Straight Up

by Lisa Samson

  Grandmom, you still there?

  Yes.

  There she is, floating in that chair. She sighs. I always loved this kitchen set.

  Me too. I have a question to ask you before we start the story. Is it true, what you said all those years ago, that only Catholics go to heaven?

  No.

  But there are Catholics there, aren’t there? Because this girl at school, she was a Baptist, she said that Catholics are idolaters and that idolaters don’t go to heaven.

  She was wrong too. You wouldn’t believe how wrong most of us were about most things.

  I kinda figured.

  I truly feel sorry for those of you left on earth.

  Do we ever get it right?

  Some do more than others, but that’s all I can say.

  Oh, come on, Grandmom, I’m not going back there, am I? Can’t you give me a little clue?

  No. You’re not dead yet. Besides, wouldn’t you rather find out from Jesus?

  I guess so. So am I going to die?

  We all do.

  This is obviously going nowhere.

  Can I tell my story now, Georgia?

  I guess so. I have a feeling I’m not going anywhere.

  Grandmom’s chair transforms into her old lounger, the rocking wing-backed kind she placed in her living room near the fireplace I never once saw lit. The rip on the side of the seat cushion is gone, though.

  I didn’t think about Grandmom Bishop enough outside here. Honestly, when Dad went on extended trips and she came to stay, she was much more quiet. She read her Monthly Missalette, cooked German food, packed lunches, helped me with homework, and didn’t say half of what she’s saying here. I never climbed up on her lap or listened to her sing a song.

  But she had this way of touching my head, that comfortable, warm yet light stroke, which told me she was glad I had been born. And she raked from her imagination glorious bedtime stories that harvested tears, laughter, and sometimes cold fright.

  That’s who she is right now here in the pink zone. The lively, storytelling Grandmom: passionate and funny and bursting with humanity.

  Yes, that was the real me. A lot of people hide behind stories. So are you ready to listen or are you still going to ruminate about who I was all those years ago? And I’m sorry I wasn’t more outwardly affectionate. Old ways, you know.

  You mean I can’t even think in here without you knowing?

  No. Isn’t that wonderful? You can be completely who you are. You have to be. I wish I’d have understood that on earth. I hid myself from God all the time. Or thought I did.

  I think I know what you mean.

  Oh, you do.

  That’s right. Honesty first and foremost here in coma land.

  Fairly

  Della-Faye set down the breakfast plate, the country gravy liberally covering the biscuits with its peppery smoothness, the sausage links glistening on a separate plate. The coffee was strong, the sunlight gentle. And she hummed in the quiet. No television this morning.

  Fine by me, truly. I don’t believe I could have handled any extra stimulation.

  I shoveled in that meal like I was about to leave the country and subsist on nothing but grubs for a year. And then, my coffee refilled, a radio whispering some gospel music, Jonah walked in and said some prayers, and I really didn’t mind, much to my amazement.

  And, oh my. What a good night of sleep does for a girl’s compassion! As I sat sipping under the awning of unspoken prayer, I wondered if my cousin ever really had a chance. At twelve years old she lost the one person who loved her like a child should be loved. Uncle Gaylen traveled all over the place, and Georgia was shifted from Aunt Drea to Uncle G to her grandmother on her Dad’s side, even to my mom and dad occasionally.

  For four years this went on until, at sixteen, she told her father she’d rather just stay at the condo alone.

  I wonder if she sent Sean away because she just didn’t know how to be with someone consistently? Did she tire of his presence, no matter the benevolence it contained? Was it simply too much foreign stimulation? Even velvet rubs the skin raw after too many passes, doesn’t it?

  I wish I could crawl into her head and try to figure her out. Then again, I don’t. She’s in a coma, and we’ll have more news later today.

  Della-Faye said she’d put Georgia on the prayer chain at her church.

  “You comin’ to church on Sunday? ’Cause if you is, I’ll save you a seat.”

  “Why not?”

  She shook her head. “Child, your enthusiasm is shakin’ down this building.”

  I just smiled and squinted. “I’ll bet you’re wishing I’d never walked into this place, aren’t you?”

  She leaned her forearms on her counter. “Now that’s a funny question. There are some folks as come in here that I think should take themselves elsewhere, but you? Nope. You got problems. And I’ve got food. And a couple of good ears. I’d say you can come in anytime.”

  I don’t know why, but that made me want to cry. Most people I know like being around me because they think I have no problems. I’m rich. I can do whatever I want with my life. I’m free, free, free! What’s not to like about all that?

  But Della-Faye somehow sees me as I am. Maybe because I walked in here as nothing else. Or maybe her fried chicken stripped me of my pretense.

  Della-Faye knows.

  I guess some women are just like that.

  Della-Faye’s scrumptious breakfast tucked inside, I hurried over to Georgia’s apartment for the ten o’clock furniture delivery, which I inexplicably thought to delay yesterday while awaiting news of Georgia’s condition. What does that say about me, that I’d remember furniture and forget Sean? Then it was on to the hospital where Uncle G, bless him, kept up the vigil.

  Clarissa

  The young girl listens as her mother talks on the phone with Uncle Alan, Reggie’s real dad.

  “I don’t care if Dad’s dead. I hope he’s in hell, if you want to know the truth, Alan.”

  The young girl is glad Leonard showed her how to draw tulips. It’s fun making the zigzags and inserting the little triangles in between. Red is the best.

  “Too bad Mom didn’t kill him when she tried.”

  Then yellow. Yellow’s next.

  “She can’t hear. She’s in the other room. But I’ll tell you this, that man deserved to die alone, not that you let him.”

  …

  “Do you think he loved you because you were there for him? No way, Alan. He went to his grave despising us all. The same cruel monster he always was.”

  The medium green is the best color for the stems and leaves, not the dark green. That’s too much like pine trees.

  “No. Demons like him don’t change.”

  Roses? How did Leonard draw roses?

  “Oh, come on. There’s no excuse. You’ll find he didn’t have a dime once the lawyers sort everything out. And you’re welcome to it. I want nothing from him.”

  Roses, roses, roses.

  “He broke my arm, Alan.”

  Pink roses, red roses, yellow roses.

  “He was lucky I didn’t kill him myself.”

  Pretty roses.

  “Well, more power to you. Now I’ve got to go.”

  The young girl flinches at the slamming of the phone.

  Soft, smooth roses. So happy in the round sunshine that smiles down from the upper corner of the page.

  “Clarissa!”

  She climbs to her feet, the bedroom rug abrading her knees.

  “Coming, Mommy!”

  The mother pats the couch, holds her, squeezes her so tightly she can’t breathe. She gasps for air.

  “Okay then, little brat!”

  The mother pushes her away.

  “Why in the world would I expect you to understand? You’ve had everything. Everything! And you don’t appreciate it for a minute.”

  The young girl runs to the kitchen, opens the refrigerator door, crossing her fingers and hoping the Jell-O salad will be
ready in time for supper.

  Georgia

  Grandmom settles down into the chair, comfy. She still carries that extra twenty pounds as she always did. Unless. Unless that’s the way we’re supposed to look and, once again, we’ve bungled things down here. That wouldn’t surprise me at all.

  You’re right. That skinny stuff? Nope. Eve has a nice little tummy and a real caboose. I think my generation was a little closer to a proper body image than yours, Georgia.

  You don’t have to convince me. I thought the dancers in White Christmas were the cat’s pajamas.

  So here’s the story. Once upon a time—

  I love it when they start like that.

  There was a baby literally born in the dirt.

  You?

  Yes. Stop interrupting. Her mother was the daughter of a poor chicken farmer on the Eastern Shore. Poor, poor. So poor she went to school in bare feet.

  Nobody gave her shoes?

  Nobody.

  Why not?

  Mostly because they didn’t have shoes to give, Georgia. One pair of shoes a year was all most people could afford. This was the Depression, don’t forget.

  Why am I sitting on a kitchen chair and Grandmom gets a nice rocker?

  Suit yourself, Georgia. Leather or velour?

  Velour, please.

  So this is much better. And it’s sky blue. Goes nicely with the pink.

  Anyway, the problem was the chicken-farmer’s daughter wasn’t married. And she was slightly retarded.

  Oh my goodness.

  I know. And the chicken farmer had no time to raise a little girl. The mother obviously couldn’t. And for several years a woman from town came in, but she wasn’t very nice.

  So what happened to the little girl?

  Her grandfather put her in an orphanage. Just left her there with a little note pinned to her blouse. I was only six.

  Who was my great-grandfather, then? Your dad, I mean.

  Some sword swallower in a traveling circus.

  What?!

  Don’t be so surprised, Georgia. You got the performance streak from somewhere.

  Uh, my mother, perhaps?

  My father too.

  Anyway, I used to be quite miffed at my father.

  What does that have to do with me, Grandmom?

  That, Miss Smarty Pants, is for you to just figure out on your own.

  She gets up from her chair. Gotta fly.

  But she doesn’t fly really, she just walks and walks and walks deeper into the pink.

  You know, this place reminds me of the land of the witches and warlocks in the old TV show Bewitched.

  That visit? Just plain weird, really.

  Maybe somebody will come see me soon. Right now I’m being wheeled down the hallway, and the tech is laughing about his little son who’s learning to talk. Calls him Bad instead of Dad.

  I’d smile if I my face would let me.

  Fairly

  I used to think the theme from Mission: Impossible sounded so cute ringing out from my bitty cell phone. I mean really, finding a bona fide Gio Ponti Tavolo Rotondo table for less than ten thousand dollars completely warranted such a theme, and when I did, my client kissed both cheeks and pronounced me a miracle worker. But Georgia’s condition causes the melody to hit a little too close to home. I swore as soon as I took the call from Uncle G that I’d switch it. I forgot. Which had an unfortunate consequence.

  Earlier today after breakfast I dropped Uncle G off at the hospital and ran over to Target before the furniture delivery men were due to arrive. And oh my! The variety of adorable clothing floored me! Now my friends back home might laugh, but I must admit, I went a little loco. Faux-Bohemian peasant tank tops and skirts. Strappy little sandal flats. V-neck Ts and Capri pants. Slip-on Keds. It’s adorable! And very Kentucky. I think they may have cornered something down here in regard to comfort. You know, those old clothes of mine can be as scratchy as an Easter dress from Great-aunt Hester.

  I’m wondering if I should burn my mother’s clothing or not. Now that I’m outed for my necro-couture, it feels creepier than Tony Randall, God rest his soul, fathering a child in his seventies. That really was a fabulous apartment he and Jack Klugman shared in The Odd Couple, though.

  The furniture deliverymen arrived an hour late, so I thought I’d put some of Georgia’s kitchen supplies away. Cute dishes. Cute teacups. All daisy patterned, and that surprised me a bit. She never seemed like the sweet-little-anything type. And how I never really saw her dishes considering I’m her only cousin gives me cause for shame. She’s older, to be sure, but stunted and less experienced. If I had been more responsible, more sure of myself, and more comfortable with the fact that I care more about life than the Le Corbusier loungers it has to offer, maybe she wouldn’t be in a coma.

  A coma!

  Heavens, who ends up in comas? I mean, it’s something you hear or read about, but in your own family? And there’s only three of us, and none in the immediate-family range. What are the chances?

  Anyway, after unpacking the glassware, I opened up this mammoth Rubbermaid tub in that ghastly Williamsburg blue shade. Took some real strength to pry the infernal thing open, but I prevailed, and my biceps are better for it, quite frankly.

  Quite frankly, I’m in danger of turning into pudding if I don’t resume my gym time soon.

  Inside the tub, hundreds and hundreds of letters lay like oversized confetti. I didn’t read them, I promise, although I was dying to, but I thought I’d at least see who they all were from, and then the organization bug bit me, so I started arranging them by sender into piles. I figure if Georgia’s in the hospital long enough, I’ll get letterboxes and arrange them all by date as well.

  So here’s the final tally: fifteen hundred letters from Sean and three hundred letters from her father. Is that not incredible?

  And guess what? All but one remained unopened. I don’t understand. I simply, positively do not understand. If Hort had sent me something, I’d tear it open with my eyelashes if that’s all I had to use.

  So I waited for the deliverymen, and I felt relieved at the furniture choices. Modern design truly transcends any space, but well, there’s always a first for everything. The place is already painted stark white, so the clean lines of the furniture render it peaceful enough. I had to go with reproductions, but the Mies van der Rohe chairs are perfect for reading with one’s feet up on the coffee table, a Le Corbusier reproduction. Some handwoven throws warm things up so she’ll be comfy enough during the cold weather, sitting there, drinking. Drinking. Drinking.

  Oh, and the area rug! The one nonmodern item, my signature really, antique and art nouveau. This one sports a muted gold background and is simply the perfect accompaniment with the graceful, trumpetlike flowers that vine their way around the border. As a treat I ordered a baby grand piano. I can’t think of a gift Georgia needs more. Call me silly, I don’t care. I should have reached out well before this.

  Beyond that, I took phone calls and managed to locate a gorgeous Noguchi Cyclone Table, 1955, for a woman in England who heard about me through the friend of a friend. Marvelous. Well, you can’t go wrong with Knoll. I’ve said that for years.

  So much for the businessy part of my day. While I was finishing up at the apartment, I called Sean and invited him to meet me at Duncan Park for lunch. Jonah packed us up some carry-out chicken, green beans, macaroni and cheese, stewed tomatoes, and apple cobbler. Della-Faye threw in some of her fried corn bread.

  I sat at one of the picnic tables and waited for him. The basketball goals are dying for a coat of paint. He shuffled toward me, hand shoved in his pocket, and he looked so sad, kissed by the biggest, gloomiest rain cloud over the honey tree. I have no idea who said “No man is an island,” but my goodness, he was right. Sean couldn’t even make it as a peninsula!

  He appreciated the food, no surprise. Sean would be thankful for white bread with American cheese.

  “Why did you keep on writing to her?” I asked.
/>   He looked up, caught. “How could I not? She’s my wife.”

  “She said you didn’t come back for three years. Three years is a long time. And by then, she said it was too late.”

  “I came back after the six months like I promised.”

  “Really?”

  “I know Georgie tells it differently. It’s a great wonder to me that you and your uncle will talk to me at all considering what you’ve been led to believe.”

  “Then why do you want to reconcile?”

  He set down his fork and shoved his plate to the side. He really is the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. The way he carefully folded his napkin and arranged the plastic cutlery atop the plate, his hands moving gently yet with such purpose, fascinated me. I stared, and I remembered how nice he was when he and Georgia first started dating and she’d babysit me. Sometimes he’d come over and push me on the swings as long as I wanted. He’d also color with me. He would outline the section he wanted to color with the crayon and then color it in with a lighter touch.

  I just dug into the paper as hard as I could. Blues are bluer that way, greens more green. And reds. Well, who wants a red that isn’t a bloody, glorious mess?

  Sean thought about my question, and I marveled even more that someone with so much to offer would waste time on a case like Georgia.

  “I love her, Fairly. I always have. I’m not the type of person who can just turn it off because it isn’t returned.”

  “But she loves you, doesn’t she? She seemed so wounded at your desertion.”

  He shrugged. “ ‘Seemed’ being the key word there.”

  “She broke your heart, didn’t she?”

  He shrugged again and nodded. “Yes. She did.”

  “She sure had us fooled. I wonder what her problem really is?”

  “It’s theological.”

  I laughed and laughed. “You have spent way too much time in that monastery place, Sean.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Do you think she’s mad at God or something? Do you represent God to her?”

  “Now that I can’t say. I sure hope not. Is she mad? I used to think so, but I think it actually goes deeper. I think she views Him as some capricious being who singled her out to suffer. And when you get that myopic, not only do you hurt yourself, but you fail to even recognize that others might actually be suffering too. She’s holding a grudge against Him. Nursing it like a sick infant. Because if she forgives God for all that’s happened to her, she’ll have to do something about it. Like start living again.”