The Living End

by Lisa Samson

  Heal?

  Well, maybe “bide my time” would be more apropos. I will begin my crusade of the list come January the second, when I leave for the cabin I’ve rented on Massanutten Mountain in Virginia. Guitar lessons, as soon as I find a teacher down there, will begin, as well as endurance training for my walk along the Appalachian Trail next fall. I hope to get that 10K race out of the way this summer.

  I’ll have to start jogging.

  My side stitches up just thinking about it.

  And the cigarettes? Oh dear! This scares me, but hopefully I’ll meet my ultimate deadline even sooner if I quit. Ironic, isn’t it? If I only have to hang on in this state of suspended animation for two more years, I’ll be grateful. I thought Joey’s absence would feel fuzzier as time protracted, but it only sharpens, cutting me deeper each day I wake to an empty bed.

  Peta pulls me out of my thoughts. “I guess I regret a lot of things. But the biggest is when Cheeta got ditched right before her wedding. Jerald was just scared. He loved her, I knew that. And when he came back with his tail between his legs, she sent him away because I convinced her it was the only thing to do.”

  “She didn’t have to listen to you, Peta.”

  “No. But she always had, and I knew that, too. I just didn’t want her to leave me. And now she’s a dried-up old prune, wearing gold jewelry and low cleavage and looking, quite honestly, downright scary these days.”

  I laugh. “I wouldn’t go quite that far, Peta.”

  “Me, I was made for the single, spinster life. Look at me, I’m hefty, strong, and secure. But Cheeta wasn’t. I don’t know what she’s going to do after I’m gone.”

  I reach for another potato. “Well, who knows? You might outlive her.”

  Peta shakes her head. “My regret comes easy these days, honey. I’ve had cause to do a lot of thinking.”

  And then, I just know. “You’re sick, aren’t you?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Is it cancer?” I set down my peeler. I do not touch Peta. It’s an unspoken rule.

  “No. It’s polycystic kidney disease.”

  The same disease that killed our Grandma. “Oh, dear God.” I almost see the toxins building up within her. Why didn’t I notice the peculiar pallor of her complexion before this?

  “They diagnosed me three years ago.”

  “Peta!”

  She shrugs. “It’s my business, Pearly.”

  “How close are you to dialysis?”

  “I’m at a 5.5 on the creatinine levels. Seven is when they want you to start.”

  “People can live a long time on dialysis,” I say.

  “Not everybody takes to it.”

  Grandma didn’t. She was dead within a year of starting it.

  Peta shakes her head. “So, not only will Cheeta be left alone, she’ll have to take care of me. Unless I just do myself in before it gets too bad.”

  I gasp. “You can’t do that!”

  “Oh, I could, but I don’t know if I will. I think that would be worse on Cheeta than the decline.”

  I try to act normal. “Cheeta loves you, Cousin. She needs you more.”

  “That’s what I was saying before. I sure did the wrong thing all those years ago.”

  “Don’t kill yourself, Peta. You can’t.”

  “I know. Although, when the dialysis comes, I may decide to forgo. I probably won’t. It’s just a wish I have to cut this thing off at the knees.” She turns away. “And while we’re on the topic of wishes, what’s this wish list you have on the coffee table in your living room?”

  “How did you find that?” I’ll let her change the topic.

  “I went in when you went to town to buy groceries.”

  “Peta!”

  She finishes rinsing the last potato and sets the bowl in the refrigerator. “Well, don’t act so shocked, Miss Smarty-Pants. I’d never learn a thing if I didn’t find out on my own.”

  “As if you can talk! Anyway, it’s a list Joey made and kept in his pocket. I’d never seen it until just before he died.”

  “It’s interesting, I can tell you that. I’d like to do some of those things myself before I go.”

  Hmm. “Like what?”

  “Definitely the pyramid one, and the Alaska whale watching, too.” She pulls out a bag of onions. “Here, get peeling. We might as well start on your stuffing.”

  I obey without question.

  “I’ll tell you a secret, Peta.”

  “Hold on while I catch my breath.”

  “Are you okay? Is it the—you know—?”

  “Of course not, you ninny! I’m just in a state of shock you’re actually deigning to take me into your confidence!”

  “Oh.”

  “So? What’s the big secret?”

  “Well, it isn’t a big secret, just a secret of my own.” I set down the bag of onions, feeling my eyes brighten for the first time in heaven only knows how long. “I’m going to fulfill that list.”

  Peta’s eyes spring to life as well. “No!”

  “I sure am. In fact, I’m starting just after the new year.”

  Peta starts fingering the bottom of her braid, the way she’s always done when nervous. I spare her the agony. “Wanna go on the Alaskan cruise with me?”

  “What about Cheeta?”

  “Maybe this will be a time for her to learn to be on her own a bit.”

  “Let me think about this.”

  “Okay. Just let me know before—”

  “I’ll do it!”

  “That was fast.”

  “I don’t have much quality time left, honey, I have to think quick these days. When do we leave?”

  “May. Either this coming or the next. I’m not sure how long everything’s going to take.”

  “Why then?”

  “That’s when you get to see the whales. It also gives me time to get a good hold on my guitar.”

  Peta smiles. “I’ve always wanted to learn the trombone myself. You don’t think …”

  “No way! Don’t make us glad to see you go, dear.”

  Turkey, oyster dressing, sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, sauerkraut, rolls, butter, gravy, pickles, congealed salad, and Peta’s canned cranberry sauce. Almost a meal fit for a king.

  Peta scoops a huge spoonful of lime gelatin onto my plate. “Eat hearty!” She winks.

  I have to; it’s Cheeta’s only contribution to the meal. Be nice and that sort of thing. Oh, Cheeta looks positively wondrous this morning. Wearing all black, she mourns the loss of liberty with a toast of Scotch. “Well, here’s to celebrating the government creating a day when we’re supposed to pray and give thanks, clearly a violation of the separation of church and state.” She displays her gold jewelry against a fresh dose of tanning-booth skin, creating quite a fetching appearance when added to the black, sleek turban that hugs her head.

  Shrubby dressed up. He wears a blazer with his work clothes and a pair of loafers without socks. He heard that was preppy one time. When I let him in, he whispered, “I’ve got a tie in my pocket just in case.”

  “Just in case what?”

  He just shrugged and handed me some fresh oysters for a half-shell appetizer.

  Peta sits across from me at the table looking beautiful. I wonder if she thinks this is her last Thanksgiving and seeks to be remembered as lovely. I’ve never seen her like this, her long hair piled on top of her head, its own natural waves ebbing and flowing down around her temples. I think she borrowed some of her sister’s lipstick, for her lips shine a soft plum. Probably one of Cheeta’s castoff colors. She wears a new sweater she bought in Salisbury when she ventured up to find a good-sized turkey. Its mustard and bronze hues catch the Blackfoot in her skin. She is beautiful. I never realized Peta is such a classic beautiful woman.

  I wear my death ensemble to honor the poor turkey. Black pants (bumblebee boxers underneath), black shirt (long-sleeved for the cold weather), and my mirrored shawl. I hang it over the back of my chair as
Shrubby stands to his feet, glass of wine held out in front of him.

  Shrubby makes us all do the thankful exercise.

  “I’ll go first,” he tells us. “I’m thankful I don’t have any wives to speak of, I found a previously unknown oyster bed, so drudgin’s been good, and while I’m sorry Joe’s dead, it’s been nice seeing Pearly around these parts again.”

  Peta snickers. “You would say that, Shrubby.”

  “You’re such a Casanova,” says Cheeta.

  I shrug. “You know they think we made it together when we were in high school, Shrub.”

  He laughs. “You and me?” He turns to the cousins. “Where in the world did you hear that one?”

  Peta shakes her head. “You two snuck off together enough.”

  “Yeah. So I could be the lookout for her and my brother Marsh.” He shudders as though sex with me would have been horrible. Well, he’s probably right. I’m officially dubbing this the Sexual Therapy Thanksgiving. I hardly gave this stuff a thought for the past three decades, and they’re rubbing my nose in it. Guess it’s true that you can never go home again. Guess this kind of thing is why.

  All in all, I admit to being thankful here in Grandma’s kitchen, with Grandma’s plates, cupboards, wineglasses, and even Grandma’s disease if it makes Peta realize her full potential for however long. I raise my glass, the candle flame behind it turning the garnet wine to ruby. Inside, I toast Joey, promising him I’ll never forget what a lucky woman he made me all those years ago, telling him that even I realize God gave me a gift in him, and I will always be thankful.

  Good thing Joey didn’t specify the altitude of a proper, winterable mountain. I’m sure he pictured something Alpish or Rocky, not the mildly undulating Blue Ridge. But while I’m capable of roughing it to some extent, this is not penance I’m doing. It’s a final act of homage. So I made sure central heating and hot and cold running water came with the package. There’s no TV, though. As well as I knew my husband, I know he wouldn’t have wanted any such cultural intrusion upon the time.

  I bought my own, new guitar, bright blue and shiny, a huge fake-it book with the chords charted above the lyrics, and a stack of CDs. Music winter begins. I will learn to play my way around simple songs and appreciate what I can afford to buy. And I’m going to quit smoking this winter in time to train for my 10K when spring comes. Lynchburg, Virginia, only a couple hours away, hosts the Virginia Ten-Miler. And I will be there in my shoes and shorts. I bought good, waterproof hiking boots to start hiking this winter. Climbing around the hills when there’s no snow should help me get in shape, too.

  I call Maida, just to see how things fare there. They must have hired a new headmaster by now. I don’t really want to know who he is, but my curiosity does get the better of me. And I haven’t found out what’s going on with Shelby and Brock on Loves, Lies, and Lifetimes in months. And poor little Pumpkin? What’s become of him?

  “Hi, Maida, it’s Pearly.”

  “Pearly Girlie! I don’t recognize this number. 804? Where’s that?

  “Virginia?”

  “How come?”

  I refuse to explain about the list. “Just thought it would be a nice place to winter. I’m near Luray, you know those caverns and all.”

  “Have you ever heard that stalacpipe organ?” she asks.

  “No. I’ve never been to the caverns.”

  “Then I think it’s high time you go.”

  “How’s my little Pumpkin?”

  “Fine. Gotten fat and lazy. I can’t bear to let her roam outside the way you did. All those bugs out there. Ugh. Not to mention the winter cold.”

  “So tell me what’s happening on your soap. Did Shelby and Brock ever make it back from ancient Egypt?”

  “No. They’re just about to get married. She gave up her throne for him—well, just deserted it really—and now the Phoenicians are after her, trying to make sure she’s dead now that she’s in such a vulnerable position.”

  “Were the Phoenicians around with the Egyptians, and were they enemies?”

  “Who cares?” says Maida.

  Joey would.

  I think of Joey’s wonderful stories, so acclaimed, so brilliant, so meticulously researched when called for. But Maida makes me wonder if that was all a needless bother. Loves, Lies, and Lifetimes is daytime television’s biggest hit, faulty research and hackneyed, implausible plotlines or not. Maybe Joey was right. Maybe he should have just penned some sleazy bestseller, then taken the money and run.

  He left me well enough off, so I can’t complain.

  “So what’s happening at the school? Who’s the new headmaster?”

  “A woman, if you can believe it.” Oh, the disapproval oozes out of the receiver!

  “Really? What’s her name?”

  “Yvette Brown. A black woman.”

  “You sound doubtful about her.”

  “She sashayed into my kitchen on day one and informed me a nutritionist was in order. Miss High and Mighty Ph.D. ‘This stuff has more fat in it than my grandma’s Sunday dinners!’ she said.”

  “Well, I think that’s kind of funny.”

  “She was laughing when she said it, that’s true. But it still wasn’t very nice.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Late forties, I’d guess. Has seven children of her own, and her husband works in Washington, D.C., of all places. Catches the Amtrak every day, if you can believe that.”

  “Maida, dear, she sounds lovely.”

  “How can you say that, when she replaced Joe? Joe was the perfect headmaster.”

  “Well, I won’t argue with you on that count.”

  She is silent for a moment. “I put some flowers by his grave on Thanksgiving.”

  “Thank you, Maida.”

  “When will you be home, Pearly?”

  “When I’m finished.”

  “Finished what? I’m taking care of your cat, I have a right to know.”

  A knock sounds on the door. “Gotta go, Maida. My guitar teacher is here.”

  I hang up before she can say anything. I yank open the door to find Matthew, one of the busboys over at the Mimlyn Inn. He plays acoustic sets at the new coffee shop on Main every so often as well.

  The poor child’s face churns with acne, but at sixteen, he is already a well-respected guitar player. “I love classical guitar, but if all you want to do is learn to strum some tunes, I could teach you that anytime, any day.”

  We’d struck up a conversation at the gas station near the Wal-Mart.

  It’s my first lesson. “Matthew!” I swing the door wide. “Come on in.”

  “Whoa, nice place. Yours?”

  “Nah. I’m just renting it until March. It’s kind of small.”

  I usher him in front of the fireplace, where I’ve already arranged two armless kitchen chairs. He sets down his guitar case, brown and worn. “It was my grandfather’s. Notice how both front and back are rounded? You can literally drive a car over these puppies and the guitar will remain unscathed.”

  I thumb back at the kitchen. “Want something to drink?”

  “No. I bought a soda on my way here.”

  “Must be nice to have your own car.”

  He grins. “Oh yeah. But I work hard enough for it.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Uh-huh. I bus at the Mimlyn, work at Taco Bell, give guitar lessons, and I detail cars too. Your car need detailing?”

  “It could use some freshening up inside.”

  “Oh yeah. And when the weather’s nice, I power-wash anything people want power-washed.”

  “You’re a regular entrepreneur.”

  “Well, I really want to go to college, but I’ll have to pay my own way.”

  “Will your parents help you?”

  “They can’t. Dad just works at the Wrangler factory—well, Vanity Fair owns it now, actually. It’s hand-to-mouth around our place.”

  “Wow. That’s a shame. What about your mom?”

  He rolls his eye
s. “Hopeless. But at least there’s one thing I know. I’m not going to end up in their shoes. I’m going to make it big.”

  “In music?”

  “Yes ma’am. Classical guitar. You’ll see me playing with an orchestra behind me one day.”

  “Can you play me something?”

  “It’s your twenty bucks, Mrs. Laurel. If you want part of that to be a concert, I’m not going to argue.”

  But he blushes, acting sixteen again. “It’s not that I won’t play for free, or for the love of it, Mrs. Laurel. But I have to go right from here to my own lessons.”

  I understand.

  “Now you sit on the couch, close your eyes, and listen while I play, okay?”

  “All right.”

  He flips open the latches on his case and removes an old guitar, nicked and worn. But it’s polished, lovingly kept. “Was that your grandfather’s as well?”

  He shook his head. “This was my uncle’s. He died a few years ago in a car accident. The only one in the bunch worth anything.”

  Now there’s a statement that makes you want to know more and puts you off all in one fell swoop.

  Matthew begins. The tones of the strings when he plucks them, picks them, strums them are like nothing I’ve ever heard before. Mint and chili pepper. Crystal and clay.

  And I thought Joey knew his way around a fretboard.

  So young and tender are his fingers, so young and tender is the melody. My heart stutters, falls and shatters on the floor of my soul, and I miss Joey in this moment more than I ever have before. Matthew’s music embodies him somehow, curling its tempo into a Joey shape, its tune into a Joey sound, its rhythm into a Joey movement. I cry. I don’t mean to, and Matthew doesn’t notice until he lifts his head forty minutes later.

  “Guess I got carried away.”

  I wipe my eyes.

  “Are you okay, Mrs. Laurel?”

  “I’m just sad. My husband died in September. Your tune made me miss him.”