Women's Intuition

by Lisa Samson

  And some shortbread nibblers!

  “So who’s your date with?”

  He pushed open the screen door and led me down into the courtyard in front of the garage that houses the Bentley, my Duster, and Mr. Summerville’s Mercedes convertible and lawn equipment and supports Asil’s apartment above. Asil and I have history. Good clean history.

  He stooped down to deadhead a sweet little plant with pink balls of flowers. Never could keep up on flower names. “What’s her name?”

  “Jezzie.”

  “You going out with a woman named Jezebel?! I have heard it all!”

  His warm chuckle oozed out as he stood up straight.

  “And look, you got a green thumbnail now!

  “Mrs. Percy, what am I gonna do with you?”

  “Nothin’ you’d like.”

  “Well, now, a man can’t be blamed for admiring from afar.”

  “No, he can’t.”

  “And I promised Mr. Percy before he died I’d look after you, which meant even from myself.”

  “You got that right.”

  “So you’re safer than you may like to be!”

  “In your dreams, Asil!”

  We laughed together. Lark swears something’s going on between Asil and me, and all I have to say to that is, the child isn’t big on insight.

  When I returned to my room after Asil hopped on the bus to pick up Jezebel, I sat down at my desk. I pulled my file box out from under the knee well and set to my Foundation work.

  With Flannery seeing that James Quigley Smith again tonight, or “gag boy” as she now says with affection (don’t ask me how), Lark locked in her prayer den, and Mrs. Summerville sacked out on the couch, plenty of time remains to get things done. Today I had to choose between helping the hungry in Oregon and rebuilding a burned church in South Carolina.

  Lord, have mercy.

  So much sin and suffering.

  My shoulders feel so narrow at times like this.

  I stood at my window for a while after that, waiting for the stars to appear, thinking it might just be nice to get a good view of Orion’s Belt tonight. “Lord, have mercy.”

  “I do, Prisma. Through you.”

  “What should I do, Lord?”

  “Pray about it, My girl.”

  “Pray even more, Lord?”

  “You got that right. Pray even more.”

  So I knelt beside the bed, and I prayed, and a vision of a little church up in flames appeared behind my eyes, and within the flames children ran with Easter baskets, their many braids bouncing. Church suppers disintegrated in the heat, and a community was destroyed, leaving desolation—spiritual and physical.

  “Do you see it’s all the same, My girl?”

  “Yes, Lord, I do.”

  “Feed My sheep.”

  And so I approved the check to Mount Zion Church of God in Christ for $100,000. And in the words of that white girl Scarlett O’Hara, I said to the sky, “Tomorrow is another day, Jesus.”

  I leaned on the Everlasting Arms for a while until Flannery pulled in at 1:00 A.M. hungry and tired and in need of a ham sandwich. I remembered the day Mr. Summerville told me he placed me in charge of the Foundation. He lay dying then.

  Oh, God. If I remember too hard, I get sick. I said before that he was my best friend, but I want to say it again. Charles Summerville was my best friend. Let that never be mistaken.

  “You’re a wise woman, Prisma,” he said that day.

  “I try to listen to God, Mr. Summerville.”

  “I know. I wish I’d listened to you sooner about Jesus.”

  I waved my hand. “God was working on you even then. And working through you too. We can’t begin to understand how and why He does what He does.”

  He chuckled and coughed painfully. Pneumonia had set in by then.

  “Don’t go trying to second-guess the past or God, Mr. Summerville. It’s too late for that.”

  “You’re right, Prisma. Would you hold my hand?”

  So I did. Right away.

  “I want you to take over the Foundation now. The paperwork is being drawn up.”

  Feed My sheep, Prisma. Feed My sheep.

  “Mr. Summerville. I’m sure there are better people to run such an organization.”

  “Oh, financially speaking you’ll have all the help you need. I want you to decide where the money goes.”

  “How do you know I’m the woman for the job, sir?”

  He smiled again. And the nurse entered with his morphine shot.

  “Will you stay until I fall asleep, Prisma?”

  “You know I will, Mr. Summerville.”

  A simple woman with simple needs, I’ve been criticized by my own family for remaining here. But Stoneleigh House needs a shepherd. I’m feeding sheep, and, like the Good Shepherd, I love them and I know them by name.

  And that’s the truth.

  Tomorrow is Leslie’s stress test.

  Lord, have mercy.

  Lark

  I’VE GIVEN UP TELEVISION. Not only does it waste time, it makes me feel horrible about myself and say all sorts of mean things about celebrity women.

  I call them anorexic, which they just may be, but why throw the term around flippantly when so many regular people who will never be popular and thought beautiful suffer like that? Lollipop heads, my personal favorite (quite descriptive and heard on cable) is the second best. Then there are general adjectives like vapid, misguided, and lacking self-esteem. I can even get self-righteous and proclaim them responsible for leading teenage girls down a path to depression.

  Judging?

  Of course. Doomed to forever play the comparison game, though detrimental to my self-esteem, I am freed to at least realize that my nature demands it. And I have had enough of that. I want to live a life where I don’t compare myself to a standard only achievable with lots of money, surgery, or expensive medications and supplements, or in those rare instances a metabolism with which King Nebuchadnezzar could have fueled the fiery furnace. So now I compare myself with the lady next to me in line at the CVS store, and usually I measure up just fine.

  If on the short side.

  Without the infernal tube feeding me these images, my radar screen only blips occasionally.

  With these thoughts, I sat on my sofa with my craft bag. A CD played some soft piano jazz. But the shrill ring of the phone soon replaced the chuckling ivories.

  I threw down my Christmas stocking and tripped over the coffee table getting to the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Lark.”

  Drat him. Why would the man not give it up?! He jumped right into pleading his infernal case. And with his usual charm.

  “Okay, Brad. I’ll see you. But I’m not guaranteeing anything as far as Flannery is concerned. Do you hear me clearly?”

  “That’s all I ask for now.”

  “So will you fly over?”

  “Yeah. I’m ready whenever you are.”

  “How about next week?”

  “Okay.”

  “You need a ride from the airport?”

  He laughed. “No. I can afford to rent a car.”

  I’d be seeing Bradley again. Dear Jesus.

  “What band were you with anyway?”

  “Feral Junket.”

  “No kidding? Flannery loves them.”

  “Really? No kidding?”

  “No kidding.”

  “Did you have a stage name or something?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Not a one-name thing, I hope.”

  “Yep, Babe. I’m known as Mole.” I wanted to laugh out loud. “How appropriate.”

  “Too true. Too true. Okay, well I’ll see you next Friday. Would that be okay?”

  “It has to be, right? Call me when you land. We’ll arrange to meet somewhere. I definitely do not want you just showing up at Greenway.”

  “There’s no telling what Leslie would do.”

  “I’d be more worried about Prisma if I were you.”
<
br />   “How is Prisma?”

  God, why did You give him a voice like that?

  “The same.”

  “That figures.”

  “It does, doesn’t it?”

  How we could suddenly be conversing like this mystified me.

  “Twenty years is a long time, Lark.”

  Maybe that explained it. “Yeah, it is.”

  Good decision on the Baywatch, Lark, or you might have found yourself on a diet, trying to drop a few pounds before his arrival. Besides, yo-yo dieting can ruin a person’s heart.

  Daddy used to say, “You look just like your mother, Larkie.” He was wrong. Leslie Lee Strawbridge Summerville still qualifies as a beautiful woman, one of those older beauties who nibbles on cucumber sandwiches in high-class lunchrooms, displaying only a touch of makeup on her perfect face and understated polish on her clipped nails, one of the women who maintained good ankles, slender wrists, and the ability to wear a diamond pinkie ring on her right hand and slim gold bangles that tinkle but never clang. Women must stare at Mother and think—my gosh, if she’s this pretty at that age, I can hardly imagine what she must have looked like at my age.

  And then they stare down at their tummies and their thighs spread there on the seat and wonder how it ever came to this.

  Although I do resemble my mother, somewhat, I’m a craft-fair version of her. Some kind of woodcarving of her, a carving the craftsman got a bit wrong—fashioning the torso too long for the general height, making the spread of the cheeks too wide, the legs too short, the nose a bit larger and somewhat rounder than necessary.

  On their evenings out, she’d come into the playroom, clouded in diamonds and damask and French perfume. Her gentle scent preceded her shining, silken glory. The murmur of her and Daddy laughing or discussing their soon-to-be host or hostess that evening caressed my ears. My eyes anticipated their gratification as their footsteps continued down the hallway to where I sat on the floor playing with my Barbies.

  My parents socialized at least two nights a week. Wearing his tuxedo, looking large and robust and pink, Daddy would usher her into the room. Not corpulent until well into his fifties, he had an almost Hollywood quality about him. Not the new Hollywood, but the old Hollywood, the smooth, suave, don’t-mess-with-me Hollywood. Sporting a double-edged Martini. That was my father.

  But I couldn’t take my eyes from Mother. She always pulled her dark hair back in a braided chignon, or up in a French twist, and she applied a minimal amount of makeup, saving for the bright lipstick that embroidered her lips against the flawless velvet of her skin.

  “Where you going tonight?” I asked on my sixth Christmas Eve. Newly was already down for the night.

  Mother patted my shoulder and leaned down on her haunches to hug me. “To the Christmas Eve party at the Hendrickses’ home.”

  “As usual.” Daddy rolled his eyes. “I keep telling your mother we need to have our own celebration, Lark-honey.”

  “As soon as Newly’s old enough.” Mother stood straight to her feet. “I can’t imagine him being around guests at this stage.”

  Daddy caught my gaze as Mother smoothed her hair by the mirror. The sadness in his eyes soothed my heart. “I’m sure Santa will still come even if we get home late.”

  “But it’s sad to have Christmas Eve by myself.”

  “What about Prisma and Jimmy?” Mother asked.

  I just shrugged. But inside I looked forward to decorating the Percy tree in their sitting room, drinking hot chocolate made with half-and-half, and singing Christmas carols to Asil’s blues guitar. You should hear “Bring a Torch, Jeannette Isabella” spattered with major sevenths and flatted ninths.

  The following year they hosted the party at Stoneleigh House.

  Mother still casts the same general appearance, only the hair glints silver and the skin softly rests on her cheekbones now. She still wears perfectly fitting garments and freshly polished shoes. Never a hair out of place.

  I’m sure she often wonders where I came from.

  The front doorbell rang at half past eleven. I sprang from my sofa and almost collided with Prisma. “I’ll get it, Prisma.”

  “Suit yourself. I’m pooped.” And she spun around and disappeared back into her quarters.

  I yanked open the door to find Johnny Josefowski standing there on the stoop.

  Doctor Johnny Josefowski.

  It horrified me.

  There I stood in the doorway in a pair of Flannery’s ragged sweatpants, rolled up at my ankles, mind you, and a T-shirt proclaiming me a “Brat.”

  How humiliating, and why in the world would Flannery wear one of those Brat T-shirts anyway?

  “Care to go for a walk?” he said, the yellow bulb of the door light illuminating him there in his scrubs.

  “This late?”

  He shrugged. “I was on my way home from the hospital and felt keyed up. Had an emergency surgery.”

  “I don’t know. It’s so late. And there are all sorts of things—”

  “I’ll protect you.”

  Our eyes locked.

  “What kind of surgery?”

  “Multiple bypass and valve stuff.”

  “Ever done a transplant?”

  “Sure.”

  Well, I guess he deserved my trust. I guess he could get me around the block and back. “Only for a little bit though. I don’t want to miss too many calls.”

  “Oh yeah. Marsha told me about your prayer line. I think that’s great.”

  “I sure get some doozies.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Let me get my shoes on. You want to come in for a sec?”

  “Sure.”

  I escorted him into the living room. “Have a seat.”

  “No thanks. I’ll just wait on my feet. That a picture of your parents?”

  Mom smiled in Dad’s arms at some party at the Belvedere. “Yeah.”

  “Your father passed away Marsha said.”

  “About ten years ago.”

  “You miss him?”

  See, I rarely talk about my dad to anyone. I think about him all the time, but talking about him is an entirely different process. I think my slow descent really began when Daddy died. “I really miss him.”

  Suddenly Johnny’s age seemed extremely appealing.

  “I’ll go put on my shoes.”

  “Okay.”

  I ran up to my room and tied on a pair of sneakers I bought at CVS for $3.99. Then I hurried to Prisma’s door and knocked. She cracked it open. “Who was it?”

  “That cardiologist.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “Nope. We’re going out for a walk.”

  “At this hour?”

  “Just thought you’d want to know.”

  “You got that right.”

  And then she just shut the door. But as I walked away I heard her mutter, “Thank you, Jesus!”

  I walked in to find Johnny examining the other pictures on the back of the piano. He had taken off his glasses and leaned over for closer inspection. He popped back to a fully standing position and pointed to the organ. “That’s a beauty! Your parents bought that for you?”

  “Uh-huh. When I was sixteen. A guy came over from Austria to set it up and everything.”

  “H’m.” He shook his head, looking confused.

  “What?”

  “Well. It just doesn’t seem to fit.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your parents look like charming people, loving parents.”

  “They were.”

  “H’m.”

  I felt a little bristly. “You’re wondering how they could have sired a nut case like me?”

  “You are … unusual, but you’re not a nut case, Lark.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “No, you’re not. I’ve seen bona fide nut cases.”

  Oh my word! I had forgotten about his mother! I’m such an idiot. Such a self-centered moron! “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Re
ady to walk?”

  Anything to get out of this room. “Uh-huh.”

  He opened the front door for me.

  I had to admit I felt an attraction toward him. He possessed a confidence like Brad’s. Only without Brad’s innate cockiness. Although something about a bon vivant case of fun-loving arrogance such as Brad sported appealed to me as well.

  Johnny maintained a quiet for a minute or two. The silence allowed me to compare him to Brad. How different this walk felt from anything I experienced with Brad. With Brad it was always go, go, go.

  Well, one time it wasn’t like that. Just one time. Stranded in a sudden, terrific storm, we sat under the side porch of an old historic mansion he’d taken me to see. Two frogs hid in the stream of a rushing rainspout, and he waxed eloquent about growing old with someone you could count on, someone as much of a frog as yourself. I fell in love with him.

  After the St. Joe lacrosse game, I didn’t see Brad again for a few years, despite my new status as a devoted Gaels fan. I had just finished the eleventh grade when his family joined our country club. There I swam in my sleek, red, racing-back Speedo swim-team suit with the white stripes down the sides, doing jackknife dives and flips and stupid poses off the high board with my then-best friend Elizabeth Waters, when I noticed him sitting by the pool in blue jeans and biker boots.

  At a country club.

  Cool.

  Of course, at the peak of my swan dive, my eyes caught his for a split second and for some reason unknown to me I experienced enough presence of mind to flip over and pound down the best watermelon of my life in the exact direction of his chair, with a splash the trajectory of which surely soaked him clear through to his underwear.

  And Bradley del Champ just laughed and laughed, whipped his shaggy wet hair out of his eyes and jumped into the deep end and dunked me good.

  The lifeguard kicked him out of the compound. The guard’s smug set to his jaw, the flash of his brown eyes told me that yes, indeed, weeks of sitting there twirling his whistle finally led to some real action. I saw “Security Guard” in his future.

  I hurried to the fence to witness what transpired out in the parking lot.

  “It was worth it!” he hollered to me as I stood there with my fingers bent at the first knuckle around the heavy wire chain link. I watched him climb into his little mustard MG—the only portion of him that bespoke his lineage.