Dicey's Song (25 page)

“She's coming home with us,” Dicey said.

“I know,” Gram answered, tired. “I've promised her. I promise you.”

Dicey sat down in her own chair. She unbuttoned her coat. “You should have something to eat,” she told Gram. “It's getting dark. It's cold.”

Gram stood up stiffly. Dicey took Momma's limp hand in her two chilly ones. She began to talk to Momma's empty moon face.

When Gram got back she told Dicey she was going to spend the night at the hospital. Preston would walk Dicey back to the motel, and she was waiting downstairs, and Dicey should hurry because the nurse had stayed late just to see Dicey safely back. Dicey didn't argue. Preston, hurrying beside her down the dark streets, asked if she'd be worried about staying alone in a motel room. Dicey wasn't worried, why should be be? She watched TV for a while, but it was stupid so she turned it off and got into her bed. Then she hopped out to put the box with Gram's gloves in it into the pocket of her jacket, so she wouldn't forget them in the morning. Back in bed, she turned out the light and slept.

WHEN DICEY arrived back at the hospital the next morning, the receptionist hurried down the hall to meet her before she had a chance to get on the elevator. But all the woman said was, “Are you going up?”

Dicey didn't answer, just stepped into the machine.

Preston stood with Dr. Epstein when she got off, and they, too, seemed to be waiting for her. But they didn't say anything.

Gram sat by Momma's bed, her face gray with fatigue. But she wasn't holding Momma's hand and Momma wasn't breathing under the smooth sheets. “She's dead now,” Gram said. “At about dawn. I wanted to wait until you could make your farewells.”

Dicey nodded. She came up close to kiss Momma's cool forehead and to brush her sad, short hair. She felt Gram move out of the cubicle as she whispered good-bye from all of them. When Dicey was back in the pale yellow aisle with Gram, she saw that Gram was just standing there. As if Gram didn't know what to do.

“Oh Gram,” Dicey said. Whatever Gram might think, Dicey went up and put her arms all the way around her. They were of a height, she noticed. They didn't cry, they just stood there, holding onto one another, holding close. Dicey could feel how strong Gram's arms were, and how strong were her own. Strong and warm.

“You have to let go,” Gram said harshly, in Dicey's ear. But she didn't loosen her arms. “You have to and I have to.”

Dicey understood. It was Momma they had to let go of.

“I don't want to,” she answered softly.

Gram pulled her head back so she looked into Dicey's face. “Neither do I,” she said. “But I will, and so will you. Because if you don't — let go — it can make you crazy.” Dicey just stood there. “Are you listening to me, girl?” Gram demanded.

Dicey nodded. Gram's hand patted her back and that reminded Dicey. “I got you some gloves,” she said. She took the box out of her pocket and handed it to Gram.

“Why'd you do a thing like that?” Gram demanded. “You don't know my size, and where'd you get the money?”

Dicey understood Gram's anger and let it wash over her. “Open it,” she told Gram. They were standing in the watery light as if they were alone. Gram took the top off the box.

“Well,” Gram said. She took the gloves gently out of the box and stroked the leather with her fingertips. Dicey watched. She knew now why she had wanted to give them to Gram right away: she wanted to give Gram some of the feelings of yesterday afternoon. Because yesterday afternoon, buying presents and thinking about her family, Dicey had felt better. She hadn't forgotten, but she had remembered other things as well.

“Yes, I like them, you know that,” Gram snapped. She slipped one on, then pulled it off. She folded the gloves carefully and put them into her purse. Then she reached out to take Dicey's hand. “Let's finish this business and get home,” she said.

T
HE FOUR OF THEM stood in the hallway, Gram and Dicey, Preston, Dr. Epstein. Nobody knew what to say.

“I'm sorry,” Dr. Epstein said at last. His hands moved nervously, and Dicey bet he would have liked to light one of his little cigars. His eyes flickered away from theirs. “It's for the best. Some of our cases linger on for years.”

Gram cut him off. “I appreciate all you've done,” she said briskly. “And you, as well,” she said to Preston.

“Now about the arrangements,” Dr. Epstein began.

“We'd like to take her back with us,” Gram said.

A frown crossed his face. “But I understood that she lived in Massachusetts. I understood when she was first identified. . . .” His voice tapered off, then ceased. “Ordinarily, Mrs. Tillerman, the charity cases are given over to medical research when. . . .”

Dicey felt the heat of Gram's anger and saw, out of the corner of her eye, Gram's chin lift.

“Yes?” Gram asked.

The doctor did not like this conversation.

“The expense,” he said. “The undertaker, shipping the coffin — down to Maryland, isn't it? I don't think you can pay for it — unless, of course, our records are mistaken.”

“How much would it be?” Gram asked.

“I don't think it could cost you less than seven hundred dollars,” Dr. Epstein answered. His mouth pursed, as if he didn't like to talk about money.

Dicey's heart fell. Seven hundred dollars. They would never have that much money, not for something that wasn't necessary. Then she noticed something: her heart was back in one piece. How had that happened? It wasn't that she didn't feel sad. She felt sad enough, and sad in a way she'd never felt before. Because now Momma was really gone for always. Dicey must have let go and never known it.

“Unless she were cremated,” Preston said. She spoke to the doctor, as if she were suggesting that to him. He shrugged. “If you were to have her cremated and carried her with you,” Preston said to Gram in her gentle voice.

“Not to mention burial expenses,” Dr. Epstein remarked.

“In Maryland, a cremated body can be buried wherever you want,” Gram announced. “Thank you,” she said to Preston. “I wonder if you can recommend an undertaker.”

“You'll see to all this?” Dr. Epstein asked the nurse. She nodded, not speaking. He shook hands with Gram. He nodded to Dicey and strode importantly off down the hall.

Preston gave them the name of an undertaker. She didn't say anything sympathetic, didn't apologize, didn't try to make them feel better. She just helped, as much as she could, telling them how to find the undertaker's, telling them that the undertaker would come to pick up Momma and thanking them for coming to be with Momma.

When they stepped out onto the sidewalk, Gram halted. She opened her purse, took out her new gloves, and put them on her hands. She breathed in deeply. “The air stinks,” she remarked. They set off together.

The undertaker, who wore a dark suit and a solemn expression, received them in his office. He sat behind his desk and filled out forms while Gram gave him information. “I should tell you,” he said, “that Miss Preston called. She thought you would want to expedite the cremation. I have already dispatched a vehicle to pick up the deceased.”

“That's right,” Gram said.

Dicey tried to think of Momma as the deceased and not as Momma. Gram reached out to take her hand and held onto it. Dicey held on back.

“What will the charge be,” Gram asked.

“There is a minimum charge of three hundred and fifty dollars. Then the urn, of course.”

Dicey looked up, surprised.

“In which to place the ashes,” he explained to her. “We have a good selection. If you will choose the one you want, you can return to pick her up at —” he looked at his wristwatch and consulted a paper on his desk ” — three o'clock.”

But when they studied the urns, Dicey couldn't see any she wanted, not for Momma. Some were tall china ones with dark flowers on them. Some were cold metals, silver and brass. Some were plain white china and looked like vases. Dicey didn't say anything, however. It wasn't as if she could pay for any one of them. She stood back and waited.

“No,” Gram muttered to herself. “No and no and no.” She looked at Dicey and spoke grimly. “Not for Liza.”

“But if we're supposed to let go,” Dicey said, because it was what she had been thinking to herself.

“I'm willing to let go,” Gram declared, “because I have to. But I am not going to lose my grip on — on what's right.”

“That doesn't make sense,” Dicey pointed out.

“I don't care. Haven't you got any ideas, girl?”

Well, of course, Dicey did. She had an idea of a box made from many different kinds of wood. She had an idea of the warm brown tones, of the careful workmanship, of the patient sanding smooth. She had an idea of something made by those slow hands, those hands marked by the work they did. But she had no idea of what such a box would cost.

“I was in a store yesterday,” she said to Gram. She was going to say more, but Gram cut her off:

“Good. I'll have to explain the delay. We should hurry, I expect.”

The wood store wasn't empty when they got there, so they waited for the man to slowly serve his other customers. One of the people was buying goblets, another was trying to decide about the big train in the window. Dicey was glad the store was busy.

While they waited, she showed Gram the boxes she'd been talking about. “You're right,” Gram said. “I'm glad you were with me. I'm so defeated, I might just have taken one of those horrible things.”

Dicey stared at Gram. Defeated? Well, she guessed she could understand that.

The man recognized Dicey and greeted Gram as if he recognized her, too.

“We are looking for a small box,” Gram said.

The slow eyes moved between them and then up to the shelf Gram indicated. “I'm sorry to hear that,” the man said.

Gram's eyes snapped at him.

“Your granddaughter was in yesterday,” he said. “Let me show you.”

He brought down three boxes, each about the size of a loaf of bread. They chose one where the band of black walnut ran like a ribbon, as if it were tying down the top of the box. “How much do we owe you?” Gram asked.

“Nothing,” he said.

“Young man!” Gram snapped. “We are not asking for charity.”

“It's OK, Gram,” Dicey said. At the same time, the bearded man put his hands around the box they had chosen. The cuts on his hands were like the grains of the different woods.

“Yesterday, I thought to give her something,” he said to Gram. “I don't know why — yes, I do know why, but I couldn't put words to it. But not out of pity. I would like to give this box to you. I'm honored, you see. You do see that, don't you? But I don't know if you would take it as a gift.”

Gram stared at the hands around the box. Then she said, “Yes, I'll take it,” in a low voice. “I'll take the gift and I'll thank you for it,” she said, more briskly. Dicey could almost hear the creaking of Gram's fingers as she let go of her pride.

“Good,” the man said.

They delivered the box to the undertaker, who told them to return at five. Then they had a late lunch and returned to the motel room to pack. They talked about ordinary things, about taking a train to Wilmington and a bus from there to Salisbury. Dicey changed into her brown dress and belted it at the waist. She and Gram weren't exactly going to make a march, but she wanted to mark the formality of the occasion, taking Momma home. They talked about the presents Dicey had bought, of which Gram approved. Then Gram asked, “Wasn't there change?”

Dicey had more than forty dollars left in her coat pocket and she gave that to Gram. Gram opened her purse to put the money in her wallet.

She looked across to Dicey sitting on the other bed. Gram's face looked frightened. Dicey caught part of the feeling.

“How are we going to pay him?” Gram asked. Her voice was whispery.

“Pay who?”

“That undertaker.” Gram's hands fiddled around with the money in her wallet. Then her fingers explored her purse. “I never thought — about that expense. I thought about travel and room and meals and even the Christmas shopping. But not about the cost of an undertaker. How could I have been so stupid?”

“We can return what I bought,” Dicey suggested. “We could, except the gloves, and I've got four dollars of my own money left.”

Gram rustled desperately through her purse. Then she pulled out the envelope Mr. Lingerie had given her, looking at it as if she had forgotten what it was. She opened it and pulled out crisp money in fifty dollar bills. “Five hundred dollars,” she said softly. “Five
hun
dred — he must have gone to the bank. He must have guessed. I ask you, Dicey, isn't that something for him to do? How did he know?”

Dicey wasn't thinking about anything except that the color was coming back into Gram's cheeks.

“Did I look all that discombobulated when I left home?” Gram demanded.

“No,” Dicey said. “You looked like you knew exactly what you were doing. I thought you did,” she complained.

“Well, you were wrong,” Gram snapped. “But that's all right now. Remind me to thank him.”

Dicey snorted. Gram wouldn't need any reminding.

“We'd better call them, don't you think?” Gram told Dicey. “To tell them. And when we'll be back.”

“Will they be home from school?”

“I believe in getting things over with,” Gram said.

So they called the house in Crisfield. Gram placed the call, placed it collect. She spoke to Mr. Lingerie first, brushing aside his sympathy but making a point to tell him that without his money she would have been in real difficulty. She told him that they were taking a train that got into Wilmington at eight in the morning, and they would take buses down from there. Gram expected to see everybody at home, after school, she said. As far as Dicey could tell, Mr. Lingerie was saying
yes, ma'am
and
yes, ma'am
on the other end of the phone. Then Gram handed the phone to Dicey.

She told James first. “Momma died,” she said.

“I figured that out,” he told her. His voice sounded thin. “It's better this way, Dicey,” he said in that same thin voice. “I read about it, at the library. Almost nobody recovers, when they're as far gone as Momma was.”

“You didn't tell me that,” Dicey said. “And I don't think it's better, no matter what you say.”

“And it isn't as if. . . . She really died last summer,” James told her.

“That's not true,” Dicey snapped, although she understood what he meant. The worst of the letting go had been the hope they'd still had, last summer.

“Yes, it is,” James answered.

Dicey stopped arguing with him. She heard Sammy wrestle the phone from James with an angry demand.

“It's not true, is it, Dicey?”

“It's true, Sammy,” she told him. “It's really true. She didn't want to.”

“How do you know?”

“I don't know, how could I know?” Dicey admitted. “But I feel it. She didn't mind, she never even opened her eyes.”

“But, Dicey, I wanted her to get better,” Sammy said.

“I know,” Dicey told him. “It'll be all right, Sammy, it will. We'll all be all right. Adopted means — somebody wants you to be her family.”

“But I wanted Momma to be all right too,” Sammy wailed.

“So did I,” Dicey said. “But she wasn't.” She thought for a minute, trying to see Sammy holding onto the phone, in the living room; trying to see his face and into his brain. “You know what I'd do if I were at home?” she asked.

“What?”

“I'd go out to the barn and sand down on the boat. Is it warm enough to work in the barn? That wouldn't make anything better, but it would make me feel better.”

“I have to deliver papers.”

“After the papers. Try it, Sammy. If you want to. Let me talk to Maybeth?”

“Dicey?” Maybeth's voice asked.

“We're going to be home tomorrow,” Dicey told her sister.

“We're all right,” Maybeth said. “Are you all right? Is Gram?”

“Everybody's all right,” Dicey said. “Except Momma.”

“I know,” Maybeth said, her voice sad and musical. “I know.” She didn't say anything more, so Dicey hung up.

“I hate the telephone,” Dicey announced to Gram.

“You need to have one,” Gram told her. “With children in the house. We'd better get going. We have to check out and go over to that undertaker's. Have you kept the box out?”