Almost Paradise

by Corabel Shofner

  “Can you?” he asked slowly. “You do a lot for your mother, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do,” I said. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Not a thing, Ruby Clyde. Not one little thing. But some things are best left to adults.”

  He didn’t know my adults. That is, the adults I had before Aunt Eleanor.

  Still, I let out a long sigh, which showed I didn’t believe him. He put on his jacket and said, “You should know something, Ruby Clyde. I have never brought a client or a client’s family to my home. You and your mother and your aunt are very special to me. You are not going to be alone in this world.”

  I blinked my eyes and nodded without looking at him. My eyes stung, but no tears were going to get out, not if I could help it.

  Then he did the strangest thing. While he explained that Sister Joan would take me to the hospital, he took out a felt-tip pen and wrote his phone number on my arm, right there on the soft vulnerable part. “If you need anything during the day, anything at all, call me.”

  I cradled my arm, looking at the place where he had marked me.

  “Okay,” I said.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Sister Joan settled me into the hospital room, then left. She told me that Frank would keep Bunny at the Red Eye and promised to return.

  Most of the day I sat close and looked at Aunt Eleanor’s face. It’s funny how you can get to know somebody better just by watching them sleep, especially somebody contrary like Aunt Eleanor.

  I had a parade of thoughts. I thought about her and my mother as little girls, imagined them in matching dresses and ponytails. I bet they played tricks on people. I bet they held hands when they walked. I bet they shared a bedroom and brushed each other’s hair. That’s what I would have done if I had a twin.

  I thought about her baby. Mother had said how Eleanor got to hold her baby, just once—how they forced her fingers to sign the papers that gave the baby away. Then I thought, all at once: I have a cousin somewhere. A boy cousin walking around right here on this earth. He didn’t know anything about me, but I knew about him.

  All day the nurses came in and gave Eleanor shots, adjusted her tubes, took her temperature, listened to her heart. The more I saw of nursing, the more I knew that’s what I wanted to do.

  People came and went: Joe Brewer, Gaylord Lewis, Frank, Joan, doctors and nurses. Eleanor would wake up, then fuss about something she didn’t like, and fall back to sleep.

  Joe Brewer agreed to let me stay until late that evening, if I promised to eat. Which I did, since Eleanor couldn’t eat her hospital food, but they brought it anyway on a plastic tray. Mystery meat, mashed something, green peas, pie, and milk in a little carton like at school. I ate her lunch and her dinner, which were almost identical.

  There is not much you can say about waiting in a room with a sleeping person except—you wait. First off, time is so slow it won’t move at all, then whoosh! It’s over and you wonder where the day went. One thing I learned is this: time keeps moving, regardless of how you feel about it.

  Once the sun went down, Aunt Eleanor woke up for real and was wiggly as a snake on hot rocks. She made me shut the window blinds tight and turn on every light in the room. That place was blazing bright. Nothing was right by her—up and down went the bed, on and off went the TV.

  She rang for the nurses over and over. Finally, one of them came in and asked her to stop—called her a “sundowner.” That’s when hospital patients can’t stand the dark. The sun goes down and they go wild with fear, pacing and talking. When I’m a nurse I’m not going to tell scared patients to leave me alone, that’s for sure.

  Aunt Eleanor tapped her bed rail with a deck of cards and said, “Want to play Go Fish?”

  She pulled the rolling table across her lap and shuffled. I cut. She dealt.

  “My mother taught me Go Fish.” She counted our hands, then made a pond with the remaining deck. “It’s the only good memory I have of her. Do you know how to play?”

  “Might I remind you that your mother was my grandmother,” I said.

  “Hot dog.” Eleanor pulled her cards to her chest and looked at me for a moment. “And you survived.”

  That let loose a flood of mean grandmother stories, which made us both groan and laugh.

  I gathered three books while telling her about having to live with Grandmother after my father was shot and killed. We didn’t have anywhere to go.

  “I’m sorry, child. I never knew.”

  “Would it have made a difference? Would you have come to help us?” I asked.

  Eleanor frowned. “Give me all your twos.”

  “Go fishing,” I said, waiting for her answer to my question.

  “I don’t answer hypotheticals,” she said, and explained that a hypothetical is something that isn’t. “That’s the road to insanity, all the what-ifs in life.”

  When Eleanor stacked four books in a row, she smiled like a baby. “But I left to get away from her, not you. After being raised by that woman, I’m surprised I got anywhere close to a church. But I learned that she was not the church. Thank God.”

  “You left because of Grandmother? I thought it was because of me. Wasn’t it my fault you were stranged from my mother?”

  “Estranged,” Eleanor corrected. “And it was not your fault. Why ever would you think such a thing?”

  I shrugged. “Give me all your aces.”

  “Ruby Clyde!” Then she waved her hand over the card. “Go fish, but listen to me.”

  I drew a card and listened.

  “At first you couldn’t tell me who you were, then you asked if I hated you. Now you think you are to blame for something that happened before you were born. That’s nonsense, you know. And what’s more important, you need to believe that. I shouldn’t have to tell you that. In fact, even if I sat here and told you that it was all your fault, you should be clearheaded enough to know that’s a load of bull.”

  I smiled. Eleanor calls a bull a bull; that was the first thing she told me about herself. Usually when somebody tells you about herself it turns out to be the exact opposite, but that didn’t hold true for Eleanor.

  “I’m serious, Ruby Clyde. Other people will dump guilt and shame all over you, and you are the only one who can shovel it back. Promise me you will remember this.”

  I nodded and she nodded and we nodded together, sealing the deal.

  Then I asked, “Why’d you leave then?”

  “Your grandmother gave me plenty of reasons, and to be honest … there was something else, but that’s not something a little girl would understand.”

  “I’m older than my body,” I said.

  “Twelve, is it?” Eleanor asked as she fanned out her cards. She knew my age.

  “That’s right, birthday on the day of the filling station robbery.” I made my book of twos and took her aces, which made her mad since it put me ahead. I’m very competitive, even when my opponent is in a hospital bed.

  “And that’s why I have given up birthdays forever. Nothing but a crummy old day that has nothing to do with me, myself, and I.”

  “So you plan to stay twelve years old forever?” she asked.

  “There’s no law saying I need cake and presents and a stupid song. And forget those stupid candles and wishes. Nothing good comes of it. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about.”

  “Sounds like you do.” She drew a card from the pond, which made us even again. While she decided which card to throw down, she said, “Never liked birthdays myself. Don’t forget, I was an identical twin, so I never had a birthday all my own.”

  Then Aunt Eleanor told me that even though they looked alike their mother had treated them differently. Eleanor had been the tough one, defiant. Barbara had been weak. “Even called her Babe,” Eleanor snorted. “That’s one way to keep her acting like a baby. When I did something wrong, I was punished. When Barbara did something wrong, she was coddled. It’s no wonder she couldn’t take care of you.” I hardly noticed she had
taken in three more books and won the game.

  “She’s been a good mother,” I said, trying not to remember that she wanted to give me away back at the jail.

  She eyed me. “But you’ve been the adult, the one taking care of her.”

  “Not a problem,” I said. “I’m glad to do it.”

  “That’s impossible, child. Living with your hideous grandmother and tending to your own mother. You must be resentful, angry, disappointed.”

  She raked in our books and shuffled until I took the cards from her hands. Twenty million shuffles is plenty. I cut the cards myself and dealt out a new game. As I swirled the cards into a big round pond I said, “I am what I am, and I don’t need people to be perfect.”

  She looked at me long and soft, then she organized her hand and said, “Give me all your queens.”

  But I had been thinking the whole time about resentments, anger, and disappointment. A thought floated around in my head and I tried to catch it. “Pieces of love,” I said.

  “What does that mean?” she asked.

  “Everything is so mixed up, you can’t wait around for perfect. You just have to love what you get. You only get to love pieces of people. Mother has problems, but she loves me.” Grandmother and the Catfish, you had to dig deep to find something to love. Grandmother taught me how to get by in the world. And the Catfish gave me Bunny.

  “Pieces of love,” I said again. “If you wait for perfect you will end up with nothing.”

  Eleanor reached to her bedside table and squirted some lotion into her hands. She rubbed it on her fingers and up her wrists, avoiding the needle in the top of her left hand.

  “Pieces of love,” she said. “You’re a little philosopher, Ruby Clyde.”

  “Wordly Wizard,” I said quietly.

  “Excuse me?”

  I shrugged. “Philosopher. I know that word from my workbooks.”

  “On second thought, I believe that you are mature enough to hear my story.” Then she told me that she had a baby once that she gave up for adoption. I didn’t tell her that Mother had already told me.

  “It was the best thing for him,” she said. Adoption was a big sneaky secret, she told me. “They say it is nothing to be ashamed of.” She snorted. “But they sure are good at hiding it. My mother couldn’t wait to ship me off. She hid me away. That’s what I meant before. I was punished but Barbara was coddled. She was so happy when Barbara got pregnant. She arranged a fast wedding and pretended … Oh, never mind. Her Babe could do no wrong. Anyway, the reason I told you that story is what you said: pieces of love. That’s all I have of my son, pieces. The feeling of him kicking inside of me, the feeling of holding him in my arms, the hope that he is well. I understand pieces of love.”

  I wanted to heal her. So I folded back the bottom of the bedsheet where I could reach her sad and swollen feet. I set myself up at that end of the bed and rubbed the lotion onto her tender soles, between her toes, around her lost ankles, up her calves to her knees. She closed her eyes and made a sound like a kitten.

  Eleanor said, “Don’t be afraid, Ruby Clyde. I’m not going to quit you. I promise.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  When Aunt Eleanor recovered enough to leave the hospital, Frank drove down to get us and take us back to Paradise. Sister Joan had put up a cot in Eleanor’s room so she could nurse her. They helped Aunt Eleanor into her bed.

  I remembered my promise to God that I would be easy, helpful, and do everything on earth to make Aunt Eleanor happy. He’d kept his end of the deal—Eleanor lived, so I had to do my part.

  All that day, I took up my familiar role of caring for my adult, asking her if she needed anything, sweeping the porch, smelling the milk to make sure it was fresh. But when I carried a hot water bottle into her room she frowned. “You need to go outside and play, Ruby Clyde. Sister Joan can do all this.”

  “I like doing all this,” I said.

  But she wouldn’t hear of it. “Scat!” she dismissed me with a wave of her hand. It was still bruised by the needle.

  If that was what she really wanted, I could do it.

  Bunny and I started walking down to the Red Eye each day to see Frank. We’d sit on the bench outside and visit with ranchers. Bunny was real good at making friends. Not a one came into the Red Eye without chucking Bunny under the chin.

  “How you doing today, little fella?” they’d say, thinking I was a boy. “Nice weather.” They’d tip their cowboy hats and move on by me.

  It was there that I hatched my plan to be helpful to Aunt Eleanor. She needed bail money to get Mother out of jail; I needed a job to help. And as much as I hated to admit that the Catfish was ever right, I couldn’t be a nurse, not yet. Being a nurse would take a lot of training and time.

  About then, a cowboy in a dusty, dirty truck pulled up to a pump. When he stepped out to go inside, I jumped up and said, “Hey, mister, how about I wash your windshield?”

  “Sure, buddy, have at it,” and he went inside to pay for his gas.

  By the time the cowboy came back out, I had squeegeed the front windshield twice, and it only had a few muddy streaks. “Want the sides and back done too?” I asked.

  “Have at it,” he said, running the gas and putting the nozzle back in the slot.

  The glass was pretty clean considering I didn’t have fresh water. If I must say so myself, I did a good job and he knew it. That’s why he fished in his wallet and handed me a fistful of dollars.

  “Send your friends,” I said as he pulled himself into the truck. “Tell them to ask for Clyde.”

  “You got it, Clyde.” And he drove away.

  After that I asked Frank if I could keep washing windshields for money, so that I could pay back Aunt Eleanor for all she had done.

  “Oh, Sugar Foot! Yes. Why don’t you wash the whole truck for them? You’d make a lot more.”

  When I asked her about the cost of soap and water, she said that I could give her a dollar for all the soap I wanted and that the water was free. “Right out of the artesian well out back,” she said. “Not going to drain that one dry, not with a couple of weeks of washing trucks. You use all the water you want, Sugar Foot.”

  I set up with a big sign advertising my new washing service. CLYDE’S CLEANING INSIDE AND OUT. I even drew a bloodshot red eye just like the one that floated over the store.

  Bunny and I sat on the bench out front with the bucket, soap, rags, and a mop waiting for customers. They came pretty steady. Word had spread about Clyde’s Cleaning. Best in the Hill Country. And the Hill Country was full of dirty trucks.

  The fronts were easy, but I charged extra if the back bed was caked up with ranch goo. No telling what they hauled around in the back of those trucks, but sometimes it took elbow grease to make it let go. Not a one of them ever complained about the extra cost because I did good work. I always have.

  It was a long way to $100,000 for bail, but Eleanor had Paradise Ranch so she must have had money. Still, I needed to help; I’m no moocher. And there was that promise to God.

  The most amazing wash job I ever did was a really big truck, the kind that has a driving piece up front, and tows a huge box behind it. I’d seen them on the roads all my life but I never really inspected how they were put together. Cab and trailer. We didn’t have many of those on the back roads up in the Hill Country. But one day a big rig, they call it, pulled into the Red Eye and almost blocked the sun. The driver scrambled down and began to pump his gas.

  When he saw my sign he asked, “You Clyde?”

  “Yes, sir, I am indeed.”

  “Think you can give this truck a Clyde Cleaning?”

  “Yes, sir, I can.” My eyes got wide as I looked down the body of the trailer. “The whole thing?” I drew out the word whole, to match the size of the trailer.

  “That might take you a few days, little guy. I have to get going.”

  He handed me a wad of bills, which was about double what I charged for pickups, and said, “Get that cab spick-and-span.” />
  And the Catfish said that I could never get a job. What did he know? He was in jail, and I had an income.

  Here’s the thing. Inside that truck, behind the front and only seat was a ledge with a bed. It had a television and a curtain he could close for privacy. I never knew people could live in trucks. That guy was like a turtle carrying his home with him, wherever he went.

  If Paradise Ranch wasn’t such a good home, I might just be a truck driver, and live wherever I wandered.

  TWENTY-SIX

  When Eleanor recovered from her Surgery, she marched into my room and said, “Get ready. You’re coming with me.”

  “Where?” I asked.

  “Tell you in the van,” she said. “Sister Joan is downstairs, ready to drive us.”

  I hurried around, dressing and eating.

  After filling Bunny’s food and water, I told him we’d be back. “Don’t know where I’m going, don’t know why, but I am going.” He sniffed his water then his food and turned his head up to me and batted his pink eyelashes, as if to say okay.

  I crawled into the blue van and slid the door closed, Joan in the driver’s seat, Eleanor up front. Off we went through the hills. The windows were down and my hair blew. Sister Joan’s hair did not blow because of her wimple. Eleanor’s hair wouldn’t have blown even without her wimple because underneath it was just stubble.

  “Where are we going?” I asked, grabbing the strap when Joan sped through a curve.

  “To see our benefactor,” Sister Eleanor said.

  “Benefactor,” I repeated. “I meant to look that word up.”

  “A benefactor is one who supports us financially. Ours is Gaylord Lewis.”

  “You work for Mr. Gaylord Lewis?” I asked.

  “Not exactly,” she said. “He makes sure we have what we need. He owns the ranches we live on and allows us to live there for free and sell the peaches.”

  What?

  What?

  No!

  “But you own the ranch. It’s our home,” I yelped.

  Sister Joan did her yawny laugh and said, “Her own ranch!?! We don’t own anything, Ruby Clyde. We’re nuns.” Then she honked the horn as if to say, The nuns are coming. Usually I liked Sister Joan’s weird laugh but not right then.