“You mean, you getting kidnapped? You’re not serious.”
Meda wasn’t going to let me move on without an explanation, so I waded in as far as I was willing.
“The kidnapping, a little, but more that I’m alive and Robby is dead. It’s me as much as it is her. I get tired of being reminded that I’m damaged goods, that I’m a disappointment. It’s the reason your mother is anxious when she’s with you. She’s always aware that she failed you.”
“I don’t want to talk about that,” she said without irony.
In the end, I had to ask to be invited and albeit grudgingly, the invitation was extended.
“Well, sure, if you really want. You can have Christmas with us,” she said. When I started asking her about what Annadore wanted for Christmas and what other kids would be at Mrs. Trentam’s, she frowned at me unhappily. “You don’t need to get anyone presents. That’s not necessary.”
“You sound like Mrs. Trentam when you say that.”
“I do not! Oh. I can’t believe you said that.” She was absolutely silent for a good thirty seconds, thinking. “I’m always worried I’m going to turn into my mother. I never knew I was turning into Aunt M. Look, it’s just that you don’t need to bring presents to be welcome for Christmas.” She was all generosity once I’d wrested the invitation from her.
“I know, but I want to bring presents. That’s what’s fun about Christmas, especially for kids.”
“Oh, Bernie,” she said.
I could see she didn’t like the idea, so I let it go.
When I got up to leave later, she smiled at me in her inscrutable and completely desirable way. “The invitation’s still open,” she said. It took more work to get invited to Christmas than it took to get invited to bed.
I turned our Saturday date into a shopping date, and although Meda started out as something of a killjoy, she eventually warmed to it enough to suggest things she thought her little cousins would like. She said outright that she wanted “absolutely nothing” from me for Christmas, but she weakened enough to tell me what Annadore wanted and needed. Thoughtfully, she pointed out something I could get for my aunt—a cashmere sweater shawl—and she even suggested a gift for Celeste. Once her blood sugar was low from a day of shopping I asked her about going to the Hall of Fame dinner and the Chairman’s New Year’s party. Celeste had dutifully returned the RSVP card weeks ago, and on it she advised my hosts I would be bringing a guest.
Meda recognized she was being sucked into my devious plans, but she was in a good mood. Also she had a plan for revenge that involved a western clothing store. “My date dumped me because of you, so you’re taking me somewhere that has an actual dance floor, and you can’t go dressed like that.” She looked me over and shook her head.
“I doubt they have anything to fit me.”
“Guys named Slim and Tex shop here. They’ve got something to fit you.” She laughed long and loud at her joke, and I was only slightly less enamored of her for it.
Broken Furnace
Meda
We snuck in through the back door, so Gramma wouldn’t ask us what we were up to, and also because I didn’t want to get Annadore all worked up about presents. I took Bernie into my bedroom and it cracked me up how he acted when he realized he was alone in my bedroom with me. He kind of pulled into himself.
“So, what does your family usually do on Christmas?” he said.
“Well, we don’t do caroling or you know, that sort of thing.” I imagined he had those storybook Christmases when he was a kid. The whole sugarplums dancing in his head business. “Anyway, it’s not the Amos family Christmas, which I won’t invite you to, because of Gramma’s weirdness. It’s Aunt M.’s thing, so usually it’s just sports on TV and lunch and opening presents. Not very religious, which always makes Aunt Bryant mad.”
When I brushed past Bernie to get to the bed, he tried to get out of my way, but my room was just big enough for the bed, the dresser, and a path around them.
I reached past him to get the wrapping paper and, mostly for fun, to see what he would do, I pressed up against to him to reach it. I liked that he seemed so skittish, so I put my arm around his waist and stood up on my tiptoes. He leaned down like he was going to kiss me, except we both breathed out these little white puffs of air from the cold, and he pulled back and gave me a funny look.
“Why is it so cold in here?” Whatever he’d been about to do he wasn’t going to, so I let him go. He came back to tell me that the heater was set for 72 degrees, but it was only 43 degrees.
“Yeah, I know. There’s something wrong with the heater. There always is.”
“Maybe you’d like a new furnace for Christmas,” he said.
Not Enough Wrapping Paper
“No, I don’t have enough wrapping paper for that,” Meda said.
“I’m serious. You and Annadore shouldn’t be living like this.” I wished I’d phrased it better, because I could see that made her defensive. “How much do you need? How much would help you get a new furnace?”
“I can’t take something like that from you,” she said. I asked why not and got an unpleasant answer: “I’m not a hooker.”
“If I were sleeping with you, you might have a point, but as the situation stands, that’s not fair or accurate.”
“I’m sorry. It’s not that, you’re right, but I can’t. I’m not a charity case.”
I sat down on the edge of the bed, which dipped arthritically under me, and looked up at her for a change. “Meda, let’s consider a hypothetical situation. If you had $20 million, and somebody you knew, somebody you liked, needed help, needed a new furnace, or whatever, wouldn’t you want to help them? Wouldn’t you be frustrated if they wouldn’t let you?”
“Yes, of course.” She rubbed at her temples in confusion. “Do you really have that much money?”
“I have a lot more than that. I could write you a check for $20 million today and I’d never miss it. Would that be enough?”
She finally laughed and looked less ill.
“So you can tell me, between friends, do you need help? Will you let me help you?” I said.
“The thing is…my mom does, more than I do. More than we need a new furnace. You know, she’s got these cysts. They need to operate, but I don’t know where the money is going to come from. She doesn’t qualify for any kind of medical help or anything.” Meda’s voice got shaky. I had to look away from her.
While she was wrapping presents, we worked out an agreement. I would pay for her mother’s operation, and it would be okay for me to buy her grandmother a new furnace. Helping her mother was the first and most practical sort of distribution from what would eventually be the Raleigh Foundation. The idea had formed like nacre in an oyster. The thing to do with the money was the exact opposite of anything he would have done. He never would have thought it was important to help poor women get medical care. It really put a song in my heart and a smile on my face.
Big Deal
Meda
When we went into Aunt M.’s house, she looked at Bernie like she’d never seen him before. Then she stared at the presents he was piling around the tree.
“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Trentam,” Bernie said in his little boy voice.
“Well, Merry Christmas, Mr. Raleigh. I wasn’t expecting you. Not that you’re not welcome. Of course, we’re happy to have you.”
While Aunt M. glared at me, Bernie introduced himself to Uncle Donald and my cousin Doug and my cousin Terry’s husband, Chris. Aunt M. was upset, but Aunt Bryant acted like I’d committed some kind of unforgivable sin. She came out of the kitchen and said, “Merry Christmas, Mr. Raleigh.”
I think Bernie would have hugged her. After all, he’d known her since he was a kid, but she wasn’t having anything to do with that. Terry acted dippy like she didn’t know if she should shake Bernie’s hand or curtsey. I sent Annadore to play with Terry and Chris’ kids, and then as bad as I felt doing it to him, I went into the kitchen and left Bernie out ther
e with Uncle Donald, Doug, Chris, and Aunt Bryant’s Aunt Georgina, who was about a thousand years old. Bernie was just going to have to deal with them on his own. He asked to be invited.
As soon as I went in the kitchen, Aunt M. jumped on me.
“When you said you were bringing someone, I thought you meant Coach Hall. For God’s sake, you should have told me you were bringing him.”
“That’s the least you could have done,” Aunt Bryant said.
“Oh, Meda,” Terry said.
“What were you thinking?” Aunt Bryant said.
“You should have told me,” Aunt M. said.
“Why? What would you have done different for him that you didn’t do thinking Jeff was coming?”
“I would have dusted the ceiling fans and the tops of the cabinets,” Aunt M. said. I guess because Bernie was tall.
Aunt M. always made me feel like I was a little kid again, and how I’d never been clear on what all the rules were when we lived with her. She had rules about how you were supposed to close the doors. She had furniture that no one was allowed to sit on. She had three different sets of towels that only got used for particular occasions, and all these different sets of dishes that were only for such and such company. That was on the list of what she would have done different, too, because she made Terry and me get the best china out and wash it so we could use it. I couldn’t wait to tell Bernie that he was the only guest worthy of the best china since some priest from Italy came and had dinner at Aunt M.’s house like fifteen years before. Then she made us put a different tablecloth on the table. When I came back from doing that, they were still harping on what a terrible person I was.
“That little witch actually shrugged and smiled at me. Brings him into my house without a word of warning,” Aunt M. said.
“That’s how she’s always gotten out of things,” Aunt Bryant said.
“It was just the sort of look she gave me when she was little and did something she wasn’t supposed to do. Just like that, like that will make it all better.” Aunt M. glared at me. “Don’t think you’re charming your way out of this.”
“I’m sorry, but what was I supposed to do? Make him spend Christmas alone?”
Like the ditz she is, Terry said, “Well, if he’s her boyfriend she ought to be able to invite him.”
“God forbid,” Aunt Bryant said. “Her boyfriend.”
They decided not to say anything else about Bernie or me, but I got the job of peeling all the potatoes for lunch, which was Aunt Bryant’s way of punishing me. The funniest thing that happened all day was when we were going into lunch, Bernie hit his head on the doorway arch. Aunt M. started flipping out and apologizing. He just rubbed his head and said, “My own fault. Happens all the time.”
Who’s your team?
I spent the several pre-dinner hours watching football on TV with Meda’s uncle and male cousins. The advantage of that form of socialization was that I wasn’t required to say much of anything about a sport I knew nothing about. I was in the embarrassing position of knowing the rules to such sports as water polo and lacrosse, and I could hold my own on the topic of baseball, but I didn’t know a safety from a first and ten. Mostly, I sat and listened to them talk about the game.
At one point, Mrs. Trentam’s husband Donald turned to me and said, “So, who’s your team, Bernie?”
“I live in Kansas City, so I try to root for them.” For all I knew, they were watching college football.
“Ah, God, the Chiefs,” his son said. “I never saw a team try so hard to lose.” That was the sum total of that conversation.
A little later, Donald turned to me and said, “Want a beer, Bernie?”
For the most part, as long as the women were out of the room, the men behaved like normal people toward me. The rest of the time, the Trentam/Bryant family solved the discomfort of my presence by not talking to me. They weren’t rude, but almost every conversation I attempted to be part of died a terrible death if Mrs. Trentam or Mrs. Bryant were in the room. I spoke and everyone looked at me and nodded. Then they started talking about something else. They weren’t the warmest people either, so that I wondered why Meda came to Christmas with them. I guessed it was because they were the closest thing she had to normal relatives, and she seemed intent on Annadore playing with her cousins.
Shortly after the meal, the massacre of the gifts began. Mrs. Trentam, I think, would have enjoyed it if her mother hadn’t so clearly disapproved of the “shenanigans.” The kids at least didn’t let that bother them.
I gave Meda her gifts on a wave of nonchalance. Gifts were being handed around to everyone, so I simply gave the packages to one of Meda’s cousins and asked him to pass them to her. I didn’t dare glance up at her and busied myself with helping one of the younger cousins put together a racetrack. The new coat was simple enough, but as for the other gift, I was worried it might upset her. Gifts of jewelry have always seemed fraught with meaning, and I worried that she would infer the wrong things from the necklace I bought her. It was two strands of pearls with an elaborate gold and opal clasp, not quite a choker, but meant to be worn close to her bare neck. I hoped it was a discreet gesture of admiration, and of necessity I didn’t get to see her expression when she opened it.
After the kids had been dispersed to play with their new prizes, while the women were cleaning up after dinner, Mrs. Trentam handed me an album full of Terry’s and Meda’s pageant photos. I had a feeling I was risking Meda’s wrath if she caught me looking at them, but I couldn’t resist. I turned over the pages slowly, trying to fit Meda into a mental file folder labeled “Beauty Pageant Contestant.” The photos started when she was four or five. She was a little like Annadore, but less owlish, more elfin, a changeling. Later photos showed her prepubescent glory nearly camouflaged in an effort to make her seem suitable in a pink satin dress. Through the ruffles I glimpsed the misguided reason for her aunt’s efforts. She had seen how beautiful Meda was, but she hadn’t realized it was obscene to paraphrase that mystery into mere pageant-winning prettiness.
Meda would never have made it to a Miss America pageant, or even to the Miss Oklahoma pageant. She was not blonde enough, perky enough. Her beauty didn’t bloom up with a smile and sparkle. It was more like a blow to the head, insufficient to knock you out, but enough to make your eyes ache in their sockets half an hour later. At my height, it’s a sensation I’ve experienced a few times, but with less pleasant consequences. Passing through on some cleaning mission, Mrs. Trentam paused to remark on the photos I was looking at.
“She always hated those pageants, as queer as she was. What little girl wouldn’t want to dress up like a princess and look beautiful? Not her, though. The way she’d scream and cry and carry on sometimes, you’d have thought she was being murdered. And you can see what she looked like. You can see.”
“And the trouble you went to,” Mrs. Bryant’s aunt prompted.
“The trouble I went to, sewing all those dresses, taking her to those contests. She never did appreciate what I was trying to do for her. Not until she got chosen Winter Homecoming Queen. She was pretty excited about the other kids voting her to be Queen. That Ray Brueggeman ought to be whipped.” Mrs. Trentam closed her mouth tightly and went on with her errand.
When I came to the last pictures in the book, Meda at fourteen or fifteen, I was ashamed that her underage lips and breasts aroused me so much. Chris leaned over to see them and said, “God help me. Don’t tell Terry I said this, but her cousin makes my mouth water.” I was the only one who seemed bothered by the remark. Terry’s own brother and stepfather chuckled.
“You’re a lucky man, Bernie, if you can keep her,” Donald said.
“I bet that won’t be a problem for him,” Chris said, I suppose referring to my money.
“She could have been a movie star with looks like hers,” Mrs. Bryant’s aunt said.
She was thinking of a different place and time. Meda might have been a silent film star, but today she is too unlike anyone
else. American culture takes refuge from true beauty by idolizing women who are all alike in their prettiness. My theory was validated by the other photo albums Mrs. Trentam produced, when I asked about her own pageant days. She had been, as I’d suspected, a very pretty woman. Blond, shapely, with even teeth and a cute little nose. In her photos of the Miss America pageant, Mrs. Trentam’s bathing suit was charmingly old-fashioned, and she filled it out nicely, with her Miss Oklahoma sash across her chest.
“Damn, now she’s pretty, isn’t she?” Donald said proudly.
CHAPTER FIVE
SLEEPING OVER
By the time we left Mrs. Trentam’s, it was late. At Meda’s, there were cars in the yard and all the lights were on. The mysterious Amos family Christmas. Meda put her hand on my leg and said, “Let’s not stop. Can we just stay at your house?” I hesitated, and she said, “Never mind. You can just drop us off.”
It was a classic moment of failure for me. She needed something from me, and I had no clue what it was. I turned the car around. She was silent for the rest of the ride, and once we got to my house, she saved her words for small remarks to Annadore, who was excited by the change of scenery. The brief spurt of energy gave way quickly and Meda put her to bed in the room across the hall from mine. I’d picked that room because it had two beds, but after Meda got Annadore put to sleep, she came into my room and said, “Can I sleep with you?”
“Oh, Meda, I don’t think so.”
“We don’t have to do anything, I didn’t mean it like that. I just don’t want to sleep by myself.” The idea made me feel sick to my stomach, but I gestured what I hoped was a wry invitation to the bed. While I was in the bathroom, Meda took over my bed, appropriating all the pillows. When I came out, she asked, “Is that just for me or do you brush your teeth that long every night?”
I looked at her lying in my bed, and considered what to do. From the pile of discarded garments on the chair I saw that she had stripped down to her panties and her sweater. Her bra was folded on top of her slacks, one cup into the other. I tried to pretend that it was any other night and stripped down to my shorts, counting on a level of politeness I didn’t get. She watched me undress. She gave up one of the pillows to me and waited for me to lie down, before turning out the lamp. Once I had finished my vague attempt to get comfortable, she scooted over and snuggled her bare legs against mine. Pulling my right arm around her shoulders, she curled up to me, and the unrestrained weight of her breasts rested against my side. She put her hand on my chest and touched the scar that was almost directly under her cheek. I hoped that if she wanted to know, she would ask someone else about it. When she slid her hand under the covers, I misunderstood what she intended, until she touched the matched pairs of scars on my legs.
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