A Place Called Wiregrass

by Michael Morris

  I remember pulling away in my car, bouncing over the rough grades in the makeshift road and thinking how far I had come. Little did I know it was the first and last time Bozo would actually agree with any plan I developed without throwing a dish or two at me.

  After I searched her bedroom and found the tiny fake gold ring stuffed inside a pair of gym socks, the battle cry began. “We love each other,” Suzette screamed.

  “You don’t know nothing about love,” I yelled back. “He’s nothing but trash. Just some old thing that looked a second time at you.”

  “And what you figuring on doing for a living? You gonna have life as good as you got it here, gal?” Bozo had stopped by the Brown Jug after our conference in the woods. His words were thick and slow to depart his mouth. He tried propping his thumb on the grease-soiled pants, but then slid his hand down to his thigh for a sturdier grasp.

  Suzette was crying and pulling her hair like something gone wild. “I don’t care. I don’t care.”

  “You better care. You’re only about to ruin your life is all,” I shouted back and stomped my foot.

  “He loves me. Get it? You’re jealous,” she said, wiping her eyes and nose with the back of her hand. “He told me you’d act this way.” Suzette lunged forward and stuck her finger in my chest.

  Her unusual anger caused me to take a step backwards. I felt the edge of the round dining-room table across my buttocks. I had expected her to curl up and beg forgiveness, handing over the cheap ring so I could give it to Goodwill. “He don’t even know me.”

  She leaned into me and screamed like fire might erupt from her tongue. “Mama, he knows you better than you know yourself. You’re bitter and hate your life so bad you want me to be miserable too.”

  “I, uhh…” The edge of the table pressed harder against my backside.

  “You’re so jealous you’re turning green. I’m getting out, and you’re still here,” she screamed and lifted her arms up in the air.

  Each word hit me deep within my being. My daughter knew the truth that I would not allow myself to realize. Thinking I might collapse to the floor, I broke one of my house rules and sat on the edge of the table. How could she ever say that about me? All I wanted was for her life not to turn out like mine. My arms and mouth were open, but words and sign language were not forthcoming.

  “I ain’t gonna stand here and let you disrespect your mama like that,” Bozo said, pulling the thick black belt off his pants. He swayed inches away from the new TV stand. Each pop against his belt strands caused me to flinch, unsure who would be the victim of his fury.

  “Don’t you touch me.” Suzette kicked her foot and pointed at Bozo. “LaRue said he’ll kill you if you lay a hand on me.”

  Bozo laughed and caught the edge of the TV with his hand. “I’d like to see that runt try.”

  “Just let me go free. I want to be free,” she screamed and pulled her hair again.

  “Get over here to me. I’ll give you something to carry on about,” Bozo said as he grabbed Suzette’s arm. Each strike against her bare legs made her voice louder. “I hate you!” The gurgled words rang out between pops of the belt meeting naked skin.

  Calmly sitting on the table, which was bought with dreams of peaceful family meals, I watched Suzette run in circles. The scene looked like slow motion. Bozo’s left forearm muscles protruded from under his rolled-up sleeves. I remember thinking the sight looked like a clip from a movie I once had seen. A cowboy breaking the spirit of a wild mustang. Bozo’s hand swung the black belt, delivering conformity with each strike. Strikes meant to make her finish school, to make her listen to her mama and daddy like a good girl, to make her forget LaRue LaRouche.

  When he hit her kneecap with the silver belt buckle, it was finished. She fell to the floor sobbing. Brown hair tangled with sweat and saliva hung in her face. “Maybe now you’ll get your lessons and stop running around telling everybody you’re getting married,” Bozo said. He tossed the belt on the sofa and headed towards the bathroom for relief.

  “It’s for your own good,” I whispered. Her cries had long been exhausted, and only a shrill whimper was heard. “I did this because I love you.” I often wonder if she ever heard my words. My words of truth and experience. Tough love they call it nowadays. Two days after Bozo sought to break her dreams of love, I awoke to find Suzette’s bed empty and a note on her dresser telling us not to look for her. By then she and LaRue had already married.

  The water in the shower stopped, and the music from Cher’s radio grew louder. I looked at myself in the bedroom mirror and pictured the red welts that spotted Suzette’s legs. The recollection of fiery streaks of skin made me look away.

  Tough love and truth steered Suzette into destruction. I lifted my head up towards the brown-stained spot on the ceiling and pleaded to God for wisdom. Divine power was the only chance I had, my last chance at getting it right.

  Gerald had never showed up at Miss Claudia’s unannounced, so I was frightened when Richard yelled from downstairs, “Oh, Erma Lee. You have a gentleman caller.” Richard’s laughter rang up to the sunroom louder than any doorbell.

  I almost broke the white blade off the ceiling fan. Climbing down the stepladder, all I could think was that Gerald was here to tell me that something horrible had happened to Cher. Something tragic that LaRue most likely had caused.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked before my foot hit the last stair step.

  Richard’s head was still bobbing from the outbreak of giggles. “You’re all excited with the love bug.”

  “Just tell me where he is.” His silliness wore on my last nerve.

  Richard’s point directed me to the side porch outside the kitchen door. When I found my unexpected guest, he was sitting on the porch swing slowly drifting back and forth. “Hey,” he said, turning to look at me. His wavy hair was creased from where his cap had been. The same cap that now rested on his knee.

  I stood still in front of him waiting for his news.

  “This a bad time?”

  “You liked to give me heart failure.” I slapped the side of his shoulder and joined him in the swing. “I thought something was the matter with Cher.”

  “No. Uh-huh. A lady who works at the courthouse had a bad battery and called me. Since I had to come this way, I decided to pay you a call.” He thumped the brim of his cap.

  “You don’t reckon Miss Claudia will get mad?”

  “She won’t care. She’s napping right now anyway,” I said and dismissed his concern with a swipe of my hand.

  “How’s she getting along?”

  “All this going on about that rescue home has just about worn her out. I don’t like her color today. Looks a little gray.”

  “You never know. The nap might do her good.”

  I wanted to knock some sense into Gerald’s head. Don’t you get it? She’s got leukemia, not a cold. I wanted to lecture him on white cells and how the evil blasts were the enemy. Instead, I wrinkled my brow and stared at him. A stare he never saw because he was busy molding the brim of his cap.

  “Stopped by the feed store this morning,” he said, plopping the reconfigured cap back on his head. “Old boy that runs the place, old Lee Roy Billings, he’s done started a bowling league. Needs three more players. I was thinking of signing up. Reckon you want to put your name on the list?”

  I thought of the Haggar factory bowling team and the handful of times I had filled in when Roxi couldn’t make her usual Wednesday night slot. It was fun, but Bozo never let me play on the team full-time. “You do this, and next thing I know you’ll be running around town like something gone wild,” he said after I mentioned the idea. But now that I had freedom, I worried about Cher’s chance to run wild and spend more time with her new and improved father.

  “I better not,” I said. “Miss Claudia’s really not doing that good. I never know when she might need me. You know, I wouldn’t want to put y’all on the spot if I couldn’t show up or something.”

  Two r
edbirds flew to the bird feeder next to Miss Claudia’s rosebushes. “Look,” I said and pointed towards the feeder. The crimson red feathers were a distraction, just like the quails were for Gerald the day he brought me to his secret meadow.

  Gerald admired the birds and smiled. “Want to go to supper tonight?” he asked, not looking away from the flutter of red. “We still ain’t tried that new barbecue place down on Highway 84.”

  “I’ve been wanting to try it,” I mumbled. The creak from the swing was soothing, and I considered shutting my eyes, playing like I was asleep. “It’s just that tonight I have to take Miss Claudia to prayer meeting.” He wrinkled his brow and frowned. “They’re voting whether to put the rescue home in the old house next to the church.” I repeated what I had overheard Miss Claudia say during endless phone calls to church members.

  “I understand,” he said. The frown and the sigh that followed certainly did not seem to show his understanding.

  “This is the big night. You know she’s worked real hard to get everybody to support this and everything.”

  When he got into his truck and rolled down the window, I stood at the edge of Miss Claudia’s sidewalk. My hands were hidden inside my jeans pockets. Before I could offer dinner at my place, his truck phone rang, and soon he was discussing a special part he had ordered from the Chevrolet place. Between words into the mobile phone, he waved to me and lazily grinned.

  When he drove away, I wanted to run after him and jump on the back of his tailgate. To hit on the back of his truck window and ask him to pull over and hold me tight. To let me feel his tight, secure grip. Instead, I quickly pulled my hands out of my pockets and waved before he had completely disappeared under the umbrella of oak limbs.

  The bony blue-veined hands were manicured. The bright red fingernail polish matched the red Bible she had nestled in her lap. I could tell Miss Claudia was a little nervous by the way that she kept squinting at the cuckoo clock. Richard was sleeping upright on the sofa, his legs propped up on the blue-and-yellow-flowered ottoman.

  “Jesus looked at them and said, with man this is impossible but not with God; all things are possible with God.” Miss Claudia closed her eyes and repeated the verse. I joined in closing my eyes and soon felt guilty that all I could see was LaRue and Cher in his white van. Stop it right now, I told myself. This is a big day for Miss Claudia. She worked hard to get people to support this home. She doesn’t need to hear your problems and get more burdened.

  The cuckoo sounded five times. She gasped and suddenly opened her eyes.

  “We got plenty of time,” I reminded her and leaned back in my chair.

  “But I still got to do my face, don’t you know.” She grabbed the silver-tipped cane and began the journey to her bedroom vanity table. “I don’t want the rescue home to miss any votes because I showed up at the meeting all pale-faced and ran them out the church door.”

  To keep from wearing the same dress to church, I went out on a limb and wore my short skirt and blouse that Miss Claudia made for my first date with Gerald. Sitting in her usual pew in the First Methodist sanctuary, I pulled the skirt down, trying to make it seem longer. Finally I pulled the hymnal from the rack in front of the pew and placed it over my legs, nodding my head and pretending to be familiar with the songs that I flipped through. I could hear Miss Claudia’s voice behind me, greeting each church member as they entered. Better than a seasoned county politician, I thought.

  “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.”

  I looked up and saw the good-looking pastor. He looked as polished as any movie star in a pair of linen khakis, a white shirt, and blue blazer. Thanks to a vacation in Hawaii, his skin was more tan than usual.

  “Hey. Yeah. We met. I’m Erma Lee Jacobs.” He put his index finger on his lips and pondered the name. “I work at…I mean, I’m Miss Claudia’s companion,” I said and flipped the ponytail over my neck.

  “Oh, yes,” he said and leaned back with his hands folded in front of him. “Now, I’m staying completely out of this vote whether we should purchase the property next door for the home. I hope Miss Claudia knows that.”

  Before I could say anything, Miss Claudia appeared and snaked her arm under his elbow. As they talked about dollars and plans designed by the committee of which I was an honorary member, I looked at the stained glass next to the pew. The mixture of gold and white showed Jesus in a robe. The color in his eyes shot out with golden rays from the setting Alabama sun. If it hadn’t been for the jerking motion of the man below the stained glass, I would have meditated longer on the beauty of it all.

  The man sitting in the pew below the glass was twitching his head and mumbling something crazy. What hair he had hung down the base of his neck, and every so often he would scratch his reddish orange beard. He was dressed in a dingy white shirt and stained blue jeans. Hired help like myself, I imagined. Most likely hired to cut the strip of grass in front of the church. By the way he had dirt stains on the shirt, he must’ve just turned off the mower. Not wanting him to feel like I was judging him, I scanned the rest of the church body.

  My eyes fell smack dab on Prune Face. “Now, did you call all the people you were supposed to, Elizabeth?” Miss Claudia asked. Prune Face and her hunch-backed husband slid into the pew behind us.

  “Oh, you better believe it,” she replied in a snorting sound.

  “Evening,” I said and slid the hymnal a little lower to cover my knees. Prune Face looked down at me and took her seat.

  “How you do,” her husband said. Prune Face snapped her pointy head around and looked at him. That piece of trash ought not to mix with us, I imagined her eyes saying to him in some sort of code that only many years of marital agony enabled him to understand.

  By the time we had sung the second hymn, I noticed the man under the stained glass twitching his head faster. My first thought was he must have slept wrong on his pillow and developed a kink in his neck. But when he stood up once and then quickly sat back down, I knew his problem was beyond poor sleep. Since the entire congregation was standing and singing, I doubt many saw him.

  “Tonight we have a different type of Wednesday evening service,” Dr. Winters said. His buffed nails rested on the sides of the white podium. “Tonight we will address three issues of church business. Two are routine budget matters. But the third is about helping those less fortunate. Something First Methodist has always sought to do.” He cleared his voice, and that’s when I heard the man under the stained-glass picture of Jesus. I couldn’t make out what he said, but it was loud enough for Miss Claudia to lean forward and look in his direction. The elderly couple ahead of us also glanced towards the commotion.

  “Let us open our hearts to prayer now and seek divine guidance on how to address these matters.” Dr. Winters closed his eyes and smiled. “Dear Father, we seek you on how to help those less fortunate in Houston County and the surrounding areas. We ask for your guidance…”

  “I tell you how you can help.”

  A gasp erupted from the congregation. Eyes shot open and discovered the man with a twitch standing below Dr. Winters on the church floor.

  “Oh, my stars,” Prune Face said behind us.

  “You can help by being Christians is all.” The man’s head suddenly jerked towards his right shoulder. His shirt seemed dirtier under the light beaming down upon the pulpit. “Y’all say you’re Christians. I sat right out front tonight. Right out yonder by the front door. Not a one of you even spoke. You drive up in your fancy cars and fancy clothes. Not a one of you spoke.” He scratched the bald crown of his head and mumbled beyond the understanding of human ears.

  I looked up at Dr. Winters. His blue eyes were wide and his knuckles were white, clinching the sides of the podium. The elderly man with silver hair and a light blue sport coat in front of us slipped out of his pew and walked towards the twitching man.

  “And y’all call yourselves Christians.” The guest’s voice cracked when he repeated the words. But he did not resist when th
e elderly man took his arm and led him through the side doors next to the organist. I heard the man’s voice one last time. “I am a Christian.” His declaration was muted behind the heavy brown door.

  The ruffle of programs and a couple of coughs were the only sounds that echoed in the sanctuary. It seemed like hours watching Dr. Winters lick his lips and sip water from the crystal glass placed next to the podium. Even I looked down, feeling pity in knowing all too well how the visitor felt. From the corner of my eye, I saw Miss Claudia look down and slowly shake her head.

  “The man has obvious mental challenges and needs our prayers,” Dr. Winters finally said. He removed the pressed white handkerchief from his coat pocket. “That man, like many others, needs our help.” Dr. Winters dabbed the glistening spots from his tanned forehead and, as smooth as shifting gears on a foreign luxury car, opened discussion on placing Miss Claudia’s vision of a rescue home next door to the church.

  “Well sir,” a distinguished older man with a gray mustache said, “looks like to me we’re setting ourselves up for trouble.” The crowd mumbled, and I turned to see many heads agreeing with his comments. “Don’t get me wrong now. I’m all for helping the little ladies. But putting that thing smack dab next to the church is just asking for trouble.”

  A woman about my age stood up. Her soft voice cracked when she spoke, and she gripped the pew ahead of her. “I hadn’t planned on saying anything, but I don’t care if this home for battered women is across town or across the street, we’ve got to stand up and help.”

  “Darling, I’m all for helping.” The older man stood back up. “We just got legal considerations. Now, I served as circuit judge for sixteen years. I know how jealous husbands can be. We just don’t need this place next door at the old Jackson home. What if some nut case shows up and shoots the place up on a Sunday night? That thing could happen while we’re all walking out to our cars after church.”

  Seven church members seemed to speak for the entire body that Wednesday evening. With the exception of the woman my age and one older lady who coughed so much I could barely hear her, all the comments were negative. All the talk of decreased property value and potential gunfire from irate husbands suddenly made Miss Claudia’s vision of safety sound dirty. She never looked at her church family as the comments flew faster than the automatic bullets they feared. She simply adjusted her glasses and stared at the bowl of sunflowers sitting on a table near the spot where the surprise speaker had made his accusations.