Vilonia Beebe Takes Charge

by Kristin L. Gray

  I rolled up a pair of socks. “Did you see our new house guest?”

  “What house guest?” Daddy whipped his head around, looking for a stray skunk.

  “The one on the counter.” I fished another sock from the laundry basket. “You know how you said I need to become more responsible?”

  “Yesss. . . .” Daddy shot me a look. I dug through the clean clothes, focused on finding the sock’s mate.

  “Well. Mr. Reyes needed someone to keep the library goldfish over spring break.”

  Daddy turned toward me. “And?”

  “And I thought maybe it’d be great practice for a real pet. Someday. In the future.” I smiled my most convincing smile. “What’s the forecast for that?”

  Daddy pulled Leon’s track pants from the heap and folded them in half. “The forecast says there’s a ninety percent chance you buttered me up.”

  “So I can keep him?” I tossed the socks into the air and hugged his scruffy neck.

  “Yes.” He laughed. “Just this week.”

  “Good, because Mama already said yes. Don’t you worry, Daddy. This week’s gonna be great.”

  • • •

  Before bed, I returned the laundry basket to the laundry room. Up and down the doorframe, pencil scratches recorded my and Leon’s heights and ages over the years. Immediately, my heart ached Nana. She’d measured me last.

  She’d had on her Sunday best—a spring green dress, gold earrings, and black pumps. “My lands, Vilonia, look at you!” She held me at arm’s length before enveloping me in a big old squeeze. Her dress smelled like citrus and wildflowers. “You’ve grown an inch overnight. Let’s see how tall you really are.”

  “Nana, you measured me last week.” I’d blushed while secretly loving the attention. Having always been small, I never tired of hearing I’d grown.

  Undoing the clasp on her black handbag, Nana whipped out a yellow No. 2 pencil.

  “You know the drill. Shoes off, heels to the wall, uh-huh. That’s good. Chin up, but not too far now.”

  I obeyed. Nobody crossed Nana.

  “I’ve brought new sheet music,” she said, scratching the wall next to my head. “Okay, hon. Turn around.” She beamed. “Forty-eight and one-half inches! Would you take a look at that?”

  “Impossible!” I traced the mark with my pointer finger.

  “Up a quarter of an inch.” She stuck the yellow pencil behind her ear. “And you didn’t believe your nana.”

  I had smiled because she was right and because I’d felt taller already. Maybe I’d land on Dr. Stacy’s pediatric growth chart once and for all.

  “Now, let’s see how you like the music. Come on.”

  Good heavens, not another hymn. Nana had been in a bit of a rut when it came to gospel music. I could play them all: Amazing Grace, Blessed Assurance, even I’ll Fly Away, which I darn near did.

  “You don’t know what you’re in for, Vilonia baby. A bit of soul does a body good.” Nana plopped the music onto the stand, then patted the spot on the bench next to her. I sat, because I knew what was good for me, and because I loved hearing her play.

  “You know why I like Ray Charles?” she asked as sweet, bluesy notes swirled around us, filling the empty space.

  I shook my head, thinking Ray Charles was the happiest-looking man I’d ever seen. Smart, too, to wear sunglasses while under all those stage lights.

  “He lost his baby brother, his sight—yes, he was blind by your age—and then his parents. But he went on to create beautiful music for the world to enjoy. He was a fighter, Vilonia.” Nana smiled at me. “Just. Like. You.”

  Nana’s fingers danced across the keys. Mine had flown to the scars on my wrist. A fighter, huh. I repeated to myself. I could live with that.

  Chapter Six

  I didn’t answer the phone Saturday morning, Max day two, when Caller ID flashed Bettina Wiggins. I knew she wanted that obit, and I couldn’t tell her the truth. It wasn’t done.

  I hadn’t written it yet.

  Mama had a saying, “If you tell the truth, you don’t have to remember anything.” The real truth was she stole that quote from author Mark Twain, who probably stole it from Huckleberry Finn. It was a good quote, but I’ve learned the truth isn’t always pretty or fun.

  Truth: Forty-five days ago Mama laughed and danced in the kitchen. I did homework (math) at the table. We talked about getting a dog. She stirred her homemade pasta sauce with extra basil and had just preheated the oven to bake a cake. Then the phone rang with news that changed everything.

  Nana had collapsed at Boyd’s Music & More, right by a display of metronomes. She died clutching her last purchase, a complete songbook of Ray Charles’s Greatest Hits, to her heart. Mr. Boyd refunded the book, saying it was his gift to us.

  I haven’t even opened it. Looking at the glossy cover made me both sad and mad. Sad I’d never see Nana again and mad that she really left.

  We braved the memorial as best we could, then Mama crawled under her covers and stayed put. She never could bring herself to write Nana’s obit. Waking up in the mornings without your own mama was tough.

  I’d know. Not that I thought Mama was feeling sorry for herself or ignoring us on purpose, but when Nana passed, we lost a piece of Mama, too.

  Who’d have thought Daddy and I’d be in charge of shopping, meals, laundry, schedules, and a zillion other details, along with my schoolwork and his job. To be fair, Daddy thought Miss Bettina had the obits, and Leon did take on all the yard work and outside chores. So our shrubs were bald, and we ate our way through the frozen food aisle, but we hadn’t run out of toilet paper. Yet.

  • • •

  This morning had been interesting enough as the boys had returned early from fishing. The fish weren’t biting, so Daddy surprised Mama with a bouquet of sweet-smelling wildf lowers. I jammed them into a root beer bottle pulled from the recycling bin, gave them a drink of water, and set them on the table. I’m no florist, but they looked pretty in a haphazard sort of way.

  Mama walked in wearing her pajamas. They’d grown so baggy you could fit two Mamas inside. Or maybe Mama had shrunk since she quit cooking. I watched as she poured us all bowls of Rice Crunchies, something she would have frowned on forty-six days ago but now saw as a victory. Daddy and Leon got seconds and thirds respectively, saying it was the best cereal they’d ever eaten. Mama didn’t smile, but she did joke she’d handpicked and dried the puffed rice herself. Between her pouring cereal and running to the store for milk, hope sprouted in my heart. Baby steps.

  Then something about the word search on the back of the box sent Mama spiraling.

  “Even the cereal is taunting me,” she wailed, and retreated to her room. Grief was weird.

  The three of us sat in silence while our cereal got soggier by the second. Daddy folded his napkin and scooted his bowl to the center of the table. “I was getting full anyway.”

  On cue, Leon’s spoon clattered into his bowl, and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I couldn’t tell her we were out of juice, too.”

  I smiled. He could be all right sometimes.

  Daddy spoke, “I know it’s been rough the last several weeks.” He paused, plucked a broken wildflower from the bottle, and rolled it between his fingers. “Doctor Fenway believes your mama may be depressed.”

  “I could have told you that.” Leon put his hands behind his head.

  “It’s murky waters.” Daddy shot him a look.

  “But how do we know?” I asked. “Is she sad or depressed?”

  Daddy rubbed his face with his hands. “It’s complicated. People grieve differently, and sometimes depression becomes part of their journey. We don’t know for sure what’s going on, but we do know your mama needs to be well enough to eat and function. Which is why we’re talking to the doctor.”

  My stomach twisted in knots. “But she’ll get better, right?”

  Daddy forced a smile. “It’s hard, Tadpole, because you can’t see it to treat it lik
e you would a rash or a broken arm.”

  My nose stung, warning I was near tears. “So, what can we do?”

  “Keep doing what we’ve been doing. Let her know we love her, and we’re still here.”

  “What about medicine?” I asked. “Or therapy?” Or better yet, I thought, a therapeutic pet?

  “Yeah. Did he say how long it’d last?” Leon asked. “Nana’s been gone, what? Six weeks?”

  “Forty-six days.” My voice cracked.

  Daddy shook his head. “It’s a process. Her medicine should help, though it may take a couple weeks. The good news is she’s starting to see a counselor. It’s a blessing her boss has been so flexible about work.”

  I gulped. Her boss had been “flexible” thanks to me. Mama and Daddy both believed Miss Bettina was filling in for her, and Miss Bettina believed Mama was still working.

  “Just know she’s fighting this. We’re a team. Your mama and I love you very much.”

  “I know, Daddy.” I tied my napkin into a tight pretzel roll.

  “Yeah,” Leon agreed.

  Daddy’s chair squealed across the floor. “Well, I should go check on your mom. You kids carry on.”

  Leon picked up Daddy’s bowl after he’d left, and then to spite me, he stacked both of their dirty dishes on top of mine. “Gee. Thanks.”

  Brothers.

  I cleared the table and sneaked a peek at the back of the Rice Crunchies box. Ah, a Wizard of Oz word search, where the name DOROTHY was highlighted.

  Dorothy was Nana’s last name and Mama’s maiden.

  Okay, Universe, you can stop being cruel.

  • • •

  I poured a glass of milk and stirred in a river of chocolate syrup. Mama wouldn’t eat, but maybe she’d take a drink. Chocolate made everything better.

  I plopped in a swirly straw and knocked on her door.

  “Mama? I brought you chocolate milk.”

  Mama sniffled. “Thanks, dear.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, baby. I’m just sad.” She took a sip, and milk zipped up the straw.

  “I know, Mama. I’m sad too.”

  At the funeral, people kept saying time heals. I wished time would hurry up.

  • • •

  I fed Max and flopped across my bed with Mama’s computer and my ANTHROPOLOGY binder, ready to work. Anything to keep Mama employed and Miss Bettina from showing her face. Dalmatians! Nobody had time for that.

  I skimmed Mrs. Tooley’s information and wondered if anyone she left behind stayed in bed too. I spent the next half hour writing, rewriting, and taking plenty of stretch breaks. It’s a delicate thing, a privilege Mama once said, to write about the deceased. I wanted to get it right.

  Obituaries, like stories, used a formula. Only instead of a beginning, middle, and an end, obits had five parts: a statement of death, a short biography of the deceased, a list of survivors (family and friends), funeral or wake specifics, and donations. Donations were monetary gifts made to charities in memory of the deceased.

  I did my best to work all the parts in. Whenever I got stuck, I flipped through my binder of obituaries for a sample. It wasn’t hard substituting beloved teacher for dog walker, and so on. But Mrs. Tooley’s family had done such a good job supplying information, hers came together smooth as a baby’s butt. If only my nana’s would too.

  “Hey, Max, tell me what you think about this.” I cleared my throat and read:

  Martha Adele Tooley, 81, of Brandon, MS—beloved wife, accountant, and bosom friend to many—expired peacefully in her sleep on Wednesday, April 15. Tax Day. A wizard with numbers, Martha graduated from Howard County High School in 1951 with high honors. She was promoted quickly from bookkeeper at age twenty to accountant and then to CPA after acing all four parts of the board exam on her first try. (Boom!) She’d be mortified we told you. We’ll miss her bubbly laugh, her wild socks, and her homemade lobster mac and cheese (but not her zucchini bread). Martha loved pie but loathed jogging. She adored her playful pugs, Harper and Lee, but had a strong distrust of cats. She often said books balanced her creative right brain from her mathematical left. She was especially proud of her rare Flannery O’Connor collection. Martha leaves behind Richard (Rick) Tooley, her husband of fifty-three years (fifty-two if you ask him); a younger sister, Ruth Braxton of Longview, TX; her two pugs; and a host of friends—every one lucky to have known her.

  Funeral services will be held Wednesday, April 22, 2:00 p.m., at St. Stephen’s Chapel. The family encourages everyone to wear their wildest socks. In lieu of flowers, please consider donations to the Flannery O’Connor–Andalusia Foundation, Inc. P.O. Box 947, Milledgeville, GA 31059. Or to Hannah’s Socks at hannahssocks.org.

  Max swam to the other side of his bowl, but I’m saying he gave me two fins up.

  I ran spell check, then e-mailed it lickety-split to Miss Bettina. I hoped the family would be pleased, because that’s who obituaries were really for. The living.

  One look at my binder could tell you that.

  Chapter Seven

  Spring Break was pretty uneventful.

  Sunday, Max day three, was spent at church. Mama got up and dressed in a pretty sleeveless dress with a flowing skirt. She looked like a vision with her hair tied back in a loose knot. Could the science be right? That after only three days of having Max in the house, some kind of magic was happening? Even Daddy wore his nicest shirt and shaved. Daddy only shaved for the big holiday services like Easter, Christmas, and his own wedding. Leon put on a belt and . . . what was that? Spray cologne? I ran sputtering from our bathroom, and my obituary flashed in my mind: Vilonia Renae Beebe departed this world on Sunday, April 19, after being fumigated with cologne by a family member (whose name rhymes with “neon”).

  Once my eyes stopped stinging, I chose a T-shirt and my navy blue skirt. I liked this skirt because it had shorts sewn inside. Mama called it a skort. Skirt plus shorts. I said that’s the silliest name for a piece of clothing I’d ever heard. My skort looked like a skirt but didn’t keep me from sliding into bases or climbing trees, and that’s all that mattered to me.

  We sneaked into church a few minutes late and sat in the back pew. I spotted Miss Bettina’s huge head front and center. She probably records the whole sermon. Pastor finished preaching, and we slipped out during the Lord’s Prayer. Good thing, because who knows what would have happened had Miss Bettina cornered Mama about work. Anyway, I think God understood small talk wore Mama out.

  After lunch, I radioed Ava Claire on the walkie-talkie she’d given me for my last birthday to see if she wanted to play. She never answered.

  On Monday, Max day four, I put on my favorite dog shirt and dropped by the Willoughbys’ to check on Eleanor. I shuffled up the walk and spotted Ransom with a garden hose in hand, giving their chocolate Lab, John Quincy Adams, a bath. Rory was there too. He threw me a quick smile and waved. I waved back. Quincy saw me and barked, then bounded out of his bath. He sprinted toward me across the sweet-smelling, fresh-cut grass. His tongue lolled out to one side, so low I worried he’d trip.

  Mrs. Willoughby looked up from watering the ferns on her front porch and beamed. “Vilonia! What a nice surprise.”

  Quincy must have thought so too. He jumped up to lick my face and knocked my cap clean off my head.

  “Quincy!” Rory boomed. “Sit.”

  Quincy sat, his sudsy tail thump-thumping excitedly against the walk as my heart turned to mush. Rory picked up my cap and blushed. “He likes visitors but needs to work on his hello.”

  Mrs. Willoughby patted the top of Quincy’s wet head. “We have time. He’s still a pup.”

  “He’s perfect.” I knelt down to pet him and plucked a few blades of grass from his coat. Thump-thump-thump, his tail beat a steady rhythm. “But he may need another bath.”

  Quincy’s ears twitched at the word “bath.” He lay down, put his head between his paws, and whimpered. Everyone laughed. I couldn’t help but quote Winn-Dixie. “It’s hard no
t to immediately fall in love with a dog who has a good sense of humor.”

  “Or anyone, for that matter.” Mrs. Willoughby laughed. “Ransom, turn off the hose and fetch Eleanor. Vilonia needs to see her, and Rory can handle John Quincy.” Turning to me, she bragged about Eleanor’s recovery and how she hoped I’d make the festival.

  “Mrs. Willoughby, I’ve been every year since I was a baby. I don’t intend to miss now.”

  “Well, tell your daddy that Tom Sawyer’s would be honored if he’d consider frying fish again this year.”

  “I’ll tell him.” I grinned proudly. “Nobody fries fish like Daddy.” Then, before I left, she gave me a dozen eggs and had Rory bring me a surprise.

  He popped inside the house and came back carrying a brown grocery bag.

  “It’s a thank-you. For saving Eleanor.” His cheeks burned pink. “I picked it out.”

  “True story,” Mrs. Willoughby said.

  “Thank you,” I told them, and peeked inside, bracing myself for a snake to jump out. Instead, there appeared to be a gently used book and boxes upon boxes of sparklers.

  “Sparklers are our number one seller,” Rory said.

  “Also true,” added Mrs. Willoughby.

  “Nice.” I reached inside for the book and gasped. “Because of Winn-Dixie.” I ran my finger across the title. “It’s my favorite.”

  Rory grinned. “I know. You’re always reading the library’s copy.”

  I blushed. “I’ll take good care of it. Thank you.”

  “Thank you, honey, for saving our Ellie. Tell your daddy we’ll see him soon.”

  • • •

  I spent that night at AC’s. It was the first break she’d had from rehearsals. We stayed up too late as usual.

  • • •

  Tuesday morning, Max day five, I headed home bright and early to heat up frozen waffles, since AC had dance rehearsal (again). I revised one obit and made another go at writing Nana’s. It wound up in the trash. I then spent my entire afternoon at the public library researching dog ownership, online adoption forms, and skimming through photos of the county’s latest rescues. I had to be prepared to state my case if or when one of the Tooley puppies needed a home. Strange I hadn’t seen or heard anything yet. I made a mental note to stop by the vet.