by Connie Lacy
I was surprised by her answer. Hadn’t anticipated it. Didn’t know anything about her husband. I didn’t think of him as my grandfather, really. He was like a non-entity in my life. Never discussed.
“But if I had never married Jack I wouldn’t have had Abby – Jody – and she wouldn’t have had you. And I wouldn’t have become a judge, which has been a truly meaningful career. See how it works?”
I thought about that for a moment.
“But that might have made your life happier.”
“You never know,” she said. “It’s possible, hypothetically speaking. But you never know. I might’ve married some other guy who was wrong for me too.”
“Was he a rat?”
“Jack? No. Just not cut out for family life. I guess he was born under a wandering star.”
She resumed rocking.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, when Jack and I were dating, we did all kinds of fun things. We went sailing one time. That was so much fun. We went to the state fair and rode all the rides. We went and saw a couple of races. He was a lot of fun to be with when I was eighteen and nineteen years old. My girlfriends were jealous, for sure. Good looking. Had a car. Liked to dance, even. And then we got married and we had even more fun. We drove along the Florida Keys and went scuba diving. I was scared to death. But it was gorgeous. He had a friend who had a plane and first thing you know Jack was skydiving! He asked me to go along but I was too scared to jump out of an airplane like that.”
She sighed.
“So, we rocked along like that for a while, living with my parents, trying to save enough money to get our own place. But Jack spent all the money he made on his hobbies. He decided he wanted to race his own car in the stock car races. So he suped up his Chevy. But he wrecked it in his very first race. Totaled the car and broke his arm.
“After he recovered, he and a buddy decided what they really wanted to do was go white-water kayaking down the Nantahala River. Bought himself a kayak and spent every weekend traveling to and from that river. Loved it. Didn’t invite me along, though. By then, you see, your mother was a baby and I needed to stay home with her. And as much as I loved them, I was starting to get a little, shall we say, impatient, living with my mother and father.
“And then he announced one day that he had to go find himself. You know, take a trip somewhere – travel aimlessly across the country and around the world and get the friskies out of his system. And I said to him ‘you’re going to leave me here?’ And he said ‘I’ll be back. You and Abby’ll be fine here with your family. I’ll send you postcards every week.’ I was twenty-four. So he packed a small bag and took his old bicycle one Saturday morning. He kissed me and Abby good-bye and pedaled away.”
She stopped talking and just sat there shaking her head.
“Did he ever come back?”
“Nope. Sent us a few postcards, though. One from New Orleans. One from San Francisco. And then about a year after he left we got a postcard from Hawaii. Said he was learning to surf the big waves. When someone would ask what happened to my husband, Daddy used to tell people ‘Oh, he turned into a surfer boy in Hawaii and got ate up by a shark.’”
She chuckled quietly.
“And that’s when I started college – 25 years old. Went on to law school, figuring I’d better be able to make a good living. Of course, I’m far from the only young woman left to raise a child on her own. Kieran’s sister is having to do the same thing, poor girl. She doesn’t have a husband.”
She sighed, stretched and stood up.
“Kieran thinks she’s a dope,” I said.
“Maybe he’s embarrassed,” she said, leaning over to pat my arm. “Good-night.”
“Is he still alive?” I asked. “Jack, I mean.”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“You didn’t try to contact him when Mom died?”
“No. He never, ever called or wrote to me or your mom. Not once after that post card from Hawaii. Your mother tried to track him down about fifteen years ago but couldn’t find a trace of him. Maybe he did get eaten by a shark.”
I stared at the ceiling as she closed the door. The word “wanderlust” hovered in my mind. Was it genetic? And I wondered whether my mother’s childhood made her think it was normal to be raised by your grandparents. Maybe she thought her father’s disappearance was okay since he left her in good hands and he went off to do important things like “find himself.” Jeez.
I got my pad and pen from the nightstand.
Wandering the world in my Chevrolet.
Duty’s not my thing, it’s not my way.
Others nurture children, that’s okay.
To each his own – is what I say.
Sounded like a rap song. So I rapped it in a whisper to myself, tapping my hands softly on my knees.
“Wandering the world…in my Chev-ro-let!
Duty’s not my thing…it’s not my way!
Others nurture children…and that’s o-kay!
To each his own…is what I say!”
Then I added a title to the top of the page: Jody & Jack’s Philosophy of Life
~Twelve~
Doubts
It was cool when we set out Sunday after lunch. The sky was filled with clouds that looked like they’d been churned up by an angry cook. Grandma pulled into the Espresso Elaine drive-through and bought a cup of coffee. I didn’t like the taste but the aroma reminded me of warmth and happiness – of my mother. Grandma said once that Mom lived on black coffee.
We drove past houses like ours with tall pines, budding maples, lacy white dogwoods and pink azaleas. Then we reached the freeway and picked up speed as we headed out of town.
I took a sip from my travel mug. I’d brought hot tea from home for me and Kieran. Orange spice. It was good, but I was still chilly. I was wearing jeans and my favorite wheat-colored fleece jacket.
Kieran scarfed down a huge chocolate chip muffin in the back seat. He didn’t seem bothered by the cold, wearing tan cargo shorts with a zillion pockets and a blue hoodie.
Grandma and Aunt Libby were supposed to mark what they wanted to keep before the demolition company started work in a few days. Today they would walk through the house and agree on who got what.
“I decided to shoot some pictures too,” I announced, holding up my camera.
“Let me see,” he said.
I passed it to him.
“Why’d you decide against digital?” he asked.
He looked through the viewfinder, focusing first on my face, then on Grandma’s, then out the window.
“I don’t know. Thought it’d be fun to use film. I’ve got some black and white in it. Sort of wanted to try it out before I buy one.”
“You’ll be a professional in no time,” he said, handing it back to me. “You oughta take that class at Callanwolde.”
Grandma looked like she was ready for an AARP photo shoot, as usual, in a gray tweed blazer over a soft white turtleneck and black jeans.
I slung my bag over my shoulder and stuffed my hands in my pockets. Kieran pulled his camera out first thing and pointed it at me.
“This picture will be titled ‘Shivering for no good reason,’” he joked.
He took the picture and laughed at me.
“I think I’ll take a few shots of the house,” he said.
“Wait!”
And I snapped one of him in the driveway as Grandma went inside. Then he strolled away, leaving me beneath the pecan tree. The clouds had parted during our drive so that above me I could see patches of blue amid lingering clouds between small clusters of pale green leaves.
I took a couple of shots straight up into the branches and then backed off so I could see the tree with the house in the background. I snapped two pictures of that view and already couldn’t wait to see how they turned out.
I wandered toward the house, taking pictures as I went. This relic would be gone very soon and I wanted to capture it on film before that happened. Of cou
rse, I realized I’d stolen the idea from Kieran. But I figured he wouldn’t mind.
My eyes came to rest on the broken-down back porch with the rusty, torn screen. I remembered the teeth. Yes!
A smile in a glass
Remnant from the past
Of a life, of a man, of a time.
From the first to the last
Adding years, was it fast?
His life boiled down to a rhyme.
I paused to write my poem down on a folded sheet of notebook paper I’d crammed in my bag. Then I stepped through the door and saw the dentures. I moved the jar over to a shelf where there was more light. I framed the shot carefully and snapped twice, then stepped outside, walking around to the side of the porch. I reached through the dangling screen and moved the jar onto a table next to a rusted eggbeater and a tin ladle. I liked that. I took two more pictures and felt a sense of artistry that I hadn’t expected. Photography was kind of like poetry. You had to pick and choose what you included and what you left out.
The sound of tires interrupted my thoughts. I turned around as a big white Crown Victoria pulled up behind my grandmother’s Lexus. Aunt Libby, all two hundred pounds of her, heaved herself out of the driver’s seat and hobbled toward the house as though her knees might not stand the strain. She was only about five-two with short white hair and wispy bangs. She was wearing a light blue pant suit with a white knit cape that came to her knees. It was hard to believe she and Grandma were related. They were like the Antonym Sisters.
“Little Megan, how ya doin’, honey?”
“Fine,” I said, giving her my best for-adults-only smile.
“Oh, you look so pretty and so grown up! Let me give you a hug.”
She smelled like fried chicken as she wrapped her arms around me. I wondered if she’d actually fried the chicken or if she’d had dinner after church at KFC. Then she stepped back and patted my cheek.
“You still look like Kate. Always did. So slender and attractive,” she said, taking me by the arm. “I guess your grandma’s inside?”
“Yes, she’s making some notes.”
“I remember when you were Kate’s little shadow. You were attached to her hip for years. But I guess you don’t remember that.”
I shook my head.
“You and your grandma doin’ okay?” she said.
“Mm hm. How about you?” I asked.
“Oh, honey, it’s sweet of you to ask. I’m in pretty good shape for the shape I’m in.”
And she laughed out loud at her own joke.
“Katie?” she yelled as we walked through the screened porch. “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”
And she laughed again.
It was weird to hear my grandmother called by that name. It reminded me she really had been a child once. I knew that, of course, but it’s not something I thought about. Grandma was just Grandma. It was like looking at the giant pecan tree in the yard and remembering – oh, yeah – long ago, it was a tiny sapling and before that it was just a pecan. But it had been standing there for so long that you just kind of took it for granted that it was a big, old tree, providing a lot of shade and a lot of pecans.
Kieran stepped onto the porch behind us and I introduced him to Aunt Libby.
“Well, it’s so nice to meet you,” she cooed, sizing him up. “And I do believe you are the very definition of tall, dark and handsome.”
We could both tell this wasn’t just a compliment from an old lady, but that she was implying Kieran was my boyfriend.
Thankfully, that’s when Grandma appeared in the kitchen door.
“There you are, Miss Priss,” Aunt Libby said.
She and Grandma embraced.
“You look mahvelous!” Aunt Libby said. “Remember that comedian? What was his name? Johnny something or other? Billy something or other? You know the one.”
Grandma laughed.
“I was just telling Meggie – remember when you used to call her that?” Aunt Libby said. “Until Abby insisted you use her real name – I was just telling Megan how she used to be your little shadow. You two were like peas in a pod. And, my goodness, Megan reminds me so much of you. You could both be models.”
“Oh, stop it, Libby,” Grandma said. “I think if I showed up with my head shaved bald and wrapped in tin foil, you’d tell me what a fashion plate I am – how I set the fashion standard for womanhood or some such nonsense. You’re nuts!”
They both laughed.
“You do set the standard,” Aunt Libby went on.
More laughter.
I tried to remember Grandma calling me Meggie but it must’ve been a very long time ago.
Then Grandma took Aunt Libby by the arm and they wandered into the kitchen. Grandma asked her about her family which prompted a protracted report that started out with someone named Brooke who’d had a baby right after getting a divorce. Kieran and I hung back.
“Guess they’ll be in there a while,” he said.
“Yep.”
“Now might be a good time.”
“Yep.”
I dreaded the phone call I was about to make.
“I’ll let you know if they start toward the front of the house,” he said.
“Right.”
The phone was waiting for me when I arrived at the parlor door. In fact, I felt like it was beckoning to me, calling me on some private line in my brain: “What year do you wish to call?”
All week long I’d been pondering what to say. I’d given up on the idea of trying to develop my mother’s sense of responsibility before she was old enough to have children. That was way too complicated. Now, I would just call her shortly before… before… the explosion, and beg her to come home. Simple as that. It’s what I should’ve done in the first place.
Of course, I was confused about what would happen if I succeeded. If Mom flew home before she died, there would be no funeral. And if it all happened differently and I had never walked from the cemetery to the old home place to discover the time telephone, everything would’ve been different for the past several weeks. But if I never discovered the time telephone I couldn’t call my mom to save her. But she wouldn’t need saving, would she? And I wouldn’t remember any of this. Presto, change-oh, poof! I wouldn’t be standing here at all. So, if I succeeded in my quest, would I “wake up” somewhere else? I was baffled. But if it worked, my mother would be alive. And that’s all that mattered.
I set my camera down on the old sofa and picked up the phone. It was cold and heavy. I removed the receiver and put it to my ear and waited.
“What year do you wish to call, please?”
I was ready. I’d done my research. The night before, after Grandma went to sleep I checked a bunch of web sites. Deborah’s story about the video of my mother’s death had left me wired. I looked up articles on my mother. I’d learned the facts I’d never wanted to know before. Like the name of the cameraman who also died that day. Mitch Johnson. He was married and had two little boys. And three Afghanis were also killed in the blast. I learned it happened as my mother was doing a camera and sound check before her live shot for the noon newscast. Noon our time, that is. It was evening in Kabul.
When I found out that copies of that videotape were stored in vaults in Atlanta and New York, it made me feel kind of sick. Like my mother’s privacy had been seriously invaded. Like people had seen her undressing. Except this undressing was like ripping the body from the soul.
So I knew when I wanted my mother to receive this call. The day before the bombing.
“What year do you wish to call?” the operator repeated in her sweet tone.
“2014.”
“What month and day, please?”
“March twenty-fifth.”
“What is the name of the person you wish to call?”
“Abigail Jody McConnell.”
“March twenty-fifth, 2014. Calling Abigail Jody McConnell. Hold a moment, please, while I connect you.”
My stomach felt like I’d swallow
ed a cantaloupe. The phone rang and rang. Finally, a voice answered.
“Hello?”
I wasn’t sure it was her.
“Hello? Mom?”
“Pardon?”
The voice sounded awfully gruff.
“It’s me – Megan.”
There was a pause. I heard movement of some sort.
“Megan?”
“Yes, Mom, it’s me.”
My voice was cracking. It was definitely my mother. She was alive! She was real!
“Megan?”
“Mom?”
It felt good to say that word again and know there would be an answer.
“What… why are you calling me?”
“Because…”
“Is something wrong? What’s going on?”
There was irritation in her voice. It was like she was in a hurry. She wasn’t glad to hear from me. But just as I was about to get upset, I realized that for her, everything was normal. There was no emergency. Still, part of me just wished she’d say something like: “Hi, sweetie. It’s good to hear your voice.”
“Well? What’s up?” she asked.
“Mom…”
“Yes, what is it?”
“I need to talk with you.”
“I’m expecting an important phone call. I’m working on a story. Can you make it quick?”
“This is pretty important.”
“What is it?”
God, was she impatient or what! I took a deep breath. The dusty air filled my lungs. I coughed a small cough.
“Megan!”
“Mom, I want you to come home.”
Silence. I waited, imagining her checking her watch.
“Listen, princess, I can probably work that out before too long. But right now, I’m very busy. I can’t just drop everything and rush home. How about I call you in a couple of days and we’ll talk for a while when I’m not so busy?”
“I need to talk with you now.”
I heard another phone ringing.
“Hang on,” she said.
I listened as she answered her other phone.
“Jody McConnell!”
There was a pause.
“Yes, Mr. Munadi. Thank you so much for returning my call.”
