Women's Intuition

by Lisa Samson

  Leslie

  MY SCRAPBOOK IS COMING ALONG NICELY. Pages of color and texture. Events at a glance. Themes that bind otherwise nonconnected events. Like the party section. My stars, I had all these pictures of parties I’d attended with Charles, pictures that didn’t even ring a bell!

  Horrors!

  I mean, surely one would remember a picture of herself in a sapphire blue Southern belle ball gown and her husband in a Rhett Butler getup?

  Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

  It truly is ghastly.

  “Prisma!”

  She’d remember.

  She paddled in, wiping her hands on a tea towel.

  “Do you recognize this?”

  Taking the picture, she settled a pair of reading glasses onto her nose. Half-eyes the color of a tangerine.

  “When did you get those glasses, Prisma? I didn’t know you wore reading glasses?”

  “I didn’t before this afternoon.”

  “And you’ve already got them on a chain around your neck?”

  “No sense in fighting it anymore, Mrs. Summerville. Fact is, my arm isn’t going to get any longer.”

  “Charles said the exact same thing when he first got his.”

  And the look that passed over Prisma’s face was so dear I wanted to cry and cry.

  Oh, the years. The years.

  Why, God? Why does time pass like this, leaving our arms too short, the nights too long, and the days speeding by and eating up the years we have left like hyenas over a rotting zebra corpse?

  Or a rotting dodo bird.

  She rested a hand on my shoulder and peered at the picture. “Well, let’s see now. You’re wearing that five-strand pearl necklace, which puts it in the late ’50s I think. Remember?”

  “Oh yes. I wore those pearls quite frequently then. And they were stolen in late ’59, right? Is that right?”

  “M’m, h’m. On that Nordic cruise.”

  “Well?”

  “All I can think of is that costume party they had for the BSO. Was that it? I could have sworn you wore an emerald dress to that.”

  “I don’t know.”

  She reached over and flipped through the few pages I’d completed while she went to church. “You’ve been quite busy.”

  “Pretty, aren’t they?”

  “They sure are. I like the party theme going here. No rhyme or reason as to chronology, but it works.”

  “Thank heavens! If I had to overorganize this thing I’d have quit long ago.”

  “Are you going to pass this down to Newly?” Prisma asked.

  We laughed and laughed.

  August

  Flannery

  PRISMA PATIENTLY LISTENS TO EVERY DETAIL as I tell her about my day. We sit at the kitchen table Monday morning drinking a cup of coffee, and we’re talking about faith issues. Like, the whole Catholic-Protestant thing, and is Christianity really about Jesus or Jesus plus stuff? And if you believe in the “stuff” as well, won’t Jesus still come through for you at the end despite the extras? Won’t He say, “Well, you got the basic gist, and now you can rest and not worry about all that stuff. Not that you ever had to. So be free and live in My grace like you were always meant to live. Enter into your rest”?

  And James too. We talk about James and what he said about faith.

  “So what do you think?”

  “Sounds like the real deal to me, Baby Girl.”

  “Me, too.”

  “So where did you have lunch?”

  “Orchard Inn.”

  “Nice.”

  “With his parents?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You didn’t order the most expensive thing on the menu, now did you, Baby Girl?”

  “You taught me better than that, Miss Prisma.”

  “You got that right.”

  She stands to her feet. “Now come into my room. I got to show you the funniest thing I found on the Internet this afternoon!”

  Prisma and the Internet. Now who in the world would figure?

  Looking at some bizarre picture of some person with at least a hundred piercings on his/her face, Prisma says, “See, it could be a whole lot worse with that boy James.” Prisma and I played some games together on Boxerjam.

  “I feel like drawing,” I say without warning, even to me. The urge hits like that all the time, and my mouth just blurts like a cherry tomato bit unawares.

  “Then go to it. Your grandmother’s knitting in the conservatory today. It would be a nice place to go draw, and you know she’d love the company.”

  I gather my box of pencils and a pad and head in with Grandy.

  Grandy gives me one of her usual, pretty smiles. “I’m happy to see you, Sweet Pea!”

  I love her so much.

  Lark

  “HELLO?”

  “Prayer Lady?”

  “That’s me!” I examined the Christmas stocking, proud of my progress. Those little roses are really easy once you get the hang of it. And the daisies are a snap. “It’s your musician friend.”

  “Huh?” I know lots of musicians. I pointed my toes there on the bed, trying to stretch my feet.

  “You know, the guy that was about to get the record contract whose mother was all worried over it?”

  “Oh yeah! How you doin’?”

  “Great! I got the deal!”

  “How’s Mom?”

  “Upset. Can you pray for her?”

  “Sure. How about for you?”

  “Well, things are going pretty good. I’ll let you know when I need a leg up.”

  “We can always use a leg up.”

  “Yeah. Probably. But I hate to bother God if it isn’t really necessary.”

  Leslie

  I HAVEN’T GONE RIDING IN ALMOST TWO WEEKS. I wonder if Jacob Marley misses me? As Sweet Pea would say, “I crack myself up!”

  Sweet Pea came home all sweet and blushed yesterday after her day out with her new boyfriend. This James has swashbuckled her heart. It dismays me a bit that he isn’t Protestant, but nowadays, with life so precarious, I’ll not complain. She tells me he’s the scientific type, which encouraged me quite a bit. In my day, the scientific types seemed very unaware of “the latest.” I like that. Flannery can be a bit trendy, or more to the point, worried about making a statement, as they call it these days. Perhaps this James fellow will influence her for the good along those lines.

  Far be it from me to complain about her clothing though. Good girls like her deserve a little freedom. I remember my own days. It’s too easy now to remember the good old days.

  I swore I’d have better things to do when the geriatric phase settled on me.

  Settled, did I say? Hardly.

  No one prepared me for the walloping it delivers. I look in the mirror every now and again and say, “Where are you, Leslie?” Who is that old lady there? Who is that with the mouth corners that droop naturally into an expression of dissatisfaction? Who is that woman with the receding eyes? Who exchanged those sagging upper lids for my sculpted eye sockets? I look in the mirror every now and again, and I remember all the times Charles and I shared when I was young and fresh like Flannery, but tasteful. Dancing at the resorts, hopping on planes. The scarves I used to wear!

  So I don’t dream of uttering anything to her about her appearance! She’s the prettiest one in the house. But I am the loneliest. How did this happen? How did a woman who surrounded herself with friends and acquaintances and causes end up haunting her own home, day after day?

  I can’t even fill up my schedule anymore. This tiredness has stolen even my paltry attempt at meaning. Mama always told me, “Don’t rest on your laurels, Leslie Lee! Today is a new day. Measure your success by today only. The past is the past for the good and the bad.”

  Why does the woman continue to haunt me so? And who was she to talk, sitting up her room day after day with her friend Jack Daniel?

  Once, when I was sixteen, I prayed for her to die.

  She had no right to do that to me,
to place all her failures upon me, to expect more than she ever gave. I’ve tried so hard to do the opposite with Larkspur. I’ve stepped back and watched her live her own life, a life hardly lived on the terms she ultimately wishes. But she’s doing the best she can, and I admire her. I’d like to tell her that, but it would only come off as patronizing. She already thinks I take full credit for her general success as a decent human being. Which I do not! If anyone deserves the credit for it, it would be Charles and Prisma.

  And you can take that to the bank!

  Last night exhaustion overcame me completely. I’d read the Bible a bit but found my concentration sorely lacking. I did read the portion about the loaves and fishes and found that pastor to be all wet, just as I expected. The words are clear. He multiplied the little bit shared by a well-brought-up boy, and a multitude of people had the delight of a good lunch at just the right time.

  I’m tired of that church anyway, truth to tell.

  I’m thinking of going with Prisma to hers next weekend. I’m somewhat frightened of going into such a colorful congregation in such a poor section of town. Not because I think they’ll harm me. Heavens, no! I’ll just feel so out of place and either look like someone beset by noblesse oblige, or like some curious onlooker who doesn’t care that my presence may or may not cause a disturbance. I don’t know how to approach Prisma about it. I’m frightened that merely asking her these questions will sound condescending.

  Last night after tea and Scripture, I retired to my bedroom. A few years ago I bought one of those walnut armoires that hold a television and VCR behind the door.

  Why? Who knows?

  Not much of a television viewer, really. I wondered even then at the purchase. But every so often of an evening I pad up there, change into my nightgown, and snuggle in with a nice, warm remote and a mug of whatever Prisma thinks I need.

  How bad is television these days? Perfectly frightful.

  Too tired to read, too worried to sleep, I slipped between the covers and clicked on a station they call VH-1. My stars. What in heaven’s name is that supposed to mean? Very Honestly One Ghastly Scene of Gyrating Bodies and Ill-Fitting Streetwalker Clothing is my summation of it.

  So I clicked from that station to one called TCM. Now, that was surely a pleasant surprise! There he smiled, my main squeeze from the silver screen, Cary Grant.

  Oh my.

  I saw him sit with the old grandmother on the French Riviera, Deborah Kerr looking on wistfully as she thought, “Well, this fellow is surely more than meets the eye.” And then the poor thing gets in an accident and won’t tell him she’s paralyzed.

  And I don’t blame her one bit!

  Frankly, I’d have said something horribly cruel to Nicky once he figured out the whole painting cover-up to have ensured his hasty retreat. I’d have said, “Get out of here, you playboy. It took an accident of this magnitude to keep me from meeting you as planned. And it took a recovery the likes of something you’ve never seen to show me what a mistake the entire cruise had been! So be gone! Shoo! And leave me alone. I’ve survived without you this long, and I’ll continue to get along just fine!”

  And then I would have found myself all alone. Just like now. But oh, sitting there, sitting there watching her and remembering how An Affair to Remember was one of the few movies Charles and I sat through in a theater—well, I felt young again. Alive and comforted that shows like this still find an audience. And I rejoiced for Larkspur and Flannery, whose lives still stretch ahead of them into an always pregnant if uncertain future.

  Flannery arrived home just as Flying Down to Rio flared onto the screen.

  “Who is that woman?” she asked, pointing at Delores del Rio.

  I told her.

  “Oh, Grandy! You’ve been right all these years! Look at that gorgeousness! A simple bun at the back of her head. And that dress.”

  “Clean lines, Sweet Pea. I’ve always said it, the cleaner the lines the better.”

  Flannery hurried back to her room and brought in a brown-paper bag of red licorice. “Here, Grandy. Take one. There’s no fat, so it’s not bad for your heart.”

  She ate hers as is, letting it hang from her mouth as she watched the show. I tied mine in a succession of knots, remembering the wonderful chokers and bracelets I used to make as a child.

  “Too bad we’ve already gone to New York, Grandy. I would have gone with an entirely new angle. Guess it’s too late now.”

  “It’s never too late.”

  Tomorrow, I’m going to take her up to the attic and let her sift through all my old clothes from my younger days. That James will think he’s the luckiest young man in the world. And I am thinking maybe I should take my own advice and believe it never really is too late.

  On Friday I go in for a heart catheterization. I’m not even telling Prisma this time, or she’ll have me traipsing who-knows-where afterward. I’ve already sworn Asil to secrecy.

  Truth to tell, I’m frightened. I’m frightened again. I knew getting old meant aches and pains and even loneliness. But no one ever warned me about the fear.

  Lark

  “JOHNNY’S HERE, LARK!” Marsha yelled as she ushered down the steps into her club basement. An hour late, he wore an endearing blush.

  I blushed back, darn it. And why did she have to yell it like that? Why single me out? Did the whole study group have to know?

  So I flopped one of those annoying little waves. Hardly the greeting of an SUV woman with tweed miniskirts.

  Johnny sat down next to me and whispered. “Sorry about Sunday. Had an emergency. Did you get my message on your machine yesterday?”

  I nodded.

  “So is that okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah. But I don’t eat much sugar. Can I go and just get a cup of tea?”

  “I told you I’m safe, didn’t I? We’ll have dessert time without the dessert.”

  Dessert time. Not a “date.” Oh my word.

  Now I questioned the wisdom of accepting his invitation in the first place.

  And then he turned, and a hint of his smell floated over to my little space, and I breathed it in. So fresh and nice. Just nice. I never noticed a big guy like him ever smelling that nice.

  Strange.

  Don’t start worrying, Lark.

  And what did dessert ever do to anyone? Just “dessert time” might prove the best thing for all concerned.

  That’s right. That’s just what he had said.

  Not a date. Just “dessert time.”

  Father Charlie prayed earnestly like he always does. See, he knows prayer isn’t meaningless. And twenty minutes later we sat at the Double T Diner over on Bel Air Road waiting for the waitress to acknowledge our seemingly meaningless existence.

  “This is a little far from Hamilton, isn’t it?”

  “I can have you home in twenty minutes.”

  I pulled out some hand cream Flannery dropped in my backpack and squeezed a kiss-sized portion on my hands.

  He held out his hand. “Can I have some?”

  “Sure. I guess you have to take care of your hands, don’t you?”

  “They’re looking pretty bad. I’ve had to scrub a lot this week.”

  “I did nails for a while back in the early nineties. What you need is an extra-long massage.”

  “Sounds good.”

  He looked weary.

  I asked, “Surgeries today?”

  “Every day, it seems.”

  “I’m sure you were wonderful.”

  Who said that? Me?

  Oh my word!

  My overly chipper words hung in the air like a chant from a short-skirted cheerleader. Rah, rah! Sis-boom-bah! Cardiac surgeon! Rah, rah, rah! What in the world was I thinking? Me, a recluse organist, and a selfless, highly trained guy like him?

  Selfless for sure. Why else would he be sitting here with me? That’s most definitely altruism.

  I hate myself.

  Then he blushed as he extended his left hand. “Would you consider
that hand rub right now?”

  Uh, okay.

  If I thought of this as an Exercise in Bravery, I might get through it.

  “Uh … well, okay. Hold on.” I dug through my bag for more moisturizing cream. “You want one here? Right here at the Double T Diner?”

  He blushed. “Sorry. I’m still not used to this sort of thing.”

  “Me either.”

  “Was it too forward to ask?”

  “Beats me, Johnny.” All I knew is that Brad wouldn’t have even asked for the hand rub. He’d have just stuck it right on out there, expecting me to know. His guitar calluses always made his fingertips look like he’d dipped them in hot wax.

  But Johnny’s hands belonged in another realm. I took his beautiful, lifesaving hand in mine, dolloped more cream in its palm, and got to work. “Is that good?”

  “Yes. Very relaxing.”

  “Good.”

  He closed his eyes, peacefully settling into relaxation, his other arm resting on a belly shrouded in an ancient dark blue T-shirt with the words, “Maryland is for Crabs” stretched across its expanse. And I was happy for a moment.

  My gosh. I was.

  A soft breeze of exhilaration swirled through my sinuses and behind my eyes. Johnny Josefowski was used of God to heal. He performed miracles every day. And here he sat, tired and worn and silent and needing to be stolen from his own cares for a little while. I massaged his hands through the waitress’s order taking, through the first round of coffee, and stopped when his pie arrived.

  I was meeting a need.

  Yes ma’am. A face-to-face need.

  No wonder Prisma lived from strength to strength. For the first time in my life, I began to understand that her attitude of service didn’t only benefit us, it fulfilled a basic human need inside of Prisma, it strengthened a vital emotional muscle I barely knew existed.

  “Is your mom worried about the catheterization on Friday?”

  What? Oh no. What catheterization? I’m going to kill that woman before her heart gets the chance! “Not really.”

  “Dr. Medina is great at caths, Lark. If there’s any way he can put a balloon in, he will. Then she won’t need surgery.”