Cadillac, Oklahoma

by Louise Farmer Smith

  The new dining table was being built in Tulsa. Gavin sent a truck to pick it up. Even though she’d never been in an expensive furniture store, he made her go alone to Land-saw’s. After they got married, she’d furnished their whole house with hand-me-downs from Mrs. McCall. Last night she’d drawn a picture of the new living room on a piece of notebook paper, but that didn’t make her feel any better.

  Mr. Landsaw himself grabbed his clipboard and rushed right up when he saw her come through the door. A small man with a tiny mustache, Mr. Landsaw lived with his wife next door to Gavin’s parents. Judianne took a deep breath. “I need some living room furniture and some dining room chairs,” she said, while her trembling fingers dug in her bag for the sketch.

  “Of course, Mrs. McCall. Are you interested in Scandinavian, Mediterranean—”

  “How about that couch over there?”

  “That is the finest Italian leather, very contemporary. That particular shade of white is—”

  “How about I just take three of those. Everybody should be able to sit around the fire.”

  “Just like the one there? Three? I don’t—I can call the manufacturer, but—” His mustache twitched. Obviously this was not the way to furnish a home, but it was the only way she could get through it, like holding her nose and jumping into the deep end.

  “And some big ole chairs, three or four, maybe like those in the corner, maybe four or five—I don’t know. You mix and match.”

  He looked at her, his eyebrows tugged up painfully high on his forehead.

  “Throw in some little tables to put drinks on, some lamps. What have you got for dining room chairs?”

  She was out of there in twenty-five minutes, including all the paper work on the furniture as well as buying a copy of a real oil painting—a harpooner standing erect, being rowed across a stormy ocean. Delivery was arranged for a week before the party. She was still trembling when she got out onto the sidewalk. The florist was next.

  “Why, Judianne, honey!” Marlys stood there in her sandals and striped apron, a little trowel in her hand, looking like someone on television about to tell you how easy it was to have a yard full of beautiful flowers. Marlys’s shop was packed with plants—vines and blooming bushes, tall buckets of flowers behind the foggy refrigerator door, ferns and trees you could walk right under. A flagstone walkway curved between high banks of moist greenery.

  “I need some flowers for a party. A dozen big bouquets, you mix and match.” She turned to go.

  “Oh honey, you can’t get by with that. The floral arrangements for that house must be carefully designed. Like your fireplace wall,” she continued. “All those little crevices in that volcanic rock should be planted with hanging vines. And the entry should have pots of blooming plants to guide the guests toward the living room.”

  It was clear Marlys had already been shown the house and had been dreaming up these arrangements like it was her own place. She’d love standing on a ladder getting all the vines dangling just right above Gavin McCall’s living room. Is this what Gavin had in mind when he sent his wife to stand on this stone floor and tremble like a leaf?

  “No,” Judianne whispered.

  “No?” Marlys replied, her eyes wide, her little pink mouth holding its O shape.

  “No.”

  The August sun was blinding as it glanced off the cars parked at the strip mall. Now she had no flowers. They’d seemed the most important thing to Gavin’s mother. “Don’t skimp on the flowers,” she’d said. Judianne stood in the hot wind with her legs apart like she was balancing on the deck of a ship and watched the dust kick up waves beside the highway. Nothing at the grocery store’s chintzy floral department would do. This was the only florist in town—this town where every day she felt herself aging, her fertility drying up. After she turned thirty, she began to imagine her eggs toughening like the peel on oranges left out in a bowl for show. By now they were probably ash. She could stand to go on living here, but she would grow to hate Gavin if he wouldn’t agree to having a baby.

  She walked deliberately toward the car where the corner of the new oil painting peeked up from the back seat. She took hold of the hot door handle, got in and started driving. Onto that bonfire she would pile all that precious stuff out of the attic—Gavin’s baby clothes, cub scout uniform and all the letters he wrote home from that fancy boys’ camp in Michigan. She’d take the car’s cigarette lighter to one of the torches along the driveway, then walk up holding it like a harpoon—a wild-haired woman reflected in a plate-glass window, resting her blazing torch on a redwood sill, drafts lifting her curly hair and tiny sparks dancing about it like Christmas lights. That silver baby cup with his adorable teeth marks would melt into a shiny little puddle.

  About sixteen miles down the road she found another flower shop, not so fancy as Miss Striped Apron’s, but the florist, a young man with bleached hair and tight jeans, was not likely to be Gavin’s type. “I’d like us to totally design arrangements for my new house over in Cadillac— make the stone wall all viney. Two or three thousand dollar’s worth. Can you handle that?”

  He grinned. “Lady, you want vines? For two or three thousand dollars, me and you can be Tarzan and Jane.”

  Before the housewarming, she sat down on one of the new white couches to read. The light, the leather upholstery, everything felt alien in comparison to her spot on the screened-in porch at the old house. She missed the sultry air and the sounds of birds, but she’d get used to this in time. Very soon she came to the flash-quick ending of Moby Dick—such a long rambling book to cut her off so fast, everyone lost but Ishmael, who was rescued by a Captain searching for his own sons lost in the deep. She cried a little over the bigness of it all, then climbed up to the room Gavin called the observatory and looked out over Cadillac. There wasn’t any mind more American than Gavin’s. He called all the shots, not because he was so smart, but because he could. And he could because she let him. She stepped over to position her eye on the telescope, but what she saw was inscrutable. She took her eye away from the telescope to figure out what she was seeing. “Ha!” She’d been looking at Gavin down in the yard, his rump to be exact, as he bent over planting mums. The hip pocket of his jeans had looked like the surface of the moon.

  She swung that spyglass around and looked through the big end. Her tiny husband looked a million miles away. What a great invention! So small, like an ant, a baby ant. That was Gavin, all right. He’d planned on being the only child forever. She straightened. He didn’t deserve the sympathy he’d get if she burned his house down. Besides, what was the worst that could happen if she threw the pills away? Surely there was still one juicy little egg left inside her, protected on the bottom of the pile, and Mrs. McCall would never let him throw her out if she were pregnant.

  She leaned her head on the window and knocked to get Gavin’s attention. Ishmael had grabbed on to a coffin so as not to drown. She’d do better than that. Gavin turned round and round looking to see where the knocking was coming from, but didn’t guess she’d be up so high.

  §

  Hillary O’Brian’s

  Cadillac Voices

  Not everyone in Cadillac is pleased about having a town green. Here is a spirited criticism.

  NOT SO FAST, MR. MAYOR

  “Garden City,” my aunt fanny! Mayor Mash-burn’s cockamamie scheme to tear down the old bowling alley and pool hall to build a town green, will kill what is left of business in downtown Cadillac. The mayor is telling everyone that the reason downtown is dead is because it has two boarded up properties right in the middle of it. Well, everyone knows that downtown is dead because of the Mall out on the highway with all that free parking.

  I am one of the storeowners who already pays exorbitant rent to Mr. Murphy to keep my shop, Maxine’s Ribbons and Bows, specializing in “those things that make a woman’s heart glad.” What we need is two city blocks of parking lot.

  Mashburn says that if we have a town green, ice cream parlors and used booksto
res will follow. I say if we have ice cream parlors and used bookstores we will have patrons dripping ice cream on our goods and the kind of loiterers you see on college campuses.

  Maxine Graybill

  Cadillac resident since 1963

  THE SOLOIST

  2011

  So far Ryan and I, the minister, and of course Bryce, are the only ones present. Ryan has been worrying the minister about one more detail, but now he comes back toward the choir loft where I’m sitting. His new dark suit is so beautiful I want to reach down and touch it. He holds up a corsage—tiny white orchids.

  “Ryan! What is this?”

  “Please, Karen. Just put it on. And here.” He hands me up a program. Bryce’s picture is on the front. Inside are listed the order of the funeral service, including my two numbers, and the same remarks Ryan sent to the paper.

  “What do you think?”

  “Very nice,” I say.

  “They don’t deserve all this.”

  “Where are they?” I ask.

  “They’ve left the motel. That’s all I know. I told his father, don’t try to drive; you don’t know Cadillac. Just take the cab. But old Buster probably never got in anything he wasn’t driving himself, so I’ve been watching for a black Caddie.” Ryan stares at Bryce’s casket.

  “How’s his mother?”

  Ryan shakes his head. “He wouldn’t put her on the phone.”

  “Too upset?”

  “He’s never let me speak with her.” He stops and glances up. “Please wear the corsage.”

  We both look back toward where the young black minister is gazing at the Hebrew symbols in one of the stained glass windows. This little church could have started out as a synagogue.

  The whites of ’s eyes look stark, Murine-bleached. He looks at the corsage. “I want everything to be perfect for them.”

  Why? I want to ask. Bryce made him promise he wouldn’t send his body back to Abilene. So after everything else he’s been through, Ryan had to fight Mr. Fry over that. And I hate to be a pain, but I ask, “Where’s Belvedere? I can’t sing “Wind Beneath My Wings” without an accompanist. There is no way.”

  Ryan’s hands are up like a traffic cop, only they’re shaking. “He’s coming. He’s coming. I double checked yesterday just before he left for the club.”

  “You don’t know Belvedere. Mondays he sleeps all day.”

  Ryan has gotten thin this last year, though not as bad as Bryce. Ryan and I went to Cadillac High together. I pin on the corsage. “You look perfect, Karen,” Ryan says. I knew he’d like the black dress and the hair up, my willowy lady look.

  Ryan’s the sort of guy who never stuck to anything very long, but was good at whatever he tried. He worked in a men’s shoe store until he got to be the top seller. Then he sold furniture, then drapery, and for a while he was a waiter in a swanky place. But he always moved on, leaving a trail of broken-hearted bosses behind. Until Bryce got sick.

  I’m the real drifter, just floating along, letting my talents go to waste. I wait tables at the Ponderosa to pay the rent and sing at Starchy’s when someone cancels, but I am nearly thirty, and though I’ve got a great voice, I haven’t done one thing about it. Friends offer to help me make a demo, but I never take them up on it. The idea of putting something together kind of comes and goes. When I’m wearing my boots, dashing into the spotlight at Starchy’s, with Bryce and Ryan standing, yelling, “Go, girl, go”—I can see it. But the very next night when I’m clearing a load of smeared up plates, dodging Buzz Halleck’s greasy fingers, I can’t see myself anywhere but the Ponderosa.

  “I tried to get pallbearers,” Ryan says. “I called. Some of our friends are—”

  Jerks? I want to say. Wimps? Dead?

  Ryan doesn’t finish his sentence and wanders back toward the door. Three years he’s had a florist shop out on the highway, working alone to save money for the meds.

  Thank god, it’s Belvedere, coming down the aisle, weaving just a little bit, dirty blond curls hanging in his pale blue eyes. But he’s here. This is probably the first Monday morning he’s seen in years. I just hope he’s had something to drink. He opens the organ and begins to run the sleeve of his jacket back and forth along the keys to pick up the dust. He makes a quick selection of stops and looks down, situating his toes on the pedals.

  A few more people have come in, a couple with a little boy. They must be neighbors. I don’t recognize them. And six or eight black people. Ryan and Bryce used to give big parties in their fancy garden apartment. Bryce had money. Tons of people came to their parties, but there’s not going to be any of them here today. Folks don’t want to come down to this part of Cadillac. A place like this—down on Monroe Street—belongs to blacks and gays now. But Ryan loves it. They had real support in this chuch. He and Bryce came every Sunday till almost the end. “We’re grown-ups now,” Bryce said one night when they were in the Ponderosa. “We’re learning to face reality together.”

  The minister is shaking hands with a big guy and a wife in a perfect black suit and a flash of diamonds. Ryan is fluttering; these must be the parents. Ryan escorts them to the front row where he has arranged little bouquets with ribbons to mark the first pews on either side. He sits down alone across the aisle.

  Belvedere fires her up and after a little swerve, and a few adjustments of the stops, the old organ pours out a strong, steady progression of chords that remind me that this is a church. I fold back my program and place it on the music stand so Belvedere can see it. After the prayer I’m supposed to sing “This is My Father’s World,” a hymn I’ve been singing since I was three. I stand. This will help me warm up for the big production number Ryan wants at the end. Belvedere is going to be fine. The funeral is underway.

  After I sit back down, I study Bryce’s parents. She may be fifty, but she’s still cute and innocent looking with that kind of soft blond hair we all wish we could afford. A rich man’s sheltered doll. Ryan and Bryce have talked to me about Bryce’s dad, but even if they hadn’t, a guy who looks like old Buster wouldn’t be any mystery to me. He went straight from being a big football hero at O.U. to tending his family’s cattle and oil wells—one of those people who never stumbled, or if he did, he had Blondie there to cover for him. Mr. Fry has things his way. Once he found out Bryce was living with Ryan he cut off the money.

  Ever since Mrs. Fry sat down she’s been staring dry-eyed into the casket, her lips pressed into a little red line. Maybe only now is she giving up thoughts of grandchildren. The minister has spoken and we all sing “Abide With Me,” but she keeps on staring. I wish the old guy would put his arm around her.

  Belvedere is rolling out a grand prelude for my solo. I bet the minister had no idea this organ could sound like the Mormon Tabernacle. I rise. My orchids flutter. My voice is full, a mezzo, and I don’t see any reason just because this is a Disciples of Christ Church not to give it all I’ve got. I let it roll out, filling up the whole space, pressing on the stained glass windows, rising through the rafters. “Wind Beneath My Wings” is a number for the Broadway stage, but it always seemed to me to be a repentant song, to be sung to someone you’re trying to make it up to. The kind of thing a woman wants to hear. As I near the last stanza, I open up, not louder, but more tender. I look at Mrs. Fry. Her face is breaking, wet and pink.

  The minister gives a benediction and we rise. My first thought is to get out into the sunshine and warm up. Belvedere is playing “I Come to the Garden Alone,” one of my old favorites. I take the program off the music stand and walk around to get out of the choir loft. As I step down, Mrs. Fry reaches out for me. I give her a hug, but she doesn’t let go. “Oh, sweetheart,” she sobs, and I let her fold against me. I rock her just a bit. Bryce was her only child. They say that nothing’s harder in this whole world than losing a child. She is shorter than me, and she puts back her head to look up into my eyes. She takes a shuddery breath. “Bryce wrote and told me about you. He said he had fallen deeply in love. When I looked up there wh
ile you were singing and saw the tears in your eyes, I knew you were the one.” She squeezes me good.

  I look past her head at Buster Fry. His eyes are wide. His big rancher’s hands are out. He’s pleading. He’s saying, just let this be. Just give her a brave smile and wave goodbye. He’d probably be willing to drive some kind of bargain for this sweet dream to come true. Mrs. Fry holds on. I used to fantasize about having rich, generous in-laws.

  Ryan is standing across the aisle, his face white. He can’t believe what he’s hearing. But he shouldn’t mind. This will comfort the poor bereaved mother, to think there’s another grieving woman, someone who will miss her boy as much as she does. Ryan should want her to have this. He’s never going to see these people again, anyway. What does he care? His hand reaches out to steady himself on the back of the pew. He will die too.

  I watch him sit down, and I know that he’s not going to fight this. The minister, standing in the back, hands clasped, waits for us to move on so he can let in the two men from the funeral home. In the absence of pallbearers, they will roll the casket up the aisle and load it into the hearse. I swallow hard.

  I take Mrs. Fry gently by the shoulders and step back. “Mrs. Fry, I want you to meet Ryan Matthews. This is the person who supported Bryce when he had no money. Ryan carried him to see the doctor and fed him and cleaned him up. This is the man who asked me to come here today and sing. He wanted a nice funeral for you because you are Bryce’s mother.”

  Ryan steps forward and holds out his hand. His lips are parted. Buster Fry’s lower jaw has shoved forward. Mrs. Fry blinks to try to understand. I’ve blown away her lifelong shelter. She half turns toward Buster but catches his dark face and looks to me. I nod. She turns back and extends a trembling hand to Ryan. “I’ve waited a long time to meet you, Ryan.”