by Todd Johnson
Margaret doesn’t like what she thinks is nonsense. “You make it sound like a mystery, Rhonda. What in the devil are they, some old Christmas cards or something she stuck up in there?”
“I’m tryin to tell y’all.” It’s my turn to be impatient now, and I sound that way. “She wrote a bunch of letters to Wade.” I hold up the bundle of folded paper and shake it in front of them.
Margaret looks awful suspicious. I think she’s wondering why if such a thing exists, she didn’t either know about them or find them before me. She isn’t acting jealous, more curious.
Lorraine is the one to break the silence. “Y’all were a whole lot closer to Bernice than me, but I tell you one thing. If she hid those letters, she knew exactly what she was doin. There ain’t no way to prove it, but you’ll never tell me different. I don’t care how out of her mind she got.”
“The question is, y’all…” I say, “should I give them to her other son, what’s his name?”
“Cameron?” Margaret asks. “Good Lord, if she had wanted him and his wife to have those, do you think she would have hid them in Betsy Ross? She might not have known much, Rhonda, but she knew that if those two ever had the first chance, that dog would be in the Dumpster before they got out of the parking lot.”
“That’s a fact.” Lorraine nods to Margaret.
“Go on then and read them.” Margaret pushes me. “This is about as private as we’re going to get.”
“Wait a minute.” Lorraine gets up and closes the door, not that I’m expecting anybody.
“I guess I felt like I needed permission, you know? I didn’t want to be the only one,” I say. I unfold an extra chair that I keep in case of overflow and sit close to them so they can hear.
Dear Wade…
My voice shakes some, but I swallow and start over.
Dear Wade,
I thought I’d be hungry but I’m not. There’s so much food left over from last night when we had visitation here. Everyone is worrying I might not eat. I don’t feel like it, but I’ll eat, they needn’t worry. If anyone finds this letter they will say I’m depressed. I haven’t taken off my clothes from the funeral even though it’s been over for two hours. I can’t change clothes because after I take off this dress, I don’t know what I’ll put on. What does a person put on after they come home from their child’s funeral? I feel like I could decide anything except when to take off these clothes.
“Bless her heart,” Lorraine says. Margaret’s face is flat and gray as a piece of slate. I don’t know if it’s pain or shock.
I expect they’ve spread the flowers and wreaths all over the fresh dirt by now. I want to see that tomorrow, first thing. It’s supposed to be sunny all day, and I’m going to take some pictures of those flowers, Wade. There were so many beautiful arrangements, some of them from people that hadn’t seen you since you were little. They all remembered you though, they said. They told me things they remembered.
After much pleading on my part, Cameron and Greta finally agreed to leave me alone in my house. They wanted me to spend the night with them, but that’s not where I want to be right now. I need to be in my house. I had to promise them I’d answer the phone if it rang because they’d call to check on me. They were smart to make that deal because you always did laugh at me for not answering the phone. You liked saying that what most of the world thought of as a lifeline was a terrible inconvenience for me, and you were right.
I don’t want to talk to Cameron. I need time on my own. I have always loved your brother, but I’ve never been able to talk to him. I think you knew that. I wish I could, but just because he came from me doesn’t mean I have anything in common with him. I looked at him today beside me in the pew, staring at the ceiling above where you were, and the first thing I thought was that I have never known one real feeling he harbors. About anything.
When he was little, six or seven, on the first day of Little League, he all of a sudden didn’t want to go up to bat. Your daddy kept saying, “Go on, Cam, this is the fun part. You might hit a home run.” Cam loved to catch the ball, playing outfield, but nothing your daddy said mattered; he still didn’t want to bat. I walked up to him at the dugout, something that was frowned upon by the coach as you can imagine, but I did it anyway. I leaned down and whispered close to his face so no one else could hear. “Are you afraid of something, honey?” and I knew he was. “The ball is gonna hit me,” he barely got the words out, starting to cry with embarrassment. “That’s not going to happen, sweetheart. Nobody’s aiming the ball at you.” And he narrowed his eyes at me and snarled, “Something that’s not aimed at you can hit you anyway.” I told him he was right, and I went back and told the coach he was not going to bat, and Cam and your daddy and I went to the car. I might have saved him from Little League but I never saved him from being afraid. I will admit to you that I don’t have much patience for fear, no matter that it was my own son. It was like he was born with it, and you were born totally without it, and I can’t understand for all my life what I did to make you that way. I don’t think I ever tried to save you from anything. I hope that was all right. I hope one day I’ll know it was all right.
I’m not finished writing all I want to but I’m going to stop. It’s probably best to stop. Right now I’m going to eat something and go to bed. There are three dishes of pork chops in the refrigerator, which makes me think that the Women’s Circle list must have gotten mixed up somehow because they usually have it sorted out to a fare-thee-well so that nothing is duplicated when there’s a funeral. My job is always to bring a cake. Have you ever wondered how cake got to be the thing that people bring to make something special?
I’m going to go see your flowers tomorrow. I promise you that one thing. I’ll tell Cam to come pick me up. Good night, my sweet youngest.
I love you with everything I am,
Your Mother
Margaret’s face has changed now, it’s more drawn out around the mouth and chin. “I would like to have some water, please,” she says.
Lorraine gets up without answering and takes a paper cup from the stack I keep on the counter. Their constant poking at each other has stopped, I don’t reckon it can hold up.
“There’s more,” I say. “Do you want to hear more?” They don’t answer me with words. I take it as a sign to go on. Lorraine hands Margaret tap water from the sink and sits back down. I take the next folded sheet from the little pile in my lap.
Dear Wade,
I told myself I was not going to write another letter, but then I decided that it’s nobody’s business except mine, so here I sit. It’s finally spring, daffodils and tulips are coming up in the yard. Remember how we used to take handfuls of bulbs and throw them out among the trees and then put them in the ground wherever they landed? I still do that. I like the recklessness of it. I like to be surprised by what comes up where. We’ve got all different kinds of daffodils, yellow ones, then some white ones, and some that have a yellow buttercup on white petals. I wish I could put some on your grave, but you know how daffodils are, they only last a day or two. That’s how they are, beautiful but short-lived.
I feel more tired the last few weeks. I haven’t been talking to anybody except Cam and I never remember what we talk about an hour after. Maybe it’s not interesting, I don’t know, but I feel like I’m not there some of the time. I can speak my thoughts the most clearly with you, it helps me to write them out. I can see what I think and I can put my words together slowly. I don’t have to perform sentences for anyone else but you.
I hope you are resting. “Eternal Rest” is written on the headstone of the man beside yours. Edward S. Boone. He was a colonel in the army in WWII. Eternal rest makes me uneasy inside, as a concept I mean. I like rest, but as fuel for activity; I want things to happen. If you really are at rest, I don’t know how to picture you, so I made up an image in my mind. You are sitting in your daddy’s chair like when you would come for Sunday dinner, and you’re reading with a pen in one hand, marking in the b
ook like you have ever since you learned to read. I used to try to stop you from marking up all your books, but you said how else were you supposed to be able to find what’s important? I like looking at you in the lamplight, marking important things. That’s the way I will think of you tonight. Find everything that’s worth remembering and share it all with me in the morning. Sweet dreams, darling son.
My love always,
Your Mother
P.S. As I already said, I didn’t put daffodils on the grave. Last time I went, a girl I’ve never seen before had a big armful of magnolia branches that she was scattering around your headstone. Cameron asked me if I knew her and I said no, so he started to get out of the car and say something. I told him to be still, leave her alone. I like those leaves, they’re green and shiny, and they’ll stay that way for a long time.
“I don’t think I can read any more right now,” I say. I feel disoriented the way you do if you get on one of those spinning rides on the midway, the kind where you’re pinned up against the inside of a big wheel and then the floor drops out from under you. And even though you know it’s not really gone and it will raise up again to meet your feet, you can’t help but wonder what might happen if you started sliding down the wall and couldn’t get back up and the ride didn’t stop.
Lorraine can see through me. “Don’t think she didn’t know, honey. There’s ways of knowin that we don’t know nothin about.”
I start to refold the letters, about to put them away.
Margaret reaches out a trembling, heavy veined hand. “Give them to me, sweetheart,” she says, her voice softer than I’ve ever heard her. She stares at the wrinkled note paper then starts to read, so slow that it’s like she’s making it up as she goes.
Dear Wade,
I am angry today. I can’t put my finger on any one thing but I feel like I’d like to pick up a precious object and shatter it. It’s raining and that always makes me feel depressed, but I’m not mad at the weather. Ordinarily I would make a full pot of coffee and sit down to read a magazine or do some sewing. These drops are louder than usual, and bigger. They sound like a million tiny hammers, relentless, driving, harsh. I imagine pins falling from the sky and landing on my skin, one by one. At first there is only a light stinging prick, but then I begin to hurt all over, the combined effect of miniature stabbings.
Nighttime is the hardest. Every night I like to eat a big bowl of ice cream, chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry. Neapolitan. That’s the one thing I do like clockwork and I haven’t gained a pound. When you were old enough to open the freezer by yourself, you used to love to eat all the strawberry. Later on someone would take out the carton and find a big hole beside the forlorn chocolate and vanilla. More than once your daddy said, “Somebody that you never thought about might want some strawberry, Wade, and there won’t be one dab left.” He didn’t really care, it was more what he felt like he ought to say, and next time you looked in the outside freezer there would be a new carton of Neapolitan right next to the one with the missing strawberry. I don’t know why he didn’t just buy you a whole carton of strawberry ice cream, but I’m not sure you would have served yourself from it even if he had. I think there was part of you that liked digging the strawberry out and flatly rejecting the chocolate and vanilla. You wanted anybody who looked to know exactly what you thought of those other flavors. You were leaving your mark.
I have stopped driving altogether now, so I have to depend on your brother and Greta to buy my groceries. I could still drive if I wanted to, but I don’t care about it anymore as long as somebody will take me. Usually that means Greta because Cameron works too hard. “I never saw anybody eat so much ice cream,” Greta says every time I ask her to get me some. Last week she added, “There aren’t many places I can find old-fashioned Neapolitan, Mrs. Stokes. You might want to try branching out in your flavors sometime.” I will never tell her how many cartons I’ve thrown in the garbage with only the strawberry eaten out. I feel like eating some right now. I hope you are too, Wade honey. You just go on and eat your favorite, I’ll clean up whatever you don’t want.
Make sure you sleep enough, sweetheart. I myself have had a terrible time with sleep. Seems like I want to stay up all night long.
Loving you forever,
Mother
P.S. I have saved your toys, so you will recognize them all.
Margaret motions to Lorraine and hands her the last letter, like passing a torch. She’s done as much as she can do, somebody else has to carry it the rest of the way. Lorraine squints, holding the page at arm’s length, she’s been saying she ought to get herself some glasses. Her voice sounds strong after Margaret’s.
Dear Benjamin Wade,
If I have to leave here I want you with me. Cameron says I’m moving to a more comfortable place. I like where we are. I don’t want to go somewhere I’ve never been. I won’t know where anything is. I won’t know where the bathroom is, or towels. I won’t know where the food is. I told him I am comfortable, but comfortable is not what he means. Greta is whispering to him all the time. I don’t have any neighbors and she thinks I ought to have. I can’t take all your toys, some of them will have to stay here if he makes us go. Don’t cry, Benny Wade. You’re not going to end up with a bunch of strangers, I’ll personally see to it. I thought you could help me. I can’t think straight. I can’t finish what’s on my mind. It’s all nerves. My daddy was a nervous man. Don’t stray too far. Please, I am begging you now. My child, my baby. Maybe I can keep one eye on you all the time, I don’t mind.
A strange muffled sound comes out of Lorraine, and I picture a sort of small wounded animal wrestling itself free from a trap. “Take it, Rhonda.” She hands the paper back and gets up from her chair. Margaret’s eyes are closed. She does not open them with Lorraine’s stirring. I look at the crumpled sheet. The last words are blurred but stand out anyway; they’re all alone. I’m looking for an ending that’s not on the page.
I can’t
I love
She didn’t manage to sign her name.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
LORRAINE
I don’t usually pray out loud, matter of fact I don’t like to, sounds too much like a preacher, but maybe if I do tonight my mind won’t wander so bad. I been talking to you a long time, so if you been listenin even half of that time then you know me good as anybody, and I mean all of me. It says in the Bible you know us better than we know ourselves, that’s what I was taught. And I was raised on “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands” which I think is sayin close to the same thing. So here’s my question: What if you don’t care near as much about our lives as we think you do? I’m not talkin about our souls or even our bodies, I’m talkin about regular old things one day to the next. I do believe in you being good in a general kind of way, but the older I get, the more I can’t imagine you getting personally involved with all the mess we ask for to try to be happy or free or even holy. I know some people who pray for something just about as crazy as what they ought to eat for dinner. Now me, I can’t believe it matters a hill of beans to you if I find a parking place or not. And I don’t think you’re studyin whether or not I get a raise just because I think I ought to.
I think, why should I pray for something I ain’t even gon remember in a few months and yet expect you to focus on it right this minute and serve up some kind of answer that satisfies me? So I ain’t gon be prayin anytime soon for you to take the corn off my little toe or to make my flowers grow. And I ain’t sayin that other people shouldn’t pray for those things if that’s the burden that’s been placed on their heart and it just won’t go away. All I’m sayin is the things I want answers to are a whole lot bigger than that, and if my life so far tells me anything, then you ain’t gon be givin those answers anytime soon.
I sat right there in the beauty shop and heard what Bernice Stokes wrote to a dead boy, her heart so broke that it started to break her mind too. I know as good as anybody we find a way through our pain however we can, my own
baby died before he got a chance to crawl. But I ain’t somebody who believes you cause suffering, like feeding a child castor oil, to make us better people long as we can swallow it and keep it down without vomiting. If I did think that, I would never walk into a church again. You might be distant but you can’t be that cruel. Things happen to us, that’s it, some of em we make happen ourselves. But it’s hard on us to live our hurts over and over. If you want to shed some light on that one, I will sure try to keep my eyes open. I get tired of hearing God’s will this-and-that, it was meant to be this-and-that. The universe is tellin me this-and-that. Sounds to me like a fortune-teller talkin. If that’s the way life works, all it would take to figure everything out is a bunch of people smart enough to connect the dots. Like somebody who can figure out a puzzle just by starin at it long enough.
I can believe you’re present with us, I don’t know why but that’s never been a hard one for me. Especially when I look at babies. And trees. But I wonder what in the world prayer would turn into if we didn’t have anything to ask for. I don’t know how much faith I have, but I do have a mind, and I ain’t ready to give up on my questions. So as soon as I say, “there’s a God and I’m sure of it,” then what comes out of that? As far as I can tell, not a whole lot you can put your finger on and hold it there. Faith don’t move in straight lines, at least not mine. I think maybe it has got to eat itself up and wear itself out every now and then. I’ve had to learn to do without understanding, I learn it every day at work when I see somebody at the end of their life, some a lot worse off than others. I’ve had to learn to do without answers because there ain’t enough of em to even count. What I think and what I like and don’t like ain’t much more than specks on glass, they just get in the way of being able to see good, that’s all. If I can learn to love what I don’t know as much as what I do, then I might be able to do without everything under the sun needin to have a name, and maybe I could make room for what don’t have a name.