“I wasn’t on the phone.” Without opening her eyes, she turned back to her book. Its cover was bright and cheery, with a young blonde-headed girl holding the rope to a horse. The white cord on the kitchen phone was still bouncing.
With my own kids, I’da blistered their tails for sassing me. But I tried to be more patient with Cher. Counting to ten in my mind always helped. She deserved special measures. Especially with me and Bozo splitting up.
“Did you get that math test back yet?” I asked, laying the car keys on the kitchen countertop.
“Ninety-three. And it’s algebra, not math.” She chewed on the ends of her brown hair, never looking up.
Opening the refrigerator door, I chose again to ignore her pissy attitude. “Miss Claudia said she wants to meet you. I was thinking maybe this Saturday we could…” I turned to the sink, which looked out over the living-room area, and she was gone. The slamming of her bedroom door reminded me that she was stuck between a child’s world and a teenager’s.
Hormones, I decided. I stood at the closed pine door, but decided not to knock. She’d started her period when we first got to Wiregrass. She’s got a lot going on inside that little ninety-eight-pound body of hers, I reminded myself. Trisha Yearwood’s voice oozed out of the space between the pine door and the gold linoleum floor. I figured she was daydreaming of a boyfriend or dreaming about riding a big horse like the one on the cover of her book. It was only while she was taking a shower that I discovered her dreams were more ridiculous than any schoolgirl fantasy. A fantasy that Cher needed to dismiss from her mind.
The picture was torn at the edge and a little faded. She had hidden it from me inside her pillow. I would’ve never found it unless some of the pillow stuffing had not been hanging out the corners of the half-closed zipper.
They didn’t look like convicts, her mama and daddy. But then again, in the picture Cher didn’t look like the smart girl she was. In fact, she didn’t look like a girl at all, just a bald six-month-old leaning on her daddy’s tattooed arm. Her little ears displayed two tiny gold balls. I told Suzette piercing a baby’s ears was trashy, and now I was holding the celluloid proof. Suzette had her brown hair parted on the side and, looking into her wide brown eyes, there was no denying she was Cher’s mama. The blue plastic background with smoke drifting from the chimney and snow on the ground looked weird with them in the foreground. Why were they all dressed in short sleeves? And it probably was the dead of winter when they had the picture made. Most likely at the grocery store or some other unplanned place. No wonder when I found that picture in a kitchen drawer back in Cross City, I promptly threw it in the trash.
The first week with Miss Claudia was a settling-in time. By Friday, I knew my way around the place, and it didn’t seem quite as huge as it had before. Her regular friends came and went from two to four o’clock. My pick was a real sweet black lady. The tiny woman with round glasses stopped by mostly on Tuesdays. I decided she must be one of the late housekeeper’s relatives still keeping check on Miss Claudia. Rich people always seemed to have hired help who were just like family. But I refused to be put in that category. This was just a way to keep up with the bills, I reminded myself every day when I pulled up the long concrete driveway.
Richard got on my last nerve, as I predicted he would. I call it the “Short Man Syndrome.” All he’d do is talk big about how much money he made in stocks and how he used to own racehorses. So much for Mr. Big Shot—he couldn’t even keep an appointment without his eighty-year-old mama reminding him.
Only once did he start to get out of hand. I was washing the dinner dishes and had half tuned out his lecture on the mysteries of the Bermuda Triangle when I felt the digging glare. My back was to him, but I could picture him leering at me from the kitchen table. Still in uniform, I knew he was looking through my cheap polyester slacks at my panties.
“It’s a pure shame my mama don’t live closer by. She just loves interesting stuff like you talk about,” I said, turning to him with the crystal tea pitcher in my hands. “I bet she’d be after you, seeing how y’all about the same age.” When he scrunched his face and retreated to his garage apartment, I couldn’t help but get tickled. The idea of Mama, whose hair was shorter than his, ever going on a date with a nerve patient was hilarious. She’d stomp on his nerves like a bull in a china store. Before I knew it, the chuckle erupted, and I slapped my soapy hand over my mouth. For a second I felt lighter. It was the first time I had laughed since leaving Cross City.
Ladies from First Methodist paraded through the afternoons at Miss Claudia’s. I let each enter through the big white door with the brass door knocker. Big or skinny, with gray or dyed-blue hair, they all had the same little turned-down smile that I decided must be required with the Methodists. A woman by the name of Elizabeth was the worst. I’d say some pleasantry like, “How you doing today?” She’d just turn her ash-blonde head ever so slightly and give me a tired smirk. And I know the worn smile was not because she’d been cleaning house all day, but instead was her way of saying, “Who do you think you are talking to me, White Trash?” without exercising her voice.
The good thing about Prune Face—the pet name I secretly gave her—was she never stayed long. Soon she’d appear in the living room again, with her brown Bible in tow. After I closed the door, I’d watch from the living-room window as she got into her big Chrysler. I imagined her sitting in a metal chair the following Sunday reporting to her Sunday school class that she had visited the ailing Claudia Tyler. Check one more visitation off the sick list for Prune Face.
Not that I ever understood why Prune Face brought her Bible. They were in plentiful supply at Miss Claudia’s house. She kept one in every bedroom and even a small black Bible in her downstairs guest bathroom. During the end of my first week, I found her propped up on four pillows with unusually flat hair. She had her big book spread across her lap. I was dusting the antique armoire and had almost made it to the legs when I heard the voice.
“See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the desert and streams in the wasteland.” For a second, I wondered if Miss Claudia had taken one too many pain pills as she sat there, eyes closed and red lips grinning. Within a twinkle of my eye, she was back onboard.
“Isaiah 43:19,” she said and opened her eyes real big. I smiled and kept dusting.
“Do you own a Bible, Erma Lee?”
With my back to her, I bit my lip. I had told all I wanted to about personal business. “Yes, ma’am.” I thought of the little white Bible Aunt Stella’s church gave me decades ago when I joined Antioch Missionary.
“I just love this verse. It lets me know that, even at my age, God’s not done with me yet.”
I turned to face her, and she was swinging her glasses as easy as she’d swing a jump rope. “He’s got a plan for all of us. For Patricia, for Richard, and you too, Erma Lee.”
Now don’t even start this religious mess with me, I thought. It makes you weak and pious, like that old Prune Face, who visits you just so she can go brag to the preacher what a good Christian woman she is. “Yes, ma’am.”
Religious fanatics were all over Cross City. I was used to them. And I decided to say what she wanted for the sake of a paycheck. As I watched her painted fingernail move across the thin, white sheets, I felt sorry for her. How on earth could this woman even know what the wilderness and desert her Bible spoke of were really like? Had she gone hungry? Had she gone to the emergency room to get stitches above her eye after her old man broke a plate over her head and then worried the next day because she was missing work and couldn’t pay the electric bill? No, I know better. And no matter what Miss Trellis claims about Miss Claudia sewing at some store, this woman had it good now. I had the scars from the wilderness and the blisters from the desert, and I survived it by myself. I was the only one I could count on.
By the beginning of April, Bozo’s calls dwindled down to one or two a week, most often after he’d tied one on. I
could predict them. He’d call at twelve-thirty or one in the morning and either cry like a baby, begging forgiveness, or rant and rave so loud I would hold the phone ten inches from my ear and could still make out the cuss words. After the first week, I learned to hang up and unplug the phone.
The day before the week-long Easter break, I had one of the worst days imaginable. The morning started with me running late, then the solenoid switch on my car giving me a fit. I borrowed the old man’s pliers from next door and rigged it enough so it’d crank. A trick I have Bozo to thank for teaching me. At school, a little girl threw up her corn dog right by the conveyer belt that ships the trays for us to wash. Then Miss Claudia’s leg was acting up, and I had to haul her to the doctor’s office. After waiting two and a half hours for the doctor, I took Miss Claudia home, then cooked Richard supper, and washed his last pair of underwear.
When I walked through the door at eight-thirty that evening, I found the trailer pleasantly still. The only sound was the popping of the metal as it adjusted to the cool night air. Cher was spending the night at a new friend’s house, Laurel Krandle, who lived in a trailer across the Westgate driveway. After checking in with Cher, who actually seemed in good spirits, I unplugged the phone and slept the best I had in months.
My newfound rest was short-lived. I arrived at Miss Claudia’s the next day to find her actually sitting up at her kitchen table. That was good news. The bad news was she said my better half had been calling for the past hour. I licked my lips and ran my hand over the top of my pulled back hair. “Lord, I’m so sorry.”
“He’s an impatient thing,” she said and then sipped her coffee.
I wanted to ask if he was drunk, but then I doubted if she’d ever been around such behavior. Miss Claudia looked angelic sitting at her pine table in a cream robe with embroidered roses on the collar.
“You might as well call him. Richard’s still sleeping, and if there’s any straightening out to be done, I’d just as soon him not hear it.” She pulled at one of the little satin roses. “His nerves, don’t you know.”
I knew her own nerves were probably running on high, thinking my old flame was gonna come gun me down on her manicured lawn. Most likely, I’d fall over on top of one of her pink azalea bushes and shed blood on her concrete walkway. Then there’d be CNN and all the little ladies from First Methodist congregating after the unfortunate incident. Prune Face would probably stand over me clutching her purse and shaking her head. “Pure D trash,” she would say and squinch her mouth up.
The living-room phone was the most private place for the butt-chewing I wanted to give Bozo. I sighed and entered the red-walled room. I almost couldn’t remember the phone number. But instead of worrying that it was the sign of some brain tumor or Alzheimer’s, I was relieved. One more thing I was forgetting about that place I once called home. He cleared his throat into the receiver and welcomed the caller.
“How’d you get this number?” I imagined icicles snaking through my voice to Cross City. I wanted to scream, but I knew Miss Claudia sat in the kitchen, glued to the edge of her chair.
“My grandbaby give it to me. Right after you left the house without fixing her no breakfast.”
Adjusted to Wiregrass or not, I’m gonna blister that girl when I get home. “She spent the night…Look, that’s none of your business. And don’t be calling here again. I mean it.”
“Don’t you tell me where and who…” He sighed. “Fine. I just got one thing to say to you. Either you get your tail back here by the end of the month, or I’m getting me a lawyer.”
I wondered if Bozo would get that quack who represented Suzette the first time she got arrested for dealing drugs. That man with long nose hair and a bright yellow tie that ended at the crest of his big belly. “Well, hallelujah!”
“Listen, I mean this thing. Me and your mama done talked it over, and she knows I’m—”
In the background at my former home, a female voice mumbled something about eggs. The clanking of a spoon hitting the frying pan rankled in my ear. I could hear Bozo trying to conceal the evidence by muffling the phone receiver.
Funny, I thought. He never tried to hide it before. “Which juke joint did you find her in?”
“Don’t you never mind. Hey, I got rights, you know. Don’t you forget them adoption papers list my name as Cher’s daddy. I can get you for custody, gal.”
The one bullet I didn’t think he’d fire. I giggled, the type of giggle that said, “Kiss my butt” and “You’re an idiot” all in the same octave.
“And just what judge would put some thirteen-year-old girl in the same house with a wife-beating, whore-hopping drunk like you?” I was too loud with that one and was sure Miss Claudia heard every word.
But it worked. Bozo went off like a cherry bomb. “Hey…hey, she ain’t no…Hey…Hey…anyhow a man got needs. Any judge knows that. And how’s about you…”
“Send my best to your whore there. Tell her she better learn how to handle that frying pan, ’cause sooner or later she’ll need it.” I slammed the phone down as hard as I could.
He wouldn’t even think of fighting me over Cher. Not even Mama could go along with him on that one. The slightest chance made my heart race. I’m stronger than this, I reminded myself. But what if he does fight and finds some crooked judge? Lord knows Louisiana was full of them. I sat on the edge of the shiny black piano bench and tried to let my nerves settle. My breath grew deeper, and soon my heartbeat withdrew from the base of my neck. As I sat there looking at a painting of two brown rabbits, which hung over the phone table, I couldn’t help but wonder if this was how Richard felt during one of his nerve attacks.
With my head held high, I walked briskly back into the kitchen. Miss Claudia, standing with the help of her silver cane, was taping something on the refrigerator door. She did her best to act like nothing out of the ordinary had taken place. My attention was diverted by her upright position. She was much taller than I expected, and she shook her head as she smoothed out the edges of a piece of notebook paper.
I began pulling out the usual equipment for breakfast, and she sat back down at the kitchen table. When I turned to the refrigerator, I paused to notice the white paper with block letters: CLOSE!
“That’s not for you, sugar. That’s for Richard. He’s gonna run my electric bill sky-high. Can’t remember to leave that door shut for the life of him.”
I tried to smile and moved quickly to retrieve the frying pan. The clanking spoon against the frying pan in my old house drummed in my mind. Before I could close the cabinet, the black cast-iron tumbled to the floor. I scooped it up and mumbled an apology. Turning around three times, trying to remember where the eggs were, I suddenly felt lost.
“Eggs are right behind you, sugar.” Her smile was warm and comforting, like someone who wanted to keep a secret.
No, don’t fall into that trap. I’ve told her too much as it is. Lord only knows how much she heard.
“You’re just all to pieces. Come over here and sit down.” She patted the wooden chair like she was enticing a disobedient child to behave.
I was sure she was gonna tell me if I don’t leave my personal problems at the house, she’d have to let me go. My heart moved up to my throat again. I thought for sure she could see the pulsating rhythm in my neck. Flipping my ponytail over the base of my neck, I rested my hands on the table as if everything was hunky-dory.
Her eyes closed, and she sighed. “Some men just ain’t worth spit.” My palm flinched when she put her blue-veined hands on top of mine. She gazed out the kitchen window and shook her teased hair.
“I’m real sorry you had to hear all that.” I sighed, trying to find words to explain and at the same time censor the details of life in Cross City. “He just…I mean, it was just too much and finally…”
“You felt like you were just about to suffocate.”
I wanted to stand up and yell “Yeah” and go off on a testimony about Bozo and what a waste he had been in my life. But I ju
st sat there, mesmerized by this woman who suddenly seemed foreign compared to her circle of friends who participated in the First Methodist sick-list parade. She stared at the blots of yellow and pink in the rose garden just beyond her window.
“Not many people know I was married before. Down in Apalachicola, Florida, where I was raised. Richard and Patricia hardly know a thing about all that. It comes to me now and then. Like just now when you were talking to that man.” She rubbed my hand, but never looked down. I knew the reprimand was just a few breaths away.
“My first one, Luther Ranker, was not good to me a’tall. If Daddy would’ve lived, things would’ve been different. I can still remember the salty sea smell on Daddy’s shirtsleeve. He’d come in from fishing after a long day and still find time to tussle around on the floor with me and my little brother, Jack Henry. He was only thirty when he came down with typhoid fever. I remember noticing that the dirt was still fresh on his grave when we buried Jack Henry next to him three weeks later. Mama and me cried and begged the Lord to give the fever to us. Mercifully, we were spared.
“I declare, Mama looked like a scarecrow when Old Man Maxwell came calling a month later. I never had any use for that man the minute I laid eyes on him. Well, for one thing, he was old enough to be Mama’s daddy. Old Man Maxwell thought he was something because he owned the mercantile with a bait and tackle shop on the side. I tried to convince Mama we could make it on our own. I was getting pretty good at shucking oysters, and Mama took in wash from some of the fishermen. But she said I was too young to be burdened with such. I never could get her to understand she wasn’t a piece of property. And with his store and his land, Old Man Maxwell had the highest price.
“For a while me and my newfound daddy tolerated one another. I even liked working in his store. I learned all about fabrics and studied the latest styles in the Sears and Roebuck catalog. By the time I turned fourteen, I was making dresses for me and Mama. And if I say so myself, they looked just as good as mail order.”
A Place Called Wiregrass Page 3