by Jarod Powell
“Not really,” Marcia said flatly.
Her father said nothing.
The sanctuary walls were covered with particle board from the seventies and the blue-green shag carpet was something her brother Juan would adore as ‘kitschy and campy’. There were a lot of kids running around, a few years younger than Marcia, and their dads were in overalls and some in sweat pants, most of the moms had frosted hair and be-jeweled sweaters. Juan would have a field day.
The woman with the frostiest hair of all stood up and stuck her hand halfway up, and all of the kids entered a trance and sat down and shut up. She smiled.
As she lectured and preached, Marcia kept the corner of her eyes on her parents, seated to her left and right. She wanted to get a feel of what they thought of this place, and more importantly, a female preacher. From what I understood about the Baptist faith, female preachers were discouraged, and from what I knew about Catholicism, female priests didn’t exist.
Vanessa and Janessa were seated four empty pews behind her, whispering and giggling. Marcia automatically imagined that she was the object of their ridicule, though she couldn’t hear what they were saying. Marcia kept waiting for Reverend Queen Frostyhair to conspicuously clear her throat to get them to shut up, but she ignored them.
On the drive back, Marcia kept waiting for some conversation between her parents that indicated whether this was the church for them, but they were silent. The only time anyone said anything was when Marcia stuck her head out the window. “Marcia, the heat is on!” She rolled up the window, and Marcia heard her father lock it from the driver’s seat.
That night, she went to dreamless sleep and the alarm clock failed to wake her.
The SUV smelled of the casserole Marcia’s mother brought to church that night and it occurred to her that she hadn’t eaten breakfast, for which she imagined would her growling stomach would humiliate her during her second period class.
The sun was out in full force, and the muggy atmosphere made Marcia sweat her makeup off. Her mother, ahead of her on our way to the car, turned around and looked at her like a swamp creature and used a Kleenex to wipe her brow affectionately. “Oh, Marcia! Your Cuban blood hasn’t taken a hold of you yet.”
She envied the looks of even her mother, in a slim-fitted pantsuit, on her way to sell houses worth half their old house in Florida. She was able to make fast friends in this town but she was a bit icy. Beautiful, but with a scowl that was probably alluring twenty years ago.
When they arrived at school, the rush of well-groomed kids walking toward the main entrance made Marcia want to vomit. She should have worn more makeup and she should have worn a blouse that her tits would poke out of while making her gut fade into her hip-huggers. I don’t think such a blouse exists. Marcia got out of the SUV lightly as she could, almost tip-toeing, she don’t know why. Maybe she thought no one would notice her that way. Her mother obviously did.
She’d carry that look of disgust with her to dinner. Her plate had exactly 6 ounces of pork, a cup and a half of green beans, and conspicuously missing was Texas toast. Her mother and father had twice as much meat on their plates, and half as many greens.
You’d think that this quietly-insulting ritual would make Marcia go to sleep at night with a mouthful of half-chewed Ding Dongs, washed down with her dad’s bourbon and her own tears, but eventually you grow accustomed to it. It gets comfortable, actually. You rely on the fact that you’re aesthetically disgusting, embellish it in your own mind, imagine yourself as an obese swamp creature, wear it like a Girl Scout badge. Saves a lot of social effort.
At dinner they’d ask how school is going, not really expecting an answer. Marcia’s mom would perk up briefly when she’d ask her about boys while dad groaned. Her dad would suggest She bring food over for the neighbor, an old shut in who was related to Marcia’s awful history teacher, Mrs. Danforth. By now, she learned to have dinner conversations with her head down because it is impossible to see a bowing person’s eyes roll.
“Have you ever seen Mrs. Danforth?” Marcia was eager to change the subject.
“Yes, she’s a very nice lady.”
“No, I mean, have you looked at her?”
“Not really, I don’t know. Why, Marcia?”
“She doesn’t have any eyebrows.”
“What?”
“No eyebrows. I think she might wear a wig too. Very pale.”
“Yes, I heard she might have cancer or something. It’s not nice to scrutinize an old woman’s looks.”
This is how their weeks would go at home, and then they go back to church, with the two slutty gringos and old ladies with frosty hair and a bunch of people in sweat pants.
It was the same. They go into the sanctuary and sit far apart from each other, parallel to the magenta stained-glass windows and they listen to Queen Frostyhair speak to them like little cute-but-singed stuffed animals, as if obligated by a child to acknowledge us as real humans. Sunday, Wednesday, all the same, a sermon she didn’t listen to.
TELLING TIME
“Sam,” Jenny called him from the other side of their bed. He barely heard her.
“Yeah, Honey,” he slurred.
“Are you asleep?” She asked timidly, through the black of the room.
“Not yet,” he lied.
“Let’s talk.”
“Okay.”
“What should I know before she comes? You’ve barely mentioned it. I feel like this is a bigger deal than you’re letting on.” There was an uncharacteristic quiver in her voice. The drunkenness of semi-sleep, she must have figured, would be the best time to ask, relying on the weak defenses of the bleary. And on the eve of a visit from his mom, she must have thought, or hoped, he’d be eager to cry on a shoulder. Weird timing, but he could tell he wasn’t sleeping until it was settled. So he huffed and sat up.
“You know about as much about her as I do,” he said. This was untrue.
“Yeah,” she said, unsure of how many more questions would still be appropriate at this hour. Her eyes were heavy, but she was forcing them open.
“I don’t think I could forgive my mom for leaving, if I were you,” she said, stealthily prodding.
“Can we talk about this some other time?”
“Sure,” she said, “as long as you promise that we will talk about it.”
“Why?”
“Because you need to.”
“Okay,” he said, defeated. “Goodnight.”
“’Night.”
He had barely gotten the door open. Not even enough time to exhale properly.
“Look at how skinny you’ve gotten!” She was perched on the love seat, avocado-slacked legs crossed, long red fingernails serving as a makeshift cigarette holder.
“Hey...Hey, Wilma,” he said. She approached him with a steady stroll and careful observation. She suddenly latched onto his torso with a clumsy tightness.
“You need to eat, Honey!” She loosened her grip so she could make eye contact.
“He’s been working outside this Summer,” Jenny said, in line behind mom. “He’s just more toned.”
“Aw, he’s never eaten properly a day in his life!” Mom scoffed.
“You’ve got to baby him,” she instructed. “You don’t put good food right in front of his face, he don’t eat.”
He sometimes got the impression that Mom only said certain things because she heard television
moms say them, so that must be what moms are supposed to say. She stroked his face with her empty hand and kissed him on the cheek. Jenny crept between them and kissed him on the mouth.
“All he does is eat,” Jenny said, nervously laughing her off as she ambled back to her seat.
“That reminds me!” Mom said excitedly, reaching behind her to crush her cigarette out. “I’ve got these coupons! Let’s go to Ruby Tuesday’s right now! My treat.” She reached into her purse and then waved her coupons for a second like party streamers, dashing to the front door.
“Come on, Y’all!�
� She whined, looking back at them. “I’m serious! Get in the van.”
Based on little available comparison, Mom’s acting peculiar.
About five months before Sam turned eighteen, Mom searched him out as part of her 12-step program. He’s actually known her a lot longer.
He came out of his dealer’s house in a neighborhood everybody calls Sunset one day, and she was pacing the sidewalk in an oversized army surplus jacket.
“Hey man, wanna Rolex on the cheap? I’ve got Bulova here too,” She chattered, jerking her left arm, which was strapped with watches, into the air. Her deteriorated teeth were chomping like it was freezing, and she had some bald spots on her scalp. “Real cheap,” she repeated.
“No,” he said.
“C’mon man! What’s the matter, you don’t know how to tell time?” She squalled with a twisted grin. “Twenty for the Rolex, Thirty for the Bulova. Real cheap.”
He kept walking, making sure his eyes stayed on his truck, which was parked on the opposite side of the street. She followed him clear into the street.
“What about head, Man,” she said, lowering her voice to a gravelly, ghastly groan. “Throw in the Rolex, man,” she said, speaking quickly and getting more desperate. “Thirty bucks, man. You don’t want me, I know a girl over yonder.”
He reached down to the front pocket of his jeans, and she seemed leery at first, unsure of what he was doing. He removed his hand from the pocket, in the shape of a fist. He removed his eye contact from the
pickup, and towards her. He threw a quarter at her.
“Go buy yourself some fuckin’ soap,” he said, diverting his attention away again. He got into his truck and drove past her.
“Hey, mother fucker! I know your dealers, asshole! All of ‘em! Better keep your door locked at night, ya’ queer!” She spit at his truck as it drove off.
“You will see me again!” He heard her screech faintly, from several blocks away.
“Bend this fuckin’ corner, again, bitch! You will see me!”
Two months later, she showed up at his door.
“You Samuel Kirkpatrick?” She said, one foot edged in the doorway.
“Uh,” he hesitated. “What do you want?”
“Are you Samuel, or not?” She growled.
“Yeah, Lady. What do you want?”
“Um...I’m,” she hemmed and hawed, rolling her eyes and neck around. “I’m your mother. Nice to meet you.”
She comes and visits him every so often. It was weird at first. Weirder now that Jenny’s moved in. For one thing, what is he supposed to call her?
“Mom” seems a stretch. “Wilma” seems strange too. She is in fact his mother, but she’s also someone he’s only been acquainted with for a year and two months. For a while on her visits, she would stay for about half an hour shooting the shit. Then, she’d ask him to take her to the Cue ‘n Brew, the dive her old boyfriend Billy Joe owns, and where she can always drink for free. Then she’d leave with Billy Joe. Since Jenny’s been living there though, she plays it straight. No bars. Her “Southern” colloquialism has gotten thicker and a little hard to handle, and she has erased all profanities from her vocabulary. Sam noticed, as he was looking at her on the way to the restaurant, her appearance has even improved. Her skin’s cleared up, leaving only the aftermath of her invisible bug infestation, and her hair and teeth are bleached. She’s lost about fifteen pounds since the last time she visited.
“Now, Jenny, what have you been up to, Gal?”
“Oh, nothing much, really. Same old,” Jenny replied softly from the back seat, acting bored.
“Sam, where is my grand-baby at tonight?”
“He’s with Tammy tonight. She said she’d watch her while we went out.”
Mom let out a sigh meant for the world to hear, and turned her head toward her passenger-side window. “Looks like it’s tryin’ to rain,” she said.
“What are you guys orderin’?” Mom asked, her nose buried in her menu. Couldn’t even see her face.
“I think I’m just gonna have the Cobb,” Jenny said.
“The what, Hon?”
“Cobb. Cobb salad.”
“I don’t believe I know what that is,” Mom said, distant. “Where would I find it on the menu?”
“See salads? Under that,” Jenny said it as if she were talking to a slow child. Sam thought she might try to spell it for her.
“Thanks, Hon,” Wilma said through gritted teeth. She let out an uncomfortable, demented cackle. “Duh!” She said through giggles.
“I think I might have the sirloin!” Sam said.
She was right. There was a bunch of rain. And sleet. And lightning, and thunder. During the drive home, every time the lightning would strike, Mom would let out a “Whoo!” and then tell us a story about when Katrina hit Mississippi, where she now lives. She claims to have helped with the clean-up, as her sponsor said it might be good for her confidence to do some good old-fashioned community service. If Sam were to tell the truth, he’d tell you that he’s not sure he’s believe it, but he just lets her go on.
“Well, you know, the lines at the Red Cross van just went on and on!” She rambled, reminiscing. “And those colored people, Man Alive! They were the most impatient. Now, I’m not saying they didn’t have it
rough, I remember back in the sixties, but half of those folks weren’t even born yet! Just don’t understand it. But the world buys into it! My friend Jolene said she lost her job at the factory to a Black! For no reason! Well, not for no reason. Affirmative Action. What a country!”
“Uh-huh,” Sam said, trying not to listen. Jenny was biting through her tongue by now. When they finally got home, there was no electricity.
“I’m gonna use your powder room, if that’s all right,“ she said, holding her purse near her breast.
“There’s no water,” Sam said. “Power’s out.”
“Oh, that’s okay, just need to freshen up.”
“It’s kind of a mess in there,” Jenny piped up.
“Oh, Hon, it’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” Mom said, sweetly.
Jenny scowled at Sam, glaring through the corner of her eye. As soon as the bathroom door closed, she whispered harshly across the living
room, “And just what does she mean by that?”
“What is she doing in there?” Jenny asked. “She’s been in the damn bath room…Oh, beg your pardon, powder room, for twenty minutes.”
“Be nice,” Sam gently reminded her.
Mom finally made a loud, clumsy, dramatic exit from the bathroom, and Jenny’s face went from hostile to saccharine in a split second. Wilma’s eyes were open about a half-inch wider and she had a big,
goofy grin and a red nose.
“My my, the power’s still not on?”
“Still off,” Sam said, flipping through an old issue of Bait and Tackle.
“Oh!” Mom erupted, flailing her arms with violent animation, and holding an elated pose. Towering over the couple on the couch, she bent a few inches lower and murmured,
“You know what we should do?”
The two glanced blankly at each other, and then at her.
“We should play a word game.”
They continued to glare blankly.
“You know! A word game. Like...Like I Spy!”
“Wilma?” Sam lead her away from her jacked-up stream-of-consciousness very gently. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, Hon. Why?”
“You seem a little,” I paused to choose the right word. “A little off, I guess.”
“Okay, okay! Party pooper.” She sat down, contemplating something.
She finally looked up at us with a mischievous slant in her eye. “I have a joint in my purse.”
The smoke cleared, and they were sitting for what seemed like hours, the humidity melting their bodies into the furniture. Sam was paying attention only to the wind catcher hanging and flapping from the latch on the opened window. He didn’t want to notice anything. He was enjoyin
g the silence while it lasted.
“Jenny,” Wilma muttered, staring off into space.
“Yeah, Wilma.”
“You’ve just got to get a housekeeper,” she said, easing out of her stupor, head rolling around on her neck, observing the piles of clothes and magazines and VHS tapes on the floor. Her upper body became erect, and she started with the hand gestures again. “Billy Joe...You know Billy Joe down the road over there? He has a lady come once a week, and his house is immaculate, just immaculate! And she speaks fluent English.” She points to the East. “I’ll find out what her phone number is! It’s that Mexican family that lives right down the road...”
“What’s wrong with the house, Wilma?” Jenny asked, obviously irritated. She directed her glare towards the ceiling in an attempt to mute her frustration. Then she closed her eyes.
“Nothing, Hon. I was just suggesting it because the lady works for chicken feed, basically. I thought you could use the help, that’s all. New mom, everything’s crazy right now, right? I know how it is.”
“You do?” Jenny tensed her lips into a withheld grin.
Silence.
“We just moved. We both work,” Jenny pushed her eyelashes down hard against each other. “It won’t be like this for long.”
“I see. I’m sorry for bringing it up,” she said, relaxing her head to the back of the chair.
Say something. Say something.
“You look good, Mom,” Sam chimed in frantically. “Lose any weight?”
“A little,” she said. “No man wants too much cushion. Am I right, Jenny?”
Silence.
“I’m going to bed,” Jenny said in her best impersonation of a tired person. She got up and put her hand on my thigh. “Are you coming, Sam?” He looked at his mother, who could’ve broken the Mississippi floodgates with her glare.