Looking for Salvation at the Dairy Queen (14 page)

Dear Catherine Grace,

Got your letter, and I don't think Miss Raines's condition is anything to joke about. And she certainly cannot explain the baby's conception on a felt board like you suggested. Very funny Catherine Grace.

Listen to me, this is serious, and I don't think you really understand that, not being here and all. I mean things have settled down a bit. Parents have quit showing up at the school every day waiting in line to talk to the principal. And most of the kids have come back to her Sunday-school class.

But Daddy is acting very strange, and Miss Raines has been coming by the house almost every day to talk to him. She told me the other night that she's sorry to keep bothering us but that she finds the company of her preacher particularly comforting right now at this very trying time. Trying. Not joyful. Trying.

And Daddy tends to her like she was having his baby. Catherine Grace, don't you get it? Miss Raines is having Daddy's baby! I am absolutely certain of it!!! That's why nobody's ever met Donald Semple. There is no Donald Semple. There is only our Daddy.

Please come home. I need you.

Love,                                                                                 
Martha Ann

December 15, 1975

Catherine Grace,

I don't sound a thing like Mrs. Huckstep! And I can't believe you would even say that. You're not here, remember, and you have no idea what it's like to watch Daddy and Miss Raines together. It's not some crazy, made-up idea of mine. It's the truth. But stick your big head in the sand for all I care.

You didn't say one word about coming home for Christmas. Maybe you think your needing to be here, at home, with your family, is another one of my crazy ideas!!!

Martha Ann

M
y daddy was not having anybody's baby. That idea was nothing more than the nonsensical jabbering of a bunch of overwrought, emotional women—including my very own sister! Daddy might still have feelings for Miss Raines, but he was not her baby's daddy. Lord, I only hoped Martha Ann was not spreading this crazy idea of hers around town any more than she already had. And I only hoped she remembered what happened when she told Ruthie Morgan that Gloria Jean had gone to some
specialist
in Dalton to have a
cyst
removed. The next thing you knew, Gloria Jean's
sister
was in Dalton tending to the
special
needs of some doctor.

Daddy loved Miss Raines, we all knew that, but apparently not enough to marry her and certainly not enough to have her baby. He would have done it the right way. He would have started with a ring, not a pacifier.

I told Miss Mabie and Flora all about Miss Raines. I told them how she used to love my daddy but now she was marrying a man named Donald. I told them how she'd gone and gotten herself pregnant before she got herself married. And I told them how my little sister was convinced there was no man named Donald and that she was having my daddy's baby instead.

Flora said that a true man of God would never give in to the desires of the flesh like that. Miss Mabie told Flora to open her eyes, that a true man of God was no different than any other man when it came to satisfying his most basic need.

Miss Mabie said that when she lived in New York City, she knew a Broadway director who had donated his sexual time and energy to three women, leaving them each with a baby to raise. As far as she was concerned, anything was possible when it came to men and their paternal output. I was pretty certain she was talking about sex, but I'd never heard it put quite like that. But that director was not my daddy. Flora just shook her head and kept saying, “Lord have mercy. Say it ain't so. Lord have mercy.”

And now, given the very delicate nature of Miss Raines's condition, Martha Ann was never going to forgive me for not coming home for Christmas. Just like Thanksgiving, Mr. Wallis did remember telling me that I could have an extra day during the Christmas holiday since my family didn't live here in town. And just like Thanksgiving, he said that I was welcome to take it. But he also told me that he and all of the other managers and manager trainees would be back in the store first thing on the twenty-sixth, and he would prefer that I wait till the first of the year.

Although Mr. Wallis never talked about his personal life, I was more certain than ever that he had never had a wife or children. All he ever said was that his family was right here at Davison's. Seemed kind of like a funny place to call home.

But one thing was for darn certain: My sister was not going to understand anything other than my being home in Ringgold, Georgia, on Christmas morning. But I couldn't afford to be anywhere but here in Atlanta, especially considering the fact that I was the only soon-to-be manager trainee at Davison's who didn't wear a coat and tie. Mr. Wallis told me just the other day that pending a positive performance evaluation, I would be officially approved for the management-trainee program. He said it was about time there was a manager at Davison's wearing high heels.

I was on my way. I just felt it in my bones. I felt it in my heart. I really believed that my being here, working at Davison's, living with Miss Mabie—it was all part of a greater plan. I just wished my family understood that.

When I was little, I never thought God was listening to me. I never thought He got it, how badly I wanted this. Turns out, the Lord was listening all along, and when the Lord is showing you the door, Daddy always said you better walk through it.

Next Christmas, things would be different.

December 23, 1975

Dear Catherine Grace,

I never thought your dream would mean giving up your family. Hope you have a Merry Christmas with Miss Mabie and Flora.

Martha Ann

CHAPTER EIGHT

Leaving the Promised Land with a Blue Vinyl Suitcase

F
lora handed me the telegram. She didn't know what it said, but I guess she figured it had to be bad if somebody had taken the time to send a message by Western Union. Thank God she was standing there beside me because I fell right into her strong, black arms.

The next thing I remember is hearing her deep, gentle voice telling me to let the sadness pour out of my body. “Oh Lord, child, just let it out. Just let it out,” she kept chanting, all the time holding me tight, pressing my head against her bosom.

My daddy was dead, and unlike a six-year-old girl, I knew what dead meant. I knew I was never again going to hear his voice calling me to the breakfast table or call out the high-school football scores. I was never going to see his body sway behind the pulpit or his strong hands tenderly handle the vines of a young tomato plant. He was gone, and he had left this world just as suddenly as my mama, not even bothering to tell me good-bye. Nestled in Flora's arms, I felt terribly alone. I cried and cried right there on the living room floor until my entire body began to ache, and then I cried some more.

Miss Mabie sat in a chair, wringing her hands. She looked awkward amid all the crying and left Flora to comfort and soothe my trembling body. I held my head up long enough to tell Miss Mabie that I needed to go to Ringgold as soon as I could. Martha Ann needed me, I said, and I needed Martha Ann. I needed to be in my own house, crying into my own pillow. I needed Gloria Jean. And I needed my daddy. “Miss Mabie,” I softly pleaded, “if you or Flora could just get me to the Greyhound station, I sure would appreciate it.” I needed to go home.

But instead I found myself sitting on my bed in Miss Mabie's house, staring out the picture window while Flora scurried about the room packing all my belongings into my set of blue vinyl suitcases, the ones, I told her, that my daddy had given me for my sixteenth birthday.

Miss Mabie said she and Flora both were going to personally deliver me to Ringgold. She said I was in a fragile state and shouldn't be traveling on my own. Then she told Flora that when she finished packing my bags to come and find her, that she was going down to the kitchen to make some sandwiches for the trip, and she wanted Flora to give her a hand. She said we needed to get on the road just as soon as we could. She didn't want Flora driving after dark.

Flora kept moving about my room, stopping only to mumble a short
yes ma'am
to let Miss Mabie know she would meet her in the kitchen as soon as the packing was done. I just kept staring at the magnolia tree. It had always looked so grand and magnificent, but today it was mocking me, reminding me that I was the one who had up and left my daddy's nest. I closed my eyes and saw my daddy sitting in his worn, brown reclining chair, holding his Bible, begging the Lord to bring his baby girl home. Now I was on my way.

Flora zipped my suitcases closed, and then she sat down on the bed next to me, taking my hands into hers. “Miss Catherine Grace, I'm gonna go downstairs and git you somethin’ to eat. I've never known Miss Mabie to make much of anythin’ in the kitchen ’cept maybe pour herself a glass of milk, and she don't even do that without makin’ a mess. But you gonna need to eat. You gotta keep up your strength,” Flora said, squeezing my hands to let me know she understood what it took to bury someone you love.

“Miss Catherine Grace,” she said, as she raised her body off the bed, “you know this ain't your fault. It was jus' your daddy's time. God got himself a reason. We jus' gots to accept it, baby.”

Flora sounded so certain that for a moment I wanted to believe her. But I knew she was wrong. God didn't do this. Not this. He took my mama, I was sure of that, but He didn't take my daddy. I had done that all by myself, without any help from above. I hurt my daddy's heart so badly, it just stopped beating.

Miss Mabie wrapped three tuna fish sandwiches in wax paper and put them in a brown paper bag along with some apples and oatmeal cookies and three Coca-Colas, more than enough food for the three of us considering we were only going a couple of hours up the road. After Miss Mabie walked out to the garage, I saw Flora unwrap each one of the sandwiches, checking to make sure they were good enough to eat. She added some lettuce and a dash of salt and then rewrapped the sandwiches and packed them away in the brown paper bag.

Flora took me by the arm and led me out to Miss Mabie's black sedan, opening the rear door and guiding me into the backseat. She lifted my suitcases into the trunk, thinking I might want to stretch out and shut my eyes for a bit. Then she slammed the door closed and slid behind the steering wheel. Miss Mabie sat in the front next to Flora. I could barely see Miss Mabie's white head bobbing above the seat, but I could hear her raspy, old voice telling me to lean on the Lord. But all I could do was lean my head on the car window and stare at the bare, dead-looking trees blur one into the next as we sped along the highway.

In the reflection of the glass, I could see Martha Ann, sitting at the kitchen table, all alone, waiting for me to come home. She had been waiting a long time. She said the pot roast was getting cold. I told her I was on my way. But she said it was too late.

Then I heard Miss Mabie calling my name, telling me to open my eyes. I had fallen into a dream, and I wanted her to hush so I could drift back to my place at the table. Daddy would be there, waiting for me.

“Catherine Grace, child, Catherine Grace,” Miss Mabie said, her voice determined and insistent, bringing me back to the sadness I had managed to escape for a while. “Sweetie, we are almost to Ringgold, and Flora needs some directions to your house.”

I raised my head above the seat and peered out the windshield. The sky was spitting just a few drops of rain, but Flora switched on the windshield wipers anyway, causing them to screech as they moved back and forth across the glass. The rain was making her skittish, and Miss Mabie had to keep telling Flora that she needed to calm down and open her eyes before we ran off the road. I told Flora to turn right and left and then left again. Still feeling fairly foggy brained, I wasn't sure if I was sending her in the right direction or not. But when I looked up, there was my house, my white, wooden house with the big front porch. It looked brokenhearted, too.

Cars were parked in the driveway and up and down both sides of the gravel road. Apparently everyone in Ring-gold was either inside my house or standing on the porch. As the preacher's daughter, I had been around death enough to know that they had come as much to express their sympathies as they had to support one another during their time of great loss.

“Lord child,” said Flora, “your daddy musta been a great man, a true servant of the Lord, jus' look at all these people who comin’ to pay their respects.”

But I wanted them to go away, just like when Mama died.

Brother Fulmer, dressed in his usual denim overalls and white cotton shirt, was leaning against the house, not saying a word to the people gathered around him. He was dabbing his eyes with a handkerchief when he heard Flora pull into the driveway. He raised his head and stared at Miss Mabie's black sedan. I'm sure he was wondering who these two, strange women were, one black and one white, and why they had come to Reverend Cline's house.

“Flora,” Miss Mabie said, “you grab Catherine's bags and help her into the house. I'm going to walk on ahead and introduce ourselves.”

Carrying all three suitcases in her hands, Flora did as she was told. She led the way to my own front door, the crowd parting in front of her as if she were navigating the Red Sea. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see their sad, curious stares.

Flora set the bags down on the porch and stepped aside. I stood frozen in the open doorway, not sure whether to take the next step or sink to my knees. From out of the confusion swelling inside my house, Gloria Jean rushed toward me and snatched me up in her arms.

“Oh baby, I am so sorry,” she said. “I am so, so sorry.”

With the sound of her voice, the pain started pouring out of my body again. “I did this,” I sobbed, confessing my sin. “I left him. He didn't want me to go. My leaving, it, it was too much for him. I killed him, Gloria Jean. I broke his heart.”

But Gloria Jean told me to hush.

“Stop that right now, Catherine Grace. I don't want to hear that kind of talk out of your mouth again. This had nothing to do with you. Blame the Lord if you want, He's the one who decides who's coming and going, but you had nothing to do with it,” she said in a firm, unwavering tone, pushing me back from her chest so she could look me directly in the eyes.

“You understand me,” she added, more as a command than a question. I wanted to believe her, but forgiveness wasn't as simple a thing as the Bible or Gloria Jean would have you believe.

Then she walked me into the house, holding my body next to hers. Ida Belle and Roberta Huckstep were passing plates of ham biscuits. Mrs. Huckstep nodded as I passed, for once uncertain of what to say. Ida Belle gave me a hug and a hot ham biscuit neatly wrapped in a paper napkin. She said I needed to keep up my strength. I figured she'd already been talking to Flora.

Gloria Jean kept moving me through the room, not letting anyone pull me into a conversation. But suddenly I felt somebody tugging at my hand. It was Lolly. She hugged me tight around the neck and said she was sorry about my daddy. She said her own mama cried when she heard about Reverend Cline dying so sudden and all. Lolly said there was so much she wanted to tell me, and she hoped we'd get a chance to talk while I was in town. I told her I was glad she was here. When I was in Atlanta, I honestly hadn't thought of Lolly much since I'd gone to the Varsity with Babs. I guess I was too busy thinking about myself, but now, looking at her face, I wanted to drag her into my bedroom and tell her everything that was racing through my head—everything about Daddy, Miss Raines, Martha Ann, Mr. Wallis—just everything.

Miss Raines was sitting on a chair in the far corner of the room. Her long, blond hair was pulled back tight in a ponytail, and her beautiful blue eyes looked red and swollen. She was alone, weeping gently into a worn-out Kleenex she held up to her face. Until now, I had forgotten about my Sunday-school teacher and her delicate condition. Martha Ann was wrong about her and Daddy. She must have been spending too much time listening to Emma Sue and her grandmama's web of lies and gossip. Daddy was a true man of God, just like Flora said. He loved Miss Raines. I knew that. And I also knew he would have never taken a woman into his bed without a wedding ring on her finger. But I couldn't think about that right now.

Gloria Jean led me to Martha Ann's bedroom and opened the door. The light was low, but I could see my little sister, lying on the bed with a pillow over her head. “She hasn't come out of here since this morning. Maybe you can get her to talk. At least get her to take that pillow off her head before she suffocates.”

I stepped quietly into her room, not sure if she was sleeping or just hiding in her own body.

“Martha Ann, it's me . . . Catherine Grace,” I said gently as I moved closer to the bed. She sighed, letting me know she wasn't asleep. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't here with you.” But Martha Ann remained motionless, refusing to acknowledge my presence.

“Martha Ann,” I said again, this time sitting down on the bed next to her, stroking her head just like I did when she was little and had a hard time calming down at night. “I know you can hear me, whether you want to or not, so I'm just going to keep talking,” I said, pausing for a minute while I tried to straighten out my thoughts. “I never meant to hurt you or Daddy. I just wanted something of my own and I guess I thought that . . .

“Well, I guess I figured, way down deep, Daddy understood. I mean when he gave me the luggage, I always thought it was his way of . . . Oh God, I don't know. But I do know that I wouldn't have left if I thought for one minute I could have done something, anything to keep Daddy from dying.”

I knew my thoughts were pained and twisted, but I couldn't help believing that I was at least partly to blame for me and my sister being left alone, without a mama or a daddy. If she never spoke to me again, I would accept that as part of some deserved punishment I must endure for the rest of my life. But then she moved. Martha Ann moved her right foot just a tiny little bit, but it was enough to let me know she was willing to talk. I lifted the pillow off her face and saw the tears running down her cheeks. I started crying too, and without saying another word, we held on to each other, painfully aware that we were all alone in Ringgold, Georgia.

I woke up the next morning in Martha Ann's bed and found my house feeling more like its old self. Everyone had left, except for Gloria Jean, Miss Mabie, and Flora. Gloria Jean had convinced them to stay a few days, and Flora was already at the stove cooking bacon and scrambling a dozen eggs. And Miss Mabie and Gloria Jean were sitting around the breakfast table chatting like old friends.

“Well, honey,” Gloria Jean said as soon as she saw me walk through the kitchen door, “you are looking much better this morning. I was pretty worried about you and your sister last night. Sit down.” She motioned for me to take a seat next to her.

“Your dear Miss Mabie and I have been getting to know one another. Turns out, she and I come from the same part of Alabama, right outside Birmingham. We figure there's a good chance we may be kinfolk. Heck, we figure there's a good chance we even loved some of the same kinfolk, the Birmingham Hixson boys,” she said with a laugh, nodding at Miss Mabie as though they had a closely guarded secret. “How do you like that!”

I couldn't help but laugh a little, too. It felt good. I took my seat at the table between Miss Mabie and Gloria Jean, and all of the sudden I started thinking about what color nail polish Gloria Jean would find appropriate for a funeral, probably some deep, dark shade of red, like Ruby River Night. And then I felt guilty, wondering why I was thinking about something as silly as nail polish the day after my daddy died.