by Rhett DeVane
“Her husband Gerald called the office yesterday,” Abby added. “More than likely, she won’t be back at work for a good while. I know it’s eating her alive. It’s hard to go wide-open with a cast up to your crotch.”
Sheila settled cross-legged onto her yoga pillow. “I’ll call and see if I might clean their house before she comes home. It won’t do Sabrina any good to come into a mess.”
“I can make my ham and scalloped potato casserole,” Loiscell said. “Good comfort food, nothing like it. Some fresh roses too. I can do that.”
Choo-choo groaned as she eased onto her mat. “I’m too old for this groveling around on the floor.” She chuckled. “Good thing I got you all around to help me get up.”
Loiscell plopped down. “Give it a rest, Choo-choo. You run circles around all of us.”
Abby bent over and touched her toes. Every muscle in her legs protested. “We all could be poster children for the benefits of yoga. I couldn’t lean much past my knees when we started. And to get back to Sabrina . . . you know Elvina Houston will jump-start the casserole committee. They’ll have so much food, they won’t know what to do with it all.”
Choo-choo nodded. “That’s the good thing about living in the South. No matter what happens to you, you’ll always be well-fed.”
Joy Harris walked in, her blue duffle trailing behind her like a well-trained dog. “Sorry I’m a little late. There was a tractor-trailer turned over on the Interstate a little west of Midway. I had to get off in Quincy and take the secondary road.”
“Highway 90 is so much prettier than the Interstate, anyway,” Choo-choo said. “People get to going too blasted fast on those superhighways, you ask me. What ever happened to looking out the window and enjoying the ride?”
Abby huffed. “Maybe, when I retire—if I don’t die before that happens—I’ll be able to take the slow lane and enjoy the trip too.”
The woodsy scent of burning incense filled the room, not overpowering yet intensely present.
“I love that smell, Joy,” Abby commented. “What kind is it?”
The blonde instructor doused the match in a piece of foil. “Believe it or not, it’s a blend named Joy. Sandalwood, musk, maybe a hint of rosewood. I found it in a little gift shop on St. George Island.”
Loiscell laughed. “Well now. That’s appropriate. How many yoga teachers have an incense named after them? After my second go-round with chemo, I couldn’t abide perfumes. Flowers were okay, but definitely nothing unnatural. I couldn’t use air fresheners at all. And I had to switch to unscented deodorant, soap, and washing powder.” Her expression darkened.
“You okay, dear?” Choo-choo asked. “You looked like the Grim Reaper himself was pointing your way.”
Loiscell took a shaky breath. “Fine. I’m fine. Really.”
Ben Calhoun stood in front of the Women’s Club’s double wooden doors. Sure, Elvina had told him the yoga class was open to all, and that everyone was more than welcome, but that didn’t mean diddlysquat.
Over the years, his job had nudged him from his innate shyness. He couldn’t dump off mail and packages without so much as a how-do-you-do, not in a town the size of Chattahoochee. A repertoire of questions and comments for any situation stood ready. “How’s your mama and ’em?” “Did you have a nice vacation?” “Are you feeling better since you had that terrible flu?” “Looks like you got another package from your daughter out West. How’s she doing? And the grandkids?” “How’s your husband’s case of the gout?”
Some folks didn’t cotton to chatting with their postal carrier; those he left alone. Most of the elderly and shut-ins welcomed Ben’s regular visits. As many times as he had been offered homemade baked goods, especially around the holidays, Ben marveled at how his body had not added more than an inch-to-pinch around the midsection. The walking helped, and the occasional times he forced himself to go for an evening jog. Still he longed for physical activity and, on a deeper level since his wife passed away, company.
Ben braced himself and pulled his shoulders back. What was so scary about walking into a roomful of females? Wasn’t like they were going to circle the pack, kill him, and pick his bones. The same uneasy feeling clobbered him whenever he had stepped into a gathering of his wife’s friends. Laughter and conversation would stop dead, all eyes trained on the masculine invader.
His late wife’s gentle way of asking have you lost your mind? And what could possibly be so important that it couldn’t wait: “Yes, dear?”
There he would stand, muttering something unintelligible and bobbing his head like it perched on a spring. Mumble, nod, slink from the room, and be darn glad you escaped with your manhood intact.
Ben hated Monday night television. Couldn’t possibly take one more rerun episode of Mayberry, RFD. He entered the class quietly and hesitated at the back of the room.
Joy Harris opened her eyes and smiled when she sensed his presence. “Come on in. We’ve barely started the meditation.” She motioned to a spot at the rear of the group between two ladies. “So glad you joined us.”
Ben seated himself on his thin foam camping mat, trying his best to blend into the background. “Um . . . it is okay? I mean, I heard this wasn’t just for women.”
“Of course it’s okay. I have had a few men in my classes, from time to time. It evens out the energy—all about balance, you see.”
Choo-choo swiveled back around after learning the identity of the newcomer. “Elvina will pitch a fit and fall in it. If Ben Calhoun proves to be less tight-lipped than most males, think of the inside scoop he might offer,” she whispered to Loiscell. “I’ll have to invite him to unroll his mat next to me next class.”
Abby glanced back, though she knew the voice. Her hand automatically lifted for a slight finger wave, then stopped. Even that small gesture brought on the sputtering hesitation, like an engine in need of a tune-up.
Without the official U.S. Post Office garb, Ben didn’t look half bad. Kind of cute, actually. He wore tight knee-length black biking shorts and a long, loose FSU T-shirt with the sleeves and neck opening cut. His Spandex was a good idea for yoga class; no use running the risk of Big Jim and the Twins waving hello during one of the upside-down postures.
“Remind me next time, and I’ll bring my digital camera for you,” Loiscell leaned over and said in a low voice.
Abby jerked her attention back to the front of the room. A slight flush stung her cheeks. Other body parts warmed too. Betrayed by her own body.
Emotions collided inside Abby: annoyance mixed with desire. She wiped them both from her mind and forced a tight smile.
Seven weeks before suicide, Tuesday
“Where is that recipe, now?” Elvina Houston asked aloud.
Buster, nearing the same mark in feline years as his human counterpart, lifted his head, trilled once, and studied her with round butterscotch eyes. Since the snipping of his manhood several years back, the old Tom had become a homebody. He rarely left the house, content to follow Elvina from room to room and comment when it seemed necessary, or when his food bowl lay empty.
“I had it just last month. You know the one, cat. That cheesy chicken and rice bake with the crunchy topping. Has those little green sweet peas and shredded carrots in it. It was Sissy Pridgeon’s grandma’s recipe.”
To hell with this old age business. She couldn’t recall things like she used to, couldn’t see, and couldn’t hear. Piddie used to say, “I’ll swannee, ’Vina. You’re getting to where you can’t hear a fart in a jug!” Not such a bad thing, experiencing the world with the volume turned down a notch. Young people played their rappity-tap-tap music loud enough to wake the dead, and most folks only talked to hear themselves blather.
On a few occasions since she had taken over Piddie’s front desk position, patrons had ended up in the wrong appointment column. Elvina picked up enough clues when one called for a service—or kidded herself she did—and plugged them into the schedule. Even after she went to the color-coded organization
al system, mistakes still occurred.
“Elvina? It’s high time you admitted your problem.” Mandy Andrews, head stylist, had to broach the subject. “Makes us look plumb foolish when we get someone in the chair and start doing one thing, when they asked for another.”
Elvina had called the audiologist in Tallahassee the next day. The twin hearing aids fit snuggly, and if she remembered to pull a little fringe of hair down from her bun, were barely detectible. A whole new world opened up. Conversations bloomed around her, and she burned up the phone lines passing them on. Now she needed new glasses, it seemed.
“A person has to be dang near dead or blind as Choo-choo Ivey’s poodle for insurance to pay for anything,” Elvina groused to Buster as she dug through her recipe box. “Small wonder they have the tallest, fanciest buildings in any city.”
If something on her body wasn’t receding, it was being pulled by gravity. Her small breasts sagged like two baseballs suspended in plastic grocery bags. A church key—like the kind on the top of a sardine can—might prove more effective than a bra; she could roll them up and tighten the skin at the same time.
Elvina frowned at the jumbled recipe box, then caught her distorted reflection on one of the shiny pot lids. Jowls instead of firm cheeks! If she wasn’t in the active state of smiling, she looked ticked off, all because her face was busy sliding toward the floor. Elvina had never been the sugary old lady who whipped up Tollhouse cookies for the kids on the block. Her disapproving expression scared children off before she even had a chance to offer them a Fig Newton. The only time they flocked to her house was at Halloween. Costumed in one of her mid-calf black funeral dresses and a painted mole on her chin, Elvina made a passable witch.
“You have to work with what the Good Lord gives you,” Elvina said to the cat. “Knowledge is a Southern woman’s power. Once you paint over beauty with a few age spots, it will be only a dim memory in some scrapbook picture.”
Buster yawned and regarded her with a bored expression. “I don’t know why I put up with the likes of you,” Elvina said. “You have a way of looking at me like I’m dumb as a stick. Guess the reason you tolerate me at all is because I can operate a can opener.”
The Tomcat trilled. Enough of a reaction to continue the one-sided conversation.
“I got a visitation for that Johnson fellow over across the river tomorrow, and I’m counting on taking that casserole to his next of kin. There’s a boatload of ’em, and they’ll start pouring in. People got to eat.”
True, Elvina lived for a good funeral. She had more black in her closet than most undertakers. But she never arrived to witness a family’s low point without a vat of comfort food in tow. Food was the tie that bound people to her and her to them.
“Grief isn’t fed by spice, Buster. No one in the depths of despair longs for enchiladas or sushi. Suffering calls for thick stews, dishes oozing with cheese, or maybe a triple-layered coconut cake. Substantial food. Stick-to-your-ribs food. Remind-you-of-your-grandma’s food.”
Elvina stopped the scavenger hunt long enough to make a glass of iced green tea. The heirloom recipe box gaped open. Piddie’s recipe box—Elvina’s most valued possession besides her smartphone—should’ve, by rights, gone to Piddie’s daughter Evelyn. But bless her heart, Evelyn was as much a cook as Mother Teresa was a fallen woman. Evelyn’s kitchen boasted every culinary gadget known to The Food Network, yet the woman couldn’t boil an egg without exploding it. Good thing her husband Joe knew his way around a stove.
“Ah-hah! Here it is!” Elvina plucked a dog-eared card from the cramped box and held it aloft. “What the blue blazes is this doing up in the appetizers?”
Buster stretched and repositioned.
“I’m proud to see you are so riveted to my problems. Maybe I should let you out to fend for yourself.” She huffed and reached down to ruffle the cat’s fur. “Who am I kidding? You wouldn’t slap a mouse if it walked up and bit you on the behind.”
As she bustled around the galley-style kitchen, Elvina chewed on the latest bit of gossip to come through the doors of the Triple C. Ben Calhoun had joined up with the ladies taking the yoga class. Even Jake Witherspoon had taken to going when he wasn’t swamped with wedding or funeral flower orders. Elvina thought of Jake as one of the girls anyway. Heck, Jake did too, for that matter. She wasn’t trying to be mean about it. Elvina loved Jake and his partner as if they were her sons. Who cared really, which way your weenie wiggled?
“Always figured Ben Calhoun might be gay too. Nah, he’s not flashy enough,” Elvina said. “Nice, but plain as white bread spread with cheap margarine.” Ben didn’t seem the type for sports, though she’d seen him jogging on occasion. Didn’t appear to be the artsy-crafty type either.
On top of it all, Choo-choo Ivey had told Elvina that she caught Abby McKenzie admiring Ben’s butt. Abby, who hacked up a hairball any time an interested man was within two feet. Imagine.
“Too much gray anymore, Buster.” She measured a teaspoon of salt into her cupped palm and added to a pot of boiling water. “Used to be, a thing was either black or white.”
Loiscell Pickering entered the oncology office and signed in. The receptionist nodded from behind a sliding window, not someone she recognized from the check-up the previous year.
The room had been redecorated in lemon yellow and Wedgwood blue—a country French theme. White shelves near the ceiling held an array of ceramics, dried herbs and flowers, and tasteful trinkets, enough to keep her eyes busy if she didn’t want to read one of a variety of magazines. Loiscell appreciated the effort, anything to take her mind somewhere else.
Last time, the décor had reminded Loiscell of a rental beach house, complete with lush tropical plants, tranquil seaside paintings, and whitewashed rattan chairs with cabana-print cushions. She could recall the room’s many incarnations. The underlying message, as far as she could tell: we change for the better, and so will you.
Cancer. The very word made Loiscell nauseated. The same thoughts popped to mind. Get your affairs in order. How many months do I have left? Is this the final battle?
Cancer: a caged dragon she lived with and periodically battled with all she had. Clip its scaly wings, Loiscell. Cut off its lifeblood. Jab it with a spear until it retreats far back into the cave.
But did the dragon ever die? Or did it hunker down, hibernating with its heartbeat slowed to an undetectable crawl until its keeper let down her guard?
Loiscell grabbed a recent copy of People Magazine. Nothing like reading about all those movie stars in rehab, or marrying each other, or divorcing each other, or not eating enough to keep a flea alive. She flipped to a section featuring female actors in awards-show regalia. A few had shucked the current hole-pocked, streetwalker designs for classic, tailored gowns. Others tried for the shock effect and succeeded.
The door between the reception area and back office opened. “Loiscell! It’s so good to see you,” Dr. Johnson’s nurse said.
“Hey, Brenda. I’d say it’s nice to see you too, but I’d much rather bump into you at the mall.” She gave the nurse a warm hug.
“Good thing I have a strong ego, or that comment would hit me hard.” The nurse ushered Loiscell into an exam room, reviewed the health history, and jotted notes about Loiscell’s recent concerns.
“Why don’t you go ahead and undress. Slip into the gown.” The nurse motioned to a neat stack of plastic-lined paper on the exam table. “I’ll let Dr. Johnson know you’re waiting.”
When the door closed, Loiscell donned the flimsy paper gown. Oh, for the days when they were soft cotton. Suppose the disposable ones were easier. No laundry bills. She heard a knock.
“Well, Loiscell Pickering.” Dr. Johnson entered and grasped her hand. His hands were warm and his grip firm. Loiscell despised a limp, fishy handshake.
“You never change, Doc. How’s that possible?”
“Good genes? That and Just for Men.” When he smiled, genuine concern colored his features. It didn’t hurt to have
a handsome oncologist. He glanced over the chart. “So you’ve found a little problem?”
“I think it’s back, Doc.”
“Let me call Brenda back in, and we’ll take a look.”
The best thing about Dr. Johnson—besides the fact he was George-Clooney gorgeous—was that he never sugarcoated anything. Third time wasn’t always the charm, no matter the old saying. Especially with cancer. He knew it. She knew it.
When she left the office a half-hour later, Loiscell held the paperwork for the inevitable series of scans and a biopsy. She folded it a few times and crammed it in the bottom of her purse with the used tissues and breath mints.
Chapter Four
Six weeks before suicide
Tuesday
Abby McKenzie closed her eyes and inhaled through her nostrils, held it, then exhaled through her mouth at the same measured rate: a centering technique from yoga class. Different day, same drama. “Kimberly’s a very good dental hygienist, Mrs. Warren. She’s subbed for us before. I haven’t had a single person say anything bad about her.”
She pinched her nose at the bridge. That headache she’d put off with two aspirins was back. The woman yammered on and on.
“It may be several weeks before Sabrina’s well enough to come back to work. Even then, it might be part-time for a while.”
The woman on the other end wheezed, hacked twice, and said, “Put me down, end of January. My teeth ain’t going to fall out before then.”
Three more months to layer on the nicotine stain. Sabrina would be thrilled. In a way, Abby could understand the patient’s reticence. Professionals who provided good personal care were as valuable as dark chocolate. A doctor who actually listened, a hair stylist who didn’t leave you looking like a startled squirrel, a nurse who gave a flu shot without charging across the room with the needle in hand like a dagger, a hygienist who didn’t lecture you to dang death.
Abby tapped the computer keys to access the next year’s schedule. “I’m afraid it will be the second week in February. I can put you on her cancellation list.”
