Queen Bee Goes Home Again (38 page)

Lord, I bow to You, who makes a way where there is no way. Please let there be peace and comfort for Uncle Bedford's family, and ours. Have mercy on Daddy.

By God's good grace, the funeral went off without a hitch. One of the pastors from the Anglican church Aunt Glory and Uncle B had attended in Buckhead conducted the brief service from the 1928 Book of Common Prayer.

Neither of my cousins had brought their children, which made me wonder if those kids would grow up without the rituals that made death a part of life, instead of a sudden disappearance with no good-byes.

Daddy actually seemed to come to his senses enough to know what was going on, but he didn't get angry. He just tightened his grip on my hand and watched through silent tears. Seeing him that way, I cried, too. Of all times for him to realize what was happening. Too cruel, too cruel.

Then Tommy reached behind Daddy's shoulders to pat mine. I looked across our father to see my brother's features clouded with concern for me. It was a gift I very much needed, one that held me up and kept me strong.

After the service, we went to the graveside. It wasn't easy for Daddy to navigate the uneven ground, but between the two of us, Tommy and I managed to get him under the tent and into one of the navy blue faux-fur-covered folding chairs behind Aunt Glory and the girls and their husbands. For safety's sake, Tommy and I sat on either side of the General.

The interment service was mercifully brief.

When everything was over and the last of those present had offered their parting condolences to Aunt Glory and the girls, Junior told them they could go to the reception, then come back afterward to see the grave when everything was in place. So they got back into the limo and rode away.

But Daddy remained in his chair and refused to get up. He just sat there, staring at the lift that slowly lowered the casket into the vault below.

I couldn't help wondering what was going through his mind. Was he remembering better times? Or the spectacular arguments that marked his and Uncle Bedford's volatile relationship? Or his pride in Uncle Bedford's hard-fought accomplishments?

Or was he merely blank, his memories stolen by the sedatives or his disease?

I didn't ask him, because I couldn't handle what he might say.

We let him sit there for thirty minutes, then gently pulled him to his feet.

“Daddy, you did so well,” I said clearly. “We're proud of you.”

He sighed. “I'm proud of you both. Please, please don't die before me. I'd go crazy.”

“We won't, Daddy,” Tommy promised, ignoring the irony of what Daddy had said.

It took us almost another half hour to get him back to the Home and into his bed. Then we put in a brief appearance at the reception, after which I holed up in my apartment and cried and cried and cried. Not because Uncle Bedford was gone, finally free of his fears and illness, but because my daddy had lost himself and lived in the hell we'd put him in.

 

Fifty-eight

It was well past ten when I woke in the dark, stuffy-nosed and logy, to the sound of slow, heavy steps climbing the stair to my garage apartment.

Who in the world?

A chill ran down my spine.
Please, Lord, not Phil.

I forced myself out of bed, into my robe, then across the tiny living area to the single pane at eye level in the door. Shrouding the house, a cold, heavy fog turned the streetlights at the sidewalk into haloed pricks of light.

I turned on the porch light, stepped to the side, and looked askance down the stairs so I could see who it was.

Major relief. I unlocked and opened the door. “Mama?”

What was she doing here in the middle of the night?

Then I saw the big, round plastic container she used for her homemade ice cream.

Salivating, I helped her in.

“Thank you, honey,” she panted out. “I just couldn't stand it another minute alone in our bedroom. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw your daddy in that coffin instead of Bedford.” She pulled a small wine bottle from the deep pocket of her blue seersucker robe. “Here. Ice wine, for the ice cream.”

I took the bottle, locked the door behind her, then turned on the inside lights and went to the kitchenette for some bowls and spoons. And aperitif glasses.

Mama plunked heavily into the chair at my little table, then put down the frosty canister with a thunk. “This is from the final batch I made this year, a particularly good one. I try to avoid sweets, but this is an emergency.”

I returned with bowls, spoons, and my ice cream scoop. I handed Miss Mamie the bowls and scoop. “Bombs away,” I said, pouring the ice wine into the tiny goblets.

Mama served us both heaping portions of ice cream, then took a sip of her ice wine. She rolled her lips together, then opened them with an audible smack. “Aah. Nothing like sweets to soothe the soul. Especially ones with spirits.”

Waiting for her to take the conversational lead, I dove into the peach ice cream. “Whoa,” I said with my mouth full. “This
is
exceptional.”

For the first time ever, she didn't correct me for talking with my mouth full.

We went through two whole bowlfuls apiece and two aperitifs before Mama looked at me and said, “I loved Bedford, too, even though I had to get tough with him near the end. Do you think he knew I still loved him, anyway?”

“Of course he did.” My mouth was frozen, my tongue thickened. “‘Now that he's with the Lord, he can only remember the good things,'” I quoted Granny Beth. “‘Or it wouldn't be heaven.'”

Mama peered morosely into her bowl. “It made everything so real, seeing him in that coffin. It made me see the boy he was when he came to us. Then all I could see was the General, lying there in his place. Too real. Too real.” She let out a heavy sigh. “I'm not sure I can bear up when your father's time comes. Despite the way we fought, there were so many precious memories.” I noted her use of the past tense, but remained mute.

“The General did the best he could with no mother to teach him the softer things,” she went on. “He made it possible for Bedford to do things and be the man your father never could.”

She rarely spoke about that time, so I couldn't keep from asking, “Were they close, really?”

Mama nodded. “In that man-way of theirs, of course. They talked about politics”—to the right of Attila the Hun, I was sure—“and sports. Hot-tempered, the both of them, so they had plenty of arguments, but they always came around. Did chores together or worked on your uncle's hot rod. You know how men are.”

Actually, I didn't. Even as a kid, Tommy had always avoided me, much less confided in me. And Phil, an only child, never socialized except for corporate or professional events. As far as I knew, he had no close men friends, just a handful of other CPAs who played golf or tennis with him.

Phil certainly wasn't present in David's life. I was the one who went to all our son's games and pageants and parent-teacher conferences. Phil was always unavailable.

I thought back about all those times he hadn't come home from the office till almost midnight and wondered if he'd been cheating even then.

Not that I cared about what he did anymore. I'd finally detached from him, and our past. There was a blessed blank spot where Phil had been, and I wanted to keep it that way.

If he would just leave me alone.

Miss Mamie cocked her head. “Penny for your thoughts.”

I forced myself to focus. “I'm so sorry, Mama. My mind wandered.” A yawn escaped me as I rose to make room for the remaining ice cream in my small refrigerator freezer. When I finally got the freezer door closed, I took Mama's hand and pulled her up. “Come on. Let's pile up in my bed. You'll do better staying with me tonight.”

She nodded in gratitude, then followed. “I think you're right.”

“You'll love this mattress,” I said. “And you have your own control for the electric blanket.”

Mama perked up, following me into the bedroom, then took the opposite side of the bed. “You know, I've never slept under an electric blanket before.”

My jaw dropped. “Never?”

“Nope.” Mama pulled the covers up to her chin. “Your father said they were a Communist plot, that the electrical fields would ruin our brains. But you don't seem to have suffered for it, so I'm willing to give it a try.”

I got up and adjusted her control to a medium setting. “This one's warmer down at the feet,” I told her, then showed her how to adjust it. “The little light stays on, so you can see the numbers if you need to change it in the night.”

I went to brush my teeth and relieve myself, then brought back a new, unopened toothbrush for Mama to use. “Here. This is brand-new, and there's plenty of toothpaste. The bathroom's all yours.”

Mama regarded it with disdain, then snuggled even deeper under the electric blanket. “I don't need the bathroom yet, and I think I'll skip brushing my teeth for tonight.”

I tucked my chin. Uncle Bedford's death really
had
hit her hard. “Egad! The world's turned upside down. Miss Mamie, going to bed without brushing her teeth?”

“It won't hurt, just this once. And anyway, your daddy's not here to fuss at me about it.”

Shaking my head at hearing such talk, I crawled into my side of the bed and curled onto my side, my back to my mother.

Miss Mamie did the same, then put her freezing feet against my calves. “Oh, good,” she murmured. “You sleep hot, just like your daddy.”

Five minutes later, she was snoring as loud as my daddy ever thought about doing.

Good thing I didn't have classes the next morning.

To my surprise, I grew drowsy right away despite the noise. I'd forgotten how nice it was to have someone breathing on the other side of the bed. Even my mother. Even though she snored.

I just didn't want her to get used to it.

 

Fifty-nine

Every time I went to see Daddy between class days, he seemed a little worse, not just mentally, but physically.

Thank goodness for school. It took all my thought and energy to keep up with so many classes. After midterms in March, I had a ninety-eight average in history, a ninety-nine in Communications and English (I used contractions in my first lit paper, or I would have aced it), an A in Anthropology (my professor was a generalist who only gave letter grades), and a ninety-six in human biology with a ninety-one in lab.

My only B was in French, but I counted myself lucky there. My teacher still rattled off everything in French, but my ears were gradually catching up, and the textbook made the assignments clear, so I tested well.

The language lab was another matter. When I found out what a big deal it would be to have the lessons in the disabilities quiet room, I decided to tough it out in the regular lab. I had to replay the exercises over and over before I could understand. But eventually, I managed.

There were no noisy distractions in human biology or lab, but I still couldn't understand my Nigerian bio lab teacher's lectures about genetic traits, so I made an appointment with her to figure it out. After I'd told her I didn't understand, she explained it again for twenty minutes, leaving me more confused than ever. So I informed her of my grades in my other classes, then quoted
Cool Hand Luke:
“What we have here is a failure to communicate.”

Bless her heart, she tried again, with no better luck. Definitely a language barrier, there.

It occurred to me to ask her to do the genetic charts with me, and when she did, suddenly all became clear. I had been adding an extra step to the analysis. Presto, I got it.

But what if I hadn't thought of getting her to do the steps?

I didn't care what gender, race, religion, or nationality my professors were. I just thought they should be able to speak English well enough to be understood. I'm just sayin'.

Thanks to my heavy schedule, I gradually thought about Connor less and less.

But Phil refused to let up. Flowers, letters, e-mails, and cards (with no return address) came almost every day, begging me to see him, but never saying when.

I asked Tommy if he'd heard anything from his friend, but he said no.

Easter came in April, and on the tenth, my phone rang.

Seeing
unknown
in the little readout on the phone, I answered anyway. “Hello?”

I never screen my calls. If they're sales calls, I always start off by asking if they know Jesus as their personal Lord and savior. So far, all of them had hung up immediately. But maybe someday, I'd get to share my testimony. You never know.

Connor's voice surprised me. “Lin, I'm calling to ask you to come to our Easter service on the twentieth.”

Hope bloomed, warm and golden inside me, despite my vow to give up on him. “Does this mean you've gotten your answer?”

After a daunting pause, he said, “It means I would really like you to be there.”

Still a wuss!!

Shoot! Shoot, shoot, shoot.

A searing stab of disappointment plunged into my heart.

As always, just the sound of his voice was all it took to take me right back to that first, fabulous kiss. And the fun conversations we'd had. And the movies we'd seen, hand in hand. And my longing for safety in his arms.

But he hadn't gotten his answer, or he would have said so.

I groaned inside.
Honest, Lord, I've tried to trust and be patient, but You see what he does to me. And You keep letting him call or show up. What's with that?

Maybe I could go to the service and put an end to our relationship at last. But if that didn't work, I decided I'd knock his socks off.

The dress!
The
dress.

“Are you there?” Connor prodded gently.

“I'm here,” I said. “I'll come.” Boy, would I ever! “It'll give me a chance to wear my big, beautiful Easter bonnet.”