by Lisa Samson
“Can you do a sunset between two mountains?”
“Sure. You want color?”
“Yes. A bright red sun and purple mountains. Maybe a greenish tree line.”
“Your husband gonna be okay with this?”
“Yes. I know he will.”
“No prob. I’ll see what I can come up with. I make no guarantees if it’s not something I can trace.”
“I’ll trust your artistic talents.”
He rumbles a smoker’s laugh, a lower volume than mine as I join him. Certainly laughter is the only thing we have in common here. I look around me at this shack of a place and am the only—what would you say—typical person in here.
The cars file by on Route 40, an alternative way out of the city during rush hour. I sniff, breathing in the aroma of many smoking substances. The smell sure takes me back.
He slides a paper in front of me, scenic band sketched just as I described.
“Perfect!”
He turns the paper back toward him. “Think so?”
“Yes. I like it.”
A satisfied grin accompanies a nod. “Lets go then. I have to warn you, though. You’ve chosen to get a tattoo in one of the more painful places.” He takes my hand into his.
Oh great. I feel my heart speed up at his touch. I haven’t felt another man’s touch in years. Yes, you shake hands and have brief physical contact with men all the time when you’re married, but when you’re not married, well, it’s different. It’s been so long.
“… chosen your shoulder or something, it would be another story, a lot easier.”
He’s examining my finger. “I don’t mind,” I hear myself say. “I have a high pain threshold.”
Using deodorant as a transfer medium, he transfers the design around my finger with a thin marker. “You right-handed or left?”
“Right.”
“Good. Because, I’ll tell you this, you won’t be able to do much with this hand for a few days.”
“Will it be that sore?”
“Maybe, but I’m thinking about the salve and the bandaging.”
“Salve? Bandaging?”
“Oh, sure. This thing will bleed for a while too.”
“I never knew!”
“No offense, but you don’t look like the type that would.”
After donning rubber gloves, he reaches for the tool of his trade and turns on the needle. This contraption looks like it’s literally held together with rubber bands! Oh dear.
Beginning to draw the line, he looks up. “You okay?”
I nod. It feels as though he’s running a razorblade across my skin.
“The outlining’s the worst,” he says. “The color is a piece of cake compared to this.”
I just grit my teeth and let him continue. I mean, at this rate, it will only take about ten minutes for the outlining. A woman can stand anything for ten minutes. Ask any mother out there.
“So, what do I need to do to ward off infection?”
“Be faithful with the salve and wash your hands before touching it.”
Well, I’m not going to do any of it and cross my hopefully infected fingers for bad luck! Maybe I’ll get some big all-over infection, and it’ll be too late by the time Peta gets me to the hospital, and there I’ll go! Off into the wild blue yonder, me and my new tattoo.
“If you don’t,” he continues, “you’ll scab over, and when the scab comes off, so does the color.”
Oh, dear. I surely can’t have that.
Foiled yet again.
Joey takes my hands. We sit on the banks of the Bay. Our small sailboat docked at the pier near Shrubby’s bobs, and the thin waves pat the sides. “I think you need to set up your studio again.”
“And photograph who?”
“Whoever you want to. Maybe you could do children. People love to have pictures of their children.”
I picture teddy bears, little chairs, baskets, a miniature wicker settee, and corny backgrounds.
“My dreams weren’t about photography, Joey. They were about recording history, about danger and relevance.”
“Then maybe you need to finish up your degree, get on with the Sunpaper or the Post or even freelance.”
I say nothing.
“Or you could take some courses at Harford Community College to keep up on the current methods.”
Didn’t he hear me? “It’s not about the photography, Joey.”
I love the way my husband’s eyes soften when he looks at me this way. I feel as if I’m a precious toy a man has found in a box he hasn’t opened since childhood.
“I only want to be your wife right now,” I say. “It’s enough. I’m finding great satisfaction in making a home the boys can come to.”
He pushes one brow up toward his hairline. “Are you positive, Pearly?”
I am. I take his hand. “It’s like this, Joey. I may not take pictures of historical significance, but I do make a difference to the future. Maybe that’s more important. Maybe it isn’t, but I’m content.”
He begins picking at the long grass that cushions us. “Only if you’re sure. I’d hate for you to look at me someday when we’re old and resent me.”
“I won’t. I promise I won’t.”
Yolanda crosses her arms over her ample bosom, the only ample section of her wiry body. “Well, you have only yourself to blame, Pearly Everlasting!”
“What did I do?” I drum the fingers of my left hand on the comforter of my bed. I love my sunset tattoo ring. Although I wish the bleeding would stop. The nausea begins again, but I shove it down where it belongs.
“ ‘Oysters, Yolanda,’ ” she mimics me, “ ‘Thanksgiving isn’t Thanksgiving without oysters.’ ”
“Well it isn’t.”
“But now you’re sick, eating those bad oysters.”
“They weren’t bad!”
“How can you be so sure? You’re the only one puking.”
“I ate too many of them is all, Yo.”
I consider veering into a description of the absolutely most horrific vomit imaginable, but I like Yolanda too much to do that to her. And I don’t know if I can handle it either. “How’s Matthew?” His parents arrived too late to sit down with the family. Lucky for me I’d already puked the first time and was laid out here in Yolanda’s bedroom.
“Fine. He and his parents are sitting in the kitchen having their pie. It’s too noisy in the family room to talk.”
I believe that. Yolanda’s four children had been painting pumpkins and gluing Indian corn onto pantyhose cardboards. Next on the agenda: paper chains for the soon-coming Christmas tree. All this while watching videos that include A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving and The Mouse on the Mayflower. I didn’t know any copies of The Mouse on the Mayflower still existed. I’m glad, though. It deserves to live a good long life.
“Where’s your big family?” I ask.
“What big family?”
“You know, cousins and sisters and all, the people who adopted you?”
“Oh, Pearly. There was only Grandmom Mable, who left me the restaurant. She was a spinster.”
I feel let down. “I thought you were part of a big clan.”
“Nope. Just me and Mable. And her sister, Yvette, who’s long gone too.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh, Pearly, I have my church family. I’ve been with them since before I can remember, and they love me, not to mention my kids.”
“But holidays must be terrible.”
“Does it look terrible around here? Truth is, I turned down three invitations for dinner elsewhere because I wanted to spend today with you.”
I’ve already made a nice memory to tuck away.
I think I’ll take a little nap. It feels good to close my eyes and think about a sleep that doesn’t end.
What is heaven like? Is it like a never-ending Thanksgiving Day without bad oysters? Is it whatever a soul desires it to be? Lord, I hope not. I have enough trouble making up my mind as it is.
&n
bsp; “Go to sleep, Pearly Everlasting.”
Yolanda awakens me at six. “Hey, it’s time for your pie now. You haven’t had any yet.”
Pie? Good heavens.
“You feelin’ better?”
I purposely keep my eyes shut. Maybe she’ll go away.
“Come on and answer me Pearly, I know you’re awake.”
“How?”
“The way your eyelids are moving around.”
“I could be in REM sleep.”
“Nah, that’s not spooky looking.” She sits on the bed. “Look, I’ve been raising children long enough to know when one is faking sleep.”
I suddenly feel like one of Yolanda’s kids. Lucky them.
“Okay.” I open my eyes. “But I still don’t think I can handle pie.”
“Then come sit.”
“I don’t even want to smell it.”
“You have to face Matthew’s mother.”
“I can’t. I’m tired, Yo. And I still feel sick. I really do.”
She softens as she so often does. “Still want to sleep, Pearly Girl?”
“If that’s all right with you.” Might as well offer something up to her.
“Oh, I guess it will have to be. Mighty convenient time to feel ill, now that my kitchen looks like Matthew’s mother’s kitchen.”
“If you go ahead and do the dishes without waiting a bit for me to feel better, well, then, you have only yourself to blame.”
She smiles. “That sounds like something someone quite brilliant has recently said.”
“Yes, it certainly does.”
Matthew is gone when I awaken. I look everywhere for him, but I cannot find him.
“Where is he?” I ask Yolanda. She sits on a stool in the kitchen watching a small color television that hangs beneath the cabinets as she sews a pair of pajamas for one of the kids. She wears reading glasses and looks great in them.
“He went home.”
I am stabbed.
“She is his mother, Pearly. He loves her.”
“But that place.”
“Don’t worry. He’ll be back by tomorrow. I’d bet my life on it.”
“Oh, don’t do that. You’re too important,” I say.
She looks up and smiles. I catch my breath. I’ve seen beautiful sights lately in my travels, but none as beautiful as Yolanda’s smile.
She is woman. And she doesn’t roar, she sweetens, like an ever-expanding puddle of honey pooling around people’s ankles and refusing to recede, demanding everybody just expand with her, sweetening their friends, neighbors, families, even the crusty old filling-station owner on the scary side of town.
“Have a seat at the table, Pearly. You want that pie now?”
“No thanks. Just a cup of tea. I’ll make it.”
“Suit yourself.”
As I go about fixing the tea, I examine Yolanda from the corner of my eye. How do people like her get that way anyway?
I heat the water in the microwave.
“If you do it on the stove, it’ll stay warm longer,” Yolanda says with a mouthful of pins.
“I’m into instant gratification these days.”
The machine whirrs, and the small light of the sewing machine draws me with its homey warmth. Tea and sewing and reading glasses. This is living. Even when she is alone, Yolanda is surrounded by the love of those she loves.
Love is something I’ve always doled out very carefully. Not the kind of love one feels for acquaintances or students or Shrubby Cinquefoils and crazy cousins. That all-inclusive, starshine love that seems unconditional but most probably isn’t because, honestly, you’d take it back if the recipient ever just totally turned his back, and in a mean way, like putting up a billboard on the Jones Falls Expressway saying PEARLY LAUREL IS A BIMBO. And it would include a picture of me, a horrible picture of me with a fake mustache drawn on or big ugly breasts. But the only person who could have done that and made me even care about it would have been Joey.
I guess it isn’t full-bodied love if it’s not somehow at risk of total ruination.
“What would happen to you if you ever lost one of your children, Yo?”
My tea is cooling.
She looks up, paling. “I try not to think about it.”
“I need to love like that again.”
I need to tell her about my purpose, my need to live greatly, to experience wonderful things, and to die. But she’ll only say, “Then what, Pearly Everlasting?” And I won’t know what to say.
They’re all asleep. Matthew’s back, and my heart puffs up like warm pastry. He said, “I love the idea of parents, and I thought maybe going in there would be different now that I don’t live there.”
I just nod and start breathing through my mouth.
He eats a second piece of pie, but he’s lost some weight at Lafayette School. Even so, what’s the difference? It’s Thanksgiving. The night has darkened, the lamps are warm, and we all relax, satisfied and thankful here in a house still aromatic. I’d say another piece of pie is actually warranted, so I cut one for myself. It’s a shame my appetite has come into such a lovely existence. All my life food was just a means to an end. But now—well, I can taste things as never before. And with that blasted 10K behind me, I’m going to live it up. I don’t have long anyway. Why not enjoy it?
Hey, what if I eat myself to death? Can one do that? How long would it take? Maybe I’ll research that one. I’ll bet it would take longer than the watch battery will last.
I look down at my wrist: 10:00 P.M.
Yolanda snips the thread attaching a sleeve to her sewing machine. “So what are you thankful for today, Pearly?”
“You first, Yo.”
“I could go on into the night. You go first, and besides, I asked the question.”
Grade-schooler.
Matthew picks up the end crust of his pie and takes a bite. “I’ll go!”
“Okay,” I say.
“Well, first and foremost, I’m thankful for a lady who came to me for guitar lessons last year.”
Yolanda nods. “I heard that. I’ll add my thanks for Pearly too.”
“Well, I’m thankful for you two.”
Matthew says, “And I’m thankful for the way God takes care of us.”
“Amen to that!” Yolanda nods twice this time.
I say nothing. Joey took care of me, and I’ve done a good job of taking care of myself since he died. I will say that it’s odd that the watch keeps going. Maybe that’s one of those divine interventions of care and concern. I’m not about to say that, though.
I roll my eyes. Not again.
“I told you, Joey, Christmas Eve. It’s all the churchgoing you’ll get from me.”
“But it’s a special ceremony, Pearly. I’ll never be ordained again.”
“Lots of people get ordained. And why do you want to be ordained anyway? It’s not like you’ll ever be a preacher or anything.”
“The town jail needs a chaplain.”
We sit by our pool. Steaks are cooking on the grill, sailboats skim the Bay, summer fades in the colorless August sky.
Joey runs a rough hand through his hair. “What was I thinking, Pearly? You? The wife of a minister? Hah!” He storms inside.
I’m hurting him, but I don’t know any other way to get this through his thick head. Maybe I need to put it on a billboard or something. But I hurry inside and pull him into my arms. I will make it up to him.
February 2, 1975
Lafayette School
Did Mom and Pop have talks about God? Yes, I know they did because I heard them. Oh, Pearly, Pearly. How I long to share this with you, to gather your spirit unto mine like a ken gathers her chicks beneath her wings, but you will not come.
I’d do anything for Pearly. Why will she not do this one thing? Do the scabs of living grow thick upon her heart so that she is afraid to pull them off and bleed that freshness of warm blood? Does she refuse to taste of her own pain and feed on the possibilities therein? Why is she so sh
ut off and unable to open a vein?
I grieve for her, I grieve that she will not allow herself to experience humanity in its most exquisite state.
I’m mad at Joey again. The more I read his writings concerning me, the angrier I become.
Unwilling to open a vein? As if the man could talk, never once telling me how horribly his mother was killed!
No wonder Joey and I hardly ever fought. Obviously we rarely said much worth a disagreement.
All these years I thought I had a soul mate, only to find out now that I didn’t know the man at all.
I sit out on my deck at the cabin on the Bay, snuggled into my long down coat from the seventies, and I feel for the thin scar down my temple, the one awarded to me at yet another fight in the schoolyard for Harry’s dignity.
So why did God make Harry like He did? And why was I the one who had to fight for him?
Open a vein? How’s this, Joey?
The little imbecile ruined my childhood. I might as well admit it. He turned me from Pearly Kaiser to “You know. Pearly. That retard’s sister.” He gave me a job I never asked for.
So boo-hoo again, Pearly. I just feel so sorry for you.
What’s happening to me? I ask the stars. I can’t keep a thought. I can’t focus. I can’t reason past anything. All I can do is feel and want to love and expand and be large and lively. But no one is around anymore. I love no one anymore. Not really. Right?
The cold waters of the Bay signal to me. I should check Joey’s watch today. Maybe it stopped. Maybe I should just throw the pesky thing into the Bay and head after it, right into the frigid waters, right over my head to meet my fate with Shrubby’s oysters. That, most certainly, would be a fitting end: to swim out farther than I can swim back. Yes, apropos. Something I’ve never done before, literally or figuratively. Pearly always finds a way back. I am hardened and crusty, and I can go on like this no longer.