glove compartment. My immediate problem was that sections three and four had been completed since I’d moved them down in August, and nothing looked familiar.

  I eased into a cul-de-sac called Dolphin’s Way with a Chesapeake on the corner—that was the two-story shingled salt box, but it wasn’t the right street. That led me to another circle, past an Annapolis, the duplex brick-front town house. I had been through all the models with them—Tidewater, Edgewater, Beacon Hill…They settled on the Dorchester, a center-hall ranch. Mom had no interest in stairs, and Dad loved the big bay window and columns out front. It was larger than the house I grew up in, and I remember thinking their stuff looked old and small when we got it inside.

  Anyway, I was on my fourth trip past Sandy Lane, Sea Shell Court, Shark Tooth Drive—names that sounded like you were on vacation, which I guess is what retirement communities are about. Life’s a beach. I still couldn’t find their house and that made me aggravated, and I had to pee, and I thought about heading back to the guard house, but I didn’t leave the bread crumbs so I wasn’t sure I could find that either. I veered left at the fork by the gazebo in front of the pond, and there was Terrapin Way, their little corner of coastal heaven. Daddy’s old Camry sat in the driveway. And I do mean old. My father did not believe in new cars—always said, “They charge too much for that new-car smell and I never did like it.” Not me. I have never been interested in anybody else’s mileage. Anyway, I pulled in behind him. Before I got to the walkway he swung open the door, reading glasses parked, as usual, in the middle of his forehead. I gave him a big hug and he kissed me on both cheeks and the tip of my nose, like when I was little, and said, “What a surprise.”