by Ann Tatlock
When I think of my own era, of the cultural upheaval and drug-induced sorrows, I have to agree. Every generation is immersed in its own fashion of peculiarity.
“But, Gavan?”
“Yes, Sheldon?”
“I’m sorry, but I have to ask. Aren’t you afraid? You and your wife have a child together. Aren’t you afraid of losing her?”
“Yes. Of course I am. I pray she’ll come home.”
“How do you live with it, then?”
He presses his hands together and lifts them to his mouth in thought. Finally he says, “I know that God is with her. Or, if she is killed, I know she will be with God. Either way, God is there. That’s how I live with it. Otherwise, I couldn’t.”
God is with her, or she is with God.
I nod thoughtfully. He turns back to his machine and goes on reading.
34
Linda
Monday, September 2, 1968
SO THIS IS Gail’s house, this brick rambler that looks about as interesting as peanut butter on white bread. I guess it’s a step up from a single-wide, but not by much. Compared to this place, I live in Elvis’s Graceland. But then again, plenty of the houses around here are about as classy as this one. Or worse. Unless you live in Uncle Steve’s neighborhood, where the wealthier folks hang out together in big new homes.
Well, anyway, I’m glad she’s coming with me to Uncle Steve’s party. That way she and I can find something to do, and I won’t have to go around being friendly to a bunch of people I don’t know and pretend like I’m having a good time just so Aunt Donna doesn’t feel bad. Like I really want to spend Labor Day with Uncle Steve’s family and a bunch of their weird friends, but then again there’s nothing else to do, is there?
I ring the doorbell and then I see Gail bouncing down the front hall. She swings the front door wide open, greeting me with that million-kilowatt smile. “Hey, Linda! Come on in,” she says. She’s dropped her northern lingo in favor of the local greeting, yelling “Hey!” at everyone she sees. I’d better be careful, or I’m going to end up mutating into some sort of southern hick myself.
“You ready?” I ask.
“Almost.”
Not that I’m in any sort of hurry to get to this particular party. I’d just as soon Gail and I skipped out and drove right past Uncle Steve’s and on over to Asheville to spend the day there shopping. But Mom would have a fit, and it wouldn’t be worth the wrath of Meg Crane. So we’ll put in an appearance, help ourselves to the food, and maybe do something fun later. Though I still haven’t figured out what’s fun to do around here. The only thing I really enjoy is seeing Austin, and that doesn’t happen very often, and it’s not like I can call him up and ask him to come over or anything. He just shows up out of nowhere, hangs around a while and disappears. All we can do is talk. I can’t even hold his hand. Yeah, Mom and Dad would get a kick out of that, I guess. Better than any chastity belt—this falling for someone who lives in another time.
I’m following Gail into the room off the hall, not knowing where she’s going or why we don’t just head out to the station wagon I’ve got parked halfway up the sidewalk out front. I never was good at parallel parking, and I didn’t realize I was on the sidewalk till I got out, but I figured I’d only be a minute. We enter what I guess is a living room but it doesn’t have carpeting, just a bare floor, and it looks like it’s been furnished with stuff you’d see piled next to a Salvation Army dumpster. Well, I guess not many people live in luxury when you’re a widow trying to keep your family together. I have to feel sorry for Gail’s mom, her husband dying on her and all that. And now she has to work. She’s even working today, on a holiday, because the stores are having their big sales and Mrs. Leland works in ladies lingerie over at Harris Dry Goods. What a life.
“Hey, Gramps,” Gail says, and then I notice the old guy sitting in the ugliest flea-bitten overstuffed chair I’ve ever set eyes on. He looks like he’s sinking down into it, like all the springs are gone or something, and there’s nothing to hold him up except maybe his own two stocking feet anchored on the matching footstool. If he lifted up his feet, he’d disappear.
“I’m going with Linda now,” Gail is saying, and the old man is looking at me like he’s not sure whether I’m taking his granddaughter away for good or if he can trust me to bring her back. “I just have to get the cake in the kitchen.” She turns to me then and explains, “I made a cake. I didn’t want to go empty-handed.”
“That’s nice,” I say, though I’m going empty-handed to my own uncle’s Labor Day party, and she’s going to make me look like a dork, but maybe the food Mom’s taking will count for me too. Whatever. I wish she’d just grab the cake and get going because I don’t like being in the same room with a dead person, especially one who’s got his eyes on you and won’t look away. Old people always give me the creeps, especially when they’re men.
“I’ll be right back,” Gail says.
And even though I want to follow her, I don’t move because it seems like what I’m supposed to do to be polite is stay here and talk to her grandfather—which is just about the last thing on the face of this earth I want to do. He’s sitting there sinking into that pothole of a chair, and he’s looking at me like he’s waiting for me to say something, and finally, I decide I’d better because saying something, anything, has got to be better than standing here in this embarrassing silence. “So, how you doing?” I ask. I don’t want to call him Bim or Grandpa Leland, so I don’t call him anything at all.
He goes on staring at me like maybe I wasn’t talking in English or something, but finally he says, “Not bad, for an old man.”
I laugh because I think he’s maybe trying to make a joke, but when I see he’s not even smiling I shut up. I feel my mouth going dry and my stomach turning slightly, and I wish Gail would hurry up with that cake. What in the world could be taking her so long? She still baking the thing or what?
“And how are you?” the old guy says, and then he adds, “Linda,” and it gives me the willies to hear him say my name. Plus, when he presses his lips together, a drop of saliva on his lower lip sticks to his upper lip and forms a small column of spittle that expands like a rubber band while he’s talking.
I tell him I’m fine even though his beady eyes are freaking me out. He nods his head just slightly, and he looks like he’s trying to figure something out, though I can’t imagine what, though if he’s like the other old men at the ice cream parlor he’s probably just wishing he was eighteen again. Yeah, well, sorry. Your life’s over, and you missed your chance.
“You liking Black Mountain?” he asks in his gravelly voice. The column of spittle disconnects from the upper lip and collapses.
“Yeah, sure,” I say, but I’m thinking if Gail doesn’t make an appearance in about one second I’m going to hightail it out of here quicker than you can say Jim Beam. But not before I’ve wrung Gail’s neck for leaving me here with the old man.
“You living up at the old Cisco place?”
“Yeah. Why? You know the place?”
Now his jaw works a while like his mouth has misfired or something and he has to get his motor started again before he can get the words out. Finally, he says, “No. I haven’t been there.” He shakes his head and says again, “I’ve never been there. Never.” And I wonder why he’s trying so hard to convince me he’s never been there because I don’t care if he has or not.
Just then, Gail calls from the kitchen, “Sorry to be taking so long. I’m trying to find the cake tin.”
Forget the cake tin, I want to say. Forget the cake. Let’s just get out of here. “Can I help you?” I holler, hoping she’ll pick up on the desperation in my voice.
But she just hollers back, “No, here it is. I’ll be right there.”
I look at the old man again, and he’s still looking at me. But now he’s got this expression on his face like, I don’t know what—like he’s afraid or something, or like he really wants to say something but he doesn’t know ho
w to say it, or maybe he wants to cry out for help because the chair really is sucking him up like a Venus Fly trap capturing a fly, and he’s afraid he’ll never get out again. But then Gail finally appears carrying a plastic cake tin and looking as cheerful as ever, having no idea her old gramps and I have been in here having the equivalent of a conversational nightmare.
“Bye, Gramps.” She bends down and kisses his scruffy old cheek, and it may be my imagination, but I can smell his rancid breath like I’m the one kissing him. “I hate to leave you here alone. I wish you could come with us.”
Over my dead body! But thankfully the old man waves his hand and says, “I’m fine, dear. You go on and have a good time.”
I’ve never been so glad to leave a house in all my life, not since that time I had dinner at Monica’s and her great uncle, the one from Sausalito, spent the whole meal coughing up phlegm and spitting into his napkin. I hope God goes ahead and kills me before I ever get old. I’d rather die young than spend the last years of my life giving myself the creeps.
35
Digger
Tuesday, September 3, 1968
DAD’S SITTING AT his desk all hunched over with his forehead on his hands. “Dad?” I ask.
He looks up surprised, like maybe I woke him up or something. “Well, hi, Digger. Come on in.”
“Whatcha doing?”
“Just paying some bills, going over the budget. Nothing fun, I’m afraid.”
I walk over to the desk where he’s got big piles of paper everywhere.
He’s smiling at me, but he doesn’t look happy. He just kind of looks like his stomach hurts. “You getting ready for bed?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Big day tomorrow, huh?”
I nod. First day of school. I wish summer would just keep going forever. “Linda’s mad about having to drive me to the bus stop every day.”
“She’ll get over it.”
“Next year she won’t have to ’cause she’ll be gone to college. Then she won’t be around to bug me anymore.”
Dad’s smiling again. “I think you’ll probably miss her when she’s gone.”
“No way! I’ll be the only kid left at home. I’ll be able to do whatever I want without anybody yelling at me.”
Now Dad’s trying to look mean, but I know he’s just pretending. “Well, not exactly, Digger. You’ll still have to put up with your mother and me.”
“Yeah, well, that’s okay. You guys are nice.”
He puts his hand on my head and messes up my hair, the way he always does when I say something that makes him happy. “I’m glad you think so, son.”
I look back at the papers on his desk. “Hey, Dad?”
“Yes, Digger?”
“I’ve saved up ninety-five cents from my allowance. You can have it if it’ll help.”
Dad doesn’t say anything for a long time, just sits there looking at me with his lips all pressed tight together. Then he says, “Thanks, Digger. But you keep it. We’ll be fine.”
I shrug. “Okay, if you’re sure.”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
He smiles at me, and I smile back. Dad looks at his watch and says, “Well, guess you’d better hop on into bed. Mom tucking you in?”
“Yeah. She said to holler when I was ready.”
“Did you brush your teeth?”
“Yeah.”
“Let me see.”
I smile real big so he can see all my teeth. Then I remember. “Say, Dad, look. This one’s pretty loose.”
I take his finger and put it on the tooth down on the bottom that’s starting to wiggle. Dad’s eyebrows fly up, and he looks surprised and happy, like I’ve done something really good.
“Hey!” he says. “Won’t be long before the tooth fairy comes. That is if you’re not too big for the tooth fairy now.”
And miss out on a nickel? No way! I shake my head real hard. “Nope. Soon as it comes out, I’m putting it right under my pillow.”
“Good boy,” Dad says. “Now, you’re not too big for a goodnight hug and kiss, are you?”
He opens his arms, and I fall into them the way I like to do, because he always catches me. He pulls me up on his lap for a minute and wiggles back and forth like we’re doing a little dance, and then he kisses my cheek and I smell the last of that aftershave he always wears. It smells good. It smells like Dad.
“Goodnight, Dad,” I say.
“Sweet dreams, Digger.”
I go out to the hall and holler for Mom to come tuck me in.
36
Meg
Saturday, September 7, 1968
“SO HOW ARE the kids doing in school?” Donna asks.
We’re sitting in the kitchen, she and I, in the rocking chairs by the hearth. Digger and Marjorie are playing out back. Steve and Sheldon are at work. Linda, thankfully, has found a friend in Gail Leland and is spending the afternoon with her. In the evening, they’ll go to work together at the ice cream parlor.
“Well, you know Digger,” I say. “He does fine wherever he is. He says he likes his teacher and the other kids in the class. So far, so good—as far as the third grade goes. But Linda …” I shrug and look past Donna’s shoulder to the open kitchen door. I can hear the kids laughing in the yard. It is a lovely sound. “Linda doesn’t tell me much, you know.”
Donna glances up toward the ceiling and nods her understanding. “Ditto with Jeff, now that he’s almost sixteen. He’s in his own little world, never wanting to tell us anything.”
We exchange a knowing smile, one that seals our sorority as mothers of teenagers. “My sense is that it’s going better than Linda thought it would,” I say. “At least, she grunted something that sounded like a yes when I asked if she liked the teachers. She did tell me in actual words that she’s joined the yearbook staff. That probably means some kids on the staff are worth getting to know, in her humble opinion. Probably the editor is a tall, dark, and handsome senior.”
Donna laughs, “Now that you mention it, I believe the editor this year is Rodney Sugarman. He’s not dark, but he is tall and handsome. I believe he’s also captain of the track team. One of those all-around good kids, involved in a little bit of everything at school.”
“Well, that explains Linda’s sudden interest in the yearbook then.”
Outside, Marjorie wails, giving off a scream of obvious frustration. Donna sighs, pushes herself up from the rocker, and goes to the door, with me close behind.
“What’s going on, kids?” she yells through the screen.
Marjorie is stamping her foot on the ground and glaring at Digger. “He won’t wear the clover necklace I made!”
I laugh quietly to myself, but holler over Donna’s shoulder, “Digger, be nice and wear the necklace.”
“Ah, Mom! That’s girl stuff!”
“No one’s going to see you other than Marjorie. Just wear the necklace.”
Marjorie, looking triumphant, slips the necklace over Digger’s head. He scowls, but in another moment raises his hands and, giving a playful whoop, starts to chase his cousin around the yard. She squeals in delight as she runs away, but she can’t outrun Digger, and in another moment they’re tumbling together in the grass and laughing again.
“Digger’s a good sport,” Donna remarks.
“Yes, he’s a good little guy.” I’m proud of my son, and I feel my mother-love swelling against my ribs.
I offer Donna some coffee, but she says no thanks, and so we sit again. “I’ve got a hundred things to do around the house,” she says, “but they’re just going to have to wait. I’d much rather just sit here and talk with you.”
“I’m glad you’re here,” I say. “You don’t come over nearly enough.”
She nods. “Life has a way of interfering with those things we really want to do, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, I guess it does. There’s just never enough time for everything.”
“No,” she agrees quietly. Then she says, “Yesterday, I saw Vernita Ponder
when I went into town to have my hair done.”
“Oh?”
“She pulled me into the back room and asked whether we’d told anyone about the house. She’s very concerned that word not get around.”
“She doesn’t need to worry. I’m certainly not going to tell anyone, and neither are Sheldon and the kids.”
“You don’t think Digger will slip up, maybe say something at school?”
“No, I don’t think so. And if he did, who’d believe him? He’s a kid. Kids make up all sorts of stories that no one believes.”
“Yeah, I guess you’ve got a point.”
“So what about you? You still haven’t told anyone, have you?”
“Heavens, no.”
“And you haven’t told Steve?”
“No,” she says again, emphatically. “Maybe someday I’ll tell him, but not yet.”
We sit quietly awhile. We listen to the children play. Then she says, “If I sit here long enough, do you think I’ll see Celeste?”
“I have no idea. Why?”
“In a way, I envy you. I’d like to see someone from another time, the way all of you do.”
I’ve told her about Celeste, and the little I know about Mac and Austin and Gavan Valdez. But I don’t know what to say now, how to answer her envy.
She asks, “Why do you suppose it’s happening?”
That seems to be the big question, doesn’t it? Sheldon asked me that very thing not long ago. As though I would have the answer! “I have no idea,” I confess, telling her what I told Sheldon. “Maybe there’s no reason for it. Maybe it’s just something that is, the way—well, the way the mountains are. They’re there, and we live among them.”
She looks thoughtful. She lets her head rest against the padded rocker and pushes herself with the ball of one foot. “I don’t know, Meg. I always think things happen for a reason.”
I take a deep breath and lift my shoulders in a shrug. “Maybe. But I certainly don’t know what that reason would be.”
“Perhaps you just don’t know yet. But maybe someday you’ll know.”