by Lisa Samson
“This has everything to do with Flannery,” I said. “She’s the only reason I’d be sitting here with you, Brad.”
“I know.”
“And I know she’s the only reason you’re sitting here with me.”
He said nothing. But then, Bradley never did say things that would outright hurt anyone.
“So will you let me see her?”
“Give me some time. I don’t know how in the world I’m going to explain this one.”
“How much time do you need?”
“Can you wait until the end of the summer?”
“Sure. I’ve got a couple of concerts overseas in August. But I’ll be in touch, okay?”
Oh, Lord Jesus. Just when I thought life couldn’t get any more complicated or stupid. Or scary.
“Okay.”
And a mountain quickly collected before me. The volcanic kind. One I had no idea how to climb.
Someday I’m going to have to tell Flannery the truth about her father. But it won’t be tonight. I am worn out. And tomorrow church begins early, three masses, and Johnny Josefowski promised to come to the eleven o’clock. And afterward he’ll be taking me to lunch.
And, oh God, why now? Why all of this now?
Silly, Lark. Silly, silly, Lark. Why didn’t you realize how good you had it?
I told him to drop me off two blocks from the house so Mother wouldn’t see.
Flannery blow-dried my hair for me this morning before church. I didn’t realize how much she looks like her father, not having seen Brad in so long. The way her nose snubs slightly at the end. The blue of her eyes, the way it sometimes shines green if the sun hits her face from the side. The certain blush along her jaw line when she feels deeply.
Had I made a mistake all those years ago in keeping her from him? Did I hold her for ransom? Who knows? What would happen now? And the fact that at the beginning of the summer I thought my life felt under control amazed me somehow. I didn’t exactly feel like a deer suddenly caught in the headlights. I felt like a deer that had, in point of fact, been caught in the headlights for years and only just noticed it. I pushed thoughts of Bradley aside for the moment. The last thing I wanted was for them to adorn my face and then for Flannery to ask, “What’s wrong, Mother?” And then I’d have to evade or downright lie, probably the latter, in an effort to beef up the evasion.
The blow-dryer soothed me even though I grumbled the whole time. Flannery assures me she’ll be glad to do it every month. Prisma has already put it on the household calendar and declared that it will be monthly hors d’oeuvre night as well. That woman can make a tradition out of anything!
“Are you going to wear your black dress from Target today?” Flannery spritzed my hair with one of those new salon products she uses. Hair stuff smells so much better nowadays.
“I’ve worn it almost every Sunday for the past six weeks, sweetie.”
“Will Dr. J be there?”
Oh, Johnny. My Great White Hope turned complication. In four hours I’d sit across the lunch table from this man and learn more about him. And meanwhile, Bradley, the new and improved, late-model Bradley, would be sitting on my shoulder whispering, “All men are just like me! Ha-ha-ha-ha-haaaaaah!”
“Yeah, he’ll be there. He always is.”
Flannery just smiled at herself in the bathroom mirror and said, “You’re hiding something from me.”
“What do you mean?”
But she just ran a light hand over the waves. “There. What do you think?”
“Looks even better than the last time.”
Actually, I wasn’t sure if it looked better, but it seemed the thing to say.
“Come into my bedroom, Mom. Maybe you can wear something of mine.”
“Flannery, you’re a different size than I am.”
“I’ve got this dress though. Empire waist. One size fits all!”
We laughed. “I’ll look at it, but I retain the right to refuse due to height deficiencies.”
Besides, Flannery can get a little, well, a little too creative for a stick-in-the-mud like myself.
“It’s kind of prairie-ish. Flowing and all. It will fit you fine.”
More than a little skeptical, I followed her into Newly’s old room, the walls now assaulted by blazing orange and fuchsia. She threw open the closet door. “I just got this on my trip to Saks with Grandy.” And she drew out a soft pink, artsy dress. Sleeveless, drawstring neckline, folds of gauzy fabric falling from the bustline over an underdress of floral linen.
“This is made beautifully, Flannery.”
“I thought you’d appreciate it.”
“But you haven’t worn it yet, have you?”
She shook her head. “I’m not going to. Grandy insisted I get a church dress, and when I tried to explain—”
“I understand. But you can wear it when you go with Prisma, can’t you?”
“I like to wear white too. She always wears white to church.”
I held it up against my body. “You think this goes with the lighter hair?”
“Even better than it would have.”
“I don’t have shoes.”
She bent down and lifted up a new box. “Yes, you do. They may be a bit too big, but they’re sandals so they should work.”
At least I still had good feet and ankles. I hadn’t worn anything like this since before Brad and I got married.
“Do you really think I can get away with it?” I asked.
“You can if you want to, Mom.”
I stepped between the two sides of the opened zipper. I shivered as the cool metal touched my spine. Flannery zipped me in.
“Can I please apply a little makeup, Mom? Please? Just a touch.”
“You promise you won’t go overboard? I don’t want to look like I’m trying to impress anyone.”
“I promise.”
I love my girly-girl girl.
So I reclined on her bed while she erased my dark circles and lines, bestowed a healthy glow on my cheeks, and lined my eyes with a soft gray. The softness of her fingertips against my skin almost put me to sleep even as they threw me back to her childhood when she’d drizzle me awake with the soft rain of her tiny hands and the kisses from her little mouth.
“Just a little bit of pink lipstick, and you’re all set.”
I opened my eyes. “You never wear pink lipstick, Flannery.”
“I bought it last night.”
I see.
I said nothing. Hopefully I could skip the unveiling ceremony, grab my music, and go. But not with good old Flannery.
She pulled me to my feet. “Okay! All finished!” And she ushered me to the old cheval glass in the corner. It used to be in my room, but as usual Leslie still liked to move things around.
“Oh.” I caught my breath at the sight of my reflection.
“You like it?”
I shoved down the panic that threatened to engulf me, and I turned away from the reflection. Do this for Flannery, I commanded myself, and I smiled, hugging her. “I do, Flannery. You did a good job. Especially considering what you had to work with!”
“Oh, stop, Mom. You’ve still got it.”
Whatever “it” was.
We heard a car door close. And we watched out the window as Asil circled around the Bentley to the driver’s side. He folded himself inside, and he drove Mother to church.
“I’m worried about Grandy.”
“Me, too.”
“Is she going to be all right?”
“I don’t know. I’ll ask Dr. Josefowski about it at church.”
“Isn’t it funny how God worked through that fire?” Her eyes lit up. “I mean, we would never have been here for her if the house hadn’t burned down.”
I know Flannery never meant for her words to rip my heart to tiny shreds.
Marsha picked me up around a quarter past seven, in plenty of time to get to eight o’clock mass and warm up first. Now Marsha is not a morning person, despite her bubbles from noon onwa
rd. It wasn’t until she’d finished her cup of Wawa coffee and we were climbing out of the car that she decided to notice Flannery’s handiwork. She screamed, “You look wonderful!”
Oh my word, Marsha!
And several heads of early arrivers turned. Brother.
“And what’s the occasion, Lark? Do tell!”
Scream a little louder, why don’t you? I doubted if anyone even recognized me. “Flannery finally got sick of having a crone for a mother?”
Marsha hooted. “I love it! You look great.”
No denying the crone statement. Huh.
“So, you and Johnny still on for lunch?” she asked.
“Yeah. I’m so nervous.”
“Why? He’s a gem!”
“I know. I’m scared I’ll like him too much. You know?”
Marsha placed her hand on my arm. “You’ll do okay, hon. You really will.”
“Better get in there. I need to use the ladies’ room first.”
Flannery’s words continued to haunt me, rattling battleship chains, then hanging them around my neck. We would never have been here for her if the house hadn’t burned down.
Really?
Would God take away the little bit I owned to be gracious to a woman who had it all?
Flannery
JAMES MET ME AT THE HOUSE around 10:30. Grandy was still at church. Mom, looking fabulous, à la me, was long gone. I swear Miss Marsha saved her life when she got her that organist job. She’s been good for Mom that way all around. Like her faith became more than just going through the motions when Miss Marsha began reaching out to her.
They’d been friends for a while, but then one day, about five years ago I think it was, ’cause I was a senior in high school, Miss Marsha began calling a lot. Just to shoot the breeze. As far as I know, she never made it plain that Mom was lonely and needed a friend and she figured she should do her Christian duty. She just called and talked Mom’s ear off!
She’d call, and my mom would go, “Tell her I’m not home!”
But I’d just hand her the phone and get the evil eye in return. And because Mom is a Summerville, she’d act like she’d been sitting there all day waiting for Marsha to call.
So I figured Mom was sitting with Father Charlie in between the 9:15 and the 11:00 mass. Sometimes he brings a little bag of candy. I noticed Mom has been eating more sugar lately, surely a sign of something, and I say, “Oh yeah.”
James pulled into the drive in his old Buick Century. Brown. Gag me. I watched him from the kitchen window, and I felt that little thrill all over again. There he was. My James!
My James. Is that mushy or what?
People say you can’t ever call a person your own. They must be mental or something. It’s like you belong to God because He loves you first. Same sort of thing with people, but without that perfection in the equation. I’m not quite that blind to either James’s wrinkles or my own.
The doorbell rings, and I am ready. I’ve been ready for an hour, not that I’m going to tell him that. And you know what? I just hop right on up and get the door because it’s okay. James won’t get all cocky or think a thing.
I yank it open like it weighs eight thousand pounds.
James looks completely different than I thought he would. Like, he has respect for church, you know? Cool. You know? He wears a pair of gray pants, the kind with the pockets on the side, and a nice pullover shirt with thin stripes. I look down at my own outfit, a sheath dress in psychedelic tones, and feel kind of loud. “Come on in!”
He smiles.
Oh man!
Believe me—believe me—when only a smile can do that to you, you know it’s really something!
“I think I’ll go change,” I say after he kisses me hello.
“Why?”
“Isn’t this outfit kind of … well …”
“Artistic. Like, the nondepressing variety. I like it.”
So I grab the little purse I wove last week, thanks to the class I signed up for at the craft store, tuck my hand around his arm, nice biceps by the way, and he shows me to the car.
See what I mean? This was gag boy from Starbucks. So you just never know. I’ve tried not to judge people hastily the way Grandy and Mom do, but I guess I’m more like them than I thought.
“Your earrings are out!”
“Yeah, well, we’re meeting my parents there.”
I don’t know whether to shout hallelujah or break down in tears. So I just say, “Okay, that will be nice.”
Nice. Like, is that an insipid response or what?
He smiles at me again, from the side, and starts up the car. And it squeaks out one of those grated, high pitched whines that I think comes from some kind of loose belt or something.
He’s still smiling. I have this feeling I amuse James. Not in a bad way. And he admires me. He’s told me that a lot.
Twenty minutes later and lots of handholding and talks about the movie we rented last night, The Remains of the Day, which I loved and he absolutely hated, we pull up to the Church of the Nativity out in Lutherville, one of those big, square buildings where the planes of the roof soar evenly up to an apex, crowned by a simple cross.
“I’ll take you downtown to the Basilica next Sunday,” he says as we walk up the concrete steps. “I’m thinking that will really inspire you with your artwork.”
See what I mean about the Catholics and art and all?
And there are Mr. and Mrs. Smith waiting on the steps. I know this because he hollers out, “Hey, Mom!”
“Quig!” she calls and waves. “Over here!”
He gives a little wave and ushers me to where they stand near the set of glass doors farthest to the right. I smile broad and confidently, but I feel so scared underneath. Like ants are crawling beneath my skin or something stupid like that.
I mean, these might be my future in-laws.
Shy but pleasant is the way to go here. I am sure of it. And respectful. I sure don’t want to become too familiar too soon, like an annoying waitress who tries to be your best friend when all you want is a BLT on rye toast with mayo on the side and maybe an ice tea with extra lemon.
Mrs. Smith grins at me and gives me one of those U-shaped hugs. Not a cranked down, staple-you-to-herself kind of hug like Prisma gives. But that’s okay, ’cause you can tell with hugs right away. You can tell whether or not a faraway hug is because the other person thinks you’re gross or beneath them, or they just want to go at your pace. Mrs. Smith was giving me the latter kind. She smells like peppermint and cigarette smoke. Not a cloying, old tobacco aroma, more of the cool, light variety. And some kind of green-apple shampoo scents her short, salt-and-pepper hair. Pulling away, she says, “Hi, babe! It’s good to meet you. Quig’s been talking about you like crazy the past month or so.”
“Mom!”
“Well, you have. I’ve never seen him like this over a girl before. How about you, Lou?”
Mr. Smith just shrugs and says, “Heck, Anne, I don’t know.”
“And I think it’s the cutest thing, the way he’s changed his name. Quig is named after my brother. I should’ve had more foresight.”
“Come on, Anne. Let’s go. Mass is about to start.” Mr. Smith looks up at me and gives me the same smile that James usually does, only with a few more wrinkles at the corners of his mouth and eyes. No wonder Anne and Lou are still together after all these years. I think my parents would have divorced eventually even if Daddy hadn’t died. You can tell by their pictures they didn’t have this type of connection.
So in we go. Passing through the lobby, Anne Smith says, “Do you want us to call you Flannery? Or should we think of our own name for you?”
“Whatever you want, Mrs. Smith. I’ll answer to just about anything.”
Lou Smith lets out a loud laugh, and we walk into the spare, modern sanctuary.
“I really like the name Flannery,” says James.
“Me, too,” says Mrs. Smith.
See, this is the thing. I read dark, li
terary books, and I don’t know why, because my life has been a tale of grace. This should be the point where I find out that James is from some dysfunctional family where the mother relies too much on her son for support and therefore hates the girlfriend. Where the father sits alone no matter how many people are in the room—just as long as he has his beer.
But life hasn’t been like that for me. God sends cool people my way all the time. I think He’s making up for the fact that Daddy died before I could really know him. God is the only Father I’ve ever known, and I’d say He’s done a wonderful job so far!
Leslie
I DO HOPE LARK REALIZES HOW LOVELY SHE LOOKS. That new hair color? Gorgeous! I had really begun to think she’d lost her looks for good. She looks so dreary normally. But then, life isn’t easy for her. I do know this.
I can’t contain this any longer. I heard Bradley’s voice on the phone that first night. She’s hiding so much from me and, truth to tell, has been doing so for years. But how does a woman sidle up to her daughter and say, “I know your ex is alive, and you’ve been lying to us for two decades”?
How?
Well, simply put, I just can’t. I should. I’m the mother. But I just cannot do it.
Today Asil dropped me off at church, and I sat there in my spot all by myself. I began to doze during the sermon until the pastor said something I couldn’t believe.
“The feeding of the five thousand can be interpreted many ways,” he said.
What?
Even with my limited knowledge of the Bible, I knew that story and its simple message of how Jesus got the five loaves of bread and two fishes from a little boy and then He stood there and kept breaking off pieces. Although, how one breaks a fish in half I don’t know. Perhaps they were smoked or some such ancient method of preservation. I’ll have to ask Prisma. She knows about all that.
And then he offered up this ghastly, and I mean perfectly ghastly, explanation! “The miracle was in the hearts of the people. Suddenly they pulled out the meals they had been hiding in their robes and began to share.”
What twaddle!
“So it was even more of a miracle than the Bible says. For it was a miracle of the heart!”