Rita Will_Memoir of a Literary Rabble-Rouser

by Rita Mae Brown

  I couldn’t swim in a straight line. Dodging logs and other flotsam, I swam at an angle, reaching the grass in what was probably only fifteen minutes but felt like hours because my clothes made me heavy.

  The temperature was in the low fifties, and the chill cut through my wet clothes. Shaking, teeth chattering, I headed for home, which was about five miles down the road.

  A young man and his wife picked me up in their truck. They were dressed for Sunday service. I didn’t want to get them wet so I rode in the back although it upset them. They dropped me at home.

  I walked in the house and called Mom, telling her everything.

  “I thought you could walk on water,” she said.

  Then I called Nelle Nugent, who, being a city girl, probably thought I was nuts to live out in the country where such things might happen. She was good about the fact that she wasn’t going to get the script that day.

  Once I changed clothes and made myself a cup of tea, I thought about Mother’s smartass remark. Typical Juts. Even as I sipped, she was surely on the phone with Aunt Mimi, recounting my escapade with Old Man River.

  Sadly for Nelle and me, someone in Disney’s acquisitions department fumbled the ball on the renewal of the option for Thursdays ‘til 9 and the author asked for more money. I guess she thought since Disney had sunk some bucks into the project they’d jump to renew. They didn’t. Disney dumped the whole project, to the dismay of Nelle and me because it really could have been a funny movie and I was fired up for the rewrite. I actually enjoy rewrites.

  Jerry and his lover, Herb May, visited me shortly thereafter. Jerry, gaunt and gray, looked older than his father. He hated his job, he hated himself for not leaving. I’d never seen him so wretched and tired.

  He went upstairs for a nap.

  Herb and I talked and talked for the first time in the fourteen years I’d known him. Herb was hard to talk to because Jerry commanded everyone’s attention. When the two of us got together it was a high-level verbal tennis match, and Herb didn’t possess the best social skills, a real disaster in Virginia. We always excused him by whispering in a new person’s ear, “Raised in Albany.”

  A nod of recognition would follow.

  The joke is, having spent time in Albany, Troy and Saratoga, I know upstate New Yorkers do have manners. Herb just didn’t absorb them. But I never miss an opportunity to sideswipe a Yankee.

  When Jerry woke we plied him with a bottle of sauvignon blanc.

  “We’re buying seven acres in Kauai,” Herb announced calmly.

  Jerry sipped.

  “I’ll put up half the money,” I announced.

  “We’ll build a bed-and-breakfast for gay people,” Herb continued. “If it works, we have room to expand—tennis, a pool, you know. We’re leaving Wilmington.”

  “You’ll never leave the South.” Jerry sipped some more.

  “I’ll leave it in February,” I said.

  “You won’t be getting value for your money.” He put his wineglass down.

  “Yes, I will. Every penny of profit you make you pour back into the mortgage. Once it’s halfway paid off then you send me 25 percent of the profit. After it’s paid off, send me 50 percent.”

  “You’re a better businessman than that.” He smiled.

  “Jerry, I’ll have a place to go to in the winter and I won’t have to worry about running the damn thing. Anyway, what’s the point of money if you don’t invest it? It’s like fertilizer.”

  “You want me to quit my job.”

  “I do. You’re killing yourself.” I could say it. Herb couldn’t.

  “You work harder than I do.”

  “I love what I do. You don’t. Give them your notice, six months if you need time. Sell out in Wilmington, spring’s a good time to sell. Jerry, you’re forty. Come on. Hustle your bustle.” I quoted Gretchen Summerfield, the city tennis champion from our youth.

  “Aren’t you still supporting your mother?”

  “Yeah, but I can squeeze a nickel until the Indian rides the buffalo. Come on.”

  He shrugged at Herb. “Why not?”

  He didn’t do it. He stalled, pushing back his resignation date. I would have strangled the son of a bitch had I known what was in front of him. Better I didn’t.

  Mother didn’t think the bed-and-breakfast was a bad idea, but what did Hawaii have that Florida didn’t? I elected not to answer that question.

  She enumerated the attractions: polo clubs—more had sprung up; Hialeah, although that holy of holies was on its way down, unfortunately; Gulfstream; and don’t forget there are Quarter Horses in Florida. She carried on.

  I listened but said that Jerry and Herb thought Hawaii a more alluring spot for vacationers because it was so far away. And it wasn’t chockablock with golden oldies, but I couldn’t say that to Mom; she was seventy-eight.

  I gave up pounding on Jerry.

  The summer passed much too quickly, as summers usually do. My trumpet vine, gossip central for hummingbirds, never looked so good. My wisteria bloomed twice, to my delight.

  I’d gone hog wild and bought three more horses.

  My friends Jimmy and Alice Turner gave me a rough-coated Jack Russell bitch I named Buster. It suited her. I had a black Great Dane named India Ink, and Cazenovia had a kitten buddy, Sneaky Pie, who found me at the ASPCA on St. Francis of Assisi’s feast day when I went with a friend to look for her lost cat. I leaned against a cage—they’re stacked on top of one another—and this tiny, five-week-old fireball reached through the cage and snagged my hair. Love at first sight.

  My house and barn were full of love. My career rolled along. I commuted to L.A. and New York when necessary, but I was able to spend time at the farm. I was in heaven.

  The first week of August, I received a call from Aunt Mimi telling me to come home. What I remember is that I’d just met Joan Hamilton and Larry Hodge of Kalarama Farm in Springfield, Kentucky, birthplace of Lincoln. David Goodstein, publisher of The Advocate, and his friend, David Russell, introduced me. What sensational horses Joan and Larry had. I couldn’t wait to return to Springfield.

  Missy Turner, a capable, upbeat young woman, was running my stable. She could handle farm duties while I dashed home.

  Aunt Mimi simply said Mom was in the hospital.

  By the time I reached the hospital she’d been operated on. The same thing as in the fifties, adhesions.

  But she pulled through. I took care of her house. Worked there. Visited her twice a day, and she felt good enough to sit up and run my life for me. Not that it worked. I always did what I wanted to do, but it made her feel better.

  “Have I been a good mother?”

  That question worried me. Mother wouldn’t ask that if she thought she was going to make it. “Mostly, Mom, but you weren’t very affectionate.”

  “Our people aren’t that way.”

  “I know. You loved me as best you could.”

  “Some people are easier to love than others.” She giggled.

  “Ah, Mom, I thought I was easy to love.”

  She grew serious. “Actually, honey, you are. You’re one of the sweetest people I’ve ever known. People don’t know how sweet you are.”

  That made me giggle. She’d never said that before.

  She breathed deeply; tubes ran everywhere. “Is the house all right?”

  “Mowed the lawn, trimmed the bushes, cleaned every single jalousie. You’ll be happy to see it.”

  “Yeah.” She breathed again. “Rita, some day Martina will come back to you. She needs you. No matter what she’s done, not just the romance stuff, but in life, help her. She can’t help herself.” She paused. “Fannie will be fine. She’s strong.”

  I thought this was the oddest thing for Mother to say to me. Also, she hardly ever called me Rita. She used that name to other people but she still called me “Kid” or “Buzzer.”

  “Mother, what you ask, I will do.”

  All of a sudden Mom got weepy. “I don’t want to leave. I don’
t want to leave you. You’re all alone.”

  “Momma, I’ve always been alone. It’s okay. It’s my natural state.”

  Mom sobbed and sobbed. I didn’t know what to do. I wiped her eyes, gave her a glass of water.

  Neither Mother nor I shied from a tough situation, although there’s volumes we left unsaid. “Mom, I have my cats, dogs and horses.”

  “You love your horses. Since you were a little girl. I believe you’d live in a stable and be happy.”

  “It was good enough for Jesus. It’s good enough for me.”

  “Do you remember when you wanted to see Jesus?”

  “Kind of.”

  “Do you believe in Jesus?”

  “Mother, after years of Sunday school, Bible school and catechism, do I have a choice or a chance?” I smiled.

  “In your heart, do you believe?”

  “Yes, Mother, I believe with all my heart and soul. I just don’t talk about it.”

  “Good.”

  She relaxed a bit after that.

  “Mother.”

  “Now what?”

  “Are you afraid to die?”

  “No. I just don’t want it to hurt.”

  She fell asleep. When she woke again she called for the nurse.

  I had a cup of tea and came back. She was sitting up in the bed and looked bright again, with a bit of color in her cheeks. “Is my sister, the saint in training, here?”

  “No.”

  “She’s like a blowfly.”

  “Oh, Mom.”

  “You know that Julia Ellen went crackers. Because of her.” Mother relished this story. Although Mother loved her niece, Julia Ellen’s problems were proof that being a natural mother didn’t make you a good mother. “Took out all of Russell’s guns, he has a goddamned arsenal, and fired every single bullet into the ceiling. Whole ceiling fell on her head. Then they took her away. She’s better now.”

  Mother’s mind wasn’t wandering, but it wasn’t moving in a straight line. She scrambled events and time frames, although she always described people accurately.

  Now as it happened, Julia Ellen didn’t shoot out the whole ceiling. Russell laid all his guns on the table. She was house cleaning and told him to put them away.

  He ignored her. She picked up a gun and shot one bullet into the ceiling.

  Russell put the guns away.

  I hadn’t the heart to spoil Mother’s version, especially since she had suffered at the hands of her sister over the issue of what constitutes real motherhood, and this was proof that Mom was not alone in raising an imperfect daughter.

  Fortunately, Julia Ellen had a good sense of humor about the episode. But she did go through a terrible time when her marriage came apart. She got some help and put herself back together.

  “Do you need anything?”

  “A new body. I’d like a thirty-year-old model.”

  “Be hard to find one as pretty as yours at that age.”

  “You know. Sis always said that Momma told her to take care of me. Momma never said that. Sis made it up, I bet.”

  “Bet you’re right.”

  “I was the best dancer.”

  “Still are.”

  She lapsed into silence.

  “Mom, do you have any regrets?”

  She smiled at me, “I regret the times I said no, not the times I said yes.”

  That was the last time I saw my mother alive. She died August 13, 1983.

  69

  The Death Drill

  Knowing the drill by heart, I opened her bureau drawer, lifted the lid off the glass box, removed the key, pulled the chair to the closet, got the green strongbox, opened it and removed the valuable papers. I called Fairchild Funeral Home, now run by my classmate Ron. I called the pastor at the Lutheran church. I picked out the hymns, arranged the service, ran down to Fairchild’s, selected a suitable casket, informed the newspapers. There was no time to sleep between Mother’s death and her funeral, which had been arranged so people could fly down for the weekend.

  Barbara Bailey, a friend from Seattle, helped enormously. She and Julia Ellen organized food to feed the masses, trimmed the lawn, answered the phone.

  Aunt Mimi shuttled between Mom’s house and her own. She’d swoop down like a harpy to carry off yet another valuable.

  If you’ve ever seen Zorba the Greek, you’ll remember the scene in which a woman dies and people swarm in to strip her house bare. In Mother’s case, Aunt Mimi performed the work of hordes.

  On a few items I put my foot down, but I figured Aunt Mimi’s rapaciousness came from her own childhood poverty as well as from a profound misreading of my relationship to Mom. I wasn’t Julia’s natural daughter, therefore everything belonged to her.

  Mother’s will passed her property to me, but many items, china, crystal, jewelry, you name it, Aunt Mimi wanted. She wanted Mom’s car, too, and I wouldn’t stand for that.

  As it was, I faced $80,000 worth of hospital and doctor bills. Mom had some insurance but I was going to have to cover the rest, plus the expense of the funeral.

  And it was an extravaganza. After all, this was Mother’s last social engagement. If her send-off wasn’t perfect, she’d haunt me.

  Southern biddies like to stroll past flower displays, eye the casket, take note of the funeral home as well as what you wear to the occasion. You may be grieving, but you damn well better look good while you do it.

  The church overflowed. The first crisis of the morning was when Aunt Mimi set foot in a Lutheran church. She had tried to con me into arranging the service at the funeral home, which has a room for such things. Never. High church all the way.

  This had propelled my aunt into a crisis from which I derived some pleasure despite the circumstances. I had no idea if she would show up. Russell did come.

  “I walked you down the aisle when Butch died,” he said, “and I’ll walk you down the aisle now. The hell with all of them.”

  Love that man.

  He and Julia Ellen behaved impeccably toward each other. Julia Ellen should have cut the cord to her mother when she married Russell.

  Mom used to say, “Too much mother in that marriage.”

  Connie Coyne, my high-school buddy, appeared, as did Pastor Golder, the man who taught me catechism. He’d moved up in the hierarchy of the Lutheran Church, but I was touched that he remembered his original flock. Pastor Golder was a good shepherd.

  Mother’s casket, closed, reposed before the altar. “I don’t want people staring at my old dead body,” she’d said.

  Metal-flake blue, the casket dazzled. It cost as much as a new Toyota. Mother would have loved it. I’d considered polished walnut and then thought, no. Juts had a wild flair to her. Go for it.

  Draped over the casket was a floral covering that incorporated lilies of the valley and orchids in shades of pale yellow to white. You don’t want to know how much that cost either.

  Then I sent her an enormous horseshoe floral arrangement that took two men to lift it. I failed to inform people as to Mother’s track habits. This was between us, and a Kentucky Derby winner would have been happy with it.

  Suitably impressed by my handling of the funeral as well as by the fact that you couldn’t move for the floral gifts from friends, family and admirers, the southern junta settled in for a cleansing cry.

  Dad’s favorite hymn, “Beautiful Savior,” was on the roster since Mother would have liked it. “Holy, Holy, Holy” was second, and lastly I selected “It Came upon a Midnight Clear,” a Christmas carol. Mother loved that carol and I figured each Christmas the song would trigger a memory of the irreverent, irrepressible Juts.

  The boys came except for Wade. Eugene and Dorcas came from Pennsylvania, as did Uncle Claude and Aunt Jeun.

  Then, lo and behold, on the arm of a subdued Uncle Mearl, Aunt Mimi made her most Catholic entrance, Belgian lace hanky ready.

  I had had a stained-glass window installed in the church in memory of Dad years before, and now I made sure that Aunt Mimi h
ad to sit under it. She also had to admire the golden crosier I’d purchased as well as some of the red hymnals.

  Mother had her revenge in death. Her sister had to come to our church.

  Once the funeral was over we retired to the cemetery. As you know, you sit under an awning with your family. The grave yawns before you, the casket held in place by strong cords.

  As the last words were said over Mother’s body, the ashes-to-ashes, dust-to-dust hit the casket Toyota, Aunt Mimi emitted a wail.

  She’d allowed Juts to be the center of attention long enough. She was going to be the most distraught sister in history. Everyone would be sure to comment on the depths of her anguish.

  Everyone but me. She about split my eardrum.

  If I heard “my baby sister” one more time, I’d lose it.

  Finally, I leaned over, whispering into her right ear, “If you don’t shut up, I’m pushing you right in there with your sister. Behave yourself.”

  She drew herself together for the “freeze,” the formidable glare honed by generations of high-tone women. I glared right back.

  Uncle Mearl, truly saddened by Mother’s death, slipped his arm under his wife’s elbow. He rarely asserted himself, but when he did, you’d best pay attention.

  She lapsed into a model of grieving restraint.

  Then we drove back to the party at the house. We had enough food for an army, which was a good thing because we needed it. I don’t know where these people came from or who half of them were, but they had good Juts stories to tell.

  I gave each of her dearest friends an elephant. She had collected enough elephants to start a specialty store. I kept the first one she bought, the little iron bank from 1908.

  Aunt Mimi seized the beautiful Steuben crystal one as well as the silver Tiffany picture frame.

  Mom’s little black poodle, B.B., Sunshine’s successor, poked his nose everywhere, looking for her. That made everyone boohoo all the more.