Authors: Barbara Kingsolver
We were sitting out with the kids in Roosevelt Park, which the neighbor kids called such names as Dead Grass Park and Dog Doo Park. To be honest, it was pretty awful. There were only a couple of shade trees, which had whole dead parts, and one good-for-nothing palm tree so skinny and tall that it threw its shade onto the roof of the cooler-pad factory down the block. The grass was scraggly, struggling to come up between shiny bald patches of dirt. Mostly it put me in mind of an animal with the mange. Constellations of gum-wrapper foil twinkled around the trash barrels.
“Look at it this way, at least she’s still kicking,” Lou Ann said. “I feel like my mama’s whole life stopped counting when Daddy died. You want to know something? They even got this double gravestone. Daddy’s on the right hand side, and the other side’s already engraved for Mama. ‘Ivy Louise Logan, December 2, 1934—to blank.’ Every time I see it it gives me the willies. Like it’s just waiting there for her to finish up her business and die so they can fill in the blank.”
“It does seem like one foot in the grave,” I said.
“If Mama ever got married again I’d dance a jig at her wedding. I’d be thrilled sideways. Maybe it would get her off my back about moving back in with her and Granny.” Dwayne Ray coughed in his sleep, and Lou Ann pushed his stroller back and forth two or three times. Turtle was pounding the dirt with a plastic shovel, a present from Mattie.
“Cabbage, cabbage, cabbage,” she said.
Lou Ann said, “I know a guy that would just love her. Did you ever know that fellow downtown that sold vegetables out of his truck?” But Turtle and Bobby Bingo would never get to discuss their common interest. He had disappeared, probably to run off with somebody’s mother.
“Your mother wouldn’t be marrying Harland Elleston,” I told Lou Ann, getting back to the subject at hand.
“Of course not! That big hunk is already spoken for.”
“Lou Ann, you’re just making a joke of this whole thing.”
“Well, I can’t help it, I wouldn’t care if my mother married the garbage man.”
“But Harland Elleston! He’s not even…” I was going to say he’s not even related to us, but of course that wasn’t what I meant. “He’s got warts on his elbows and those eyebrows that meet in the middle.”
“I’ll swan, Taylor, you talk about men like they’re a hangnail. To hear you tell it, you’d think man was only put on this earth to keep urinals from going to waste.”
“That’s not true, I like Estevan.” My heart sort of bumped when I said this. I knew exactly how it would look on an EKG machine: two little peaks and one big one.
“He’s taken. Who else?”
“Just because I don’t go chasing after every Tom’s Harry Dick that comes down the pike.”
“Who else? You never have one kind thing to say about any of your old boyfriends.”
“Lou Ann, for goodness’ sakes. In Pittman County there was nothing in pants that was worth the trouble, take my word for it. Except for this one science teacher, and the main thing he had going for him was clean fingernails.” I’d never completely realized how limited the choices were in Pittman. Poor Mama. If only I could have gotten her to Tucson.
“Well, where in the heck do you think I grew up, Paris, France?”
“I notice you didn’t stick with home-grown either. You had to ride off with a Wild West rodeo boy.”
“Fat lot of good it did me, too.”
“Well, you did get Dwayne Ray out of the deal.” I remembered what Mama always said about me and the Jackson Purchase.
“But oh, Taylor, if you could have seen him. How handsome he was.” She had her eyes closed and her face turned up toward the sun. “The first time I laid eyes on him he was draped on this fence like the Marlboro man, with his arms out to the sides and one boot up on the bottom rung. Just chewing on a match and hanging out till it was time to turn out the next bull. And do you know what else?” She sat up and opened her eyes.
“What?” I said.
“Right at that exact moment there was this guy in the ring setting some kind of a new world’s record for staying on a bull, and everybody was screaming and throwing stuff and of course me and my girlfriend Rachel had never seen a rodeo before so we thought this was the wildest thing since Elvis joined the army. But Angel didn’t even look up. He just squinted off at the distance toward the hay field behind the snack bar. Rachel said, ‘Look at that tough guy over by that fence, what an asshole, not even paying attention.’ And you know what I thought to myself? I thought, I bet I could get him to pay attention to me.”
A child in a Michael Jackson tank shirt rumbled down the gravel path on a low-slung trike with big plastic wheels, making twice as much noise as his size would seem to allow for. “This is a O-R-V,” he told us. Now I knew.
“I know you.” He pointed at Lou Ann. “You’re the one gives out money at Halloween.”
Lou Ann rolled her eyes. “I’m never going to live that down. This year they’ll be coming in from Phoenix and Flagstaff to beat down our door.”
“Watch out when the bums come,” he told us. “Go straight home.” He tore off again, pedaling like someone possessed.
The gravel path cut through the middle of the park from a penis-type monument, up at the street near Mattie’s, down to the other end where we liked to sit in a place Lou Ann called the arbor. It was the nicest thing about the park. The benches sat in a half-circle underneath an old wooden trellis that threw a shade like a cross-stitched tablecloth. The trellis had thick, muscly vines twisting up its support poles and fanning out overhead. Where they first came out of the ground, they reminded me of the arms of this guy who’d delivered Mattie’s new refrigerator by himself. All winter Lou Ann had been telling me they were wisteria vines. They looked dead to me, like everything else in the park, but she always said, “Just you wait.”
And she was right. Toward the end of March they had sprouted a fine, shivery coat of pale leaves and now they were getting ready to bloom. Here and there a purplish lip of petal stuck out like a pout from a fat green bud. Every so often a bee would hang humming in the air for a few seconds, checking on how the flowers were coming along. You just couldn’t imagine where all this life was coming from. It reminded me of that Bible story where somebody or other struck a rock and the water poured out. Only this was better, flowers out of bare dirt. The Miracle of Dog Doo Park.
Lou Ann went on endlessly about Mama. “I can just see your mama…. What’s her name, anyway?”
“Alice,” I said. “Alice Jean Stamper Greer. The last thing she needs is an Elleston on top of all that.”
“…I can just see Alice and Harland running for the sugar shack. If she’s anything like you, she goes after what she wants. I guess now she’ll be getting all the paint and body jobs she needs.”
“He’s only half owner, with Ernest Jakes,” I said. “It’s not like the whole shop belongs to him.”
“Alice and Harland sittin’ in a tree,” she sang, “K-I-S-S-I-N-G!”
I plugged my ears and sang, “I’m going back someday! Come what may! To Blue Bayou!” Turtle whacked the dirt and sang a recipe for succotash.
I spotted Mrs. Parsons and Edna Poppy coming down the gravel path with their arms linked. From a great distance you could have taken them for some wacked-out geriatric couple marching down the aisle in someone’s sick idea of a garden wedding. We waved our arms at them, and Turtle looked up and waved at us.
“No, we’re waving at them,” I said, and pointed. She turned and folded and unfolded her hand in the right direction.
Now and again these days, not just in emergencies, we were leaving the kids with Edna and Virgie Mae on their front porch to be looked after. Edna was so sweet we just hoped she would cancel out Virgie’s sour, like the honey and vinegar in my famous Chinese recipe. It was awfully convenient, anyway, and Turtle seemed to like them okay. She called them Poppy and Parsnip. She knew the names of more vegetables than many a greengrocer, I’d bet. Her favorite book was a Burpee’s catalogue from Mattie’s, which was now required reading every night before she would go to bed. The plot got old, in my opinion, but she was crazy about all the characters.
“Ma Poppy,” Turtle said when they were a little closer. She called every woman Ma something. LouAnn was Ma Wooahn, which Lou Ann said sounded like something you’d eat with chopsticks, and I was just Ma. We never told her these names, she just came to them on her own.
The two women were still moving toward us at an unbelievably slow pace. I thought of a game we used to play in school at the end of recess: See who can get there last. Edna had on a red knit top, red plaid Bermuda shorts, and red ladies’ sneakers with rope soles. Virgie had on a tutti-frutti hat and a black dress printed all over with what looked like pills. I wondered if there was an actual place where you could buy dresses like that, or if after hanging in your closet for fifty years, regular ones would somehow just transform.
“Good afternoon, Lou Ann, Taylor, children,” Mrs. Parsons said, nodding to each one of us. She was so formal it made you want to say something obscene. I thought of Lou Ann’s compulsions in church.
“Howdy do,” Lou Ann said, and waved at a bench. “Have a sit.” But Mrs. Parsons said no thank you, that they were just out for their constitutional.
“I see you’re wearing my favorite color today, Edna,” I said. This was a joke. I’d never seen her in anything else. When she said red was her color, she meant it in a way most people don’t.
“Oh, yes, always.” She laughed. “Do you know, I started to dress in red when I was sixteen. I decided that if I was to be a Poppy, then a Poppy I would be.”
Edna said the most surprising things. She didn’t exactly look at you when she spoke, but instead stared above you as though there might be something wonderful hanging just over your head.
“Well, we’ve heard all about that before, haven’t we?” said Mrs. Parsons, clamping Edna’s elbow in a knucklebone vice-grip. “We’ll be going along. If I stand still too long my knees are inclined to give out.” They started to move away, but then Mrs. Parsons stopped, made a little nod, and turned around. “Lou Ann, someone was looking for you this morning. Your husband, or whatever he may be.”
“You mean Angel?” She jumped so hard she bumped the stroller and woke up Dwayne Ray, who started howling.
“I wouldn’t know,” Virgie said, in such a way that she might as well have said, “How many husbands do you have?”
“When, this morning while I was at the laundromat?”
“I have no idea where
you
were, my dear, only that
he
was
here
.”
“What did he say?”
“He said he would come back later.”
Lou Ann bounced the baby until he stopped crying. “Shit,” she said, quite a few minutes later when they’d moved out of earshot. “What do you think that means?”
“Maybe he wanted to deliver a check in person. Maybe he wants to go on a second honeymoon.”
“Sure,” she said, looking off at the far side of the park. She was still jiggling Dwayne Ray, possibly hadn’t noticed he’d stopped crying.
“Why do you think she puts up with that coot?” I asked.
“What coot, old Vicious Virgie you mean? Oh, she’s harmless.” Lou Ann settled the baby back into his stroller. “She reminds me of Granny Logan. She’s that type. One time Granny introduced me to some cousins by marriage of hers, I was wearing this brand-new midi-skirt I’d just made? And she says, “This is my granddaughter Lou Ann. She isn’t bowlegged, it’s just her skirt makes her look that way.’”
“Oh, Lou Ann, you poor thing.”
She frowned and brushed at some freckles on her shoulder, as though they might suddenly have decided to come loose. “I read a thing in the paper this morning about the sun giving you skin cancer,” she said. “What does it look like in the early stages, do you know?”
“No. But I don’t think you get it from sitting out one afternoon.”
She pushed the stroller back and forth in an absent-minded way, digging a matched set of ruts into the dust. “Come to think of it, though, I guess that’s a little different from the way Mrs. Parsons is. Somehow it’s more excusable to be mean to your own relatives.”
She rubbed her neck and turned her face to the sun again. Lou Ann’s face was small and rounded in a pretty way, like an egg sunny side up. But in my mind’s eye I could plainly see her dashing out the door on any given day, stopping to say to the mirror: “Ugly as homemade sin in the heat of summer.” No doubt she could see Granny Logan in there too, staring over her shoulder.
After a while I said, “Lou Ann, I have to know something for Turtle’s and my sake, so tell me the honest truth. If Angel wanted to come back, I mean move back in and have everything the way it was before, would you say yes?”
She looked at me, surprised. “Well, what else could I do? He’s my husband, isn’t he?”
There may have been a world of things I didn’t understand, but I knew when rudeness passed between one human being and another. The things Mrs. Parsons had said about aliens were wrong and unkind, and I still felt bad even though weeks had passed. Eventually I apologized to Estevan. “She’s got a mean streak in her,” I told him. “If you’re unlucky enough to get ahold of a dog like that, you give it away to somebody with a big farm. I don’t know what you do about a neighbor.”
Estevan shrugged. “I understand,” he said.
“Really, I don’t think she knew what she was saying, about how the woman and kid who got shot must have been drug dealers or whatever.”
“Oh, I believe she did. This is how Americans think.” He was looking at me in a thoughtful way. “You believe that if something terrible happens to someone, they must have deserved it.”
I wanted to tell him this wasn’t so, but I couldn’t. “I guess you’re right,” I said. “I guess it makes us feel safe.”
Estevan left Mattie’s every day around four o’clock to go to work. Often he would come down a little early and we’d chat while he waited for his bus. “Attending my autobus” was the way he put it.
“Can I tell you something?” I said. “I think you talk so beautifully. Ever since I met you I’ve been reading the dictionary at night and trying to work words like constellation and scenario into the conversation.”