by Jen Violi
“It was fine.” I can’t stop thinking about Tim and what happened in the car, and I wonder if he’s thinking about it too. And I take a big bite of peanut butter pancakes, hoping that Mom’s yoga training doesn’t involve reading minds.
That night, Becky calls me and says Tim called Jim and asked for my phone number. She’s very excited. “He’s totally into you.”
I wish I were already working at Brighton Brothers, because I check my phone several times every hour on Monday and Tuesday. I wish for Liz again. And no one calls but Becky asking if Tim called. I tell her he hasn’t.
On Tuesday night, sitting on the front porch and listening to crickets, I start to worry that I might have done something wrong. I’m not actually sure what I’ve done, which is another reason I wish Liz was around for consultation. I know it wasn’t sex, exactly, but I’m pretty sure this falls under that heavy-petting category we were warned against in St. Camillus sex ed.
But what I also know is that I never felt anything like that before, that it felt good, and that I’m warm now just thinking about it.
On Wednesday, Mom says she’s going out with some people from her yoga class, so not to be worried if she’s home late. “Will you be all right?”
“Mom.” I use my end-of-the-conversation voice with her and think it sounds quite convincing.
“Fine,” she says, and I notice her unusually shiny lips.
“Are you wearing lipstick to yoga?”
“A woman needs to be prepared at all times.”
“For what?” Now I’m curious.
“Life,” Mom says, and this time she ends the conversation, kisses my cheek, wipes away the lipstick mark she has probably left, and heads out.
An hour later I’m eating popcorn in my bedroom when my phone rings. I forget to breathe again for a minute when I realize it’s Tim, who asks if I can go out on Saturday with him to a party on campus.
I start to say yes, but then I remember the Players Lock-In. “I can’t.” I also can’t imagine how to tell him about the Players, although he may just say, Theater is art. Still. In search of fresh air, I wander out to the garage and through the side door outside. Pink-and-orange brush-strokes stripe across the darkening sky, and the sun has almost disappeared for the day. “I have something with my family. Could we hang out on Sunday?” I ask, hoping I don’t sound as anxious to see him as I feel.
“Why don’t you call me on Sunday and we’ll make some plans.”
“Okay.”
“You know,” he says, his voice like syrup, “I’ve been thinking about you. And our ride home from the party.”
“Have you?”
“I had a really good time.”
“Me too.”
When I get off the phone, the pink and orange have faded into a blue-gray. Inside, I close the garage door and notice size eleven work shoes in the same spot they’ve been for four years, next to the shovels and Mom’s gardening gloves. They sit side by side, laces undone and empty. What would Dad think of Tim? What would Dad think of me?
I go into the bathroom and splash my face with cold water. I feel the drops run down my forehead and cheeks.
On Saturday night, Father Bill twists shut the two locks on the gym door, slides in the bolt above them, turns around and grins at us. “Well,” he says, “six o’clock Eastern Standard. We’re locked in right on time.” Like Pontius Pilate, he mimics washing his hands.
Father Bill says we’re going to need positive attitudes all around, but I find it hard to locate mine. Our very first activity is to act like trees.
Something knots and double knots in my stomach. I’ve graduated from high school. I’m not going to a normal college like everyone else. And right now I could be on my first real date with a college guy. Instead I’m with Father Bill, who is asking us to find our centers, our bubbling hot lava cores, and to let our elms or magnolias grow from there.
Five hours, six cups of punch, and eight improv games later, Father Bill has suggested we get some sleep, get an early start in the morning. Everyone stretches out in sleeping bags, girls on one side of the gym and boys on the other, both areas designated with markered signs and masking tape. I am drifting in and out of sleep to the hum of the water fountain motor when I feel a nudge and hear “Psst.”
I look up and see a shadowy Linda, dimly lit by the red exit lights at both ends of the gym. She’s waving a bottle above me. I squint. “Is that alcohol?” I ask.
“You betcha. Jackie D,” she whispers, and swings the bottle. On our side of the gym, Keenie’s air mattress is vacant, and Leaf’s sleeping bag sprawls empty, too.
On the boys’ side, Dr. Roger, Richie, and Father Bill lie still, sacked out in their sleeping bags. I slip on my sneakers and follow Linda on tiptoes through the side gym door, propped open with a brick. At the bottom of a short flight of steps, Keenie and Leaf are sitting on two big rocks at the edge of the parking lot. Above them, the headless Saint Camillus stands on his big marble dice.
The June night air feels cool on my neck, and a full moon washes the concrete lot into a bumpy ocean. Leaf smiles at me. “Isn’t it fun to be up so late?” she asks.
“I guess.” I’m sure Tim is still awake, telling some other girl how beautiful she is.
“Just us girls.” Keenie grins at me and pulls her cardigan around her.
Linda hands me the bottle and sits on the bottom step, next to the rocks where Leaf and Keenie sit. I hesitate. This feels like high school, but not high school at all. I consider going back to bed.
“Drink up and be somebody,” Linda says.
Going back to the gym with “the boys” seems less appealing, so I take a small swig and hold out the bottle to her.
As I sit on the concrete and lean against the gym wall and a line of ivy, Richie peeks his head out of the door above us. “I hope you gals weren’t going to leave me out.”
“Of course not.” Linda pats the step next to her.
Richie climbs down the steps and sits, taking the bottle from Linda. He drinks and splashes some whiskey on his mustache. A drop dangles from the right edge of it. “Gosh that makes me loose,” Richie says. “I think I’m a little drunk.”
“Let’s tell secrets,” Keenie suggests.
“I have one,” Leaf says. “I never wanted to be a nurse.”
“Saint Camillus is the patron saint of nurses and gamblers,” Richie adds.
“I didn’t know that.” Leaf pats Richie’s knee. “Well, I’m not a nurse anymore anyway. After he left, I went moping into the hospital in Altoona every day. Until this other nurse I couldn’t stand at work—you know what she said to me?”
Linda shakes her head. “I sure don’t.”
“‘No one’s forcing you to be here,’” Leaf says. “That’s what she said.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“It means that I’m in charge. No one’s forcing me to do anything. If I want to be somewhere different, I’ve got to take myself there.” The purr of a car engine whooshes by, over the hill. “Anyway,” Leaf says, “I’m happy where I am right now.”
“But you’re alone.” I hug my knees to my chest. I know what it’s like to be left.
She looks from Linda to Keenie to Richie to me. “No I’m not.” She stands up and brings me the bottle.
I hold the bottle by its neck, wrapping my fingers around the cool glass. The moonlight makes the whiskey glow like a topaz. “Thanks,” I say.
She nods and smiles. I notice her smooth complexion and how graceful she looks leaning back against the rock, content and warm in the moonshine.
Saint Camillus de Lellis, 64
Cause of Death: Natural
Surviving Immediate Family: None
Physical Characteristics: Reported to be 6’6”, suffered throughout life from a leg wound and long-term abscesses on his feet.
Entombment: Remains located in the altar of the Church of Mary Magdalene, Rome.
Deathbed Words to Carmelite General: “I beseech yo
u on my knees to pray for me, for I have been a great sinner, a gambler, and a man of bad life.”
“We want to assist the sick with the same love that a mother has for her only sick child.”—Saint Camillus de Lellis (while he was alive)
Post-death Incidents: Canonized 132 years after death
Formed the Brothers of the Happy Death to support plague victims.
Was said to possess the gifts of healing and prophecy.
eleven
When I get home on Sunday, I’m exhausted, but the thought of Tim makes my heart start beating fast and I don’t feel so sleepy anymore.
Mom is sitting in lotus position on the living room floor, listening to some kind of flute music. She smiles and opens her eyes when she hears me come in. “So, are you officially bonded?”
I nod and smile, remembering all of us dancing around in the parking lot in the middle of the night.
“Linnie’s out, so it’s just you and me for dinner tonight. She has a new friend. His name is Snooter.”
I sink onto the couch. “What, is he a chimpanzee or something?”
Mom almost snorts when she laughs. “More aardvark, actually.”
“I can see that.”
“You should think about getting yourself an aardvark, Donna.”
I cross my arms. “Maybe I already have one. Did you ever consider that?”
“Don’t get defensive. I didn’t mean to insult you.”
“Maybe you did.”
“How would I know if you had a boyfriend? With Liz out of town, I don’t know if you’re even talking to anyone.”
“Do you think I’m a total loser? I don’t need a stupid Communications degree to talk to people. I do just fine.” I jump up. “Maybe I just don’t want to communicate with you.”
I walk off to the basement and slam the door at the top of the steps.
In my room, I tell myself to calm down, and lie on my bed for a minute. I close my eyes. I imagine Tim’s lips against mine and his hand soft between my legs. When I call him, he doesn’t answer, so I leave a message.
At dinner, the silence feels as thick as the mashed potatoes I scoop onto my plate. I press into the center of the scoop with the back of my spoon.
As I fill my mashed-potato cavern with thick brown gravy, I say, “I’m starting work tomorrow. At Brighton Brothers.”
Mom stands up and turns on the TV, which I know she hates during dinner.
We both turn our heads away from each other and toward the television as the weatherman reports another sunny day tomorrow.
On Monday morning, for my first day of work, I wear all black—skirt, blouse, shoes with little heels on them. When he sees me, Mr. Brighton smirks. “By the way, you are allowed to wear other colors. Nothing too flashy, but there’s not a uniform.”
“Oh,” I say.
“Don’t worry, Donna, you look just fine. Come with me.” As we head down the hallway, Mr. Brighton tells me that JB is off for his summer hiking in Colorado and should be back later this month. “He says he needs the mountains or he couldn’t keep doing this.” Mr. Brighton shrugs. “Whatever it takes for each of us.”
At the end of the hallway, Mr. Brighton has set up an office space for me, right by the back door, where he says deliveries are made. A pile of binders sits on a long desk, and next to them, a few supply catalogs and a little cactus plant with an orange bow on it. “Some reading material,” he says. “And a welcome gift from Mrs. B.” He sits down in a folding chair next to the desk.
I smile and delicately touch one of the spiky spines on the short fat plant. “Tell her thanks.”
“You can tell me yourself.” I turn and see a short lady with shoulder-length silver hair and wide hips. I also notice that she must wear at least a D-cup in bra size, which suddenly makes me feel a little prepubescent with my A’s. I make sure to look at her face and say, “Thank you, Mrs. Brighton.”
“You’re welcome, and please, Greta or Mrs. B. We’re so glad to have you. Bob hasn’t been able to stop talking about it.”
“Okay, Mrs. B. I’m glad to be here.”
“You’ve got a full day, so I’ll let you two get down to business. But make sure to come upstairs for lunch. I’ve got chicken salad.” Mrs. B. squeezes my hand and pats my cheek and walks off.
“Thanks, honey,” Mr. Brighton calls after her. “She puts raisins and walnuts in it. It’s out of this world.” He also tells me there’s a wake this afternoon and that I can help to greet people and point them in the right direction.
I’m glad he has faith in me, and I’m nervous, too. I sit down in the cushioned chair behind the desk and find it reclines back a little.
The wake is for Mitzi Baumgartner, who died at the age of ninety-three, watching her favorite soap opera and holding a whiskey sour in her hand. “This is the easy kind,” Mr. Brighton says. “It’s a good one for you to start with. Mitzi lived a full, long life. It’s much harder for the family when someone dies too soon, like they didn’t get to finish everything.”
I flinch.
“It was like that for you?”
I nod.
“Some people say everything happens for a reason; people die because God wants them to die or bring them home.”
I remember hearing that. And hating it.
“You want to know what I think?” Mr. Brighton pushes the binders out of the way and leans his elbow on the desk. “That’s a load of horseshit. People die when they die and not because God wants to take someone’s dad away from them. There’s not a reason. It just happens.” He sighs. “But I don’t say that to families.”
“Why not?”
“Most people don’t want to hear that.”
“I would’ve wanted to hear that.”
“Well, most people also don’t want to work here.”
I glance down at the coffin catalog I’m excited to page through. “I see your point.”
“Anyway, usually best not to say anything, to be polite and kind and respectful, and let people be how they are. Family and friends arrive at two.”
At 1:50, I’m standing in the front lobby, feeling nervous and unsure that I can keep down my chicken salad, even though it was, in fact, out of this world. But something happens when the first group of people comes in. I feel my feet firmly on the ground, and I nod at the three elderly women who come through the door. I hear my voice gentle and calm, directing them down the hallway to the second door on the right. It turns out I do just fine being polite and kind and respectful, all afternoon long.
On my way out that evening, Mr. Brighton shakes my hand. “Baptism by fire. You did good.” I remember how lost I felt when Dad died, and I saw how lost some of Mitzi’s children and grandchildren looked. Greeting them with kindness and showing them which way to go, even just down the hall, made me feel useful and needed. I realize that I did do good; that, strange as it seems, I sense that I belong here.
At home, I have a postcard waiting for me on the kitchen table. On the front are the greenest hills I could imagine. On the back, Liz has written, I know people write it all the time, but I really wish you were here. Can’t wait to see you—I’ll be home the first week in July.
When I take my phone out of the black purse I borrowed from Mom, I have a message from Tim, who wants to go to a movie on Friday night.
Mitzi Baumgartner, 95
Cause of Death: Brain aneurism
Surviving Immediate Family:
Sons: Phillip and Karl
Makeup: Champagne Ice cream cosmetic, You’re a Peach lipstick and nail polish
Clothing: Mitzi’s favorite gingham line-dancing dress
Casket: Stainless steel, pastel green silk lining
Special Guests in Attendance: The Old North Dayton Senior Swingers Line Dancing Squad, and Mitzi's Tuesday night poker posse
Funeral Incidents:
Karl and Phillip bring trays of shot glasses full of Old Granddad around to all the visitors and lead a rousing round of ‘For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow.
”
Four empty bottles of whiskey end up in the Brighton Brothers recycling bin.
twelve
Come Friday night, since Mom has decided to sit on the front porch to read, I can’t avoid telling her I’m going on a date. At first she’s all giddy and says she can go read inside, but when she finds out Tim’s in college, she insists on meeting him.
When Tim arrives, and the three of us sit on the front porch together, I feel like I might pass out. The grounded feeling I discovered all week long at Brighton Brothers seems to have crumbled away in some kind of inner seismic disruption.
Mom says, “So what are you two going to see?”
“There’s a French film playing at the Neon.”
“Oh, the one about the swimmer and the geologist. I saw it. The cinematography was breathtaking, and the dialogue was used so exquisitely—sparse but very powerful. Sit up close so you don’t miss any of the subtitles.” Mom never told me she went to see a movie, and the thought of her sitting through one not in English fits better in some alternate universe where ice cream is hot and gerbils are in charge of political parties. I didn’t think Mom had been to the movies since last winter, when she and Linnie and I went to a cheesy romantic comedy with dialogue that unfortunately was neither sparse nor powerful.
“Tight. That’s what I heard too.” Tim nods. He’s wearing jeans and a white T-shirt and some sort of embroidered vest. He looks very calm.
“Then what?” Mom asks.
“What do you mean?” Tim asks.
“Are you doing anything after the movie?”
“We’ll play it like we play it, I guess.” Tim grins.
Mom smiles too, but it’s more of a tight-lipped, I-might-suffocate-you-with-that-throw-pillow kind of smile. “What does that mean?”
“It means we don’t know yet,” I say.
“Yeah,” Tim says, laughing a little. “The night is young. And so are we.”
“And young people need their rest,” Mom says. “Bring her home right after the movie.”