The Sweet By and By

by Todd Johnson

  “And?” I prodded, realizing I sounded impatient. I couldn’t imagine what it had to do with me.

  “Child, I tore into that thing so fast it would make your head spin. At first all I saw was wadded-up tissue paper, but when I pulled it all off, I found what Daddy had bought for me. A kite, all different colors, the prettiest thing you ever saw. Daddy and me, we took it and ran straight across the road to a mowed down field and flew that thing all afternoon. It was like I was meant to fly a kite and I hadn’t ever touched one before. Daddy kept chasing me and whenever he got close, I went even faster, pulling the kite so high above our heads it wasn’t no bigger than a sparrow up there in the sky.”

  Mama looked up and took a deep breath, like she was trying to see whether if she looked long enough it might still be flying, lifted by an invisible wind.

  “Daddy had a heart attack on Easter Day, young as he was, and died the same night. I flew that kite all spring, every day except when it was rainin, most of the time all by myself. When you was born, I looked at you in the face and I said, ‘April. Those were my flyin days.’”

  I was going to tell her it was beautiful, I was going to say thank you, but instead I found her eyes, lingered, and drank her in.

  “Stop starin at me, girl,” she said. “You got somethin to say?”

  “I don’t.”

  She looked back to where we had parked. “I’m gettin colder. I shoulda brought my scarf.” We walked again.

  “Mama, I will figure this out. You know I will.”

  “What about Corey?” she asked, hopeful.

  “I’m not going to marry him if that’s what you’re asking. That’s what he wants, but I told him no. He wants to help support this baby though; he’s offered to put it in writing.”

  She didn’t comment but asked, “Do you ever wonder if we make life harder than it needs to be?”

  “Is that directed at me?”

  “Baby, it ain’t directed anywhere. Only wondered about.”

  I moved in front of her so she had no choice but to stop walking. “Out of all your pearls of wisdom, I think about one. Do you know what it is?”

  “Brush your teeth or they’ll rot out?”

  “That too. But you told me that the only way to live was to act like what you believe is already so.”

  “Is that right?” Mama replied, appearing triumphant.

  “It has not failed me yet,” I said.

  Mama turned the collar of her coat up against the gusty November wind as a substitute for the scarf she didn’t bring.

  “Look at you,” she said. “I sure named you right. You’re flyin still.” I hugged her in the street, holding her longer than she expected me to. She pushed me away and added, “I was gon say ‘you forgot your milk,’ but I thought I might sound too much like your mama.”

  We didn’t speak once we got in the car. It was getting close to dinnertime, which, as I had earlier explained to Corey and Jasmine, actually meant lunch to Mama’s generation. They had already set the table by the time we returned. Taking off our coats, we warmed ourselves in the kitchen, still heated by the overworked oven. Jasmine joined us first, Corey followed, his eyes searching mine for any indication of what had or had not been revealed. Mama perceived the distress signal before it had even fully registered with me. She offered her hand.

  “You’re Corey. I know you,” she said. “My hands are like ice, I’m sorry.”

  I watched the muscles in his jaw and neck relax. Mama’s knee-jerk diplomacy consisted of erasing the borders between neighboring countries by simply deciding they need not exist. Armed with steaming serving dishes, we returned to the dining area and sat. Our plates and napkins were a mismatched effort at graduate student elegance, but they added to the lack of pretense that welcomed Mama and me to each other’s Thanksgiving and made us all comfortable partaking freely of the staggering feast of her presence.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  MARGARET

  Lorraine is sitting in a big chair near me, talking. I am watching her mouth. Her lips open and close in slow motion. On the other side of the room, there’s a woman in here who keeps trying to take my order. I don’t think it’s time for supper, but she’s asking what she can get for me. I haven’t answered her yet. But I’m thinking, “She’s not really asking me what I want. Nobody asks what you want here.” But there she stands. Big too. She’s got a head full of blue-black hair puffed up in a bouffant, and a little white cap on top, wearing a pale yellow dress with a plain white apron, no ruff les. She looks overworked, and I know waitressing is hard work. I haven’t done it myself, but I’ve known plenty of people who have. On your feet all day. Have to be polite if you expect to get any sort of tip, and have to clean up after everybody’s mess, except in the fanciest restaurants where you only have to take the order and they’ve got other people to do the rest, even down to serving the food. Clearly this woman has to do it all herself.

  I don’t know where my bed is. All I can see is lots of stools along a bar, and then I’m at that bar too, but I’m not sitting at a stool, I’m lying in bed, but the bed must look like a stool because it fits right in line with the other stools.

  “You’re gon have something to drink in a few minutes.” I can barely make out Lorraine’s words. Did I ask for something to drink? I don’t remember doing it. “What do you have on special?” I say to the waitress woman with the pad and pencil.

  Lorraine says something about a cup of ice—she sounds frustrated, I can’t hear her very well. The woman with the pad talks over her which surprises me, because not many people talk over Lorraine. “We have Salisbury steak with gravy on special. That comes with two homemade vegetables. We also have a fried catch-of-the-day,” she says, tapping her pencil on her chin, then using it to scratch her head, without damaging the construction that is her hairdo.

  “When did y’all start taking orders?” I ask.

  She coughs and answers. “I don’t take everybody’s orders. But I’ll be taking yours whenever you can make it here.”

  “Have you seen me here before?”

  “Does it look like what you know?”

  I look around me. I have to be honest. “This is not my room. So where?”

  “Your drink? I told you it’s coming. I told you, honey.” Lorraine sounds like she’s shouting, and I’m not even talking to her.

  I like this new waitress even though I don’t know her. I feel like I know her. Something about her reminds me of somebody, maybe it’s her nose.

  “Well I want you to relax,” she says. “Take your time and enjoy yourself.”

  “Are you going to serve in the dining room?” I ask.

  “No ma’am. Right here. It’s a simple place, but at least it’s mine.”

  “I don’t know how I’ll find my way back here.”

  I look down and there are car keys in my hand. Something is jingling. I think they are keys. Or loose change. Maybe I’ve dropped them. There is a white sheet or something like it in my car. It’s soft, but it’s tangled around my legs. I can’t move. “My daughter can drive me,” I say to the woman. “I know she can find it, she’s good at finding things.”

  “Have you made up your mind?” She touches the pencil point to her tongue, then licks her lips and swallows.

  “Yes ma’am I have. I’m going to pass on the specials. I think I’d just like a cup of coffee and something sweet.”

  I turn to Lorraine. “Don’t you want something sweet?”

  “’Scuse me?”

  “Just tell her what you want,” I say.

  “Who, Miss Margaret? I’m the only one here.” Lorraine leans down to my ear.

  I do not like her tone of voice, so I choose not to answer. That is my choice.

  “Here, eat one of these. I’m going down the hall for a minute,” someone says, and whisks out of my room. I like a shoe that makes some noise when you walk. Lets people know you’re coming.

  I take a Fig Newton off the tray that is suspended across my la
p and try to have a bite without crumbling it. I’m lying down too far. I never said I wanted to lie down. I much prefer sitting up in a restaurant. I’d like to be sitting.

  “Let’s go on down to the dining room directly.” It sounds like Lorraine’s voice, but I am already in a restaurant.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  LORRAINE

  I pull my chair close to the one where she’s dozing. A squeak on the floor tiles makes her open her eyes. “How long have you been sitting there?” she asks, halfway mad but welcoming, as usual. In what looks like slow motion, she grabs at the air around her head, like she’s tryin to catch a mosquito.

  “I’ve been waitin for you to wake up to feed you dinner,” I say.

  “Ann’s not here.”

  “No honey, just me, just Lorraine.”

  “Yes, and she won’t come back unless I call her.”

  “You know that’s no such of a thing,” I remind her. “She comes down here near ’bout every day.”

  “Well I don’t see her.”

  “I’m not gon argue with you right now, Miss Margaret.”

  “All you want to do is argue with me ever since I’ve known you.”

  “I’m not gonna argue with that either.” I laugh, she has always liked to hear me laugh. “Here now, let me help you eat something. You barely ate anything this morning except a couple mouthfuls of cereal.” She is grabbing at air again; it’s almost graceful, like she’s dancing sitting down.

  “I’ve never seen so many strings hanging in my life, Lorraine.” She makes a sweep in front of her face and mine. “You all need to clean out in here, get some scissors and cut them. I can’t see one thing through all these strings.”

  “Don’t worry so much. We’ll keep everything straightened up for you.” I tuck a napkin into the neck of her pajama top.

  I have learned after many years that being truthful isn’t as important as being present. I could tell her there ain’t no strings, that she’s imagining or dreaming, but that’s only gon agitate her. She’s not gon remember any of it in thirty minutes or less, so why should I upset her? I know that some doctors say we ought to tell them the truth all the way to the end, don’t ever let up on the truth. That’s not my opinion. I think the truth matters a whole lot less than the value of something. What’s goin on right now is eatin; strings are not worth talkin about. I have mashed up some meat loaf and reach to put it in her mouth. I can see she’s not happy from the frown that wrinkles her top lip.

  “You want me to give you the fork?” I say, and she doesn’t answer but takes it from my hand and guides it into her mouth by herself.

  She chews mighty quick for someone who has no teeth except full plates. “This is real good. I know you didn’t make it.” She’s smiling, she can’t help herself.

  “I wouldn’t cook for you if you paid me.”

  “Lorraine, I love you, but damn you.”

  “That’s all right,” I say and I mix some mashed potatoes and meat loaf onto the fork and hand it to her. We repeat this a few times, not speaking at all.

  She looks past me towards the door. “Let’s find him a chair.”

  I look back at the door, even though I’ve learned that there will probably be nobody there. This is the hard part for me. I wish she’d argue with me, fight me, lash out, anything she needs to do to stay with me.

  “Who?” I ask.

  “Daddy will be back anytime. He’s got a box for me. It’s not a kitten, but that’s what I want.”

  “Where are you now?” I try to bring her back. She doesn’t answer. “Where are you, Margaret?”

  “The same place,” she says softly, still staring at the door. “It’s all right that it’s not a kitten. Maybe next year?”

  “That’s right, maybe next year, you never know,” I say. “You never know what might happen next year.” I focus back on the tray of food. “I know you want some of this yellow cake.”

  “Yes ma’am I do.” She sounds like she could cry.

  “All right then. Let’s have us some cake.”

  Her hands are folded in her lap. She doesn’t try to take the fork. I almost believe someone was there who’s gone now, the room is filled up with a sad blue fog. I put a forkful of cake in her mouth. She chews but stops before swallowing. “Have some,” she says. Cake crumbs spill out onto her breast when she tries to say more.

  “I b’lieve I will.” I take a bite of yellow cake. It’s soft and good.

  She swallows again and can talk better. “How long are you going to stay here, Lorraine?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not gon leave ’til you finish eatin, I know that.”

  “No, no, no, how long are you going to stay at this job?”

  “I been working here more than twenty years.”

  “A lot of people would be sick of it by now.”

  “Is that what I said?”

  “No, it’s not, but are you?’

  I hear myself sigh. “I don’t know. No, I’m not. You can get tired of anything, but I’m not ready to leave. And when I get ready, you nor nobody else will stop me.”

  She is silent. I think we’re through talking and she’s gon doze off again, like she always does after eating a big meal. She lowers her head.

  “Don’t leave here before I do. Give me that.”

  “I’m not leaving you.” Our eyes settle on one another. I feel like I’m gon choke. “I’m not leaving,” I tell her.

  “I’m tired. I wish you’d turn off that blame TV. Nobody around here does a thing I tell them.”

  I take the remote and switch off the set. “Nobody around here but me will put up with your mouth.”

  “Is that right?” she says. “Go on and let me rest. I’ll make another appointment with you later on.”

  I take my sweater off the back of an armchair. “I might not be available, you better check my calendar.”

  “I am your calendar!” she calls out, and I laugh in the hall. I know she can hear me and she’s laughing too. That’s all right for today. That’s fine.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  MARGARET

  There’s either too much light or not enough light. I’m tired, I think I sleep too much, but everybody tells me that it’s normal at my age, so I’ve given into it. There’s a woman in my room. I think it’s that black-headed waitress back in my room. Why are there stools along the wall again? There’s not enough room for all those stools in my room, I could have told her that. She’s opening curtains, letting in too much light. It’s already too bright. I’m taking a headache. I’m going to ask her for some aspirin. She is moving tables around. This is the same dining room, but she has put up new curtains. There’s a menu on the table in front of me. Well they’ve gotten themselves all fancy haven’t they? New curtains and a menu. We never got a choice about anything before. That woman is not a nurse. She probably doesn’t have any aspirin. Why am I the only one here?

  She sees me looking at her and speaks. “You’re a little bit early, but just give me one minute and I’ll take your order.”

  “You act like we’re in a restaurant.” I laugh.

  “I think it’s more of a diner.”

  “Are you new? I’m sleepy.”

  “Honey, you look wide awake to me. And no, I’m not new, you know me. I’ve been here forever.” She nods at the menu. “Have you made up your mind yet? Everything’s good, I promise. Make it all myself.”

  I open the menu. It hadn’t occurred to me that I was hungry but when I start looking at all the choices, I am starving. “Are you a cook?” I ask.

  “Cook, waitress, and owner. I’m here to serve. Lot of people don’t see it that way since I own the place and all, but that’s what it is, pure service twenty-four hours a day.”

  “You don’t work twenty-four hours; no one does.”

  “It feels like it’s constant. I’m not good at keeping track of time. I suppose it’s a good thing.”

  “Maybe you ought to slow down,” I offer her and glance
back down to the menu a second time.

  “My customers would lose their minds if I did that. They’ve come to depend on me even for simple things, not only full meals. Not to mention that I created all of this, so now should I step back and let other folks run it however they want to? No ma’am, I’ve got to keep my hand in it.”

  “Is my daughter Ann in the ladies’ room?” This must be someplace she knows about. I do fall asleep in the car a lot.

  “Nobody’s here except you, it’s early.”

  “If she’s not here then who’s going to take me back?”

  “I expect you will since you’re the one who drove yourself in, pretty as you please, in a big Plymouth.”

  “What’s my car doing out there? Ann told me it didn’t even run. I sure as hell didn’t drive it here.”

  “I don’t mean to be contrary, but I saw you with my own eyes.”

  “They don’t let me drive, I’m ninety-one years old.”

  “You’ve lived a long time, haven’t you?”

  “How far away from the rest home are we?”

  She is wiping countertops with a damp rag that smells slightly of lemon and ammonia mixed.

  “I don’t think we’re too far, sometimes it seems far. It didn’t take you long to get here, did it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She stops wiping. “Honey, you look all agitated. Calm down and let me serve you something. You won’t be disappointed.”