Down Home Blues

by Phyllis R. Dixon

  “I’m sure you’re overreacting. Miss Roberts is just a lonely lady and all she has is her grandson. She’ll relax once she realizes you aren’t trying to keep them apart. Hang in there. Derrick seems to be a good guy,” Carl said as he handed Carolyn her keys. “Looks like Carl’s shuttle service is shutting down.”

  “You know, there seems to be a demand for this service. Just based on the few people we talked to, you had someone calling you every day. Maybe you could turn this into a business.”

  “And what would I drive? My car isn’t up to putting a lot of miles on it, and your car is nice but it’s small and I doubt you want me to drive it every day. I have some money saved, but don’t want to spend it on a new car.”

  “Well, how about this, run an ad in the paper, name your start date, and ask people to pay the first trip in advance. If you get enough responses, you’ll know you’re on to something. If not, you just give everybody their money back. You can use my credit card to rent a van, pay me up front from your deposits, and keep the rest.”

  “I did have people asking if they could ride with me next week.”

  “See, there you go.”

  “Big sister, you may be on to something.”

  CECELIA

  Cecelia checked her rearview mirror for a third time before exiting her car. She could have made an appointment in the hospital and gone on her lunch hour, before, or after work, but she had chosen an office in the western suburb of Lombard to avoid running into anyone she knew. She wasn’t ashamed, but didn’t want everyone all up in her business. As a medical professional, she knew there shouldn’t be a stigma associated with going to therapy, but that was easy to say when it wasn’t you. She had been raised that therapy was for white folks. Black folks had enough Jesus and common sense not to need to pay someone to listen to their troubles. In truth, they probably just didn’t have the money, but she could hear her mother telling her all she needed was to get closer to the Lord. True, she couldn’t remember the last time she had been to church. She blamed it on her hospital hours, but that really wasn’t it. She believed in a higher power, but didn’t see the need for organized religion to get to that power. Outside of her mother, the church folk she had run into had more problems than the non-church folk.

  It would be different if this had been her idea; it wasn’t. Counseling was a condition of her disciplinary action. She had never been a union advocate, and was known to grumble when she thought about the dues taken out of her paycheck. She always thought those people were just whiners. Now she was a believer. She had done something stupid and could have lost her job. Once she completed these mandatory sessions, her record would be cleared after twelve months.

  Her union rep informed her of rights she didn’t even know she had and said her offense was miniscule compared to some other indiscretions. She reached the third floor and the office was right across from the elevator. The name on the door, Woodland and Associates, could have been a law firm or accounting practice. The name didn’t tell you there were crazy people inside. But Cecelia knew she was lucky. She knew she could have been fired, suspended without pay or demoted, so she vowed to survive this penance and move on.

  The perky receptionist ushered her from the waiting room to a room that looked more like a hotel lobby than a doctor’s office. The doctor was waiting when she entered and directed her to sit in one of the two recliners.

  “Hello, Ms. Brown, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Don’t take this personally, if I can’t say the same. Where is the couch? I thought all psychiatrist offices had couches.”

  “That’s only on television. Have a seat. So I see you’re a nurse.”

  “Yes, I am. Look, if you’ve read my file, you’ll know that it wasn’t exactly my idea to come here.”

  “I didn’t see a guard accompany you and I don’t see handcuffs. So it looks like you walked in of your own free will.”

  “It was either that or lose my job.”

  “Some people do make that choice.”

  “I may have done something stupid, but I do have good sense. I’m not going to risk my job,” Cecelia said.

  “But you did risk your job.”

  “I just lost track of time.”

  “Is that the first time this has happened?”

  “You know it’s not.”

  “You’re right. I can see you’ve been reprimanded three times in the last year. So you don’t think not coming to work was risking your job?”

  “Look, I know I screwed up. I hadn’t been to the casino in weeks and just wanted to have a little fun.”

  She had wished for a hot machine and got one. But she missed her daughter’s phone calls and was caught in a lie when she was late for work – again. Cecelia’s summons to human resources had been humiliating. She felt like a misbehaving schoolgirl sent to the principal’s office. Because of concerns with substance abuse, her supervisor told her she would have to refer her for drug testing. Cecelia thought it was better to admit to gambling than to have drug allegations in her file. So here she was. Hopefully she could skip from step one to step twelve and get this over with. She had learned her lesson.

  BEVERLY

  Murphy’s Law is definitely in effect today, I thought as I put the speeding ticket the officer had just given me in my purse. My shampoo girl didn’t call and didn’t show. I had gone against my instinct by hiring her in the first place. As I washed a client’s hair, I forgot my phone was in my vest pocket and it fell in the shampoo bowl. The bowl cracked the screen and the soapy water ruined the display. I hadn’t thought about it being the first of the month. It seemed as if all of Memphis was at the AT&T store paying their bill or getting a new phone. When I was finally waited on, I had a trainee and that took forever. Then on my way to my doctor’s appointment, I got this speeding ticket. Any other time I would have cancelled the appointment, but I had already missed two and I was hoping to get something to regulate my symptoms from the change. I didn’t want to ruin my weekend with Mark by sweating like a football player.

  All of this and I still haven’t packed. Mark and I are going to the Blues and Jazz Festival in Greenville, Mississippi this weekend. I’ll admit I’m a little nervous. It’s not like we haven’t been together before, but this time will be different. It will kind of be like making our relationship status official.

  “What are you looking for?” Mark asked me last week out of nowhere.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “In a man, what are you looking for?”

  “I’m not looking for anything or anyone,” I said.

  “Well, you won’t be unattached forever. If you could create the perfect guy, what qualities would he have?”

  “I guess I value honesty above all. He doesn’t need a lot of money, but he needs to make enough to take care of himself. I want someone who treats me like I’m special and I want to laugh a lot.”

  “I believe you just described me,” Mark said. Then he pulled me to him and kissed me. A real kiss.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Nothing, I just wasn’t expecting that,” I said.

  “We have a great time together. You’re beautiful, smart, and sexy. Any man would be crazy not to want to be with you. Look, I know it takes time to unwind from a marriage. I’m not pressuring you. But I want to be first in line to scoop you up when you’re ready to be scooped.”

  We hadn’t spoken about it since. But when he asked me to go with him to the festival, we both knew what that meant. I’m still a little nervous about it. I knew he wouldn’t be satisfied with passionate kisses and patting my behind forever. But how long to wait? I can hear Mama saying, I should wait until marriage. But I’m not even divorced yet and certainly not interested in getting married soon – maybe not ever. So am I supposed to be celibate the rest of my life?

  Maybe I’ve had my bad luck for the day, I thought as I pulled into a parking space next to the door. All of this rushing just to check in and wait. When
they finally called my name, it was just for lab work. Then I went back to the waiting room to wait some more. Half of the women were pregnant, and most had a man with them. How precious to be at that stage of life. My baby is in some foreign land protecting people who could care less about him or his country.

  I was startled to hear my name and embarrassed to realize I had dozed off. This was my first time seeing Dr. Madison. I had been in the waiting room almost an hour, so I already had a negative opinion. My doctor retired and referred her patients to this office. I was surprised how young she was. I know this is a necessary service, but what kind of person wants to be a gynecologist, I wondered. Mama told us stories about our great-grandmother, who was a midwife, and who delivered all of us except Carl and Paul. Maybe the joy of helping bring life into the world was worth the rest of it. We spent most of my visit discussing menopause treatments, bone density, and weight control. Quite a change from the days when birth control and family planning were the primary topics. Just as we were wrapping up, a nurse knocked on the door, then handed the doctor a folder. Additional fodder for my negative opinion. How rude of her to read her reports while she’s supposed to be taking care of me, I thought.

  “Mrs. Townsend, we have your lab results and there is a slight abnormality.” Apparently, Murphy wasn’t through with me yet.

  “It could have been worse.” The doctor’s words kept ringing in my ear. I knew I had been feeling funny but thought I was experiencing yet another effect of the wacky world of menopause. Mama set me down and talked about the birds and the bees, warned me about boys and gave me a box of Kotex. They even talked about ‘the monthly’ in high school gym class. But no one prepared me for the change. When I heard others talk about it, I didn’t see what the big deal was. I had several customers who couldn’t sit under the dryer for longer than a few minutes – saying they were too hot. That seemed like a slight inconvenience to me. No more cramps, bloating, or bleeding accidents – sweating a little bit didn’t seem like a bad trade-off. But no one had told me that instead of cute little sweat beads, I would feel like I was on fire inside. My gown and sheets were drenched some mornings and other times I had to get my winter comforter because I would be so cold. My back aches, my privates’ itch, and moles emerge daily. Where’s the mother-daughter talk for the change? I miss Mama every day, but even more at times like this. I’m the big sister, so I can’t ask Carolyn or Cecelia. But I’ve heard enough conversations in the salon to know I could get some type of treatment from the doctor. So after sucking enough ice chips to freeze my liver and taking cornstarch baths to soothe the itching, I made a doctor’s appointment. It confirmed what I already knew. I am indeed in menopause; the blood test proved it. But the test proved something else, too.

  “You’re kidding, right?” I had said.

  “No, I’m serious and this could have been serious. You should have come in as soon as you started having symptoms.”

  “What symptoms?”

  “Itching, burning… What did you think you had?”

  “I didn’t think I had anything. I thought it was part of menopause. I don’t know what to say. I didn’t even know you could get an STD at this age.”

  “Now you sound like one of my teen patients, saying they didn’t think they could get pregnant the first time.”

  “I am so embarrassed. I feel like crawling under this table.”

  “Just be glad it’s nothing worse. At least this is something that will go away. Black women have a disproportionate incidence of new HIV infections and data suggests one in thirty black women is or will be HIV positive. I know this is a sensitive situation, but you must talk to your husband.”

  “We’re separated.”

  “Well, talk to whoever your partner is, and you must use protection.”

  “I know. I have clients with unplanned pregnancies and I tell them the same thing.”

  “Well, you need to follow your own advice.” She then explained the regimen of antibiotics I would need to take and sent me to the lab for a shot. I felt like all of the staff was whispering about me. They’re probably used to this sort of thing, but I couldn’t help it. So much for my weekend with Mark. Instead of listening to blues this weekend, I’m living it.

  CAROLYN

  I grabbed the pages from the printer when I heard the car in the driveway. Raymond had called to tell me he was on his way a few minutes ago. I got a late start because I waited for Derrick to leave before I finalized the letters. CARE has gotten five-hundred signatures on a petition and Raymond asked me to draft a cover letter to go with it to submit to the state Water Commission, State Environmental Board, and Department of Energy.

  The last thing I expected to do was get involved in Eden politics. Raymond was always crusading for some cause when he was in Chicago. Those were usually established organizations and the extent of my involvement was a donation. This time CARE needed my expertise more than my money.

  I still haven’t told Derrick I’m working with Raymond on the fracking protest. He said it was my decision, but I know what he says and what he means don’t always match. Why can’t he understand that my involvement with CARE has nothing to do with him? I know I need to tell him, but we’ve been getting along so well lately. I hate to break the spell.

  “Hey, open up,” Raymond shouted through the screen door.

  “I’ll be finished in a few minutes,” I said as I opened the door. “I planned to have the document ready when you got here but I got sidetracked. Aunt Belle always seems to need me when I’m in the middle of something.”

  “That’s okay. We never get to visit you. It gives us a good excuse to stop by,” Raymond said as he and Carl headed toward the kitchen.

  “I love you guys, but the odor is really strong. I’m going to have to spray when you leave,” I said as I fanned with my hand.

  “We just left the track,” Raymond said, as he opened the refrigerator. “What you got to eat?”

  “I don’t need to look in the refrigerator. I see what I want, right here on the counter. Let me get a piece of cake,” Carl said.

  “You’re baking now?” Raymond asked.

  “Mother Roberts baked it.”

  “Good. Then we know it’s safe to eat,” Raymond said.

  “Ha-ha,” I said as I pulled out two paper plates.

  “So you guys are getting together and didn’t invite me? Beverly said as she walked in the kitchen. “I went to the house and no one was there.”

  “We just stopped by on our way home from working out,” Carl said.

  “Carolyn worked on the CARE legal papers for us. The next meeting is Thursday. I want all of you to come. The bigger the audience, the better,” Raymond said. “And don’t forget the primary on Tuesday. The county commission members are on the ballot.”

  “I haven’t changed my driver’s license yet, so I doubt if I can vote,” I said.

  “And I’m not registered,” Carl said.

  “Here I am lecturing the town and my own family members aren’t registered.”

  “I’ve had a few important things on my mind,” I said. “So forgive me if your organization is not front and center on my list. I do have a job you know. And for some reason, Aunt Belle acts like she only knows my phone number. Beverly, I wish you would let me know when you’re coming to town. I can really use some help with her.”

  “Well, it’s not like I have a nine to five job, and can tell you when I’ll be off,” Beverly said. “Even Mondays end up being hectic. This is just a quick trip to check in with Daddy.”

  “I thought you can do what you want when you’re the boss. I don’t think it’s fair that you guys leave everything to me.”

  “Everything like what?” Carl asked. “I’m the one taking her up and down the road to her doctor visits.”

  “That’s maybe once a week. How about paying her bills, washing her clothes, making sure she eats, hiring help for her since she seems to fire everyone the Aging Agency sends over there.”

 
“Can we get back to the subject?” Raymond said.

  “Sorry to interrupt Raymond’s World, but this is important,” I said.

  “What’s more important than clean air and water?” Raymond asked.

  “I’m on your side but I just got off paper, so I couldn’t register. I’ll have to see about getting my voting rights restored.”

  “You mean you can’t vote if you’ve been in jail?” Beverly asked.

  “Not if you’re still in the system. I’m taking Aunt Belle and Mr. Ben to the polls, though. And I told her I’d take anyone else she knows that needs a ride. Carolyn, I have a lot of free time. I can help you with Aunt Belle.”

  “Why so much free time?” Beverly asked. “I thought Portia was taking up all of your time. Should I be getting my wedding wardrobe ready?”

  “They haven’t been dating that long,” Raymond said as he helped himself to another slice of caramel cake.

  “It’s been three months. Women over thirty don’t like to spend much time kicking it. Either you’re serious or you’re not,” Beverly said. “I can’t count the number of clients who have wasted years on a guy thinking it was leading to something, only to break up and watch him marry his next girlfriend within a matter of months.”

  “If it’s meant to be a little extra time won’t matter,” I said.

  “This from the woman who met and married her husband in nine months,” Beverly said.

  “She didn’t marry someone she just met. Derrick practically grew up at our house,” Raymond said.

  “That was a million years ago,” Beverly said, as she cut a slice of cake. “People change a lot over all that time. You did the right thing. Make him commit or move on.”

  That sounded like the smart thing to do, but now I’m not so sure. I feel like an outsider in this house and buying our new home keeps getting pushed further and further away. I’ve given up trying to talk to him about my feelings. He takes everything as a personal rejection, and I haven’t forgotten that he tore my blazer. Did I miss his temper, intolerance, and jealousy or did the dimple, sweet promises and caramel brown skin blind me to this flaw? I’m not saying I regret getting married and I know Derrick loves me. But why do we seem to disagree about everything?