by Lisa Samson
“But isn’t church on Sunday?”
“Yes. We’re just going to help plant flowers. Mums for the fall.”
“Okay.”
The little girl stands there.
“Should you go ask your mom?”
“She’s not home.”
TV Mom turns her head and looks at Leonard the Granddaddy Man. “See, Dad?”
He stands up. “All right then. Let me find my garden gloves.”
“How about a sandwich before we go?” TV Mom asks.
“Okay. I really like peanut butter and marshmallow cream.”
“Me too. My son, he’s all grown now, used to call them buzzies.”
The little girl laughs. “I’ll have a buzzie.”
Georgia
My real estate agent in Baltimore suggested I leave my condo furnished so it would be easier to sell. Stupid me, however, didn’t think about the furniture I’d need here in Lexington.
I’m leaving all that up to Fairly. She said she’d pick out some furniture befitting the place. She said the cool white paint and the clean architectural lines with that wall of windows, buzzy, buzz-buzz-buzz, buzz. Great. Thanks. I could care less about what it looks like as long as I can lay my head down and sleep it off.
I hate it when I think thoughts like that. I didn’t used to be this way. The old part of me is actually grateful to her.
UG is having a big dinner with his Jesus freaks before he leaves for his trip, as if this is the last meal anybody will eat until he gets back, as if he really is responsible for ending hunger in Lexington.
Sean wanted to help me unpack, UG said.
I just gaped at him. “Yeah, right. I don’t think so.”
So a couple of the Jesus freaks are helping me haul the boxes from my car. The bistro on the first floor is cooking something right now … I don’t know what, but I’m suspecting bacon and onions and garlic are in there somewhere. A little too early for that kind of smell. Too glorious for the likes of someone like me.
Gracen, the African American man and maker of three-bean salad, smiles as he passes me at the threshold, stereo in his hands. “Mind if I get some water?”
“Let me find you a glass.”
I run up the two flights of steps and locate the small box of kitchen supplies. Knowing I’m not going to entertain UG-style, I packed only the necessities. I fill a glass from the tap. “Sorry, it isn’t really cold.”
“But it is really wet. Just what I need.”
I’ve never seen someone so thankful for a glass of water. Peg, the maker of mac’n’cheese, enters the kitchen, wiping her forehead with her forearm. Her auburn hair is pulled up on top of her head in a chaotic ponytail. She has cellulite hanging down from her upper arms and doesn’t seem to care.
“Water, Peg?”
“Absolutely.”
“Thanks, you guys, for helping me.”
Gracen drains his glass. “Why wouldn’t we?
I shrug. “Because you don’t know me?”
“You’re Geoffrey’s niece, aren’t you?” Peg asks.
“Yeah.”
“You needed help, right?”
“Yeah. But I’m more comfortable doing things by myself, I guess.”
Peg sits down on the floor and leans her back against the cabinet. “Me too. Then I ended up on the streets where there were a whole lot of people ready to help, if you know what I mean.”
Gracen says, “Did you believe in God then, Peg?”
“Oh sure. Alex is the former atheist, not me.”
“Oh yeah. That’s right.”
“I just didn’t believe in church. Still don’t, if you want to know the truth. I’m a work in progress.”
“I heard that. I just kind of lost myself—long story. Geoffrey brought me around, though. The man practices what he preaches.”
“He picked me up when I was down, that’s for sure.”
Uncle Geoffrey? I mean, sure he’s a nice guy, but…
Gracen rubs his calf. “And then we picked up some others as motley as we were, and voilà! Church!”
Peg nods. “Pretty much the history of us.”
Gracen heads toward the door. “One more box and we’re done.”
I like these people and all, but they sure are weird. Too closely knit. Makes me feel a little creepy-crawly.
“So, tell me about Blaine, Peg. You two a number?”
She smiles and nods.
Love, Jesus-freak style.
And you know, there’s something nice about that.
Fairly
So after lunch, organic BLTs, Uncle G pulled out his guitar, Georgia plucked on some Celtic harp only some musicologist would know the origin of, and I blew away on a flute that Uncle G borrowed from a friend of his. I haven’t played the flute in years.
And we played old songs like “American Pie,” “Proud Mary,” and “Yesterday.” And only “Yesterday” sounded like much of anything. Really, “Proud Mary” on guitar, harp, and flute?
Gruesome.
We laughed ourselves blue.
Clarissa
The little girl cried when she realized her father would never come back.
The mother grabs her arm.
“You should be thankful I didn’t kill him the way my mother tried to kill my father. Now we have to stick together because he left. If I see you crying again, I’ll spank you.”
The mother looks at her watch.
“I’ve got to go to work. I’ll be home at six. I want you to make us some sandwiches for dinner. They’d better be ready by the time I get home.”
The little girl looks into the refrigerator. No lunchmeat.
Tuna?
She cannot find a can opener. The cousin is staying after school for sports. She cannot find a can opener!
Her stomach feels sick, and she wonders if she can scrape together some change to buy a can opener at the convenience store.
The little girl rummages through the couch cushions, in all the pockets of the coats in the closets. She doesn’t know if she has enough, but she pulls on her winter coat and heads out the door.
Can opener. Can opener.
Wait. Oh wait.
She switches directions and knocks on Granddaddy Man’s kitchen door.
Of course he has a can opener. Of course.
Georgia
On my thirteenth birthday we walked out of church, and Dad said, “This is it. I can’t pretend anymore.”
He’d had it with God and the church. “There aren’t any answers there. My questions have no answers. If you want to go on your own, Georgie, fine.”
So I’d set out on Sunday mornings. Sometimes I walked to the Baptist church because I liked the rousing music. Sometimes I walked to the Catholic church because I liked the reverence. Sometimes I walked to the park, lay on my back, and looked up at the clouds, and I’d think about how Jesus came as a little baby, just like I did. And I’d allow myself the luxury of hanging out with Him in my mind.
Dad: Jesus is here, Georgia!
Me (in the basement): Send Him down!
Jesus (clopping down the steps): Hey, Georgie, what’s up?
Me: Watching TV. Come on down.
Jesus: Cool.
And He sits on the other end of the couch, and I get Him a Coke and me a Sprite, and we eat popcorn until it’s time for Him to go home and get His homework done, and maybe we could switch lab partners and be together? Of course everybody wants to be lab partners with Jesus; He’s that good at science.
Sometimes I’d fall asleep and dream about God. Startling dreams. Vivid in all the senses. Senses mixed. I could taste red and see sweet and salty. I could hear velvet.
And I’d go home and play the piano, trying to feel what I remembered. Trying to play what I felt.
I wanted to be Oscar Peterson when I grew up. One thing I had in common with Peterson was that I, too, had a teacher who told me I had a special gift to give the world. “The Gravy Waltz” makes me want to stand up, take the world by the hand, and run it ar
ound the block while I yell, “This is my best friend, everybody!” And then me and the world, we’d sit on lawn chairs in my backyard, sip lemonade, and talk about the best day we ever had.
One day the dreams stopped, like all dreams seem to do. I couldn’t say when that happened.
Fairly
For some reason, I’ve never been afraid while walking around the rougher parts of town. I may not have taken away much from my religious upbringing, but the sense that God watches me and guards my footsteps has never left. I’m not proud, thinking I deserve this type of care due to my own merit; for despite my glossy veneer, I know what a frivolous life I really lead. At least I’ve been more aware of it lately. But I had parents who prayed like zealots concerning every little thing, any time of day. It annoyed me growing up, embarrassed me when friends visited even though some of them connected with their religiosity. So when I say I feel safe no matter where I find myself, it’s because of Bette and Rodney Godfrey, not me. And I am confident that even now they’re still making sure I’m okay.
I suppose that’s what bothers me about life and death. I’m very sure there’s a heaven when it comes to my parents. But when I think about my own life, I can’t begin to come to grips with heaven’s existence. First off, it must be very ornate. At least I picture it like the sets on TBN. Second, how creative is one allowed to be? Really? I mean, we’re talking God all over the place. A tough act to follow, surely.
Thoughts like these ushered me down the street earlier this afternoon after I ordered some furniture for Georgia’s new place. The Internet’s a wonderful thing! Georgia moved her belongings over to the new apartment with the help of Peg and Gracen, and Uncle G had a meeting with the city council after we played music on the porch. I must say, he cut a dashing figure in his suit and tie. I hope someday he finds a woman to settle in with via a blazing, exuberant romance, of course. Squandering all that gorgeousness doesn’t sit well with my modernist sensibilities against waste.
I headed down Upper toward the northern end of the city, and, as usual with cities, the scenery flattened out like a gauzy train trailing from Lexington’s three skyscrapers.
Three skyscrapers.
How sweet.
I passed shotgun shacks left and right. Some huddled in sparse disrepair; others lined up in decorated shabbiness—rusted wind chimes and faded lawn chairs, plastic daisies in truck tires, forlorn little birdhouses. And a few shone with fresh paint, flowers, and breezy curtains at the windows.
Of course, folks measured me with suspicion, but who could blame people for that? A Caucasian woman in vintage garb and an “it” bag doesn’t really belong on Upper between Fifth and Sixth Street.
But I waved or nodded or said hello, feeling a bit like Reese Wither-spoon, that combo of blond and bloom, and I received a couple of smiles in return. Mostly from men. All in all, however, I felt like “a total poseur,” as Braden’s ten-year-old niece used to say. Now she was a cutie. Too bad her uncle wasn’t more like her.
I turned down Sixth feeling a tad hungry for some lunch and doubting there’d be a place to get some decent food in these parts. Heavens, was I mistaken!
A little place called Della-Faye’s VIP Restaurant sat just behind the veined sidewalk. Jonah’s place! A shoe box of a business holding, at first glance, about as much promise as a two-dollar umbrella. But, I thought, why not investigate anyway? Jonah could probably use the business. The handwritten menu in the window advertised home-cooked food: roast beef, meat-loaf, homemade fried chicken, mac’n’cheese, pigs’ feet and cabbage, cheeseburgers, green beans, beets, limas, collards, apple cobbler, and chocolate pie.
And today’s special—ribs!
I pushed open the door, the bottom of it sticking on the weatherstripping.
The place smelled like a home where a grandma with five children underfoot cooks three hot meals a day for the farm workers, the postman with worn shoes, and the minister, who happens to drop by most days at lunchtime. And she does all this with a smile on her face and a song on her lips.
The song would be something like “Blue Moon” or “Ain’t We Got Fun.” Or if she was religious, maybe “When the Roll Is Called up Yonder.” My father loved that one.
A Formica counter, white with gold flecks, I’m guessing circa 1960, and eight chrome-rimmed stools of the same ilk, lined the right side of the cramped establishment. To the other side sat one table with a view of a small television perched atop the drink cooler. A middle-aged black man wearing a trucker cap nodded as I passed. I set my purse on my lap and swung into place.
Woo, hot in here! No AC apparently. I guess I’ll be taking this old dress to the dry cleaner, praying all the while they don’t ruin it.
Oh my, fried chicken, fried chicken. The black words scrawled on the whiteboard pulsated like a beating heart, and my nose searched the air for that singular aroma.
So, New York isn’t exactly the mecca of fried chicken. We act like we have it all there, but we don’t have a plethora of fried chicken. Something I’ve not shared with many people is that fried chicken, in my opinion, eclipses every other known food. Of all people, I realize that isn’t glamorous, but my mouth knows the truth. That first bite is as good as a blanket out of the dryer after sledding or a gulp of cold Coke after a day of yard work.
Now, there’s an art to consuming fried chicken. The first bite must include the moist, steaming meat as well as the crispy, savory skin. You feel your teeth break through the crust, sink into the flesh, and as the steam hits your nose with the aroma, the morsel explodes into your mouth, setting your taste buds on high.
Next, you strip the skin off and set it aside. You eat the meat, picking up the piece of chicken if it’s a drumstick or wing, using your fork to peel it off if it’s a breast or thigh.
Once every bit of meat is off the bone, you leave a tiny bite in your mouth, then pick up the crispy skin and pop it in your mouth, and that, my friend, is the most perfection a mouthful of food can ever hope to achieve.
Someday, I may write a guide to the best fried-chicken places in America. Imagine, eating my way around the country.
So I hoped Della-Faye or Jonah did a decent fried chicken. I thought I saw a leg or two peeping out from beneath a sheet of foil in the warmer.
“What can I get you?”
And Della-Faye appeared behind her voice, an angel of nourishment, the saint of fried chicken, covered in sweat. At least I guessed that was who it was. She’d pulled back her thick curls into a little bun on the crown of her head. Her white T-shirt, covered by an apron, contrasted with her red-brown skin, and the slant of her eyes and cheekbones boasted of some Cherokee somewhere up the line.
“How do folks like your fried chicken?”
“Been makin’ it since I was eight years old. I done perfected that chicken years ago!”
“I’ll take that.”
“Breast and wing? Or thigh and drumstick?”
“Oh, thigh and drumstick.”
“You get two sides with that.”
“Green beans and mashed potatoes.”
She picked up a paper plate and began setting up my meal. “Gravy on the potatoes?” she hollered from the giant stove in an alcove at the back of the room.
“Yes ma’am!”
I am such a chameleon.
“Corn bread?”
“Yes, please!”
And I sat and ate while men, the slick sweat of their working day thick upon their faces, filed through, ordering cheeseburgers and ribs to go. Mostly black men, a few Hispanic men. No whites, no women. I seemed to be breaking some unspoken rules, but Della didn’t appear to mind because she asked if I’d be settling in for some dessert.
So I took my time. I savored each bite of that chicken and the honest-to-goodness real gravy on real mashed potatoes in which lumps of starchy potato soaked up butter and milk. I drank a chilled Pepsi from the cooler near the register, and I wondered what in heaven’s name I had been doing in a Manhattan apartment, worrying about Le Corb
usier loungers, dinners at Tavern on the Green, and underwear for Braden.
Solo was right. What a scoundrel. And a rapscallion to boot!
I miss Solo.
Well, okay. The lounger’s okay to enjoy. Good design is important no matter where you find yourself.
But, for heaven’s sake, I’m a woman who loves fried chicken! In that little house on Jefferson Street that Howard Huckleberry showed me last week, I bet I could perfect my own fried chicken.
I pictured myself in that place in a pair of comfy jeans and a T-shirt. Two bedrooms, a kitchen at the back looking over a tiny yard that screamed garden potential. Brick pathways to be laid and lots of hostas and coneflowers to be planted. A Japanese-style trellis bursting with morning glories. A fountain. What glorious possibilities.
Della-Faye set down the cobbler. “Here you go.”
“Thank you. Is Jonah around?”
“Not right now. He went to shop for tomorrow’s produce. I’m off, so he’ll be doing the cooking.”
“How long have you been here at this place?”
“Last week I celebrated my tenth anniversary!”
By the way, Della-Faye has no teeth. None that I could see anyway.
“This is the most amazing meal I’ve ever eaten.”
“I was the oldest of ten chil’ren, so I been cookin’ almost ever since I can remember.”
“You grew up here in Lexington?”
“Oh no. Out in Nicholasville. My mother done passed, but my grandmother still lives out there. Ninety-five and still sharp as a tack. Now that’s my son right there.” She pointed to the man in the trucker cap. He nodded. “He done got the sugar, so I can’t feed him like I used to. Got to be careful now.” She leans forward and whispers, “It makes him sad.”
I replied in kind. “With cobbler like this out of reach? I don’t blame him.”
I stuck my plastic spoon in the dessert and popped it into my mouth, and yes, I guess I can believe in heaven.
Twenty minutes later, after lingering over every little bite, completely cleansing my palate between each spoonful, I paid my bill. Della-Faye told me to come back, and I assured her I would, oh yes, and no doubt about that.
On the sidewalk I ran into Jonah, two bags of groceries in his arms. He smiled with a broad grin. “I plan on making an African dish tomorrow. Groundnut stew. Peanuts, if you prefer.”