A Place Called Wiregrass

by Michael Morris

  The enemy may have taken her appearance, but even blasts of leukemia couldn’t squash her spirit. It became a running joke whenever Patricia and I would lift her to use the bedpan. Miss Claudia would moan and gasp, “Maybe you girls will get me potty-trained yet.”

  Patricia and Cher were at the grocery store when I heard Miss Claudia ring the bronze bell Patricia had placed by the hospital bed. Richard never looked up from the plate of roast beef.

  “I just can’t hold it any longer,” she whispered. The frown on her face always indicated a need for the bedpan. I tried to lift under the armpits; at least there was some flesh there. But each time she’d gasp when my fingers slipped over her bony shoulder.

  Richard ate faster when he saw me standing in the kitchen doorway. “Can you help me lift your mama? Her kidneys need to act.”

  “I just…Can’t we wait until Patricia gets back?” he asked, scooping kernels of corn onto his spoon.

  Before I could think, I snatched the plate, and kernels of corn fell to the floor. “Now I’ve about had it with you. She’s your mama, and God knows she’s waited on you more times than she should’ve. The least you can do is pick her up so she can pee.”

  After I showed Richard how to lift Miss Claudia, he not only picked her up that day but every time Miss Claudia needed him. Whenever I tried to lift the sides of the sheets to change them, Miss Claudia would say, “Just let Richard.”

  Keeping track of the medicine was another task Richard learned. I administered the shots for pain into the IV tube that the hospice nurse secured in Miss Claudia’s vein. But Richard worked with the nurse on the dose and time allowed between injections. He even color-coordinated the dosing schedules on three-by-five cards.

  “Umm,” Miss Claudia would moan when the pain hit her. I learned how to prime the needle and inject the painkiller into her system in less than a minute. After the medicine had time to take effect and her face muscles softened, the first words out of her mouth were always the same. “You’d make a fine nurse.”

  When I walked into the kitchen, Patricia was holding an empty vial of painkiller.

  “Erma Lee, it was too soon for Mama’s shot,” she said.

  I felt my eyes widen and looked at the empty vial she was holding between her fingers. “What? Well, she said she was needing it, and Richard said…”

  “Oh, me.” Patricia threw her hands up in the air. “You’re relying on him to remind you when Mama needs a shot?”

  Patricia never saw Richard behind the porch screen door.

  “Well, he can’t even keep straight how many Tylenol he takes, let alone lethal medication. Erma Lee, really. Do you know what this could do to Mama?” Air spewed from her mouth, and her eyes rolled upward. “I’ll just have to call the doctor and…”

  Richard walked in and snatched the empty vial. “We’ve given this every four hours for the past three days now.” He pulled a yellow index card from his shirt pocket. “Last shot was at eight oh-seven this morning,” he read and looked at his watch. “It’s twelve thirty-four. Past time for the shot.”

  Patricia wrinkled her brow and watched him walk down the hall to Miss Claudia’s bedroom.

  The day Missoura visited, Miss Claudia’s breath was shallow, and it was hard for her to talk. When I brought a straw for Miss Claudia’s diluted iced tea, Missoura leaned over the hospital bed railing and held her hand. I lifted Miss Claudia’s back slightly, and Missoura tipped the straw towards her mouth.

  “Drink yourself some tea now,” Missoura said. “You always say it’s the house wine at your place.”

  Missoura took the damp washcloth from the bed rail and blotted Miss Claudia’s chapped lips.

  “I’m teaching Cher piano,” Miss Claudia mumbled between gasps.

  “Well, I be.”

  “Like you taught me. Remember?”

  “Seem like about a hundred years ago.” Missoura caressed the side of Miss Claudia’s face.

  The steady tick from the grandfather clock filled the room. Missoura kept stroking her cheek and smiling at the woman she’d help mold. Tears surrounded the coal-colored dots of her eyes, but she never looked away.

  “We need a fresh washcloth.” I snatched the cloth from the bed rail and ran down the steps to the washroom. In the dampness of the basement, I leaned against the washing machine, muzzled my mouth with the cloth that had brushed Miss Claudia’s lips, and allowed myself to cry.

  The smell of bacon drifted throughout the first-floor rooms. I put a third plate on the kitchen table, only to pick it up again. For a second, I forgot Cher had spent the night with Laurel.

  “Mama said she wants to try a bite of bacon.” Richard’s words mingled with laughter.

  “What?” I laughed too and opened my mouth, believing a miracle had taken place.

  “She sure did. I asked her how she was feeling this morning, and that’s what she said.” Richard clapped his hands and sat down at the table.

  “Well, I better get that gal a slice of bacon,” I said and finished filling Richard’s plate with grits. “Patricia’s getting dressed. She said for you to go on and eat.”

  Placing the bacon on a plate, I walked by the staircase and heard Patricia slam the bathroom cabinet. Plugging in those rollers, getting ready to make that hair big. The grandfather clock chimed eight when I walked into Miss Claudia’s dark bedroom.

  She was sleeping with her head turned to the side, her mouth slightly open. I placed the plate of bacon next to her red Bible.

  “I hear somebody’s hungry for some bacon.” The heavy burgundy drapes were hard to pull back, and my eyes squinted when sunshine filled the room.

  Miss Claudia’s face looked more pasty in the rays of light. “I said I made you some…” I touched her hand. “Miss Claudia?” My hand lightly shook the pink chiffon–covered shoulder.

  A cough upstairs from Patricia and the tapping of Richard’s fork against his plate. Those were the only sounds I heard. The sounds of ordinary activity. I stood as still as possible by the bed rail, balancing her hand in my palm. The selfish side of me kept looking at her chest, ordering it to rise up with life.

  Now, you know she’s better off, I kept repeating to myself. You knew this would happen. But my mind couldn’t stop my shoulders from shaking or the sob that grew within my chest. I leaned down and kissed her forehead. The wrinkled skin was still warm. My tears landed and then rolled down the side of her face. Why hadn’t I kissed her before now?

  I covered my mouth and tried to muffle the sounds of loss. My loss. Not Richard’s or Patricia’s, but mine and mine alone. She was my mother too, but in a different sense. The mother that, as a girl, I had long given up ever knowing. And even while standing there in the stillness of the room with tears flowing, I somehow had the good sense to take in the room like a snapshot, knowing that my life would never be the same.

  When I turned my head away from the hospital bed, I saw the armoire. The list was tucked inside the top drawer just as she promised. Call hospice and Blakely’s Funeral Home. Have them dress me in my lavender suit. Have Erma Lee, Cher, and Missoura sit with the family.

  With the note in hand, I rang the bronze bell as hard as I could. Richard was the first person at the doorway. He clutched both sides of the door frame, and his mouth slowly dropped. Hugging him tightly, I whispered, “She was proud of you for taking care of her.” Then I made my way towards the living-room phone.

  Patricia skipped two stairs at a time, barefoot and wild-eyed. A brown age mark decorated her plain face, and a drip of water fell from wet hair. She paused to look at me and bit her bottom lip.

  After I hung up the phone, I realized my last task for Miss Claudia was over. I stood at the doorway of her room feeling the confusion of the moment and looking for a way to make myself useful. A glass half full of watered-down tea needed to be put in the dishwasher. The bell needed to be returned to its proper spot. Patricia and Richard hovered over her, locked in each other’s grasp. Richard’s cries only sounded louder bec
ause Patricia’s face was buried in his chest. Their sobs grew softer with each step I made to the light of day. I walked to the side porch and sat in the wicker swing overlooking Miss Claudia’s flower garden. The swing creaked when I turned my head away from the dots of pink and yellow and towards the empty black asphalt of Elm Drive.

  The side porch was the same place I retreated to after Miss Claudia’s funeral. While Patricia sat in the living room squalling and being fanned by three of her friends from the Cotillion Society, I sat on the swing dressed in my old faithful black-and-white dress, fanning away the stifling heat with the funeral program.

  Cher was quiet and sat next to me with her legs crossed. During the service she softly cried and scooted close to me. Her body nestled against the soft spot under my arm. The only time I felt like bawling my eyes out was when the choir sang “How Great Thou Art.” The image of Miss Claudia smiling and playing that one-two-three tempo flooded my mind. But I just bit my tongue and squeezed Cher’s shoulder tighter.

  Patricia made Miss Claudia go back one last time to the church that let her down. “We can’t hurt everybody’s feelings,” Patricia said when Richard voiced opposition to having the services at First Methodist.

  “Gerald was at the funeral,” Cher said.

  “You saw him?”

  “He was in the back. Sat next to Brownie. I saw them when we walked in.”

  Lee, his wife Sonya, and Brownie all spoke to me at the cemetery. But I never saw Gerald.

  The screen door opened, and the chatter of the guests drifted to the porch. Richard closed the door and loosened his tie. I tried to picture him dressed in the same uniform twenty years ago, a hotshot lawyer. Try as I might, the image never materialized.

  “All that chatter is wearing on my nerves.” Richard held up Miss Claudia’s red Bible. “Mama wanted you to have this.”

  I clutched the Bible with the torn corner and smiled. “Are you sure Patricia’s okay with me having this?”

  He looked inside the kitchen window and fanned his hands. “She’s too busy with her sinking spells to pay any attention.”

  “You know I’ll cherish it.”

  Richard slowly made his way down the concrete steps and walked towards the garage apartment. His suit pants hung loose in the seat, and the navy material gathered at the belt loops. “Mama loved you, Erma Lee. And so do we.”

  All my energy was drained from changing out of my good dress. I wanted to rest and dream about Miss Claudia. To pretend in sleep that she was still needing a ride to the beauty shop and offering me a dose of encouraging words along the way. There would be plenty of time to move on. But today I wanted to be selfish and mourn my loss.

  I had just laid down when Cher knocked at my bedroom door. “We’ve got company,” she said.

  I pictured Brownie at the door with a pot of chicken and rice for our supper. “Tell them I’m taking a nap.”

  “You need this,” she persisted and opened the bedroom door. “Now, come on and get up.”

  I sighed, got up, and slipped on my flip-flops. “Girl, I swear…”

  Cher opened the front door, and Gerald stood on the steps holding a dozen red roses. “I knew you’d be feeling all low today, so I had the lady down at the flower shop fix these up.”

  I took a step backwards and grabbed my chest. In all of my forty-eight years, I had never seen so many flowers in such a big vase. Once, after I had threatened to leave Bozo, he sent me six roses.

  The wide vase required Cher to use both hands when she placed the flowers on the counter. Red petals filled the kitchen.

  “I know I should have said something at the cemetery.” Gerald tucked his thumb inside his belt loop and looked across the street. “I just ain’t good at such as that.”

  Every fiber of my being wanted to leap and wrap my arms around him. Words from the phone conversation with Marcie about other women seemed tiny and remote. “Gerald, you shouldn’t have done that now,” I said.

  “Y’all got time to run out to the house? It won’t take but a minute,” he said and pointed at Cher.

  Riding up the bumpy driveway to Gerald’s home, I was prepared to see the woman that was with him at the restaurant now standing on the front porch. He probably told her that he felt sorry for us and had to do something to clear his conscience.

  But when we pulled up to the faded white house, there was no sign of anybody. Just two horses and a scattered group of cows grazing in the field next to the home.

  “Now, gal, you better shut them eyes,” Gerald said.

  “All right already. They’re shut,” Cher said, both hands covering her eyes.

  The excitement was contagious. I looked around trying to figure out what Cher’s surprise was. Gerald got out of the truck and walked to the side of the house.

  “What’s he doing?” Cher asked.

  “I have no idea,” I said and chuckled.

  Gerald approached the front of the truck leading a black horse with a white blaze down the front of its head.

  My gasp made Cher lean forward, her eyes still closed. “Grandma, I’m about to wet my pants.”

  We got out of the truck, and I led Cher by the arm.

  A game-show host couldn’t have been more enthused. “Open them eyes,” Gerald yelled.

  Cher opened her eyes and bent forward, and her mouth fell open.

  “An old boy owed me money for putting a new engine in his truck. He couldn’t come up with the money so we bartered on this mare. You reckon you’d care for her if I was to give her to you?”

  Cher’s hand trembled when she covered her mouth. She put her arms around Gerald, and he smiled that crooked way he had.

  I winked at him and fought the urge to go up and squeeze him myself.

  “Now, I’ll board her for you, but you’re gonna have to clean the stall and feed her.”

  “Gerald, I’ll do anything, I swear,” Cher said and pushed hair from her eyes.

  Gerald led the way to the place he called his sanity. Cher rode behind us, seated on the horse in one of Donnie’s saddles.

  “Cher, now your Grandma’s the only one who’s seen this place,” Gerald said when we reached the open field. He put his arm on my shoulder, and my eyes closed at the touch. I didn’t have to be Andra or some fancy psychologist to know I needed the feel of his wide hand that day. The united feeling of warmth and being wanted were discovered in the grease-spotted cuticles of his thick fingers. If our relationship never grew beyond that touch, I knew I could count him as a close friend.

  We stood at the edge of the brook and watched Cher ride in circles around the meadow. “Remember to keep your toes pointed up and your hiney down,” Gerald cupped his hands and yelled. I studied the way he squatted down on the ground and put a blade of grass in the corner of his mouth. Miss Claudia was right about him. He was the salt of the earth.

  While Cher guided the horse through the brook, Gerald addressed it head-on. “I know things been rough on you. But…well I don’t know. You mad at me?”

  I looked down and pulled my big toe up against the plastic flip-flop. “No, don’t be silly.”

  He scratched the gray stubble on his chin and looked back at Cher.

  “You and that woman still dating?”

  He cocked his head towards me and smiled. “You know about that?”

  “I saw y’all.”

  “I only went out with her a couple of times. Marcie kept after me until I did. I don’t know, she’s nice enough. Just too high cotton for my tastes.” Gerald walked to the edge of the brook and instructed Cher to tighten her reins.

  While Cher and Gerald worked the reins, I looked around the lush green meadow and listened to creek water splash the rocks. The light breeze and its steady currents helped me understand why this place gave Gerald peace of mind during his hard times.

  The blanket of trees and their limbs that bent down to almost touch the grass hugged me that afternoon. I didn’t need a nap to dream about Miss Claudia. I sat on the stump of an a
ncient oak and wondered if she was standing in a similar place in heaven. I pictured her running wide open through an even greener meadow and throwing that silver cane farther than any javelin gold medalist. The cane would sail across the clear blue distance, and she would lift her head high, shouting eternal Hallelujahs.

  Twenty-seven

  Everything has a season. Lots of change came with the passing of that summer. Because of Cher’s new horse, me and Gerald saw each other three afternoons a week and most Saturdays. We’d take turns buying Cokes from the drink machine at his shop and watch Cher practice in the meadow he no longer needed to keep private.

  Cher started the ninth grade by joining the high-school band. I always said it was on account of Miss Claudia taking up time with her on the piano. The car-wash money she earned even paid for the clarinet.

  Soon Cher started playing in the small Sunday morning orchestra at church. Although some of the older church members still complain to Lee that it’s sacrilegious to have drums in the church house, I like the addition. Each Sunday, when the service ends and the congregation joins hands to sing “The Family of God,” I stand tall on my tiptoes. Watching Cher’s cheeks sink in as blasts of praise rise from the black instrument makes me feel even taller.

  Suzette continued to keep writing us letters. A couple of times I have written her back without Cher’s joint signature. I got to hand it to Suzette. She’s trying. She’s done so good with her schoolwork that her letters got me to thinking. And the day Cher began high school, I forced myself to go down to the vocational center and sign up for night classes. The retired math teacher who leads the class, Mrs. Hutchinson, calls the program General Equivalency Diploma classes. Patricia said she can get me a raise at the cafeteria the minute I get that certificate. But who’s to say, maybe I’ll make a nurse yet.