by Webb, Peggy
“Name two things.”
I think hard, trying to come up with an answer that will satisfy this deep need I see in my sister. Unfortunately she mistakes my hesitation for inability to answer her question.
“See…you can’t even name two.” She starts to cry, and I’m automatically reaching into the pocket of my jeans when something inside me tells me it’s time to let Jean rescue herself.
She glances at me, fumbles in her own pockets and then goes to the hall bathroom and returns with a box of tissue. I wait until she wipes her face and honks her nose, settles into herself, and then I say, “You didn’t give me time. You’ve done far more than two significant things, but the best are being a wonderful, caring, loving sister and daughter and a really spectacular wife. You’ve succeeded at being family, Jean, and that’s worth more than holding down a high-powered job or achieving a small amount of fame.”
Now I’m the one feeling teary-eyed. She hands me a tissue.
“If you think I’m fixing to make an Academy Award acceptance speech you can forget it.” She peels off six tissues and stuffs them into the pocket of her maternity top. “I’ve got some driving to do.”
*
I don’t know whether it was the chocolate or the verbal Academy Award, but Jean’s driving has improved exponentially, and after two hours of sedate navigation, she parks the Jeep in the shade of our favorite tree, an old blackjack oak. The low-hanging, sway-backed limb that made a natural swing for two little girls still holds up two grown women, and we sit side by side with our shoes kicked off and our hair blowing in the breeze that has sprung up. It’s a damp sort of wind that has the taste and feel of oncoming rain, the kind of soft, steady rain that clears gutters and washes accumulated dust off the tops of houses and cars, the kind of rain that eases parched fields and nourishes famished gardens, the kind of rain that feels like a jubilee.
This is how Rainman finds me, barefoot and content, my face lifted to the darkening sky and my hair springing out in moisture-fattened curls.
I saw him when he parked his car on the side of the road, watched as he climbed over the barbed-wire fence and headed our way. Joy spreads through me like honey.
Joe “Rainman” Jones moves with the long, sure strides of a confident, purposeful man. In jeans softened from many washings and a gray tee shirt without logo or ornamentation he looks at home in Mama’s pasture, like he might have grown there along with the tall pine sapling he’s just walked past.
When he’s close enough so that I can see his face, he lifts his hand and I wave back.
“I was delivering a handmade reproduction washstand down the road and I saw you sitting under the tree.” He looks directly at me, making no bones about it.
“It’s the hair,” I say. “Like Moses’ burning bush.”
Smiling, he leans against the tree trunk, looking like somebody who would enjoy cuddling while rain patters on a tin roof and candles melt down in amber beer bottles on a red-checkered tablecloth.
He inquires about Mama and Aunt Mary Quana.
“She’s moving into Belle Gardens with Mama. I’m happy to report that she got here with only one speeding ticket and no dented fenders.”
Rainman gives us that endearing smile again. He inquires about Jean, and she waxes motherly about her upcoming big event.
Is he too good to be true? Now that I’ve decided to say yes if he asks me out, I’m having all sorts of second thoughts. I don’t have time to waste on dates, much less an affair. I don’t know Joe, not really. He must have some fatal flaw, otherwise why is he still single at his age? I’m single at my age, but I know why, and let me tell you, my divorce was completely justified.
But what about his? Did a wonderful woman kick him out for being unfaithful? Is this smile and concern for two women on a tree swing genuine, or is this a public persona? In private did he treat his wife life a worm?
Or maybe he’s never been married. Maybe he has such awful hidden habits that nobody wanted him. Like picking his teeth in public after a steak dinner or being rude to waitresses and bus drivers and grocery boys, or buying one ticket at the theater and then sneaking into a second movie without getting another.
Or…horrible thought….maybe he doesn’t like women in that way.
But then he says, “Maggie, are you free for dinner Friday night?”
Suddenly I think of Mama, planning to roar around Belle Gardens in a wheelchair with spinner hubcaps and a Rebel flag.
“Yes,” I say, just yes, and the corners of his eyes crinkle. A man with that many smile lines can’t be bad.
*
Panic doesn’t set in until he’s back in his car, headed north on 371 with one long arm out the window waving.
“I can’t believe I did that,” I say. “A date. At my age. Lord, I won’t even know which side of the bed to use. And what if he wants to keep the lights on? With these cottage cheese thighs?”
Jean’s cracking up, laughing so hard the tree limb threatens to dump both of us into the dirt.
“I don’t see what’s so funny. All I’m saying is that I’m out of practice. And who brings up the issue of condoms? Do I carry them in my purse or is it his responsibility? I mean, after all…you got pregnant…at your age.”
“Maggie, he asked you to have dinner, not his child.”
“Still…these issues might come up…eventually…and besides, what if the nursing home calls…what if Mama needs me?”
“That’s why God made cell phones.”
“Oh…Okay.” I fiddle with my hair, finger the bark on the tree limb. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”
“I do. Lust…and don’t you dare tell me you didn’t notice how good he looked in those faded jeans.”
I did. I did.
*
And that’s why I we end up at McRae’s on the mall the next day with Jean, Mama, Aunt Mary Quana and a credit card in tow.
Well, that’s partially why. Sometime during the night I realized that it’s not lust on my mind but possibility that has my head spinning. What if Joe loves star gazing and moon watching and slow bluesy ballads as much as I do, and what if Eric Clapton’s “Wonderful Tonight” becomes our song? What if he plays a harmonica that can break your heart and not only reads poetry but also writes it? What if his mind mesmerizes me as much as his smile, and oh…what if his hands are as tender as I imagine and his kisses remind me that he’s somebody I’ve always known – not merely as a voice on the radio – but as a lover throughout time?
I know. I know. Call me old-fashioned, but I’m just a starry-eyed romantic. And wouldn’t it be lovely if there really were second chances?
But even if this date with Joe turns out to be nothing more than two people sharing a good dinner, I still want to look my best. Call me vain. Or better yet, call me Mama. She never sets foot in public without matching her blouse to her slacks and she wouldn’t be caught dead in frayed underwear.
I nab a peasant skirt off the rack along with an off-the shoulder blouse, pink and gauzy, something you might wear dancing if Andy Williams happened into town and started crooning “Moon River.”
“What do you think?” I ask, and Jean immediately gives her stamp of approval to the pink blouse.
Mama comes roaring up, a die-hard shopper turned dangerous by a motor, and tosses a wisp of lace into my shopping cart.
“There. That’s all Mary Quana and I could find in leopard print.”
I pick up a silk thong that wouldn’t hold a sneeze, let alone my backside. “Mama, I don’t wear these things.”
“It’s never too late to start.” She revs her motor and backs around the racks with the vengeance of a woman on a mission.
“Wait…Mama…where are you going?”
“To see if they have anything that’s crotchless.”
“Oh lord…” I say.
“She’s having a ball.” Jean smiles. “I’m glad you told her.”
I am, too. She’s as excited as she was when I had my first
date. I was fifteen and gawky and Raymond Taylor was sixteen and pimply-faced, but Mama treated our outing to the movies and Dudie’s Drive-In for hamburgers as if we were getting ready to exchange nuptials in the St. Louis Cathedral. I wore yellow because she said it was a happy color, a sundress she’d made on her old Singer treadle sewing machine. And she pinned a gardenia in my hair.
“Always gild the lily,” she told me. “But don’t ever be anybody except yourself. Let your intelligence show, no matter who’s intimidated, and don’t ever tone down your spirit, no matter who gets scared and runs.”
Now I follow her to the lingerie department and exchange the leopard silk not-me panties for a sensible pair of white cotton with French-cut sides.
“I was just fooling with you,” Mama says, “trying to find out what you had in mind.”
“I wasn’t,” Aunt Mary Quana informs us. “I’m as serious a whale in mating season.”
“Hush up, Mary Quana. I’m the one giving advice here. Maggie, I don’t believe in sex on the first date. Keep ‘em waiting. That’s my motto.”
That’s not necessarily my motto - I’d like to think that spontaneity enters into things of that sort - but it’s certainly my intention. I don’t need any more complications, and sex has a way of doing that to a relationship.
Oh, lord…I’m not ready for any of this.
“Maybe I ought to call the whole thing off,” I say.
“We can’t live backward, Maggie. Only forward.” Mama whizzes down the aisle with Aunt Mary Quana hard on heels, and I trot after them.
“Wait, where are you going now?”
“To get a ruby toe ring.”
“I won’t wear it.”
“Not for you. For me.”
As Mama careens through ladies’ wear I beckon for Jean, and the two of us join her at the jewelry counter where she’s inspecting every toe ring in the glass case and asking the clerk if she can try them on.
“My feet are swelling,” she says. “I don’t want one that will cut off the circulation.”
Jean and I look at each other, and suddenly the only thing that matters is Mama’s heart and the very real possibility that each beat shortens her time with us on this earth.
It’s hard not to hover over her as the sales girl – Myrtle, her name tag reads – removes Mama’s shoe and gently puts a ruby ring on her middle toe.
Mama turns her foot this way and that, admiring the sparkle from all angles, and then she says, “Do you have a matching ruby for my belly button? I plan on dancing when I go through the Pearly Gates, and I want to do it in style.”
Myrtle glances at us, alarmed, not sure how to react, but when she sees us start to grin and then to chuckle, she whoops until tears roll down her cheeks.
It’s healing, this kind of laughter, and it’s the thing that makes me know I can go on, no matter what; it’s the thing that makes me reach toward the display rack and select a pair of tortoise shell combs set with turquoise. I work them through my tangle of stubborn curls, and when Jean sees them she says, “Oh…perfect.”
Better than hair gel, is what I’m thinking. And then I’m thinking of talented, olive-skinned hands removing the combs and letting my hair fall down around my bare shoulders. Not because of lust but because of who I am – a woman passionate about all things, and not afraid to show it.
______________
Chapter Eighteen
______________
“It’s going to be a clear evening, folks. Just right for star-gazing. Don’t forget to look for Venus. She’s putting on quite a show tonight.”
Rainman
It feels strange sitting in a car that I’m not driving, resting my hand along the back of the seat, trying to look casual but feeling too dressed up and a bit shy, like a school girl again only….oh, I don’t know…wiser?
“Joe, the little respites with you over the past few weeks have helped me keep my sanity. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Maggie girl.” He turns to smile at me. “You’re very lovely…especially tonight.”
For the first time in a very long time I feel beautiful, sexy even, and I’m glad I wore turquoise combs in my hair.
He takes me to Vanelli’s, which I love…wonderful pasta and Puccini opera playing softly through the speakers, Greek statues and a water fountain, local boxer-turned-singer Paul Thorn’s funky art hanging on the walls, friendly waiters and the owner himself stopping by the table to chat. I’m glad Joe chose this restaurant. It’s both upscale and casual, the kind of place that says somebody likes you enough to bring you here, but it’s all about relaxing, enjoying good food and having fun, being yourself.
And suddenly I can do that, relax, settle into a corner booth and be myself. I start telling Joe about keeping my radio tuned to WTUP because his easy, conversational way makes me feel as if I’m listening to a friend. I even admit that sometimes I talk back, that sometimes he’s the only person in the world I can talk to.
“Wow, Maggie. I guess that’s why I feel as if I’ve known you forever.”
And because I feel the same way I ask, “Have you ever been married, Joe?”
“Yes, to a woman who was too good for this earth. She died. Six years ago. Ovarian cancer.”
Love Story, I’m thinking. Idolizing the dead.
But Joe, who obviously reads body language if not minds, says, “We were childhood friends, and everybody always assumed we’d grow up and marry and so we did. It was an easy relationship and a wonderful friendship, and I’ll always be grateful.”
I tell him about Stanley and about different expectations, about trying too hard to fix something that was irreparably damaged, and finally, about leaving.
“I’m no good at playing games, Joe, and after twenty years of being married, I don’t have the least idea how to date.”
“Why don’t we just start with pasta, and go from there?”
We go rapidly from there – to camaraderie and easy laughter to Joe’s apartment on the south side of town to his small concrete patio and a glider just right for two.
“This is lovely, Joe.”
“I’m a man of modest tastes and simple habits.”
“What made you leave a big metropolis like Chicago and come to Tupelo?”
“After Lana died, I realized I’d squandered my time on cocktail parties and publicity tours and too many late nights working. If I could change one thing in my life, I’d want to go back and spend that time with her.”
I blink, hard. The beautiful honesty of his answer is going to make me cry.
“That’s why I came to Tupelo, Maggie. I wanted to simplify my life. I don’t plan to waste another minute on the trappings of success…I want to spend my time with people who are important to me.”
“Oh…” That’s all I can say.
And then he reaches for my combs. “Do you mind, Maggie?
Too full to speak, I shake my head.
Released, my wild mane tumbles down, and he lets it drift through his fingers, holding it up to the moonlight so it feels as if stars are caught in my hair.
“Beautiful,” he says, and then I know he’s going to kiss me, just know it. And I want him to. But in my present state, I don’t know if I could stop at kissing. I don’t want what we have between us, this tender friendship, to be changed. Not yet. I need time to savor.
So I lean slightly back and Joe, sensing my mood, takes my hand and kisses it.
“Look at those stars, Maggie. Have you ever seen a night sky so spectacular?”
“Never.” Our fingers are intertwined. “Never.”
*
Since Mama moved into Belle Gardens, Jefferson has started sleeping by my bed. At first, when I woke up, I thought he was the cause. When a hundred-pound dog chases imaginary rabbits in his sleep, the mattress he’s leaning against rocks like the deck of a ship at sea on rough waters.
But no. it’s the telephone. I can hear it now, and fully alert, I grab the receiver.
“Maggie…” It’
s my sister.
“What’s wrong?”
“Walter’s coming home this evening and I want to buy a car.”
“Good lord, Jean. You called at 7:00 a.m. to tell me that?”
“That’s not the only reason. I want to know everything that happened last night. Blow by blow.”
“Nothing happened.”
“Shoot, that’s no fun.”
“Actually, it was lots of fun. Joe’s a really great guy.”
“Yeah, but did he at least kiss you?”
When I don’t answer, she says, “He did, didn’t he?” bringing me back to Saturday morning in a rumpled bed – alone in the bed, which makes me wonder what might have happened if I’d kissed Joe underneath Venus.
To kiss or not to kiss seemed simple when I was sixteen, and now I’m wishing somebody would write an instruction manual.
Jefferson nudges my arm and starts prancing around because it’s time to get up.
“Look Jean, I’ve got to let the dog out. Why don’t you wait till Walter comes home so he can help you pick out a car? Besides, I’m not so sure you’re road ready.”
“That’s the whole point. You’re going to give me another road lesson before we go shopping, and I’m going to show Walter that I’m independent and he can just pack his bag and hop on the next plane going God-knows-where. I don’t care.” She sniffles. “I really don’t. I’ll just have this baby all by myself and do my own driving.”
At least she’s not asking me to fix her problems, which ought to be a relief. But it’s not. What I’m thinking is that I’m going to have a talk with my brother-in-law because this behavior is out of character for him and I love both of them and can’t imagine them apart. Besides, something’s obviously going on that I’m missing - more to the point - that Jean’s missing.
“Things will be okay after you and Walter get a chance to talk face to face, Jean. He’s the best man I know.”
“Currently he’s an ass. Are you going to take me to buy a car or do I have to call a cab?”
Women with turquoise combs in their hair and somebody gorgeous stirring all their sense don’t let their sisters dictate to them. Besides, my muse is not just whispering this morning, she’s laughing and jumping up and down and doing the rhumba, and I don’t intend to shove her aside for anybody.