by Rhett DeVane
“Work builds character, Wanda’loo.”
“Right. I’m already a character. I should need this, too?”
Jon settled into the oak chair across the table from her. “You’re not your usual effervescent self this morning. You all right?”
Wanda shrugged. “I guess so.”
“Tsk, tsk. Honeymoon over, doll? Pinky leave his stinky socks on the floor? What?”
“You kidding? He’d probably be the one to complain about me.” She smiled. “I swear to you, if I get up to pee in the middle of the night—which happens more and more the closer I get to fifty—he makes up my side of the bed while I’m gone.”
Jon laughed. “The queen of neat has met her match.” He tilted his head and studied her. “Really, what is up with you?”
The genuine compassion shining in his gentle brown eyes brought tears to her eyes. “I don’t know, Shug. Life is so unfair sometimes.” She took a sip of coffee. “Karen was in the spa yesterday afternoon. Melody was going to give her a manicure. Help her feel a little more normal. She can’t wear any perfume because of the radiation treatments, and her hair’s gone again.”
“Anything that helps her feel more feminine is welcome, I’m sure. I see it in my hospice patients all the time. Even if a person is nearing death, she still wants to feel attractive.”
Wanda nodded. “Exactly. Melody had just started to work on Karen’s nails when Karen turned ten shades of pale and jumped up to run to the bathroom.”
“The fumes?”
“I guess. She had to go home.” Wanda shook her head. “I feel so bad for her. I don’t know her real well, not like Hattie and Mandy do. She’s come out a few times with Evelyn to talk over herbal treatments with Pinky. She seems like a pretty decent person.”
Jon walked to the kitchen counter and refilled his cup. “Warm-up for you?”
“No. I’ve had three cups already, thanks.”
Jon stood by the bay window. “One thing I’ve learned over the years, Wanda’loo. Cancer is an equal-opportunity disease. Takes young and old, rich or poor, and doesn’t bypass good people for bad.” His gaze rested on the hummingbird feeder where two whirring iridescent male birds fought for dominance. “Too bad, really. It would be nice if it would cull out some of the nasty, hateful people—serial killers, child molesters, rapists.”
Wanda nodded. “Hmm.”
Stephanie breezed into the break room and grabbed the empty coffee urn. “Jeez-o-pete! Y’all could’ve saved me a cup!”
“Morning to you too, Steph,” Jon said. “My fault. I mooched a mug. I’ll start a fresh pot just for you.”
“You’re here awfully early,” Wanda said.
“Ain’t it the dang truth?” Stephanie said. “I’m giving prenuptial massages to Michael King and Jessie Kahn. They’re getting married at three this afternoon.” She turned to leave, calling over her shoulder. “Let me know when the coffee’s done. I sure could use a cup. Either that, or I’m crawling on the massage table myself for a nap.”
“Know what would be good for both of us?” Jon asked Wanda after Stephanie left.
She grinned. “It is legal?”
“In most countries. Why don’t I call up Julie at the Homeplace and order up a couple of her gut-bomb killer cheeseburgers, couple of orders of fries, and we’ll take ourselves out to the lake for a little picnic at lunch?”
Wanda smiled. “I’d really like that. Talk some trash. Eat some fat. My kind of afternoon delight.”
Jon washed out the mug and deposited it in the dishwasher. “Great. I have a few errands to run. Pick you up around, say, eleven-thirty?”
Wanda winked. “As long as you don’t plan on taking advantage of me. I’m a married woman now.”
Jon kissed her on the top of the head on his way to the door. “Can’t fathom anyone, straight or gay, has ever taken advantage of you, Wanda’loo.”
“You idiot!” Hattie braked suddenly and cursed under her breath as she negotiated the snarled traffic in front of Tallahassee Memorial Hospital. The Mercedes driver who nearly sideswiped her SUV whipped into the drive-in teller line of the corner bank. Hattie glanced at her passenger. “Sorry, Karen.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong. That butt hole did. Too bad I’m not my usual nauseated self this morning. I could’ve followed him and barfed on his precious black sedan.”
Hattie focused her attention on traffic. “At the risk of sounding like everyone else who asks you this, how are the radiation treatments going?”
Karen shrugged. “The sessions themselves are not an issue. The therapists are fabulous, even when I’m being a complete and total bitch. And believe me, there have been many mornings I have been. I just lay there a few minutes and it’s done.” She pulled her blouse slightly to one side to reveal the top edge of the radiation site. “This is what hurts.”
The skin was a deep red: the hue of fresh-cut sirloin, the color of fire-hot anger. Hattie glanced over quickly. “Jeez-o-Pete! That looks awful!”
Karen buttoned her blouse. “Like the worst sunburn I ever had. Like I’ve been char-broiled over hot coals on a spit they forgot to rotate often enough.”
“Don’t you have anything to put on it?”
“Some cream the doctors gave me. The aloe Pinky sent me works best though, especially if I keep it in the fridge.”
At the intersection of Magnolia Drive and Park Avenue, Hattie and Karen watched as an elderly couple maneuvered the crosswalk. The gentleman steered a wheelchair-scooter. His bent, white-haired companion hitched a ride on the back, standing with her hands resting on his shoulders.
Hattie smiled. “That’s about the sweetest thing I’ve seen in a while.”
Karen swallowed hard. The pressure of intense emotion pressed on her chest, squeezing, making her breathing difficult and labored.
Hattie’s brows knit together as she entered the driveway to Dr. Nakoa’s office. “You okay? You look a little pale.”
“Sure.” Karen opened the door as the SUV rolled to a stop and hurried toward the double doors.
“Karen?” Hattie called from the opened window. “I’ll be back in an hour to pick you up.” Before backing away, she watched her cousin slip quickly into the clinic.
Karen knocked once, then burst into Krystle’s private office. The counselor looked up from the stack of papers on her desk. “What—?”
No words came to Karen. The pain boiled from her in dry heaves, shaking her body. Krystle wrapped her arms around the sobbing woman’s shoulders and guided her gently to a soft chair and knelt by her until the crying subsided.
“Rough morning?” Krystle offered a box of tissues.
Karen blew her nose and snuffled. “God, this is so ridiculous.” She closed her eyes and heaved a shuddering sigh.
Krystle patted her on the shoulder. “Let me grab a couple of cups of chamomile tea, and we’ll talk.”
By the time the counselor returned, Karen felt more composed.
“Here? Or on the porch? It’s not too hot just yet, and I can turn on the overhead fan.”
Karen rose. “Outside. I’d like that.”
On the porch, Karen pitched back and forth in a rocker, describing the simple scene she had witnessed. “Just two old people, taking care of each other. I don’t know, it set me off. Hell, I cry over McDonald’s commercials anymore.”
“Why do you think it bothered you?” Krystle’s loose hair fell in dark waves as she leaned forward to listen.
“I want that. I want to grow old with the man I love, with Donald. I want to be able to be the old lady hanging onto his shoulders. I want to live, damn it, to be incredibly old and full of memories.” With each statement, Karen pounded a clenched fist on the rocker’s armrest.
Krystle smiled, her eyes glistening. “This is wonderful, Karen.”
“I’m sobbing my eyes out and ranting and raving like a complete lunatic, and you think it’s wonderful? Who’s crazier here, you or me?”
Krystle shook her head. “I’ve been seeing you
for, what, a month and a half now?”
Karen nodded.
“This is the first time I’ve heard you say what you want. Not what your mother and father, your boss, Donald, or the rest of your family want, but what Karen wants. Don’t you see? You’re on the way out of this. Now you’re clear on what you’re fighting for.”
“I want to live,” Karen said in a soft voice.
“I’m so proud of you.” Krystle jumped up, sending the rocker into motion. “This calls for a celebration! I have a pecan pie in the break room. One of my friends brought it by. Can your stomach take it?”
“Bring it on. I’ll sure give it a try.” She held up two fingers an inch apart. “A small piece.”
The flavors of sweet, dark cane syrup and toasted pecans filled Karen’s mouth. She closed her eyes and moaned. “This is so good. Mama would just die if she knew I was eating this.”
“Devil sugar?” Krystle grinned. “Feeding the hungry little cancer cells.”
“Right.” Karen cocked her head. “You know, I would hate for my epitaph to read: she never did a thing bad to herself. ”
“And still died anyway,” Krystle added.
They laughed. For a moment, friends more than counselor and client. Krystle wiped the flaky crust crumbs from the corners of her mouth. “Coming up on your last week of radiation treatments, right?”
“This time next week, I’ll be a free woman. Well, except for two more chemo treatments. At least I can lose the permanent one-sided sunburn.”
Karen smiled. “It’s kind of funny, you know. I’ve made friends with some of the other patients coming in for radiation. I see the same faces, day after day. At first, I was pretty freaked out at the side effects some of them had—the nausea, feeding tubes, really severe skin burns. But I had to remember that not everyone was being treated for the same kind of cancer. Even so, we were all in it together, and I’ve made a few friends that I hope to keep up with.”
“Comrades in arms, as it were,” The counselor said. “Have you given any thought to your job and Atlanta?”
“A little.” Karen frowned and watched the squirrels darting back and forth to the birdfeeders. “Have to face returning to the townhouse at some point.”
“To live?”
Karen shook her head. “Absolutely not. I have no desire to return to that place. Donald and I have discussed listing with a realtor. I just need to decide what to do with the furnishings.”
“Out with the old?”
“For the most part, yes.” Karen chewed absently on her lower lip. “Guess I’ll see how I feel when I’m standing at the door.”
“Ah,” Krystle said, “yet another threshold.”
“My mama was a fine Southern cook, but when I think of comfort food, my thoughts stray to my granny. Every year at Christmas, she would make me my very own pecan pie. Just for me! She gave the family divinity or fudge, and of course, she made other pies for after dinner, but she always made one whole pie as her special gift to me. I’ve been in the restaurant business for many more years than I care to count, and I don’t know too many foods I don’t like. But my granny’s pecan pie holds a place in my heart.”
Mr. Bill, owner of The Homeplace Restaurant
Chapter Thirty-eight
Ghostly mists of morning moisture curled in pools around the flower beds in Joe Fletcher’s backyard garden. Two scarlet cardinals quarreled over the hanging birdfeeder, and a family of fox squirrels rooted for buried acorns beneath the live oak tree.
“Morning, honey.” Joe leaned down and kissed his daughter on the cheek. “Brought you a fresh sweet potato biscuit. Don’t tell your mama. This one is made with real sugar.”
Karen glanced up from her canvas and smiled. “Thanks, Daddy.”
“You’re up and at it awfully early.” He settled onto a patio chair and sipped from a tall pottery mug.
Karen sketched as she talked. “I had a dream last night. Not a new thing, they seem to come most every time I fall asleep anymore. This one was so vivid. Exhilarating.”
Joe leaned over and studied the charcoal rendering. “Looks like some kind of boat?”
Karen nodded. “I finally got around to reading that book you told me about—the one on dragon boat racing. Must’ve made an impression on me.”
“I see.” He gestured with his index finger. “This end . . . I can make out the bow of the boat.” He leaned back. “You got all this from that book? I don’t recall seeing any pictures with the text.”
“They were well described.” She shrugged. “The actual boats may not come close to this, but it’s how I envision them.”
The sketch showed two long rowboats. The lead craft was clearly defined. The bow was fashioned as a fierce dragon head with a flowing mane, lips curled back to reveal rows of jagged teeth. The stern resembled a spiked tail tipped with a dagger-like point. Ten rows of indistinct figures pulled at the oars. The woman who sat at the bow facing backward held a drum, her long hair curled over her face. The woman at the stern was her mirror-image—a rudder in hand, intently focused on the waters ahead. A second boat of similar design loomed in the shadows, slightly behind the first.
“The colors and sensations were so striking,” Karen said. “I could feel the bite of the wind, feel the moisture on my lips. I was at once the woman at the bow and the steersman on the stern, watching for the clearest path to victory.”
“Suppose that signifies you and Mary Elizabeth?”
“Once a counselor always a counselor, huh Daddy?” Karen smiled. “You’re probably right. She seems to sneak into my dreams and paintings more and more.”
“You talk this over with Dr. Nakoa?”
“In exhausting detail. Trust me.” She pinched off a section of buttered biscuit and popped it into her mouth. “Umm. I wasn’t hungry, but this tastes good.”
“I’m glad. Your mother—she worries when you don’t eat.”
Karen sighed. “I know. I’m trying. I just don’t have much of an appetite.”
Joe allowed the silence to fill the space for a few moments before he spoke. “I heard you mention to Jake that you were planning on going back to Atlanta soon.”
“Yes. Before the next round of chemo. Donald’s picking me up at the airport on Tuesday.”
“Sure you’re ready?”
“To move back? No. I won’t do that until after all my treatments are over. But I need—I want—to go to the townhouse and start to somehow figure out what goes and what stays.”
“You’re going to sell it?”
“Definitely. I don’t want to live there anymore. It’s going on the market as soon as possible.”
“You know what’s best for you, sugar. You’ll always have a place here with us.” He stood. “Do you want to go to church with your mama and me this morning?”
Karen picked up the charcoal pencil and resumed the sketch. “Elvina’s picking me up at ten-thirty for the Morningside AME service. Some kind of special music, I think.”
Joe smiled. “Your grandmother would be proud. She always maintained they had a direct line to God.”
In the dream, Karen stood barefoot in the townhouse foyer, her feet chilled by the cool Italian tile.
“Well, let’s do it.” Donald’s voice sounded behind her.
“Don’t rush me.” She turned around. No one stood behind her.
Karen ducked her chin and clenched her fists into hard white balls. “Fine, I’ll do this alone then.”
She walked into the kitchen and began to open and close cabinets, making notes on the contents on a small yellow lined pad. Next, the dining room with the rich mahogany table and chairs glistening in the reflected light of a crystal chandelier.
“This all goes. Too formal. Too prissy.” She added the furniture to the sell column. The living room furnishings she noted as well, along with listing the framed artwork and sculptures. When Karen stepped into the master bedroom, she met the fierce glare of Mary Elizabeth Kensington. “What are you doing here?”
Mary Elizabeth swung her arm in a high arc. The crystal vase hit the wall to Karen’s right and shattered, sending a spray of glass across the hardwood floor.
“Or this?” She grabbed a Ming Dynasty reproduction vase from its stone pedestal and hoisted it overhead before sending it crashing to the floor beneath her feet.
Karen held up one hand and stepped closer. “Wait!”
“Stay away from me, you bitch! How dare you decide what goes forward with us!”
Karen stood, speechless. She watched Mary Elizabeth rip oil paintings from the walls, break an antique mirror, and rip the flocked sheers from the windows. “No! Don’t!” Karen called out as her double picked up a jewelry armoire and pitched it toward the window. The panes shattered in slow motion as the chest sailed through. Next, Mary Elizabeth snatched open the door to the closet and began to rip the designer clothing from the racks, heaving armfuls out the broken window. A silk scarf of rainbow colors hung like a limp linguine noodle, speared by a pointed shard of glass.
Then the lights blinked off. Total darkness. Karen strained to detect any hint of illumination. The sounds of glass breaking, heavy furniture slamming into walls, and screamed obscenities emanated from every direction.
When Karen awakened, the sweat-soaked sheets were churned into a strangling body cast. For a moment, she fought rising panic. She forced her breathing to slow and gradually inched from the linen sarcophagus. A wave of nausea washed over her and she dashed to the bathroom.
“Hello, Karen.”
“Jake.”
“Good thing you’re a woman, or Jon would have reason to suspect our nightly clandestine conversations.”
“You’re getting tired of me calling?”
Jake chuckled. “Absolutely not. Bad night?”
