The Sweet by and By (16 page)

Damn, Rhonda, I thought, can’t you for once use a feather in- stead of a sledgehammer to make your point? “That sounded mean,” I said. “I didn’t mean for it to be mean. I’m sorry. I don’t even know you.”

I looked at the girls waiting near his chair, whispering less but still staring at us. He didn’t belong to them any more than he did to me, and he never would. But I knew he liked me anyway. Not like a girl- friend. Just liking somebody because you like em.

“Why’d you tell me to come down here and see you that day at the post office?” I tried to change the subject.

“I wanted you to.” “Well I’m here.”

He fiddled with the blue towel, finally wrapping it around his neck like a collar or a necklace. “I’m leaving, you know that. I probably won’t come back, you figured that out too I think.”

He snickered, not a funny laugh this time, but the way somebody does when he’s about to say something that he’s never thought of before, sort of like “the joke’s on me.” That kind of laugh. “Do you know I never broke a rule in my life?” he asked. “I mean I did stuff, but usually I’m busy doing everything exactly right. You’re not like that, are you?”

“If you’re sayin I’m not perfect, you’re damn right about that.” “That’s not what I mean. You don’t try so hard. You don’t care so

much about everything.”

“God almighty, you make it sound like something brave. Listen. Whatever I do, it’s cause that’s the only way I know to do. I ain’t tryin to prove nothing to anybody, and I don’t need a medal. I just keep goin.”

“That’s what I’m talking about. That’s
exactly
what I’m talking about. I need the straight As and the prizes and all that. I don’t even know when it happened, I’ve always been that way.”

“Well you might oughta be thankful for that, you know? You get noticed. The only thing my grandma ever paid any attention to was my paycheck. I say there’s a shitload of people to tell you what you can and can’t do. I just gotta make sure the loudest voice I’m listenin to is Yours Truly.”

He grinned. “I like that . . . Rhonda.”

Mac blew the whistle from the other side of the pool. “All swim!” he screamed, and most of the old people came outta that pool like somebody had yelled, “Turd in the water!”

“I have to go back to my perch,” Wade said. “I may have to save somebody anytime now.”

“Hey Rhonda, come on in!” one of the girls squealed from an oversized nest of towels. I recognized her, older than Wade and me both, her name was Gwen something, a brunette with frizzy wild hair, while the girl beside her laughed with a loud snort and tied the straps of her friend’s top to make it a little bit tighter and push her tits out against the fabric. I could help her with that hair, I thought and surprised myself by thinking something nice when they were enjoy- ing the fact that I wasn’t one of them.

Wade ignored it. “Come again, Rhonda,” he said. “Bring your bathing suit next time.” He raked his hands through his hair again and shook it out, it was still a little bit wet. I could see the old Wade was back now, whatever thick mud he had stepped in for those few minutes was gone now, dried up or washed off.

“Maybe I will,” I answered, grabbing the fence and going up on my tiptoes. “Don’t worry, you won’t have to save me.”

“You never know!” he yelled back, trotting away. With the sun in my eyes now, he faded out into a blur of blue pool water and lounge chairs and girls and towels and plastic bottles of lotion.

I brushed the damp hair off my forehead. I was burning up on that asphalt, they should have left it gravel, but then that fat lady in the red car woulda really had a kick-ass good time parking. A self- made tornado. I waited ’til Wade had climbed back up into his high chair, looking out over the world. He had to look out for all of em, that was his job. I wished I had asked him what he put down for
his
one big dream, and I didn’t have a yearbook so I would never know. I wondered what somebody put down as a dream when they could do anything in the world. Did they even call it a dream anymore? I held onto the metal diamonds in the fence, still watching, until I noticed my hands, red from too many shampoos without gloves. Them and the fence were all I could see.

I didn’t go back. I knew I wouldn’t. It wasn’t for me, not because I couldn’t stand up to the beach towel girls. Hell, I’ve stood up to a lot worse than them. I got busy at the shop, summer ended. The pool people went back to whatever it was they did the rest of the year. I saw who I came to see, that’s all. I guess I wanted proof. Wade Stokes was who I imagined he would be.

c h a p te r f ou r te e n

Margaret

I

t’s too hot for a picnic. I’m positive that this must violate the Health Department’s standards for what you can make old people do in rest homes. Just because it’s the Fourth of July, some people may want to go sit out there and be eaten alive by f lies while they’re trying to gnaw on a hamburger bun, but not I. Lor- raine said, “Don’t worry, we’ll be in the shade.” Ordinarily I trust her about anything in the world, so why she is telling such a lie I have no idea because there
is
no shade at this time of day. When I look out the window, even the birds look hot to me; their back feathers shine like mirrors in the sun. All their movements are so fast and jerky, it’s a wonder they don’t have miniature heart at- tacks. Their hearts must be bigger than their brains or else they’d

hide up in a cool longleaf pine.

I push the nurse button. I want to change my blouse if I’ve got to go out there and sit in Hades in honor of our country’s free- dom. Lorraine appears wearing an apron with bunches of grapes painted all over it. It says in cursive writing,
Le Bon Vin! Vive La France!
“What are you wearing that ridiculous thing for? Have you taken up gourmet cooking in addition to all manner of tor- ture you inf lict on your helpless victims?”

“I’m tryin to help get ready for the picnic. It’s too much for the kitchen people by themselves.”

“Are you really going to drag me out there in the middle of the day?”

“Yes I am because it’ll do you good. You stay in here too much.” “Is that right? Well, while you’re at it, why don’t you go ahead and

make reservations to Paris for the weekend?”

“You have got one smart mouth on you, woman. And you better be glad Jesus loves you and so do I, because if I didn’t I’d put a pillow over your face and sit on it.”

“I am not interested in your threats. I called you because I want to change my blouse. I will roast in this tight thing.”

Lorraine pulls open the dresser drawer. She has to yank it because it’s made out of particleboard with some kind of fake mahogany veneer on it. They will not let us have our own furniture in here, with the exception of one chair, so we are left with this kind of cheap mess that you couldn’t even sell at a f lea market.

“You usually freeze, all the time freezin,” Lorraine says quietly while rummaging through the contents.

“If I were twenty years younger I’d sit out there naked if I thought I’d be more comfortable.”

“That I’d just as soon not see.” She hands me a light beige linen blouse. “Is this all right? I like it on you.”

“When do we have to go?”

“The fire department’s comin to set up chairs, so it’s not gon be for another hour at least.”

“Hey ho, how’re y’all?” Bernice’s head peers around the door frame. She steps inside on tiptoe like she’s trying to prance but could topple over at any given moment. She is carrying a basket over her arm and points to it. “Mister Benny’s taking a nap. Shhh.”

“We’ll keep our voices down, won’t we, Lorraine?” I whisper. “He’s in a basket,” Bernice whispers back. “Like Moses in a basket.

It’s not bulrushes though, that’s in Egypt, and we are a long ways away from Egypt, I’ll tell you that right now.”

“Well good, he’s in a safe place. We’ll wake him up directly.” I motion to her to bring the basket over to me. She sits on the edge of the bed, takes Mister Benny out, and places him beside my head. He smells like maple syrup. “Bernice, has Mister Benny been eating pancakes again?”

“He loves sweet things, both of us do. He fell in my plate but it was an accident. He loves the taste of syrup. I can always tell real from fake.”

“Well I can’t,” Lorraine interjects. “April brought home some that somebody gave her from Vermont or somewhere up there. It all tastes the same to me.”

There are two fire trucks, small ones, pulling into the field behind the building. My window looks out onto it and I’m tempted to try one more time to talk Lorraine into letting me watch the goings-on from here. My husband was a volunteer fireman for a few years, but he never got to ride in a truck as nice as these. Two men are setting up chairs. At least they’re not the folding white ones like you see at a graveside. I would hate that. First of all, they’re too little to be com- fortable, and second, well put it this way, the second reason is such that when it comes to pass I won’t have to worry about the first.

Bernice shoots up like a bottle rocket and is about to leave. “Let’s go to the party now. It’s a hamburger party. I used to throw parties in Raleigh. We’re going to save us some seats out there. Mister Benny’s little, you can sit with him.”

Lorraine helps me lift up my arms, one at a time, to get them into the sleeves of the blouse. It hurts but I don’t say anything. I know she knows it hurts, and she’s trying not to raise them too far over my head. She knows that kind of arthritis pain can be too much. Some people don’t know. Some folks here won’t take a bath because the people that give them are too rough. It’s not because they’re senile and don’t want to be clean; it’s because it hurts, goddamn it. Just moving a body can hurt, which is something that no person can understand until it’s too

late for them to be sympathetic about it because they’ve left the ranks of the ignorant and joined the ranks of the suffering. I don’t complain, except to Lorraine. She can take it. She wants me to tell her how I feel. Once the sleeves are on, the buttons down the front are easy. She starts to do it, but I push her hand away gently. I have to try it myself. And if it takes too long, Lorraine doesn’t huff and puff, she waits, not smiling like “oh isn’t that sweet.” She doesn’t saying anything at all, giving me time.

After she finishes up in the kitchen, she comes back for me. On her arm, I travel to the party outside. Everyone that’s not bedridden approaches from all directions in various states of dress or lack thereof. One woman has on the same pajamas she wears every day, covered with penguins and white fur around the cuffs, sweltering though the day may be. Taken in all at once, it looks like a string of ghosts, am- bling along so slowly that they appear to be f loating.

Lorraine startles me by bending close to my ear once she has me settled in a folding chair. “What do you want on your hamburger?”

“I want it well done, Lorraine. And I mean done, I don’t want any pink showing. It’s not healthy. Just put a little bit of ketchup on it, nothing else. And some mayonnaise and onions, but not too much onion. I would take one tomato slice if they’ve got any that look anyhow, but not any of those thin pinkish-orange ones, I can’t stand them. There ought to be some good tomatoes now.”

“Later on I’ll go back and get you something sweet. They haven’t put out any dessert yet. It’s too hot.”

“I might have some banana pudding if they’ve got it, but make sure the vanilla wafers are soft or I’ll pass. I’ve never had any as good as you brought me.”

I see Lorraine beam. “That was my mama’s recipe,” she says. “I grew up on it near ’bout every Sunday of my life.”

“I know that was some good eating,” I add. “Come on back here and sit down with me when you get a plate.”

Ada Everett, the queen bee, has stepped up onto a raised platform. She is waving her hands in the air, and she’s got on more bracelets than Cleopatra, jangling like kitchen utensils. “Excuse me everybody, just a minute before y’all get started eating.” Country music is blasting through two speakers that the fire department brought. I have never understood why the fire department has big outdoor stereo speakers but they do. In fact, I have found that this is true of most volunteer fire departments in North Carolina. They have access to loudspeak- ers. “Would you mind turning that music down?” Ada says when a fireman hands her a microphone. “Somebody please? Lorraine?” Ada has the slightest edge in her voice that I have come to wait for glee- fully because it lets me know that she’s on the verge of losing control. Control of what, I don’t know. Us, I suppose. We’re helpless all, but in our own way, uncontrollable I reckon.

Ada has managed to take charge of the whole group, which I do believe is her one mission in life, and which is exactly why the job of running this place is the best thing that could have ever happened to her. “I think we ought to say a blessing,” she says in what I call her Splenda voice—it’s got some sugar in it, but the end result is not the real thing. “But before that,” she continues, “some folks asked me a few minutes ago if I would sing something that was appropriate for the Fourth of July. Of course I said I wasn’t about to on short notice, but then I thought, maybe it’s important for us all to take a minute to be patriotic, and think about the history of this country so we can be proud. Not that we’re not already proud, but sometimes it’s good to stop and think. That’s what I always say.”

“Oh my Lord, she’s going to sing,” I say out loud to nobody in particular.

She starts out a cappella, but she’s pitched it too high, so it’s in the sort of soprano voice that makes you sit up straight just because you feel like if you don’t, something dreadful is going to happen to your spine.
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord . . .

I am aware that the “Battle Hymn” is historical and that a woman wrote it in the Civil War, but in my mind, putting religion into fight- ing music is like pouring kerosene on a fire that’s already plenty hot. That kind of music is best confined to the sort of people who make landscape borders out of truck tires and have life-size crosses in their yards that light up at night.

Glory, Glory Hallelujah. His Truth is marching on.
She repeats the last chorus and I get the sense she’s going to go for a high note at the end, a premonition in which I am not disappointed.
His Truth—Is—Mar— ching—ON!