I can only think it's going to be a house. I imagine we'll settle around Tennessee near Bee. And that would be fine with me. I’m not going to be picky, either. As long as there's walls I can paint, I’ll be one happy camper.
I am about to audition right here in Atlanta. MaryAnna Trench meets me on the steps to the auditorium at Kennesaw State College.
“Oh, Char, you look great! Where did you ever find orange high heels?”
“Lottie's in Greenville. Half price.”
I don't hug MaryAnna. She's not the type of person who inspires hugs and I’m a huggy sort so what does that say?
I must admit my magenta dress is wonderful. Full skirt, ‘50s style, an orange sequined belt, and a jacket with orange lace that falls from the elbow length sleeves. Nothing like anything you'd ever find in the department store, I can tell you that! Harlan thought a hat would add the finishing touch but we couldn't find one to match so I made a bow for my hair.
“You ready?” MaryAnna flattens her own full skirt. Only hers is plaid and she actually wears a tarn. The pompom on top nods back and forth, mimicking her own movement as she mimics mine. Scotland forever!
“Harlan's parking the truck. Then we can go in.”
We made camp yesterday at a KOA near Cartersville. The boys are going to do routine maintenance on the equipment this week and Ruby will baby-sit when I need her. Melvin built a campfire last night, so we sat around and sang some of our favorite songs. It's times like these that bring us members of the crusade together. We really are a family.
Even now Ruby watches the kids in her travel trailer.
I know I said I would tell Harlan about Grandma Min last night, but I haven't yet. I think if this audition goes well, I really will tell him tonight. That way at least we'll have had a good day behind us.
Great. They've got the lights going and everything in this place. I can't even see the guy. I didn't meet him beforehand. His assistant said, “Just get out on stage and start to sing.”
Henry Windsor begins the opening strains of “This Old House” and I do my best not to clear my throat. I opt for a big grin and a wave of my hands as I begin.
We really go, Henry and I. Of course, this song is made for a quartet, but we take a different spin on it. I sing it bluesy-like. Like nothing I’ve heard before. And Henry just goes with it. I sneak a glance over at the piano and he's swaying like Ray Charles! And we begin to feed off each other's energy. Our sways unifying, our souls flowing in the same groove and I am stunned for a moment, blinded by the lights, the sound and the stream of notes.
I am in ecstasy. If I was a man I’d be guilty of having a mistress, I’d have sold out to a different love, my heart given over to another lover.
The song lasts ten minutes if it lasts a second. By the time we finish, both Henry and I are covered in sweat. I reach into my skirt pocket and pull out the handkerchief I keep handy during every concert. We wipe our brows in tandem.
A
day later MaryAnna bursts into the motor home where we are consuming chicken salad on potato rolls. “You've got it! They want you on the tour this summer!”
I turn to Harlan. “Oh, Harlan! I can't believe it!”
“Congratulations, Shug!”
We hug. The kids clap their chubby hands.
“You need to be back in Atlanta in mid-May for practices. They'll be forwarding your song selections as well as tapes with the orchestration after Christmas.”
I jump a little. “Whoo-hoo!”
Harlan unfolds to his feet and kisses me. “Now this is cause for celebration! I say we poke into the savings a little and have us a steak dinner!”
“Okay!” I hug him to me tightly.
MaryAnna says, “Not too much steak, Charmaine. You don't want to pack on the pounds between now and then!”
“What?” Harlan pulls back. “This woman is perfect in every way.”
My agent shakes her head. “You two are too much. If you weren't my client, Charmaine, you'd make me sick. But as it is, a client with a healthy marriage is much easier to manage than someone who not only wants representation, but a marriage counselor, too.”
“You been married before?” Harlan asks.
“Four times. I could write a book on marriage.”
Harlan and I look at each other and don't say a word.
“How about some lunch, Ms. Trench?” Harlan shows her a seat.
“No, thanks. But I’ll sit with you.”
Under her watchdog eye the chicken salad I’d made earlier turns into sawdust. “I’ll just get myself another Diet Coke.”
“Good girl, Char.”
I want to growl at her.
It's five
P.M
. and I stand in line to use the phone at the campground. Why there's a big line at this time of day this time of year at the KOA in Cartersville, Georgia, is beyond me, but there you have it. I can't get my mind off Grandma Min. I figure she actually may not call the number. She actually may write a letter, which is what I would probably do. It would be hard to get all your thoughts across well in a phone call, but in a letter, that would make all the difference.
So the first guy talking on the phone had problems with the hitch on his RV. He said they've been towing a little AMC Hornet on the back.
The second guy ordered a pizza.
And right now a lady goes on and on about her grandson Carl to, I presume, her sister.
Carl this. Carl that.
Oh, my lands.
I find out Carl walked at ten months, said his first words at eight, and I’m sure this poor lady has heard this all before.
I clear my throat.
She doesn't turn around.
I thank God that at least I don't wear those ugly thick-soled shoes like the ones she's got on. And those brown elastic-waisted stretch pants are just an eyesore. Kind of like the clothing equivalent of the industrial part of a city the main interstate always runs through.
I hope Bee is home.
Finally Granny Brown Pants hangs up, turns and displays a set of “Miracle Ears.” She smiles like a sunbeam as her eyes meet mine and I feel so bad about criticizing her like I did. “Aren't you just the prettiest thing?”
And I feel even worse.
“Thanks, ma'am.”
She slides on by.
I pick up the phone and dial Bee's number.
“Hey, Bee. It's me.”
“Hey, Charmaine.”
“Any calls?”
“No. Just some mail.”
The phone feels hot and hard in my grasp. “Anything interesting?”
“A bill from the propane company, two invites to speak. One's a church in Richmond and the other's in a town called Mount Oak.”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“There's also a personal letter for you.”
“Oh, yeah? Who from?”
“No first name. Last name is Whitehead.”
I try to breathe but feels like my lungs have filled with Cheez Whiz.
“Char?”
I manage a breath. “Sorry. Got something stuck in my throat.”
“You okay?”
“I’m fine. Listen here's the address of the church Harlan is speaking at this Sunday. Just forward it there as soon as you can.”
I give out the information.
“You got it, Char. I’ll put it in the mail right now.”
I don't know how long I’ve been sitting here under the picnic pavilion. Someone's fired up their charcoal grill somewhere and pretty soon campfires will glow. I wonder what Granny Brown is cooking tonight?
My life is at such loose ends. My career is moving forward, but where to? I’ll be receiving a letter from my grandma soon, but what does it say? And Mama? Well, that's one loose end destined never to be sewn into much of anything. And then there's Leo and Grace.
I head back to the phone and dial the number of Grace's rehab place.
She never arrived.
Doggone it! She never even arrived!
I run back to the motor home and pick Leo up in my arms.
“Hey!” He squirms. “It's too tight!”
But he settles in soon and my tears baptize us into a new life for the both of us.
Tonight is the night of reckoning. I have to tell Harlan about Grandma Min, because most likely he'll see her letter at the church before I can intercept it. I’ll only raise his suspicions if I offer to get the mail first.
Oh, my lands, he's been talking about hairpieces lately! But that's another story altogether.
We're still at the KOA as Harlan doesn't speak in Marietta until Sunday. The pastor there is an old friend of his from the seminary days and when Harlan called after we finished up in Suffolk and offered his services, he just said, “Praise the Lord! After the corker I gave them last week, the congregation and I need a vacation from each other.”
“What did you speak on … tithing?”
“Yep.”
And they laughed so hard I had to find out what all the commotion was about.
Melvin's got a campfire going again tonight. It's chilly. I cocooned the kids in heavy sweaters and they're sitting out there bundled together in a quilt. The pool is, of course, winterized, but I’ve been staring at it a lot while I’m here. I don't know why.
The depths are strangely inviting. But then, they always have been. Heights are, too. I’ll never forget the time the Evanses took us all for a climb up Crab Apple Falls in the Blue Ridge. I wanted to jump down the rocky face of the falls. In fact the urge came onto me with such vigor, I clung to Mrs. Evans's hand.
Fire doesn't do that to me, however. I steer clear of it, not because it invites me into its furnace, but because I can't imagine the pain if I threw myself inside. I guess being burned alive is my biggest fear. And yet it's so beautiful to gaze upon.
I’m sitting next to Harlan. I swat the side of his leg. “Let's go to the camping kitchen and make a big bowl of popcorn for everyone.”
“Why not just make it in the motor home?”
“I’d like to take a walk with you.”
“Well, why don't we just take a walk?”
“Okay. But what about the popcorn?”
“We can make it in the motor home when we get back.”
“Okay.”
Now see? Why do I always have to make up this other excuse? Why didn't I just say, “Let's take a walk, Harlan?” That's all it would have taken. And now he knows I don't just want to walk.
We slip away. The kids are getting drowsy and Ruby just waves us on letting me know she'll slip them in bed. But I’m hoping our talk won't take that long. I’m hoping that he'll understand.
We set our feet on the path toward the tent section. There are only a few hardy tent people set up. You have to admire the tent folks.
All day I’ve been analyzing the reason I’ve never felt comfortable telling people Mama deserted me. I wondered if it was that I didn't want their pity. And then I came to the conclusion that everybody likes a little pity once in a while. Those books that have everybody crying, “I don't want your pity!” are just plain goofy. Everybody likes some acknowledgment of their suffering. Now you don't want people fawning all over you, but a little sympathy every once in a while does a body good.
I wondered if it was the fact that saying she was dead was a tale completely encased in itself. Mama died, I went to foster care. That's pretty simple. Not a lot of explanation necessary with that tale. I know, I’ve been saying this long enough to know. Not many people ask how she died and when they do, I let them off the hook by saying, “It was such a long time ago, don't even ask how she departed!” Most people want to think the worst, so I let their imaginations replace their inquiries.
But I know why I did that now, why I’ve always hedged this portion of my past, and it feels good to have finally nailed it down in my own mind. I believe I’ve told people Mama was dead not only because I wanted to believe it myself, but because I didn't want to arrive at the conclusion that only a crazy person would leave her eleven-year-old child for two weeks. What kind of mother would do that?
Do I believe Mama loved me?
I can't even answer that. So much so that it isn't even an issue because it's too painful and I can never know.
So how in the world can I just tell the world that my mama left me and never came back? How can I throw that information out there when I cannot even begin to understand the “why” of it myself? Bottom line, Mama left me. The fact that she stayed away is secondary. Ruby is right. Mama was crazy. She belonged in the halls of an institution other than motherhood.
“So what is it you wanted to talk to me about, Shug?”
“How did you know I wanted to talk to you?”
“You're not exactly the-walk-in-the-woods-type of person, Charmaine.”
I squeeze his hand. “You know me way too well, Harlan.”
“And that's the way it should be. That way I can say I love you completely.”
Oh, my lands. He's said this many times before, and it wounded my heart those times, too. Well, at least it provided a good segue.
Now or never, Myrtle Charmaine, but I don't really see why you have to do this in the first place. It's family business and he's not family.
“Well, there is something you don't know about me and that's what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Should I be sitting down?”
“Probably, but let's keep walking.”
“You talk better when you're moving.”
“I know.”
“You know, Shug, you should just dive on in anyway. If you think about what to say you'll torture yourself.”
“Okay. Well, here goes?” I laugh a glassy laugh. “My mama may not be dead.”
“But—”
“Let me get it all out, Harlan!”
“Okay, okay.”
“I’ll just tell the story real fast.”
And I do.
“So the letter is coming from your Grandma Min soon?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Shug, would you have ever told me if you hadn't felt you had to?”
“Well, I didn't actually have to now, Harlan. I could have just pretended my grandma finally found me after searching for me for years. I could have thought up a dozen things. Or I could have done my level best to have just hid it all.”
He nods. “Okay, that's fair.”
“I want to go see my grandma again. I want to go by myself.”
“What about the kids?”
“I’ll take them with me. It's only Tuesday. You really don't need me until next Monday when we arrive in Mount Oak for the crusade there and that's only three or so hours from Suffolk. If I could take the motor home, you could bunk up with Henry in the little trailer.”