by Lisa Samson
“I want mine to be wonderful.”
“Oh, it will be, babe. It will be.”
See what I mean about taking a stand? See how much harder it is to hold out? Because, back at the beginning of our day, I could have said, “Let’s just go to a motel.” And that would have been the day. But we’d said some important words, and made a wealth of good decisions in a single conversation.
“I’m glad you told me the truth,” I say. “Because if you’d said you’re a virgin, I would have known you were lying.”
“I’m glad you asked.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Would you have slept with me if I had asked?”
“I don’t honestly know. Let’s just be thankful we don’t have to find out.”
That had to be good enough.
I always pictured myself marrying some church boy. Some khakipanted guy with a fish on his car. But sometimes God has other things in mind. See, James has miles to go in his faith walk. Me, too. But he loves Jesus, and to my way of thinking, that’s as good a start as any.
Leslie
TOMORROW MORNING, SEVEN O’CLOCK, Asil will pull the car around. Again, I’m frightened. Can you just imagine? Probing into someone’s arteries? It’s perfectly frightful, if you ask me. But nobody’s asked me, because nobody knows.
Hurrah for me.
I picked up the Bible earlier tonight. Having come to complete disagreement with that upstart of a pastor, I decided to read the epistle my dear nurse Annie used to read on the sleeping porch in the summers. I hated the sleeping porch! So she’d lie out there with us until at least I slept. I’m the baby of the family, you see.
The book of First John.
Annie’s voice came back to me all these years later. I read the epistle, but the voice in my head belonged to Annie. And I remembered her saying, “I’ll pray for you all my life, Miss Leslie.” She said that to me on my wedding day, and I said, “Fiddle!”
“Fiddle away, missy. But know my prayers are accompanying whatever music you make with your life from here on out.”
Annie went away after I left. No more young people left to oversee, no more parties to give, no more dresses to make.
“I’ll keep you in my heart,” she whispered as Charles and I pulled away.
“And I’ll keep you in mine,” I whispered in return. But I don’t think she heard. I’ve always regretted that.
“There is no fear in love. Perfect love casts out fear.” That’s what John wrote.
Perfect love? How on earth?
The more years I collect, the more I realize my imperfections. How many bad decisions I made over the years. How many good ones I made for all the wrong reasons.
Perfect love.
I need to ask Prisma just how one achieves something like that.
And so I turned off the light and prayed. I prayed for the women of Greenway, and even Asil. I prayed for Annie, though she must be dead and gone. No one knew what happened to her after she left our home. And with Mama’s temperament, I was always afraid to ask.
PRISMA
I AM LEANING ON THE EVERLASTING ARMS! Pure and simple. No doubt about it. I look at those two women and think, “What more will it take?”
Something about being exposed to the ills of this world shucks all other problems right down to the cob, exposes the unnecessary, strips off the gilt and the polish, and gets you right down to the molecular.
And so you lean on the everlasting arms.
You lean on Jesus.
I take their troubles too much to heart. I have to tell the truth on that one. Ever since Lark visited the fire site, she’s barely emerged from her room. Except for study group, where she sat beside that nice doctor. And here things were coming along so nicely with her. That Marsha! What was she thinking taking Lark out there like that?
Of course, Lark’s totally avoiding the Bradley subject too, which is not good. I swear, if she puts this situation on the back burner like everything else, I’m going to knock her proverbially upside the head!
And there Mrs. Summerville sits, trying to smile and offer a suggestion or two when Lark does venture out of the room. “How about we go shopping today?” or “Look at what I found in this magazine!” And Lark shuts her out.
I’ll admit, Mrs. Summerville could learn a thing or two about meeting somebody on their own turf, but she tries so hard.
Does Lark have any idea what she’s doing to her mother? Does she know when she retreats like this it drives a knife into her mother’s heart?
I’m glad Baby Girl is oblivious to all of this. She’s loving her man and loving life! Way to go, Flannery Summerville del Champ. Greenway doesn’t deserve you!
A good thing happened. Mrs. Summerville told me the stress test came out fine. And tomorrow she’s shopping all day with Asil in tow.
Didn’t see that one coming!
“I’m tired of my clothing, Prisma,” she said. “I’m actually going to go to the mall.”
“The mall?”
“Why, yes. Fall’s coming, and I haven’t done a thing. I’m heading to the Nordstrom Better Wear department at Towsontowne Mall, and I’ll slum it. Life is too short these days. Off-the-rack is going to do from now on.”
Well, I’ve got to say that made me chuckle inside. Nordstrom’s Better Wear is slumming it? That is most definitely a hoot. But it’s a hoot I’ll take!
I looked up at the Great Bear tonight. Saw my Betelgeuse up there shining red. I tapped on my window. “Jesus? I got words to say.”
“Yes, Prisma, My girl?”
“Something’s not right here. I feel it.”
“You tired?”
“No, it’s Mrs. Summerville.”
“She needs love, Prisma. A perfect love.”
“But only You can give that.”
“Exactly. Are you tired, My girl?”
“Yes, Lord. Although I don’t like to admit it much.”
“Lean on Me, My dearest child. You know you can.”
“You got that right, Lord.”
“I certainly do.”
I’m going to strangle that man!
“Look, Mrs. Percy, she swore me to secrecy. The only reason I’m even saying one word is because when I dropped her off, I can say I’ve never seen Mrs. Summerville so frightened.”
“Pale?”
“Yes ma’am, she was pale.”
“A grayish pale?”
“As scared to death as you can imagine.”
“You should have told me about this a lot sooner, Asil.”
He drew himself up. “I answer first and foremost to Mrs. Summerville.”
“The heck you do!” I felt my eyes bulge.
We were in for one of our yearly arguments if I didn’t do something quickly. “Oh, forget it, Asil. I’m glad you told me when you did. I’m going to quick change out of this uniform and into my skirt and blouse. Would you bring my Duster out of the garage?”
He nodded. “All right. But I won’t have you yelling at me any more today.”
“That’s a deal. And don’t worry about coming back to pick her up. I’ll bring her home in the Duster.”
We shook hands, because that’s just what Asil and I do.
“Well, that ride in the Duster should clear out her arteries,” he said.
I hurried to my room and pulled down my green twill skirt and a gold blouse, redid my braid so it perched on top of my head like a cross-legged coronet, and clipped on my gold button earrings.
No Duster yet. That Asil puts King Syrup to shame. So I knelt by the bed.
“Lord, she’s in there now. But so are You, and I’m trusting You to take care of her. Amen!”
Leslie Strawbridge Summerville is my best friend now. And I’ve never told that to a soul, not even to Leslie.
Oh, the years we waste in our foolishness.
Lark
FLANNERY CORNERED ME AS I GRABBED MY CRAFT BAG in the hallway near the back door. “Where you going, Mom?”
>
“I’m going shopping. A cab is coming.” Oh man. What a lousy liar! She crossed her arms over her bosomless chest and stared at me. “What about you, Flannery?”
“I’ve got the day off. So where you going?”
“I just said. Shopping.”
“Really, Mom. With your craft bag? You’ve been Herman’s Hermit for a week. Where are you going? It must be big.”
“Grandy is up at St. Joe’s for a heart catheterization.”
“You’re kidding me!”
“No. She was trying to keep it a secret, I think. Johnny Josefowski spilled the beans.”
“She doesn’t know you know?”
“No.”
“Why does she have to be so darned secretive all the time?”
“I wish I knew, honey.”
“If you ever get like that, I’ll be so mad.”
Get like that? I already was. I heard the ticking of the Bradley bomb as it steadily grew nuclear.
She scratched the small of her back. “If you give me two minutes, I’ll throw on something and go with you.”
“Don’t you have to work?”
“Not until tonight.”
“Okay. I’ll go make a quick cup of tea.”
“And cancel that cab! I’ll drive.”
Flannery ran back up the steps, the cadence of her feet on the hardwood a lower-toned replacement for her childhood pitter-patter.
I hurried through the dining room and pushed open the swinging door. Prisma, standing there at the sink taking her vitamins, jumped a mile.
“Girl! You’re enough to scare me to death!”
“Sorry, Prisma. I’m in a hurry.”
“That’ll be the day.”
“Hey!” I put the kettle on and turned up the gas flame.
“Just speaking the truth. Well, as much as I’m intrigued, I’ve got errands of my own to run.” As if on automatic pilot she fished a tea bag out of the canister and handed it to me.
“Oh yeah? Where to today?”
“Lots of places. Now I’ve got to go. Enjoy the tea, and for heaven’s sake, don’t go messing up my clean kitchen. I have no idea when I’ll be back!” And she whirled out of the house, a caramel cyclone crowned in braids.
No idea when I’ll be back? She really said that? That sure didn’t sound like Prisma.
Almost true to her word, Flannery rushed into the kitchen five minutes later, fresh and sweet in that Capri pants outfit she bought the week before. “Ready, Mom?”
Having already called to cancel the cab, I screwed the top on a travel mug. “Yep.”
We drove north. St. Joe’s was convenient, only about ten minutes away. Silence ruled, and if we gave it rein much longer, neither Flannery nor I would quite know how to handle it. Thank You, God, the traffic lights all shone green
Poor Mother. She must be so scared.
And boy, could I relate to that!
Leslie
OH, FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE, these dreadful gowns! I called for a blanket fifteen minutes ago, and here I lie freezing to death. Surely, I thought they’d perform this at Johns Hopkins, but here I lie in St. Joseph’s, in an old ward they claim used to be the ICU. It reminds me of a progressive kindergarten building. Semicircular. Lots of linoleum and depressing, slick surfaces.
Why in the world did I think it was better to face this alone?
How foolish.
Oh, I can hear you, Charles. Loud and clear.
“Les, Les, Les. No man, or woman for that matter, is an island.”
How many times did I hear you say that? I’ll admit, it seemed awfully corny even though I know it hails from some great literary poem or other. No woman is an island indeed!
Indeed!
Indeed, my dear Charles, I bow to your wisdom.
Oh my stars! I must be frightened.
If I make it off this table and back out there feeling fine, I’m going to make some changes, let me tell you! I’m going to spread out like butter on a muffin and do a lot of things I never did, seep myself into the sweetness of the love I feel in my heart. And if that kills me, I will at least have died in the saddle, the way a Strawbridge should.
Strawbridge?
Oh, fiddle.
I am a Summerville. And now that I’ve finally got that into this hard head of mine, I’m going to start acting like one. I wonder how odd it would look if Asil and I had a sundae together at Friendly’s?
Still freezing. I should have brought my knitting. I could have knitted an entire sweater by now, and I wouldn’t be so cold.
Flannery
IT’S LIKE THIS: Greenway Avenue promotes stubborn women. If you could have seen the look on Prisma’s face when we walked into the Cath Lab waiting room, you would have died laughing!
It is all I can do to hold it in.
“Well, hello, Miss Secretive!” Prisma says to Mom.
“I could say the same thing, Prisma.”
They stare each other down. And well, I jump on in. “Speaking of secretive, how about Grandy?! She puts you all to utter shame.”
Miss Prisma smiles with half her mouth and then decides to go whole hog with the thing. “You said it! Well, come on over and sit down. All they’ve got is business magazines, an issue of Cycling World and Reader’s Digests, which I normally love, but nothing seems particularly amusing today.”
“Except perhaps this situation,” I say, pointing to Mom and Prisma.
Mom sighs and sits down. “I’m glad you’re here, Prisma.”
“See?” I say. “Aren’t we glad we’re saved from doing the same thing to ourselves that Grandy is doing right now?”
And so I go over to the pay phone and call James, and he says right away, “Do you want me there?”
“Of course I do. But I think my mom and Prisma probably would rather it be just us.”
“That’s cool. Hey, how about if I pick you up later, when it’s all over?”
“I’ve got my car here. Just keep your cell phone on. You at work?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, tell the porpoises I said hello.”
“You got it.”
I walk back over to the gang to find Prisma chatting up a storm with a middle-aged Baptist pastor wearing Baptist glasses and a Baptist belly. He also has a Baptist voice, but you’ve got to love those.
“Yep,” he says, “my wife has already had angioplasty and open heart. They’re not sure what’s next.”
He looks amazingly calm. And then Prisma says, “She’s in God’s hands for sure.”
“Yes, she is. And the Lord knows I still need her.”
“How old is she then?”
“Only forty-eight.”
“My goodness! M’m, m’m, m’m. That’s young for all that trouble.”
He nods. “So who are you here for?”
Prisma tells him everything, then finishes up with, “You being a pastor and all, I can tell you the Lord isn’t finished yet with Mrs. Summerville. He’s still got plans to make her His child.”
“Well, I’ll be praying.”
“And I’ll be praying for you, Pastor. This reminds me of that song ‘His Eye Is on the Sparrow.’ ”
“Amen, sister. I know He watches me.”
And then they start talking about God’s care, telling story after story of the gentle miracles of their own lives.
Now this is what it’s all about. And then I wonder whether someday I will be out in the waiting room first, or will James?
Life sure is a funny thing, you know?
Lark
DR. MEDINA CAME IN around 2:30 to give us the findings. After the introductions, he sat down. I’d like to say he did so to seem more caring and concerned, but I think his feet hurt or something.
I felt the ants gathering, but I pushed them down as much as possible. This concerned Mother, not me.
“She’s got a lot of blockage. I couldn’t even do an angioplasty while I was in there. She’s going to need bypass surgery, I’d say quadruple at least, or she’ll ha
ve a heart attack. Her pick.”
Her pick?
“So, there’s nothing else she can do?”
“No.”
Prisma said, “This can’t be treated medically?”
“No, it can’t. I’m sorry I don’t have a better prognosis.” And then he shook our hands, I suspected because that’s what doctors are supposed to do, and he left the waiting room.
“Well how do you like that!” Flannery said. “What a jerk.”
“You said it, Baby Girl.” Prisma’s feathers were clearly ruffled.
“Open-heart surgery,” I said, and we sat back down on our chairs. “Do we risk going into the recovery area and letting her know we’re here?”
We all thought about it for a moment.
Prisma tapped my knee. “It’s your call this time, Lark. You’re the daughter.”
Yes, I was the daughter.
Gosh, you know, sometimes you realize you’re sitting right in the middle of a possible situation totally in your care. And if you blow it, it’s your own personal failure, your own bad call. And if you make the right decision, you make a lot of things right.
Easy, huh?
But usually those situations call for courage someone like me doesn’t have. Chalk it up to another Exercise in Bravery.
“Oh, come on, Mom! Go in!” Flannery jumped to her feet. “It’s just Grandy. She won’t bite.”
I sought Prisma’s gaze, noticing a coating of tears on her irises. “Go on in, baby. We’ll wait here until you tell us it’s all right to see her.”
“You’re not making this easy for me, Prisma.”
“That’s never been my job, now has it?”
And so I picked up my craft bag, held it against my stomach, and entered the recovery room that might as well have been the Arctic Circle for all the foreignness and chill that surrounded me. Curtained compartments ensured a limited privacy for patients all around the room. Many reclined with a food-laden hospital tray hovering over their bed on one side, a loved one hovering on the other.
H’m. Mandarin oranges. Turkey sandwich. Salt substitute! There was the giveaway.
That pastor and his wife waved, and I guess he said, “I was talking to them out in the waiting room.”