Mourning Crisis

by Carolyn Ridder Aspenson

  “It is what it is, and that’s all I’m saying about that.”

  The news played on the big, clunky TV sitting in its squared off hole inside the outdated, boxy, knotty pine entertainment center Momma hadn’t allowed me to touch until I was twelve. The more I thought about it, the more I came to realize twelve was a defining year for me in Momma’s eyes. I was able to make decisions for myself, touch things she’d considered valuable, and stay home alone.

  “Pine is soft. You touch it, and it can scratch and dent, and nobody wants damaged looking furniture. It’s for the poorer people,” Momma whispered. Momma always whispered when she said something she knew was ugly as if whispering it would make it less so.

  Whatever did she think about the stuff now?

  I pressed my lips together to hold back a smirk. If my mother ever traveled to the big city, she’d have the shock of her life. Her antiquated style was so outdated it was retro. Only she wouldn’t know what that meant. “Momma, you do know sponge-painted walls are passé, right?”

  She snarled at me. “I like my walls. And those fancy interior designers on those decorating shows don’t call them sponge painted anymore. They call them faux painted, and you know that is special and high design. And I’ll have you know, faux is French.”

  Yes, and it meant false, but I didn’t have the heart to tell her that.

  She walked to the kitchen, opened the oven and removed two more pies, placing them on cooling racks on the counter. I skipped over to them and inhaled their glorious cinnamon and pumpkin smells.

  “Go and make sure your daddy isn’t trying to get the rest of your stuff from your car. You know how he is, and he don’t need to be doing all that heavy lifting with his bum leg. Can’t get him to go to the doctor and it’s just getting worse.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  As I headed toward the front door, she hollered to me, “I’ll cut you a piece of pie. Which do you want, the pumpkin or the apple?”

  I skipped back to the kitchen, a big smile draped across my face. “How about a small piece of both?”

  She gave me a slow once over. “Mayme, honey, how about just one piece?”

  The smile waned but didn’t disappear. I loved her pie. “I’ll take pumpkin. Extra whipped cream.”

  “Pumpkin, no whipped cream, it is.”

  “One is fine, but make it a big one.”

  She shook her head and laughed.

  My bedroom was another trip through time. Momma hadn’t changed one thing since I’d left. My pink and green striped sheets and matching comforter still dominated the color scheme, and my once favorite but now too young for me glow in the dark stars still covered the ceiling like a clear night sky. I couldn’t believe they’d stayed up since I’d turned sixteen. My twin hot pink blow up chairs, however, they hadn’t fared so well. Sitting half-filled in their respective corners like shriveled grapes heading into their future lives as raisins. I felt sorry for the poor things. They’d had a good run but really needed to be retired to the garbage dump.

  Next to one sat an old-fashioned bicycle tire pump and a note from Daddy that read, “I tried, but I can’t find the holes. Maybe they’re just old and tired like your daddy.” A teeny tear formed in my left eye. The thought of my daddy being old hurt my heart.

  He’d always been a robust and booming pillar of strength in my eyes, but the years I’d been gone hadn’t been kind to him, and I noticed the fine lines on his face were deeper, his shoulders weren’t as broad, his stride not as confident, and his presence not as bold. The commanding man that once walked into a room and demanded attention was now more subdued, less sublime. Was it real? Was Daddy less Daddy because he’d aged or was I the one who’d aged and just saw him as he truly was, just a man, not a God-like figure that practically walked on water for the little girl that loved him like no other?

  I rushed upstairs and unpacked one bag of clothing and then Momma called me down for pie and pot roast. Daddy had thrown a pile of leaves and wood into the brick and stone firepit he’d built on our back porch, and I inhaled the scent, and every memory that came with it before I even got halfway down the stairs.

  We sat outside on the back porch and ate under the Asheville night sky just like the old days, and I was instantly transported back in time again.

  Fall nights sitting outside, enjoying that very same thing, roasting marshmallows, staring up at the night sky, Daddy picking at his fiddle and Momma singing one of her favorite southern hymns. I’d always sing along, but Momma had a voice no one could match. She sang like an angel.

  I’d forgotten how gorgeous and calming the sounds and sights of North Carolina, and Asheville, in particular, were at night. In the city, I considered it a miracle if I caught even just a small glimpse of a star or planet. With the smog and city lights, seeing even a touch of the universe was nearly impossible, but in the French Broad River Valley of the Appalachian Mountains of Asheville, the view was as clear as the day was long and almost endless. Growing up, there were nights when we all sat outside on the very same porch, breathing in the crisp, dark, smoky scent of burning leaves as we gazed upon that brightly dotted sky, connecting the dots into pictures and sharing them with each other.

  “Look Meme, it’s a baseball cap,” Daddy would say, taking my hand and mapping out the cap with my fingertip.

  My heart warmed from the memory.

  “Meme, why don’t you say the blessing?” Momma asked.

  I hadn’t said the blessing since I’d left home, but I went ahead and did it. Some things were like riding a bike.

  She smiled when I finished, and Daddy dug into his roast like he hadn’t eaten in months.

  Momma wiggled her fork at Daddy, but she smiled while doing it. “Now Bobby Joe Buckley, where’s your manners?”

  He immediately slowed down and chewed with less vigor.

  She flipped her fork and poked it into a piece of roast and then popped it into her mouth. Forgetting her own manners, she chewed and talked to me while she did. “So, Gladys over at the Walmart says the Biltmore is hiring for the holidays. You might could go by there and apply.” She sipped her sweet tea. “And if that doesn’t work, there’s always room for you at the thrift shop, or Daddy might could use the help answering phones and filing and such at the shop. Those plumbers could use someone keeping them in line, right honey? I looked online, and there’s still time to apply for the next semester at Blue Ridge Community College in Flat Rock. It’s not that far of a drive and you might could take some online classes. Except maybe typing.” She glanced at Daddy. “Do they still teach typing, Bobby?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t know the answer to that one, darlin’.”

  I finished chewing my bite of pork roast before I spoke. Hopefully, my chewing hid the disdain for continuing my education pooling in the pit of my stomach and working to shoot up my throat. “Momma, you know college isn’t my thing.”

  “Sweetie, that was eight years ago. You gave that acting thing a shot, and it didn’t work. It’s time to take life serious now.”

  That acting thing? That acting this was actually my life’s passion. “I am taking life serious now. Acting is what I do, Momma. I’m planning to go to the three Asheville theaters in town and see what they’ve got going on. My agent—” I didn’t mention that my agent was actually my former agent because I knew that would start an entirely different conversation I wasn’t prepared to have, “said it might be a good idea to ease back into acting through one of them. Maybe even work for the theater or volunteer if that’s all that’s available.”

  Momma set her fork and knife down on her multi-colored floral print plate. “Sweetie, you sat in a chair in the middle of a stage and broke through the floor on the opening night of—what was it called? Don’t knock it till you ry it?”

  I laughed. “If You’ve Got It, Flaunt It.”

  “Sugar, we’re at the dinner table, don’t be sassy.”

  “I’m not being sassy Momma. If You’ve Got It, Flaunt It is the n
ame or was the name, of the play.”

  Her eyes shifted to Daddy and then back at me and then she stared at her plate. Everyone was silent for a moment, and then Momma said, “Well, bless your ever-lovin’ heart. You did exactly what they said. I don’t know what the fuss is all about then. Maybe you flaunted it a bit much by dropping it a little too low, but us Buckley’s, when we do something, we do it up right, don’t we?”

  “I think maybe you mean she did it down low, honey,” Daddy said. Well, he laughed as he finished the sentence.

  I’d tried to keep a straight face, but it was hard. “Wow, y’all are great at supporting your kid. Thanks, tons.”

  Momma rubbed my shoulder. “You might wanna rethink that piece of pie, sugar.” She winked at me.

  “I have. I’m definitely having two pieces now.”

  “You know what you need?” She wiped her mouth with her napkin. “One of them electronic step trackers. We’ve got a few of them at the thrift shop. I might could get you one if you’d like.”

  “Uh, thanks, but I’ll pass on that one.”

  “Anna.” Daddy eyed her. When she glanced up at him, he told her to hush.

  “What? She’s my daughter, and she needs to know the truth. If her momma can’t tell her it, who can?”

  “The truth about what?” I asked.

  “Honey, maybe it’s time to give up on this dream of acting. I read an article recently. Did you know that over ninety percent of people that go to Hollywood and New York don’t make it? They end up back home and look at you. Look where you are.”

  “Momma, I’m not ready to give up on my dream. Not yet. I have to at least give it a shot. If that doesn’t work, then I’ll try something else.”

  “That sounds like a mighty fine plan, honey,” Daddy said.

  “Don’t you think you already gave it a shot?” she asked.

  I wiped a tear that had mysteriously fallen from my eye. “I’m not ready to give up yet.”

  “Okay then,” she said. “If you’re not ready, then we’ll move on to plan B, whatever that is.” She smiled and went head down into her roast like she hadn’t just attempted to crush my dreams.

  We finished eating, and I helped Momma clean up and then while Daddy checked out my Tribute’s engine, I retrieved the rest of my belongings and began the daunting, humiliating process of recognizing my failed attempt at an Off-Broadway career and moving back in with my parents.

  Daddy had somehow stopped the clanking and banging in my car, though he said only by the grace of God, and he wasn’t sure how long the reprieve would last. I pulled together a mildly conservative, by New York standards at least, semi-professional outfit, and hit the road bright and early the next morning looking for work. Momma had already left for her shift at the thrift shop. She said they’d had a busy day the day before and needed to inventory everything to maximize the Thursday crowd. Apparently, Thursday was the day the Goodwill nearby put out their new arrivals, so the local thrift stores did the same to compete. Thankful she wasn’t there to give an opinion on my outfit of choice, I slapped on the rest of my makeup, piled my long semi-curly blonde highlighted hair on the top of my head in a messy but stylish bun and headed out the door.

  Daddy hollered from the opened garage. “Knock ‘um dead sweetie, or is it break a leg? I’m not cool with your actor talk.”

  “Not saying cool with would be a good place to start, but otherwise either would work.” I blew him a kiss.

  “Oh, I left you a little something in the glove compartment. Don’t spend it all in one place.”

  “You didn’t have to do that,” I said, though I was grateful for the gift.

  “’Course I didn’t, but I did anyway.”

  “Well, thank you. Love you.”

  “Ditto.”

  Saving the cash he’d surprised me with, I used the last of my available credit on my only open card to fill my tank and drove on a wish and a prayer to the first theater in town.

  Walking into the small community theater set my heart rate scurrying into overdrive. I held my chest, confident it would burst out and flop onto the floor in a bloody mess. That would be a real bummer for getting a job, I thought.

  I expected to be nervous, but I hadn’t realized I’d plunge into a full-blown panic attack with sweaty palms and jittery nerves. Every hair on my arms rose to attention like little soldiers prepared for battle, and the tips of my fingers tingled so much I had to shake them to regain feeling. I couldn’t erase the thought of jazz hands and had to stop myself from laughing at the images of the lousy internet memes dancing around in my head.

  I concentrated on my surroundings and remembered what my high school drama teacher taught me. “Even the biggest, most popular actors suffer from stage fright. Just pretend you’re them.”

  So, I walked over to the theater’s main office and knocked on the door like I was Idina Menzel.

  I knew the minute the theater manager opened the office door from the expression on her plastic-surgery-gone-wrong face that she’d recognized me immediately. Giving me the once-over with her steely green eyes in that snobby way New Yorkers did, I wondered why she wasn’t still in the city. Everyone that had previously worked in New York theater had a story. Their level of snobbiness was determined only by the intensity of angst and trepidation attached to their account, or at least the drama to which they portrayed it. If someone’s mother was sick and needed care, that was one thing. Crashing through the floor butt first on the opening night, well, that entirely different. I didn’t play my sorry excuse for angst and trepidation off like it was the worst thing to ever happen to me, because the truth was, it wasn’t. At least I hoped it wasn’t. I walked in proud but humbled. Head up, shoulders straight, smile bright, eyes widened, and scared out of my flipping mind. I hoped my teeth chattering didn’t distract her too much.

  Her eyes traveled from my black Michael Kors slingback pumps, the most expensive shoes I owned, up to my slathered on Bobbi Brown makeup, judging and critiquing every inch of me, every inch of the way. “You’re that girl that went butt-first through the stage floor, right?” She’d chewed gum while she spoke and popped a bubble at the end of her sentence.

  “The floor was in disrepair, and there was rotting wood the theater should have dealt with.” I replied with the canned speech my former agent had created before she’d dropped me like a dead carnival goldfish swirling down the toilet.

  “Perception is reality, honey.” She walked back around her desk and sat. She waved toward the chair on the other side of the desk, signaling for me to take a seat, too. I took that as a good sign. “What brings you to Asheville?”

  “My parents are getting older, and I figured it was a good time to come home for a bit.”

  “Blackballed, I take it?”

  I shrank an inch in seconds flat. “Basically.”

  “It’s a hard-knock life, acting.”

  “My agent thought it might do me some good to try local theater back home. You know, reestablish myself again.”

  “Your agent hung around?”

  I shook my head.

  “Not surprising.” She opened her desk and took out a pack Virginia Slims cigarettes. “You mind?”

  I did, but I wasn’t about to say so. “No, not at all.”

  She placed the thing between her lips and held a lighter to its tip. When it ignited, she drew in from it and did whatever it was smokers did. At least when she exhaled the smoke, she turned her head to the side. I still smelled the stale, offensive used ashtray smell that reminded me of my Uncle Jimmy’s house before my aunt forbade him to smoke inside. At least she didn’t blow it directly in my face. “Listen, babe, here’s the thing. I got a theater to run, and it’s got to make money, or I don’t keep my job, you see what I’m saying?”

  I had a mind to get up and leave right then because I knew exactly what she was saying. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I can’t be having no washed-up-before-she-even-got-started wannabe actress starring in any of m
y performances. You know? It just ain’t good for the theater.”

  “Do you really think the good people of Asheville know what happened in New York? And more importantly, do you think they care?” She wasn’t from North Carolina. The people in town were the forgiving and forgetting kind.

  Asheville people weren’t New York City theater people. Not that people that went to the theater were terrible people because they weren’t. The critics though, they were rough.

  “I’m not talking about the audience, I’m talking about the actors. They’re not going to want to work with someone with your…” Her eyes searched the room as if they could find the right words hanging from a nail on the wall somewhere. “Someone with your credentials.”

  I struggled to stay still and had to force myself to not let my foot tap on the floor. “I can respect that. Perhaps there’s something else I can do, something behind the scenes, for now, that would allow me to earn their respect and then I could ease into a role when you feel the time is right?”

  She leaned back in her chair and puffed on her cigarette. “Oh girl, I think you need to face the hard truth. When you shattered that floor, you shattered your acting career too. It’s over. Move on.” She hiked herself from her chair and walked to the door. “I hate to be the one to have to say it to you, but if I didn’t, someone else would, and I got a feeling they wouldn’t be as gracious.”

  She considered that gracious? A runaway bull from a rodeo was more gracious than that. I had half a mind to tell her that, too, but I didn’t want to make my situation worse. “Thank you for your time,” I said and tucked my tail between my legs as I sulked back to my car.

  Feeling sorry for myself, I decided to use some of the cash Daddy gave me and stopped at a Chick-Fil-A for a quick snack. The Chick-Fil-A lines in New York were ridiculously long, and sure, the company professed to selling their signature sandwich at one location every six seconds, but the Asheville location made New York’s locations seem almost barren in comparison. I passed the first one and drove straight to the one on Hendersonville Road instead.