Chimes from a Cracked Southern Belle

by Reinhardt, Susan

  I put these latest events out of my mind and drove to the Northside School of Elementary Advancement where my cherubs rushed from class with their backpacks and excited faces.

  “How did it go?” I asked Jay’s teacher as she helped him into the backseat. Jay gave me a quick smile and began fidgeting with the door locks.

  “He’s one smart young fellow. Got quite a talent for art,” she said and winked. Art? I never knew Jay had any interest in art. In fact, that was the one subject he had always avoided, breaking Crayons since he was strong enough to crack and hurl them.

  I drove around back to the Pre-K wing, and we met Miranda in the commons area. She was delighted, showing me her finger paintings, her handprint, the ABCs she was learning to form. The teacher said, “What an intelligent girl, such a way with language, and her lectures to fellow classmates on the advantages of recycling and avoiding alcohol were priceless.” When we returned home, I noticed a moving truck in front of the house. The Beckers. The neighbors downstairs were loading all their worldly goods onto the yellow and green Mayflower moving van. All that dark brooding furniture, the medical supplies and beds, the formal paintings, piano I’d never heard.

  I ran into Mrs. Becker as I released my children from the car and sent them toward the apartment. She was thinner than last time I’d seen her and had dark bags beneath her eyes.

  “Hi. How are you?” I stood there and waited for her to speak.

  “We’re leaving.” She offered nothing more in the way of explanation.

  “I’m so sorry.” What could I say?

  “Fred thinks Florida would be better for him. I’m afraid I have to agree with him. We need more peace and quiet, no offense.” She motioned for the movers to be careful with her dining room chairs. “Don’t nick the legs,” she ordered. “When Mr. Franklin told us a couple of days ago he’d had a buyer and couldn’t resist the offer, we didn’t have much choice. The buyer wants to remodel the whole place. I take it because of your . . . um . . . circumstances, the buyer will live downstairs until you can make arrangements.”

  I was not believing my ears. A buyer. I wondered why Mr. Franklin, my landlord, hadn’t called me with the news.

  “Well,” I said, not knowing what to say. “Good luck in Florida.” She smirked and said nothing, and I rushed upstairs and noticed the light blinking on the answering machine. Three messages.

  Aunt Weepie: I’ve cleaned filthy fannies and old crust from toes, I’ve made my peace and amends. Call me. Pauline was fabulous at the funeral. Cried from start to finish. We had the best meal. I don’t think Heaven could’ve put out a finer spread. She’s a natural.

  Mama: Hi. You never call your poor old Mama anymore. I was hoping to hear from you. I miss my sweet Prudy. I’m proud of you, honey. You held your head up high even when the newspapers wrote that story about your business at the station. Oh, guess what? Amber and Landon are dating. Isn’t that wonderful? We’ll have a Kennedy in the family yet.

  Croc: Don’t go anywhere tonight. I need to stop by. It’s important.

  ***

  Croc had rarely left my side since the four-day stay in the hospital. He and his boy, Sam, a couple of years older than Jay, had become fixtures in our lives.

  He’d quit the recording industry shortly after my hospitalization. Said he had made enough money to retire and was renting a condo in Spartanburg, playing music on weekends. Mostly, he was living as a single father, trying to take away the pain and empty places his child must feel after losing his mother. We were walking the same road, filling potholes and trying not to fall in. I was already falling. Straight into a tempered love with Croc Godfrey—a quiet love that is comforting and sustaining, like soup. Not the kind of hot jalapeño love that burns out long before it ever has a chance for sweet embers.

  However, if he had intentions of fooling me again, I’d put him to work before he fled like the time before. May as well get some use out of men before they dump you. Have them fix the leaky faucets, caulk the tub and tile, stain the deck, especially when you feel they are about to bolt for the door.

  Croc’s first mission from me wasn’t a paint job or a few gutters to clean. My plan for him, as long as he stuck around, was to elicit his help with my first important event as the new “Social Rehabilitator” at Top of the Hill where I’d organized a fantasy “Day at the Waldorf Astoria” for the residents. The staff and I had spent most of the week scraping together enough money to turn the home into a resort and spa.

  We’d hustled businesses into donating everything from AstroTurf putting greens to bubbling foot spas and transformed every room meant to park people for naps, crafts and bingo into beauty stations, massage centers, relaxation parlors stocked with every King-and-Queen-For-A-Day amenity I could think of.

  We decorated the cafeteria with wall-to-wall canvases of the New York skyline, lending an authentic touch to our Day at the Waldorf. It was my intention that for at least one day, every resident with a strong enough heartbeat and semi-functioning brain would know what it felt like to be pampered instead of Pampered.

  We planned manicures, pedicures, foot and shoulder massages, putting on the greens, shoe-shines, hand massages, makeovers and hairdos.

  When the day arrived, residents entered through an archway of gold helium balloons. Soft music played and little white lights flickered in the room instead of the usual overhead fluorescents. The place had an intoxicating aroma of nail polish and scented candles, the delicious fragrance of cakes baking in the kitchen.

  The band, Croc’s old group, agreed to lend its talent for an afternoon of music, playing mostly oldies for the crowd.

  As a huge surprise, he’d called Lewis Mortuary and arranged for two limousines and drivers to escort the men and women around town in style, a short sight-seeing excursion that included trips past the new Wal-Mart Superstore, which delighted Annie Sue to no end, and a quick stop at a bakery for those with a sweet tooth, compliments of Croc, who’d also bought orchids for every woman, which must have cost him a couple of hundred bucks.

  As a final gesture of his kindness, about an hour before the dancing was to start, Croc and Theresa Jolly took two cars and drove to Bubba’s to round up a half-dozen men sober enough to stand, wanting to make sure all the ladies got a turn or two on the dance floor. Croc was smart enough not to recruit them in advance, as I had tried to do, knowing any plans made would be forgotten with the morning sun and worn-off booze. He’d strike while the taps were flowing, promising each volunteer a case of beer for his troubles.

  Later, with Annie Sue’s Posh Spice hairstyle restored, she and her new geriatric boyfriend with the penchant for discussing his genitalia hit the dance floor with some fairly exotic moves on Annie Sue’s part. She’d borrowed one of Amber’s many bridesmaids dresses, this one a lavender column style, a backless and plunging gown that made her favor a purple swizzle stick. She enlisted one of the nurse’s aides to Banana Boat every inch of exposed skin and, amazingly, not much had streaked.

  Over and over she kept saying, “Would you look at us, Prudy? Aren’t we something?” popping that big mouth open, the gold dental work shimmering beneath the slowly spinning mirror ball Croc borrowed from a local nightclub.

  As for the elderly men willing to forget bad knees and other problems, the staff and I got all dolled up in taffeta and satin and danced with them. Aunt Weepie even performed an acrobatic routine in a tight leotard that caused one man to have to return to his room for medical care.

  She cut the rug with men who weren’t accustomed to double-Ds sitting high on a woman’s chest. Most of them were used to scanning waistlines for such business.

  “They sure are sweet to me,” she said, between dances. “I think if Tony’s ever negligent or stops cooking, I’ve found husband No. 5.” She pointed to a man sitting near the door, cussing up a storm, shouting about the filthy vulga
r dancing, repeatedly yelling, “This place needs to be shut down for its fucking indecency.” Thank goodness Kathy, dressed in a long black formal and wearing a double pearl choker, had the good sense to wheel him out of the “Waldorf” and back to his room.

  As I waltzed with a man who smelled of cologne that probably hadn’t escaped its bottle in 20 years, I heard a woman’s hissy voice and felt an elbow jabbing me.

  “Is that you, Lizzy?” Oh, Lord. Not her. “You think that slutty dress is going to bring my Frank back to you, is that what you think?”

  I did not feel like repeating the same conversation we’d had in the beauty salon.

  “Yes, ma’am. That’s what I’m thinking.”

  “Think again, you . . . you . . . bawdy strumpet.” I hurriedly found her a semi-sober tattoo artist from Bubba’s to dance with, taking her mind off Frank for at least three full minutes.

  Croc was amused the entire day, saying he understood why I loved my work, why it was so important to get that nursing degree. Afterward, we took the kids and went to Mr. Gatti’s for pizza and games in the arcade.

  And that’s how it continued with Croc and me. We were just two single parents meeting in friendship and occasional kisses to offer support and give our kids a serving of happiness. He was turning out to be a much more available babysitter than Mama who was busy with Amber in the house, trying to deal with the twins and her older boy, and all while playing another game of matchmaker—only this time with a candidate who had a better body and leg than her first. Amber could have six kids and four ex-husbands and no one would ever say she had any baggage.

  Croc dropped by the apartment every day with plans for the children, with flowers, videos, my favorite junk from fast-food restaurants. He’d mow the lawn or sit on my couch and hold my hand, laugh at the TV and tell me I’m not a bit fat and could very well be the prettiest woman he’s ever seen. I figure if a man doesn’t mind a lumpy butt and a few ripples, some abdominal overhang, a stretch mark or two, then his testosterone levels are high enough to deem him a safe bet. The men who liked their women to have the starved, lanky shape of an adolescent boy . . . well, there’s where the worry should come to play.

  Croc Godfrey could not care less that I had cellulite on my thighs, even a bit on my upper arms if I stood in fluorescent lighting, which I tried to avoid at all costs. He never told me, “Hold off on the ice cream,” like gay chicken man had told Amber. He never said, “Maybe you ought to join a gym,” or “I hear kick-boxing’s a real fat blaster.” None of this from Croc Godfrey. My only regret is that by my best estimate, I weighed 33 percent more than he did.

  While there were those random kisses, I wasn’t sure what was happening, whether he was dating me or my children. It didn’t matter; life was better.

  I have discovered the one thing that can cure a person of the miseries of her past, the daggers that had hung over my head and heart since I was 22 and lay on the gurney in the run-down women’s clinic.

  That one thing is love. Not sex, not lust, but the love of someone who expects nothing in return. I wanted to believe this was real, and it was what I was hanging onto, my hands white-knuckled on the edge of the cliff. This time if I fell I had a safety net—a job, my babies and others who loved me, others I loved in return. It’s when a woman has nothing but a man that the fall is often fatal.

  ***

  Later in the afternoon after picking up the kids from school, I settled them with snacks and games and opened their backpacks where the teachers said all important papers and information would be stored. Checking Jay’s folder, I noticed a white piece of poster-board sticking out. It must have been 18 inches long. I tugged on the corner and gently pulled until the entire drawing sat in front of me. My head began to lighten, the room sway. I checked the portrait closer. The instructions. “Draw Yourself in Old Clothes.” Jay had colored his hair yellow and brown and was wearing a pair of overalls and a red scarf around his neck. There were holes in the pants, a few patches, a shirt with a missing sleeve. Boy, he was descriptive, that teacher was right. I started to put the drawing back in the folder when I noticed the . . . the . . . OH, MY GOD!

  The shock took my breath and then I doubled over with laughter. I laughed so hard my sides ached and I rolled off the couch and onto the hardwood floor, howling and hee-hawing, writhing with the insanity of life.

  When I had completed this fit of hysterics, I dialed Mama.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey, hon.” Ice clinked in glasses. She was cooking supper. “How was their first day?”

  “Great. Jay drew a self-portrait.”

  “Isn’t that nice. I didn’t know he liked to draw. Parker, did you hear that, Jay drew a picture at school today.” I could hear my father in the distance, from his green chair, bourbon always next to him.

  “Mama.”

  “What sugar?”

  “It was anatomically correct.”

  “Well of course it was, hon.”

  “I don’t think you understand.”

  “Well, maybe I don’t.”

  “His drawing was anatomically correct. It had a huge, pink-colored wee-wee hanging from the overalls and he’d put a purple tip on top like a circumcision.”

  Mama hooted and the phone slammed onto the linoleum. Her laughter echoed throughout the kitchen. “Parker,” she shouted. “Jay drew himself with a wee-wee at school today.”

  “Did he do it justice?” my father boomed, and right then, I’d never been more grateful to have been born into a family of kooks. They made life so much easier to swallow, even the parts that were speared with fish hooks.

  “Prudy, hon,” Mama said when she’d finally composed herself. “Did he say why he’d drawn a wee-wee on his picture?”

  “Yep. He said the boy next to him had four hanging off of his. He said he needed at least one.”

  As soon as we hung up, the doorbell rang. Jay ran downstairs to answer it, eager to see Croc and Sam. I put on a kettle for the tea and took out some chicken for supper.

  Croc entered the kitchen and put his arms around my waist as I stared at the white stove and the blue flame beneath the kettle. There was no way I could have predicted or prepared for what was coming.

  “Prudy,” he whispered into my neck, giving me chill bumps. “I got you a little present.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Hey, Prudy: A friend is always a friend and relatives are born to share our troubles. Proverbs 17:17

  Mama’s Moral: No more morals. You have plenty as it is. And relatives will always be here to share your troubles. Please, for my blood pressure’s sake, don’t have any more troubles for a good long while.

  If summer in the Upstate of South Carolina is an insufferable blend of heat and humidity, then fall is its apology, wrapped in breezes and an easing of temperatures. You’ll find more friendliness and waving, more, “Hey, how y’alls?” in mid September than about any other time of the year unless one counts Christmas, which I don’t. Christmas is in its own league.

  Finding grouches after Labor Day, when fall begins to peep from summer’s hot curtain, its head in plain jewel-toned sight, is rare indeed, and if you happen to locate one, best run. Because if a person cannot be happy in a Carolina autumn, then forget it. Enjoyment just isn’t part of the poor soul’s makeup.

  It’s strange how life doles out ups and downs and how each individual handles these hills and valleys, the highs and lows. I have to hand it to Pauline Jeter. She is a woman who can flip sides faster than an IHOP pancake. She goes from giblet to treasure in one month, everyone adoring her, even me, on occasion.

  She has devoted her entire remaining years on this earth to uplifting what her son tried to destroy. I have to give her some credit. Most relatives, no matter how much they loved their grandchildren and wanted to be near them, wouldn’t go to t
hese lengths. We’d always allowed Pauline and Peter to see the kids, though he rarely made the trip for the visits. When she’d come, I made sure to stay far away from the scene. Occasional visits hadn’t been enough for her, which led me to believe the woman had a real heart beating in her squirrel chest.

  “Those grandbabies and your aunt here, unusual as she is, are my only peace,” Pauline had said when we first got together at Aunt Weepie’s for her to “go over a few things with me,” as my aunt informed she’d be doing. What that entailed was her opening wide her giant Louis Vuitton purse and taking out a big leather checkbook and calculator combination. “I will never have a restful moment in my life,” she said, scribbling with a pen, “unless you take this money. If not for yourself, take it for the children.” She thrust a check toward me, but I backed up, fearing the implications behind the zeroes.

  “I can’t possibly accept this,” I said, grasping my hands behind me where she couldn’t put money in them. “Pauline, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I—”

  “Take the money, foolish woman,” my Aunt Weepie screamed from beneath her four-poster. She’d gone in there to drink martinis and hide, to give me privacy while meeting with Pauline. “She ain’t ever going to be right in the head unless you take it. Tony and me took our share. I’m hoping he’ll take a cooking course. Your mama got a cut, too. Some women wipe asses for sin’s sake. Others write checks.”