Suncatchers (35 page)

Perry turned on the radio. He recognized the woman's voice as the childcare expert on a nationally syndicated call-in program. The station was probably replaying an earlier broadcast. “And if it can't be flushed out with water,” she said, “try licking the child's eye.” Licking the eye? What was she talking about? Perry wondered. The mother calling in evidently wondered the same thing.

“
Lick
the eye?” she asked.

“Yes, your tongue can't injure the eye, but a handkerchief or rough finger might. Just gently hold the eyelids apart with your thumbs and run your tongue right over the eyeball. The eye is so sensitive that . . .”

Perry turned it off. He didn't want to hear the word
sensitive
again, and he didn't want to hear advice about licking somebody's eyeball.

Sensitive. These Christians had a pat little answer for everything. As if men couldn't be sensitive, too. As if men were so busy thinking their cold, complex, logical thoughts they could never spare the effort it took to feel. He remembered one of Dinah's last comments to him before she had left the house that last day, the day when he was packing up the things he was taking with him.

“If you could just once in your life let down and show me that you really
care
,” she had said. He had been standing beside the kitchen counter drinking a cup of coffee, and she was at the back door, one hand on the doorknob and the other clenched in a tight fist at her side. Troy was already in the car.

“Care?” he remembered thinking, as he had turned to pour the rest of his coffee into the sink. At that moment he could have written a whole compendium on caring, a comprehensive lexicon of all the gradations of the word. He could have written an encyclopedia—an entire multivolume set of them—about that single word
care
. But giving a speech, saying anything aloud at that moment was inconceivable. So he had said nothing, had kept his back to her, and Dinah had left, slamming the door behind her.

He remembered standing there for a long time, watching her shove the car into reverse and rocket out of the driveway. He could still see Troy's look of alarm as he was jolted forward in the backseat. And he could still feel the hurt and frustration—the helplessness of losing something irreplaceable, the disgust over his own failure to act decisively, and finally the cold fear of being alone again. Oh, yes, he knew all about being
sensitive
.

Driving home now, he passed Thrifty-Mart. It was still open. A huge banner hung in the front window:
DOUBLE COUPONS EVERY DAY
. He remembered suddenly that he was out of milk. If he didn't stop now, he wouldn't have any for his cereal in the morning. He'd have to hurry, though, or he would be late for his phone call to Troy. He pulled into the parking lot and swung into a space in front of an ancient-looking Ford. As he was about to open his door, he saw an old man and woman, both of them creeping along behind a shopping cart, making their way toward the Ford. Perry's hand rested on his door handle, but he waited, watching the couple. Now here was a man who should have some valuable insights on how to go about keeping a wife. Perry rolled down his window.

The man guided the cart to the rear door of the Ford while the woman shuffled forward to open it. Silently the husband lifted a single bag and carried it to the backseat. Perry could hear his low grunts of exertion. The woman took another bag, and so they went, back and forth like large toys winding down until all six bags were safely deposited in the car. The woman pushed down the lock on the back door, closed the door, then tested it. The man then pushed the cart away from the car, and the two of them stood, one behind the other, watching it roll toward the concrete base of a light post, where it banged with a jingly clatter and came to a halt.

They turned back to the Ford then. Still neither one had spoken. The woman opened the driver's door and gingerly seated herself behind the steering wheel, then with both hands lifted each leg one at a time and swung it into the car. Then she reached out, pulled the door closed, and locked it. Meanwhile, the man was tottering around the back of the car toward the passenger's side. Something fluttered from his hands as he started to get in—a long white strip of paper, probably the receipt of their purchases. The old man had to stoop over to retrieve it, then scoot a few steps forward, then a few more as a breeze caught it. He finally grasped it as it flattened itself against the front tire. Then he stood up and slowly wound it around his fingers before turning back to the car. Perry felt like he was watching a silent movie in slow motion, or an old comedy routine with Carol Burnett and Dick Van Dyke as two elderly people, exaggerating every movement, milking it for humor. He wouldn't have been surprised to hear a great outburst of canned laughter.

The passenger door was still open, and the woman inside was watching her husband impassively, her mouth slackened. As he approached the car, however, the woman suddenly took on new life and issued an ultimatum, incongruous for the whiny, plaintive tone in which it was delivered. “Come on hyere or I'm a'leavin'! And lock your door when ya git in, too,” Perry heard her say. The old man made a great production of getting himself into the car and settled, then reached out and caught hold of the door handle. Right before the door swung shut, Perry heard the man say distinctly and quite venomously,
“Shut up, woman!”

The woman had to start the car several times before it caught, and then she revved the engine mightily. And still they sat there. She turned to the man and said something, pointing to the dashboard, and they both stared hard at whatever it was. Perry tried to imagine what life would be like at this pace, where even the simplest action required great concentration.

He glanced at his watch. The milk would have to wait until tomorrow. He needed to get home. It was almost ten o'clock. But he felt sluggish, infected with despair by the scene he had just witnessed. Finally the headlights of the Ford flicked on, and both the woman and man looked in both directions behind them before the car backed up and then crept slowly toward the parking lot exit.

Well, so much for instruction in enduring marriages, Perry thought. He started his car and pulled out behind them. He watched them turn left and disappear down the road, two old people chugging along at twenty miles an hour, looking straight ahead, scanning the road for hazards, a great dark space between them.

What would it be like, he wondered, to be old and married? Would an old woman still have her moods? Would she still badger her husband to
talk
to her, or would she be ready finally for silence? As he approached Montroyal, Perry tried to imagine the Hawthornes as an old couple, Theodore with springy white curls and Edna still plump but her hair faded to a pale apricot. His mind flashed back to tonight, both of them carrying in the serving dishes, sitting side by side at the round table, answering each other courteously, touching without embarrassment. He saw Brother Hawthorne's attentive expression as Edna told a story he must have heard many times about an old Mexican woman in their apartment building when they lived in Florida who made tortillas from scratch every day. Perry remembered a recent Wednesday evening when Brother Hawthorne had made the statement, “Your respectful attention is one of the best gifts you can give your spouse.”

It would be easy to write the Hawthornes' relationship off as public show if it hadn't been for seeing them at Darlene's Kreamy Kones that time. And who could tell? Maybe even that night had been staged. Maybe they went somewhere every weekend and acted affectionate just in case one of their church members happened by. Maybe right now back at their house they were arguing vehemently: “You put too many spices in the taco sauce again!” “Last time you said it was too bland!” “And the tea tasted like swamp water!” “Well, why don't you go find somebody who can make tea to suit you?” But the scene lacked realism.

As Perry pulled into his driveway, he saw the porch light switch on next door. Eldeen stepped outside in her floral muumuu, fanning herself with a magazine. “Well, did you have yourself a good time?” she called. “Did Edna fix you some tacos?”

“Yes,” Perry said. “Tacos with all the trimmings.”

“Mmm, mmm, she does make the best tacos,” Eldeen said. “That's one of her specialty dishes, along with Chinese chicken dumplings and zucchini pie. Did she tell you they used to live in a apartment building with a Mexican lady down in Florida who taught her how to cook the real authentic Mexican way?”

“Yes, she did,” answered Perry.

“Well, well,” Eldeen said, “it's sure hot—and it's my bedtime.” She turned abruptly to go inside. “We sure missed you riding with us tonight. It just wasn't the same. Good night now. I know you got you a phone call to make, so I won't keep you.” The door closed and the yellow light turned off.

Perry unlocked his front door and went swiftly to the telephone. According to the digital clock on the bookshelf, it was one minute before ten o'clock.

Dinah answered. No hello, no formalities. Just “Troy's not here.”

Perry felt betrayed. Troy knew he called at this time every Sunday, and so did Dinah.

“Where is he?” Perry asked.

“Spending the night with Chad, camping out in their backyard.”

Perry frowned. “Sleeping outside? But . . . isn't that . . .”

“Dangerous? Is that what you were going to say?”

“Well, isn't it?”

“Kevin and Mark Kline are there, too.”

Perry thought suddenly of the three little boys who had disappeared in Charleston the week before. They had been together, riding their bikes, but they never came home. The police had arrested two sleazy-looking men in connection with the crime, but neither of them would talk. Perry had studied their pictures in the newspaper, feeling certain that he could easily strangle both of them bare-handed without a pang of remorse.

“Are the Hudsons home tonight?” Perry asked.

Dinah sighed. “I checked it all out, Perry. They've got a Doberman, remember. And, yes, Jeanie and Tom are both home. If you're so concerned about it, you . . .” She stopped without finishing.

You what? thought Perry. What was she going to say? He gripped the receiver tighter. This had been the pattern of their conversations during the months before he had left: Dinah blurting out thoughts in a great rush, then cutting off in the middle of a sentence that could go in so many different directions, and Perry standing mutely, trying to fill in the long empty blank.

Did all men have to tread through this minefield of conversing with an unpredictable woman? Perry wondered. If he had been able to talk with the old man at Thrifty-Mart, would he have admitted the same problem? He could almost hear him say, “They's all like the wind, sonny. You never can tell whichaway they're a'gonna blow.” Did Edna Hawthorne ever break off without finishing a heated remark, leaving Theodore to guess at where it was headed?

At last Perry spoke. “How's your work going?”

“Okay.” At least she hadn't shot back with “Fine,” which usually carried with it a caustic implication that she didn't want to talk about it.

“Any big sales lately?”

“A couple.”

Again there was a long pause.

“Dinah, what . . .” He wasn't even sure at first what he had started out to say.

“What
what?
” she asked finally.

“What . . . what did I ever do?” There was a reverberation to the silence that followed, as if it were growing more intense, a locomotive of sound and light bearing down on him. Why was the lamp next to the sofa suddenly so bright—and so hot? And why didn't Dinah answer?

She finally did, with a short, scornful laugh. “What did you ever
do
? Oh, Perry, that's priceless. That's really priceless. You honestly want me to tell you the answer to that?”

“Well, yes. Yes, I do.”

“Let me tell you then. You did
nothing
, Perry. Absolutely
nothing
.”

From her tone, Perry knew it wasn't an exoneration. And without even meaning to, he heard himself repeating the words Brother Hawthorne had spoken earlier that evening. “Oh, but there are so many things a husband must do.”

“What? What did you say?” Dinah asked. “Are you being . . . ?”

Perry stopped breathing for a moment. “Nothing,” he said at last. As he carefully hung up the receiver, he heard what sounded like a low moan from somewhere outside, then realized it was a police siren starting up in the distance. He thought of the mournful call of the dove and remembered the lone mother bird sitting on her nest.

Part Three

Starlight

For we have seen his star in the east, and are come to worship him.

Matthew 2:2

24

Early Afternoon

Perry reread the sentence he had just typed into the computer.
“Though the tag legalism has been affixed to fundamentalist Christians in general, Pastor Franklin of the Gospel Lighthouse regularly preaches more about freedom than restrictions.”
Perry knew he was approaching a touchy subject in this chapter. One of Cal's favorite harangues centered on the “narrow-minded, rule-listing, hellfire-and-damnation legalists” who had stifled his normal development as a human being.

“You want to know what I did on prom night back in 1959 in Sand Flats, Georgia, Perry?” Cal had once asked him. “While everybody else went to pick up their girl in their dad's car, old Cal was at—drum roll, please—
church!
Yep, we had a Youth Club banquet that night, one that was supposed to make us all forget what we were missing out on. They had a lasagna dinner. All our mothers showed up to serve it on fancy tablecloths, with candles, flowers, the whole works. Then for two hours we played stupid games—all twelve of us dressed up in the same clothes we'd have to put back on the next morning for Sunday school—and then we had a film. And you want to know what the film was about? It was called
Decision Countdown
, and it was about”—here Cal dropped his voice to a lower register—“a rebellious teenager who failed to heed his parents' warnings, got involved with the wrong crowd, and ended up in a gruesome car accident, from which he eventually recovered of course, but now he was a changed boy who carried his Bible to school and prayed before lunch in the cafeteria.”