by Janis Owens
“—big as the house, bless her heart, you know how she blows up when she’s pregnant, but seems to be doing fairly well, fairly well. Say they’re gone take the baby cesarean and I ask her why, she had Sim and Missy just fine, but she said that’s what the doctor said. I tell you, son, these doctors anymore’ll cut on you for anythang; I told Michael to talk to that man, that having a baby wasn’t having cancer—” She broke off abruptly. “Did I tell you Ira stopped by?”
“No.”
“Wellsir, he did. Sweet as he could be, but I tell you what, he looks sa much like his daddy I don’t see how Myra stands to have him around, but he’s staying with them a few days, getting a divorce, he says. Not married a year and already divorced and I said, ‘Ira, how come to wanna divorce Debbie—’“
“Dana—” I murmured, but she didn’t miss a beat.
“Dana? ‘She’s the Mama of your chile.’ But he just grinned. Said he was looking for a woman what cooked like me, don’t seem too worried about it. I told Candace I bet he beat that girl, he sure looks the type, and he worries me, Ira does. I wonder sometimes if his mind’s not right, but Myra sticks by him, never a word she says against him, but she’s shore broke up over him leaving that baby, trying to see if Debbie—”
“Dana—”
“—Dana’ll let her keep him in the summer. I told her she’ll have her hands full with them three of her own and don’t have no bidness trying to raise her brother’s, too. Prob’ly her Mama’s the one put her up to it. Did I tell you what she told me last time she was here?”
“No.”
“Come by with that new husband a hers—never a word he says—and when I said something about the new baby she just kindly sniffed, said she just wished Myra wouldn’t have it. ‘Wouldn’t have it?’ I asked, and she said, well anymore two childrun were plenty for any woman, that she should a went to New Orleans and took care of it before she was so far along. Took care of it.” Mama breathed. ‘I tell you what. Trash, trash, trash. I knowed it the minute and the hour I first laid eyes on her. Oh, and Ed’s run off the ape, told him to get a haircut; Lori’s all broke up—”
While she unraveled the extended family’s comings and goings, I fitted these new pieces of puzzle into the overall picture: Ira’s divorce, Mrs. Odom’s desire to see Myra salvage her marriage with an abortion, Michael’s conspicuous absence from it all. He must be putting in long hours at the plant or Mama would be giving me his version, for she considered him a fountainhead of good sense and slavishly repeated his every word.
But nothing was said of him at all, till the call I was waiting for, in late March, the cherry blossoms in the mall whitening, Mama’s voice piping and excited, with no inkling of the savage impact of her first, breathless, words:
“—another little boy, sweet as he can be, named him Clayton. Clayton Michael and Lord, Gabe, he’s the prettiest little thing; I told Michael, ‘See? Now you know why I named yo brother Gabriel,’ but he just cried. He never cried with the others, but this’ll be their last. Myra’s had some kind a female trouble, still in the hospital, Michael brought the baby here himself. Poor little thang, cried the whole time; I give him sugar water and rocked him on the porch, that blame formula don’t agree with him. I told Michael thet doctor didn’t have no bidness separating a mother and a two-day-old baby, I cain’t think what in the world he thought he was doing—”
“Do they need anything?” I managed in a fairly normal voice, for a suitable present had been one of my minor obsessions lately, but Mama only laughed.
“Good Lord, no, they got sa much already, enough for three babies. Candace and Lori give her thet shower, and you know Myra’s always been so good herself about showers, that she got—oh, car seats and port-a-cribs and enough clothes to fill a closet. You just save your money, shug, that baby won’t be a-needing nothing, not while Michael Catts has anything to do with it.”
On and on she went, innocently grinding me to powder, and when I hung up, the after-effect was so bitter that I made plans to be busy next Thursday night. Take in a movie, go out to eat, maybe have a few students over. I was teaching again, under a grant at Georgetown that had the possibility of working into a full-time position, and my reputation as a recluse wasn’t scoring me any points with the department. So I threw a big barbeque, and when Mama called, I told her over the pound of the stereo and the snatches of laughter that I was busy, we’d talk later. She said surely, son, to have a good time, and when I hung up, I made some excuse to run to the store for ice and cried the whole way, because the formula didn’t agree with my baby, making him cry a thousand miles away, while I entertained a roomful of strangers. And there was simply nothing I could do about it. Nothing that wouldn’t compromise Myra and alienate her houseful of Baptist women friends, who were showering her with presents because they knew she was fighting a battle for her mind, and giving her car seats and port-a-cribs and enough clothes to fill a closet was their way of going out in the front yard and doing battle with Old Man Sims.
So I distanced myself, or tried to, by scheduling a Thursday evening workshop, though Mama would still occasionally catch me by calling at odd hours, and I followed Clayton’s progress reluctantly, until all the tiny bits of trivia (“—fin’ly got him on soy milk and now he sleeps the night—” or “—sucking thet thumb, I told them it’d make him buck-tooth—”) became a torment to me, and every time the phone rang I felt a tight claw of nervousness in my chest, afraid it was Mama and her breathless run of news.
It was sometime around the holidays, November or December, when the break came in the form of one of those insignificant chance-conversations that snowball into a watershed, when I found myself sitting next to a staff psychiatrist from Johns Hopkins at a faculty party. The husband of one of my colleagues, he was as bored as I with all the obligatory holiday socializing, and with nothing better to do, we fell to discussing schizophrenia, its patterns and its cures, while we sipped bourbon at the hotel bar.
As the evening wore on, I became loose (drunk, you might say) enough to discuss Myra’s condition, cloaked in a deceptive nonchalance, referring to her as my sister-in-law, and describing the promiscuity, her pharmacopoeia of medications, the strange, noiseless sobs Michael called catatonia.
He recognized them all, sympathized, offered a few stories of his own, then, just as his wife tapped his shoulder and told him they could leave, downed his last shot and mentioned in an off-handed way that Myra’s condition didn’t sound like schizophrenia at all.
“True schizophrenia is really very rare,” he said, “often misdiagnosed.” He recommended my brother get a second opinion before he committed to long-term therapy
I told him I would, but thought no more about it until late Christmas night after a truly heart-warming evening spent in an anonymous blur at a neighborhood bar, when Mama called to wish me merry Christmas and describe in exquisite detail her each and every present, especially the one from Michael,
“—brand new; I told him all I warch is As the World Turns and The Waltons and they’re just as good in black and white, but you know Michael, once he gets his mind set on something, he cain’t be reasoned with. Went and bought Sanger outright, cost him every penny to his name, has a big shake-up going on over there, I don’t know what all, a bunch a men done left, and I been a little worried, but I reckon he’ll make out all right; there’s been nothing Michael Catts ever set his hand to that he ain’t made out all right.
“Bought Myra a ring for Christmas, with a gret big diamond; Lori says it cost a thousand dollars, says she saw one just like it in Dothan, and I tell you, son, I just don’t see the sense in it. I ast Myra, I said, ‘Myra, honey, how come you to want a new ring when the one you got ain’t but seven years old?’ And she just kindly shrugged. Didn’t seem too impressed, only got eyes for that new baby of hers, pretty as he can be and spoiled? Won’t let her leave him a minute, cries, holds her leg, pitches the worse fit I ever seen in any chile but you, and wouldn’t you know, old Miz Odom was her
e for Christmas and she’s got to make something of it, said what that baby needed was a good switching. Well, I told her right fast-like no baby that age gets a switching in my house and come nigh as a pea to saying, yes, and they don’t git no cigarettes put out on them neither—”
I made the correct replies, but had slowly sat up on the couch, my eyes opening as I connected Mama’s new evidence with the psychiatrist’s doubt, and when Mama paused for a breath, I asked, “Mama. Listen. Have you ever heard of a Dr. Williams around there? A psychiatrist?”
“Dr. Williams?” she repeated, for she kept an eye on the local medical establishment, worshipping them in her spare time. “Well, son, the only Dr. Williams I know of is the one down to Sanger; Michael goes to him; he’s the one who sewed up his arm that time, but he’s no kind of—what did you call it?”
“No, no, never mind,” I said quickly. “I must have got it wrong—” Then, “Listen, Mama, how’s Aunt Mag? Did they let her go home?”
I asked it as a sly diversion, for Aunt Mag was seriously ailing, and Mama seized on her with a vengeance. “No, son, she won’t be home this Christmas; poor Maggie ain’t got long for this old world—”
When Aunt Mag was finally exhausted, Mama wished me another merry Christmas and told me I needed to find me a wife for the New Year, that I was too old to be single, it wasn’t natural. I told her I had my eye on it, then hung up, leaving the small, white-walled room hushed and breathless. I sat tapping my fingers on the phone awhile, then went to the window that looked out on a blistering Maryland evening, and after a moment, whispered aloud: “Damn”
Michael, now, he was slick. What could you say? Slick. His brother comes to town; he sees the enemy and acknowledges it, and while I’m screwing around with the books and sweating the morals of it all down by the pool, he’s making plans. Lithium, he tells his good friend Dr. Williams, who happens to be on the payroll down at the plant, have we tried that yet? See, my brother Gabe’s in town, Myra might get nervous. We don’t want that, do we?
“Damn,” I whispered again and was mad enough to rent a car and drive straight through to Florida and set things straight. Use that shotgun on Michael, use that switch on Mrs. Odom’s sorry ass, and rescue Myra and Missy and Sim and the little spoiled baby, who even at the tender age of nine months knew better than to let his Mama out of his sight; knew more than his daddy, that much was sure. Schizophrenia, my ass. Bad nerves, certainly. With Satan as a father and that bitch for a mother, who wouldn’t have a rough time of it? But not a diagnosed schizophrenic. Just a tired woman in a bad situation, and I could have kicked myself for not going along with my own instincts, but buying into Michael’s intense sob story. Sure he was worried, sure he was desperate, that’s why his lies rang true. If the situation were reversed, I’d have sounded pretty convincing myself, crying and spitting blood and selling my soul to be rid of him once and for all. Why, even the real bone-crushers, the preacher and his angry wife, the yard boy and what Simon saw, neither had been verified or even alluded to by Mama or anyone else. All I had was Michael and Ira’s word—Michael, who had a babygirl to protect, and Ira, whom I hated, whose mouth I would not piss in if his guts were on fire.
“Damn,” I whispered, tapping the cold glass. “Damn”
How had I been so gullible? How could I make it right, win her back with no blood loss, no bottom-line tragedy where those nasty, scheming Sims had the last word?
My answer came within a matter of hours, really, when Mama called sometime after midnight, crying, with the news Aunt Mag had died, and I knew what her answer would be before the words were out of my mouth: “Mama? Do you need me to come?”
I knocked on her door the next afternoon after a checkerboard of a flight all over the Southeast that concluded in a three-hour bus ride from Mobile, and this time, her welcome was much more fitting, with no mention of my job at all, just a vice-grip of a hug and a lot of tears on Aunt Mag’s behalf. But seeing me seemed to calm her, and she began cooking supper as usual, talking and wiping her nose the whole time, not looking one day older than the last time I saw her: the same white hair, the same small, fragile bones, the same sure, country voice that worried aloud over the turnout for Aunt Mag’s funeral, to her country eyes, a major indicator of relative success in life.
“Candace and Lori’ll be there; Ed’s working; I didn’t hardly think he could get off, Michael sure cain’t. They’re giving him a fit down at that plant, just a fit; Myra might try, but I doubt Clayton’ll letter go without a fight. He likes Louisa just fine till Myra takes to leaving, then he screams like a Indian.”
I let her ramble, walking around the kitchen that always looked the same, too, except for a microwave (some earlier gift from the elder son) and a new table, courtesy of Sears and Roebuck revolving charge. While she chopped and fried and moved pots around on the old stove, I went out on the back porch that shook just a little more than I remembered and looked at the old Sims house next door. Kudzu had taken the whole back end of it, adding its weight to the already sagging roof and sending down curling tendrils to finger the dirty, reflectionless windows that still held an air of insolvent evil, as if the Old Man still lurked there, somewhere within the thin pine walls, his eyes fox-colored and attentive, smiling at me through the late-afternoon haze.
With a chill and a shake of my head, I went back inside, where Mama was setting the food on the table.
“Why doesn’t someone tear that old house down?” I asked her as we took our seats.
She answered vaguely, “Lord, son, I don’t know Buddy Fischer owns it; I s’pect he don’t want to fool with it; cost more than it’s worth to tear it down, but it’d sho be doing me a favor.” She paused to say the blessing with her lightning speed that sounded like Lord-givus-grateful-hearts-fer-theseanallour-blessings, then resumed: “—not to me, but to Myra. She don’t ever mention it, but one time, let’s see, it was last year, they come over, Myra and the children, and Missy climbed the fence and was jumping off the porch over there. Well it’s all rotted, that place is, and I happened to see her through the winder and said, ‘Lord, Myra, look at Missy, she done climbed thet fence; them steps is all rotten; she’ll fall through—’ And before I could move a muscle, she’d tore out the door, screaming, ‘Missy! Melissa Anne! There’s a dog over there, a bad dog, it’ll bite you!’
“Well you know Missy’s scared a dogs; she come tearing back, and Lord, Gabe, you should a seen Myra’s face, white as a sheet, pregnant and scrabbling to pull that chile over the fence. I run out there and took her by the shoulders, said, ‘Baby, he’s gone, he’s gone.’ I just felt like telling her—it’s the truth before God—thet one’s in hell, in hell; and it’s like I was telling Sister Lee, I never cared much for hell till I met that man, but now it suits me fine.”
I was only thoughtful, not answering, and after a moment, she retook the reins of the conversation, adding with a snort, “Then along comes Miz Odom, come here Christmas Day, and had the sheer nerving gall to speak to Myra about her children. I told Michael, I said, ‘Son, thet woman speaks one more ugly word to Myra in my house and I’ve got a thang or two to say to her.’“
“What did Michael say?” I ventured, for he was my prey, but Mama only sniffed.
“You know Michael. Told me to keep it to mysef, said it wouldn’t be doing Myra no favor to take up a fight with her mama. She’ll be coming by here after while, has some clothes for Lori, keeps that chile in clothes—”
“Will she have the baby?” I asked, my eyes on my plate, and Mama laughed.
“You can bet on thet. Cain’t take a step away from him, not a step, but he’s a sweet boy, pretty as he can be, not a mark on him, says dadada all the time, makes Myra sa mad, she tries to get him to say Mama, but—”
She went on to explain the Cecilia Catts theory on why he would not (odd and varied, I can assure you), but I was having an information overload, beginning to feel numb, the blood-pumping excitement of the trip beginning to flatten to a dull, head-pounding, s
tomach-burning exhaustion. Mama paused long enough to notice my lack of appetite (a fairly unusual phenomenon at her table) and deciding I was not only pale, but hollow-eyed, insisted I take a nap.
So I closed myself up in the front bedroom and tried to rest up for the main event, but pieces of Mama’s words kept running through my head.—been nothing Michael ever set his hand to he ain’t made out all right with—and—there’s a dog over there, a bad dog, it’ll bite you—kept running through my head, keeping me on edge, listening for the sound of a car door or a knock.
But I did finally drop off. I must have, for I was awakened by the loud crack of the screen door and a high young voice, calling through the house. “Grannie? Grannie? Did Myra come? Did she leave the stuff?”
Mama was making some reply from the back of the house when another voice joined them, a woman’s, hardly country at all, with an inflection I could not easily place. “—have to wear that old gray linen suit. It’ll have to do. I didn’t have time to run to the store. Myra’s bringing one she says’ll fit, but it’s just a six—”
Candace, I finally thought. My sister, whom I hadn’t seen in—how long? Not since Ed re-enlisted in ‘69—could it be seven years? I sat up, rubbing my eyes, yawning, when one last pair of feet hit the porch, and a final voice sounded, low and country, just outside the front door.
“I’m running late, got caught by the stupid train. Here, take him, Candace. The car’s full. Lori’ll have to help—”
It was Myra, talking fast, her feet sounding lightly on the steps, and I went to the window and watched them from behind the fan in much the same manner I had when I was ten and first heard her name. She was in the drive behind the lifted trunk, Candace on the porch, a few feet to the right of the window, so I couldn’t actually see her, though I could hear the tiny voice of the baby in her arms.