The Sweet by and By (10 page)

I watch a little TV while I eat my toast. I like to see the weather. It makes me feel like I know what’s going on in other places. They always show what the day is going to be like in places like Portland and Denver and San Antonio. I love to travel and I have no idea where I got it from. My daddy never went anywhere in his life except one trip to a cattle convention in New York City. I can’t imagine why there would have been a cattle convention in New York, but I think maybe because having a convention in a fancy city made it appear serious and important, much more so than it ever could have in somewhere like Topeka. I myself have been to New York two times. And I’ve been all up and down the eastern seaboard. I love that word “seaboard.” I like any word that makes me think of the ocean. Dune. Tide. Gull.

Squall. They’re all water words. Water moves and f lows into every nook and cranny, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. I like that kind of f low. One time I went to London for a week with my husband Charles. We saw everything. The Tower, Parliament, Westminster Abbey, all the famous sites. I could walk a whole lot better then, and Charles said he couldn’t keep up with me, which to tell you the truth, didn’t bother me all that much. The tour guide, a pretty British girl, told us to be prepared, it might rain the whole time, but there turned out to be a heat wave. She kept apologizing for the temperature and I told her, “Honey, y’all don’t know what hot is, come back to where I live in July and you’ll get an education.” That was my only trip over- seas, but it was enough for me to tell Ann that she has absolutely got to go while she’s young enough to enjoy it.

Lorraine doesn’t have to come back for me, because Bernice shows up at my door with grape jelly in the corners of her mouth. “You’re not finished eatin? We’ve got to go to the Beauty Shop. I need a hairdo, and so do you. Hurry up, or there won’t be enough time.”

“She’s got all day, honey. We don’t have to rush.”

She looks annoyed. “Mister Benny needs a hairdo too. He doesn’t like it cut, just shampooed.”

If Rhonda is in a good mood, she will in fact wet the scraggly strands of yarn that are Mister Benny’s hair, put a few drops of shampoo on it, and rinse it out over the sink. Seeing her do that for the first time made me like her, although that is still no excuse for being so rough on my head. At first, Bernice wanted Mister Benny to have an apron on for his shampoo, just like she does, but that is where Rhonda drew the line. She said, “Bernice, I don’t have time for that, sweetheart. Put Mister Benny under that faucet right now. I’ve got about thirty more heads to finish today, and I am not staying late. I’ve got a date.”

I push myself off the bed. It is going to be a walking day. That’s a good thing. Some days are wheelchair days, and I never know which it’s going to be until I take that first step in the morning. Then there’s

no going back, and if it’s a wheelchair morning, then it’s going to be a wheelchair afternoon and night too. The physical therapist told me, “Mrs. Clayton, you need more willpower. Just because you might not feel like walking one minute doesn’t mean you can’t walk the next.” Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous? What is she going to tell me about willpower? I’m the one that’s still here waking up in the morning and making the effort to put on lipstick. I’m all willpower, all the time.

“Let’s go, Bernice. We need to tell Lorraine to make sure they’ve got enough folding chairs down there. Sometimes Alvin doesn’t put enough out, and then waiting for him when he’s on a cigarette break is like waiting for the Queen to show up here for tea. He’s a handy- man all right, very handy if you can find him. I don’t know about you, but I’m going to take a pillow. I can’t sit still for an hour without something behind my back.”

“Mister Benny will carry it. He likes you.” She waves a filthy, careworn yellow paw in my face. “We’re neighbors!” Bernice breaks into cackling laughter like she’s just now figured out that we live in the same place. Then the singing starts.
“Hey good lookin, what you got cookin? How’s about cookin somethin up with me?”
All she ever sings is country music. She is surely in a happier place than most of us will ever be, and from the sounds of it, it could be Nashville. We meet Lorraine in the hall.

“Well hey, Miss Bernice. Happy Mother’s Day to you. I know your boy Cameron’s coming later on. That’s real nice, it sure is.” Lorraine doesn’t say anything to me directly. We have an understanding. She doesn’t speak to me like I’m a five-year-old, and I try to cooperate with her daily routines.

“Happy Mother’s Day to you too, Lorraine.” I follow. “Did you hear from that fine girl of yours this morning?”

“I did. You know she’s on Dean’s list this semester again. Doin fine.” She walks on past, pants legs making a swishing sound.

“Well I sure would like to see her again one day,” I call out behind her.

“Oh, you will. You will,” Lorraine answers.

The Salon line is long, getting ready for a holiday. Bernice and I park ourselves along the wall. Alvin obviously got the message from somebody besides me, because there are enough chairs for a small army. Bernice doesn’t like to sit down much, she stays too restless, so I save her place with my pocketbook. She would never leave Mister Benny in a chair by himself while she walks around. That is out of the question, because if anyone touched him and she happened to see it, she might do anything from scream to haul off and hit somebody.

Rhonda’s already busy, but she waves as soon as she spots us. As a rule she has long, wavy platinum blond hair, but I think she’s starting to let it go back natural, which would be somewhere in the dark brown or black family. This in-between phase leaves it looking sort of rough. She can’t be more than thirty-five or so, but her hair looks like it’s been used as a burnt offering. That’s the danger of being in the beauty busi- ness. You can do anything in the world to hair, but you have to know when to stop. The possibilities are definitely not limitless. Doesn’t matter, Rhonda’s still pretty even though she’s got a few hard lines around her eyes. I don’t know if she’s lived as hard as she looks, but I do know she rides motorcycles. I saw her once through the window of the dining room scoot off on one, holding onto the waist of a man in a blue jean jacket, beard f lying out on either side of his crash helmet. I like motorcycles because they get straight to the point. Get on and go. They serve no other purpose than to f ly as far as I can tell.

Rhonda takes me in f irst, but Bernice always insists on watching me get my hair done, so she drags her folding chair in behind me and sits down within a few feet of the sink. Sometimes Rhonda moves her back but most of the time works around her.

“Don’t you get tired of talking to people, honey? I know I would,” I ask Rhonda as I let her lower my head back in the sink.

“Shoot, most people don’t talk. I reckon some of em can’t talk, I don’t know. My grandma had a stroke and she couldn’t talk.”

“Is that right?”

“She used to make moaning noises in her throat. I hated that. It freaked me out. Her moaning and groaning, trying to say something every time you looked at her. It was like she didn’t know nobody couldn’t understand her.”

“I meant the people that can talk,” I say. “There are a few of us.” “They always want to know if I’m married. Where do I live? Who’s

my mama? That kind of thing.”

“That’s all anybody talks about anywhere you go.” “I reckon.”

“Honey, do you mind if I ask you why you work here?”

Before she can answer, Bernice stands up. “My turn now. Y’all are talking and you’re supposed to be doing hair. It’s my turn!” She has Mister Benny pressed by her cheek as though he is the one doing the talking. Rhonda finishes putting the last curler in my hair and helps me under a dryer to bake for a while.

Bernice jumps into the chair. “Is it my turn now?” Her demand has for some reason turned into a question.

“Bernice, if you don’t calm down, I’m gonna make you wait ’til you’re peaceful,” Rhonda says. Her voice is firm but soothing.

Although it sounds like an air raid going on around my head un- derneath the dryer, I am able to ignore it by watching Rhonda. She is the only person I know of who can pick up Mister Benny without causing a disaster with Bernice. You would think she was picking up a newborn she’s so gentle. She holds Mister Benny’s head in her hand and looks down at him. “Now what’re we gonna do today, Mister Benny? Same as usual?” Bernice smiles, transfixed on the monkey doll as if he might speak any minute. “Same thing!” She can’t contain herself. “He wants the same thing!”

“I can handle that, we’ll fix you right up,” Rhonda keeps talking

to the doll. While she leans Mister Benny back over the sink, Bernice takes hold of one dirty yellow monkey paw. “Just be still now, Mister Benny,” Rhonda says, “this is some warm water, that’s all. Let me know if it’s too hot.”

“It’s fine. It’s just fine with him.” Bernice clasps her hands together over her chest.

“Bernice, I’m gonna dry Mister Benny’s hair and then see what I can do with yours. Go have a seat in the shampoo chair.” Rhonda walks over to me and feels my head. “God, that’s been dry forever!” She switches off my vehicle and escorts me to the second chair. Ber- nice has leaned all the way back into the sink and fallen asleep, head dangling like it’s about to be chopped off. That sometimes happens, and sometimes Rhonda lets her sleep, even if there is a line still waiting outside. Rhonda hurries to get me teased, shaped up, and sprayed before Bernice wakes up. My legs are starting to ache from my lower back all the way down the thighs and calves, like some- thing is pinched in my spine. Rhonda helps me to my cane; I need it today. “Just tell her I went on back, honey, do you mind?” I say and keep moving.

When I pass Bernice’s room, her son is inside, unwrapping a stick of chewing gum, waiting with his wife. He knows me, but he never calls me by name. Every time I see him I tell him the same thing. “Hello there, I’m Margaret Clayton. Bernice will be so glad to see you, I know.”

“Is she in therapy? Or, I hope, a bath?” the wife says in a perky voice.

“No ma’am, she’s still down having her hair done for Mother’s Day. We all do, whether we’re mothers or not. I think even some of the men do!”

“I imagine they’ll be finished with her in a few minutes.” The son glances at the wife while talking to me. “We have to go to a church thing later. That’s the one thing about being a deacon that’s changed my

life, I can never be late.” He lets out a wheezing laugh like I am sup- posed to be an insider on a joke. “You want some chewing gum?” he asks. “I can’t stop chewing it. Better than cigarettes though, right?”

The wife doesn’t acknowledge him at all. She moves things around on Bernice’s dresser top, throwing tissues and greeting cards into the trash without looking at them.

“She’ll be back. It doesn’t take long,” I say. “It never takes too long. Don’t y’all want something to drink? She’s got a refrigerator full of stuff.”

The wife speaks this time. “I don’t think so. We’ll get something when we get to the car.” She looks down at her watch.

“I’m gonna go get Mama. I’ll be right back,” the son says and takes off down the hall.

Alone with the wife, I can’t decide whether to stay or go back to my room. “Are y’all taking Bernice out?”

“We’re going to have lunch at the K&W, then come right back. She never eats much anyway. I think the cafeteria’s better so she can take just what she wants and not waste.”

“My nurse Lorraine told me the new Chinese restaurant was good.

Have you been?”

“We don’t like Chinese food. They use too much oil.”

“Well I sure wouldn’t want to get fat before the beauty contest.” I strike a pose with a hand on one hip. She is expressionless. “Oh I’m teasing. I think it’s wonderful that you young people are concerned about what you eat and your bodies and all. It’s healthy. You all will probably live a lot longer than us.”

The prospect of that does not seem to suit the wife very well, maybe because it’s not much fun thinking about living forever while standing in a place that always smells faintly like urine. She picks up a wilted potted hydrangea and throws it in the garbage.

“Bernice loves to show pictures of her grandchildren. How old are they now?” I ask.

“Three and five,” she says. “The oldest one just turned five.”

“I have always loved that age. They’re so curious. They’ll talk about anything in the world. A friend of mine who used to teach kin- dergarten said it was like teaching college.”

I think I might have broken the ice. She laughs. “Well I don’t know about that, but my Christine is curious all right. Both of them are.”

“Well I can’t wait to meet them sometime. Bernice said they might come today.”

“No, we decided we better let them stay home with the babysitter.” “Is one of them sick?” I ask.

“No, no. They’re fine. I think sometimes they get depressed, you know, when they come here. They’re little. They don’t understand.”

“You mean about Bernice?”

“No. Yes. Well in general you know. It’s hard for them to see.” “She’s their grandmother.” The wife arches an eyebrow at the tone

of my voice, and I can tell I’ve overstepped a boundary. “I’m sorry honey, it’s none of my business.”

She turns away from me to the sink and rinses her hands. “They’re children. They love their grandmother, and she loves them. That’s all that matters.”

“Doesn’t Mama look beautiful?” The son appears in the doorway with Bernice on his arm, and Mister Benny on hers, his yarn hair teased straight up and f luffy. “I told the girl that fixes hair I’ve never seen her look any prettier. Have you?”

I’m not sure to whom he is directing the question but I answer. “Bernice is always able to pull it together when she needs to, isn’t that right?”

She crushes Mister Benny’s head against her cheek. “We’re going to the restaurant!” she squeals.

“You’re going to need a sweater,” the wife says. “You know you always get cold, even when everybody else is burning up.”

The wife slides open the closet door, almost violently. Most of what

is in there are housedresses and nightgowns with the tags still on them and bedroom shoes of every description in piles on the f loor. There are two or three sweaters hanging, and beside them, a couple of dresses each for hot weather and cold. The son helps Bernice into the armchair that was intended for company and stands by the window, rocking from side to side with his hands in his pockets, jangling change or keys.