The Fortunate Ones

by Ed Tarkington

  “Gone where?”

  “To heaven, honey,” she said.

  The funeral was held that Saturday, in the Lighthouse Church in East Nashville. The room was full. My mother and I sat with Sunny near the back. We almost hadn’t come. My mother had to supervise the caterers at Mrs. Haltom’s annual party in the Haltoms’ box at the Tennessee Breeders’ Cup. Jamie and I had planned to go down into the infield and cruise the fraternity tailgates, where we would find Arch and the older boys who had recently graduated from Yeatman. But we still had a shred of decency left. Mrs. Haltom had reluctantly agreed to let my mother attend as long as she headed straight to the race park afterward.

  “Not a minute after twelve,” Mrs. Haltom had said.

  My mother had never been to a black church before. I’d gone a few times with Terrence and Louella years before, but I’d forgotten how much longer and more passionate the services were—even the funerals. We weren’t the only white people in the room; there were three elderly couples I spotted, one of them with their adult children, whom I presumed to be Louella’s former employers. They looked as out of place as I felt. I wondered if they, too, would be hastening off to the horse races as soon as they could get out of the church. Only Sunny seemed at ease. She’d been helping Terrence bring Louella to church since we were boys, and was almost a member of the congregation, though she’d kept her membership in the Church of the Nazarene out in Inglewood.

  On the front pew sat Louella’s children—two sons, one living in Memphis and the other in Louisville; a daughter who had married a soldier and eventually settled in Cincinnati; and Terrence’s mother, who had been found by her siblings and brought back home to see her mother buried. We sang hymn after hymn, from “Blessed and Highly Favored” to “Take Me to the King,” broken up by a long of line of speakers who gave remembrances of Louella. Each of her children came to the pulpit and spoke a few words. Terrence’s mother made a few halting remarks before becoming too overwhelmed to continue.

  Terrence walked past her as she descended the stairs, as if she were invisible. Instead of speaking from the pulpit, he took the microphone from its stand and walked down to the floor in front of the congregation.

  “I want to say a few things about Grand-Lou,” he said.

  Terrence paced the floor, his body humming with energy, the congregation urging him on in the pauses, his voice rising and falling. It occurred to me that this was something he’d done before, something they’d all seen.

  When he was finished, Terrence called Sunny forward and handed her a microphone. She got up from beside us and strode to the front of the congregation as if she’d sung there a thousand times. She nodded at the drummer and the organist, and they began. It was a song called “Wayfaring Stranger.” I’d heard the bluegrass-country version when I was a kid, but I’d never heard it done in a gospel style. Sunny’s voice sounded different than I remembered it—deeper, more soulful, maybe wiser.

  I am a poor, wayfaring stranger

  Traveling through this world alone

  And there’s no sickness, toil, or danger

  In that bright land to which I go.

  And I’m going there to see my mother

  And I’m going there no more to roam

  And I’m only going over Jordan

  And I’m only going over home.

  When she was finished, she put the microphone back in the stand. The congregation rose to its feet in rapturous applause as Sunny returned to her seat.

  We sang a final hymn, and the preacher gave his benediction, and we spilled out of the stifling heat of the sanctuary onto the sidewalk and stood in silence as the pallbearers—mostly football and basketball teammates of Terrence’s—carried the coffin out to the hearse. The family followed, stepping into a white limousine.

  “Who’s paying for all of this?” my mother whispered.

  “Lou had insurance,” Sunny said. “I think those folks Lou worked for helped. Plus Rev Joseph gave them a special.”

  “A special?” my mother asked.

  “He’s also the undertaker, honey.”

  “Oh.”

  My mother and I stood by as parishioners crowded around Sunny, thanking her and praising her performance. We walked around the building to the reception hall, where we were to eat and socialize and wait until the family returned from the burial. We were halfway down the sidewalk when my mother stopped.

  “I have to go,” she said.

  “Where?” Sunny asked.

  “Work,” my mother replied.

  “It’s Saturday.”

  “I don’t really get days off,” my mother said. “I told Mrs. Haltom I’d be away for an hour, maybe two. She has a big thing going on. I was supposed to be there an hour ago.”

  “Terrence will be sorry to have missed you,” she said.

  I badly wanted to leave with my mother, to get away from my shame and back to Jamie and Arch and the tailgates. Sunny squeezed my hand.

  “I think I’ll stay if that’s all right,” I said.

  “Are you sure?” my mother asked.

  “I can’t leave without seeing Terrence.”

  Sunny lit a cigarette and held the pack out. My mother shook her head. She hadn’t quit, but she’d cut back. Mrs. Haltom had taught her that a lady wasn’t seen smoking in public, and never unless she was sitting down.

  “How are you going to get home?” my mother asked me.

  “I’ll drive him,” Sunny said.

  “That won’t be necessary,” I said. “I bet I can get a ride.”

  “From who?” my mother asked.

  “Arch can pick me up,” I said.

  “That’s a lot to ask, Charlie,” my mother said.

  “He’ll do it,” I said. “That is, if I can catch him at home before he leaves. Is there a phone I can use?”

  “Sure, hon,” Sunny said. “Just inside that door over there.”

  I slipped away to the church office and called Arch’s house.

  “Hey, bud,” he said. “Where the hell are you? The traffic’s going to be ridiculous.”

  I explained the situation. “I’m sorry to ask,” I said.

  “Forget it,” he said. “It’s important that you stick around. I’ve been to plenty of tailgates. How long do you need?”

  “An hour or so, I guess. Thanks, Arch,” I said. “I owe you one.”

  “More than one, bud,” he said. “But who’s counting?”

  By the time I came back out, my mother was already gone. Sunny stood waiting for me, smoking another cigarette.

  “Good thing I got a ride,” I said.

  “She sure left in a hurry,” Sunny said.

  “Yep.”

  I was going to defend my mother, but thought better of it. Sunny would never understand.

  “Come on, honey,” Sunny said. “I bet you’re hungry.”

  There were at least half a dozen serving trays of fried chicken, beef, and pork ribs, dozens of casseroles, deviled eggs, green beans, and buttered mashed potatoes. We found our way to a table covered with a pale-blue paper cloth. I ate while Sunny continued to receive compliments on her singing and thanks for the attentions she’d shown Louella over the years. I thought of afternoons in Montague Village, spread out on the couch under a blanket, watching soap operas with Sunny while my mother was at work. Here was my second mother, the woman who had rescued my mother and taken her in and made us a little family, only to be left alone again while my mother and I had taken up with the kind of people who snickered at Sunny in the airport.

  “Aunt Sunny,” I said, “can I ask you something?”

  “What, hon?”

  “When’s the last time you saw my grandparents?”

  “Years and years,” she said. “How come?”

  “What did you think of them?”

  Sunny put her plastic fork down.

  “I didn’t know them too well,” she said. “Your granddaddy went to college in Charleston, which is where he met your grandmother. My daddy
said when he went off to college he was Chuck and when he came back he was Charles. Know what I mean?”

  I nodded.

  “After that, they weren’t too close. My daddy was bass fishing and squirrel hunting. Your granddaddy was golf and cards. Plus our side of the family was Baptists. Your granddaddy’s was Presbyterian. Daddy said Presbyterians were just Baptists with airs, you know.”

  She sipped her tea.

  “We didn’t see much of your mama’s family outside of the holidays and at the big reunion in the spring. Your great-aunt Norma was the one who kept it going. They’d rent some place out and get the whole clan together for a big fish fry every year. That’s how I got to know your mama. She was cute as pie. You know the way you get attached to people.

  “Those reunions were a hoot. Most of our family was teetotalers, so nobody drank anything stronger than lemonade. But there was a mountain of fried catfish and hush puppies and coleslaw. A bunch of the cousins would bring their guitars and banjos, and after supper we’d all gather ’round together and sing old-time music. Believe it or not, your granddaddy was a heckuva singer. That song I did back in the church was one of his favorites. He used to get up and sing ‘Wayfaring Stranger’ like to put Glen Campbell to shame.”

  “You were amazing,” I said.

  “Well, thank you. It’s a sad song, isn’t it?” Sunny said. “You can sing it country or gospel. I like it both ways, myself. Chuck done it real different from how I done it today. Why are you asking, hon?”

  She picked at her chicken.

  “I wish I knew them.”

  “You might one day.”

  “They didn’t want to know me,” I said. “They wanted to get rid of me.”

  “Honey, seventeen years ago, most any girl from a family like your mama’s who got in that kind of trouble would have been treated the same way. Especially in a place like Greer. Hell, not much has changed, even here. What do you think that Haltom girl’s folks would do if she got knocked up?”

  “She’s way too smart for that,” I said.

  “Thinking you’re too smart’s usually what gets folks in trouble. But the point ain’t whether or not it could happen. What if it did? Do you think Big Jim Moneybags would order up a ticker-tape parade? Would the Swan Ball queen call up the Tennessean to make sure the news got into the society pages?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Then you shouldn’t be so quick to judge.”

  “I’m not,” I said. “Just trying to understand.”

  She stared off toward the windows on the other side of the hall.

  “There weren’t gonna be no happy ending for your mama back there,” she said. “If she’d stayed, you’d have been someone else’s kid. Maybe you’d have been better off. But that ain’t how it went. Anyway, things aren’t turning out so bad for you now, are they? Either one of you, for that matter.”

  She looked back at me. I found myself unable to hold her gaze. I shook my head, my eyes still lowered, studying the pattern of the yellow-and-brown linoleum floor.

  “Guess I better get going,” I said. “Arch will be here soon.”

  “You didn’t say hey to Terrence yet.”

  She nodded toward the other side of the room. I’d been so caught up in her story that I hadn’t noticed Terrence and his family enter the fellowship hall. He was seated at a table with his friends who had carried the casket.

  “He might not want to talk to me,” I said.

  “Don’t be silly,” she said. “You’re his oldest friend.”

  “Was,” I said.

  “Still are. And always will be.”

  She slid her chair back and stood. “I’ve got to go to the little girls’ room, then I’m stepping out for a cig. You give me a hug and kiss and then get your butt over there and pay your respects.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said.

  I kissed her cheek and hugged her. She smelled good, familiar, like menthol cigarettes and hairspray.

  “I’ll see you soon,” I said.

  I looked back toward where Terrence was sitting. Our eyes met. I waved; he replied with a curt nod.

  “Go on now,” Sunny said. “He ain’t gonna let those boys do nothing to you at his grandmama’s funeral.”

  Sunny gave me a light push on the shoulder and disappeared through the door into the hallway.

  I didn’t have to worry about Terrence’s friends. He was halfway toward me already. It was as if he knew I was afraid—of his friends; of him, even.

  “Whassup, Charlie?” he said.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Thanks for coming,” he said.

  “I’m really sorry,” I said, and meant it, both about Louella and about the two of us, though I didn’t imagine Terrence missed me much. He had never needed me as much as I’d needed him.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “She’s with Jesus now. No pain no more.”

  Terrence smiled. I looked at my watch.

  “You got somewhere to be?” he said.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Somebody’s picking me up in like five minutes.”

  He put his arm on my shoulder.

  “I’ll walk you out.”

  We stood outside on the sidewalk together. I asked him about football, and school, and when and how he’d become a fiery lay preacher.

  “That was something else,” I said.

  He grinned.

  “When did you learn how to do that?”

  “I felt the call a few years ago. Made Gran-Lou happy, so I just listened to the spirit, you know?”

  “I never made you for a preacher,” I said.

  “Why? ’Cause I’m a sinner?” he asked. “We all sinners. Look at Rev Joseph. He’s God’s messenger to the Lighthouse. But every Sunday after church, he’s out front with the women, on the make.”

  Terrence pointed through the windows of the fellowship hall. Sure enough, the reverend was surrounded by women, none of whom looked old enough to be his wife.

  “Shoot,” Terrence said, “for all I know, I got the spirit because he’s my daddy.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Naw,” he said. “Could be though, right?”

  When we were boys, Terrence and I would make up stories about the fathers we had never known. The only difference between us was that I knew my father’s name. Terrence’s mother refused to say. She later told Louella that it was one of three, that she couldn’t be sure which; she was only certain none of them were worth holding to account. But in our games, Terrence’s father was a soldier like mine. They had met in Vietnam, just as Terrence and I had met in Montague Village. They were POWs on the run, or ex-Green Berets, sent back to save their captive brothers.

  “How’s your mom doing?” I asked.

  “Hell if I know,” he said. “She just showed up today. They heard she was flopping with some fool out in Bordeaux. My uncle drove out and found her. She’s already gone. Probably smoking rocks as we speak.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Ain’t nothing to me,” he said. “I just buried my real mama.”

  “What are you going to do?” I asked. “I mean, are you still living at Montague?”

  “Was. I been living with Rev since Gran-Lou went in the hospital.”

  “How long has that been?”

  “’Bout a year.”

  “Jesus,” I said. “I wish I’d known. Sunny didn’t say anything.”

  “She came to the hospital every day.”

  “You can always count on Sunny,” I said.

  “Yeah, she cool.”

  Terrence offered me his hand.

  “Thanks for coming,” he said. “I mean it, you feel me?”

  A deep sadness came over me. I longed for the closeness I’d once felt with Terrence—the sense that we were more than friends, almost brothers. He’d protected and defended me and stood by me for years when he could easily have moved on and left me to be the outcast I’d most certainly have been without him, and it had taken little mor
e than the allure of wealth and the illusion of a better life for me to forget him almost completely, so much that I had not even known his grandmother was dying—sweet, noble Louella, who had looked after me when I was a child, who had made sure I was fed and cared for when I was a solitary latchkey kid in Montague Village, who had never judged me or my mother, who had prayed for us to find our way in the world. I had not even known that Terrence, my first best friend, had essentially been orphaned a second time. And even if I had, I’d likely have done little or nothing for him. And now, here we were, and he was thanking me.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said.

  I could see in his expression that he knew I wasn’t talking about Louella.

  “It’s all good,” he said. “We all got to keep living, right?”

  Arch’s truck rolled into the parking lot and turned toward us.

  “There’s my ride,” I said.

  Arch pulled to a stop at the curb. The passenger-side window rolled down.

  “Hey there,” Arch said.

  “Arch, Terrence,” I said.

  “Pleased to meet you, Terrence,” Arch said. “I’m real sorry about your grandmother.”

  Terrence nodded.

  “See you soon,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Terrence said, both of us knowing it wasn’t true.

  An hour later, Arch and I pulled into the parking area at the Harpeth Trace Racing Park, out Highway 100, in Bellevue, where the Tennessee Breeders’ Cup was already underway. Every spring, people descended on the race park, dressed in Sunday morning finery, to get drunk while a horse race was going on somewhere out of sight. This was my second T-Cup, and I’d been looking forward to it almost since the last. Booze, horses, and money—what wasn’t to love? The girls milling around the tailgate parties were a feast of shapely color and shining long hair. Everyone wore Wayfarers. I never saw a horse.

  All around the parking lot, frat boys and sorority girls unloaded large coolers from SUVs. Black men ranging from elderly down to about the same age as the college kids milled around, ready to carry the coolers from the parking lot to the tailgate area for a fee. Arch and I had no cooler—we were still underage, and anyway, Arch never drank anywhere he thought he might get caught. He admonished me to abstain as well, in order to avoid being on the annual docket of careless Yeatman boys to end up with citations and a trip before the disciplinary committee. Dean Varnadoe had lobbied for years to make the T-Cup off-limits for Yeatman boys, but every time he brought up the idea, he was shot down by Dr. Dodd, who argued that banning the T-Cup sent the wrong message, both to the community and to the boys themselves. How could Yeatman claim to be succeeding in its mission to cultivate gentlemen with good manners and judgment if we couldn’t be trusted to behave well at a popular social gathering?