Natural Bridges

by Debbie Lynn McCampbell

  Birdie, Florabelle, and I, already dressed, sat at a table in the corner, watching the preparation of this grand affair. Today would be Peaceful Pastures Nursing Home’s Thirty-third Annual Beauty Pageant. By tradition, the most recently admitted female would be crowned queen, kissed by all the aging gentlemen, served dessert first, and photographed for the composite of former celebrated winners of years past.

  Everyone knew, including Grandma, that she, having only been checked in for a month and a half before the much talked about ceremonial event, would be crowned.

  Blue crepe paper draped from beam to beam, was wrapped around the curtain rods, and hung in long streams against the white curtains. Rows of gold paper cups filled with punch lined one of the tables. A crew from the radio station were installing a strobe globe. Woody’s Bakery came in with a three-tiered cake with a big silver crown on top made out of aluminum and glitter.

  “It still gets me about my wedding-cake topper,” said Florabelle, anxious to go outside and smoke.

  I remembered the plastic family with the black baby. “You never found out who did that?” I asked her.

  “Never did. Probably Dwayne,” she said.

  “Probably so,” said Birdie.

  We both looked at her. She was mesmerized with all the colors and activity. She was wearing the new dress I had made; we had stayed up late the night before to finish it. She was very proud of it, said it made her feel grown up. I had twisted her hair up into a bun. Other than her arms being scratched from the fencing, she did look rather mature.

  “I want to go back up and play with the baby,” she said.

  Momma had Daisy upstairs, watching Hazel get Grandma ready.

  When we walked back in, Grandma, robed and slippered, moved slowly back and forth from the bathroom to her bureau. She held her hands out in front of her, careful not to smudge her red nail polish.

  Momma sat on the bed, holding Daisy, with Grandma’s dress laid out next to her.

  “Come on, Mother,” said Hazel. “We need to get your hair up in rollers before it dries.” She moistened a comb in a jar of Dippity-Do labeled “Esther.”

  Grandma was stalling, pretending to look for an extra box of Kleenex in the back of her bottom dresser drawer.

  “I hope you and Mossie got everything straightened out over those window plants,” said Hazel.

  Grandma, still stooped over her drawer with her back turned, said, “I see no need to let her cross over to my side of the room. I told her I’d water them.”

  “She told the staff that you claim to sprinkle them when you do yours, but they all have their suspicions that you’re planning to let hers die.”

  Grandma stood up, quicker than usual. “The staff’ll believe anything she tells them on me.”

  I glanced over at the row of potted plants sitting on the windowsill next to Grandma’s bed. “They all look okay to me,” I said. “Which ones are yours, Grandma?”

  “The two violets on the end and the one marigold.”

  “Well, they look fine,” I said, sitting down on the bed next to Momma. I played with Daisy’s fingers, let her grip mine. She was so tiny, it amazed me.

  “Forget about the plants for a minute,” said Hazel, “and sit down here so we can curl your hair.”

  Grandma moved the chair a little more in front of the bed so she could see out into the hallway. “If you wouldn’t give me those cheap perms you do, I wouldn’t have to mess with rolling it all the time,” she said.

  “Well, you can’t afford no forty-dollar perm and you ain’t got much hair left to roll anyway,” said Hazel.

  A door slammed a few rooms down. Grandma craned to see who it was.

  “Sit still,” said Hazel. “Where’s Mossie? Why isn’t she in here getting all dolled up?”

  “She says she ain’t coming,” said Grandma.

  Hazel smiled. “I bet she’s a little upset about giving up her title as queen. She won it last year, you know. No one likes to give up a throne.” Hazel forced a pick through a stubborn curler. “But she’ll be there, I know her, she can’t miss a party. Folks say she was so wealthy growing up, her parents threw society shindigs every weekend. She was even one of those debutantes. Can you even imagine that?”

  Grandma cussed her. “I don’t want Mossie there anyway,” she said, rubbing at her head.

  “Is all you two’s trouble just over them plants?” asked Momma. “Seems like you could just forget about it and try and be friends.”

  “Have you told Raymond that?” snapped Grandma.

  Momma got real quiet.

  Daddy still wasn’t speaking to Grandma.

  Grandma noticed the silence, knew she’d crossed the line. “Mossie is just jealous of me for looking so much younger.”

  Hazel rolled her eyes at us over Grandma’s head. “There, that’s the last one.” She put the leftover rollers in the basket labeled “Esther,” and stored them away.

  “They said they was bringing a TV camera today,” said Grandma, looking in the mirror. She opened her top drawer, took out three pill bottles, counted out capsules.

  From the bathroom, Hazel spoke through a comb in her mouth while she washed her hands. “A disc jockey from the local radio station is coming to do the music, and Channel Seven’s doing their weather broadcast live at the party. Sylvia, see that she takes those pills; she’s been flushing them again.”

  She had to take one for the arthritis, one for high blood pressure, the same one Momma took, and one was a digestive agent. All medications made her drowsy and nervous, so sometimes, she’d try and throw them out. But we always caught her.

  “Gargle Listermint,” said Florabelle, “somebody might interview you.” She was lying on the floor, looking up at us.

  “You’ll be on the news, Grandma, you got to look pretty,” said Birdie.

  “Speaking of all this, Birdie,” asked Hazel, “did you get my camera?”

  “Yes, but there’s only a few pictures left on it.”

  “Who used up all the film?”

  “Fern did, when we went fishing that day.”

  Both Birdie and Hazel looked at me. Hazel took the pick out of her mouth, shook it at me. “You better see if you can go get some more. And hurry back. Keys are on the dresser there.”

  At three-thirty, they started the music, and the aides, who were double-staffed that day, began helping everyone down the stairs. Guests and family members interested in the activities of their deteriorating elders were admitted into the dining room.

  Some of the staff stood outside the dining room, pinning corsages on the ladies and trying to coordinate escorts for them. They were trying to match up wheelchair patients with ones that could walk and push.

  All the men wore suits, plaid or plain, mostly double-knit, and bow ties of every size.

  The ladies wore long gowns of many colors and styles. Some looked like newer dresses that might have been worn in grandchildren’s weddings. Some dresses were more ancient and reeked of moth balls and cedar. One of the older, less alert residents, with her walker, limped in, wearing a wrinkled wedding gown and veil.

  Grandma’s dress was red. Scarlet taffeta, cut low at the neck, gathered into a budding flower of material at her waist. It fell in ruffled layers to the floor. Her shoes were patent leather, red also. Several men whistled as she paraded into the room. She winked at the disc jockey.

  “Did you see that?” asked Florabelle.

  We were standing near the back. Momma was sitting in a chair against the wall with Birdie, who was holding Daisy.

  “I’ve never seen her act so saucy,” I said, watching Grandma swing her hips.

  The disc jockey took a cue and faded the processional he’d been playing into Prince’s “Little Red Corvette.” Appalled, one of the staff nurses ran over and made him change it back.

  “Just look at the way she’s a’struttin’,” said Momma, disgusted.

  I turned around. “Where did she get that dress?”

  “It’s
one of Hazel’s,” said Momma, shaking her head. “Your grandma looks like a cheap floozy in it.”

  When Grandma finally chose a seat against the wall opposite us, Hazel walked up to her and tugged Grandma’s dress back up to conceal her sagging cleavage.

  I read her lips across the room. “Shame on you,” she said, and marched over to where we were sitting. “Can you believe that woman?” she said, hands on hips. “After all these years of acting like such a prude, then going out there and prancing around like that?”

  “She’s making a fool of us,” said Momma.

  “She’s just getting old,” said Florabelle. “Let her have some fun.”

  Hazel wasn’t convinced and kept a keen eye on Grandma for another ten minutes or so. “Well, I have to serve punch,” she finally said. She looked at me. “You keep an eye on her, you hear?”

  I nodded, grinning. I thought it was funny how Grandma acted, so out of character for her. I admired her spunk. But I kept my promise and watched her.

  She walked over to a group of old men, most of them in wheelchairs, and leaned against one of them. She said something that made them laugh, and I saw her take advantage of the moment and jerk her neckline back down. From where I sat, it appeared that Grandma was feeling sexy. I smiled to myself.

  We never saw her mingle with any of the women; she must have figured they were all jealous of her.

  Florabelle and I went over and nibbled at the hors d’oeuvres at the buffet table. I ate two brownies.

  “I bet all this stuff is laced with prunes,” said Florabelle.

  I noticed that she had lost a lot of weight since the baby had been born. She looked good. And when she smiled, which was seldom, she was pretty.

  “You look nice,” I said.

  She turned to me, surprised. “You think so?”

  “Sure, you’ve lost the extra weight.”

  She stabbed an olive on her plate with a toothpick. “I wish Jason would notice.”

  “Are you two getting along better now?”

  She shrugged. “He wanted a boy.”

  She picked nervously at her food.

  I changed the subject to Grandma, watching her showing off.

  A couple of folks were attempting to dance, even a few in wheelchairs were out on the floor, spinning and inching back and forth to the beat of the music. It surprised me that Birdie wasn’t out there messing around; she liked to dance. But she was playing with Daisy, her new friend now that Jimmy was gone.

  It was getting near six, and the photographers were setting up their tripods. Channel Seven cameramen were positioning lights and sound equipment. The crowning ceremony was about to begin.

  “Holy shit, look who’s here,” said Florabelle, mouth full.

  It was Patty Prettyman and her husband, Larry Greene. They were there to see Mossie.

  “What’s she going to do here with all these old folks?” asked Florabelle. “Tear up the rug?”

  “From what I hear, she likes old men,” I said and reminded Florabelle about the rumor of Patty and Brewer.

  “Everyone knows she married Larry for his momma’s money. She’s as rich as possum gravy.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “that’s too bad. Larry seems like a nice man. Mossie’s so kind, too.”

  “Well, that Patty’s a witch,” said Florabelle.

  Patty had gone over to the cake and was staring at it, looking around. She kept fooling with her purse. I wondered if she was going to try and run her finger through the icing or something ornery like that.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen,” said the disc jockey into the microphone, “the moment we’ve all been waiting for.” He had stopped the music and had a tape running of a drumroll. “The crowning of the Thirty-third Peaceful Pastures Queen. Our chosen raving beauty will represent this home in the Nursing Home Finals for the state of Kentucky in early February and win the chance of a cameo appearance on the Golden Girls TV show that premieres next season.”

  There were whistles and applause from the crowd; this was something new. The grand prize used to be an interview on the radio and a two-night cruise down the Ohio River to Cincinnati and back.

  Hazel ran over to Birdie, took the baby from her, handed her the camera. “Go snap some of your Grandma. Get up there in front of everyone. They won’t say nothing to you, you’re little.” Hazel ran back to her post at the punch bowl.

  “But first of all,” the disc jockey continued, “let’s bring our former year’s queen forward for the crowning of our new queen. A big welcome back for Mossie Green!”

  The patients in the audience who could comprehend what was going on clapped and yelled mostly inaudible comments as Mossie walked to the front.

  When she was under the light, she looked a little uneasy at the sight of the cameras, but not nearly as frightened as when she saw her daughter-in-law.

  I wondered if Mossie was worried about Patty taking her sewing needles away from her again.

  We watched as Patty made her way to the punch bowl. She picked up a plastic cup and napkin, looked around. Then she leaned towards Hazel, whispered something in her ear. It was an effort, no doubt, for Patty to talk over the party bluster loud enough for Hazel to hear. Hazel leaned way back, shook her head, confused, pointed towards the kitchen.

  From this point, everything was a blur.

  The lights went out in the dining room and there were several screams.

  The Channel Seven cameraman got about a five second spot of someone lunging at Mossie, before the camera was knocked to the floor and the lenses shattered. She tumbled out of her wheelchair, and we heard her hipbone crack as it hit the floor.

  Someone had robbed her. Everyone knew she carried a lot of cash in a purse strapped around her waist; she feared the staff would steal it so she kept it with her. Almost three thousand dollars worth of twenties.

  When the lights came back on, someone noticed a tombstone made out of Styrofoam on top of the cake. The initials M.G. were printed on it, in red ink.

  They finally got the party started back up again, but no one was in the mood, and most folks went home. Grandma received her crown, but all the majesty was over by then. She’d put it on, then hung her head and sobbed. We stayed late to help clean up and see Grandma off to bed.

  When we got home, Daddy had terrible news for us. Brother Brewer had been electrocuted. Evidently, he had been driving in his car with the top down, lost control of the wheel, swerved into a cornfield, and hit a phone pole. The impact had caused a live wire to snap down into his car, strike him in the groin, and kill him almost instantly.

  Patty Prettyman Greene had been in the car with him. She’d scratched her head on the dashboard when they’d crashed. The doctors had found three thousand dollars of cash on her when she went in for an x-ray.

  Late that night, Birdie and I sat on her bed, looking through the Polaroid shots she had taken at the pageant. The ones of Grandma had turned out real well, and Birdie decided to try her hand again at making a photo album. She knew Grandma would appreciate it.

  Birdie also had a shot of Mossie’s accident and now we both could make out Patty Prettyman in the picture, struggling with Mossie out on the floor in her wheelchair.

  26. Just Buried

  When I got to work a few days later, Brother Brewer’s mustang was sitting in the parking lot. The front end was caved in, but not too badly. The cornhusks he’d run through before hitting the pole had lessened the impact. I walked in the station and found Clem just sitting in the chair, hands folded over an envelope in his lap.

  I was a little late getting in due to Brewer’s funeral. It had been a small affair, no viewing, on account of how badly and where he’d been burned. He had no family left, at least none that anyone knew of, so the county officials had just wanted to cremate him since he’d had a fair start. But Reverend Whitaker had insisted on a small service and formal burial, out of due respect to his fellow clergyman. After the service, I had given him Birdie’s photograph of Patty on Mossie.


  I didn’t really want to talk to Clem about the service, since he seemed a little more shook up about it than I’d expected, even leaving early, sneaking out during the prayer.

  He looked pretty intent when I walked in. The ledger books were open on the counter by the register; the adding machine was still on, humming softly.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “Not business,” he said, staring at the floor.

  “That bad?”

  “Our expenses are ten percent over profit again this month.”

  Clem had finally broke down, had a Pepsi machine installed out front, and it hadn’t even paid for itself yet.

  “I thought we were pulling in a little more at the pumps,” I said.

  Clem shook his head. “My insurance premiums just went up, too. I’m considered high risk now, with no sprinkler system.”

  This was the gloomiest I’d seen Clem Proffit since I’d met him. He hung his head down, staring at the ground.

  “Times are tough,” I offered. “I hear Daddy talking about the drop in economy all the time now.”

  “Times aren’t so tough for everyone,” he mumbled. “There’s an angel looking out for some of us. Those with great faith.” He was quoting part of Reverend Whitaker’s eulogy. He finally looked up, handed me the envelope.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “Open it.”

  The letter was from the State of Kentucky Attorneys at Law, Will Executor. I read the letter twice, not trusting my eyes.

  Brother Brewer had willed me his Mustang convertible.

  27. When It Rains

  For the next week, I worked on my car almost around the clock, repairing the damages of Brewer’s accident. It rained so much, and the customers were few. I pounded out the dents, patched the radiator, and replaced the water pump. I picked up a Mustang parts catalogue from a Ford dealer in Lexington, and ordered new door panels and a rearview mirror. Eventually, I wanted to restore the whole car with factory parts, but that would take time and money.

  Needless to say, Culler thought the car was super. Every night that week, I drove to Lexington, and we went somewhere in it with the top down. Sometimes we’d just go to the library so Culler could work on his school projects, and I would read.