Life After Life

by Jill McCorkle

  “Is he a wrestler on the circuit?”

  “No,” Rachel says. “He was my husband.”

  “Does he live here?”

  “No. He’s dead.” Rachel is sorry Toby brought it all up but is still trying to decide if she’s ready to make the next move, to ask about Joe. Now that C.J. has heard her talking to him, the whole secret is feeling a little off kilter. “But he used to visit here in the summer when he was growing up.”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell. Why would I know him?”

  “He was quite the ladies’ man,” Toby says. “And you’re about the same age so I figure he might have competed with you.”

  “I have no competition.” He raises his eyebrows. “In anything.” He grins at Rachel and so she looks everywhere except at him. She watches the Barker sisters off in the corner eating sweet potato pie they have decorated with M&Ms, which one of them had in her purse. “However, to the best of my knowledge, in those days there were only three Jewish families in this town.” He slams his fist on the table. “Look at me when I talk to you or I’ll pin you to the mat, sister.” He leans in so close she can feel his breath on her face.

  “Fine then.” She turns to face him. “I wouldn’t expect you to know a goddamned thing I’m interested in, but I will listen.”

  “The Cohens lived beside us and old man Berkowitz lived on the way to the beach and the Friedmans who owned that old department store lived on the corner of Seventeenth and Pine. Sadie can tell you. She knew them all very well. Lots of Jewish families now, but back then that was it.”

  “None of that helps me,” she says, and then without allowing herself time to think and change her mind, she continues. “Art visited a cousin of his who was not Jewish,” Rachel says. They all look up as if struggling to figure this out. “People do marry out of their faiths, you know.”

  “Not people who are saved,” Marge says, and adds more sugar to her tea. “People who are not saved do all kinds of things. Commit horrible atrocious crimes. Steal from their own family members—even their mothers. What was the cousin’s name? If he lived here, one of us will know him. My people have been here forever. My people were here way before the Civil War.”

  “Well, let’s get it on the hysterical register,” Toby says. “Your family is old as dirt.”

  Rachel swallows and takes a deep breath before she allows his name to roll from her tongue. “Art’s cousin was named Joe Carlyle.”

  “Oh dear Lord,” Marge sits back in her chair. “I sure know who he is. Everybody knows who he is. Even Sadie would tell you what a rounder he was. Cousin, huh? Well, those are not good lines I can tell you that. ”

  “Might be where Art learned all his moves,” Toby says, and laughs.

  “Yes, might be,” Rachel says, and feels them all looking at her. She wishes she were all alone on a busy horn honking street or in Filene’s Basement with women throwing clothes and bumping around or all by herself in a chair in her room. She feels like she might cry, which is something she rarely does and it surprises her.

  “He went with anybody who would look at him. And that poor wife.” Marge has put down her knife and fork and has her hands up to her face. “I don’t believe in divorce at all, but I believe that was a case where God would have told Rosemary to go forth and get one. I don’t know if she was kind of simple retarded–like or just crazy from living with him.”

  “Art never knew any of that,” Rachel says. “He couldn’t have. He visited when he was just a young man.”

  “Well, then he didn’t know him very well.” Marge looks at Stanley for confirmation. “Joe Carlyle was bad news his whole life. And you should have seen his obituary.” Marge looks right at her and Rachel has to stop herself from saying she did see it, that she has a copy in a book right beside her bed.

  “He clearly wrote it himself,” Marge continues. “He used words like matriculate, which people around here just do not say, and the article said he was intelligent in three different places.”

  “Like in the bedroom? In the car? And where?” Stanley asks.

  “Three places in the article.” Marge raises her voice and then squeezes her lips together, clearly wanting to call Stanley something. “He said he was intelligent three different times and we all know if you have to say it that often, then it must not be true.”

  “Intelligent, once, twice, or thrice, who knows, but what I do know is that he was a real son of a bitch,” Stanley says. “Screwed everything in sight and never paid his bills. He always had some kind of moneymaking scheme he was in on and had enough slick charm to get a little ways with it if he were dealing with someone from out of town. People were always trying to take him to court. He was as slippery as that Jell-O they keep trying to make us eat.” Stanley sounds totally sane and clear and intelligent—too sane and clear—and then all of a sudden, after long eye contact with Rachel, shifts his attention back to Marge. “Hey, Marge, did you ever have a BM to improve your mood like that visiting priest advised you to do?”

  “What!” She pauses with a forkful of potatoes. “How dare you turn that ugly crazy talk on me!”

  “He was right there. Didn’t you see him? Shaved head, pink golf slacks? Didn’t look like a priest at all, said the two of you had a baby together back in the service, an ugly-as-hell baby, too.” Stanley puts his elbows on the table and sticks his tongue out at Marge; it is the kind of thing that on an ordinary day might make Rachel laugh, but right now she is feeling sick.

  “You need to go away.” Marge holds her knife up and shakes it. “They need to haul you off somewhere with the other crazy people. There is no priest and I never had a thing to do with Joe Carlyle, though I can tell you it wasn’t for lack of trying on his part!”

  “Joe or the priest?”

  “I don’t know what in the hell you’re talking about with a priest. I have nothing to do with the Catholic church and I never have. We were talking about Joe Carlyle and that’s all.”

  “Marge,” Toby says. “That language.”

  “Art never said anything like this. In fact, he thought a lot of his cousin,” Rachel says. “Are you sure that you’re talking about the right person? He grew up on Chandler Street and went to the Methodist church.”

  “That’s him,” Stanley says. “And he was always hanging out at the river, always had several gals on the line at once. He had to marry Rosemary because she was pregnant and her daddy would’ve killed him otherwise. Rosemary was a good kid, quite a bit younger, who wound up in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Then she nursed him all those years he was an invalid,” Marge says. “The church practically supported them because he had burned up every cent running here and there to Boston and DC and New York and Chicago. Bunch of worthless big talking hot air. My husband, Judge Henry Walker, who never judged anybody, claimed that there was a place for the likes of Joe Carlyle.”

  “Not worth two cents,” Stanley adds. “But his wife stood by him.”

  “What choice was there?” Marge asks. “She wasn’t trained to do squat and had children to raise. How humiliating. If he’d been my husband, I’d’ve found a way to get rid of him.”

  “Oh yeah?” Toby asks. “What would you have done?”

  “Read my scrapbook some time and you’ll see,” she says. “There’s more than one way to skin a cat.”

  “Or kill a spouse.” Stanley spears his baked potato and holds it up. “Remember that famous potato that looked just like Richard Nixon? Who does this look like?”

  Rachel pushes back from the table and stands. “That’s a sad story,” she says, and turns. “That’s not what Art believed at all and so I am happy he isn’t here to hear all of these stories.” She walks quickly, but she hears Marge continue. “Truths,” Marge says. “It’s all the Lord’s truth. A bad seed.”

  Rachel walks as fast as possible, knowing someone is following her. She gets to Sadie’s door and then stands there, hand on the knob. She wants to hear her reaction to Joe’s name. She needs t
o be near someone kind.

  “Hey, what’s the deal?” Stanley Stone grabs her arm and holds on. “I’m sorry if we upset you. Kind of hard to talk about somebody you’ve known your whole life and not be honest.”

  “There is no deal.” She pushes him away and feels the tears filling her eyes. “My husband loved him, that’s all. My husband spent years of his life, loving and respecting Joe Carlyle and believing that he was a wonderful man.”

  “And maybe he was,” Stanley says. “Maybe he was good to your husband and deserves a little credit for that.”

  “It’s a lot to process.” She turns the knob and peeks in to see that Sadie is still napping, Harley curled up under her arm, his big fat head on her chest, so she eases the door back and then turns to go to her own room.

  “I’m sure,” he says. “I’m really sorry.” He puts his hand on her shoulder and she lets him. He kneads her collarbone, rubs and pats her, and she lets him. She takes a deep breath and lifts the hem of her shirt to dab at her nose.

  “Is there anything I can do?” Stanley asks.

  She turns and looks him right in the eye and he doesn’t go off or anything. He pulls her collar back into place and pats her again. “Nobody is all bad. I’m sure there were good things about him.”

  “Yes,” she says. “There would have to be.” She takes a deep breath. There would have to be. She was there. She saw and knew the good. She once saw him rush to help an old woman back to her feet, picked up all of her groceries. He gave money to beggars, talked to people in a way that made them feel important. He talked about how much he loved his children and wanted them to be proud of him. He said he had never loved anyone the way he loved her. She hears a door open and sees big floral arrangements being brought in to the chapel where there will be a service for Lois Flowers tomorrow. They announced it right before lunch noting that in the chapel there is a photograph of Lois with a remembrance candle burning and a guest book for all to write notes to her children. She is about to ask Stanley if he grew up with Lois, too, but realizes he is gone, never turning back to his ridiculous statements as he usually does but hurrying way down the hall with his shirttail hanging out and then disappearing around the corner. It is like she’s been robbed, that time has played a trick on her and not a funny one. There is nothing funny about what she just heard, the way that all she believed in has been called into question. It is like believing in the afterlife only to discover there is nothing there.

  Joanna

  WHEN JOANNA LEAVES PINE Haven, she sees Stanley Stone’s son, Ned, across the parking lot studying the bumper sticker on her car. It’s a sticker C.J. had made after Joanna told her how she hates all those brag stickers about “My child is an honor student” blah blah blah. Her sticker is bright orange with black lettering and says: MY KID IS AN ASSHOLE AND I BLAME SANDHILLS ELEMENTARY. Ned is wearing tennis shorts and flip flops and standing with his hands on his hips.

  Joanna had waited with Kathryn Flowers until the funeral director and two workers arrived to put Lois on a stretcher and carry her away. Kathryn had continued, the whole time they waited, to reach for her mother’s hand, each time startling, as if surprised to find the lifelessness there. Joanna has seen this many times, the dull quiet of a room after the fact, all the energy raised to such a pitch suddenly gone. Places always feel so empty right after someone dies, the sensation of a whole lifetime of people and memories disappearing with that last breath, all the air sucked right out of the scene. Kathryn was exhausted and said so, the many weeks of watching and waiting closing in on her.

  “Thank you,” Kathryn said, “please let’s stay in touch,” and Joanna nodded and said of course, hugged her close as she often had, and as always, she knew that they will not stay in touch at all. It is too hard to stay in touch, too heavily laden to revisit regularly. They will see each other from time to time, brief glimpses and greetings that last only seconds and yet pull in all that has fallen into the past four weeks and the routine they have shared while waiting for Lois to die. Joanna will be at the memorial. She said how much she is going to miss Lois and she will. How could she not? And selfishly she will miss her daily schedule and time spent in a room that allowed her to see Ben’s house while sitting with a woman who seems to her to have been the perfect mother.

  “So what have you got against Sandhills? You probably went there yourself once, didn’t you?” Ned asks when she gets close. “And who is your kid? The asshole could be in my class.”

  “No kids,” she says. “A friend of mine made that as a joke.”

  “Funny,” he says without cracking a smile. The silence is painful as is his not making eye contact with her and not making any moves to step away from her car.

  “I’m Joanna.” She extends her hand. “I was the volunteer with your mother when she died.”

  “I know.”

  “She was lovely,” Joanna says. “I always think of her when the roses are blooming. She knew everything there was to know about roses.”

  “You saw and heard it all, didn’t you?” he asks. “What did she say about me?”

  “She was very private. She showed me all of her little boxes.”

  “Her garden is gone now,” he says, and finally looks up, eyes red, a vein along his temple visible. “Paved paradise and put up a parking lot, something like that.”

  “I know,” she says. “I was sad to see that.”

  “And my dad is now completely demented and can’t even do it quietly like so many do.”

  “I know.”

  “So what don’t you know?” he asks, eyes the same piercing blue of his dad’s—eyes that most have learned to avoid for fear of getting flashed or cussed out.

  “There’s a lot I don’t know,” she says, and moves to open the door.

  “Did you know that I would have a kid old enough for elementary school if he’d lived?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did you know I got a divorce and had a breakdown, nearly drank myself to death and almost went to prison?”

  “Yes.”

  “And does it even occur to you to politely say you don’t know any of this?”

  “Not really. We all have stories.”

  “Yeah, like you, for instance. Married how many times? Seven? Eight? Always in love with the town magician who has taken my seat at all the bars in and around the county.”

  “Didn’t know any of that,” she says, her face hot with anger and embarrassment and who knows what else. “So you win. Feel good about it.” She gets in and slams the door. She cranks the car and waits for the blast of air from the vents to go from hot to cold. He doesn’t move so she finally inches forward and cuts the wheels enough to get out. His hand is raised, maybe to say something else, but she ignores him, resisting the urge to flip him off and to swing around like she might hit him. At least he makes it easier not to feel sorry for him.

  One of the many therapy sessions Luke insisted she take involved unpacking the heart. You close your eyes and take every person and every thing taking up space in your heart out and set them on your make-believe lawn. Every grievance and relationship and project. And then when the space inside is empty and clean, you survey the goods and decide what to put back. It was Luke’s favorite exercise and one that she and C.J. have talked about many times since, laughing over the notion of whole corpses exhumed and expunged, exorcised. Joanna had told Luke that her imagined yard looked like Gettysburg or like that scene in Gone with the Wind when the camera pulls back and there are wounded and dead bodies as far as the eye can see—enough emotional carnage to keep the buzzards feasting for centuries. And then how clear so much becomes, like pulling old unrecognizable food from the fridge. Of course you need to throw that away. It’s old. It’s curdled. It smells bad so why in the hell would you keep it? Why in the hell would you want to chew or swallow it?

  “Did they give you a mantra to say while you unpacked?” Luke had asked. “Or like did you have a song playing in your head as you cleaned house?”
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  “Get the fuck away from me,” she told him. “That was my mantra. That’s what I said to ninety-nine percent of what I pulled from my chest. Just get the fuck away from me.”

  “Sounds like Alien,” Luke said. “You know when Sigourney pulls that awful thing out of herself.”

  “Exactly. That’s exactly what it was like.” Leave me the fuck alone. That is what she wants to scream at Ned Stone who is still standing there. Just the other day, C.J. told her about how Toby was stretched out on the floor of the exercise room in corpse pose to meditate and yelled at several people who wheeled too close to her head. Get the hell away, she said. I’m doing my savasana. It makes Joanna laugh whenever she thinks about it and how one of the sisters put a hand up to her mouth and gasped, clearly thinking savasana meant something nasty. She can tell Ned Stone thinks she is laughing at him. Fine. He’s a jerk. A sad jerk but still a jerk. She would have loved nothing better than to befriend him, to take the time to talk about and remember his mother, but who wants to spend time with a jerk? Leave him the fuck alone.

  She drives and then circles, takes deep breaths. She turns and drives past Ben’s house, a big, beautiful, old house, the front porch crammed with all kinds of folk art and odd chairs. There is a big silver wooden box at one end of the porch and she recognizes it immediately as the disappearing chamber. And the blue Saab in the driveway is definitely the one she has seen these recent nights. C.J. said that Ben’s wife was a total bitch. “Worse than I even thought, I’ll tell you someday.” C.J. was always saying that, I’ll tell you someday, and Joanna keeps a running record of all she wants to know: Who are these men who used to call her that she kept notes on and who is Kurt’s father? Who is this guy Sam she has started to mention and where does she go all those nights Kurt sleeps at Joanna’s house? It’s clear that there is a lot C.J. keeps hidden; and it’s clear that there are some very old wounds she’s still nursing. If only the inner wounds really were visible to the eye, you’d know better than to depend on those held together with flimsy sutures or you would immediately recognize and avoid those leaking puddles of bitter bile. You would scream and beg for help when you saw someone helplessly bleeding out all over the floor.