Raney (14 page)

I said, and I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, "Mr. Brooks, Uncle Nate made it clear that he wanted donations to go to the Elon Boys' Home." I felt like I had to say it for Uncle Nate
—
because he would have said it.

"We give to the Boys' Home
—
provide building funds every other year," says Mr. Brooks, "so it's the same thing."

"Well," I
says
, "I don't think it is the same thing. I don't think
—
"

"Raney, let's let these people decide for themselves. I think they can
—
"

"My Uncle Nate is the one who has already decided, Mr. Brooks. It's his place to make this decision, not these people's or anybody else's, or yours. He's the one who died and had the right to say what's to be done in the area of flowers and donations.
Everybody,"
I said.
"Everybody please come in here. I have an announcement."
We were in the living room. I had to get this straightened out. And deep down I know what Uncle Nate thought of Mr. Brooks. What most people think of Mr.
Brooks.
He'll sit in church and nod his head when he approves and disapproves
—
like the Pharisees Jesus talked about, showing themselves in church. Two Sundays ago I was sitting behind him and he nodded his disapproval at a real cute skit two girls did right before the service. The very idea: as if the final word resided in him. Then right after that when they made the announcement that three boys were going to read the New Testament from start to finish on the next Saturday, he nodded his
approval.
I think he had it backwards. Those boys ought to be out mowing some old people's grass. You never heard of Jesus standing around all day reading out loud when he could be doing something for somebody who needed help.

People came in from the kitchen and stood in the doorways and all around. There was already a bunch of people sitting in the living room. I was nervous, but I was mad. "You all," I said, "Uncle Nate asked, and the newspaper says, that donations go to the Elon Boys' Home
—
no flowers. And I just wanted to repeat that because I think Uncle Nate's wishes should be followed." I was hoping that's all I would have to say. That it would be over with that.

Mrs. Fuller
—
of course
—
asks, "What about the Missionary Building Fund?" She has a God-given knack.

"I don't think so," I said. "I'm sorry, but I really don't think so. I mean that was not included in what Uncle Nate told me and Mama. If the Boys' Home wants to donate to the Building Fund, that's fine."

There was this pause. Mr. Brooks was sitting there in front of the picture window with it getting dark outside and Mama's
Gone
With
the Wind
lamp lit over his shoulder. He didn't say anything, thank goodness; he just got up and walked out, mad I guess, and it didn't bother me one iota. Not one bit. I was tore all to pieces anyway and here he comes collecting money, of all things, over somebody's dead body.

Daddy was shook up through the whole thing. He mostly sat around not saying anything. Not laughing. Some people laugh and talk like the dead person hasn't died. But Daddy just sat like somebody had slapped him, and mother told about what had happened over and over and all about how she had tried through the years to get Uncle Nate straight and that she guessed she had failed.

That night we all went to the funeral home. I was worried that Charles would make a scene like with Uncle Newton but he didn't. He even walked up to the casket and looked at Uncle Nate, who looked like he was asleep. His coloring was real good, in spite of what had happened.

It was all a shock. There was this giant black hole in my life. And it couldn't all hit me at once. It was like
a
hourglass was holding things back.

When we'd been back from the funeral home about thirty minutes, Mary Faye came over and sat down beside me on the couch and said she thought Uncle Nate must have been real worried about things to shoot himself. I agreed. Charles came over and sat beside me and asked me where Norris was. I said I didn't know.

"Let's take him and Mary Faye for a ride to Hardee's and see how they're doing."

I hadn't even thought about Mary Faye and Norris. Charles thinks about things like that sometimes and I'm so thankful he's that way. I know he'll be a good father because of it.

Norris was in the kitchen eating apple pie. The food was mounting up.

On the way to Hardee's, Charles asked them how they were feeling about it all. They said they were sad. Mary Faye said she kept seeing Uncle Nate's face in her mind. Norris said that Jimmy Pope said Uncle Nate should have shot himself in the temple if he wanted to do it right, and Norris said he told Jimmy that if he didn't have something good to say to shut up. I told him that's exactly what he should have said.

While we were at Hardee's, Norris asked us why people commit suicide and Charles explained about not having anything to hope for and having your body hurt real
bad
. He explained it all. I didn't have to explain much. He got it just about right. I'm glad we gave them some attention. I think they needed it.

Saturday, the funeral home men drove up the driveway in the big silver gray cars. Mr. Simmons came in the back door and made a little speech about what everybody was supposed to do. Charles didn't say a word.

Somebody had thrown a Coke-a-cola can in the yard out by the driveway, so before we got in the cars, we had to wait for Mama to go pick it up and put it in the trash around back. I'm glad there weren't fifteen or twenty. The sky looked like snow and it was freezing cold.

The funeral was about what you'd expect, and was short, thank goodness. I couldn't rid my mind of Uncle Nate's face and his starched white shirts with the collar open.

In his message, Preacher Gordon said that Uncle Nate was one of the last casualties of World War II. I hadn't thought about it that way.

VI

On Wednesday night, eleven days after the funeral, just after we watched this TV show about a little girl's mother committing suicide, Charles says he thinks that under different circumstances Uncle Nate might not
Rave
committed suicide.

"What do you mean by that?" I said.

"Raney, he was very depressed. He needed psychiatric help. But no one in the family seemed to care whether he got it or not."

"Charles, I don't think Uncle Nate needed a psychiatric."

"Psychologist, or psychiatrist, is what you mean."

"Well, whatever. He was not mentally ill."

"Do you think he was depressed?"

"Well, I don't know."

"He was, Raney. Take my word for it. He was. And he was compulsive-obsessive. And
severely
depressed." Charles started to the kitchen. I followed him.

"You're
in the family. Why didn't
you
do something?" I said.

"There's no way
—
you know how much weight my suggestions carry."

"Charles, you think that just because Uncle Nate got water at the same time every day there was something wrong with him. I've heard you talk about that. I don't see it that way. You stick all these words on there and make it sound like he was some kind of cripple or something."

"He was. In the end, at least." Charles was getting out a can of pinto beans and a can of tomatoes to make chili for next day.

"He wasn't a cripple," I said.

"Mentally. You know what I mean. Otherwise, he wouldn't have shot himself."

"Charles, you don't know that."

"Maybe not. But I do know he lived in a society
which A) supplies mental health care
for its citizens. There is a trained psychologist at the mental health clinic. Counseling services are offered for people with mental problems
—
depression included
—
in Hansen County. Your Uncle Nate was a citizen of Hansen County. Now B) your Uncle Nate was a member of a family which does not believe in mental health care. At least that much is true, it seems to me. It's nothing that can be helped."

I thought about Dr. Cisco. He knew all about these kinds of things. For sure he'd had training in psychology. And he wouldn't go list off "A, B, and C." He would know better than to tear into somebody who had done the best they could all their lives. Anybody would.

"Charles, I do not see how you can say that
—
how you've got the nerve to stand there and say that, after all the care my mama gave Uncle Nate over the years: after all the meals she cooked him, all the shirts she washed and pressed...."

"That's just it, Raney. Who gives her the right to decide that's what your Uncle Nate needs
—
needed.
Needed most."

"Charles, she's his sister
—
family. That's where her right came from. And he was her brother and she loved him enough to take care of him."

"Maybe that's just what he didn't need. Maybe what he needed was to take care of himself."

"Charles, he
couldn't."

"Maybe he could. Have you ever thought about that?"

"Charles, don't be ridiculous. Maybe you should talk to Mama. Since you know so much. Maybe you should tell her all this. All she did, after all, was to look after her brother when he came out of the war, disabled, to help him as best she could. If she had your magnificent college education and knowledge about mental health then maybe she would have done different. But tell me this Charles: what would have happened to Uncle Nate if it hadn't been for Mama in the first place?"

"I don't know, Raney. And neither do you. That's what I was just talking about. Maybe he would have lived a longer and healthier and happier life than he did. Who knows?"

"Charles, why didn't
you
do
something.
You've got all the answers.
Now
you've got all the answers. Charles, I can't believe you're saying all this."

"Listen, Raney. I haven't said I have all the answers. I have tried to say things. God knows I've tried. And I give up. I couldn't care less. Your family is a brick wall. I couldn't care less. Why should I waste my time beating my head against a brick wall?"

He was standing there holding a pack of frozen hamburger to fix chili with, getting more and more intense. I was so mad I couldn't stand it. I knew it was coming. We had had a big argument every day
—
four days in a row. My cheeks got hot and my chest hurt and I felt ice water between my skin and rib cage. "Charles, I can't
live
with this! You think Mama murdered Uncle Nate!"

"No. No. Now, Raney, don't be ridiculous. It wasn't murder. It was a whole family's refusal to look for alternatives to a ... a way of life. To read
—
to become educated about a problem staring you in the face. Given the self-righteousness of...of fundamental Christianity in this family, your Uncle Nate didn't have a chance."

Something snapped in my head, like a dam had broke loose, a dam that should have broke loose long before. I walked straight to the bedroom, got out the big suitcase and packed. It took ten minutes. I went straight to the phone and called Aunt Flossie and asked her if I could come to her house. Lord knows I couldn't call Mama with all she had on her. I felt determined and clear. Charles had just burned himself right out of my mind. There was nothing there but ashes. I did not have any idea where I would go after Aunt Flossie's. I could decide that later. I finished packing.

"Where are you going, Raney?" said Charles.

I was standing there holding the suitcase. I hated him. "You heard me talking to Aunt Flossie."

"I don't want you to leave. You don't have to leave over this. I was looking at the whole thing from a psychological, maybe socio-psychological, perspective. That's all."

"Psychological?
Charles, that's not even something in this world. I will not live here and listen to you call my mama a murderer. It's that simple."

"Raney, I didn't call your mother a murderer. I only said that
—
"

"Charles, you son of a ... you son of a...." I couldn't hold back. I put the suitcase on the floor. "You son of a bitch. You stand there and try to weasel out of something you just said as clear as day. That's the way you are. You'll throw out all this garbage psychiatric crap and then say bad things about somebody's
—
your own wife's
—
mama,
and family,
all at the same time and then when somebody points it out, you try to, to, to, take it back, and then say you didn't. Anybody can come along after something like this has happened and look at it different and get real superior about what
should
have happened. You just think you know everything, Charles. Well, you don't know so much. You better know you're gong to be eating that chili all by yourself, Charles. You better know that. You better know that." I had to cry.

"Raney, you need to settle down. We're all to blame, as a society, including me."

"Charles! You don't even ... all you can do is
blame
somebody." I picked up the suitcase. "That's all you know how to do." I walked straight out of the house, got in the Chevrolet, and drove to Aunt Flossie's. I hated Charles. If he had all those things in him that he was saying I didn't want to live in the same house with him. I
couldn't.

Aunt Flossie met me on the front porch. We went on in and she took me to her second bedroom.

"I was just getting out a towel and wash cloth. The bottom two drawers on that chest are empty and if that's not enough room, clean you out another drawer. There's space in the closet. Make yourself at home. You can stay here as long as you need to. Go and come as you please. If you want to talk I'll be happy to listen."

The telephone rang.

It was for me: Charles. "Raney, I want you to come back," he says.

"Charles.... Please leave me alone."

"Raney, I'm sorry. I think I was just upset about the whole thing. We need to talk about all this."

"Charles, I have my own family. I have my own family to talk to. Besides, what can I say to you,
Charles, that
would ever make one difference about one thing on earth."

This was serious business. My insides were tore all to pieces. My heart. I had this damp, clammy feeling because I was afraid it all might have gone too far, that we might not be able to climb back up out of the gully. I was pulled and pushed two different ways at one time and I didn't know which one to go with.

"Charles, I'm going to stay here at Aunt Flossie's until I get my mind straightened out and I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't call."

"Raney...."

"Goodbye." I hung up. Then it struck me what the family was going to think. If there was any way to get out of that then I had to do it. I
couldn't
—
just
couldn't
—
let everybody find out my marriage was failing, but Lord knows
,
I had been so mad that all I could think about, all I could see in my head, was getting
out
of that house.

Maybe Charles would admit how wrong he was. Maybe he
would
listen. But I doubted it. Then I didn't doubt it a little bit. Then I doubted it again.

"Sit down and tell me all about it if you want to," says Aunt Flossie, coming back in the living room. Something flooded up from inside and I burst out in tears that came and came and came and kept coming and I couldn't do nothing about it and Aunt Flossie said to cry and keep crying all I wanted to, so I did.

I was finally able to explain everything
—
it poured and poured and poured out
—
about how the whole family was just starting to recover from a death and my own husband has to go make everything worse, throw everything off the deep end by accusing my mother of something she would never, never do in her life. And I told her about a few other arguments that had made me feel awful. But I tried to tell her that Charles might be doing the best he could.

Aunt Flossie didn't say anything much. She just patted me on the back and told me to cry all I wanted to.