by Newall, Liz;
“I took all kinds of pictures in Sea World,” she said. “Joe did too but his camera got ruined.”
“It wasn’t much of a camera, anyway,” Daddy said, “the one I got at the Jocky Lot. I give five dollars.”
“What happened to it?” Andrew asked. Daddy didn’t answer.
“There was this sign,” Mama said, “‘Splash Area.’ You know how Joe is.” She patted his shoulder. “He thinks signs don’t apply if you don’t read them out loud.” Daddy grinned a little. “The first time Shamu turned a flip,” Mama said, “Joe got soaked. I was up higher in the stands. I snapped him just as the water knocked his hat off. Hope the picture turns out.” She was laughing now.
“Ruint my camera,” Daddy said. “But it wasn’t worth much. ’Cept the film. It was Kodak.” He rested his hands on his belly.
“What got me was the way those Shamus swam and jumped together, Donna, side by side, like they were joined,” Mama said.
“They were huge, Donna Jean,” Daddy interrupted. “Bigger than Jaws! You wouldn’t believe how much water they knocked out.”
“We saw them too, on our honeymoon,” Andrew said.
“Yea, but that was years ago.” Daddy shoved his hands in his pockets. “They’ve grown since then.”
“Watching them flip and twist and jump together,” Mama said, “made me wonder why people can’t be more like that.” She hesitated. “Take Sarah and Jack for instance.” Daddy didn’t look up. “I couldn’t help thinking,” Mama went on, “that if they’d go down there to Orlando, like on a second honeymoon, they could work out their problems.”
“I don’t know,” Andrew said. “Vacations don’t always bring out the best in a family. I mean there’s only one bathroom, and somebody gets sick, nobody agrees on where to eat, and the water tastes funny.”
I knew he was talking about taking me and the twins to Cherry Grove Beach last summer. “And,” I said, looking straight at Andrew, “somebody kicks the mattress.”
“You’re right about the water,” Daddy said. “That Florida water tastes like a frog in the well. Vivienne filled up a thermos jug in case the car ran hot. It holds two gallons slap full and we drank the whole thing before we got out of R-land-o. Don’t know what we’d of done if the engine run hot. At Sea World a little cup of Pepsi-Cola costs a dollar, and you won’t believe what one chocolate chip cookie costs.”
“But they were the biggest cookies I’ve ever seen,” Mama said, spreading her fingers, “Big as a saucer.”
“Bigger than the head on Kate’s barn cat,” Daddy said. “I’m thinking of taking Vivienne to Dollywood next year. Now that we know how to act.”
It was so good to see Mama and Daddy looking happy again. Mama even got back to what she called her busy work. For a while.
Seems like a lifetime ago. With Mama stretched out in that box and Daddy crying like a baby. He wanted to have her buried in her Orlando outfit—those pants and the T-shirt with waves on it. I told him everybody would think we were loony. But I gave in on the tennis shoes. They didn’t show. Neither did the dolphin. It satisfied Daddy though. I swear I feel more like his mama than his daughter. Like Granny Crawford. My Lord, what a thought! But I’ve got Mama’s genes too. Busy genes.
When Sarah and I were growing up, Mama kept some kind of project going all the time. In the summer, she’d be freezing corn and lima beans and soup mix, until you couldn’t get in the kitchen for steam and hot smells and little plastic bags all over the place. In the winter she’d sew—dresses, blouses, coats prettier than you could buy in a store. And they were done up so neatly, Aunt Kate said we could have worn them inside out. In the spring and fall, she’d find old pieces of furniture to refinish. I tried to help once, but the chemical stuff she stripped off the old finish with was so strong you’d have to wear rubber gloves and scrub with steel wool until it felt like your arms were coming off, and the whole time you’d be smelling that stripper stuff till you got high as a TV antenna. But Mama kept at it until she was convinced she’d brought it “back to life,” she’d say. And she would. There was an old washstand that must have been in somebody’s coal cellar for years. But she had it looking so good I was happy to put it in my own dining room. I set geraniums on it in the summer. And she did a sideboard for Sarah and Jack that would bring no telling what. Jack said $1000. He looked it up in some antique book and told Mama.
The summer before I got married, Mama and Daddy painted the entire house inside out. Mama made new curtains for the front hall and sitting room, and recovered the living room sofa in peachy fabric with little flowers woven in. Andrew couldn’t believe how hard she worked.
Mama was busy, even sitting. If she was carrying on a conversation, she’d be polishing silver or folding towels or peeling apples. During Sunday dinner she’d be up and down, seeing if anybody needed anything. If Sarah or I had Sunday dinner, Mama would stay at the table. But the whole time she’d be folding her napkin until it was so small you could have fit it in a matchbox. That was Mama. High strung, Daddy called it.
And for a while after the Florida trip, she was back to normal. But about the time Andrew told me he’d turn orange if he heard “R-land-o” again, Mama quit talking about it. I guess the fun wore off like a finished project. She started shrinking again. Not just her body, but her whole world. She slept later, read more, didn’t go to Sunday school, didn’t cook as much, quit sewing altogether. And she watched more TV than she ever had before—mostly reruns of old westerns. I tried to look after her and Daddy too. I started talking about Dolly Parton this and Dolly Parton that, thinking I could get them interested in Dollywood. I told Daddy about the folks running her big ole bra up the flag pole when she was there. And I told Mama about all the craftsmen she could watch and talk to and get ideas for new projects. But it didn’t work. Daddy kept gardening and Mama kept shrinking.
One day, Daddy said it was right after “Gunsmoke,” Mama keeled over. He said it was the episode where Miss Kitty is kidnapped and Matt Dillion thinks he’s lost her for sure. Daddy said Mama just bowed forward, rolled onto the floor, gentle-like, and curled up. He got her to the hospital and the doctor said she’d had a stroke.
Mama never did come conscious again, not really, except for calling out some names we’d never heard of. Mrs. Lois Turpin, who was sitting with her one afternoon, thought Mama was speaking in tongues. But I don’t totally trust Mrs. Lois in religious matters, considering she drives around town with a license tag that says “I M SAVD.” Aunt Kate said she knew Mama wasn’t talking in tongues, but didn’t tell us who the names were. Daddy didn’t say anything but seemed awfully upset.
I wrote Sarah right away and told her about Mama. She called me on the phone and asked me to pick her up at the airport. Now, I was missing her terribly and couldn’t wait to see her but I hate driving that interstate. Since they raised the speed limit back up to 65-mph, every truck in the universe uses that highway. And I had the girls and Mama to help with and Daddy too. So I sent Andrew. I knew Sarah would be glad to see him, and she knows airports make me nervous. I’ve only flown once and that was years ago when I went to meet Andrew’s folks.
Actually I kind of enjoyed the flying part but what I couldn’t stand was taking off. My stomach churned and my ears buzzed and I felt all panicky. But the rest was fine. Except the airport in Boston. It was so crowded that you could get lost without taking a step. But it was old hat to Andrew. That’s what I love about him. Nothing seems to shake him. Unless you count seeing me in labor.
The girls look real sweet today but they don’t know what’s going on. You never do as a child. I wanted to get them black dresses but you can’t hardly find plain black for children. Anyway, Andrew wouldn’t hear to it. Had a fit, I mean. I had to settle on navy blue shifts with big white collars and red bows. Cut the bows off. Andrew didn’t want me to cut off the bows. I told him I could sew them back on for later. I haven’t seen him this fidgety since I went into labor.
I didn’t want him to see me f
lat on my back with my feet in those stirrups, but he wanted to do natural childbirth “for bonding,” he said, so we went through all these classes. But I’ve got to tell you, when the first pain hit, it was goodbye La Maze! Hello Demerol! The only time in my life I begged for a needle. The nurse told me afterward that not only did Andrew puke on his shoes but he nearly fainted when he saw there were twins. That was before they started doing ultrasound on everybody and her cousin, so twins were a real surprise to us. Scarlet and Charlotte. I named one and Andrew named the other.
I had my tubes tied right then and there, and Andrew didn’t complain. He was real good about not bothering me for a while. Guess he was scared my tubes might come undone. I kind of hated not having a boy for Daddy but Sarah was still trying then. Don’t know if any of hers were boys or not. She lost them so early. Except for one and they never did say which it was.
I didn’t tell anybody but Andrew that Sarah was coming home. I was afraid she’d change her mind at the last minute. Sarah does that sometimes.
One time was when she and Nancy Lou decided to pierce their ears. Nancy Lou was her best friend in high school. Sarah knew not to ask Mama because she would say, “Only cheap girls had pierced ears when I was growing up.” First Nancy Lou and Sarah were going to this woman who pierces ears and reads palms, then they decided to use needles and bottle corks, then somebody told them you could get this device that pressed a hole through your earlobe while you slept. They went on for days and days trying to decide which method to use and whether they were going through with it or not. They gave up on the sleeping device because no one except somebody’s cousin in New York had actually used it. Then one day Nancy Lou came in with earrings on and said she did it by herself. She used an ice cube to get her lobes all numb then she pushed her mother’s embroidery needle through real fast before the feeling came back. That’s all it took for Sarah.
She got a pack of needles, a tray of ice, and started numbing. Nancy Lou told her the needle had to be boiling hot to react properly with the cold lobe. But by the time Sarah had a pan of water bubbling, the feeling was back in her ears so she started again. Then the needle would cool off and she’d have to reheat the water. She was down to her last ice cube when she got the two together. Nancy Lou put ink dots on Sarah’s ears, like tiny blue moles, and Sarah gave the needle a shove. I swear to you, I heard it crunch. They say I didn’t because I had my face in a pillow but I did and I gagged.
Sarah didn’t cry but she said it hurt bad and she just started holding onto Nancy Lou and shaking, trying to get the pain out of her mind. She shook so hard she knocked Nancy Lou’s earrings clean off. I say “off” not “out” because that’s when we discovered Nancy Lou had glued a bead to the front of each earlobe. I think if Sarah’s ear wasn’t hurting so bad she’d have pierced Nancy Lou’s for real.
Sarah kept her earlobe hidden except for dousing it in alcohol every night until it grew back. I couldn’t believe it but she still wanted pierced ears. She finally asked Mama. And Mama surprised us both by saying “yes,” if Dr. Sams did it. Sarah came home swinging these big loops and saying it hardly hurt at all this time. I didn’t want mine pierced though. I was afraid of scar tissue. There was a girl in school whose smallpox shot ate up her arm. The last time I saw her, the scar was moving up her neck. I didn’t want an earlobe to do that or come out looking like a squash. No thank you.
So I didn’t tell anybody else that Sarah was coming home. I figured that was a lot more painful than sticking a needle through her lobe. And she might change her mind. But I suppose I should have told Jack.
He just walked in. Wouldn’t have seen him except for his height. Saw the top half of his head. Hair needs a good cut. It’s waved out here and poking out there like he washed it and went to bed with it wet. He worked his way in right smack behind Sarah. I don’t think she knows he’s there. I’d tell her if she’d look this way. I’d point or cut my eyes or something but she’s staring straight off into space.
I haven’t seen Jack since I showed him Sarah’s first few letters. He said they were forged. They weren’t, because Andrew had already checked them out. I ran into Joanne again at the Dixie store and she said Jack was doing better. I didn’t ask how she knew. And you can’t believe everything she says, anyway. She believes that stuff she reads in her checkout line. Some of it may be true, like flying saucers. I mean, who knows? But she believes freaky stuff like Elvis’s face sighted on moon. Still I guess I could have called Jack or invited him back to Sunday dinner. I asked Andrew and he said we should just play it by ear, like I do the piano.
Anyway, I sent Andrew to get Sarah at the airport. That was the day before Mama died. While he was gone I baked a double recipe of fudge-turtle brownies. What you do is make brownie batter and then use a whole bag of vanilla caramels in a middle layer. And when it bakes and you cut it in squares, the warm caramel runs out like tiny legs so that each piece looks like a little brown turtle. Like I tell Andrew, you have to use your imagination. He never can see the turtle. He sees other things like mud puddles and lumps of coal but never a turtle. Even when I point out the head and legs and tiny little tail, he still can’t see it. He’s alway worrying about cholesterol too and says I shouldn’t make desserts. But I had to do something waiting on Sarah and worrying about Mama. It was Mama’s recipe. She used to make a pan of fudge-turtle brownies every time we were going on vacation. Sarah and I would sit in the back seat and sneak them out of an old cookie tin that said “Imported for your good taste,” until our fingers were stickier than our mouths.
Andrew said Sarah didn’t say much on the trip home from the airport except how was Mama and me and the twins, and she talked about new buildings along the interstate. He brought her here to our house. She wanted to go straight to the hospital but he thought she should see me first. He was right, of course.
I have to tell you I didn’t know how I was going to act. I mean since Sarah left and Mama started shrinking, I had to do everything for her and Daddy. Get the groceries, do the laundry, cook Sunday dinner. Like I didn’t have a life of my own. And here was Sarah off having the time of her life with some mystery man. I haven’t had a soul to talk to except Andrew and he’s not the best listener. For the first time in my life I was mad at Sarah, really mad. I planned not to hug her or anything. Just sit her down, offer her some tea, and tell her what I thought. I must have eaten four fudge turtles planning my speech. But when I saw Sarah all I could do was hug her and cry and hug her some more. I missed her so much.
Wish Daddy would be quiet. There’s something about a man crying too sad for words. I pressed his suit, but I swear, it looks like he’s been rolling around in it. Dear Lord, I’m tired. Too tired to cry. I feel as tired as Mama looked right before. I can’t believe she’s gone. Wonder if strokes are hereditary. I’d better get some rest. I’m going to get that makeover I’ve been promising myself, I don’t care what it costs. That and about a week of doing as little as possible. Andrew will have to look after the girls. Tenure or no tenure, he’ll have to spend some time at home for a change. Look at Sarah. Pale as a ghost. It must run in the family.
ANDREW
A dozen-cake funeral, maybe more. Donna can tell you exactly. And will. That and who brought what dish and what’s special about each recipe and where she last tasted it. Food is as important as lineage around here.
Yesterday Donna was running around making sure everybody who came by got a wedge of cake or hot biscuit or cold tea. And last night after the funeral home, she insisted on pulling it all back out “just in case” she said. She was right. Enough people came by to polish off another cake. You can bet, as soon as this is over today the food will come back out for hungry mourners.
Not that I’m making light of the occasion. But I’m not sure food didn’t have something to do with Vivienne’s condition. All that canning and freezing and cooking and jumping up during meals to bring in more eventually wore her out. Not that Sarah’s escapade didn’t contribute to it.
Sarah’s feeling it too. She’s hanging on to the back of that pew like the floor might fall away.
When Donna asked me to meet Sarah at the airport, she made some excuse for not going herself. But I know why she wanted me to go. I’m a good listener. She knew I’d be able to talk with Sarah on a nonthreatening level, without the bonds of kinship to raise the emotional pitch. I was the best choice. Donna’s smart that way. She acts a little addled at times but that’s a persona, you understand, a role her family has always expected of her and therefore she performs for them. Unconscious, maybe, but a role nevertheless. Hell, all of them have these roles.
Take Sunday dinner. It’s a ritual. At least it was before Sarah’s departure and Vivienne’s stroke. This is the way it went. Joe would start it by asking the blessing—“Bless this food to the nourishment of our bodies. Amen.” Sometimes he asked Jack to bless it and Jack said the same thing. I would have varied it a little, made it reflect the weather or the situation of one of the family members or something about world peace, for God’s sake! But that would break the ritual. Donna always asked, “Mama, does it matter where we sit?” and Vivienne always answered “no,” and then we all sat where we always sat—Joe at the head, Vivienne at the end closest to the kitchen, Donna and I on one side, Jack and Sarah on the other. When Kate was there she wedged a chair in anywhere she wanted to and nobody complained. She’s the only one who could break the ritual but that’s her role too. The ritual-breaker.
Joe would start the meat while the rest of us grabbed whatever bowl or platter was in front of us. After everything went around, Joe would storm his food with a layer of salt so thick it left a grainy white halo on the table around his plate. I’ve tried to warn him about high sodium intake, but he pretends he doesn’t hear me. That’s part of his persona—he’s hard of hearing when he doesn’t want to listen.