by Lisa Samson
Unbelievable. “Come on, let me do it.” She places her hands on her black-clothed hips. “Hey, nice red nails there, girl. And you’re wearing lipstick too. You got a date, Blaze?”
“Naw!” She waves one hand. “There’s a little girl down at Gus’s place. She loves painting my fingernails after I help her with her homework.”
“Gus?”
“Augustine, Val. Good grief.”
“What’s his deal anyway?”
She shrugs. “Don’t know if he has a deal, per se. Showed up in town one day. Said he got out of a monastery or something.”
“A monastery? No way.”
“Or some sort of missions training program. I don’t know, Val. Why don’t you ask him if you’re so interested?”
“I didn’t say I was interested. Don’t go assuming a bunch of interest on my part, Blaze. You’re the one who brought him up, not me.”
“So if I say yes to Thanksgiving dinner will you shut up?”
“You got it.”
“Then yes.”
I head upstairs to Lella. “Wanna help me make the list for Thanksgiving dinner?” Lella’s eyes widen. “Never thought I’d win that one, did you?”
“I’m surely glad you did.”
And Lella dreams out loud of a time long ago, before her parents died, when they’d gather in their trailer and cook up a feast for all the circus people. They’d line a picnic table outside with a paper cloth and all the food. She named each dish and described its taste exactly. In her bedroom the walls close in snugly around us, and I can smell the warm heat of the stove, feel the steam from the turkey, taste the butter melting on the mashed potatoes.
“So you want mashed potatoes?” I ask.
“Oh, yes. And sweet potatoes and stuffing. Oh, Valentine, you’ll be able to eat until you’re stuffed! Won’t that be glorious?” She smiles. “What would you think of a cup of tea right now?”
“I’ll go make us some. Let me put on my scarf.”
“Why, Val? It’s just us.”
“Blaze brings home too many people—you never know who’s going to show up. I sure don’t want that Augustine weirdo seeing this face. Unless he’s paid his five bucks like everyone else.”
“You know, it’s okay to be happy right now, Valentine. You’re going to cook us all a lovely dinner for Thanksgiving. You don’t always have to be so crotchety.”
“You’re right, Lell. But I kinda like the crotchety me. It fits right now.”
“Suit yourself.” She laughs.
The next morning somebody knocks at the back door. Looking out the kitchen window, I tie a blue scarf just above my nose and rise to my feet. Three people wait outside. That Augustine man, a woman with a red cloud of hair—yes, it’s Charmaine Hopewell—and another woman with short brown hair—a little chubby I think, judging by the contours of her face. She’s pretty, though.
“Hang on!” I carefully swig the chilled dregs of my coffee, set my mug in the dishwasher, and plan a quick exit.
I yank open the door. “Hey, come on in, I’ll get Blaze.”
The three people file inside.
“Coffee’s fresh. Mugs are on the shelf. Help yourself.” I head for the doorway.
“Wait!” Augustine steps forward. “We came to see you.”
“What?” I turn back around. “Now why is that?”
He grabs the coffeepot and heads for the shelf. “We heard you were cooking up a big Thanksgiving dinner for the household.”
“And?”
“First of all, let me introduce these ladies.”
I cross my arms and lean against the doorjamb.
“This is Charmaine Hopewell.” He touches her shoulder lightly.
“We’ve met. Hey, Charmaine.”
“Really?” Augustine asks.
Charmaine gives a little wave. “You know me, Gus. I don’t let any grass grow under my feet. I met her on one of my midnight ramblings when I just couldn’t sleep.”
“And this is Poppy Fraser.”
“Hi, Val. Great to meet you,” Poppy says. She’s obviously not from around here. She speaks too northern.
“Hello. Nice to meet you. Thanks for coming.” I look at Augustine. “So what does our Thanksgiving dinner have to do with you and these women?”
“I’m a lousy cook. So is Charmaine. And Poppy needs a little help.”
“Doing what?”
“Her church is putting on a big Thanksgiving dinner downtown. I heard about your dinner here and thought you might make some extra.” He pulls down some mugs and hands them to Poppy, who sets them on the kitchen table.
“Doesn’t she have lots of church ladies to help her cook?”
“Yeah, I do. Not to mention that you probably don’t have time.” She turns to Augustine. “I told you she wouldn’t buy it.”
I point to Charmaine Hopewell. “What does she have to do with it?”
Charmaine laughs and winks at me. Augustine pours the coffee and lets Poppy explain.
“Charmaine just likes to be in on the action, whenever and wherever she finds it. She happened to be at Java Jane’s with me when Augustine came in with his bright idea.”
“Ouch, Popp.” Augustine hands the ladies their coffee.
“Thanks, Gus.” She cradles the mug in both hands. “He told us about your burns and all, and I said I didn’t think getting you in on the dinner was such a good idea.”
“Why? Because I’ll make people lose their appetites?”
“Oh, shoot no. Because I’ve never seen you around, so I figured you were reclusive about it.”
“You’re right.” I turn to Augustine. “Nice try, but no deal. Spooning up sweet potatoes on the street isn’t in my usual routine. You could learn a lot from her.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Plus that would be a lot of cooking for you.”
“Oh, I can cook for crowds.”
“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.” He lifts his drink and takes a sip, then points a finger at me. “I’m not done with you, though. This was more of a fact-finding mission anyway.”
“What? As in, you want to see if I’ll reach out, go outside of my comfort zone sort of thing?”
“Exactly.”
Charmaine laughs. “Augustine, honey, that was the lamest thing I ever heard.” She looks at me. “Valentine, forgive the man. His intentions are pure.”
“Yeah, okay. He does seem like an innocent despite all those tats.”
Augustine hoots a laugh. “Will you at least sit down with us and have a cup of coffee?”
“Oh, I get it. If you had come in here just asking for a nice chatty coffee time, I would have balked. But in the face of cooking and serving up Thanksgiving dinner to the less fortunate, a cup of coffee seems like nothing.”
He nods.
“You want to get me in with some other women so I’ll make friends, be sociable. I’m your new project. Is that it?”
Poppy sits in a chair. “Hey, Gus, you’re smarter than I thought.”
Augustine pulls out a chair for me. Oh, what the heck. It’s Charmaine Hopewell after all. And this Poppy person seems okay.
“Wait!” I say. “Let me get Lella. Charmaine, she’s always wanted to meet you.” I turn to Poppy. “She’s our legless-armless woman.”
Poppy gasps. “Was she born that way? Or was it an accident?”
“Born that way. Don’t worry, it’s not contagious.”
Augustine winces.
A few minutes later I carry Lella down in my arms, her eyes closed at my request. Augustine’s already brought in her special chair from the dining room. I gently settle her atop the donut and push her close to the table, then arrange her prosthetic arms, quite useless in function but not so in form.
“Okay, Lella, now who were you just saying you’d like to meet? Last night on our walk? Open your eyes.”
She does. “Charmaine Hopewell! Oh, my!” She’d raise a hand to her breast if she had one. “Oh, Valentine, did you arrange this?”
“Nah. Augustine showed up uninvited with Charmaine. And Poppy Fraser here. Folks, this is Lella.”
Lella glows as the greetings fly back and forth.
“I dearly love your show!” Lella. “And I’ve got several of your albums.”
“That’s wonderful, honey. Thanks so much!” Charmaine.
“And how’s your husband, Harlan?”
“Still preaching up a storm at church and on the television. That man!”
Earlier in the day I’d scraped back Lella’s hair into her signature ponytail, and she asked me to make her up in a more Audrey Hepburn fashion, with slightly Egyptian eyes and red lips. She is easily the prettiest person in the room.
Charmaine takes to Lella right away, answering all of her questions about The Port of Peace Hour and her gospel concerts. So Poppy asks me about the road, what it’s like to be in a sideshow these days.
“Well, folks still enjoy it. We’re pretty politically incorrect now as you could probably guess. But who can resist a human blockhead or a fire eater?”
“Do you mind telling me how you came to be Lizard Woman?”
“Physically?”
She nods.
“I was in India and somebody mistook me for a relative that had brought dishonor to the family and threw acid on me.”
Augustine jerks his head up. “But didn’t you say—”
“Yeah, it was horrible. We all couldn’t believe it. And so I ended up here.”
He pushes his glasses up further on his nose.
Poppy asks, “What about your parents? Didn’t your mother want to take care of you? Why did you end up on the road?”
“My mother couldn’t stand to look at me anymore. And that was fine with me. We never got along anyway. My father isn’t the strongest guy in the world, and I didn’t want to burden him. I was just as glad to find Roland’s sideshow, believe it or not.”
Charmaine hoots a “Well, praise the Lord!” at something Lella says. “I swear I haven’t felt this good about life in several years.” She lays a hand on Lella’s shoulder. “I’m always battling the dark monster of depression.”
“Oh, no!” Lella. “I’m so sorry for you!”
I say, “I know a thing or two about that.”
Poppy shuffles in her seat. “Charmaine takes care of her paranoid schizophrenic mother who deserted her when she was eleven years old.”
“Oh. Right.”
“Poppy!” Charmaine hits her upper arm. “Valentine’s got enough on her already.”
I tap the table. “So honestly, Poppy. You need help with the food? I can make something here at Blaze’s, I suppose. Like I said, I can cook for a crowd. What’s a little more?”
“Valentine makes the best mashed potato casserole you’ve ever tasted!” Lella licks her lips. “She whips potatoes with cream cheese, sour cream, and softened butter, then places it in a casserole and pours melted butter over it.”
I don’t notice Rick standing at the door until he says, “And then she bakes it in the oven and it gets all brown around the edges. Mmm!” He rubs a stomach flatter than a first-round contestant on American Idol, a show Blaze never misses, darn her.
“It’s one of the few things I can eat myself.”
Augustine smiles. “Yeah, then. Potato casserole it is. For about hundred people?”
“You got it.” I look at Lella. “Will you keep me company while I peel the potatoes?”
“I’d be honored.” She turns to Augustine. “That counts as helping, doesn’t it?”
“Of course!” Charmaine cries. “Oh, Lella! Being company is the best thing anybody can ever do.”
“Valentine’s my company, Mrs. Hopewell. Valentine’s the best friend I’ve ever had.”
Rick clears his throat. “I’ll help peel, Val. If that’s all right and you don’t mind.”
“For a hundred people? I’d be glad if you would.”
He whips around and hurries up to his room.
“I’m telling you, Rick is crazy to be fond of a woman like me,” I say to Lella later that afternoon.
“Oh, surely not! You’re undoubtedly a prize, Valentine.”
I can’t help myself. I laugh and laugh.
Lella and I sit in front of the TV in her room and watch an ancient episode of The Galloping Gourmet.
“Oh, Valentine, don’t you just love that man? His smile is so bright and toothy. And that complexion! Do you think he uses makeup?”
“Lots of it. My skin feels dry. I’ll go get my Ponds.”
Someone knocks on the door.
Lella says, “Come in!”
Rick enters with envelopes in his hand. “Sorry, Val. Nothing for you.”
“Big shocker.”
“Here, Lell. For you.”
“Junk mail?” she asks, even though she reads every word of every piece of mail she gets. Believe me, I know as I’m the one to arrange the pages on the hospital-type tray she has by her bed.
“Don’t think so.” He hands it to me.
“No, Lella. It looks personal. See?”
She scans the business-sized envelope. “It’s from my Aunt Dahlia.”
I jiggle it. “Want me to?”
She nods. “I haven’t heard from her in such a long time. You’d like her, Val. Have a seat Rick, if you please.”
Rick sits on the end of the bed. “I hope it isn’t bad news.”
I slide a thumb inside and rake open the envelope. “Let’s see.” After slipping out the paper and unfolding it, I hold it up to her face, about eighteen inches away. Lella has perfect vision.
“Oh!” she says and keeps reading. “Oh! Oh dear.”
I know better than to ask what’s the matter. She hates being interrupted when reading a letter. Rick opens his mouth and I shake my head. Don’t.
She turns to face me. “Well, that surely is a surprise.”
“What happened?”
“Yeah, Lell.” Rick brings his feet up, folding his legs into the lotus position.
“Hold it back up in front of me, Valentine. If you would.”
She begins to read aloud. “‘Dear Ellen.’”
“Your name’s Ellen?”
“Yes. I couldn’t say Ellen when I was first beginning to speak. I said Lella.”
“How did I not know that?”
“Okay, let’s continue. ‘Dear Ellen, I wanted to tell you all this sooner but I didn’t know where you were. I figured you’d be in Mount Oak now and if you’re reading this, well, I guess you are.
“‘Your Uncle Joe passed away a couple of months ago. And though I can’t say I’m as sad as I should be (he always was as mean as a mountain lion with a toothache), I’m not enjoying being alone. Not even a little bit. It’s not so much that I miss him, I just don’t like wandering around in this house all by myself. I’m still in great shape, healthy as a horse and clearer thinking than ever.
“‘So this letter comes not only with all this information, but an invitation. For years I’ve wanted you to come live here with us. But I would never have suggested that with Uncle Joe around and him being so unaccepting and all. I’m sure you understand. It was better for you on the road and with that nice friend of yours than here with that man.
“‘So what do you say? Why not come off the road? Why not come and let me take care of you. Family is family, I always say. I think your mother would be glad for it. I’ve always been sorry I couldn’t do it sooner, for my sister’s sake if nothing else. Now your parents were a great couple, weren’t they?’ ”
Lella nods and I set down the letter. “The rest is news about the ladies in her card club and her neighbors. And she promises a visit soon.”
“That’s great, Lell. What a nice invitation. You gonna take her up on it?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Valentine. I just got the letter.”
No downright refusals.
“Here.” I take the letter off her lap and put it back in the envelope. I set it behind the floral arrangement on her dresser.
&
nbsp; “Remind me to write her back tomorrow. I’ll be thinking about what I want to say.”
Rick stands. “Sounds like it could be good news, Lell.”
Her eyes sparkle. “Yes, it does.”
I leave to get my Ponds. Rick follows me.
“Why couldn’t she have just thrown the letter down in disgust? Figuratively speaking, of course. I mean, it’s a preposterous suggestion, right?”
“Well, you know Lella’s never quick to judge.” Rick stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Wanna take a walk or something?”
“Hello, Rick. It’s still light outside.”
“Sorry, Val.”
“Yeah, yeah. Me too.”
FIVE
DREW: 2002
The mirror in the hall bath is flecked with black spots left behind from the vacating silvering. A bare bulb hangs over my head, shining down on my red hair.
I hear an imaginary member of my congregation in my mind. “Oh, that nice red-haired young man, that Drew Parrish. He just wants the best life for everybody, doesn’t he? Freedom and wealth and blessing.”
Forget about that Jesus fellow who said take up your cross and follow me. The one who was stripped naked, scourged, and nailed to wood when what He really deserved was a palace, a convertible Mercedes, and a Nobel Prize. Is all the deprivation and gore really necessary?
Monks and nuns used to shave their heads. As a sign of humility? I guess so. And boy, do I need some of that.
I pull an inch-thick section of hair out from atop my head and raise the scissors, anchoring the blades as close to my scalp as possible.
Did the Son of God care about His hair so much? Before the lepers approached Him, did He whip out His mirror and make sure His bangs were out of His eyes? Did He adjust His robe, say, “Hold on a sec,” and squirt some breath freshener into His mouth?
I grind the blades together, then throw the dismembered lock of hair into the toilet. All the artifice I employed. Even down to how I fixed my coffee. Makes me want to put more than hair into the john.
Would Jesus take His coffee just the way He liked it?
Repeating the process over and over, I wish I had a video camera here now. Wouldn’t the fans of our television show have loved this? A certain sense of satisfaction froths up inside of me. Why are people so willing to cast their fishing nets on the same side of the boat, over and over again, the side where a man points and says, “Hey, fish over here!” Meanwhile, Jesus’s fish bubble in writhing profusion on the other side, but, well, Jesus is kinda smelly if you really imagine Him accurately, and He’s poor, a failure in our definition of the word, and He’s just not enough anymore. It doesn’t make sense to really follow Him in this day and age. We couldn’t feed our children and give them the latest sneakers so they wouldn’t be made fun of at school. We’d let people walk all over us if all we did was turn the other cheek. So instead of taking Him seriously, we fight for the Ten Commandments even if we can’t recite them ourselves. They’re our good luck charm even though we are adulterers, liars, and have thick calluses on our hearts; our way to fool God, to show Him we haven’t become the people of Malachi or Amos.