by Kris Radish
“What are you going to do for the talent portion of this, considering I have never seen a baton anywhere near you and you stopped playing the flute about three years ago?” Emma wants to know as she leans in just as close to Stephie as Marty has.
“Does this mean you are in?” Stephie repeats.
“I was in before this conversation started, smarty-pants, so just answer the question because now we have like less than forty-nine minutes to do this.”
Poetry.
And this is where Stephie really needs Emma’s help.
She wants to set up a kind of poetry slam for her part of the talent competition like the poetry slam they both attended when Marty was winging her way to the island with Robert, when Stephie and Emma were in Charleston.
“What in the Lord’s sweet name is a poetry slam?” Marty asks.
Now it is Emma and Stephie who are just two inches apart. In this short distance Emma can see the light in Stephie’s eyes, how much her niece wants to do this, how much she needs to do this. She holds out her hand, palm up, to give Stephie the “go ahead and explain it” signal.
“Poetry,” explains Stephie, “is the poor person’s form of wonderful literature. No one makes money at it but yet it is the most soulful and beautiful form of the literary world. This poetry slam stuff has been around since 1986, when a guy in Chicago started it. Now there’s this place called the Green Mill Jazz Club that’s like a mecca and I so want to go there someday.”
Stephie goes on as if she is in a trance. She has hosted slams at her school that have themes, started a Poetry Club on campus, and even competed herself all over the district, which includes five Southern states, as part of the high school forensics team. She explains how some poets and performers use dancing and music to highlight the poems and how she chooses to just stand still and let the poems create their magic.
“I love to do poetry at night when it’s dark outside and no one can see me and all they can do is focus on the words,” Stephie shares. “It’s beyond beautiful and a real tribute to the authors of the poems.”
“That’s it!” Emma shouts, jumping up the instant her brilliant idea is born.
“What?” Marty screams back.
“We’ll dim the lights before Stephie comes out in her prom dress. She can do her poem in the dark. And then she can walk off and as she walks off the stage there will just be the poem written out on a large piece of paper that the light shines on,” Emma says triumphantly.
“Oh, holy shit, Auntie Em, that is like perfect!” Stephie agrees, jumping up to hug Emma.
And then Stephie needs the damn prom dress and the three of them run into the house and then into the garage where Marty swears she has packed away not just every prom dress but every other thing that she is dying to burn or get rid of and they find not just one but seven dresses.
Some are Debra’s, Erika’s and Joy’s old dresses and each one is absolutely more hideous and lace-choked than the next.
It takes Stephie about three seconds to decide on the lime green dress that Emma wore to senior prom so long ago Emma is impressed that it is still in one piece. Three seconds to know that she will slit the sides, take it in a little, embellish it with everything from shoelaces to papier-mâché, lower the neckline, and wear it as if she had purchased it in Paris.
“Oh! Auntie Em, thank you for this,” Stephie whispers into Emma’s ear. “I so want to show my parents I am worth something and to make up for my mistakes.”
And as Stephie dashes to her car, and to her pageant meeting, Emma and Marty are left on the sidewalk feeling as if they have been run over by a herd of wild boars that have just spotted their first open water after their own long overdue long haul.
Emma and Marty stand there in silence as Stephie’s car turns the corner on two wheels and they see her pick up her cell phone, roll down the window, and look at herself in the mirror all at the same time.
And without acknowledging it they both imagine what this beauty pageant-poetry slam will be like and how it will most likely forever change the face of Higgins and the Gilford family history and who knows what in the hell else along the way. They are both smiling as they think about this, and both less than two inches apart, and they both lean in towards each other so there is absolutely no space between them as Stephie’s car disappears like a firefly that has just met the darkness and turned off its light.
“You have to let them do what they want to do, I guess,” Emma says with a happy sigh.
Marty turns so slowly it is almost imperceptible but when she does her lovely gray hair falls across Emma’s upper arms and Emma can feel her soft breath against her face when she speaks.
“And what do you want to do, sweet Emma?”
“I’m working on it, Mother. Stay tuned,” she answers just as a real firefly scoots by and winks at them both.
What Emma still does not know is that she is not the only one working on her happiness and trying to resurrect lost dreams, old formal dresses, and a life that seems to have stopped the second the band stopped playing at her final high school prom.
23
THE TWENTY-THIRD QUESTION:
Do you remember when Emma got stuck in the toilet?
EMMA HAS JUST LIT A DOZEN outdoor torches, placed delicious-smelling pine logs around her new outside fireplace, double-checked the wine, beer and snacks, and thrown a kiss to her flowers when she hears Debra, Erika and Joy walking around the side of the house and Debra asking if they remember when Emma got stuck in the toilet.
Her other two sisters laugh and the echo of their laughter beats them into the backyard where they all discover their baby sister standing with her hands on her hips, legs braced, and a very wide smile on her face.
“I was never stuck in the toilet, you big liar,” Emma whines.
“Oh my God, you were stuck in the toilet and it was when Mother was trying to potty-train you and for some insane reason you went back really far on the seat thingie and you sat there for a really long time,” Debra retorts as she gives Emma a hug.
“Didn’t I cry?” Emma wants to know.
“Cry? You?” Erika snorts. “You were perfect. You just sat and waited for someone to come along and rescue you. I think you’d still be there if Mom hadn’t needed to pee.”
“You were probably sitting there and designing gardens,” Joy pipes in, laughing. “You were just the cutest, most perfect little thing that ever lived.”
All three of her siblings line up in front of her and then Susie Dell comes whistling up the sidewalk to join them and Emma has a quick moment to regret what is about to happen. She sees Joy, Erika, Debra and Susie Dell as potential members of a firing squad who are about to throw one horrid childhood story after another at her until she drops to the ground and surrenders. What in the holy hell have I done?
Emma had bravely called each one of her sisters and Susie Dell and invited them over to her house for the evening and then brazenly suggested they leave their weapons in the car for one night just in case one of them felt compelled to act on their wild sisterly impulses.
Her backyard party idea was met with a variety of sisterly reactions that should have tipped Emma off to a night of potential debauchery, lies and bravado. But it surely did not tip her off to what really might happen.
“You mean not yell or scream about the way Debra always left her fingernail polish bottle open?” Joy had asked.
“Does this mean I have to forget about the time Joy put plastic wrap on the toilet seat?” Debra had teased.
“Forgive all of you for always stealing my clothes because they were the most fashionable?” Erika had wanted to know.
“What, sit and listen to more Gilford family stories?” Susie Dell had wailed with a laugh.
“Yes,” Emma had told each one of them firmly, not sounding as scared as she felt. And she was still not sure what would happen until she heard their voices sounding light and friendly as they enter her yard. “Welcome to the first ever Marathon Moment o
f Possible Salvation, where each and every one of you gets a chance to spill your guts, fill in the blanks and tell it just like it is.”
“Like that never happens,” Debra laughs.
“Thanks for having us over like this, and by the way, this is a fabulous break before the last-minute reunion mania,” Erika adds. “Is there a special announcement? Or do you just want to get us liquored up so you can make fun of us and then tell us all to fuck off again?”
“The latter, if things go my way,” Emma only half-jokingly admits. “And really, can you even remember the last time we were alone, just us kids? And not in the middle of some family function, tragedy, yelling match or drunken brawl?”
“Oh no,” Joy moans. “And I was so hoping for a combination of all of those this evening.”
What Emma really wants to do first but can’t is to share the conversation she had with brother-in-law Rick, the bastardly heathen. He’d shown up unexpectedly at her house just an hour before her sisters were scheduled to come over for the bonding-and-forgiveness party of the decade. Emma had all she could do to keep herself from slamming his head under the garage door until he started to talk, and then she listened and didn’t interrupt once.
His conversation must for now remain secret, because Joy would freak and ruin everything. Rick was there, he admitted, because he needed help to deal with Joy who has a drinking problem. Not just a little swigging-down-mimosas-with-Debra-at-Sunday-brunch drinking problem, but a blacking-out-in-the-kitchen, hiding-bottles-all-over-the-house, burning-the-rug, sleeping-untilmidafternoon-and-then-starting-it-all-over-again drinking problem.
“My God,” Emma had whispered, almost unable to speak because of his revelation. It’s Debra, she thinks. Debra who has the problem. Not Joy.
And then when she thought about it Emma realized that she should not be shocked by this news, considering Joy’s behavior at every family gathering, reports from Stephie, which Emma now realizes were totally underinflated, and the now obvious fact that Bo and Riley never want to be home either.
Rick had recited a litany that included attempts at counseling, visits to the doctor, one failed try to get Joy to an AA meeting, and everything from screaming and hollering to begging and then, finally, walking away. Or, in his case, running away.
Suddenly Emma saw everything. The way Joy’s habits started changing drastically several years ago. How she always brought extra drinks with her to every party. How her sons started getting more and more quiet every year. And the most horrid, terrible thing of all—Stephie coming over to her house all of the time and wanting to stay there and be with her so often.
And because Debra also loved to drink and was usually louder and more obnoxious, it had always seemed as if Debra had more of a problem. No, Rick had said, shaking his head. Debra just drinks to let off steam, to celebrate. Half the time she drinks to just piss us all off. She just wants us to think she drinks all of the time so she has an excuse to tell us all off because, truth be told, Debra’s not the happiest camper in the tent.
Rick had told Emma that he had a half-baked plan, but that he needed Emma’s help and Debra’s and Erika’s, too. He wanted to wait until after the family reunion, and then there would be an intervention with a counselor. He needed Joy’s sisters to make the plan work.
The mess with Joy is what floated in the front of Emma’s mind as her sisters gathered in her backyard and as they settled in immediately with actions that seem preplanned to throw copious amounts of attention on the hostess. And the suddenly overwhelmed hostess was aghast because she was hoping the attention would fall in circles around all of them and not just her.
Emma manages to change the conversation for a moment because she knows she is outnumbered and at any moment all hell could break loose. First she says thank you and then surprises herself with a confession of assumptions.
Thank you for rescuing me with all the reunion help and I am so sorry for assuming.
Assuming that your lives were always more wonderful than mine and that you thought I was just a loser who could not get married.
Assuming that you were always dumping your kids on me when I was the one hiding behind them because I was too afraid to get my own.
Assuming that you always think you are better and smarter than I am and that I am the one who always does more—more of everything.
Assuming that my life happiness is your responsibility and not mine and that my life choices somehow have been dictated by you.
“I’ve been a foolish baby,” Emma finally concludes. And then she says, “I’m just sorry it took me this long to see my life the way it is supposed to be, the way it really is.”
Erika, Joy and Debra protest at the exact same moment, “We never thought that way!” And they each take turns saying the same things. No one is perfect. Everyone screws up. We all make choices that are our own but it’s so damn wonderful to blame someone else.
And hey, Emma, you could be an ax murderer and we’d still love you.
Because you are our sister.
And this is when the other Magical Moment of Possible Salvation begins that is so much wider and wilder than Emma ever could have imagined. Because Emma is suddenly in front of an emotional firing squad that she unwittingly helped organize.
Erika admits that the Gilford sisters, and their newest adoptee, Susie Dell, were going to have a party just like the one Emma has thrown for them. They wanted to admit that they sometimes abused her, took advantage of her singlehood, her kind heart and stunning personality. All of her sisters—in spite of their own shortcomings and life mistakes—so want Emma to know that no matter how ugly their shared lives get, they all still love her and one another.
“We have been going crazy trying to figure out how to make you see how much we love you,” Joy said. “You’ve been so miserable. It’s like you are scared to be happy, Emma.”
Emma can’t move.
“It’s not the damn family reunion, or Mom’s boyfriend, or this shitty mess with Samuel, sweetheart,” Debra adds. “We should all tell you we love you more. And even when I am the Bitch of the Year, Emma, I just hold you so close in my heart.”
“Even when I screw things up?” Emma whispers.
“Oh, hell’s bells, sugar. I could show you screwed-up,” Debra snorts.
Erika tells Emma that she could not believe it when Emma called about her backyard sister-slam. “We were going to do the same thing for you,” she admitted. “It’s just so like you to be a step ahead of all of us.”
“We could all be better at telling you how much we love you, Emma,” Joy says, softly. “I, for one, want to call this night ‘Emma’s Lovefest.’ Because I love you so much, sister. Just so much.”
All Emma can do is wordlessly draw her sisters—Debra, Joy, Erika and Susie—into a tight circle so she can touch each one of them.
“I love you all, too,” she tells them. “Thank you for this. Just thank you.”
Emma then continues to be ambushed by her three sisters, and by Susie Dell who may as well change her last name to Gilford. They begin to serenade her with the stories she has been craving to hear since her mother took her to the secret garden. Stories that are as hilarious as they are poignant. Stories that ride over the hurt and anguish and spilled fingernail polish. Stories that appear to be getting longer and louder and more detailed as the night begins its parade towards darkness and then way past that absolutely magnificent moment when the heart of the evening begins to slide south.
Surprisingly it is Erika, not Joy, who takes charge and demands that there will be no arguing or bringing up crap that will hurt anyone gathered under the gazebo. Then she demands to know everyone’s oldest memory having to do with siblings or anything Gilford-like.
Joy—“The day when Erika was about two and I was about four and I was sick of her getting all the attention and I whacked her in the face with my open hand.”
Debra—“The day I was six and Emma was a baby and I did the same thing to her because I was
no longer the littlest princess.”
Emma—“The day you all slapped me at the exact same moment because I was the little princess.”
Erika—“The day I got slapped by Dad because I told everyone to slap Emma.”
And all of the sisters saying to each other, “You were never a princess,” and “I bet I could kick your ass now,” as Emma’s intervention and all its potential consequences accelerates into warp-speed while so many Moments of Possible Salvation are being formed it’s a wonder the plants and their little flowers do not twist themselves into a heap of shredded greenery.
Joy remembers the weekend that their cousins from the country came to visit for the first time and were astounded by everything from the streetlights to the fact that they could walk three blocks and buy a candy bar at the corner store.
“Was that the night you got on the roof with the hose and scared the living hell out of them?” Erika wants to know.
“No,” Joy corrects her. “The hose thing was the time I nailed everyone coming for trick-or-treat and then Dad made me stand outside while he hosed me down for about twenty minutes so I could see what it felt like.”
“You were both dirty animals,” Debra laughs. “Do you remember how mean you and Erika were to me and my friends, and especially you, Joy, because you were so much older, which, ha, ha, makes you really old now, and when they thought you were absolutely beautiful you told them you were a trained killer who was a female CIA recruit?”
“Really, Joy?” Emma wants to know.
“I am a trained killer, Emma.”
“Gag,” Erika moans as if she is once again thirteen.
And Susie Dell sits almost motionless except for the bobbing and weaving of her head as the stories and emotion swirl like the sucking wind of a tornado.
When Debra dares to mention the word torture, everyone is quiet for so long that Emma knows it must have something to do with her that she cannot, thank God, remember.
