Life After Life

by Jill McCorkle

  “Thank you,” she said. “The Stone Age makes sense for you.”

  The Barker sisters, who Sadie says never married and ran their family’s laundry service for over fifty years, didn’t understand the assignment and were thinking of names of candy—gumdrop, jelly bean, SweeTarts. Butterfinger, Milky Way, Snickers. Sweet and lost in their dementia, they are always sitting by the front door to greet whoever enters, the bands they wear on their wrists and ankles to keep them in the building often setting off alarms. Daisy, the younger of the two, a dainty-faced little thing with a great big bottom, crochets all different kinds of cookies and sells them for a quarter; then she gives all of the money to Millie, the one with Down syndrome, for Pepsi-Colas. The older sister, Vanessa, is overweight and nearly blind, her yellow white hair slicked back and often held with a little pink barrette. She sat dozing through most of the discussion only to pipe up at the end to say “Mounds,” which is what the sign on their door says.

  Back during the bicentennial when people were hot to put out plaques and name their homes, Joe said he would love to put a sign up in front of his house that said YE OLDE PIECE OF SHIT MORTGAGED TO THE MAX—so when they asked Rachel she said, “My Apartment”; she whispered to Sadie, “Piece o’ Shit,” and they both got a big laugh. “My Apartment or Piece o’ Shit” she announced to the soured-looking girl assigned to her. “You pick.”

  Toby said she was was torn between the Ponderosa and the Little Chicken Farm, which was from one of her very favorite movies based on the favorite novel she had already mentioned. She said she used to always have her English classes watch the Frank Capra version of Lost Horizon. She chose the Little Chicken Farm, which relieved Rachel not because she gave a damn what the name was but because Toby was able to make a quick decision. Rachel hates indecision and always has. She gets so impatient when they go back and forth and back and forth and back and forth; some of these around here cannot make a decision or deliver a plain simple sentence to save their lives. You ask what they had for dinner and they have to go back to childhood to explain why they have never liked spinach and so on. It takes goddamned forever to tell one simple thing that ought to take thirty seconds; and everybody has to talk whether they have something worth saying or not. Rachel wants to say: Don’t call me until you have reduced your thoughts to the lowest common denominator. Call with something definite. If I hear you wandering and stammering and figuring while I’m sitting there, I’ll shut the door or hang up on you. Life is too short to listen to all that mess.

  “You never could’ve sat through a faculty meeting at my school,” Toby told her. “You’d’ve blown a big gasket for sure.”

  The other thing that has gotten on her last nerve lately is the way so many people say MassaTOOsetts. Joe did that, too; it was the only thing wrong with him that she could tell. She wants to scream MassaCHOOsetts, choo choo choo, not TOO. And now this. Rachel never would have imagined that she would someday be a service project for adolescent girls and then there came one tapping on her door wanting her to make some ridiculous origami representation of herself. “You know,” Rachel told her. “The real Christian thing would be if you children just came and visited and listened to what we could teach you. Come because you like us and want to spend time with us, not to get your stupid points for school that you’ll talk all about in your college-entry essay. Don’t bullshit me—I know what this is all about. I have lost some of my physical abilities but none of my mental ones, okay? If I were the real reason you were coming, then we would be doing something I am interested in. Maybe we would read and discuss current events or we might decide to buy a lottery ticket and be creative with our number selection. Maybe we would watch something like It Happened One Night or read something like The Scarlet Letter or The Awakening and discuss the ever-evolving roles of womanhood in film and literature?” The child stood and glared back at her, a clipboard in her hand with all kinds of fancy origami paper. “Like that girl over with Sadie? She comes all the time. She isn’t assigned to come, she just does it. And do you know why? She likes us. She likes to be with us.”

  “She’s a loser,” the girl said. “You old guys are her only friends.”

  “Well, she could do a lot worse,” Rachel said. “And we all are crazy about her. We all think she is”—she paused, that little priss not backing down and not even blinking those big blue eyes—“better than any child who has ever entered this place.”

  CLOVER DEN. THERE’S a nice name. That was one of the spots they met a couple of times, a little dark hole in the wall, but it was risky, near Scollay Square, a little too close to where she might see someone she knew. But now she thinks that if she had decided to participate, she would have made a sign that said CLOVER DEN, and the picture she would love for Sadie to create is one of herself with Joe, the two of them sitting back in that dark booth on a late-winter afternoon. They were such an unlikely couple and there is such power in the relationship that never takes place in a permanent way, the “mights” romantically overwhelming all that likely would have been truth. But still you hold on. Even now, she hears his slow, easy speech, the way it rolled like waves that pulled her in close only to then push her back, rolling with temptation and trepidation. She remembered everything he had ever said to her and was always looking for hidden messages; even now, she is looking for messages, thinking she might find something meant just for her in one of his favorite places, the same way she pored over the obituary that arrived in her mail one day—his return address in Fulton, North Carolina, but not his handwriting—a typed and copied note attached with a paper clip: Your address was in Joe’s book. And then there he was, a photograph much younger than when she knew him. He was born and raised there. He had two children. He was survived by a wife. She heard Art coming up the front steps and so she tucked it away in a copy of Jane Eyre she pulled from the shelf and did not come back to it for several days. She had to wait for a good time when she knew Art would be gone and would not come in to find her there, maybe crying, who knew? The plotting to read and reread his obituary was not unlike all the times she had plotted to meet him. And then just about the same time Art got sick, another letter came from that same address; that time it was the obituary for Rosemary—a short, simple paragraph of facts—no note attached, and she couldn’t help but wonder if whoever sent it knew who she was. Perhaps Rosemary had asked that it be sent to her. She had no idea just as she didn’t know how much time she had left with Art, but what she did know was that now she could venture southward if she wanted. She could explore all that Joe had ever told her about and no one on the face of the earth would know who she was or why she was there.

  And so she is here—as the sign up front tells her—here at Pine Haven—home of lard, Jesus, sugared-up tea and enough meshuggeners to fill Fenway Park. She is here, in the land of Joe.

  Sadie has said that Stanley Stone used to be one of the finest most dignified gentlemen the town had ever seen though that is hard to believe given his unkempt appearance and the hateful way he turns on people. One minute he will wink and smile at Rachel and then the next minute say something completely insulting and rude.

  “He knows everybody in town,” Sadie said. She told how he also grew up there, a very distinguished lawyer with a lovely wife who was known for her rose garden and the way she opened it to June brides to come and pick what they needed. He himself was in the Kiwanis and was always the chief pancake flipper for their big Pancake Supper once a year. But who would know that now? There’s some cruelty for you. He’s still handsome but not always together in the mind.

  “Together in the mind?” Rachel said. “How about insane, crazy as a bat.” She was about to recount how she heard him talking to his son like the young man might be a slave or a dog—you don’t know shit from Shinola, he said—but then she thought better. “Did you say he grew up here?”

  “Yes, and his parents before him.” And then Sadie put down her scissors and glue stick so she could clap her hands. “If anybody in this
town ever knew your Art, he would be the man,” she said. “And every now and then he remembers. Every now and then I see a glimmer of the old Stanley Stone. And you’re both lawyers. “And”—Sadie lowered her voice—“I see him watching you all the time lately. I think he has a little spark for you.”

  Rachel felt her face flush and it surprised her. She has certainly noticed him ogling her but also thought he might be half blind or something since so many of them are. Besides, no matter what he used to be or how physically attractive he could be if he tried, what in the hell would she do with some angered lunatic? Who needs a lunatic? Unless, of course, he would remember Joe. And whatever he remembers might be worth a little of her time. She has plenty of time. “Well, maybe I’ll ask him, then.”

  “Definitely you should,” Sadie said. “Maybe it will help me remember him. I’ll roll over there with you, too, but first I have to finish Toby’s picture.” She waved at the door where Toby was waiting, hands on hips, boots turned outward. Her fanny pack was full, pieces of cellophane sticking out of the zipper. “Look, Toby,” Sadie said. “Here you are at the Taj Mahal.”

  “Wow, would you look at that.” Toby shook her head in awe and motioned for Rachel to look. “Thanks to Sadie here, I have been just about goddamn everywhere. “

  “Everywhere,” Sadie echoed, and laughed. Rachel has figured out that Sadie is someone who never curses but loves to hear others do it. The two of them were waiting for her response, here at Pine Haven. Pine Haven, North Carolina, right beside Whispering Pines Cemetery where the love of her life is buried and where in a little bit she will slip away without anyone taking note and sit on a stump nearby and tell him all about her day. There is no snow outside. It is summer and the sun is shining and she has left the life she always knew to come here to Pine Haven. Sugar-filled tea and long, slow syllables and Jesus every way you can get him.

  “See?” Toby tapped the toe of her boot waiting. “That’s me at the Taj Mahal. Sadie is such a good artist, nobody would ever see the glue that put me there. See?”

  “Yes,” Rachel said, and stepped closer, feeling more like a schoolgirl than she ever did when she was one. “It’s the most incredible thing I have seen in years.” She paused, feeling for a moment like she might cry, which she has not done since leaving Boston, looking down from the plane with the knowledge that most likely she would never see that place again. “Really, Sadie, you are a beautiful genius.”

  “Ha, told you,” Toby said, and Sadie blushed and shook her head.

  “I am so flattered. Thank you so much,” she said. “I know there are people doing it all with computers. There is better work than mine, I am sure, but when I pick up my scissors and glue, I am transported to another place. It always happens to children that way. Just give them some glue and paper and crayons and they can make a whole wonderful world.” Sadie said she needed a little rest after all the work and excitement and she would see them at lunch.

  Now Rachel pulls her door shut to My Apartment and makes her way down the hall. She will slip out the side door and then cross the parking lot. It’s earlier than usual, but whatever just stirred in her has left her feeling restless and anxious and a little bit sad. She passes the soda machine where Millie sits all day, guarding the machine and begging money. She gives her all the change in the pocket of her skirt and keeps walking. She hears the music long before she gets to Hell in a Cell. Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass. He plays it nonstop and it puts her in a time warp each and every time. The door is half open and she can see him sitting in his chair and staring out the window; it’s unusual to see him so quiet, looking so handsome and pensive and normal in a way you don’t notice when he’s flexing his arms and talking about wrestling or acting hateful and rude. She walks fast so he won’t see her and call out something obscene.

  “A Taste of Honey,” “Whipped Cream,” “Tangerine,” “Ladyfingers”—“Is this an album or a menu?” Art had asked. It was 1965 and they played that album to death. She pushes open the door and steps into the sunlight. There is a hearse parked and hidden in the shade of the tall wax-myrtle hedge; it seems there almost always is, someone leaving in a bag. It’s the kind of thing Rachel never mentions to anyone else. Why mention that elephant in the room. A gangly boy with long auburn hair is on a skateboard, and their little friend, the one that terrible girl called a loser, is sitting on the curb watching him. The children don’t see her and she walks quickly; she feels beckoned by the shade and damp moist undergrowth as she makes her way through the arboretum, the trumpet and cross vines in full bloom, jasmine, wisteria. It was 1965 and she and Art had attended Norman Thomas’s big birthday celebration the year before. They had sent him money for his presidential campaign. Art shook his hand and told him that his book, Is Conscience a Crime?, was a masterpiece. They applauded his stance on birth control, ironically since nature had taken care of that for her. They admired the way he stood against segregation long before it was even something in the news. They protested Vietnam. It was 1965, and she wore short dresses and leather boots and she had a shoulder-length fall that she clipped onto her own hair and then tied a long scarf up at her hairline. She was never into high fashion, but she did latch onto what suited her and then wore it in a way that made it all her own. Like the way she now likes to roll up her slacks in neat pedal-pusher cuffs. She did it so she wouldn’t pick up twigs and burrs in the cemetery, but then she got so many compliments from people like that young pedicure girl that she kept doing it and now others are copying her. Even Marge has rolled her pants up a couple of times, which says there may be hope for everyone.

  “Green Peppers.” “Butterball.” “Lollipops and Roses.” It was 1965 and she had never even heard of Joe Carlyle. It was 1965 and life seemed easier. Her parents were alive and so was her brother; her bones were hard and strong and her vision perfect. She was a young married woman with a professional career and she thought that one day she would have it all, a career and a baby and a house on the Cape. It was 1965 and she was filled with hope, lush pots of ivy spilling from her window boxes as she leaned out late in the day to see the sunset, to smell the river, to watch her husband turn the corner as he headed home. She was so alive.

  Kendra

  KENDRA HAS SPENT MUCH of the day putting little white stickers on what she plans to keep, carefully placing them up under the furniture where they can’t be seen. Each one has her initials and a number that makes it look like she has cataloged everything in the house. What she has cataloged, of course, are the things worth having—the expensive things—some of them things they bought from the woman who sold them the house but most from a local estate auction where the pitiful old guy was clueless about everything. “That belonged to my wife’s grandmother,” he would say, and then cried in a way that was shameless. Kendra tried to be kind, but it was hard the way he looked, his face all red and twisted and unattractive, and besides, she was so excited about what she was getting for practically nothing. Persian rugs and massive antique sideboards and wardrobes. The man had no idea what his belongings were worth and she was just grateful that the son he kept referring to had remained in Chicago and not come to oversee everything, unlike, of course, the daughter of the woman they bought this house from. She was all business and knew just what she was doing and of course she was someone who remembered Ben from school even though she was a little older. Everyone in the whole dump town knows who he is. “He wanted to be a magician, right?” the woman asked, and laughed. She had one of those big blotchy birthmarks on the side of her face and Kendra spent the whole time wondering why in the hell she wouldn’t at least put some makeup on it to try to hide it. Who cares if she lives in Cambridge and teaches at Harvard? She was the kind of woman Kendra has a hard time being around and she certainly did not enjoy the time mother and daughter spent roaming the house and reminiscing. The daughter had paused and stood for a long time in what had been a hideous dark study and stared out the window where an old split-level used to be. Now there’s a giant c
ontemporary with a three-car garage, which is a huge improvement, though Kendra didn’t say that. “We had some good times here,” the woman said, her fingertips pressing the big glass window. She looked like she might cry and Kendra was relieved as hell that she didn’t. She should go see a dermatologist and move on. Kendra was ready for them to get out of her house. It was that very afternoon she went to the estate sale and cleaned up. Kendra has always been lucky about being in the right place at the right time. Of course you make your luck and this is what she is in the process of doing. She is making her luck, making her own fortune happen.

  She’s not quite ready to drop the bomb on her husband, but this way she will be prepared when the right time comes. She likes knowing the stickers are there; she likes the secrecy of her other life and the way that it is taking root and blossoming. It makes her feel powerful. She will keep the house, of course, she’d be a fool not to, and if she could get away with it, she’d go ahead and change the locks before Ben even knows what is coming. How can he not know what’s coming? And yet it seems he doesn’t. She will keep the house and she will keep the child, though of course she is hoping he will also want her for huge chunks of time like the weekends so she can have the time she needs to herself. The judges almost always go with the mother on this and she has made sure that she has met and had some kind of witty conversation with every judge in town. Her plan is to keep this as an investment, a little B&B oasis in the rundown middle of this dried-up boring town. And then she will live in a newer place like the Meadows, where she will have access to tennis courts and golf course and pool, not that she would use them, but that’s the traffic she likes to see. Of course, she does love the old Brendle mansion on the outskirts of town—a real plantation. But that will be after the more public evolution of her life with Andrew Porter once he is also divorced. Andrew is a heart surgeon. She loves to think that sentence, to say it when she is all by herself like in the shower: And this is Andrew, Andrew is a heart surgeon. “He brings people back after they really do disappear,” she told Benjamin right after they met him. “He really is brilliant and really does have a profession.” Everyone else calls him Andy but she prefers he go by Andrew. Names are important. Like she has always called Ben “Benjamin” and told him a million times how much better he would be received in the community if he went by his full name instead of Ben or, God forbid, the Bennie that some of his old redneck friends fall back on. Bennie and the Jets—that was what his pony league football team called themselves because he was the quarterback and unfortunately there are still enough of those guys hanging around this godforsaken place that they see him and call out his name. He has so many stupid nicknames she doesn’t even pay attention, who cares? Kendra grew up in Charlottesville, Virginia, and she has often wished she had stayed there or ventured northward. She is someone who should be in DC or New York and always thought she would be.