Maybe that’s what started it. I don’t know. But I began to get ashes in the mail, anonymous and with no return address. Sometimes there was a note with a name, often not. Usually when I received ashes, there was a tag, a little coin with the funeral home’s name and the assigned serial number for the deceased stamped on it. It was usually a stainless-steel coin, blackened and charred from going through the heat of the cremation process. The tag might be attached to the bag of ashes with a twist tie, or just thrown in with them. I’d have to dig down into the middle of the ashes to find it.
But these would have no tags. Maybe to keep it secret, or because the person who sent it had taken the coin to keep as a memory. So who knows whose life I held in my hands? It was disturbing to me, burying complete strangers. I assumed they were from people who’d been entrusted with them, a lover or friend. Or someone had arranged it for himself, in literally a last-gasp effort to ensure his soul would be at rest: “When I die, send me to her.”
Some likely came from funeral directors who didn’t want the cremains traced back to them. A lot of them were in the closet. Nobody expected any woman to marry a funeral director, so it was a job where they could hide in plain sight. It’s possible that the senders were people who were willing to do just enough for someone who’d died indigent. The county would pay for the burial, but they did not want it traced back to them. I’ll never know.
I would put the remains in a jar, and with Allison trailing behind me, I would carry the ashes slowly through the cemetery, kind of like I was divining for water. “You tell me,” I’d whisper, until I was seized with a feeling of being rooted to the ground. It wasn’t a jolt, just an easing into a final resting place after wandering for who knows how long.
It was hard to explain to Allison, who was so curious about the lives of people. The first time, I thought it was just too complicated to explain to her that I had no idea who this person was. It almost felt undignified to admit in front of the ashes that they were unknown to me. I addressed them merely as “you.”
“Rest now,” I said, using the same soothing voice as I did with the dying.
“But what was his name?” Allison asked.
“Just someone special.” I said it quickly. Allison was going to be seven in a few months. She no longer took what I said as gospel.
“But what was he called?”
“I don’t know,” I said, too quickly, my voice harsher now that I wasn’t talking to the dead. She crossed her arms in anger, very much alive in front of me.
“I’m sorry,” I said. She thought I was withholding something from her. She had made the connection between the men we visited and the jars we buried. She cared too. And that care carried a weight, even if I thought I could protect her from it. I went to hold her hand on the way back to the car. At first, she resisted, and I was so relieved when she took it. “I’m sorry,” I said again, though I told myself she had already moved on.
People at church looked at her differently. I still thought I could fit into the Christian community, but we were tolerated outcasts. And sometimes I worried we would arrive one Sunday in our nice dresses only to be turned away. I clung to the normalcy of those Sundays, and I still felt God’s comfort there. I couldn’t imagine being turned away, but it had happened to my guys, so why not to us?
If there was any doubt about how people felt, it was made clear when someone sent a leftover Valentine. “Why are you talking to those people?” read the message. “They are going to hell anyway, and now you bring that hell into our church.” Then in all caps: “EVERY PLACE YOU WALK, IT FALLS OFF YOU LIKE DUST.”
I read those words over and over again, because they were right. They sensed what I felt. I did feel like I had the dust and the bones and the ashes on me. I didn’t feel dirty or “contaminated.” It was a very, very fine dust that just fell off me, but to me, it floated down in a trail of gossamer and gold. I didn’t understand how people couldn’t see the shine.
Chapter Twelve
It was pouring down rain, so I knew what was coming.
“Mama, can I sleep in your room tonight?” Rain had made Allison nervous since her daddy died in that thunderstorm, so I always had to give her a little extra attention and love when the skies really opened up.
“How about we make a deal?” I said. “You pick out some books, and we can read in my bed until you get sleepy.”
She padded off. “Brush your teeth,” I called after her. It was a Friday in mid-April, just a month and change left of her being six. There were flashes when I was aware that these moments don’t stick around.
Allison crawled into bed with three Amelia Bedelias. I admit I hated those books. That stupid maid who didn’t have anything to teach my daughter. I was debating how bad a parent I would be if we read my Danielle Steel together instead, when the window lit up with lightning.
“Allison, honey, there’s about to be—”
Too late. The thunder shook the house’s windows and with them my little girl. Even our cat, FooFoo, jumped. I had to fix this.
“We are blessed to be safe and right here,” I said softly, slipping into my bedtime voice as I squeezed her closer to me. She didn’t say a word, staring at the cover of her book.
“When I was little, I used to go see my Aunt Ruth in the Keys, and she loved the rain,” I said. This was before Daddy died. “In Florida, it rains down there for about an hour every afternoon. Big thunderstorms. It just depends on where the east coast sea breeze and the west coast sea breeze meet—that’s where the storm is gonna be.”
“Every day?” she said.
“Oh yes,” I said. “My aunt Ruth, we would be outside, and she would say, ‘Okay, it’s getting ready to rain.’ And that’s when I would take my nap.”
“You could sleep with the thunder?” she asked.
“Oh sure, because I was safe inside with people who loved me. And I knew that when I woke up, we’d go out and pick limes for limeade. That’s where I learned to make it.”
Aunt Ruth, who I was named for, would take me out barefoot through the wet grass, and she’d reach up to pick the limes. At each pluck, water from the tree would rain down on us and we’d laugh. She and my uncle never had children. I guess they were never able to, but she was so wonderful.
I took a long sniff of Allison’s hair, still smelling like the yellow Johnson’s shampoo from her bath. She was getting that dreamy, warm limpness of a child relaxing into sleep. This was the parenting I liked, not the running around and the constant questions.
“Her kitchen was yellow,” I said, and I was right back there. “And she had a pitcher with red flowers painted around it. I’d sit there watching her cut the limes, and smell ’em, and oh, I love limes to this day. Every time I see them I think of her.”
Allison’s breathing slowed as her eyes closed. I don’t need you, Amelia Bedelia, I thought.
And then the phone rang.
Allison’s eyes popped open, and she grimaced. “Damnit,” I said aloud, speeding through my mental Rolodex of patients.
“This is Ruth,” I said.
“Ruth Burks?” He sounded surprised I’d answered.
“Yes,” I said, looking right at Allison, who was getting a faraway look in her eyes.
“Well, hi, Ruth. Jack Butcher told me I should give you a call. My name’s Mitch. Mitch Stanley.”
I could barely hear him, because it sounded like he was out in the pouring rain. Jack Butcher? Jack was one of the wealthiest businessmen in town.
“Okay,” I said. “Uh, what can I do for you?”
The man laughed. “I’m here at the Hilton in North Little Rock having drinks with Jack.”
“Well, you sound like you’re outside in the rain to me.”
“Well, you sound pretty smart, because I am. I’m at a pay phone, and I would like to be inside, but Jack said this was something I needed to do.”
What in the world was Jack Butcher doing have drinks with someone with AIDS?
“So, what is it you need?”
“Well, I was wondering if I could take you out to dinner?”
I sat up and nearly dropped the phone right on Allison’s head.
“When were you thinking?”
“How about tomorrow? Jack told me to tell you I’m all right.”
“Did he tell you I have a daughter?”
“She didn’t come up,” he said and laughed. “Look, I hate to rush you, but I would like to get in out of this rain. So, can I take you out?”
“I’d have to bring my daughter.”
“I’ll pick you both up at eight.”
When I hung up, I must have looked crazy, because Allison asked what was wrong. “Nothing’s wrong, honey,” I said. “We’re going out on a date.”
“What’s a date?”
“I think I’ve forgotten,” I said. “We’re gonna have to see.”
As I got Allison dressed, I kind of wondered whether the doorbell was really going to ring at eight o’clock. Maybe I hoped it wouldn’t. I combed her hair in the bathroom, wondering what on earth I’d been thinking, saying I had to bring her along.
“I need you to be on your best behavior, okay?” I told her in the mirror.
“I know,” she said, not at all well behaved. I sighed as she ran into the living room to watch TV. At least this guy would know what he was in for.
“And if we’re not having fun, we’ll just leave,” I called after her.
I looked at the mirror and rehearsed my smile. I pictured opening the door, easy breezy.
“Hi, my name is Ruth,” I said, turning my face this way and that to check my makeup. “You must be . . . a homicidal maniac. Anyways—”
The doorbell rang, and I jumped. I smoothed my dress one last time and started to walk to the living room, only to find that Allison already had the door wide open. Standing in the doorway was the most good-looking man. A built-up Elvis in a dark blue business suit, an impossibly white dress shirt, and no tie. He was in his thirties, with wavy salt-and-pepper hair and a mustache.
“Mama,” she yelled back to me, though I was right behind her.
“Yes, Allison,” I said, softly. “Hi, I’m Ruth.”
“Mitch,” he said, reaching for my hand as he quickly looked me up and down. Our eyes met on his way back up to my face. He grinned, caught, but it was somehow charming on him. He’d probably gotten away with a lot just for the way he looked. The same way he had a mustache but somehow didn’t look like a car salesman.
“Are we ready?” he said.
“Yes,” said Allison.
“Let me just get my purse,” I said. I went into the kitchen and exhaled, safe from view. I glanced at the bulletin board but reminded myself that most men weren’t worth a damn and I shouldn’t get my hopes up.
He drove with the same languor with which he walked. Purposeful, but not in a hurry about it. “I thought we’d go to the Villa,” he said.
It was a new place on Central, but I’d never been. It was nice, with an area under glass that looked out on a garden. He nodded at the hostess, and she gestured to the restaurant, giving him his choice of tables in the main dining area, which was like a stone grotto. She cocked her head at me and Allison, but smiled, and I wondered if he was in and out of here with a lot of women. When he didn’t even look at the menu, I figured this was his date place.
There was live music, a woman with long curly hair playing the violin. Allison stared at her, but I thought that was fine, because what else are you up on that little stage for if not to be seen and appreciated? The waitress came by, and I made a big show of listening to the specials, and they did sound good, but I knew I was going to get the cheapest entrée, which was the penne alla Norma.
“How about you and I share that?” I said to Allison. I didn’t want to owe this guy anything.
He chuckled. “I’m good for two dinners,” he joked, and then turned to Allison. “What’s your name again?”
“Allison.”
“Allison, do you like spaghetti and meatballs?”
“Yes.”
“Great,” he said, looking at the waitress. “It’s decided.” He ordered a steak and a beer I’d never heard of, and looked at me. “There’s a really nice Pinot Noir . . .”
“Can I have a Coca-Cola?” Allison asked me.
“Yes, you can,” he answered for me.
“Water’s fine for me,” I said to the waitress. I took a sip as she walked away. I’d never had someone answer Allison for me in my presence.
“Jack tells me you’re a model,” Mitch said.
A dribble of water fell down my chin as I jumped. “A model?” I said through my napkin.
“You’re not?”
“No, why would he say that?”
“You could be,” he said. “He says you model furs.”
“Oh God,” I said. “That was a benefit for the Fine Arts Ball. I was just helping out.” I’d done that as a favor for someone last year, kind of hoping she’d throw in a fur as a thank-you.
He smirked. “I bet you made them a lot of money.”
“I wasn’t gonna let it sell cheap.” He put his head back and laughed, and I admired the crispness of his white shirt against the tan of his neck.
“That’s why I was surprised you were home on a Friday night,” he said. “I figured you were some kind of party girl.”
“Tea parties, maybe,” I said. Allison made a face. “And not even those. So how do you know Jack?”
“I work for him,” he said. “With him.” Jack sold to Wal-Mart, and Mitch was one of his parts guys, like a broker. He flew around internationally, ordering the parts and negotiating the price. “I’ve actually got a lot of jobs,” he said. “I don’t like to be tied down.”
Message received, I thought. The beer and Coca-Cola came, and they each gave their drink an admiring look. Allison took a huge gulp through her straw, which was a bit of a relief, because if she spilled it there would be less everywhere. Mitch took a sip of his beer, held it for a moment, and nodded. “With wine, you drink from the front of your mouth,” he said. “And beer you drink from the back, close to your throat. There’s a fullness to it—”
Allison had gone through her whole Coca-Cola, and her straw was making a loud sucking noise.
“Allison,” I said.
“It’s okay,” he said. He raised a finger, and the waitress came right over. “Can we get another Coca-Cola?”
This man was buying my daughter two Cokes? What miracle had I walked into? The food arrived, and it was really lovely. He was focused on his steak, and Allison was twirling her spaghetti. I leaned back just an inch to get a wider picture of them, and reminded myself this was just a first date.
The chef came over, touching Mitch’s shoulder to get his attention. “You good, boss?”
“Excellent,” he said. “This is Ruth and Allison.”
“It’s delicious,” I said, quickly, like he had invented pasta alla Norma.
“Wonderful,” he said, nodding at Mitch and moving away as quickly as he came.
“Boss?” I said.
“I have a lot of jobs,” he said. “I’m a part owner of this place.”
Now it made sense. The easiness of the staff around him, his sureness in ordering. “Well,” I said.
“So, you’re a model who doesn’t model, we’ve established that,” he said. “What else do you do?”
“I have a lot of jobs too,” I said. “Well, not really. I work at Oaklawn, but the season’s finishing up.” I lowered my voice. “Her father, my ex-husband, passed away last September, so . . .” I trailed off. Let him think I’m comfortable. We were not looking for someone to come save us. “I mostly do, uh, volunteer work.” Oh, just tell him. �
�Around AIDS.”
He nodded. Just nodded. “Allison,” he said, “have you ever had tiramisu?” We got two for the table. He and I shared one, and the violinist played on.
This is what a date is, I told myself.
Mitch asked if he could see me again on the following Saturday, and I said yes. He said I could bring Allison too, so I did. He took us to the Hibachi, a Japanese place I’d also never been to. This time I ordered what he got, the donburi, which I found out was sliced beef and green onions served over rice in a large bowl. It arrived with a lid, and the waiter took it off like it was a show.
Allison got the tempura, and it was so salty she couldn’t eat it. Here’s where the other shoe drops, I thought. We all tasted it and agreed.
“That’s okay,” he said. Well.
The next Saturday I had Bonnie watch Allison, but the thing with Bonnie was that she was more of a last-minute girl. If this was going to be a regular Saturday night thing, then she’d get antsy. Too much structure for her.
So I showed up at Allison’s grandparents’ house, unannounced, while she was at school. “I’ve got to have Saturday nights off,” I said, “and Allison needs you.” They stared at me, a bad debt they couldn’t pay off and be done with. “You need to be grandparents, just for a few hours.”
They relented. I had to drop her off at six o’clock Saturday evening, no earlier, and pick her up at eight Sunday morning, so they could go to church. That was the most they would do.
“If you die, we won’t take her,” said her grandfather. “You need to find someone else.” I was certain they knew what I was doing with AIDS, and that clinched it. The first time I was in the paper, their friends must have brought it to them saying they’d been right all along. We never came that close to talking about my AIDS work again.
The third time I left Allison with them, I arrived to pick her up at a quarter past eight on Sunday morning. Fifteen minutes late. As I approached, I could see way down the street, and they were already backing their car out of the driveway. Allison was on the porch swing, locked out of the house. Alone. I was worried she’d be upset to be left alone, but no. She thought it was perfect timing.
All the Young Men Page 14