by Lois Battle
Cam heard the crackle of cellophane, and a quick intake of breath. “Reba, you’re not smoking again, are you?”
“So what if I am?”
“But you haven’t smoked for a year and a half.”
“I’m in the South. The health Nazis haven’t got control here yet. It’s like France. Well, not a lot like France, except that the natives treat you like shit. Anyway, are you listening?” Without waiting for an affirmation, Reba plunged on. “So, soon as we arrive we sit down to dinner with all these cousins and aunts. It was like a cross between a funeral and a church social. We say grace. As you know, I don’t have any problem giving thanks for food, but this food! Lime Jell-O with Miracle Whip—that’s supposed to be the salad—white bread the consistency of angel food cake slathered with margarine, lima beans mushed up like pond scum, chicken that’s been deep-fat fried then smothered in beige gravy. I mean! ‘You are what you eat’ is probably one of the smartest things anyone has ever said.”
“That’s not real Southern food,” Cam said defensively, but since Reba was one of the most accomplished chefs in Manhattan, she added, “but I know it must’ve been difficult for you.”
“Difficult? Difficult? Have you ever tried to smile, chew, and stop yourself from upchucking simultaneously? Then one of the cousins with two first names turns to me, oozing pity, and says, ‘You’re Jewish, aren’t you? You’ve never had Christmas.’ And I say something like, ‘We don’t have Christmas, but we have Hanukkah,’ and she says, ‘Besides bagels, what are your traditional foods?’ I tell her that foods associated with Jews are just Eastern European, that we only eat traditional foods for Passover. All eyes drop to the table and the cousin says, like it’s the tag line on an X-Files episode, ‘What kind of ritual foods?’ I was tempted to say roasted Christian babies with Bearnaise sauce garnished with parsley. I mean, Cam! I had no idea such ignorance existed. You’d think they’d have watched Seinfeld, or seen a Woody Allen movie.”
“This is redneck stuff, Reba. It’s not representative. One of the oldest synagogues in America is in Charleston. I can show you—”
“Then, then,” Reba plowed on, “after the banana pudding and the peach cobbler—which, by the by, wouldn’t have been half bad if we hadn’t had to wash it down with Gatorade and iced tea—they turn on the TV. Actually, they don’t turn it on, ’cause it’s never been turned off. It’s on twenty-four hours a day as a safeguard against conversation—but Cheryl’s daddy turns it up—way up. Cheryl and her mother and the two female cousins with two first names clear the dishes. I offer to help but Cheryl’s mother says, ‘Oh, no. You just sit in the La-Z-Boy.’ Like I’m too lazy to help.”
“No. She wouldn’t let you help because you were company.”
“The La-Z-Boy is mustard-colored velveteen with the plastic cover. Must be Daddy’s throne ’cause he looks some kinda pissed when I sit in it. So the TV is turned way up to a preacher show, with this guy yelling, Je-sus,’ as though it was a curse. Then Cheryl’s sister and her husband come in with this endomorph infant dressed in green and red rompers with ‘Happy Birthday Jesus’ on the bib, and snot hanging from his nose like candles. The kid starts beating on my chest with a plastic M-16 gun and the whole family’s giving me the fish-eye, especially when the TV preacher yells, ‘Do you want to be born again?’ I say, by way of a joke, ’cause believe me, this assemblage is in sore need of a joke, ‘I don’t think my mother would let me be born again. From what she tells me she didn’t enjoy it the first time.’ Nobody laughs. Anything make you feel more lonely than saying something funny and nobody laughs? I tell you, Cam, I started doing some serious thinking about Passover. The escape from Eygpt never meant more to me than it did then. I needed a scotch and a cigarette and a guzzle of Pepto-Bismol real bad. So I go out to the kitchen, where I catch Cheryl with tears in her eyes, scarfing down a second helping of the barfy banana pudding. I suggest that we go to a store and get some cigs. Why don’t I go alone, she asks? Because I don’t know where the hell I am, I tell her. So we leave. I can feel all of them peeking at us through the ruffled curtains, as though we’re gonna duck into the bushes and start necking. As if anyone could feel anything vaguely affectionate, let alone sexual, in that atmosphere! Then, the minute we start to drive away Cheryl goes ballistic and turns on me.”
“Did you say anything to make her mad?”
“Of course not. Well, I did say I could see where she’d had to run away from home to get a decent meal.”
“Reba, you’ve got to understand—”
“But I meant it as a compliment. I really did. Never in my wildest dreams had I imagined what she’d come from.”
“People get very defensive about their families. They may put them down, but when anyone else, even a lover, does—”
“But when I took Cheryl to visit my grandmother and she almost gagged on gefilte fish, we laughed about it. And at least I had the guts to admit our relationship. I’ll never forget that one: Grandma looked at Cheryl, then looked at me, then shrugged, and said, ‘Homosexual, heterosexual—I hear about it on the TV but they never had those things when I was a girl,’ then she put our hands together, told us to live and be happy, and got up to fix coffee. I mean, acceptance I don’t expect, but tolerance is the foundation of civilization.”
“You’re sounding like a letter to the editor. And of course you wanted acceptance. Who wouldn’t? How did Cheryl take it when you decided to leave?”
“She said maybe it was for the best. Whenever someone says maybe it’s for the best, you can be damned sure it’s not going to be. So I grab my bag and get back on the road to New York, then I ask myself, what am I going back to? We’ve closed the business down for two weeks . . .” Reba made a hissing sound. “When I think of all the parties we missed doing! We could’ve made an extra payment on the condo. Besides, you’re out of town, everyone else I know has already made plans. So, I said to myself, you’re in the South for the first time, why not see it all? Why not check into the slave quarters in a Confederate theme park or something? So here I am in Spartanburg.”
“Why don’t you come on down here?”
“I wouldn’t want to butt in. You’re involved in a family thing.”
“Am I ever. Lila’s already so pissed off at me that she’s spitting nails, though I’m sure I don’t know why. Please come on down. My mother has all kinds of room and I could use an ally.”
“I don’t know, Cam. It doesn’t seem like such a hot idea.”
“Reba.” Cam used her pay-attention voice. “My period’s five days late.”
“Five days,” Reba scoffed. “At our time of life . . .”
“Reba, do I have to remind you that I’m not a lesbian?”
“Oh, you mean . . .” There was a pause. Cam could feel rather than hear Reba taking a deep drag on her cigarette. “So have you seen a doctor?”
“How the hell can I see a doctor? I flew down from New York. It’s Christmas. My mother’s gone to visit a friend in the hospital and when she gets back we’re supposed to go see my grandmother in the rest home, then I’m going to try to sneak out and get one of those pregnancy tests they sell in the drugstores. Do you have any idea how accurate they are?”
“Have you heard anything from Sam?”
“Why should I hear from Sam?” Cam snapped. “Especially since I told him not to call me? Reba, please come down. You know Mama runs this bed-and-breakfast—there’s plenty of room.”
“I’d be glad to pay her.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Please come. I miss you. I think 1-26 goes from Spartanburg to Charleston, and crosses 1-95. You’ll see signs to Beaufort. You’ll have to check a map but you can’t be more’n four hours away. Please come. I need you.”
“Well, if you put it that way I guess I’ll just have to shove aside all the others who’re clamoring for my attention. Four hours?”
“Something like that. Just call when you get close and I’ll give you the address. ’Bye. And thanks.”
&nbs
p; As she hung up the phone, Cam had a prickly sensation around her shoulders that made her feel she was being watched. Mrs. Beasley was standing in the door to the hall, still swaddled in pale blue fleece. Her nylon sleep cap and sponge rollers had been removed to show a topknot of orange curls that made you want to call Clairol’s hot line for emergency advice. “Are we going to be having another guest?” she asked, eyes bulging.
“That’s—” Cam stopped herself from saying, “none of your business.” This was her mother’s house. “Coffee?”
“I already had a cup with your mother. But I wouldn’t mind another.” She settled her bottom into one of the kitchen chairs and helped herself to a cinnamon roll. “Your mother usually fixes a complete breakfast. That’s one of the reasons I always recommend this place to friends. But this morning . . . I suppose, what with the holidays and all ...” As Cam set a cup of coffee before her and turned to leave, she whined, “I was cold last night. Weren’t you cold? I don’t think the thermostat was set high enough. And the hair dryer in my bathroom isn’t working, so I went into your mother’s bathroom. I don’t suppose she’ll mind.”
I’d certainly mind, Cam thought, but said, “I don’t suppose she will. ”
“A close friend of yours?”
“Excuse me?”
“The guest who’s coming—is he a close friend of yours?”
“Mrs. Beasley . . .” It was hopeless. Some people were dense because they chose to be dense, apparent stupidity being the only weapon in their arsenal. “If you’ll excuse me.”
But the back door was opened after a dum-de-dum knock and Dozier, cheery and red-cheeked, wafting a hint of Old Spice and carrying a large box, came through the door. “Mornin’, sweetheart,” he said to Cam. “And to you too, Miz Beasley.”
Mrs. Beasley clutched the front of her robe and pressed her lips together as though she were controlling an attack of gas. “Oh, Mr. Robido, I am ashamed to have you find me in en déshabillé.” Dozier and Cam exchanged a quick glance.
“Please forgive me,” Dozier said, gallantly diverting his eyes. “I didn’t mean to intrude. Cam, is your mama gone?”
“She’s at the hospital visiting Peatsy.”
“But she’s coming back to collect you before she goes to see Mawmaw?”
“I guess so.”
“Edna and I were supposed to go along with you, but Edna’s running around like a headless chicken. Says she’s got too much to do to visit Mawmaw. She’s down at her store already. Wants you to drop by later so she can show it off to you. I don’t have much to do, so I figured I’d go along with you and Josie.” He placed the package, wrapped in white wedding paper with a silver-bell-and-heart motif, on the table. “Guess Edna ran out of Christmas paper. Don’t suppose Mawmaw will notice. I think it’s a nightdress or a bed jacket. I wasn’t with Edna when she bought it. I said we might as well donate the money to Alzheimer’s research, but Edna said that would be cold.”
Sure, Cam thought, Edna’s so warmhearted she doesn’t have time to visit Mawmaw, so she eases her conscience with a $100 gift. But who was she to criticize? She hadn’t bothered about Mawmaw in years, though she still had the postcard Mawmaw had sent when she’d gone to the rest home. “Dear Camilla, They’re putting me in the other place. I hope you’ll come visit. I remember you as a girl. So much like me.” Cam couldn’t imagine what similarity Mawmaw had been referring to. Mawmaw had always been hard on her, but then Mawmaw had been hard on everybody, including herself. “Oh, Mawmaw,” Cam said, shaking her head. Mawmaw had gone no further than the fifth grade, but Cam had always believed she had what philosophers would call “a world view.” She’d witnessed births and deaths and she knew how to kill and pluck a chicken, but was a stickler for the finer points of etiquette. She liked starched petticoats, white gloves, ironed handkerchiefs, and a recognizable part in the hair. When she got what she called “gussied up,” she could talk the county council into voting the way she thought they should vote. She could get the best price on everything from antique silver to roadside watermelons, could diagnose most childhood illnesses faster than a pediatrician, follow stock-market reports, and dance the Charleston. She could quote the Bible but preferred to read John Steinbeck or Pearl Buck. She held office in the Daughters of the Confederacy but gave her money to the League of Women Voters. She said she knew everything there was to know about men and children because, basically, they were the same. “I’m looking forward to seeing her.”
“You know she probably won’t recognize you. Your mama thinks she sees a glimmer now and then, but I reckon that’s just wishful thinking,” Dozier told her.
She nodded. “I guess I’ll go upstairs and shower.”
“Not going to fix any real breakfast?” Mrs. Beasley asked.
“No. The cinnamon bun was enough.” More than enough. It was rising in her gullet and making her feel swoony. She could see that Dozier was torn between wanting to sit and enjoy coffee and cinnamon buns and an equally strong desire to escape Mrs. Beasley. “Think I’ll go check out the garden,” he decided. “Once the holidays are over, your mother and I both have got some serious work to do in our yards.”
“Oh, Dozier, I do appreciate your coming along,” Josie said as she and Cam got into his Lincoln. “I just don’t think I’m fit to drive any more today. You know the last time Mary Gebhardt and I were out together she was fussing, ‘I didn’t move to a small Southern town to sit at stoplights.’ I told her to calm down, but you know she’s right. I’ve never seen traffic like this.” Josie didn’t want to tell them that she’d hit the brake instead of the accelerator when coming out of the hospital parking lot, but she did confess, “You know I haven’t honked my horn but a couple of times in my entire life but today, coming along Bay Street, I got behind these tourists with New Jersey plates who were rubbernecking, going about ten miles an hour, and I just leaned on the horn.”
“Good for you, sister. Got to assert yourself. You buckled up, Cam?” Dozier asked, turning to the backseat. Cam nodded and he pulled out of the drive. “So, sister, how’s Peatsy comin’ along?”
“They say she’s stabilized.”
Dozier grunted. “Peatsy Gibbs stabilized? If she is, it’ll be the first time since I’ve known her.”
“She seemed much more like her old self.” Very much like her old self. Even before Josie had reached Peatsy’s room she’d heard Peatsy’s sweetly demanding voice telling her son, Waring, to “Take some of these flowers home, I feel as though I’m already at a funeral. There’s some thank-you notes in my desk in the library—not the heavy parchment ones, the regular ones with the blue monogram will do—write something simple like ‘Mother thanks you. She’s recuperating and wishes you a happy New Year.’ ”
The room looked like a florist shop. Waring, his face as rumpled as his suit, was slumped in a chair. Peatsy, in an ecru satin bed jacket, was propped up on a bank of pillows, holding a hand mirror and applying bright pink lipstick while Waring’s companion, Alonzo, brushed her hair. “It still looks flat,” Peatsy complained.
“Chure, because you need a champoo,” Alonzo assured her, giving another flick of the brush. “But you’re lookin’ charp, lady. Lookin’ charper every day.” Alonzo’s long sooty lashes, sweetly cheeky face, and the way he worked his mouth around the words reminded Josie of Lamb Chop.
“Why, Josie,” Peatsy exclaimed, noticing her, “aren’t you a darlin’ to come by again! Waring, where’re your manners? Give Josie that chair.”
Josie told him not to bother, but Waring got up, saying that he and Alonzo were on their way out for brunch. Was there anything else Peatsy needed? Strange, Josie thought, as Peatsy went through her list—baby powder, emery boards, a bologna sandwich with pepper relish and mustard that she wasn’t supposed to have, so they’d have to sneak it in—that Waring seemed so adoring. The kindest thing Peatsy had ever said about him was that he’d inherited her brains if not her looks, and, even in Waring’s presence, Josie had heard Peatsy go into shocking det
ail about the agonies she’d suffered giving him birth (“Your head was the size of a football”). When he’d been no more than an infant, Peatsy had taken trips for months at a time, blithely leaving him in the care of others, and she’d sent him to boarding school as soon as they’d take him. Yet Waring was more devoted and less critical of Peatsy than any of Josie’s own children would be of her.
“Just leave those long-stem yellow roses. Take all the rest. Especially the poinsettias. Never could stand poinsettias.” When Waring said he wasn’t fond of them himself, Peatsy said, “Then leave them on the steps of some church or other. Only get them out of here. And while you’re at it, throw that dime store Santa in the trash.”
When a nurse came in to give her a shot, Waring and Alonzo made their getaway, toting pots of flowers in both hands. Josie pulled the chair up to the bed and listened while Peatsy, her voice still vivacious but her face chalky, gossiped about the staff, and asked about Cam, and Lila’s party. As the drug started to work, her eyes closed to half-mast and her speech slowed and slurred, so that by the time she was telling Josie what arrangements Waring was making for her recuperation, she sounded more than a little tipsy. “Go on home, dear heart. I’m still getting my strength back and this medication makes me dopey, so I nap most of the time.” Her hand flopped onto Josie’s and gave it a half-hearted pat. “It really is good of you to come.” She yawned. “I know what it must do to you to be in a hospital this time of year. Memories of Bear and all.” Her expression turned dreamy. “Bear. Now that was a man. I still have a photo of him somewhere, standing in front of his Grumman Wildcat. The wind is lifting his hair and he’s wearing one of those long aviator scarfs, like the Red Baron.” She shut her eyes, rolled her top lip over her bottom lip and squeezed them together. Josie couldn’t tell if she was reliving an unpleasant memory or was in physical pain. “He was twice the man Gibbs was, and Gibbs knew it. Bear was a real hero, and no matter how long they actually live, heroes always die young.”