Bernice continues. “He told me he wanted to be a monkey because he thinks they’re nice and I told him that some monkeys are not that nice, but he said the ones he likes are nice and he wanted to be one. I have never been one to sew very well but I learned that Halloween by trial and error.”
“Bernice, are you telling a story?” I ask. She could have seen an article in a magazine for all I know and I personally have always felt that she was taking in a lot more than any of us think.
“I’m telling it exactly as it happened. Wade knew what he wanted to wear and he stuck to it.”
“Wade?” I’ve never heard her say his name out loud. I probably wouldn’t even know if it weren’t for Rhonda. Bernice is not acting like Bernice. I’m wondering if I should call the black-haired girl or a nurse
to come down here. Bernice is trying to talk about something impor- tant and there’s nobody here. They ought to call Cameron.
Bernice turns the volume back up. Vincent Price is standing in the dark except for a few candles. You would have to be an idiot not to know that he is the murderer. As far as I know, he’s always the murderer.
“Bernice, I want to call a nurse. Will you tell me some more about Wade? I think somebody needs to come down here.”
“That’s the end of the story. I made his monkey outfit, and right before he walked out the door, he decided to carry a bunch of bananas with him, and whenever he rang the bell, he yelled ‘trick or treat’ with a mouthful of mashed-up banana, holding the uneaten part up in the face of whoever answered just in case they might not know he was a monkey. He was so cute you could eat him, and he got more candy than anybody else. Maybe people were tired of scary things and they liked the change.”
I ring the buzzer. What’s going on in her head right now? Is she trying to break through or does she even know what she’s saying? What does it feel like when all the stories inside you dry up and the only thing you can talk about is what’s in front of you in the moment, without the comfort of your own memories or intelligence? That’s how she lives every day, but she is telling me this now and I believe she knows that she’s telling me.
Mathilda, the pill nurse, doesn’t know how to speak except to shout. “What are you doing in that bed, Bernice? Don’t you know we have insurance to think about around here? Get out before one of you falls out and breaks your neck!”
“Mathilda, this is important. Bernice is talking about her deceased son, and I think you should call Cameron and tell him. Or maybe a doctor.”
“When is Bernice not talking?”
“I know. This is not the same. She’s talking about her life.”
“I am not about to disturb her son and family, much less the doctor on call at this hour. I don’t see any substantial change to report.”
If I could throw something and knock that know-nothing red- headed hog square in the mouth I would do it with every ounce of strength I have and not even ask God’s forgiveness for it. That’s how mad she makes me.
Bernice has taken the peanut brittle off my nightstand and is biting down on it with her molars but not having much success. I take the candy away from her.
“Tell her what you told me, honey. Tell Mathilda.”
Bernice looks at me, then slowly at the scowling face in the door- way. “I told her about Wade and the Trick or Treat when he dressed up like a monkey. I made the costume like a chimpanzee, but he said that would not do because he wanted to have a tail and chimpanzees did not have tails. ‘Don’t you know that, Mother?’ he said, frowning. He couldn’t believe I might not know my monkeys.”
Mathilda’s expression has not warmed at all. “She is having a delu- sion about her dead son, Mrs. Clayton, no more and no less. It hap- pens in cases of dementia. There’s nothing to worry about. Bernice, come with me to your room and I’ll give you something to help you sleep.”
“No thank you, dear.” Bernice smiles. “We’ve already ordered.” She turns to me and I see in her eyes that it’s gone, the light, the f licker of an old light. “I guess we’ll have to save room for dessert!” She takes another slab of rock-hard peanut brittle. The police are taking Vincent Price away. He does not look as though he even realizes what’s happening to him, a real loony. Mathilda turns the TV off without asking and helps Bernice down from my bed and onto her feet, then escorts her into the hall, and shuts off the light with a sweep of her hand, not looking back at me. Ole Jim is star- ing his crazy-man murderer smile across the room. He looks like he wants to tell me something. I want to remember everything that’s
ever happened to me, all that I have done, and every person I’ve known. I want to be able to call every name, recall every joke, keep secrets. I have to try. It’s easier to let all of it slide down the bank and f loat away on the river’s current. If I lose something, anything at all, there’ll be no one who can help me f ind it. It will have been washed away, gone.
c h a p t e r tw e n ty
Rhonda
I
told Mike to go on and go fishing. It’s Sunday, I’m taking the day off, and I want to spend this morning writing thank-you notes. Connie’s coming over and we’re gonna go to either Pizza Hut or the cafeteria, whatever she’s in the mood for. It don’t matter to me, I told her let’s do something that’s fast and easy. It’s not like we got so many wedding presents that it’s gonna take me all day, but I want to take my time and do these right. I want to say something I really mean instead of the same words over and over. I owe it to Margaret Clayton for teaching me how to write a proper thank-you note while I was shampooing her hair. She told me first you’re supposed to say a general thank-you like “thank you so much for your thoughtful gift,” then you mention something spe- cific about whatever it is you’re being thankful for so they know you paid attention, like “I especially like the blue because it will fit so perfectly in my dining room,” then finally you say something about the future, “I look forward to seeing you again soon,” or “I
hope you have lovely holidays,” something like that.
At the end of Margaret’s lesson, Bernice stood up and put her hand over her heart and said, “Why don’t you write, ‘Thank you so much, you’ll never know how much this means to me. I do so love you.’ ”
Margaret said, “She’s been watching old black-and-white movies. I believe I’d try to think of something else.”
I feel like I’m already behind. I haven’t had the chance to get ev- erything back together since the honeymoon. Mike took me to Co- zumel for a week. It wasn’t a surprise, we planned the whole thing together. Connie had already been there and she told me it was her favorite vacation she ever had. Plenty of sun, margaritas on the beach, and real cheap. It didn’t rain a drop the whole time we were there so we basically lived on the beach, going back and forth to the pool bar. I went parasailing too, which was a hoot because I couldn’t understand the teachers, if that’s what you call them.
Mike said, “Honey, what were you expectin? I told you to learn a little Spanish before we came.”
They gave me a lot of instructions while they were strapping me in on the beach, four little men all talking at the same time. “Hold here, señora. Raise up arms, señora. Let go with your feet, señora.” Any time one of them said something that sounded like a question, I nodded and said, “Gracias” because I didn’t want them to think I wasn’t listening. With no warning, the boat motor f ired up and started pulling, tightening on the rope and I had to run because it was pulling me across the sand with the parachute blown up behind. Those Mexican guys were talking and pointing the whole time, but by that point I was in take-off mode and not thinking about anything else. Mike cupped his hands and yelled over the sound of the motor, “You know what to do, right? Do you know what you’re supposed to do?” I didn’t know there was anything
to
do and I f ig- ured he was messing with me, but he sounded sort of concerned, so I wondered if there might be something I should be concerned about.
As the motor got louder, I left the ground and my legs were dan- gling in the air. I was surprised at how not scared I was. It was like being a big old seagull, gliding over sand and water, looking down at tiny moving things. When I thought we were far enough out for my liking, I tried to get their attention, “Hey y’all! Hey!!” They were so
far down I prob’ly sounded like a bird. Finally we took a real wide turn and started heading back in. “This is more like it,” I thought. I liked being where I could see land getting closer instead of further away. I could also see Mike the size of an ant in bright red surfer shorts. I waved real wild with one arm because I wanted to hold on with the other one even if I was strapped in. Somebody blew a high shrill whis- tle, off in the distance. I didn’t think much of it, but they kept blowing like there was a fire. I was waving to Mike, but then everybody on the beach, Mike and all the Mexican guys, were waving at me, but not waving like when you’re saying hi. And I’m thinking, “Why is that idiot down there blowin a whistle like he’s directin traffic?” We got close enough in that I thought we oughta be going down, but the boat engine revved up again and we turned back out into the ocean. I yelled, “Hey, where the hell are y’all goin?” like it did any good to yell and me a mile up in the air hanging on a string. The three guys on the boat all made the same gesture like they were pulling something in the air, then they pointed up at me. It took a couple of rounds of charades to get me to notice a canvas web belt hanging by my right shoulder. It had a bright f luorescent orange loop tied into it that made it seem like something you were supposed to notice, so I grabbed it and pulled. Nothing happened that I could tell, but they clapped and cheered down on the boat. I figured I’d keep pulling as long as they weren’t going crazy or blowing whistles, which they didn’t do, so we came in for a landing, real soft. Connie laughed ’til she about peed because she couldn’t believe I didn’t know you had to pull on the rope to help bring the parasail back down. “Didn’t you listen to a word they said?” She fanned herself with a napkin. I told her I didn’t have any plans to do it again, so she was wasting her breath on me.
I asked her if she had a good time at the wedding, but she con- fessed that she couldn’t talk about it without saying something about the fight. Lynn Barber had made a comment that she didn’t know who that colored woman was with those two old ladies, and did any-
body know why she was here. Connie already didn’t like the tone she asked in and said yes she most certainly did know, and that the black woman was a nurse that worked with Rhonda and what did it matter to Lynn anyway? Lynn said, “Since when are you in the NAACP?” and Connie hauled off and slapped her.
Connie said, “Rhonda, I would have told you that day, but I didn’t see any sense in messin up your wedding. That ain’t a thing but ig- norance.”
“It’s okay. I don’t know what I would have done if I’da heard it.
Maybe I wouldn’t have hit her though.”
“Hey, it’s not like I go around beatin up bridesmaids,” Connie said. “I know, your heart’s in the right place. It’s your hands I worry
about.”
Connie had always been known to stand up for herself or anybody else she thought was getting the short end of the stick. Honestly, I think that’s why they hired her right off at UPS when most of the drivers were men. They saw she had a backbone. Connie’s favorite quote was “R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Find out what it means to me,” only she acted like it was from the Bible instead of Aretha Franklin.
At first I decide not to write Lynn Barber a thank-you note at all, but I change my mind and keep it real short.
Dear Lynn, thank you for being a part of my wedding. I hope the day was special for you.
Sincerely, Rhonda
They always say, “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say noth- ing at all.” But there’s more to it than that. Margaret Clayton also taught me that if you don’t have something nice to say, you
can
still say something, it’s all in the wording. Hell, I felt like the day prob’ly
was
special for Lynn; after all, she got smacked in the face.
I have to save my thank-you note to Margaret and Bernice. I don’t
know what to say, but I want it to be exactly right. The two of them brought me a present early when they came to get their hair done for the ceremony. Together they handed me something f lat and square, wrapped in real elegant silver paper with purple ribbon. I told them I wished they hadn’t bought anything.
Margaret said, “Honey, calm down, you haven’t seen what it is yet.” “It’s a picture!” Bernice yelled.
“Well there you go,” Margaret added. “There’s nothing like a sur- prise.”
Inside the box was a framed photo of the three of us that Lorraine took, all of us wearing Santa Claus hats in the salon. “My God, I was just gettin to know y’all,” I said. “Look how nervous I am!”
Margaret answered, “Honey, you look fine. I, on the other hand, am quite sure I didn’t want to have that ridiculous hat on my head. That was some of Lorraine’s doing, left over from the Christmas party.”
“They have a Christmas party every year!” Bernice added. Marga- ret patted her arm. “And I know you love it sweetheart, so I’m going to keep my mouth shut.”
I couldn’t wait to show Connie. She asked if I was gonna put it out with my Christmas decorations.
“Hell, those women mean a whole lot more to me than Christmas,” I said. “I’m leaving it out all the time. I still can’t believe they came.”
“Why not?” Connie said. “You’re one of the most regular things in their lives.”
“Maybe,” I said.
Connie kept on. “It’s what you do, Rhonda. You take care of em every time you wash their hair and tell em they look nice. Everybody needs takin care of. That’s why I never was a good beautician; I didn’t care enough about makin other women look good.”
Before the wedding, Bernice had brought in a picture from a mag- azine of a girl with blond dreadlocks and said she wanted her hair done
like that for a change. “I like that girl’s hair. It’s like rope,” she said. I talked her out of it by telling her that if I did that I wouldn’t be able to shampoo her hair the way she liked. I’m sure Cameron Stokes would have loved to see his mother with four-inch-long dreadlocks. Lorraine put their wedding clothes together for them. I could tell she took the time to pick out the dressiest things they had in their closets. Both of them had on suits, Bernice with a high-neck silk blouse and a big gold brooch and Margaret with a bow that tied at the neck and strands of pearls peeking out underneath it. When Mike and me turned around to face the congregation after it was over, my eyes went straight to them. They were the first faces I looked for. Bernice waved and blew a kiss. Mike waved back.