Women's Intuition

by Lisa Samson

  “Or you.”

  He laughed. “That’s right. I like it if they never have to get to me.”

  “The last hope?”

  “You could say that, although that’s really up to God, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  So Mother was still trying to hide all this from me. Oh man, what now? I wanted to wake her up as soon as Johnny dropped me off at home and drag her over the coals. But if she wanted to shut us all out again, then so be it. At least I could check up on things through Johnny.

  Later, Johnny walked me to the side porch door. “So you’ll be playing this Sunday?”

  “Uh-huh. I haven’t missed a Sunday in years.” I felt my skin deepen to red.

  “What are you playing? Or do you want it to be a surprise?”

  I laughed. “Hardly! No, I’m playing Mendelssohn.’ ”

  “Do you know how special you are?” He tapped his fingers along the doorpost. “Oh, I don’t know how to say this.”

  “Say what?” I feigned obliviousness. I refused to assume.

  “You honestly don’t know what I mean? About us?”

  “Not really.” That wasn’t a lie.

  “We’ve seen each other in church; since the beginning of summer I’ve been coming to small group; you’ve even asked me questions about your mother’s condition. Well, I was wondering if maybe—”

  He looked down at those hands. He stood before me a man swallowing his fear.

  At least I hoped. Because I was swallowing mine.

  Did he really understand me after all?

  I wanted to say something to relieve his stress, but nothing came to mind that wouldn’t totally embarrass us both, or worse, ruin what I believed to be his intentions.

  “Well, I was wondering if maybe we could do something together after church on Sunday and if you’d consider this a real date and not just dessert time.”

  “Okay.”

  “I mean, I don’t know why I called it dessert time back at Marsha’s. That was stupid.”

  “Have you been cursing yourself for that all this time?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sunday sounds fine.”

  Fine? Well, that certainly wasn’t over the top.

  But then I heard Leslie’s voice. “Don’t show an overeagerness, Larkspur. Men don’t appreciate that sort of thing.”

  That sort of thing.

  “So Sunday after church then?” He opened the screen door.

  “Okay. I’ll look forward to it.”

  “I will too. I’ll look for you before the service. Unless an emergency comes up. You know how that can be.”

  Well, no. Not those kinds of emergencies. Not cardiac-arrest kinds of emergencies.

  Cardiac arrest.

  Scary enough though to throw one into the state itself. And the name. CARDIAC ARREST. And what about Mother? Is she due for that? Could it happen at any time?

  “Lark?”

  Will I come in one day and say, “Hello, Mother,” and she’ll say hello weakly, and then her heart will just stop? What do I do then?

  “Lark?”

  Do I call 911 first? Or begin CPR first and then call 911 between puffs? Does Prisma know CPR? I’d definitely holler for her first. Prisma would guide us through it right.

  “Lark?”

  I looked up.

  “Wow. I felt like a fly buzzing around your head for a moment there!”

  “Sorry.”

  And then a bright smile warmed his face. And those eyes! Those deep blue eyes crinkled at the corners. He backed away from the door. “See you Sunday then. I’ll call you if I have to go into surgery.” And I gave my stupid little self-conscious laugh and stupid little self-conscious wave. “Okay.”

  Then he poked his head back through the doorway. “By the way, I think your hair looks nice, Lark.”

  “Thanks. My daughter did it.”

  Now why did I say that? Makes me sound cheap.

  You are cheap.

  “She a beautician?”

  “No, she’s an artist.”

  “That explains it then.”

  Explains what, Johnny? I wasn’t about to ask.

  “Okay, I’ll see you, Lark.”

  “Bye.”

  Bye. Bye. Bye. Bye. Bye. I really figured by the time a woman got to be my age, moments like this might not flow like a river of nuts, bolts, nails, and screws.

  And what am I doing anyway? Going on a real date? With Bradley coming back around? With my relationship with Flannery hanging in the balance of my years of lies?

  Am I crazy?

  That night after Marsha called to find out what happened, I pulled the phone away from my ear she yelled so loudly at the news. “You should bring him to the cookout on Saturday!”

  “No way!”

  “Well, why not?”

  “Because I’m not going to ask him to do something with me before the first date, Marsha! Please, be serious now.”

  “H’m. Well, okay. I can see your point.”

  One of Marsha’s good qualities is that she sees my point every now and again. “I mean, I may have been out of the dating loop for a while now—”

  “Two decades.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Fortenbaugh.”

  “Sorry.”

  “That’s okay. Anyway, I may have been out of the loop for a while, but I do know that calling him up beforehand reeks of desperation.”

  “I know. I said I could see your point.”

  “I was just making sure you knew what my point was exactly.”

  “Oh, Lark! You tickle me!”

  I wasn’t about to ask why. And you know, I really think I’ve lost my sense of humor. I really do. I haven’t noticed it until now. Too busy. Too worried. Too busy being worried. Maybe underneath all that education and skill, Johnny Josefowski was a real yukster.

  A regular stooge.

  “So really, it’s going to be fun, Mother. Marsha’s husband says he’ll even cook a chicken breast for you instead of a fatty burger.”

  Mother rolled her eyes. “I’m so sick of chicken I could lay an egg.”

  “Don’t eat those much either, do you, Mrs. Summerville?” Prisma rocked back on her heels as she stood at the sink slicing up strawberries. I’ve often wondered about her feet. Compared to the rest of her they’re just plain bony. But wide. Prisma’s feet have always reminded me of a platypus.

  Well, no wonder, Lark. She’s stood on them all her adult years taking care of you and your mother!

  “I don’t think I should go, Larkspur. What do they want an old woman like me around for anyway?”

  Flannery, home for supper before heading out with James to buy some art supplies, said, “You can wear that new pantsuit you got in New York. That cream-colored one.”

  I watched my mother sit there for several seconds. Her cool face never airs out her mind, but when she sits and thinks for a bit, she’ll usually end up bowing to our whims.

  “All right. But only if we can take two cars. Honestly, Larkspur, I don’t think I can last all day out in the sun.”

  “Fine. That’s fine.”

  Prisma turned around, bowl in hand. “I think it’ll be fun, Mrs. Summerville.”

  “Well, what will you do all day, Prisma?”

  “Oh, I think I can find something to keep busy.”

  I clapped my hand on my mouth. Don’t laugh too loudly.

  Mother just looked disgusted, as usual.

  Always, always I thought she was disgusted at me. But now I had to wonder.

  After the meal I looked up the word panic on the Internet on Prisma’s computer. And lo and behold! I read all about myself all over the place.

  The ants.

  The heartbeat speeding up.

  All that.

  The nausea.

  I am a wacko.

  Okay. Not a real wacko. But definable at least. And that’s good news.

  But I had to admit life doesn’t feel as paper-thin as before. That onion-skin crackle fades
more and more each day. Greenway, so strong and solid, seems to dole out its own brand of courage. Maybe bravery goes along with the territory here on Greenway.

  Or maybe it’s just the bravery of the other women that’s lifting me high above the flames of my own funeral pyre.

  Marsha played this Irish music when we drove back to Greenway after the dinner at Denny’s she had insisted on dragging me to the next night. “What in the world are you listening to now?”

  She turned it up and sang with it.

  My stars!

  All these dips and twirls with her voice.

  The song stopped. So did she. “I hear there’s big money in Irish singing these days. Festivals and stuff.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Me and Glen, we’re thinking about moving out to Carroll County, and we’ll need the extra cash.”

  I began to sing “The Farmer in the Dell.”

  “You said it, Lark. Must be good farm cooks out there because 80 percent of the women are fatter than I am!”

  “So you’re thinking about moving out of Hamilton?”

  She nodded. “I’ve only stayed here this long … Never mind.”

  Oh no. I wanted to finish the sentence for her. I knew the rest. A stronger person might have owned up to it and given Marsha credit for keeping up her end of a truly one-sided friendship.

  “You think you’ll ever come back to Hamilton to live, Lark?”

  “I think so.”

  “Have you seen the lot since the fire?”

  I shook my head.

  She clicked the gearshift back into reverse.

  When I first learned to drive, I forced myself to take difficult routes to the store or to school. I resisted going three blocks out of my way to make a left turn at a light instead of heading right up to the end of the street where the stop sign waited. I called these my Exercises in Bravery. I exercised my bravery several times a week.

  They stretched out over the years. Once a week. Once a month. Only when absolutely necessary.

  An Exercise in Bravery.

  Yes.

  There is no fear in love.

  All right then.

  Bayonne Avenue.

  No ants, right? Be gone.

  Shoo.

  “You’re taking me to Bayonne Avenue?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I sat back in my seat and began to pray. I’d survive this. Of course I would. I mean who never returned after viewing a long cold ruin of a fire?

  It was almost like I was on a date. Marsha pulled up and came around to my side of the car. She opened my door.

  “Ready, kiddo?”

  “No.”

  “I know. How ’bout this then? Think you can get out of the car?”

  “I’ll try.”

  And so I tried to think about other things as I latched on to her hand. Any other thing. I thought of Mickey Mouse and Bugs Bunny, and I thought of the day Daddy showed me the new organ in the living room.

  He’d been proud and almost like a kid, his excitement sizzled everything within two feet of him that Saturday afternoon. “Play me a good one, Larkie!”

  “Oh, Daddy!”

  Oh, Daddy!

  Oh, Daddy! What a horrible, horrible sight!

  Nothing left.

  The late August sun shone down into the hole against the charred cinder blocks of the basement. The stairs had been ripped down and hauled off, and I thought, “I wonder if you could fill this thing with water and take a swim?”

  And I fell to my knees.

  Flannery

  I’VE GOT TO SAY, MOM’S CIRCUS POSTCARD collection gets weirder and weirder. In the early days it was mostly setup scenes and animals. Then people acts like The Acrobat Family: G and K Bon-hair Truppe.

  So, okay. Whatever a Truppe is.

  Some of these cards are actually a linen variety. Is that cool or what? I’d like to paint on that.

  There’s Dr. Saw D. Po Min and his white elephant. That one’s kind of cool. And then there’s the garden-variety trapeze artists, tightrope walkers, and springboard leapers. Mademoiselle Cleo and her twenty-nine-foot python.

  But I opened a new book today. Number three in her four-book collection. And I felt a chill run up and down my spine. See, this book was begun when I was three years old, after my father zoomed off and crashed on his motorcycle.

  There’s Zella the Frog Impersonator. He’s a contortionist. Along with Marie Skitchen. She’s one as well. And you know how today you see contortionists in lean gold or silver leotards? Well, there she sits on a chair, legs around her neck, and she’s wearing a black gown and a white apron.

  How strange is that?

  But there’s more! The Russian Giant and the Midget Policeman. Four hundred and fifty-seven pound Jolly Ray. Twins that weigh over eleven hundred pounds between them.

  Even an albino! I wonder if Uncle Newly sent that one to her. Funny, but I’ve never thought of albinos as being all that strange.

  Next week Prisma and I are going down to the Outer Banks for our photo trip. I can’t wait. James and I went down to southern Maryland and took pictures of the Hooper’s Island Light. We held hands a lot. Not much kissing there, but handholding. James has those knuckly kind of hands, the kind where the fingers are real thin at the bottom, concaves where my fingers fit just right.

  I love him.

  I know I’ve said that before, but I’ll just say it again.

  I love him.

  His mom invited me for dinner Saturday night. I’m going to wear one of Grandy’s old outfits. It’s from the ’50s and looks very Audrey Hepburnish. Navy blue with a cinched waist, a silk belt out of the same fabric as the dress, and a crinoline like you see in those movies. I’m having it let out because I’m definitely not Grandy’s old size. Okay, to be truthful, I added four-inch gussets on either side. Thank God for home ec and Prisma!

  Remember Edith Head? I found a book on her at the store today. Now there was a woman who knew how to dress other women! I’d imagine Grandy has that sort of talent if she’d have been encouraged to go her own way like Mom and I have. She really is the frustrated, creative sort imprisoned by her own status.

  So I try putting my hair up in a French twist today and it works. I trimmed little bangs, and let me just say, I’m excited about this new style. It will certainly make me stand out at Maryland Institute. And I even bought two pairs of pedal pushers and a twinset today! A pair of Rear Window sunglasses and a scarf, and I’m set for the trip.

  James is excited about my new look. He said it’s wonderful that I’m the type of person that’s not afraid of reinventing her style, just so long as I don’t expect him to do the same.

  Of course, I wouldn’t do that in a million years. Except for the Tommy jacket. Maybe one day, when we’re older, I’ll be able to lose it in the laundry with an odd sock or two.

  We are standing by Hooper’s Island Light watching the sunset. I love Thursdays because I don’t have to go into work. Prisma helped me pack what she calls “a darned nice spread,” as I love picnics so much.

  As we stand there by the lighthouse, watching the pelicans and herons do their things, talking about all the spiritual metaphors one can come up with regarding lighthouses and getting, I must say, some pretty good ones, James says, “You’re the only girl I’ve ever dated that I can show my spiritual side to.”

  “That’s quite a compliment.”

  “It is. It really is. I feel free. Like I can really be all of me all the time.”

  That’s how it is with us. All of me, all the time.

  I like that.

  The “promiscuous discussion” with him up is still on the shelf, so I just blurt out, “I’m a virgin!”

  Well, he looks at me, examining me, then says, “Let’s go sit down.”

  “I feel sick now.”

  “Don’t.”

  So he leads me over to a bench by the water and sits me down. “Flannery, are you ashamed of that?”

  “No. It’s just that,
well, I don’t know what you expect. Or where you’ve been.”

  Then he looks out over the bay. “I’ve got regrets. I can tell you that.”

  Then I look out over the bay.

  “Flannery, if I had known you were out there, I would have waited. In my heart I’ve been waiting for you all of my life.”

  Honest truth, that’s just what he said!

  “Are you willing to still wait for me?” I ask.

  He reaches out and turns my face toward him. “Have I tried to put the make on you up to this point?”

  “No.”

  “I won’t. I promise you I won’t. I knew you were different from the beginning, Flannery. You had virgin written all over you.”

  You know, there are times in life when you’re in a snapshot. Here we are, sitting on the water’s edge, his fingers wrapped around my chin as though he held a Ming vase. And I look up into his eyes. “I need to know how many girls you’ve slept with.”

  “Three. Why?”

  Drat. Two would be better. But three is better than four or more. At least it’s well within the one-hand criteria.

  “This may sound a little hard, but I don’t want to be picking up the pieces for somebody’s mistakes, if you know what I mean.”

  I picture babies showing up on the hip of a strange woman, and all sorts of crawly viruses and crustaceans inside of James, which, as you can guess, really weirds me out.

  “Flannery, do you still want to see me?”

  I think for a few seconds. I think about judging and standards. I’ve always hoped my marriage bed would be completely free. But I love him.

  I love him.

  “Yes. I do.”

  See, sometimes love says, “It was a mistake. Everybody makes mistakes.” And if love can’t exactly forget it, it can certainly dismiss it as in the past.

  And then he kisses me. He asks, “Can you forgive me?”

  “Why do you ask me that?”

  “I should have had more faith.”

  “We’re all guilty of that, James.”

  “I know. But this is important.”

  “Did you love those girls?”

  “One I did. The first girl. I was only fifteen.”

  A baby.

  “Do you remember it?”

  “Uh-huh. It was horrible. First times usually are, they say.”