by Lois Battle
In the summer months Mawmaw would talk from sunset into star-spangled dark, and Josie would finally come out carrying a pitcher of iced tea, replenishing everyone’s glasses before she walked to the rail. She’d stand there, seeming not to hear their voices, looking out into Mawmaw’s garden, not slapping at mosquitoes or scrubbing away at their bites the way everyone else did, but slowly moving her hands up and down her bare arms as though she were rubbing herself with a magic protective ointment. “Don’t bother yourself, sister,” Mawmaw would say. “He’s gone. But he’ll be back. They always come back. More’s the pity.”
“Oh, I can remember those Sunday dinners at Mawmaw’s clear as day,” Cam said, pulling herself out of her reminiscence. “Mawmaw didn’t like Daddy very much, did she?”
“She always held a grudge against him,” Dozier said, his eyes narrowing as he studied the motes of sunbeams that danced through the windows of Mawmaw’s room. “Mawmaw respected pedigree, money, and education, in that order, and Bear didn’t have any of ’em. But I wouldn’t exactly say she didn’t like him,” he added laconically. “I think she was attracted to him. You know what I mean, attracted. Battle of the sexes type o’ thing. ’Cause he was one of the few people she never could bend to her will.”
Cam sat up straighter, but Josie ignored the remark. “You were asking about who noticed Mawmaw’s deterioration first,” Josie said. “And I was telling you it was your father who saw it even before I did. At first I just thought he was being critical, but then I started noticing little things. She’d forget to put milk in the mashed potatoes, or put away the roasting pan when it still had flakes of chicken skin clinging to the bottom. Then she started calling Ranger—remember Ranger, Cam?—Floppy. Well, Floppy was the name of the dog we had when we were kids. Oh, he was a mean mutt. He even bit me once. You know that little moon-shaped scar right above my knee? That was from Floppy.” Josie chuckled, continued to massage oil into Mawmaw’s cuticles, then went on. “So the little lapses, forgetting things, calling them by the wrong names, that started way back when, but then she sort of leveled off. Didn’t seem any worse than anyone else her age, and in certain respects a lot better. She still had that uncanny intuition about people.”
“No one had a sharper eye for human weakness,” Dozier put in. “She could spot a philanderer by the way he complimented a woman on her hat, or get the bead on a cheapskate because it took him a second too long to pick up the check. She could meet a four-year-old and predict that he’d end up in prison. And the funny thing was, she was usually right. No one could beat her when it came to spotting the negative. But”—he leaned back, squinting his eyes, dazed and delighted by the sunlight—“she had a lot of trouble seeing the good in people. Edna’s like that, too. I mean, she can always spot the negative. But I’m not complaining. She’s saved me from more than a few business deals that might’ve gone sour. She has a real sharp eye for weakness, but . . .” His voice trailed off.
“Mawmaw was always very fond of you,” Josie admonished.
“Ah, that’s right.” Dozier nodded sagely. “I meant to say she was an excellent judge of character.”
“I still feel guilty talking about her as though she isn’t here,” Josie whispered.
“But she’s not,” Dozier said gently. All three looked at Mawmaw. She stared at nothing.
Josie sighed. “By the time you’d left home, Cam, she’d gotten a bit more quirky. She was always raving against the government, but then weren’t we all? And she was always speaking her mind. At first we thought her diatribes were funny. Then she starting saving little packages of salt and sugar she’d picked up from restaurants, things like that. But again, we didn’t pay it much mind. Folks who’ve been through hard times do that sort of thing. Then she started collecting Styrofoam cups and old stockings and rubber bands. Hard to judge when thrift turns into obsession.” Josie shook her head and turned her eyes to the window. “I found whole closets full of stuff like that when I cleaned out her house. It just made me weep.”
“First time I noticed anything,” Cam said, smiling grimly at the remembrance, “was at Daddy’s funeral. She was wearing that black polka-dot dress and had a black purse and gloves, but her shoes were brown. And she’d always been so particular.”
“I never even noticed,” Josie said, “but I remember I didn’t have time to help her dress that day.” The topic of Bear’s funeral was another sore spot and, as if by mutual consent, they all veered away from it. “Why here’s a hangnail!” Josie exclaimed as though she’d seen a four-leaf clover, while Cam moved from Mrs. Aiken’s bed to kneel in front of Mawmaw. Dozier reached into the shopping bag and suggested, “Why don’t we give her the gifts now?”
“Just let me clip this.”
“What do you think you’re doing, miss?” Mawmaw lashed out as though Josie were assaulting her, knocking aside Josie’s hand and the bowl of sudsy water.
Josie righted herself. “You’ve got a little hangnail,” she explained patiently, “and I was just trying to—”
“Should I go get one of the attendants, or Mrs. Aiken?” Cam asked.
“No. No. Just get me a towel from the bathroom.” Cam brought the towel, sponged the water from Josie’s skirt, mopped up the floor. “We’ll just . . . just . . .” Josie shut her eyes and leaned back, hopelessly tired. “All right, Dozier,” she said after a pause, “Go ahead. Let’s try to give her the gifts.” Dozier had already taken the package wrapped in wedding paper out of the shopping bag.
“Mawmaw,” he said in a pay-attention voice, holding up the package, “this is for you. Can you unwrap it, or do you want me to?”
Mawmaw jerked her head in Dozier’s direction. “No men allowed in here. That’s the rule. Only girls,” she warned him, clawing at the package. He put it on her lap. She stared at him, stared at the package, then raised her head again, suspicion changing to a look of sly recognition, and asked, “Where did you put Edna?”
“I think,” Josie said, trying to puzzle it out, “that the wrapping paper reminds her of your wedding but she can’t quite make the connection. Oh, she was so proud at your wedding. The preparation she put into that!”
“So damned much preparation that I almost changed my mind, but seeing as how she’d spread the word from Wilmington to Valdosta I didn’t think it would be gentlemanly to back out,” Dozier said ruefully.
“It was one of the high points of her life,” Josie continued. “When Edna married you and Mawmaw planned that wedding! Oh, it was wonderful—What a party! I remember the Charleston Courier called it one of the most delightful events of the season. Edna looking so fine in that dress we’d traveled all the way to Atlanta to buy. And six bridesmaids.”
“Of which you were the best looking,” Dozier reminded her. “I always thought Edna chose those girls on the basis of homeliness rather than friendship. Marjorie Chiles in pink silk—Lord, she looked like a side of ham.”
“And champagne when you couldn’t get champagne for love or money.”
“Yes,” Dozier agreed. “It was a beautiful wedding.”
“The event of the season. Not like mine,” Josie said, without any bitterness in her voice. “Mawmaw never forgave me for mine.”
“I remember standing in the sacristy,” Dozier said, reaching over to slip the ribbon from the package in Mawmaw’s lap, tearing off the paper and lifting the lid from the box. “Jeb Amends had a hip flask and he insisted I take a gulp to calm me down. My hands were steady but I could see my knees shake in my uniform. I knew then I wasn’t gonna be a war hero. Just a damn supply sergeant, and I had to talk them into taking me because I had flat feet.”
“You did more for the war effort than most,” Josie reassured him. “Lots of people in supply were skimming off the top. You never did that.”
“No. I never did.”
“Edna?” Mawmaw said again, looking around expectantly as Josie took the fluffy yellow nightdress out of its tissue bed. Cam looked at the floor, thinking that even if Mawmaw di
dn’t know what she was saying, it must hurt Josie terribly to hear her sister’s name when she was the one who’d bothered to come.
Josie said, “Mama, Edna sent you this pretty nightdress.” No reaction. “Edna will be coming to visit real soon. Real soon.” She separated the words, pronouncing each syllable, hoping it would comfort, but wondering if it was wrong to make a false promise. Mawmaw let the package slip from her lap. “And here’s what I’ve bought you,” Josie announced, taking a teddy bear wearing a bowler hat out of the shopping bag. “Look! Don’t you like him? Doesn’t he make you laugh?”
In an aside to Cam, Josie said, “The last time I was here one of the women had a stuffed bear and Mawmaw seemed to like it.”
Mawmaw looked at the bear, turned it upside down, then pulled on the hat. “Edna,” she said again, agitated, letting the bear fall to the floor and starting to rock and bounce.
“I think she may have to use the facilities,” Josie explained, motioning for Cam to help her. With difficulty, they got her to her feet. They’d advanced a few steps toward the bathroom when she tried to pull away from them and Beatrice came to the door. “I’ll take her, Miz Tatternall. She’s used to me. You know who I am, don’t you, sunshine? Come on now. Come on.” Beatrice got behind Mawmaw, propelled her to the bathroom, and closed the door. Josie gathered up the bear, the nightdress, a gift for Mrs. Aiken and one for Beatrice, and put them on Mawmaw’s bureau, then held on to the edge with both hands. Her shoulders shook and a soft snuffling sound, more like snoring than crying, came from her. Cam looked at Dozier. Dozier returned the glance, then rested his hand on Josie’s shoulder. “I think we should shuffle along now,” he told her gently. “Think it’s time to go.” He gave her another pat, stood close while she repacked the shopping bag with the manicure set and the Tupperware bowl.
Beatrice came to the bathroom door, glancing back and keeping one eye on Mawmaw as she spoke. “You’re not to worry, Miz Tatternall. She’s been doing real fine but she’s just a little agitated today. Like I tolt you when you called a few days ago and asking’bout taking her home for Christmas—she’d just get disoriented. This is where you live now, isn’t it, sunshine?” she asked, moving back into the bathroom, calling, “Y’all have a merry Christmas and we’ll see you after the holidays,” as she shut the door again.
“There’s no point waiting,” Dozier said, reading Josie’s mind.
Josie shook her head. “A baby you put on your hip and go on, but . . .”
“You’re right, sister. There’s no light at the end of this tunnel. C’mon. Let’s all go out and get some of that sunshine.” Without speaking, they walked to the lobby. The two old women and the man on the walker had gone but the TV still droned on. Tiffany, talking on the phone, waved good-bye. As the glass doors slid open, Cam stopped. “Damn, I left my purse in Mawmaw’s room. Go on to the car, I’ll be right there.” She turned and moved fast, almost jogging down the corridor.
Beatrice was easing Mawmaw back into her chair. Cam noticed her arms, the skin dark as eggplant, the muscles as sinewy as an athlete’s. “I forgot . . .” Cam began.
“Yes, I saw your purse. Was about to take it down to reception soon’s I got her settled.”
“Thanks.” She felt she should say something but couldn’t think what. “It must be terribly hard for you, working here,” came out.
Beatrice shrugged. “I don’t mind the old folks. It be harder for you to see her like this ’cause she’s your grandma. Prob’ly took care of you when you were small.”
“She sure did.” Cam remembered being seven or eight when Bear was transferred again and Josie had thought the schools weren’t good enough in the new place—so she sent Cam back to live with Mawmaw. And how she’d hated it. The big, strange-smelling house, oatmeal for breakfast every single day, even in summer, her hair braided so tight it made her temples ache, nonnegotiable bedtimes, no bedside lamp to read by, and constant reminders about good posture and good manners. “Can I?” instead of “May I?” brought an automatic denial of her request. All grownup men, even the teenager who mowed the lawn, were to be called “sir,” and all women, even Sissle, who cleaned the house, were to be called “ma’am.” It was socks up, shoulders straight, no hugs, clean your plate, and help with the dishes. “I lived with her for almost a year,” she told Beatrice.
Mawmaw looked up, sleepy and benign, and reached out for Cam’s hand. Cam kissed it, brought the old woman’s head to her chest and stroked it, feeling her skull through the wispy hair. “She had long hair when I first knew her. When she’d take it down to go to bed she used to let me brush it and while I brushed she’d tell me stories. Not children’s stories, more likely family gossip. As long as I’d keep brushing she’d keep talking. I hated it when she got her hair cut.” But suddenly she remembered: Mawmaw hadn’t cut her hair. It had had to grow back. Because it had fallen out. In great chunks. How could she have forgotten! Because it had frightened the living daylights out of her. She hadn’t known that such a thing could happen. That a woman could be snatched bald almost overnight.
Sissle had said things like that happened sometimes if too much came down on you too fast. “Nervous shock,” Sissle had called it. Mawmaw’s younger brother, Billy, had been in a car accident and died out in Phoenix. And that very same week, Mawmaw’s best friend, a woman called Flora (who Cam had particularly disliked because she’d said things like “little pitchers have big ears” and sent Cam outdoors to play whenever she visited, which was almost every day) had also died. After Flora’s funeral Mawmaw had gone up to her room and stayed there for days. Sissle had left trays of food outside her door and threatened to blister Cam’s behind if she disturbed her.
When Mawmaw had finally come downstairs she’d had a bandanna knotted around her head, just like the one Sissle wore when she was cleaning, and she’d refused to go out of the house until a wig she’d ordered had arrived. And one night—a sultry night months later when Cam’d begged Mawmaw to buy her ice cream—they were leaving Mawmaw’s old house and Mawmaw had stopped to latch the front gate. She’d raced ahead, calling to Mawmaw to hurry, then run back, huffing. “Baldy, baldy, c’mon, baldy,” she’d teased, knowing the minute the words had left her mouth that she’d done something terribly wrong and might actually get that whipping that was often promised but had never materialized. But Mawmaw had just bent, slow motion, over the gatepost. It was the only time she could remember having seen Mawmaw cry. She knew about hurting—not just with slaps and pinches, but hurting with words, like when she teased Lila—but this was the first time she’d realized that you could hurt without meaning to, that you could get a scar on your heart, just like you could get a scar on your arm or your leg.
“Yes,” Cam said, “I lived with her for maybe a year.” A shudder went through her. She touched her cheek to Mawmaw’s head. “Oh, you poor little thing. You poor little thing.” And then she started to cry. She’d always resented the fact that Mawmaw hadn’t told her that she loved her, but now she realized it was even worse that she had never told Mawmaw. And now it was too late.
Beatrice put her hands on Cam’s shoulders and turned her away. “She’ll be all right. You got to realize she doesn’t see herself the way you see her. Sometimes she’s pretty cheerful. That’s why I call you sunshine, in’t it, dear?” She took Mawmaw’s hand from Cam’s and placed it on her lap. “Now you just collect your purse and count your blessings, miss. Remember, the Lord loves you. Just like he loves your Mawmaw.”
Cam wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, grabbed up her purse, and walked slowly out of the room.
On the way back to the house, Dozier twisted the dial on the car radio, muttering, “Damn Christmas carols ’bout to make me lose my mind. I’d had enough of ‘Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer’ a month ago.” He found his oldies station. “Hey, Josie, it’s the Inkspots,” he told her, settling back in the seat, singing along, “ ‘If I didn’t care, would I feel this way? If I didn’t care . . .’” Turning his head
toward the backseat, he broke off singing and grinned at Cam. “Being a white boy, I had to take my talents to the Episcopal choir, but truth to tell, I always wanted to be an Inkspot.”
When they pulled into the drive at the house, Cam went in through the sun porch, while Dozier followed Josie into the back garden where she walked, head down, inspecting plants, pulling a dead leaf from a bush. “Do you think about it much?” he asked.
“Enough.” She didn’t have to ask what he meant. “I suppose I started to really think about it when Papa died. I believe I was dumb enough to feel immortal until that happened. Even through the war—scared as I was—death didn’t seem real to me. The hardest thing was a few years back when I realized that I was hoping Mawmaw would die.”
“If she had her wits about her she’d be wishing the same thing herself.”
“I know that. I don’t feel guilty about it anymore.”
“It’s not death that scares me—death is as natural as birth—it’s the dying. I hope to God I keel over one day while I’m out here digging in the garden. You can just put a little compost on me and leave me here.”
“I feel the same way.”
“I know you do.”
“Sun sure feels good, doesn’t it?”
Inside, Cam poured herself a glass of juice, walked to the kitchen window, and looked out, wondering what on earth Josie and Dozier were doing. They stood a few feet apart, perfectly still, heads thrown back, eyes closed and lips slightly parted, as though they were sunbathing standing up.