Up the Devil's Belly

by Rhett DeVane

  One area where Holston and I were similar — our notion of the sovereignty of the remote. Late in the evening when Sarah was settled into her crib with Shammie keeping diligent watch over her dreams, we drew straws for the title of the official remote ruler.

  The only occasion it was nonnegotiable was during a Florida State football game. As soon as I left the room for a potty break, Holston would blatantly flip the channel to some science-based documentary on whale sex. The fact that there were two perfectly good remote-controlled televisions in the house made little difference. The kitchen was the place to be. The most comfortable easy chairs were there, and the refrigerator. The bathroom was only six steps away. Holston and Jon were convinced that, if Jake and I could insert do-it-yourself catheters for a televised football game, we’d eliminate that annoying break altogether.

  Counting the VCR, television, and cable box, we had three separate remotes with which to contend. I drew the line when Holston noticed a remote-controlled ceiling fan at the Home Depot. Limits have to be set.

  On one occasion, I removed the main channel control batteries. Standing behind the kitchen island counter, I strained against laughter as I watched my usually sensible, calm husband try to change the station. He shook the control, moved closer to the TV to try again, frantically pushing buttons and scratching his head like a frustrated ape tying to peel a rubber banana. When I confessed my prank, he claimed it was the meanest, lowest thing I’d done to him since we’d known each other. He was waiting until I relaxed my vigil, then he’d strike back with an evil revenge of his own.

  “You want popcorn tonight?” Holston asked, buttering me up to make me watch a Home and Garden show instead of ESPN.

  “Is it the no-fat kind?”

  He studied the package. “Butter-rich, movie gallery…,” he read.

  “In that case, yes.” I could watch Bob Villa for a half-hour.

  At eleven, bleary-eyed from staring at the television and a full day of putzing around the yard, we finally surrendered the day.

  Nothing can pump a gallon-sized squeeze of adrenaline straight to your heart like the ring of the bedside phone at two AM.

  “Hattie?” Joe’s voice was tinged with urgency.

  “Joe? Wha…something’s wrong?” I fumbled for the small halogen reading light above my side of the bed. Holston rolled over and squinted with one half-opened eye.

  Joe’s voice quivered. “Hattie…it’s Piddie. Evelyn’s gone with her in the ambulance to Tallahassee.”

  I was fully awake now. “She okay? What’s wrong? Stroke? Is it a heart attack?”

  “Hattie,” Joe interrupted. “They think she may be going into congestive heart failure. She woke us up about a half-hour ago. Said she was having trouble catching her breath. I’m getting ready to leave and go on over in the Towncar. I just thought you’d want to know.”

  “Yeah…thanks.” I turned to Holston. “We’ve got to go to TMH. Aunt Piddie’s heading to the ER. It’s her heart. I’ve got to call Bobby… and Jake!”

  Holston, always the calming influence, rummaged around the bedside chair for his shorts and shirt. “We’ll need to call someone to watch Sarah. You know how emergency rooms are. It could be hours while we wait on a doctor’s diagnosis.”

  I grabbed the phone. “Margie. I’ll call Margie. She’ll come.”

  By the time we dressed, made the necessary calls, and located the keys to Betty, Margie appeared at the kitchen door.

  “Y’all go on, now. Don’t wake Sarah. I’ll just sleep on the couch. I spent many a night here after your daddy died, before Miz Tillie felt okay staying alone. Call me as soon as you hear something.”

  “Okay. Sarah’s cereal is in the cupboard…there’s milk, and she likes bananas crushed up….” I struggled to call up baby-related details.

  Margie smiled and patted my arm. “Honey, I raised four of my own, and I’m workin’ on spoiling the grandkids now. I’ll make do. Go on and be with your family.”

  I hugged her hard. “What would I do without you?”

  “Just roll over and die, I reckon. Now, git!”

  The interstate drive between Chattahoochee and Tallahassee took forty minutes between the Hill and the first set of capital city exits. Except for an occasional eighteen-wheeler beating a lonely path in the blackness, little traffic shared the road. The three- level parking garage in the block adjacent to the hospital was deserted when Holston pulled Betty into a spot. We hustled up the ramp to the hospital’s rear entrance.

  “Liddyanne Longman?” I asked the check-in nurse.

  Before she could answer, Joe appeared behind us. “Piddie’s back in room five. Evelyn’s with her. They’ll only allow one family member in with her at a time.”

  We followed Joe to the waiting area. The usual raging hubbub of human activity was absent this early on a weekday morning. Fridays and Saturdays were the opposite. Hoards of wounded, beaten, and sick people filled the plastic molded chairs. Many had several family members in tow. Unless you were bleeding profusely, or fell out on the floor, you waited and waited and waited.

  “Do you know anything yet?” Holston asked.

  Joe raked a hand through his thinning hair. “Just that she was in congestive heart failure. Her lungs had all but filled up with fluid before she let on that anything was wrong. A little longer, and she might not’ve made it.”

  “Lasix…did they give her Lasix?” I recalled the medication’s name from the time of my father’s heart ailment.

  “A lot of it on the way over here…through an IV. She’s comfortable now. They’ll probably move her to the third floor cardiac unit as soon as the doctor writes the orders.”

  My friend Mary Mathues stuck her head into the waiting area. “I thought I recognized your aunt’s name, Hattie.”

  I rushed to hug my dear friend. Her nursing skills and compassion had helped me and my family through some tough spots in the last few years.

  Mary smiled at Joe and Holston. “I’ll try to get some details for you guys. How’s Sarah? I hated missing the open house at the spa. I had to pull a double shift the night before the party, and I was shot! Maybe I can call, and come over one weekend soon.”

  “We’d love that. You’re always welcome. The baby’s great. We left her with our neighbor, Margie. I know you’ll just fall in love with Sarah — like everyone else has.”

  “Can’t wait to meet her. Now, y’all sit tight, and I’ll go snoop.” Mary pushed through the swinging doors and disappeared down the long hallway.

  Several minutes later, she returned. “Dr. Ketchler is with her. She’s going to be admitted to the cardiac unit.” Mary reached over and held my hand. “Many people live with congestive heart problems. There are medications to help, Hattie. They’ll probably run tests on her tomorrow and figure out the best regimen.”

  If you want to know anything in a hospital, ask a nurse. “Thanks, Mary.”

  “Let me get on back to work before I’m missed. My shift ends at seven, and I’ll come find you.”

  Evelyn’s face appeared in the window of the door separating the emergency ward from the waiting area. She stuck her head out and motioned toward us.

  “One of y’all want to go on back and sit with Mama for a while? They won’t let two of us stay back there with her at one time. She’s just waiting for a room upstairs, and I need to use the little girls’ room.”

  I nodded. “I’ll go in. She’s in five, right?” I waved toward Holston and Joe, then slipped past the security guard who could’ve passed for Mayberry, RFD’s Barney Fife’s younger brother.

  Piddie looked peaceful when I opened the door. For a brief moment, I thought she was dead.

  She opened her eyes and smiled. “Did I scare you? Ever’time I would drift off to sleep, Evelyn would panic.” She patted the side of the gurney. “Come sit yourself down a spell.”

  An IV was connected to her left wrist. Electrode wires hung like Christmas tree lights from the monitor beside the bed. The LED screen displ
ayed her vital signs.

  I leaned down and kissed her wrinkled cheek. Even in the green fluorescent glare of the overhead lights, she looked healthy and substantial. “I was so scared, Pid.”

  “How’d you think I felt? Am-boo-lanch sirens scare the beejeezus outta me anyway! Much less havin’ to be on the inside’a one!”

  I eased onto a seat beside her gurney. “You seem to be breathing okay.”

  “That Lay-sticks is a miracle drug. Only bad part — I’m peeing like it was the best idea I ever had! I’ve used the bedpan five times already.”

  Piddie noticed the fear in my eyes. “Honey, my old heart’s just about shot. Lordy, I’m ninety-eight years old. They gonna put me upstairs and run a gob of expensive tests. They love to do that! They gonna tell me what I already know — I’m just plain wore out.”

  “Now, Pid…”

  She held up a pudgy hand. “Don’t you go patronizin’ me, now. I won’t abide it! It’s only natural that my generation takes leave’a here eventually. It’d get real crowded down here if some of us didn’t go on Home.”

  Tears burned my eyes.

  She patted my hand. “Now…don’t tune up and start, Hattie. Even if I died right now, I’d have nothin’ to complain of. I’ve lived a long life full’a family and friends. I’ve seen ever’ single episode of Oprah she ever made, and I’ve gotten to watch men set foot on the moon!”

  The corners of her pale mouth drooped. “I did want my letter from the Prezedent for makin’ it clean to a hunnert, though.”

  “Maybe you still will if…”

  Piddie rolled her eyes. “If frogs had longer legs, they wouldn’t scrape their butts when they hopped. C’mon, Hattie!”

  I shrugged my shoulders. Sometimes, there are no answers — not even ones you invent to make you feel like you have a modicum of control. “Is there anything you need? Or want?”

  Piddie adjusted herself on the stack of pillows. “There. My hind end was goin’ to sleep. There’re some things you can do for me.”

  “Just name them.”

  Piddie leaned over and whispered, “Evelyn gets herself all worked up when I try to talk to her about my passin’-over time. You’ll have to help me get a few things past her…without creatin’ a stir.”

  “Okay.”

  She grinned. “I want a birthday party. I’ve been thinkin’ on it. We can have a big whoop-de-doo at the Woman’s Club. Maybe a covered dish. We got some good cooks in town. We can call it Piddie Longman’s Damn Near A Hundred Birthday Party.”

  I covered my mouth with one hand to stifle a laugh. “That sounds like fun…but, are you sure you don’t want to wait till the real thing?’

  Piddie crossed her hands over her chest. “Hattie, you and I both know I more’n likely won’t be around to see that. If, by some miracle, I do — we’ll pitch another shindig! But, just in case — I want a big ole celebration as soon as they’ll let me break out of this joint.” She pointed her finger. “And, somethin’ else…”

  “Yes?”

  “I want to be cremated and my ashes scattered in the garden behind the Triple C.”

  “Wha…?” I stared at my aunt, my mouth agape.

  “Close your mouth. You’ll catch flies.” She tapped my chin. “I ain’t never wanted to be planted. Takes up perfectly good ground space. Let’s face it, no one comes much to a cemetery after the first few years. Too damn depressin’. If I’m at the spa, all kinda folks’ll come by to see me in the garden. Tell Jake to sprinkle me in a nice sunny spot and plant some daisies over me. I do so love daisies! I can be fertilizer for the flowers. I like that idea much better than being all gussied up in a coffin. Always seemed silly to me — layin’ there all propped up wearin’ your Sunday best like you were expectin’ to go somewheres.”

  Piddie nestled down into the stack of pillows. “Now, get Reverend Thurston Jackson, Lucille’s husband, to preach me a good callin’-down-God funeral — right there at the Triple C. None of that mopey, white folk, sad garbage. My life’s been a pleasure and a celebration. I’d like for my leavin’ to be the same.”

  Piddie patted me on the hand. I was too stunned and sad to respond. “I know it’s a lot to lay on you, honey. But, Evelyn’s fractious about this kinda thing. She just falls all to pieces. You’re the only one I trust to see it’s done up right!”

  Piddie grinned. “I been thinkin’ on something else, too.” Her voice grew low and conspiratorial, though we were alone in the room. “I want y’all to put me a headstone up at the church at the homeplace in Alabama, right next to Carlton’s spot.”

  The puzzled expression on my face sufficed as a reply.

  “It’s all family history, Hattie. I ain’t got enough wind left in me to tell the tale. I got it all recorded in one of my journals, somewheres. Your great grandma Docia had two graves, one she was actually buried in next to my grandpa — the other was just a headstone her daddy put up in the Jones family cemetery. We always called it her vacation grave.”

  Piddie shifted her weight a little to one side. “I realize my rightful place of rest should be up by Carlton, but I love Chattahoochee so much, and all my friends are there…what’s left of them, anyways. If it’s done the way I want, folks will see my marker in its dutiful place next to my husband, and I can still be scattered at the spa where everyone can come to visit me.”

  I released a heavy sigh. “Okay, Aunt Pid.”

  She patted my cheek. “I knew I could count on you, gal. I’ll have me a vacation grave I can float off to if I get tired of hangin’ around all of you!” Her bright blue eyes twinkled.

  We sat in silence for a moment before she spoke. “One more thing.”

  I couldn’t stand the weight of another barrage of funeral plans.

  She gestured with one pudgy hand. “Bring me one of my gowns from home when you come over next time. Evelyn and Joe dashed off without my good bedclothes. These hospital frocks are a bit airish in the rear.”

  I laughed. The big knot of fear inside of my chest dissolved under the pressure of Piddie’s humor. “Know what you mean. When I was in here, I flashed a few unsuspecting people in the halls when I was doing my daily walk with the rolling IV pole.”

  My aunt Piddie winked as if we were conspirators in a murder mystery. “If I pass over and figure out a way ’round it, I’ll let you know I’m a’watchin’ over you all.”

  The vision of Piddie as a winged guardian angel with a two-foot high mound of pink hair made me smile.

  “Sometimes, I get to going so hard, I wisht I could fall down. Least then, I could rest while I was gettin’ up.”

  Piddie Davis Longman

  Chapter Five

  Triple C Day Spa and Salon

  The customer waiting area at the former Mandy’s Cut ’n’ Curl beauty salon had consisted of three folding directors chairs, one overstuffed high-back seat upholstered in a faded blue and hot pink cabbage rose print, and a wooden magazine rack. With the exception of an occasional patron lulled to sleep by the drone of a professional hair dryer, everyone in the 12 X 60-foot mobile-home-turned-hair-salon joined in the ongoing conversation. While seated underneath the dryer bonnet with a head full of plastic curlers, the local females had mastered the Elvina Houston turn-one-ear-out method for overhearing the chatter.

  A well-known Southern tradition dictates; no matter how grandiose or modest the establishment, the closest friends enter through the side door. The Triple C Day Spa and Salon followed in the barefoot steps of its predecessor. Though patrons entered the elegant double doors, they bypassed the formal front parlor and made a beeline to Mandy and Wanda’s expansive hair salon. Within three days of the official grand opening, the once barren double workroom was filled with a scattering of kitchen chairs, new color-matched tone-on-tone director chairs, and a few upholstered seats pilfered from the front parlor. Only the vacationers, the out-a-towners, graced the reception area.

  Wanda Orenstein chewed a piece of Double-Bubble gum like it was her life’s sole purpose. S
he lifted a newly-colored hank of Mrs. Lucille Jackson’s hair and cocked her head to one side. The air bubbles she’d artfully trapped into the elastic wad snapped like miniature popguns when she closed her mouth. “You ever think ’bout maybe a short bob, hon?” Wanda made eye contact with the black woman’s reflection in the gilded mirror.

  “Wouldn’t that be a little…young for me?” Mrs. Lucille asked.

  Wanda flipped her hand through the air. “Young is all in your mind, Miz Lucille. Besides, them that has it, don’t know what they got till they’re older…and realize it’s lost to ’em.”

  “Uh-huh.” Mrs. Lucille nodded. “I heard that.”

  Wanda tilted her head to one side. “Let’s try cutting a little fringe around your face. It’ll soften your natural crease lines.”

  “That another way of saying wrinkles?” Mandy laughed. “I kinda like that!”

  “Can’t claim it as my own.” Wanda popped her gum. “Piddie said it first. I’m just borrowin’ it.”

  Elvina Houston stood in the threshold of the stylist room. “That figures. Sounds like Piddie Longman.”

  “Hey, Elvina!” Mandy called. “Have you heard from Piddie? How’s she gettin’ on?”

  Elvina sniffed and settled onto an oak kitchen chair. “I’m in constant contact. You can rest assured of that. She’ll be comin’ home, most likely tomorrow after her doctor makes his rounds. She’s holdin’ up pretty good for an old woman.”

  Mandy grinned. “Not that you’d know anything about that, huh?”

  Elvina chose to ignore the comment. “I’ve come to share something with you all. If you don’t want to hear it, I’ll just mosey on and find some folks that do.”

  Mandy threw the hairbrushes she was scrubbing into the sink with an exaggerated clatter. “Aw, c’mon, Elvina. You know we depend on you. Do tell!”

  “Well, seems Piddie Longman’s decided she wants to shock the clock and have her 100th birthday party — let’s see — a full year and two months early.”