The Living End

by Lisa Samson

  “How old are you?”

  I’ve always pictured deaconesses as the human equivalent of a raisin, only swathed in a shroud, of stooped over and shuffling around with baskets of warm towels or baked goods, knocking on doors of sick people, showing up at just the right time.

  “I’m thirty-seven.”

  “Kids?”

  “Four. All in school, and I thank the Lord for that! You?”

  “No kids.”

  “Married?”

  “Widowed.”

  “Recently?”

  “September.”

  “Oh, my dear Lord Jesus!”

  I just nod.

  “Well, no wonder you wandered in here! Not many older white women show up here in the Rib Room!”

  “I guess I did feel a little bit drawn.”

  Did I? Sounded good.

  “Well, just to entice you back, I’m going to send you home a big piece of my banana cream pie. Best in Luray, maybe even the entire state of Virginia.”

  “You don’t want me back. You’ve got enough heartache on your shoulders.”

  She eyes me, looks at the ceiling, and nods. She locks her gaze into my own. “Oh, my shoulders aren’t big enough for much. I just borrow the pair of the One who gives me marching orders.”

  There is no way I’m going to ask whose shoulders those are, because her being a deaconess assures me they’re the same shoulders Joey always threw matters onto. I swear. It just goes to show. I manage not to roll my eyes.

  “Well, I’d better tend to my customers. Please, come on in anytime. What’s your name?”

  “Pearly.”

  “That’s a name I can remember. The pearly gates!”

  I just smile. Oh, dear.

  The ribs go down more smoothly than single malt whiskey. After months of cereal, the sloppy richness is intoxicating. Yolanda doesn’t know what she’s missing. I’ll be back. Life’s too short.

  I’m drunk. I’m drunk. I’m stinkin’ drunk. I’ve tried so hard to make it not come to this again, but here I am, alone in the chalet feeling so sorry for poor old me I can’t stand it another second.

  Boo-hoo, Pearly!

  Actually, I’m sitting under the deck, and I’m stinkin drunk.

  I used to love margaritas, years ago, before Joey “got convicted” (whatever that means) and reduced our alcoholic consumption to red wine. I mean, they drank wine in the Bible, am I right or am I right? I remember Joey saying, “They try to say it’s grape juice. Hah! These are the same people that say, ‘When the plain sense makes no sense seek no other sense,’ except when it’s their thing.”

  I didn’t know what he was talking about, and I still don’t, really, but all I know is that we drank red wine from then on out. Shiraz, merlot, cabernet. Red, red. Red.

  So I said, “Forget this” tonight. I went right down to the ABC store and bought myself a bottle of good tequila and some margarita mix. And I drank and drank and drank. Even put the salt on the rim for the first few drinks, then lost the salt, then lost the glass, and finally, lost the bottle.

  But I am warm and wavy now, my head light and floating above me and my circumstances, and this seems good for now.

  I’ll just lay my head back a bit. Yep, that’s it. Lie back and feel the merry-go-round spinning beneath me.

  If the watch stopped last night, I deserve nothing less. When I bowed over the toilet bowl after I came in from the cold, I remembered that yes, there is indeed a God, because I was praying to Him to get me through this. A lot of people can’t begin to understand the appeal of getting drunk. All they’ve heard about is the slurring and the barfing, the spinning and the barfing, the stumbling and the barfing. But for a while you feel good, and you feel so good you totally forget about the inevitable barfing.

  Matthew comes today for guitar lessons. Poor boy. I have a feeling something concerto this way comes.

  Matthew arrives at five as usual, but something about him has changed. The brightness around his eyes and mouth seems sanded down. His hair lies in greasy ropes, and the fabric of his pants drapes in softer folds, their normal, ironed crispness gone.

  He walks in, refusing to look in my eyes. “Hey, Mrs. Laurel.”

  “Hi, Matthew.”

  He sets his guitar down by the hearth, clicks open the latches, and sighs.

  Although my head has stopped throbbing, my stomach is still tidal. “How about a concert day today?” I ask.

  He only nods and lifts his guitar out of the scarlet-lined case. Easing down into the dining room chair I bring out for each lesson, he leans over again and grabs his folding footstool. I meant to buy one in Luray, but naturally I forgot. I really do need to start writing things down.

  He shifts his weight, and he hunches over the guitar, examining the strings, searching them for inspiration, I guess. I ache for him. Seeing him for the first time as the vulnerable teenager he is stabs my heart, and the maternal arms that I possess but rarely have the honor of using throb to reach out.

  Several measures, tentative and shy, tumble into the air between us. And then, four violent, discordant strums that still sound better than anything I’ve ever played.

  “I can’t,” he says. “I just don’t feel like playing my guitar today.”

  How can this be? Matthew and the guitar are interchangeable.

  I’ve seen many boys in this state before. Usually they’re willing to talk; they just have to pretend for several minutes that they don’t wish to.

  “You seemed upset when you walked in.”

  “I’m okay.”

  I nod. “I feel like a cup of hot chocolate. Want one?”

  Actually, the last thing I feel like drinking is a rich mug of cocoa, but it’s all I can think of that’s quick, easy, and enticing to a sixteen-year-old boy.

  He shrugs. “That would be okay.”

  I jerk my head toward the door. “Come on back into the kitchen with me. Give an old lady some company.”

  “You’re not an old lady.”

  “Compared to you I am!”

  Showing mercy, I turn before he can respond, but I hear the squish of his sneakers on the wooden floor behind me. I decide to put him to use while I make the drinks. “Can you just bring in a bit more wood from the deck? I’m planning on keeping this fire going until bedtime.”

  He nods with enthusiasm. “Sure.” He blows in relief as he turns.

  I wish Joey stood here with me right now. Well, yes. Of course I do. But he knew how to handle situations like this. My job was to smile and set a plate of good food in front of them, provide fuel for the man-to-man discussion. Maybe he’ll put in a good word for me up there, out there, or wherever heaven happens to be. I always liked to think heaven isn’t really so. That we recycle ourselves or our eternal being creates some sort of personal, delight-filled reality that we bask in for the rest of our existence. Whether that be for eternity or not, who can really say?

  But I don’t feel that way now. I don’t want that at all. I want Joey to still be Joey, to still be alive somewhere and happy and able to put in a good word for me.

  I’ve been thinking a lot lately about where I’ll go after I die. I’ve had my fair share of discussions about reincarnation over the years. Especially during college. Oh, my! You’d think we had all the answers to hear us talk. But I’ve noticed one thing over the years. When loved ones die, I don’t care what the family left behind has believed about the soul’s final destiny, they always say, “He’s in a better place. She’s in a better place.”

  Well, what if he’s got some bad karma to work out? How can I say for sure he’s in a better place? He might be a cockroach right now for all I know. A person can’t ever know the true state of a person’s heart and soul, whether he was truly enlightened or just faking it like the rest of bumbling humanity.

  So yes, I’m hoping Joey can see me. I’m hoping there’s a real God with real feelings who’s listening to Joey saying, “Lord, can you lend a helping hand to Pearly and Matthew down there?”
Oh, let me tell you, Joey will ask if it’s within heavenly protocol! That man never minded asking questions.

  Matthew enters the kitchen just as I’m topping off the mugs with a couple of big marshmallows. No mini kind in my cupboards. Joey wouldn’t have had that, and I agreed. “Cute only goes so far,” he always said.

  “All finished. Hey, I think I need to take a rain check on that drink.”

  “How come? We’re not even close to the end of lesson time.”

  He curls his fingers around the mug handle. “You’ll still pay me?”

  Sure.

  “But I said—”

  “Shoot, I don’t want to play either! Let’s call it student-teacher bonding!”

  He grins and curls his fingers around the handle of the mug. “Okay.” But the smile fades like the final note of a sad melody, hanging there slightly, almost painfully.

  We sit down at the bar that separates the kitchen work area from the table. “You might as well tell me what’s wrong. I’ll get it out of you sooner or later.”

  “Just family stuff. It would be way too boring for you.”

  “Are you kidding me? I had a family once. Well, I still do have a brother. He’s got Down’s syndrome and lives in a home.”

  “Oh, wow.”

  “Yeah. My mom took care of him until she got sick, then died. Dad had passed on by then, and I wanted to take him on, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I couldn’t face a life like that. Pretty sad, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know. That’s a lot of work, isn’t it?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. He’s pretty self-sufficient. I guess I just didn’t want the … upheaval.”

  Upheaval? Where did that word come from? Joey, are you around?

  Hah.

  He grunts. “Upheaval. I can relate to that.”

  Hmm.

  I don’t say anything, I just wait. I’m scared if I utter a word it will break the spell that has suddenly formed.

  “I mean, if you saw where I lived.” He sips his cocoa with a loud slurp, skimming off the cool top layer.

  Wonderful, he spoke! “Something happening at home?”

  “It’s what doesn’t happen.”

  I wait.

  “My parents are slobs, Mrs. Laurel. Absolute slobs. There’s garbage everywhere. The kitchen counters are piled up with dirty dishes, and there are roaches and bugs everywhere. Maggots growing on the stuff at the bottom.”

  “Oh, my.” The hangover reminds me it’s still around. Don’t lose it, Pearly.

  “I tried to keep the house clean myself for years, but it’s a losing battle, so why try?”

  “I don’t blame you.”

  “But I can’t live like this.”

  “Are they … alcoholics or something?”

  He shakes his head. “No. I can’t understand it. It’s depressing.”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  “I’ve got to get out of there, but I don’t know how. Where could I go?”

  I knew. “What are your grades like?”

  “I’m not bragging or anything, but I’ll get valedictorian next year if I don’t screw up.”

  “Okay. Let me tell you about the school my husband used to be headmaster at.”

  We move into the living room for comfort.

  We sit talking long after the lesson time expires. He leans farther forward on the sofa with each minute that passes, muttering, “Wow” and “You’re kidding” as I speak.

  “But what about music? Do they have a good music program?”

  “It’s getting better. It’s like any school. They add more each year. And funding makes a difference too.”

  “Peabody Institute is in Baltimore,” he says.

  “That’s right. About forty-five minutes from the school, I’d say, maybe an hour. And you have your own car.”

  He sinks back into the couch. “Wow.”

  “Do you think your parents would be open to it?”

  He nods. “They know I can’t stand it at home, but they’re powerless to do anything. It’s like it’s gotten beyond them.”

  Boy, do I know how that feels. “Talk to them about it. If you can just hang on through spring and summer, maybe we can get you in for your senior year.”

  “I will.” The sparkle returns. Oh, the resilience of youth! He looks at his watch. “I missed my own guitar lesson.”

  “Well, why don’t you stay for dinner then? I’m making …” What am I making? “Cold cereal!”

  He laughs. “What kind do you have?”

  “Come and see.”

  I open up the cupboard door and display ten different boxes.

  “Oh, wow.”

  I shake my head. “It’s difficult to explain.” I open the refrigerator and reach for the milk, the only item inside.

  Matthew peers in then looks at me, crosses his arms. “Mrs. Laurel, no offense, but you need to get a life.”

  Richard King is the most stunning African American man in existence. Actually, he’s the most stunning man, period. His eyes slant upward slightly, dark brown yet luminous, deeper in tone than his aged-oak colored skin. He’s warm in appearance and in his bedside manner. In other words, he’s just delicious, and I’ve always wondered if his wife sees his beauty the way I do. I do hope so. He deserves love in hearty portions.

  He came to Lafayette School years and years ago out of a horribly abusive situation. Smart and kind and conscientious and even then wanting to be a doctor. He loves children.

  He’s the perfect man, though he assures me otherwise.

  This note from him, offering, of course, to do anything he can, gladdens my heart. He loved Joey so much. And the way he talks! So utterly beautiful. Joey tried to talk him into politics, you know, as a sideline to the doctoring. “With your talent for rhetoric, you could really change the world, Rich,” Joey said many times.

  But Richard would have none of it. “This is where I’m supposed to be, with my patients and my family. That’s all the world-changing I need.”

  “Smart man,” Joey would say.

  I imagine he could give a rousing stump speech that even Cheeta might appreciate.

  “Call me. Richard.” His note ended that way. So I do.

  “Ring Factory Family Health Center,” a chipper voice answers. They’re very chipper at the Ring Factory Family Health Center. I should know. I’ve been going there for years.

  “Dr. King, please.”

  “He’s with a patient. Can I tell him who’s calling?”

  “Pearly Laurel.”

  “Oh, hi, Mrs. Laurel. It’s Gayle.”

  “Hey, Gayle.”

  “I know he’ll want to know you’re on the phone. By the way, we were so sad to hear about Dr. Laurel.”

  “Thank you.”

  “We’ll miss him.”

  “Yes, well, he was the type of person to be missed.”

  “That’s for sure. Hold on, I’ll get Dr. King.”

  I wait for several minutes, and that’s fine. I set my breakfast bowl in the dishwasher and wipe down the counter. It begins to snow. Oh, the luscious sound of falling snow. I heard yesterday in Luray we’re in for the year’s biggest storm.

  “Miss Pearly!”

  “Richie!”

  “I’m so glad you called.”

  “I just got your note.”

  “Thanks for sending out your cards. But I want you to know I was at the funeral.”

  “I figured. How was it?”

  “Tearful. A lot of the guys were there. We went down to the Chat ’n’ Chew afterward and reminisced. We haven’t all been together in years. Shame it took something like this.”

  “It always does. Did the school notify you of his passing?”

  “No. We saw it in the Aegis. Nice long article too. Almost worthy of the man himself.”

  “I wonder why nobody told me about that?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Richie, I just wanted to call and thank you for the offer.”

 
“You need anything?”

  “Not right now. But you never know.”

  He chuckles. “That’s right.”

  “How’s the family? The kids?”

  “Well, Sheila’s fine. And we’re up to three now. All boys.”

  “Great!”

  “It’s been awhile since you’ve been in for a checkup.”

  “I know. I’m still down in Virginia. And guess what? I’m down to five cigarettes a day.”

  “Good for you. Too bad you didn’t do that while Dr. Laurel was alive.”

  “You two. It’s amazing you couldn’t talk me into it.”

  “You’re a stubborn old girl.”

  “Hey, watch that!”

  “We’ve got a lot of years together, Miss Pearly. That entitles me to some affection.”

  I smile so broadly my cheeks tire right away. Oh, lovely. So lovely. “Well, Richie, I’ll let you get back to your patients.”

  “All right. Remember, if you need anything. Anything.”

  “Will do.”

  5 January 1970

  Conking Street, Baltimore

  Something happened to me tonight. I was sitting in my kitchen chair, Pearly had long been asleep in bed, and a desire to breathe the cold night air beckoned me onto the porch. I left my coat hanging on the rack by the door and the chill breeze blew up my shirt sleeves, raced up my arms, over my shoulders, and down my chest to my stomach. But there I stood with expectation as though I was keeping some appointment. I’d been thinking a lot about Pearly, about what a blessing she is to me, but because of her outlook on life and faith and God, I cannot tell her even this. I grieve over this but I hope I hide this well. I try. I don’t want to pressure her or make our home awkward for her. But I wonder if I am sinning by not being more overt about this aspect that is not only of importance to me, but truly, in the end, is of ultimate importance to her as well. Perhaps if I’d been raised a Baptist or a Pentecostal I never would have married her in the first place, but the whole “unequally yoked” portion of Scripture I came upon last year had never been stressed in my church. Shame on me for not knowing more of the Bible, I suppose, and yet, God is still able to take what man does either out of ignorance or evil and turn it into something wonderful. Like my marriage. It is truly a union of heart and mind. I can only pray a union of our souls will someday follow. But will I be held accountable on judgment day for Pearly’s soul? I can picture the Lord saying, “You had all of those years with her and failed to press the issue even a little bit, Joe.” I can only pray for God’s mercy. But last night, standing on the porch overlooking Conking Street, the cold stones of Sacred Heart Church gleaming beneath the street lamps, I waited and it didn’t take long. My heart was impressed with the words, “Leave her to Me, Joe. It’s ultimately My job, not yours. I love her even more than you do.” And I was comforted.