Straight Up

by Lisa Samson

  I stood on tiptoe and peered into the bag. “Ooooh, chicken!”

  “And okra, onion, garlic, tomato.”

  “Bell pepper. I love bell pepper. Are those bay leaves?”

  I wanted to touch the soft black skin of his sad face that smiles.

  “Oh yes. And peanut butter, too.”

  I crossed my arms. “And what time will you be open?”

  “Noon. Eleven thirty for you.”

  “All my favorite things in one pot. Who would have thought?”

  “And where did you come up with this love of good food?”

  I hold my hand up to my chest. “It’s been in here ever since I can remember. And my father liked to cook.”

  “You bring your father tomorrow?”

  “I can’t. He passed away several years ago.”

  “Your mother?”

  “Gone too.”

  “Well then, you come and eat my food and be blessed. I do cook with love.” He held up one finger. “Very first ingredient.”

  Georgia

  For some reason the sight of my cousin on her cell phone to some rich client—the way she pushed back her sunglasses atop her head, the way her feet looked so pretty in those shoes—sent me over the edge.

  “You’re wearing your mother’s clothes, aren’t you, Fairly?”

  I don’t know why I just let it fly out of my mouth like that when the realization struck. Fairly flinched. And I kept going. “You go on and on about vintage, but I recognize that dress. Aunt Bette wore it at my mother’s funeral.”

  I pointed at it like it held leprosy within its weave, and Fairly blanched to a shade so white, so eerie, I shivered.

  Then she ran out of the room, half the person she had been.

  I honestly hated myself in that moment. I saw what I had become, my own rude pettiness a spotlight on the true state of my pathetic existence. Scum.

  Ten minutes later she returned with a man.

  The little brat. I didn’t know she had that much fight in her, and if I wasn’t so frustrated, I would have admired her pluck. But there he stood on the porch, a mere screen door separating us.

  He gently pushed in the handle, and yes, I could have run, but my feet were smarter than their owner. He dipped his head into the room first, the dreadlocks now gone, the curly hair cut close to his scalp. But the eyes shone just the same. Blue like a summer sky above towering pine trees.

  “Georgia?”

  I couldn’t speak. And no words came to mind. These people all knew what a washout I was. Fairly standing there with her hands on her hips, Uncle Geoffrey looking up from his documents at the dining room table, tortoise-shell reading glasses low on the bridge of his nose. And Sean. Sean knew the truth.

  “Hi, Sean.”

  He walked over, and he wanted to hug me, even reached out his hands, but settled for a small rub on my upper arm. “Thanks for agreeing to see me.”

  I daggered Fairly with my eyes. She shrugged like a little girl trying to make up, apologetic smile pinching her mouth, eyebrows raised.

  Aged afternoon sunlight spilled across the floor and traveled up to pool on the couch. I fell into it. What? What? Speak? Cry? Run? What?

  “Nice shoes, Sean.”

  “They’re practical.”

  “You look good.”

  He blushed, burning the caramel of his skin. He inhaled in soft, windy eighth notes. He seemed in a perpetual flinched state, hands crammed in his pockets, head pushed down between his shoulders.

  And I saw it. I saw what I had done.

  I took something so beautiful and treated it like a rarely used item in the back of the kitchen drawer. Like a rolling pin. A nutmeg grater. An extension cord or a pastry brush. Stay in the drawer until I take you out. Come back when I say so and not before. Only this wasn’t some object, this was a man with a beautiful heart and an extraordinary gift—a one-in-amillion man—a rare pearl. I always said, in my darkest moments, “But I’m only hurting myself.” And there he sat, the undeserving victim of Georgia Ella Bishop’s choices.

  He sat down beside me. But I got up and walked back to my room and put Messrs. Reliable in the bottom drawer of the nightstand.

  What’s my problem? I mean, take Billie Holiday for example. She scrubbed floors and ran errands for a house of ill repute. Her mother was thirteen years old when Billie was born. Billie basically grew up alone. She sang with the likes of Count Basie, Artie Shaw, and Benny Goodman. And then spent almost all of 1947 in jail due to her heroin addiction.

  Well, at least I’m not a drug addict.

  And at least Billie, though arrested on her deathbed for heroin possession, somehow found it in her to make music despite her problems. Tomorrow then, right? My new bed arrives tomorrow, and it’s my last night here at UG’s.

  One more night. One more time to lose myself. Tomorrow I’ll make a fresh start, okay, Ms. Holiday, Ms. Fitzgerald?

  And yes, Mom, I know. How many times have I said that before?

  But Sean is here, and this time he’s not going away.

  I unscrew the cap.

  Hello, old friend.

  Once more for old time’s sake, and then tomorrow I must bid you adieu.

  Miles mills around my legs, the poor thing ramming his head into my shins over and over, more forceful than ever before. He will not let me pick him up.

  Fairly

  Georgia failed to show for dinner, and the cult people have come and gone. But Sean’s still here, and, well, Sean’s the type of guy you can be yourself around no matter how ticked off at him you are, so when I told Uncle G what I did, how I got Georgie back by bringing Sean around, I wasn’t afraid that Sean would ream me out.

  In fact, Sean falls into the category of persons who quietly accept the events of life and see them as growth opportunities. Pretty sickening if you ask me. To be so mature and perfect. Still, folks like that come in handy when you, oh, say, use them to get back at somebody. He realized soon enough I had surprised Georgia with his presence, but he chose to remain mute.

  We ate takeout tonight. Uncle G’s current mountain-top-removal mining crusade has eclipsed his culinary pursuits. “Eastern Kentucky is one of the poorest regions in the U.S., Fairly,” he answered when I asked why he cared so much. “If I don’t try to do something about it, who will? It’s not like these people have a voice on their own.”

  Of course, he brought in Thai food because who in the name of heaven orders pizza anymore?

  “The coal companies are practically raping the region.”

  Or a pedestrian cheeseburger sub with lettuce, tomato, mayo, and grilled onions? And I’ll take some onion rings with that.

  “I’m just so tired.” He stretches. “And I need to make some calls.”

  But I ate the Pad-Thai anyway, enjoying the peanutty taste with the green onions, egg, shrimp, and sprouts. The Thai really know how to do noodles, don’t they?

  What’s happening to me? Tavern on the Green to Sonny’s Thai Carry-Out Buffet in half a month.

  I took a plate in to Georgia, but she rolled over on the bed to face the wall. “Get thee behind me, Satan,” she said.

  Dead mother’s clothes, my foot!

  Fine. That’s just great, Georgia.

  I knew one thing: after we finished, I’d walk my dead mother’s clothes right down to Della-Faye’s for some more of that addicting cobbler, and maybe Jonah would be there, for the simple fact that he survives, that he chooses to keep going, brings me peace.

  When I went into the kitchen to announce my VIP intentions, I found Sean and Uncle G in an earnest discussion that my presence proceeded to stifle.

  I crossed my arms in front of my chest.

  Uncle Geoffrey set down his cup of tea, eyes skewering me. “Why in the world would you do such a thing, Fairly?”

  “I’m tired of behaving myself.”

  Sean smiled.

  “And I’m not going on the trip tomorrow.”

  “I figured as much from the get-go. Georgia said
she’d go.” Uncle G’s face reddened. Interesting to actually see the man angry.

  “I don’t have any clothing now anyway.”

  Sean looked up over his teacup. “It’s all your mother’s?”

  “Well, not my underwear!” Thank heavens. And even if that were true, I’d hardly admit it. “Or my shoes, either, Sean!”

  He looked back down at his tea, and, of course, I felt just horrible.

  “I’m going out.”

  They let me go, because men are usually like that, I’ve found. They don’t have to work everything out right then and there. They realize tomorrow will come and tomorrow might just hold the key to making some sense of today.

  Hah! Don’t I wish!

  I guess you could also call that a healthy case of denial.

  But I simply refused to walk my high-heeled shoes down to the VIP. Not this time. So I pecked my way through the stuff on Georgia’s floor, digging up her Wellington boots and a pair of socks.

  Gorgeous with vintage tulle, not that she noticed. She was still facing that wall.

  This time, I hardly cared at all what people thought of my ridiculous outfit as I walked down to Sixth Street. I looked silly, I knew it, so let’s just not pretend, all right? I don’t even remember making eye contact; all I wanted was that cobbler.

  Della-Faye clicked off the light over the stove as I entered.

  “You back again?”

  “I had to get out of the house.”

  “I heard that. I’m about to go home. You mind taking your food carry out?”

  “I’ll take it over to the park. Lots of cobbler.”

  She turned her back and grabbed a foam container. “Then you’ll be wantin’ a fork.”

  I parked my mother’s dress and my behind on the red vinyl of the stool. “Della-Faye, do you like what you do?”

  She turned back around, the cobbler scooped out and glistening in its sugary syrup. “Now why do you ask?”

  “I don’t know you, but you seem peaceful.”

  She laughed. “Peace is an earned thing. You might just be too young to have done earned your peace.”

  “I’ve buried two parents and a spouse.”

  She raised her brows and set down the food. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-eight.”

  “Sweet Jesus.” She turned back around, walked to the refrigerator in the back, and pulled out a chicken drumstick. “Lord, have mercy.” After placing it on a plate she handed it to me. “Ain’t nothing more soothing than a piece of cold chicken.”

  I bit into the cool goodness and had to agree.

  She laid her redwood arms on the counter. “Now, I’ve got—hold up, there—what’s your name?”

  “Fairly Godfrey.”

  “Fairly, huh? Like that. Your mama and daddy good people, then?”

  “I thought so.”

  “Mmm. So now this is what I got to say. It bein’ Wednesday and all, I’m going to prayer meeting. As I see it, you look in need of some prayin’. Either you can witness it, or go to that park and eat your cobbler. It’s all the same to the Lord and me.”

  “Will you be singing any songs?”

  Her eyebrows shot up.

  “Okay, why not? Do I have time to take a few bites of the cobbler?” It isn’t hard to guess, it had taken me no time to eat that drumstick.

  “Suit yourself. I’ll make sure everything’s turned off, and we’ll get on out of here.”

  So I ate Della-Faye’s cobbler. As many bites as I could shovel into my mouth while she closed up shop. The juices from the peaches dribbled down my chin and onto my mother’s dress.

  Clarissa

  The mother swings her forearm, now covered with eczema, across the counter, sending the plates and cups flying onto the floor. The little girl watches them, her brain speeding up, the items slowing down, and they tumble like clowns, sad bright clowns, over and over, crashing onto the floor, spinning, exploding into colorful confetti shards.

  The mother screams.

  “If you can’t wash the dishes, you can sweep them up instead! And if they’re all gone, it’ll be up to you to figure out how we’ll eat our food.”

  The little girl holds a dirty dishtowel up to her mouth, flinching. The mother grabs her arm.

  “Do you hear me, Clarissa?”

  She nods.

  She reels, pushed away.

  “Now what’s for supper?”

  “Sandwiches?”

  “What? I didn’t hear you!”

  “Sandwiches, Mommy. And some soup?”

  “Where is it, then?”

  “You’re early. I haven’t—”

  And the mother turns her back on the little girl.

  “Wake me up when it’s on the table. I had a rough day at work.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  She goes about her work, trying to whistle something, anything, but she can only think of the theme song to that movie about the doctor with the funny name that her mother watches over and over again on the VCR.

  Somewhere my love, there will be songs to sing. Yes, that’s it. That’s the very song.

  Fairly

  Right then, I hoped that reincarnation truly explained life after death and that I would come back in my next life as a black woman. I’d wear my hair in long skinny braids I could tie into a knot at the crown of my head, and I’d dye the ends that sparked out of the plaited crown bright blond or black cherry. I’d swathe myself in African-print odds and ends and stain my lips maroon on some days and purple on others. I’d love my derrière.

  And I’d pray to God with all the fullness of an angel choir spinning on the rings of Saturn, the giddy light of a newborn sun spilling on my face. I’d lay my hands on the back of a poor sinner like me, rock in the Holy Spirit, and shout, “Hallelujah!”

  Mmm, hmm!

  Thank You, Jesus.

  And then I’d invite myself downstairs for a cup of strong coffee and a bowl of banana pudding. And I bet I wouldn’t realize how important I was in the maneuverings of that mystifying deity who lurks around corners and surprises at whims.

  I wouldn’t realize it at all.

  But maybe one of those sinners I touched would come back the next day, sit on a stool in my restaurant, and cry like she hadn’t in years.

  Then again, she might not. But who’s to say what tomorrow will bring?

  I pushed my forefinger into her blubbery side. Man, Georgie’s gained a lot of weight this past year. She was out. I turned to Sean. “You know about her drinking, right?”

  “What?”

  Oh man.

  He squats to see her face better. Sean’s thighs are like tight hams. Why Georgia doesn’t want to just jump the man, I don’t know. “How long has she been doing this?”

  “Years is my guess. She doesn’t work. She doesn’t have any friends. You do the math.”

  “Dear Lord.” He ran his long, burnished finger down her deadened cheek. So loving. So in love with this woman lying on her side in a puddle of spittle.

  How nice to be so adored.

  “Since I left?”

  “Talk to Uncle Geoffrey about it. He probably knows more than I do.” I pulled the covers up to her chin and adjusted the blinds, cutting off the streetlight falling across her face.

  So Sean sat down at the table with Uncle G, and, eavesdropping, I heard the history afresh, all at one time, like I never heard it before. Georgia finding the liquor cabinet the day after her mom’s funeral, going into rehab at fourteen. The entire gory story of a motherless teen who was forgotten by her father and who spent too much time at a place called the Ten O’Clock Club.

  Sometimes I don’t think Georgia herself remembers the time for what it was. I honestly think she’s somehow placed the blame on Sean for all of her problems. Or her dad. And I guess it’s her mom’s fault too, so that makes it God’s, right? Or is it her dad’s for not making up for his wife’s absence, and if so … Oh heavens! The blame game is exhausting!

  “How did I mis
s this?”

  Sean’s voice attests to his abilities as a vocalist. The promise of a song whispers out with his words. I’ve always had to bend forward to hear what Sean says. But I’m always glad when I do.

  Uncle Geoffrey lights up a smoke.

  “She was just good at hiding it, I guess. None of us knew. And she really didn’t slide back in a major way until after you left. And then when Gaylen died, she spun out of control.”

  “I don’t know what I was thinking going off like that. Georgia always seemed like the type who could take care of herself.”

  I settled my bottom on the floor of the hallway. Most people feel guilty about eavesdropping. I somewhat enjoy it. Hurts the tailbone a bit, but it’s a small price to pay.

  “She’s never been, Sean. She got good at the act. Had to, with the way Gaylen was gone all the time. She had nobody to really connect to, other than me. And what good could I really do her?”

  “She’s always loved you, man.”

  “I know. But being shoved around between me and her grandmother and a host of babysitters, there wasn’t a prayer she’d turn out capable of a decent relationship without some major compensation. I probably should have warned you.”

  “No, man. Love isn’t like that. It doesn’t keep a list of the things done wrong.”

  Well, Sean did plenty wrong, for sure. I only hope Georgia can be as magnanimous.

  Sean. “You think I can talk her back to me?”

  “I’d like to think so. The fact that she hasn’t dated a soul since you left is cause for some encouragement. Or maybe not.”

  Someone drummed his fingertips on the table, and then a chair scraped back from the table. “Guess I’ll go clean her up then.”

  “Thanks.” Uncle Geoffrey gathered together some papers.

  Well, I hopped to my feet, pins and needles poking my soles as I flew down the corridor and into my bedroom!

  A few minutes later I heard Sean singing as though to an infant. What a complete waste. But I lay down on the floor by the crack beneath my door, raised my knees, and folded my hands across my stomach. And I heard music more beautiful in its simple sweetness than anything I’d ever heard as he sang in a melancholy minor key, “Would you like to swing on a star? Carry moonbeams home in a jar?…”