by Lisa Samson
I look down at the sheet describing the property. They called it a “handyman’s special.” I know that’s the cute way of saying “this thing needs work.”
2
It took me all of August to convince Grandma Min that the school system of Suffolk doesn’t need her there but that Port of Peace kindergarten and preschool sure does! She’s due to pull in the drive in her little navy blue escort this afternoon. Harlan will be following her in a U-Haul truck. She said, “I’ve got to bring my antiques with me, sweetie. That’s not something I’ll even negotiate on.”
Needless to say, we have no furniture to speak of so I said, “Sure, Grandma! That would be great.”
Oh, the house, the house! I just love my new house. My check from Gospelganza provided us the downpayment we needed. The prices in Mount Oak are so low! So we moved at the end of August into that first ranch I viewed, four small bedrooms, a living room and a country kitchen with this little den area off to the side. It’s kind of plain looking right now. No shutters, not much shrubbery, a chain-link fence around the backyard, but I’ve got plans!
“God will take care of you!”
Just like the song says.
The yard’s big, though, with a little swing set the old owner left up because their kids outgrew it and they were just as glad not to have to dismantle it before they moved.
But Melvin offered his services and Miss Tanzel says she’s handy with a paint brush, so between the two of them, with Harlan and I taking orders and doing what they say, we’ll have this place in shape in no time. Already it’s looking better and the plumbing works, too!
And it’s mine. This little place is mine.
So stick that in your pipe, Vicki Miller, and smoke it! I’m no longer boarding house trash.
My favorite part of the house is the little alcove in the living room. Perfect for piano. Maybe I’ll find a secondhand one like Mrs. Evans used to have.
The first room we’ve painted is Grandma Min’s room. It’s actually the master bedroom, but I figure she’s come from having a house all to herself, whereas we’re coming from an RV so one of the lesser bedrooms feels palatial to Harlan and me. I can’t wait to see what she thinks. Her bedroom is the color of freshly bloomed wisteria and Miss Tanzel and I pasted up a border with cascading wisteria blossoms. I found a white eyelet bedspread at Walt’s Mart and curtains to match.
Walt’s Mart.
That never ceases to tickle me. Mount Oak isn’t big enough for the real thing, I guess, so this fellow that goes across the street to the Baptists, opened up a store about a quarter the size of the real thing. But it’s all we’ve got at this point and I do love the bedspread.
I peer out in between Grandma Min’s curtains and see Hope and Leo playing in the yard. Still no biological baby of our own, so I’m figuring God’s completed our little family without our help. It seems mental illness runs in the family, so why perpetuate a weakness like that into yet another generation? I don’t blame Him for nipping it in the bud with me. I mean, all things work together for good, don’t they?
I grieve over this in secret. I so wanted a baby from my own body, and yes, I do look on Leo and Hope as my own, but I’d be lying if I said I’m disappointed Harlan and I are barren.
Why is this? Why do people who have no business bearing children get pregnant at the flick of an eyelash, and good people with loads of love to give inside the walls of a good home, can’t conceive?
That’s one of those God ways I can’t even pretend to understand.
And yet those barren couples, with their desire for children, are sometimes blessed to make a home for any old child. Any old child will do. And any old child will be loved as much as anyone.
Isn’t that wonderful?
Too bad Mrs. Evans died. Too bad Mama didn’t give me up for adoption and so have given me the chance for a normal life.
Grace calls a couple of times a year and refuses to tell me her whereabouts. She’s proud that Leo’s doing so well and I always say, “You should see him for yourself, Grace. You should let him know you’re still there.”
Believe me, I of all people know how Leo must feel. But at least he was young when Grace left. “He calls me ‘Mama’ now, Grace,” I said during our last call.
“He does? And you let him?”
“What else was I supposed to do? It’s better for him that he feels that connection with somebody.” It’s hard not to get mad at Grace during times like these. I’ve never met a more selfish person in my entire life.
“I’ll come back someday, Charmaine. I really will.”
Now I don’t know much about much, but I do know that Grace won’t ever be back for Leo. And I don’t know how much longer I can go on lying to Grace’s parents. And for that matter, I don’t know why Grace’s parents are so willing to go all these years without talking to their daughter. No wonder she’s like she is.
Unless, of course, they are like Grandma Min. But that can’t be because Grace at least cares enough about them to let them know she’s alive.
Poor Leo. They don’t even know about him!
Lord, when you next see Mrs. Evans, tell her I’m trying hard. This is the way I can tell her that I loved her, to try and be just like her. At least God sent me Mrs. Evans to offset some of the damage Mama did. And if I’m not thankful for that, then shame on me.
“Grandma Min!” Hope yells and runs over to her as she climbs out of her Escort. Harlan’s already pulling in and climbing out of the U-Haul truck.
“Hope!”
Grandma leans down and hugs her. Grandma’s not the type to scoop up kids and whirl them around. Grandma’s not so showy like I am. I’m an amusement park of affection. Grandma Min’s more of a beanbag chair.
Hope tugs on her plaid skirt and drags her back toward the swing set. Grandma rolls her eyes in my direction and says, “Well, at least I know who’s the boss around here.”
Harlan pulls Grandma’s trunk out of her backseat. “That sure is the truth.”
I grab the two remaining satchels and head into the house behind him. We set Grandma’s things on her bedroom floor. It’s hardwood. Don’t ask me from what kind of tree. We haven’t done it over so it looks kind of like some giant took a bath in our house and left the soap scum behind.
“Harlan?”
“Yeah, Shug?”
“Just let me hug you.”
“Okay. I’m all for hugs.”
“I missed you last night.”
I love the feel of my husband. He’s tall so my head rests right on his breastbone, and I hear his heart. And I know his heart and his knows mine. “Thanks for letting her come live with us.”
“Are you kidding? We’ve got us a built-in baby-sitter! Not to mention some furniture to sit on.”
“Well, I’m going to make a pitcher of iced tea.”
“How about that icebox cake you told me about last night? You think it’s ready yet?”
“Uh-huh.”
I am still on my dessert quest. The icebox cake is the family favorite by far because I don’t have to turn a single dial on the oven or the stove, nothing flames, and there isn’t a single ingredient capable of sloshing over the side of the mixing bowl.
“I love that cake, Shug. You sure are a fine cook.”
We laugh and laugh.
Now I don’t want it to be mistaken that I think Harlan’s perfect. He’s not. He can be a bit hardcrusted when it comes to his views. I’ll be honest, I’m really not so sure about what he says in his “What’s Really Eating at You” sermons. I’ve read up a little on mental suffering, due to Grace and Mama. I know some people just have wild streaks and there isn’t anything you can do about it, but I also know there’s more to it than I’ll ever realize. I’m not some smart medical type, but I’m trying to understand, even if it’s just a little.
Having achieved what I’d longed for all my life, I can honestly say I’m not disappointed. Waking up in my bedroom thrills me every morning.
We sit
at the kitchen table. Well, Grandma Min’s kitchen table, actually. The cloth, an orange-and-white checked goodie, is another special from Walt’s Mart. Two-ninety-nine with matching cloth napkins in a brown check for fifty cents a piece! It’s looking like autumn around my home.
My home.
Thank you, Jesus.
Oh, and the china she brought! I feel like I am living high off the hog these days. From RV, particle-board furnishings straight to fine antiques. The inside of this place is quickly becoming the home I always dreamed about. Elegant and fine.
The kids are down for the night. They haven’t wanted to sleep in their own room and who can blame them after those years of sleeping together on the dinette of the RV? So I put both twin mattresses in Leo’s room as his is a tad larger. I plan on checking out yard sales and buying lots of toys cheap and we’ll make Hope’s room the playroom. I just checked on them and they looked like angels. Worn out like me. I felt too tired to give them a bath and they were just as glad. I think they would have fallen asleep in the tub!
“Anybody want a cup of tea?” I ask.
“That would be lovely.” Grandma looks up from a teacher’s magazine that holds pictures of some of the cutest bulletin boards I’ve ever seen. Grandma’s all moved in, her things put away, and life has settled into what I guess it will be for years, saving for those little shifts we all experience now and again.
Harlan nods and lifts a finger. He’s weary, already getting the dirt on some of the problems we’ve inherited at Port of Peace.
One of the elders thinks if you don’t show up on mulch day, no matter how much you do in other areas, you’re not pulling your weight. He’s mad at half the church.
The nursery staff is in an uproar over an eighteen-month-old biter whose mother drops him off on Sundays. Two people are threatening to quit unless he’s asked to leave. Three people are threatening to quit if he is asked to leave.
“We’re all the Jesus that child may ever know!” says the children’s minister. And I agree with her, but I’m keeping my mouth shut. I’ve already decided I’m keeping my mouth shut about everything I possibly can.
And at the pinnacle of our troubles teeters the disagreement as to who they’ll hire to put new railing on outside and whether spindled or Chippendale would be more appropriate.
My lands.
However, a lot more good things than bad things go on at Port of Peace and I try to remind Harlan of that every day.
They hired Henry Windsor on as the new music director. And Melvin, already employed by some sound system company, runs all the equipment on Sundays.
I fix the tea as Harlan and Grandma talk about the class she’ll be taking at the preschool. The pre-k class. She’s excited. Buzzing around the rim of my brain I hear that sweet, geriatric twitter, that youthful, high sound that makes me wonder what she was like as a youngster.
Harlan doesn’t know we’ve been searching for Mama these past few years. I think he’s always wanted to assume she was dead, for my sake. He never brings it up unless I do, which surprised me, and I almost never bring Mama up. All these years later I still don’t talk about her much. Now that I’m a mama, with a mama’s heart and soul and a mama’s way, I sometimes even allow myself to hate her. Sometimes I hope she really is dead. Even if she was a schizophrenic. Or manic-depressive or whatever disorder she suffered from. I’ve tried to read a little about everything. I do know she was not an agoraphobic! A lot of symptoms overlap, and it’s hard to remember what she was really like. I was only eleven years old and kids seem to accept things as normal that are hardly so. I cannot diagnose her any more than I can diagnose what ails the lady in the checkout line.
So, yes, maybe I should feel more sorry for her than I do. I probably don’t really wish she was dead. But with my heart so sore from being tossed back and forth all of these years, I wish Harlan’s easy explanations worked for me. I need to remember my mama was a victim. But that doesn’t make the memories of her mistreatment of me any less painful. In fact, it makes it worse because there’s nobody really to blame, is there? Nobody to focus my now unjustifiable rage upon, nobody to take responsibility. And here I am, wounded, yet feeling sorry for my attacker.
If that doesn’t feel like a case of eternal heartburn, I don’t know what does!
I set down the pot and some mugs onto the table. We fix our cups, milk and sugar for Harlan, just milk for Grandma, and nothing for me.
Everybody’s tired. We sit in silence and that’s okay because that’s what families do.
I am struck suddenly with the realization that I am living in a house with four other people. My flesh and blood grandma, my husband, our adopted daughter, and our foster son. I remember Ruby talking years ago about that adjective our son bears. “Foster.” And I do believe that the next time Grace calls I’ll ask her what she thinks about Harlan and I becoming official parents.
Leo George Hopewell.
I like that.
I think Leo will, too. Hopewell is a much nicer name than Underhill.
Harlan excuses himself after finishing half his cup and I know he’s going back to do his evening Bible devotional. He’s been reading Spurgeon’s Morning and Evening every day ever since I’ve known him. I’m more of a Daily Bread kind of person. One verse, a short paragraph, a poem, and a prayer. Now whoever thought of that was a genius. It even keeps the attention of someone like me.
Grandma scrapes off her glasses and rubs the shelf of skin beneath her eyebrows with the pads of her thumbs. “Oh, me. I’m tired, sweetie.”
“I’m so glad you came down here, Grandma.”
“So am I, Charmaine. You’re my sweetie.”
Oh, the love I feel just now.
“Tomorrow I’ll take you over to the school. I can help you set up your room if you’d like.”
Her eyes light up. “Oh, I’ve got plans. You handy with a stapler? I’ve got to put up my bulletin boards by next week.”
“But school doesn’t start for two weeks.”
“I’m an early bird. Remember, what else have I had to do for the past two and a half decades?”
I see her point.
I have to ask the question. “Any more news?”
She shakes her head. “Just more dead ends. We’re never going to find her on our own.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“You want to hear what I’ve been thinking?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What if we hire a detective?”
“A private eye?”
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
I sip my tea and look down. “Aren’t they expensive?”
“I’ve lived frugally and selling the house helped, too. And now that I’m living here with you and Harlan, my expenses are even more limited.”
I nod. “You got any idea who you’re gonna get?”
“I do. He’s from Richmond. He’s coming down to Mount Oak next week to meet with me.”
“Where?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. He’s going to call when he gets into town. You got any suggestions?”
“How about Bill D’s Restaurant?”
“That’s what I’ll tell him.”
A private eye. I am amazed. Of course I wondered about doing something like this years ago, but I knew it was something Harlan and I could never afford.
Poor Grandma Min. Most old people spend all their savings on their health, but it appears Grandma is still forced to give all she has for a daughter who never gave a fig for anyone.
As I said before.
3
I am so excited. You should see this Brooks Tone Records place! Marble and chrome and leather chairs. The receptionist, with a black, arsty-type dress — very New York — and a French twist with some tendrils hanging around her pale face, is so polite.
“My name is Charmaine Hopewell? I have an appointment with Carl Bofa?” I am whispering. I don’t know why. Maybe it would echo too much in here and I’d seem like the Podunk sin
ger I am. Why did I think coming here was a good idea? What was MaryAnna thinking? Me ready for a real record deal? In this high-class, high-powered world?
Her switchboard lights up. “Just a moment, please.”
So calm!
I mean singing in front of the folks that come to concerts like Gospelganza is one thing, but coming to Nashville to a big record company like BrooksTone? I’m an idiot.
She works those buttons like it’s a typewriter, saying, “BrooksTone Records … one moment, please,” “BrooksTone, please hold,” and “Thank you for holding, how may I direct your call?”
She’s more polished than Reverend Robert Schuler.
“I apologize for the delay.”
I wave a hand with nails lacquered much too red if hers are any indication. “Oh, things always come in droves, don’t they?”
“They absolutely do.”
They absolutely do. Now I would never have said it so fine like that! I would have said, “They sure do!” and then blabbered on about all the times that it had happened to me.
Wonder if this gal gives deportment lessons in classiness? Right now, I sure do wish Cecile and Clarke Ferris had rubbed off on me more.
“I’ll let Mr. Bofa know you’ve arrived. Why don’t you have a seat on the settee?”
The settee? It looks like a leather couch to me.
I am out of my league here. I’m so far out of my league I’m in a different sport altogether. It’s like a softball player from Podunk, U.S.A. trying out for a Stanley Cup hockey team.
Even the decor tells me this.
Where there aren’t windows there are gold records and posters, cover art and paintings by Mr. Bofa. Now, I don’t know much about much, but these paintings look like something Hope would do. I can’t even tell what they are!
I have no idea what color the walls really are.
Gray maybe?
Does it matter? Probably not. I’ll never see this place past today anyway.
“Ms. Hopewell?”
The soothing voice accompanies a light touch on my shoulder and I open my eyes.
I’m sure my face matches my hair. “I can’t believe I fell asleep!”
“It’s all right. A lot of people do. It’s the furniture.”