Driving Me Crazy

by Webb, Peggy

  Now Jean says, “It’s a different kind of celebration, Mama. Walter and I are going to have a baby.”

  “Honey, I thought we were going to wait till everybody had ordered,” Walter says.

  “Maggie, quick, call Annie Maycomb.” Mama’s practically bouncing up and down. “Her grandkids might as well move over because my grandbaby’s going to be the President of the United States.”

  She does a little hula, impatient that her walker confines her movements, while I refold my napkin and try to figure out the future.

  “Maggie,” she’s saying now, “I want you to tell everybody in church Sunday.”

  “We’ll have an announcement put in the bulletin,” Jean adds.

  “Flitter. Nobody reads those old things. I want Maggie to announce it from the pulpit.”

  So now I’m trying to figure out how I’ll manage that, because if I don’t, Mama will.

  The waitress is hovering over her now. “I want the most expensive thing on the menu,” Mama says. “It’s not every day a woman discovers she’s going to have the smartest grandbaby in the world.”

  *

  After dinner while Walter helps Mama into the car, Jean tugs me back into the foyer. “You were awfully quiet tonight. What’s wrong?”

  “I’m thinking about my future, Jean. I have to find some kind of work to tide me over until I’m back on my career path.”

  “I know you do. But I’m not fixing to be a party to putting Mama in one of those awful homes. Besides, what would we do without her?”

  “We wouldn’t be without her. She’d just be in a different place, that’s all.” Why do I feel like a villain here? “I don’t think they’re all awful, either.”

  “Well, she does, and I can’t think of any other options because you know good and well she’s not going to tolerate a stranger living in her house.”

  “I know.”

  “What are we going to do, Maggie?”

  Who made me Solomon? I want to say. Instead I hand my sister a tissue.

  “What we’re not going to do is cry in the foyer of a fancy restaurant.”

  I hurry to the car because Walter’s heading our way and if I don’t show up behind the wheel of the Jeep within the next three seconds, Mama will be honking the horn.

  *

  As soon as we get home, I help Mama to bed, sans walker. Leaning heavily on me, she stumbles. I brace myself, amazed that somebody who has lost as much weight as she can deliver a linebacker blow. Frantically I grab for the back of her recliner for extra support. We teeter there, and in that split second I’m trying to figure how I’ll cushion Mama’s fall when we hit the floor.

  She grabs the chair, too, and with Herculean effort we both remain upright. Finally, we move forward again, and when I get her into bed she lies for a while, silent.

  “Are you okay, Mama?”

  “Wake me up for the eclipse,” is all she says, and then shuts her eyes.

  I stand for a while, watching, but she peers at me with one eye, and says, “Go on, Maggie. I can’t sleep with you staring at me.”

  I tiptoe out then hole up in my bedroom with the telephone book and my lap top. It takes a while before I’m calm enough to start making a list of the area’s high schools.

  Life goes on, I tell myself, and finally I begin typing. First thing Monday morning I’ll call everybody on my list to see if there’s an opening for an English teacher.

  There’s a certain satisfaction in thinking of myself back in the classroom, molding young minds, inspiring young writers, dispensing motherly love along with lessons about subject/verb agreement and the correct use of pronouns.

  I don’t see this job as a replacement for writing, never that, but a steady income that would remove a huge pressure and allow me to write with wings.

  Jefferson noses open my door and pads across the carpet to put his big head in my lap. This is his way of checking on his family, making sure that all of us are in the proper place at the proper time. I smooth his growing-back fur and say, “It’s okay, boy. I’ll go to bed eventually.”

  He whines softly, understanding more than most people give dogs credit for. If you’d lived ten years with somebody who spoke a different language, wouldn’t you at least learn to understand what they’re saying?

  “I’m making plans,” I tell him, “but I don’t want you to worry and lose your hair. I’m going to make sure that you and Mama are taken care of. Okay, boy?”

  He nudges my arm, which means I should continue patting, then pads back to Mama’s bedroom.

  *

  I wake Mama at midnight, and she says, “What’s wrong? Is the baby sick?”

  “Mama, Jean hasn’t had her baby. It’s the eclipse. Remember?”

  “Certainly, I do,” she snaps. “I was dreaming, that’s all.”

  I help her get into a robe and house shoes, then make sure she’s anchored solidly to her walker before I take her onto the front porch.

  The earth’s shadow has already started its march across the moon. I position two wicker chairs exactly right for viewing, and we turn our faces toward the heavens.

  “This is the most spectacular one yet,” Mama says, and I agree.

  Only a tiny sliver of gold shows where the rim of the moon is still not blotted out. When complete darkness comes I am filled with awe and wonder and a sense of my own mortality. This will endure. There’s a kind of mercy in that, in the knowledge that I’m merely passing through, and no matter what I do, no matter what kind of legacy I leave, I can never match this; I can never create a star or call forth a storm or cause a total eclipse of the moon.

  It’s beautiful, this kind of hushed watching, the two of us with our faces lifted and the fragrance of Mama’s Gertrude Jekyll rose heavy on the summer air. The earth’s shadow continues its journey, leaving behind a moon that glows red.

  “Maggie.” Without taking her eyes off the transformed moon, Mama reaches for my hand. “I’m leaving.”

  “Don’t talk that way. You’re not going anywhere.”

  “Flitter, I’m not talking about dying. I’m talking about going into a home like Mary Quana.” She glances at me and adds, “Just till I can get back on my feet. If she can have fun in one of those things, so can I.”

  My squeezed-tight throat blocks words, and when I don’t say anything she treats me to one of her famous, sly looks. “Besides I’m tired of being the Statue of Liberty for you and Jean. It’s high time for both of you to get on with your own lives.”

  Mama didn’t say a word about need – hers to have a nurse standing by and mine to get a job and a life. She didn’t mention the kind of courage it takes to chart a new course, or the heartache of wrenching herself away from a place she loves. She’s always been one to plow forward and never look back with regret.

  Mercy, I think as I look at the red moon. A mercy that I found hard to ask for and Mama found easy to grant.

  *

  The next morning I hear her on the phone at six o’clock. “Get up and get dressed, Jean,” she’s saying. “We’re going to look at personal care homes.”

  I go into her bedroom with uncombed, fright-wig hair and bleary, bloodshot eyes. Mama’s sitting in her recliner already dressed in blue pedal pushers and matching blue blouse that sports a green, sequined parrot on the shoulder.

  How did she do all that without waking me? A scary thought.

  “Mama…what on earth? Do you know what time it is?”

  “Certainly. I’m not senile.”

  “Nobody said you were. All I’m saying is that none of these places will be open for hours. Besides, we don’t have to look today. Walter just got home.”

  “Walter can wait. I need to get settled in. Go on and get dressed. We’ll eat breakfast at Shoney’s.”

  By seven we’re in my Jeep headed to Shoney’s breakfast buffet, Mama up front on her stack of pillows and Jean in the back seat in her brand new pink maternity top, a pen in her hand and the telephone book plus a loose leaf noteboo
k open on her lap.

  “I’ve made a list of all the places we should visit,” she says. “And I’m making a list of all the things we should look for.”

  “A courteous, kind-hearted staff is the main thing,” I say.

  “It’s got to be clean first,” Jean adds. “We don’t want carpet that smells like urine.”

  “We’ve got to find one with a good nurse on duty.”

  “Obviously, Maggie, but what I’m worried about is finding one that doesn’t invite all those hell-fire-and-damnation preachers who come in and scream at everybody. Mama won’t put up with that.”

  “We can’t control the programs, Jean. Besides, I think attendance is optional.”

  “You’d better ask. And while you’re at it, see about the laundry. They mix up your clothes, and what they don’t lose they bleach to pieces.”

  Am I the only one with a mouth? I want to say, but if I do Jean will start crying and I’m all out of tissue.

  “Nobody asked me what I wanted,” Mama says.

  We both ask, “What?”

  “I’m looking for one that has a good-looking old geezer with all his own teeth and at least half his mind.”

  “Mama, this is serious,” Jean says. “Quit joking.”

  “Who said I’m joking?”

  With Mama you never know. The good thing is that at least I don’t have to worry about having a baby brother or sister.

  “I’d also like one that takes dogs,” Mama says, and I tell her that’s the first thing I’ll ask.

  *

  At Shoney’s it takes both of us to get Mama out of the car and onto her walker. Jean tears up, and I give her a don’t-you-dare look. I won’t have Mama’s Declaration of Independence day marred with tears.

  What I think about, though, is how close she came to falling last night and how helpless I felt to prevent it. At least, in a home, professionals will be there to take care of her.

  Inside I load my plate with one of everything at the food bar, and so does Jean. “I’m eating for two,” she says. I could tell her I’m eating for depression, but I don’t.

  Instead I tell Mama to take another helping of cheese grits. “I might as well,” she says. “If I’m going to find a man I’ve got to get my figure back.”

  *

  The first place we visit is Summer Valley, a lovely name that conjures sunlight pouring through French windows onto butter yellow walls, wrought iron gliders tucked among arbors laden with soft pink New Dawn roses, and a light-filled dining room where the food is so delicious you think you’re eating at Antoine’s in New Orleans.

  What we discover is a rectangular brick building with windows so high that nobody can possibly see the view. They wouldn’t want to if they could, because the yard sports nut grass and a few bitterweeds interspersed with brown-earth patches where army worms have eaten all the grass.

  “I not getting out,” Jean says. “Let’s go.”

  I agree with her. This place looks as if it should house prisoners instead of senior citizens who were once our teachers and doctors and lawyers and tax accountants, people with lively minds and humorous outlooks. Even if illness has stolen their minds, they deserve graciousness and beauty.

  “Mama?” I turn to her for the last word.

  “I guess it won’t hurt to see” is what she tells me, but I’m reading her face. Help.

  I crank the Jeep and turn around but the driveway is too narrow and I end up backing onto the lawn and crushing some crabgrass. An improvement, I’d say.

  “There are plenty of other places,” I tell Mama.

  “If not, we can come back,” she says. “This is only temporary.”

  *

  All day Jean and I both act as if we believe that, but awful truths have a way of creeping up on you in the dark. With Mama and Jefferson both snoring, I’m standing in the kitchen doing dishes, with nothing but the radio to keep me company.

  “Expect some bad weather tomorrow,” Rainman says. “It’s already here.”

  Suddenly the terrible loneliness of having no one to share heartache is unbearable. Even triumph and celebration are better with somebody special.

  With a bluesy rendition of “Stormy Weather” playing, I dial Rainman’s number. “Hello, this is Maggie.” And then I stop. Just stop.

  “Maggie? Where are you? What’s wrong?”

  When I’m blue, my flattened-out voice is a dead giveaway to my friends. Knowing he hears the pain gives me courage.

  I tell him about Mama and the dreadful search, and when I’m done he says, “I would come if I weren’t at the station, but I have a song I’m going to play for you, Maggie. Hang on…I’ll be right back.”

  I do just what he says, hang on while “Stormy Weather” ends, and Rainman comes back on the air. “The next song is for someone very special,” he says, and something inside me relaxes.

  “I discovered this singer at a time in my life when I needed reassurance and grace, and nobody delivers it better than Price Harris…Here he is, folks. ‘I’ve Never Been Out of His Care.’”

  While a rich, mellow voice assures me that the arms of God are around me, I feel as if I’ve been hugged.

  Rainman comes back on the phone. “Talk to me, Maggie. I’m here all night if you need me.”

  “I do,” I tell him, and then sweet release comes, tears and the comfort of talking to someone with the wisdom to let me cry.

  ______________

  Chapter Fifteen

  ______________

  It’s a gloomy Monday, folks. If you’re going anywhere, carry an umbrella, because those dark clouds are brewing up a summer storm.”

  Rainman

  The next morning, I hole up in my bedroom making phone calls to the area’s schools and hoping the storm front will pass. If Jean and I don’t find a decent place for Mama, I might as well forget second career and cash flow.

  In the two hours I spend on the phone, I get six sorrys and one, “You’re too late. Don’t you know we fill our teaching positions in the spring?”

  How do you respond to that? No, I’m so dumb I thought everybody waited till the last minute? Yes, I know but I just wanted to see how rude you’d act if I tried?

  Finally I land an interview but it has to be scheduled before lunch, which gives me fifteen minutes to get presentable. I arrive right in the midst of the worst downpour. By the time I get to the office, I look like a mop in a damp laundry bag.

  A perky-looking young woman – around twenty-two, I’d say - peers into the hall and says, “Oh…Come on in.”

  Secretary, I’m thinking, or maybe first grade teacher, new to the job. I introduce myself and tell her I’m there to interview with the principal, Leigh Wilbanks.

  “I’m the principal,” she says, and I hand her my portfolio. “Maggie, is that your real name?”

  She makes me sound like somebody who just got out of the penitentiary at Parchman and is packing fake ID. Should I nod? Apologize? What?

  “I see you haven’t done any classroom teaching in ten years.”

  “Well…no, but if you will look at my bibliography, you’ll see that I’m a published writer…mysteries.”

  “Your teaching certification is not up to date.”

  “I know, and I can take care of that the first semester.” She frowns. Definitely not a good sign. “I’ve been tending my mother, who is in failing health…”

  She probably doesn’t even have a mother. She probably sprang, full-grown, from the bowels of some Ivy League school with three degrees attached to her umbilical cord.

  She flips through my curriculum vitae and scowls. She probably hates mysteries. As she glances toward me over the top of the paper, her scowl deepens.

  Do I have lipstick on my teeth? Glaze from my hasty Dunkin’ Donut breakfast on my face?

  “No memberships in professional organizations?

  “Writers’ Guild….”

  “Teaching organizations.”

  “I didn’t keep my memberships afte
r I quit teaching.”

  “I see.” She slaps my folder shut and shoves it to the side of her desk. “We’ll let you know.”

  When, I want to ask, but she parades past me, opens the door and says, “Next.”

  Next turns out to be Sandra Bullock in sensible, permanent press gabardine, masquerading as a small-town English teacher.

  *

  “How did it go?” Jean and Mama want to know when I get home.

  “Let me fix some tea first. Do we have any Jack Daniels in the house?”

  “That bad?” Jean asks.

  “Worse.”

  “Call them back and tell them you have to have a job.”

  “Maggie’s too good for a small town high school,” Mama says. “She needs to be at a major university where they’ll appreciate her.”

  “You can talk to me, Mama. I’m in this room.”

  “I was talking to you, Miss Priss.”

  “If you’ll recall, I don’t have a Ph.D.”

  “Flitter, a Ph.D. doesn’t amount to a fart in a whirlwind compared to your accomplishments. Go fix me some, tea. And add lots of sugar. As soon as the thunderstorm is over, we’ve got to hunt for a good place for me to hang my hat for a little while.”

  “We can wait till tomorrow, Mama.”

  “No. I’m going today.”

  Fortunately, the thunderstorm passes, but it’s still drizzling. I’m bundling Mama into raincoat and boots when the doorbell rings.

  “I’ll get that,” Jean says. She comes back with an armful of stargazer lilies, their pink throats damp with moisture and their sweet perfume filling the room.

  “Who’s sending me flowers?” Mama says.

  “They’re for Maggie.”

  Oh…I’m so excited I drop the card, but I don’t need to see the name. I know. I know.

  Maggie, it reads. These lilies remind me of you. Keep your chin up and your eyes on the stars. Joe

  Unexpected beauty and tenderness always make me cry.

  “Who sent them?” Jean asks, and I tell her. “Why?”

  “None of your business, Jean,” Mama says. “He’s cute, Maggie. If he sent flowers to me, I wouldn’t cry. I’d call him back and invite him to dinner.”