by Lisa Samson
“Let me see, baby,” she said.
I handed it to her.
“Pretty. You like it?”
“It’s all right, I guess. I have to wonder if I’m going to get it done in time for Christmas though.”
“Oh, you will. Especially if you want to give it as a gift.”
“Now who am I going to give it to?”
“As if you don’t know! I tell you the truth, Larkspur Summerville. You can be thick as a brick.”
“Have you and Father Charlie been talking?”
“Why? Did he call you thick?”
“I think he might have used the word dense.”
“I knew I liked that man!”
Leslie
“MOTHER?”
“Newly?”
Newly?!
“Newly? Are you all right?”
He chuckled. “Yes, Mother. Flannery called me.”
“Oh my stars.”
“Were you ever going to tell me about the stress test?”
“No.”
“Well, at least you’re honest.”
“Oh no. Not always. I lied and told you I was fine before.”
“True.”
“Now, I don’t wish to hear anything more about this.”
“Will you tell me the results?”
“Of course, Newly. As soon as I get them.”
Another very big lie. They get back to you right away. I told no one that I have to schedule a heart catheterization. “Will you tell me what they are?”
“When I’m good and ready.”
“And not before.”
“That’s exactly right, dear. Now let me get some sleep. Good night, Newly.”
And I hung up the phone. No clicks tonight! And if that wasn’t a miracle, well, I don’t know what the definition of one could possibly be! Perhaps it’s too soon to tell.
Lark
OH, DEAR JESUS.
He sat near the church like he’d been there for hours. Settled on the cement schoolyard wall, reading the Sunpaper, he looked exactly the same. That baggy posture, that hayfield hair, that indifference to the goings-on around him, which included a huge bumblebee lumbering in flight by his right ear.
Did he not see the bee?
Did he not hear the bee?
I suspected he could even feel the bee at that proximity.
And then I remembered his many years as a hard rock musician. His hearing probably abdicated its drummy throne, retired its anvil, took its feet out of its stirrups years before.
At least he didn’t hear me approach either, thank You, God.
A slow crawl began to mill beneath the surface of my exterior.
Breathe, Lark. Breathe.
And why, at times like this, does breathing through your nose help more than breathing through your mouth? I hadn’t felt like this in weeks, I realized. I hadn’t felt the ants like this, the fire beneath my brain, the breathlessness. The sensations almost felt foreign. Like echoes.
There is no fear in love. There is no fear in love.
Oh, God. Oh, Jesus. Please help me.
Think, Lark.
Prisma had prayed with me before I left. Thank goodness Johnny didn’t call, or I might have blurted out the entire tale, and let’s face it, I needed to keep my options open at this point. It was too soon to lift up my heavy baggage and say, “Oh, and by the way …”
I stood there, the July heat forcing its breath beneath my clothing. The humid jungle within met humid air without, and my hand automatically unbuttoned the top button of my blouse.
It won’t get any easier, Lark. Just get your rear end over there.
Well before I preferred, I walked up to him.
I waved the bee away, and he looked up.
“Lark!”
And he jumped to his feet, and he towered over me, and he was blond and beautiful still, and now some age lines mellowed that sculptured face, and he pulled me into his arms.
Oh, God, he pulled me into his arms.
And twenty years melted away instantaneously, and I melted with them. And I hated myself even more in that instant than ever before.
I pulled back.
And I ran down to the 3 B’s.
I heard his footsteps pounding behind me. “Lark! Stop!”
I skidded into the restaurant.
“Hey, doll!” My friend from the CVS, Rots DiMatti, called from his seat in one of the booths.
“A tea, please!” I whizzed past Deke.
Brad followed me in, skidding right into me.
“Babe!” he cried, trying to regain the embrace.
Babe Babachakos turned. “Yeah?”
And I ran into the bathroom, straight to the back, leaving old Bradley del Champ to sort everything out in the dining room.
I heaved into the toilet. Oh, God. This felt so wrong. Why couldn’t I face life? Oh, Jesus. Please. Jesus. Please.
Please!
I sat on the dirty, octagon-tiled floor. And I cried. I checked my watch because despite my state, I wanted to make sure I didn’t sit on a dirty bathroom floor all that long. I might be sick for weeks afterward.
Fifteen minutes later Babe came after me. She sat down in the next stall, right on the floor, and stuck her foot over on my side. “Come on out, hon.”
“I know I should.”
“He isn’t so bad.”
“What did he tell you?”
“That he’s a louse. And he is. I mean, you wanted everyone to think he was dead.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s the lowest of the low. I mean, I’ve had people that didn’t want anything to do with me, but they didn’t tell everyone I was dead or nothin’.”
“No, I guess not.”
“No wonder you’re like you are.”
“Okay, Babe! Sheesh!”
She reached her hand under, and I took it. “So that gives you the upper hand.”
Leave it to Babe.
“And, Lark, I’m not mad at you for not telling us. I know there are some things people just can’t air. And hey, the tea is on the house, okay? Come on, hon. Come on out. Your friends are all here to help. We won’t let him get away with nothing.”
“I guess I can’t sit in here all day.”
“Nope. We close in thirty minutes, and I’ll kick your bony rear end out of here if you don’t walk out on your own.”
I laughed despite my blotched face and my tear-filled eyes. “Okay.”
She scooted to her feet and waited for me on the other side of my door. “Wash your hands, hon. This place is filthy.”
We cleaned up together.
Brad sat at the counter drinking a Coke or something when I walked over.
“Sorry,” I said.
“Hey, I don’t blame you.”
I motioned to Deke. “How ’bout that tea?”
“You got it, hon.”
Brad laid a hand on my arm. “It’s good to see you, Lark.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. You look good. Still as young as ever.”
I shook my head. “Don’t try to play me with your charm, Brad. There’s too many years between us now.”
He held up his hands. “All right, babe. You set the rules. I mean it.”
“Yeah, right.”
“You hungry?”
“No way.”
“I am. Hey, Babe!” he called. “How about a BLT on rye toast?”
“You got it, sweet thing,” she called back.
Sweet thing? Oh my word.
“So you’re playing at St. Dominic’s, huh?”
“Did Deke tell you that?”
“Nah, Rots did.”
Cheer, cheer the gang’s all here.
“How you doin’ with the organ?”
“Pretty good.”
Babe put down my tea. “She’s great, hon. Don’t let her fool you.”
I waved the compliment away.
Shoo, Babe. Just shoo, why don’t you?
“Let me look at you.” He touche
d my shoulder. “You look great!”
“I look wind blasted, Brad. Let’s be real.”
“No, no, babe. You look distinguished, like a serious musician—”
“Who says she’s in it for the music alone?” We’d had lots of passionate discussions on that in our younger days.
“Aren’t you?”
I laughed. “Were you?”
“Heck no!”
“You know, Brad, I think I am now though. I’m finally in it for the music. Shoot, I wouldn’t have stuck with it for this long if I wasn’t.”
And then safe ground lay beneath our feet. The thing that God has used to save my life for years.
It was always that way with us.
Some couples make love to make up after a fight. All Bradley or I had to do was spin a favorite album, and there we went, analyzing the daylights out of it. He’d look up at me and say, “Only you, Lark.”
“I know,” I’d say. “But don’t you love this stuff?”
“Yeah, babe.”
See, the sex really messed it up for me and Bradley. We should never have been married. Because between him and me it really had only been about the music. I should have seen that was all we were ever meant to share.
He smashed down the BLT on rye toast Babe set before him.
“How’s your hearing these days?” I asked.
“Terrible. Look.” He turned his head and pointed to his right ear. “Way down in there.”
“Wow, a hearing aid?”
He nodded. “I’ve fried my ears. How about you?”
“Nothing major.”
Rots came up as Brad took a giant bite of his sandwich. “How you doin’, Lark?”
“Great, Rots. How ’bout you?”
“Oh, doin’ fine.”
“Your wife is home from Florida, right?”
“Oh, shoot, yeah. Didn’t realize how much I enjoyed the quiet until she come home.”
“I know what you mean.” I thumbed at Brad.
Rots ran his large hand over his head. A lot of acne scars punctuate his face, and I wonder if he felt awkward growing up. I sure could relate.
“This is my ex-husband, Bradley del Champ.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Rots extended his hand, then looked at me. “Right, Lark?”
“Yeah. It’s okay, Rots, thanks.”
“ ’Cause you just say the word, doll.”
“I promise, he’s civilized.”
Brad barked out a laugh. And I remembered again why I loved him so much. Why his desertion ruined me for two decades.
He followed me over to church, sitting right up front for all the world to see.
PRISMA
“NOW, MRS. SUMMERVILLE, I HAVE TO GIVE IT TO YOU. These scrapbooks are the best idea you’ve ever come up with!”
“I agree, Prisma. Although it is taking time away from that sweater I’m trying to knit.”
There we sat at the dining-room table, bits of paper, glue, scissors, and a hundred million stickers hiding the polished mahogany. “I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed myself so much,” I said. “Now look at this, Mrs. Summerville.” I picked up a picture of Lark and Sinclair as small children, standing together in their Sunday clothes. “Is this the sweetest thing you’ve ever seen?”
Mrs. Summerville took the photo and held it at arm’s length. “I do believe you’re right. Look at those two. Sinclair in a white linen suit and Larkspur in a dark dress. They’re positively negatives of each other!”
I laughed. “That’s the truth. We had us a time here in the old days, didn’t we?”
“Oh, we did, my friend, we really did.”
“How about some tea?”
“I’d love that.”
Mrs. Summerville found me in the kitchen just as I removed the tea ball from the pot. “You know, Prisma, lately I wish Sinclair was a little younger.”
“Now what does that mean?”
She waved a hand. “I always thought that there wasn’t a finer boy than your Sinclair. He would have been perfect for Lark. Don’t look so shocked. You can’t live around a person, watch them grow up so well, and not allow yourself a little indulgent thought.”
My goodness. I never thought I’d ever hear Mrs. Summerville say anything like that. But honestly, as much as I love Lark, Sinclair deserved someone as strong and forthright as himself. Caprice was definitely the right woman for him. That girl is something!
“You want to keep working or take your tea upstairs and go to bed?”
“I am a little tired, I’ll admit. Maybe it would be good to retire.”
“All right then.”
“Do you miss him, Prisma? Do you miss your son?”
I nodded. “Yes ma’am.”
And for the first time in my life, I saw Leslie Summerville cry on my account. “I’m sorry then. I can’t seem to do anything right these days. I should have fired you years ago.”
We laughed through our tears.
But before I could really say anything, she retreated through the swinging door. I heard footsteps on the stairs as she made her way up to bed.
The fourth step creaked.
The ninth step groaned.
One, two, three.
And her bedroom door shut.
My heart broke. I know Jesus is up to something, but my, how it hurts my heart to watch Him stretching the proud Leslie Summerville. Yes, it certainly breaks my heart.
And then Lark’s meeting with that no-good Bradley del Champ. I immediately knelt by my sitting-room couch.
“Lord Jesus, please don’t let anything foolish happen over there in Hamilton.”
No stars tonight. I was down on my knees and thankful for the extra padding.
Lark
BEFORE PRACTICE WITH MARSHA BEGAN, I found out a lot about Bradley’s musical career firsthand. Of course I acted like I hadn’t researched a thing on the Internet. I acted surprised and amazed, and down inside I remembered the sacrifice we’d made together all those years ago and the woman who accompanied him to the reward.
I played with soul that night. And I felt alive, even more alive than usual. My fingers felt blessed.
“Darn, girl!” said Father Charlie after the first couple of songs. “You are really something tonight!”
“You said it, Father.” Marsha sat down next to me and opened a bottle of water. “You’re hotter than a potato, Baby Doll.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ve got to use the ladies’ room. Mind if we take a break?” Marsha asked.
I followed her to the back, mouthing “I’ll be right back” to Bradley, who sat there smiling so simply.
Marsha hugged me in the bathroom. “If you had to play your best sometime, I am glad it was tonight! The creep.”
“Don’t say that, Marsha.”
“Okay, then he’s just a stupid-head for leaving you. I still can’t believe you told everyone he was dead!”
“For Flannery’s sake.”
She blew slowly between her lips. “Oh man.”
“Yeah. Is this all a nightmare or what?”
“You gonna let him see her?” Leave it to Marsha to add things up in a moment.
“I think so. He’s her father. You know?”
“I loved my father a great deal.”
“Me, too.”
“Lark, do what you have to do, but take my advice—and you know I try not to give it too often—don’t look at me like that, I really don’t! But really, hon, don’t make it overly easy for him.”
“You’re right.”
She waggled a finger. “Now, you don’t listen to me much. But take care you listen to this.”
“I will.”
We continued practicing, and when we finished up, Bradley offered to drive me home to Greenway.
I said, “Not on your life, babe.”
Father Charlie unlocked the church office. “I don’t trust that fellow, Lark. I know he’s your ex and all.”
“Don’t worry, Father Charlie. I don’t either.�
��
I gave Prisma a call. When I asked her to come pick me up she cried, “Hallelujah! Thank You, Jesus!”
I lay in bed that night staring up at Prisma’s stars outside the bow window.
The last number of the evening swam in my brain.
Skylark? Have you seen a valley green? Father Charlie requested it.
Sitting up, I pulled the comforter off the bed, stood to my feet, and settled onto the window seat.
A green valley awaited me out there, I just knew that. But Greenway held me in check.
I whispered, “What are You doing, Lord? This is a situation that should have Your fingerprints all over it, but all I see are my own.”
That’s a thought capable of scaring anyone who knows me.
Tomorrow night Bradley would be waiting by St. Dominic’s after Saturday’s masses ended. He said we’d go out for a meal and talk some more.
I said, fine by me.
But it isn’t fine. Suddenly I care more about my hair. And that’s never a good sign.
What I wouldn’t give for a walk with Dr. Josefowski right about now.
PRISMA
HONEST TO PETE! THESE WOMEN.
We made us a morning of the hairdressing. Even Mrs. Summerville got in on the action. She called into the kitchen from the lounger in her den. Yes, we bought a lounger yesterday. Now I know that woman must feel horrible!
“Sweet Pea! Why don’t you put an old bedsheet down on the floor in here and set up shop?”
“Sounds good to me,” Flannery said. “Miss Prisma, where can I find an old sheet?”
“Hold on.” I set aside my coupon wallet on the kitchen counter. They’re running a special on pickled onions at the Giant this week.
“I can get it!” she called.
I entered the den. “I’m sure you can. But you won’t. You’ll mess up the order of things.”
On the face of things, these Summervilles appear as spoiled prima donnas because they do nothing for themselves. But truth be told, I don’t let them. It makes twice as much work putting things back the way I like them when they try and take care of things on their own.
I still don’t know how Lark and Baby Girl made it without me around. Of course, the inside of that house in Hamilton belonged in a hospital! Hardly a home. More like a place to stay in between the real living. Secondhand furniture. No pictures on the wall. Until Baby Girl got artistic.