Quiet-Crazy (18 page)

When I finish thinking on the miracle of me becoming me, I call Aunt Lona and tell her I'll see her after church, that I've decided, after all, to go to church, but not to the regular church. I want to go worship in Daddy's flower garden so I can see some more miracles, for that's where the miracles are—in flowers, in the birds, in the stars, if you can see far enough into them, in the rays of the sun beaming down, in the morning glories, blue and pink and white—you don't find miracles in the church, unless it's there in the people themselves, but they go looking for the miracles in the history teachings of the Bible instead of inside themselves.

So, I sit down on the little grassy hill above Daddy's flower garden and I look at the chrysanthemums and the daisies and the early blooming roses, and I thank God for every single one of them. I thank God, too, for Daddy, who has seen
fit to seed these little miracles in the earth and for Mama, who sees the miracles in the wildflowers alongside the road. It's harder thanking God for Mama, but for the first time I am feeling some of the respect for her that I have always felt for Daddy. And with respect, comes love, doesn't it, at least that's what Daddy always says. Anyway, they're mixed together in there somehow.

Oh, I know deep down that I love Mama, as children, you know, love their parents, which means sometimes just taking for granted that they'll always be there. But at my age, I think there should be a little more of the respect kind of love between Mama and me, and not until now did I see a chance of that happening, in spite of what all has happened in the past. Mama may always feel disappointed in me, I don't know. But that's okay. That will be her problem that she'll have to deal with along the way, not Elizabeth's problem. I'll settle for disappointment any time, in exchange for getting to be Elizabeth. That's better than trying to be Angela for the rest of my life.

Anyway, I have my church service there at the flower garden, thanking God, or whatever the great force is in the universe, for life itself, and life includes people, people at the church worshiping in their own way, and people in Littleton who choose not to go to church, but who are still okay in their own right because they are human beings that God
made, and would He ever make anything that was totally bad, I don't think so.

And at last I get around to thanking him for me, for Elizabeth, and for Angela, too. I know it says in the Bible that a house divided cannot help but fall, but my house of Elizabeth is going to have to divide, and I think God understands that it will have to fall, that I will have to let Angela go, if I am going to live a normal life.

Normal. That seems so, what was that other word I learned just last week, “elusive,” that's it. Normal always seems so elusive to me. I've never thought I would be acting in any such way. But maybe I will. Maybe I will. And the news Mama brings home from church about Mary Jane Payne, that makes me more determined than ever to get as normal as possible. What news? Well, Mary Jane Payne had walked down the aisle, took hold of Preacher Edwards's hand and “got saved.” Mary Jane Payne—saved. Born again. Free from sin. Just like that. In the twinkling of an eye. I had to go see Mary Jane. See her for myself. So, after lunch I walked over the hill and down to the Frostee-Burg, the Sunday afternoon hanging-out place.

I halfway wonder if Mary Jane would be hanging out as usual, too—her breasts pushing out of her blouse, her rear pushing out of her too-short shorts. But, no, that's mean of me, I decide. Mary Jane would be changed. At least for
a while. And, well, she has changed outwardly. She still has on her Sunday church dress instead of shorts. Instead of smoking cigarettes, she is chewing around real hard on a wad of gum. She isn't talking and laughing loud, like usual. In fact, when I get to the picnic table where she's sitting, in spite of her surprise on seeing me, she seems to me right downcast and glum underneath the glad hellos.

“Elizabeth!” she says, as pleasant as possible. “I didn't know you were back home. Your mama didn't say nothing about it at church. Why, how in the world are you doing? Come on, sit down,” she says, patting the side of the table across from her.

“Let me get some lemonade, first,” I say. “Lord, I've missed that stuff. Nathan's not known for its lemonade, you know. Lemons, maybe,” I try joking, but it falls down and goes nowhere, whereas the old Mary Jane would've guffawed at hearing something like that. I walk on over to the window of the Frostee-Burg to place my order, all the while fussing at myself inside my head for even trying to joke about Nathan. Why, that's what everybody else around here does; and here I am, acting just like them.

Mr. Snipes, who's never won any awards for friendliness, doesn't even say “hello” nor anything. He just looks at me, except his looking is a little more puzzling than usual; he looks as if he is looking at something in a zoo. But, I say to myself, that little window has two sides, and Mr. Snipes is
the one inside the cage, not me. “I've missed your lemonades,” I say, trying to break his staring, but he just nods and keeps on staring. I look back out at Mary Jane, and she is staring at me, I look around at the teenagers at the other tables, and they're staring. Everybody, everywhere they all just look at me, like they are holding their breath to see what will happen next. “I'll have a lemonade, please,” I say, as politely as possible, while counting out my change. Mr. Snipes just stands. Still staring. I look around, stalling for time, stalling to figure out what to do, what to say.

“Well,” I say finally, “are you going to get me a DAMN lemonade, or will I have to go somewhere else?”

At that Mr. Snipes snaps alive and springs into action. “Sure, sure,” he says, “what size? Small, medium, or large?”

“Ah, heck, just mix 'em,” I said, “small, medium, and large. Mix 'em up altogether real good.” Although I can't believe I'm joking around like this, still it feels good in a way. Until I look out at Mary Jane. She still isn't laughing. Only looking at me. Changed, she is. Everybody is changed. Change yourself, and . . . presto! Everybody else changes, too. Even Mary Jane Payne. Even Mary Jane. I still can't believe it, and for a moment I want to go back. Back to being Angela, or whoever and whatever it was I've been being. All this . . . everybody staring at you . . . everybody changed . . . looking like strangers. Suddenly, I want to be
back at Nathan. Now it seems Nathan is the real world, and here are the “crazy people.” Scary. Out-of-this-world scary, like I'm standing outside of my body, standing back, standing aside, looking out and down on everything and everyone. I am not a part of it all. But separate. I am not them. They are not me.

Mr. Snipes now at the window plunks down three cups I can choose from—small, medium, large, all full of lemonade, and an empty cup, some size I'd never seen before, a no-size, non-regular cup. And he, Mr. Snipes, pours lemonade from all three sizes, small, medium, large into the strange, new container. If he weren't looking so serious I would be laughing. Imagine what he must think. He thinks I am serious. And . . . yes, (pardon me, Dr. Adams) I'll have to admit, he probably thinks I am crazy.

“That'll be five more cents,” he says, “including tax.”

I add more change to my counted-out money, hand it over, pick up the lemonade, and walk back to the picnic table and Mary Jane.

Sitting down, I raise the lemonade in a toast to her, just like she always toasted her beer. “Here's to new containers,” I say.

I
have no trouble at all throwing my arms around Aunt Lona, but then I never did flinch when it came to hugging her, and it's probably because she has always hugged me and always will, until the day I die . . . or she dies, whoever goes first. It makes Mama uneasy, us hugging, like she's somehow jealous, or something, and it makes me shiver to think she doesn't want another woman hugging me.

“Beth, hon, you look so good!”

“Shoot, I haven't even thought about looks, Aunt Lona, well . . . not much, anyway. Can't you tell by this?” I grab my hair. It is down below my ears and almost straight, except for a few strawlike frizzes on the ends.

“It's going to look great, Beth, just like I promised it would, if you'd let it grow out. But we'll get to 'hair' later. Come on in here,” she says, leading me on into the kitchen, “and let's talk about
you.”

“There's so much to tell. Aunt Lona, so much. I don't even know where to begin.”

“We'll begin with this,” she says, setting out a plate of apple strudel and pouring us both a cup of tea. And although it's Aunt Lona I've always talked to, when I want to talk about deep things, I wish, oh how I wish it was Mama sitting here with me now. And that's not taking anything away from Aunt Lona; I just plain out wish I could have a real heart-to-heart talk with Mama. Just for once in my life.

“Well, they must be doing something right, Beth,” says Aunt Lona. “I declare if you don't look like you feel one hundred percent better!”

“Really?” I say, mighty surprised. “I promise I haven't thought all that much about the outside of me, I've been so much into what's going on inside.”

“I think it's your eyes,” Aunt Lona says, looking close at them. “Yes, your eyes. They have a bit of sparkle about them.”

“Really?” I say, again, feeling even better about myself than I've felt out in Daddy's flower garden. “So does that mean feeling better inside makes you look better outside?”

“I think the two are related,” Aunt Lona says. “Sometimes looking good can make you feel good inside, too. But, you're right, of course, the insides have to be taken care of first.”

“Well, my insides are getting a thorough scrubbing,” I say.

Aunt Lona stops her talking, as if to say, “I'm not going to be nosey and ask questions, I'm going to let you tell me whatever you want.” And although she doesn't say those words exactly, that's just the kind of feeling I always have with Aunt Lona, that I can tell her anything, you know, well . . . except for the one thing that I can't tell anybody about.

So I start in, and I don't stop, and the strange thing is, I'm talking more about the other folks at Nathan than about me, because even though I can tell Aunt Lona most anything, for some reason I can't tell her about the way I'm changing and the different things I have been learning about me and about Mama. It's kind of like trying to tell somebody what a word means, when you know inside what it means, and you can use that word, but you can't give them an exact definition, so you end up just kind of talking around the meaning and using it in a sentence to show what it means. I guess that's what I'm doing. Since I can't give an exact definition of myself, I'm “talking around my meaning” by talking about the other people at Nathan.

And the best thing about seeing Aunt Lona is that I feel, no I am sure, that she understands all of this. Although I sit there telling her about all the other people at Nathan, and what I am doing with them, I can see that she is reading between the lines and learning more about my definition
of myself, my meaning, than I am able to tell her. Because when I am finally winding down, she just sighs a real long sigh. And she smiles, like she is ever so pleased with me.

“Beth, I am so
glad
I insisted on you going to the doctor. Although Vera may never speak to me again, I knew I had to do something to get you out of that bed.”

I wonder, then, if I ever will be able to get my own self out of that other bed. And like all the other times I have thought about it, I know that, no, that bed will always be there. But what I can do, what I have done, is decide that I don't have to lie in it. That is one bed I didn't make, and since I, myself, didn't make it, I don't have to lie in it.

“Do you think Mama really won't speak to you?”

“She hasn't. I've called her several times since you've been away. I even went over there once. She won't even acknowledge me.”

“Well, Mama told me this morning that she was done with me. Through. Finished. And I think she means exactly that. But you know what, Aunt Lona? It was sad in a way to hear her talking like that, yet in another stronger way, it felt good, I mean
good
to know she's through with me. Is that crazy or not?”

“That's not crazy, Beth. That, I think, is the most healthy way you could possibly feel at this time. I think it's an indication of how far you've come, how much you've changed. And your mother, she will have to change in some way. When
we make changes in ourselves, those around us change in some way, it's like a ripple effect.”

“Yes!” I said. “Yes! Aunt Lona, it seems like Mama and Daddy both have changed in some way. But right now I'm not sure how they have changed, or if they've changed for the better. And, too, although it seems like they've changed, in some strange way it's like they have also stayed just the same. It's weird, Aunt Lona, weird!”

Aunt Lona laughs. “There's an old saying,” she says, “that goes something like this: ‘the more things change, the more they stay the same.'”

Although I laugh along with her, this thought slows me down. “I don't want to stay the same, Aunt Lona. I can't anymore, I just can't.”

“Well, of course not, dear. You will be changing a lot. I can see that now. And I am so happy for you.”

“And I'm happy that you're going to be driving me back today. If there's one thing worse than putting up with Mama, it's going and coming to Nathan with Sheriff Tate and Preacher Edwards. And I don't know which is worse, cooped up with someone that helps enforce man's laws or God's laws. Either way, it's downright creepy.”

But it is just right, riding down to Nathan with Aunt Lona, because she gets me to thinking about what I'm going to do when I come back home, and she tells me I can come and live with her, if I want to, and that, no, I don't have to work
at the pants factory for the rest of my life, and that, yes, I should think of going on to college, and that, of course, she will help me in any way and every way that she possibly can, and even though I've known all along in my heart she would help me in college, still hearing all this makes me feel not too bad about coming back to Littleton, even though everything will be really changed.