A Place Called Wiregrass

by Michael Morris

  At first, the sheriff’s deputies wanted to charge Gerald with aggravated assault. The fat man’s cheekbones were shattered into a bloody pulp. They even took Gerald in for questioning. My heart fell to my feet when I got back to the seedy motel that day and saw Gerald sitting in the back of the patrol car. But Cher’s statement helped get him off.

  The fat man had a full grocery store for LaRue: a stash of heroin and three grams of cocaine. A dealer who regularly bartered for his trades, the fat man offered LaRue his next hit for the small price of Cher’s innocence. I curled my fist and hit the blue plastic cushion of the hospital chair.

  As it turned out, vengeance really was the Lord’s. When LaRue’s van went airborne, it crashed into a propane gas tank at the convenience store. The fireball created from cans of paint in the van and the gas proved to be LaRue’s final sentence. The officer said the woman normally posted at the cash register was lucky enough to have been stocking milk on the opposite side of the building. The poor old thing escaped with third-degree burns. Another victim to add to LaRue’s resume.

  His charred body hid the needle tracks, but heroin secured its mark on LaRue’s insides. The autopsy showed he was tore up on all kinda dope when he crashed. I often wondered if he meant to plow into that white propane tank. To somehow escape the responsibility he would finally face or to do away with the turmoil that I imagined brewed in his soul.

  Forgive others as Christ has also forgiven you. The words played in my mind like a tape recorder on maximum volume. And try as I might to release LaRue for final judgment, I knew he would be a hindrance until I could forgive him. But that day would have to come tomorrow, I decided as I tried to shake the image of his blonde hair afire.

  I positioned my back against the hallway pay phone so I could watch Cher sleep. “No matter what, the Lord still loves you and Cher. There’s a whole lot of meanness in this world. But God still remains.” Miss Claudia’s words sounded weak on the phone.

  A pity party is what I wanted, not comfort. I wanted to scream and ask why I was being punished with all this turmoil. Why did everything bad happen to us? I rolled my eyes and yanked the phone receiver away from my ear. Her words of spiritual strength were not welcomed. I would’ve hung up if it’d come from anybody else. I wanted to lick my wounds. Question God. Shake my fist. But deep inside my spirit, I was fearful as much as determined not to go backwards. It could always get worse.

  The motel Bible rested on my lap so long before I finally opened it that the book had become a heater on my skin. I read the first chapter of 2 Corinthians every ten minutes until I had the passage just about memorized. For just as the sufferings of Christ flow over into our lives, so also through Christ our comfort overflows. The fancy-typed words were a shot, protecting me against the pity virus that hovered over me. And sitting in the vinyl chair in Cher’s hospital room, I closed my eyes, put my hands on the sheet, and forced thanks to the Lord for bringing Cher back to me, wounded yet alive.

  Gerald said little after the incident. When he came into the hospital room, he only looked at Cher for a minute or two and would disappear to the lobby. Checking out of the hospital, I had to let Gerald put the bill on his credit card. “Now I promise you seventy dollars the first of the month until I get you paid back.” I was humiliated to ask for help, but after the admissions clerk informed me my HMO did not insure us out of state, I had no choice.

  “I liked to killed that man with my bare hands,” Gerald said. He touched the elevator button and massaged his index finger.

  “He deserved every bit what you gave him.”

  “But I done it for all the wrong reasons.” Gerald moved to let an orderly pushing a wheelchair past us.

  He never said any more about the matter, but as I watched how he gently lifted Cher from the wheelchair into the truck, I knew what he meant. I figured Gerald beat the fat drug dealer for what he represented just as much as for what he did to Cher. He beat the demons out of that man. The same demons that caused the drunk in Wiregrass to get behind the wheel of his truck and kill Gerald’s wife.

  Gerald pushed up the brim of his cap and cut his eyes towards me from the driver’s seat. Right then, his eyes and lazy smile gave me a warmth that could only be matched by Miss Claudia. He had cared enough to drop the customers who were scheduled to have their automobiles worked on, to put the miles on his truck, and to risk being arrested. All that trouble to vindicate me and to save Cher.

  Cher’s head rested on my shoulder, and she stared straight ahead, never saying a word. On the interstate, I could see through the corner of my eye the backdrop of Shreveport in the side mirror. But I never looked back. Looking back at the city that produced heartache for me and my baby would be like Lot’s wife looking back on Sodom and Gomorrah. And I had come too far to be turned into a pillar of salt.

  The first week back in Wiregrass, church members took turns bringing supper to us—something I had no idea people did unless someone in your family died. But then again, I guess they figured that a part of Cher did die in Shreveport.

  In the daytime hours, Cher went with me to Miss Claudia’s and would lie in front of the TV. At night she would go straight back to her room and turn her radio on. Even Laurel’s presence at the door would not get her to come out.

  The evening Lee and Sonya brought a pot of chicken and dumplings to us, I was at a loss. All week Cher had not spoken a word. Even the most basic questions were answered with a shake or nod of her head. Her behavior reminded me of the struggles I had gone through with Miss Claudia. You have nothing to be scared of anymore, I wanted to yell into Cher’s face and shake her shoulders. But the vision of her permanently handicapped like Richard prevented any tough measures.

  “Erma Lee, have you thought about a counselor?” Lee asked. He watched Sonya set the cardboard box of casseroles on my dinette table.

  Head shrinkers, Mama called them. I knew all about them from Suzette’s stint in prison. “If she won’t talk to me, what makes you think she’ll talk to somebody she doesn’t even know?” I spoke in a stage whisper and pushed my hand towards the floor, trying to make Lee speak in a softer tone. Cher was only steps away, locked behind thin bedroom walls.

  Lee put two fingers up to the thin lips. A few black strands of hair stood like electricity was running through him. “Sometimes we hold back with the ones we’re closest to,” he whispered.

  “And to be real honest with you, that hospital bill and the trip up there set me back.” I had vowed to never again speak the word Shreveport. “Don’t you think you could just talk with her? You know, maybe pray with her or something?”

  Lee propped his hand on the kitchen counter. “You got it. But you know, prayer is a two-way street. What good is it if all she does is block my words out of her mind? I think prayer with counseling is the best thing here.”

  “What about Andra Kintowsky, down at the community center?” Sonya said. She looked at Lee and folded her arms.

  “That’s a good place to start. Andra is the best I know of. Why don’t I call you with her number? They tell me there’s even a plan for hardship cases.” Lee nervously looked away when he said the word hardship.

  Cher waited in the stark white lobby, staring at the loud television mounted on a corner wall. I met with Andra first. I knew I must have messed her name up by the way she responded.

  “It’s just like Sandra, only drop off the S. Don’t worry about it, hon,” she said and squinted up her round nose.

  Andra said the word hon a lot. She was petite and stylish with a layered blonde hairdo. She told me she grew up in northern Ohio and moved to Wiregrass after her husband graduated medical school. She informed me that he was the medical director at the local rehabilitation hospital and they had a five-year-old son. “So now, hon. What about you?”

  What could I say to match her wonderful home life? I’m sure twenty minutes later, after I offered highlights, she was ready to sign me up as the patient. Even so, I left nothing uncovered. Her blue eyes only
widened when I told her how I found Cher in the crack house after LaRue and Suzette ran off to Las Vegas. “And I’ve never told Cher that. I always thought it’d be too painful for her, you know. And now with everything that happened, well, I reckon she saw enough for herself.”

  Andra tapped a pencil eraser on the wide desk calendar. “But you’re still going to tell her, right?”

  I looked down at her shiny black shoes with big square heels. Shoes like the ones Cher looked at in her fashion magazines.

  “Hon, closure is going to be critical for Cher.” Andra leaned forward and chopped her hand in the air. “Absolutely critical.”

  After Andra met with Cher for only ten minutes, she brought her back to the lobby. For that little bit of time, I was glad I only had to pay five dollars. “You qualify for our sliding fee scale,” the young receptionist said and smiled real big. A giveaway program for the pitiful, I thought.

  A daytime story roared so loud on the television, I had to lean forward to hear Andra. “Cher and I agreed to meet weekly for a little while,” Andra said, smiling, with her hands on Cher’s shoulders. “See you next week, hon.” Andra winked and turned back down the sterile hallway.

  Walking to the car in the searing June heat, I pulled a pair of sunglasses from my pocketbook. They were not identical, but as close as I could find at K-Mart to the ones that broke the day I slapped her. To keep her from getting nervous, I handed them to her and looked away at the Hispanic man cutting the row of shrubs in front of a sign that read Houston County Mental Health Center.

  “Thanks,” Cher whispered.

  “What’d you think of her?”

  “I liked her shoes.”

  I clapped my hands and threw my head backwards. “I knew you’d say that the minute I saw them things.” When we slid into the scorching car seats and rolled the windows down, a chill drifted down my spine. I thanked God for His mercy. That day marked the first time Cher had said two words to me since her return home.

  Two days before July fourth, the divorce papers were signed with much less fanfare than I expected. No fireworks or celebration cookout. Just the young lawyer and the dining-room table at Miss Claudia’s house. Her lawyer brought them to me when he dropped off some other papers for Miss Claudia’s signature.

  Bozo agreed to pay fifty dollars a week in child support. I had arranged for half of each month’s payment to go into the college account I opened for Cher down at the bank. The papers I signed said Bozo could visit Cher one weekend a month and two weeks during summers. But with his new love interest, I doubted Cher would be hearing from him anytime soon. I never did call and tell Bozo about LaRue. He would just blame it all on me anyway, I told myself as I finished polishing Miss Claudia’s baby grand piano.

  “Cher, you ’bout ready for our lesson,” Miss Claudia yelled to Cher. “Your grandmama’s got the piano all nice and shiny for us.”

  Cher turned off Miss Claudia’s television and stumbled into the formal living room.

  “And remember where middle C is now,” Miss Claudia said, placing Cher’s thumb on the correct key.

  The piano lessons began after Cher started her marathon TV watching. “I just see that screen sucking her brain out,” Miss Claudia said to me. Soon piano lessons became a way for Cher to turn off the TV and for Miss Claudia to turn off worry over the rescue home.

  While Gerald and me were away looking for Cher, the city council manager promised Miss Claudia a portion of the city budget would include funds for the home. She was still lobbying local churches. Every morning she would sit in her dining room, with papers scattered all over the table, talking to local pastors and community leaders.

  Miss Claudia’s pastor, Dr. Winters, visited once after the church voted to turn down full sponsorship of the home.

  “Miss Claudia, I wish there was more I could do.” Dr. Winters shook his head and picked a piece of lint from his olive slacks.

  She pulled her glasses off and slowly twirled them around with her fingers. “Oh, but Dr. Winters, I think there is more.”

  “What? Yes, indeed. Anything at all for you, Miss Claudia.”

  “You can get down on your knees and pray for the church. Too many of them are playing church rather than worshiping the Lord.”

  When Dr. Winters’s beeper went off, Miss Claudia never let up. “I want to quote you something from Timothy,” she said and picked up her ever handy red Bible. “For God did not give you a spirit of timidity, but a spirit of love, power, and self-discipline.” She raised her arm in a militant fashion. “Power.”

  When she raised her voice and repeated the word, Dr. Winters dropped his pager and disappeared under the table trying to find it.

  “Notice how I put the emphasis on power. Do you think we showed power when that poor man came to our church looking for somebody to be nice to him?”

  “You’re right, of course, but others are very comfortable with our worship service. This revival kind of thinking…well, it’s just old-fashioned,” Dr. Winters said on his hands and knees under the table.

  “Revival? I’m talking about a Christian attitude, don’t you know,” Miss Claudia said. She lifted the lace tablecloth and looked down at him.

  I noticed his pager by the china cabinet and scooped it up. “Here it is.”

  “Awh,” Dr. Winters yelled when he crawled from under the table and bumped his head on the section piece.

  The pastor fumbled to place the pager back on his belt loop. “And I pray that you’ll have boldness to preach the truth and not be so bashful,” Miss Claudia continued.

  “Thank you, Emily,” he whispered. Dr. Winters waved to Miss Claudia, and before I could run ahead to open the door for him, he was backing the Lexus out of the driveway.

  I bit my lip. But when I walked into the dining room and saw Miss Claudia chuckling, I tilted my head back and liked to died laughing.

  “Bless his heart. The man’s got the backbone of a jellyfish,” Miss Claudia said, wiping tears from her eyes. “And don’t you know, if I didn’t have a cent to my name, he would’ve never stepped foot in my place.” She flung her hands to the side. “I’ll pray for them. But I tell you one thing,” she pointed directly at me, “the Lord spoke to me that night at church. God may be everywhere, but not everywhere is God.”

  I had no idea that Miss Claudia would really take me up on my offer and go to my nondenominational church. But when I came to get her, there she was on the steps of her white-columned porch, dressed in a red suit, matching hat, and white gloves.

  “Look who I got with me,” I said to Gerald. Miss Claudia giggled behind me.

  Gerald stood and let us enter the pew. His smile was not very broad. By the way he cast his eyes to the side, I sensed he was not happy with Miss Claudia’s appearance. But if he wasn’t, Marcie certainly was.

  “So good to see you again,” Marcie said, hugging Miss Claudia’s neck.

  “Let’s see…I recall the last time we were together, you had a big trip someplace,” Miss Claudia said.

  Marcie slung her hair over her shoulder and stuck her chin up. “Yes, ma’am. Charleston. Oh, it’s just so pretty down there. I had a grand time.” She hammered down on the word grand. “And how are you, Erma Lee?”

  When Marcie walked away, Miss Claudia held the church bulletin to the side of her mouth and pinched my arm. “I mean to tell you, she’s just a regular rounder.”

  That afternoon Gerald called to check on Cher and me.

  The echoes of Cher’s radio played in the background. “She seems to be doing good. She likes that counselor, Andra. Just like Sandra but drop off the S.”

  “And what about you?”

  “Busy helping Miss Claudia get ready for that big city council meeting. They’re finalizing the budget for the house and everything.”

  “Hmm. Well you reckon you want to slip off and get some barbecue this evening?”

  The thought of leaving Cher alone still terrified me. “Well, I sorta promised Miss Claudia I’d help send
out some letters about that meeting. And Cher’s got a video she wants to watch on Miss Claudia’s VCR.”

  “Well, you know, I got a VCR over here too.”

  “Oh, I know. What about tomorrow night?”

  “Got a horse meeting up at the clubhouse. You wanna come?”

  I closed my eyes and imagined what he would say if I asked if Cher could come along too. He probably thought like Kasi. That I was mothering Cher too much. “Well, why don’t you call me tomorrow at Miss Claudia’s.”

  Cher walked into the kitchen, and I moved to let her get to the refrigerator. I watched her pour Coke into a glass and stroked her hair. I really didn’t hear Gerald’s tone of voice change. I just remember the sudden dial tone.

  “Yeah. I’ll see you, hear?” he said and hung up.

  “She’s opening up more,” Andra said in the lobby of the mental-health clinic. Audience screams from The Price Is Right echoed throughout the lobby.

  I wanted to ask if Cher blamed me in any way. “So she’s getting better?”

  “Hon, the kid’s been through a lot. It’s not a Band-Aid fix.” Andra reached over and patted my shoulder. “She wanted things to be one way very badly, and reality forced her to see they were not.”

  “You talking about LaRue and Suzette?”

  Andra tucked strands of blonde-streaked hair behind her ears. “I really think she needs to hear the entire story. How you and your ex-husband came to adopt her. Quite frankly, there’s only so much I can do to help her. We need all the pieces to build the puzzle.”

  Cher was smiling when I saw her walking down the long clinic hallway. She was carrying a clump of bright-colored material in her arms.

  “Look,” Cher said and held up two shirts. “Andra gave these to me. Do you know how much I’d have to pay for these?”

  “Not a bit of telling,” I said, thinking of my own charitable clothing donated from Patricia. The designer labels were probably molded from the car-trunk humidity by now.