dust. I paid good money for that car, and I might need it. I wish for things all the time that I can’t use, but I need to have at least some things that are mine. It’s a way to say to anybody, “I can do something if I want to. I can decide things.”
I don’t want to start thinking about that car now, I might never see it again. Sometimes my mind has open window spells. It’s as though a wind blows through and scatters everything all over the place, trash f lying in while other things get sucked out. Then I’ll say something crazy, out of the blue, and even while I’m talking foolishness, I know full well it doesn’t make a bit of sense. Yesterday lying right here in this crank-up bed, I told Ann to go into the kitchen and check on my sweet potatoes. She looked at me and smiled, and said, “Mama, you’re not cooking anything today.” Now I know damn well I’m not cook- ing. I know I’m not home. But sometimes when I picture myself in my living room, it
is
me. I’m turning on the TV, making a phone call, or walking around with a magazine. And the whole time I’m here in bed half asleep—the thing I do best—until somebody comes to drag me out to eat or take a bath or just to sit up in a chair for a few minutes.
It’s not a very cheerful picture, so you can see why I don’t know what kind of Christmas party they think they are going to have in a place where nobody even knows what day it is. I guess they have to do something for the holidays so it still feels like some brand of “alive” around here instead of like the waiting platform for the last train out of this world.
Lorraine perks up when she sees me awake. “Well good morn- ing, Miss Margaret, how you feelin? You ’bout ready for some break- fast?”
“Yes ma’am I am, thank you,” I tell her, even though the only breakfast I like is when they bring Frosty Flakes. Everything they have the nerve to cook tastes like it’s been on the stove for two days, boiled to death. I know they’re afraid we’ll choke if they don’t make everything into mush, but try eating something that feels like slime
on the top of a pond going down your throat. There’s nothing like it to put you off eating altogether.
Lorraine pushes over a tray with dry cereal on it, Cheerios, not exactly the kind I want, but thank God for small favors, at least it’s something I can actually chew. There’s also a glass of orange juice, coffee that looks like what comes out the bottom of your car, and a little cookie in the shape of a star with green sprinklies on top. I never have cared much about something sweet. Just a little sugar in my coffee, that’s all. Not that I haven’t made some cakes that are the best thing you’ve ever put in your mouth though, but I don’t eat them. I never have. Maybe a sliver right after they come out of the oven good and hot, but that’s all.
“Today’s the party, Miss Margaret, are you ready for Santy Claus?” “I reckon I’m ready as I’m going to be. How about you?” Please Lord, don’t let her start going through drawers pulling out everything red she can find and trying to make a Christmas outfit. I told Ann to get rid of that sweatshirt somebody gave me with big appliqués of candy canes all over it, but I’m sure there’s plenty of other tacky mess in those drawers if she looks long enough. I don’t want to be all in red, and I don’t want to be all in green either. And most of all I don’t want to wear any sparkly gold loafers on my feet. Just a plain black or brown shoe with a little bit of a heel, that’s what I have always worn, and that’s exactly what I plan to continue wearing. But you just let me say something when somebody comes to visit. They’ll say, “Oh come on Mrs. Clayton, don’t you have any Christmas spirit? You look pretty as a picture.” Good Lord, I know I really do—
that’s
a picture I don’t
want to see.
I push the bowl of Cheerios back after a few mouthfuls. I’m hungry just about all the time, but I don’t eat much. I guess I don’t want it when you get right down to it, plus there’s nothing to make you lose your appetite like worrying about whether everything you put down your gullet is gonna make you sick. Lorraine takes away my tray but
leaves me some juice because she knows I like to have something to drink sitting close all the time, something besides water. I must say I have never liked to drink water. Dr. Shiraka says I’m supposed to drink six glasses a day, but I told him I’ve never drunk six glasses of anything in one day and I’m not about to start. I prefer something that has some taste, and not too cold, just a little ice. Tea or Co-Cola suits me all right.
Lorraine reappears after putting my tray on a trolley in the hall. “What you want to wear to the party? I know Ann’s got some pretty things in here in these drawers.”
“Honey, I don’t care one bit so long as you don’t fix me up to look like a whore.”
“What?” Lorraine wheezes. “Now what am I gon do to make you look like that? You don’t even know what you’re talkin about.”
“Yes ma’am I do, don’t you think I don’t.”
“Uh-huh, all right.” Lorraine cuts me off. “I ain’t gon argue with you right here at Christmas time.” She opens the closet, puts her hands on her hips, and stares for a minute. “How ’bout this outfit? Does this look all right to you?” She pulls out a navy blue knit jacket with gold buttons, and blue slacks to match.
“I’ve never seen that before in my life.”
“Still got the tags on it.” She places the clothes on the end of the bed as carefully as if they were her own. “See there, we’ll get you all fixed, and then I’ll come back and take you down to the party room a little bit after lunch.”
“Do I have a choice?” “Not while I’m on duty.”
“Go on away from here, you stubborn mule.” Lorraine offers her characteristic grunt and squeaks out into the hallway.
I have to say I am very curious to go to a Christmas party where most of the people there cannot or will not speak even if you held a gun to their heads. Some of them are bound to be crazy too. I know
full well that Bernice Stokes, across the hall from me, wanders out all the time to say she’s going to smoke a cigarette, even though Lorraine says she’s never smoked a day in her life, which in North Carolina is saying something. If they don’t watch her, she’ll be out on 50 High- way sure as day, trying to get somebody to take her to downtown Ra- leigh and offering a hundred dollars for the ride. She doesn’t have five dollars, but Lorraine says she used to have money and now her son’s got all of it, the one that’s left. I feel sorry for her, thinking she’s got what she hasn’t. I guess that’s the way it happens a lot, which is why I’m thankful I’ve got my mind, at least most of the time. Ann has all the money she needs, she sells houses like nobody’s business and buys anything she wants whenever she wants it. What little I’ve got I plan to keep as long as I’ve got sense enough.
I only have time to watch a little bit of
One Life to Live
when Lor- raine comes back, but I tell her to go on and turn it off, it’s not worth seeing. Viki has lost her memory for about the tenth time, and even I am getting tired of it, and I love that program, I really do. Television can be a great thing when you’re in my shoes. Some of it’s trash, but so is most of what we spend our time on, so I figure it balances out. If you don’t watch it all the time when you’re young, then you can have it on all the time when you’re my age if you so desire. At least it’s some talking, people’s faces, moving around and laughing and trying out new products and not spending every day in a bed.
“Anybody in here ready for a party?” Lorraine starts singing down the hall and she’s not bashful about it.
Here comes Santy Claus, here comes Santy Claus, right down Santy Claus lane!
I hear her singing into Ber- nice’s room in the highest, squeakiest little voice you’ve ever heard. It’s not humanly possible that a voice like that could come out of anything except a baby. The concert stops abruptly when she steps into my doorway. “Come on, Miss Margaret, I can take you and Bernice at the same time. If you don’t feel like walking you can go in the chair and Bernice can hang on to one arm, is that all right with you?”
“Yes ma’am, but before we go down there, would you please make sure Bernice has her yellow monkey doll, because she will no doubt have a conniption without it. And then you’d think the world’s going to end ’til somebody gets it, which personally I would rather not wit- ness.”
Lorraine calls out into the hall, “We got ole Mister Benny right here, don’t we Bernice?”
Lorraine plops me as soft as she can into the wheelchair that’s parked full-time beside my bed in case I need it, ever since I fell and hurt my hip. With her as the engine, we roll out the door, first time I’ve left this room in four days—last time was when they had a fire drill. In the hall I get an eyeful, I mean right now. Gold garland hang- ing in scraggly strands above everybody’s door. Red plastic shiny balls with the color chipping off at the top. I know it all came from the dime store, and I’m all for working on a budget, as long as something doesn’t
look
like it came from the dime store.
I try to get comfortable and tap Lorraine’s arm. “Okay, let’s roll,
honey. I don’t want to miss anything.”
“You know nobody’s gon start nothing without you,” Lorraine lowers her voice, “there’d be hell to pay.”
There are already ten people in the party room in various states of sleep, propped up on multiple pillows, falling over, or sitting straight as sticks except with their eyes closed. Lorraine takes Bernice and me over to the wall nearest the refreshment table, away from the door, which I know means that she intends me to stay for the whole affair.
Ada Everett, the all-too-pleasant woman who is in charge of this entire operation, walks up to the front of the room once everybody has gathered and says, “Well I’m just as pleased as I can be to be here with y’all so we can say ‘Merry Christmas’ all together. We have some special music planned and some presents to open, and we might even have a visit from the North Pole!” she chirps like she’s talking to a bunch of six-year-olds. “And we’re going to enjoy some of these
fine refreshments that Twin Oaks Baptist has so kindly provided, but before we do that, I thought we might play a little game to get us all in the Christmas spirit, okay? Have any of y’all ever been in a spelling bee?”
There’s dead silence in the room. She might as well be talking to trees. And I myself am one of the few who could answer her if I wanted to, but that’s one true pleasure about being old; you realize every day how many things are more trouble than they’re worth, and how much time you could have saved yourself over the years if you had only had that precious knowledge at a time when you could have actually done something with it.
“Well here’s how it works, we’ll just all take turns spelling holiday words, and the last one in gets a prize, okay? Okay. Now. The first word is . . .”
She reaches into a box wrapped in shiny red foil and pulls out a small light blue strip of paper.
“. . . ‘Joy.’ How ’bout that? There’s a simple one for you.”
An old lady on the end of the row yells out, “J-O-Y, J-O-Y—that was my grandmama’s name, J-O-Y!”
“Good for you, Mrs. Bain!” Ada chirps. “How ’bout another word? Let’s see . . . ‘mistletoe’! Mr. Tart, do you want to give that one a try?” Vinnie Tart used to be a history teacher and he’s smart as a whip, but he had a stroke and it’s harder for him to speak now. He also some- times gets words and names mixed up. So when he spells “mistletoe” with two
S
’s, I know darn well that it isn’t because he doesn’t know
how to spell it. They ought to let it go, but I reckon rules are rules.
And so it goes on for a while—I get out on “potpourri,” which I’ve always thought was one of the most stupid things I could think of anyway, especially since some of Ann’s Realtor friends insist on giving me something just that useless on every single occasion when they feel like they ought to bring a present. After me, there are only two people left, the hard-of-hearing woman they call Miss Inez and
crazy Bernice, who has somehow made it all the way through without having to spell anything harder than “eggnog.”
Ada looks to Miss Inez and says, “Okay now think hard, the next word is . . . ‘Christmas’!”
“ ‘Liquor’?” Miss Inez scrunches up her face like she doesn’t un- derstand Ada.
“No dear, ‘Christmas’!” Ada smiles.
“ ‘Liquor’?!” Miss Inez repeats in a loud voice.
“No, not liquor, Miss Inez. Now listen. ‘CHRIST-MAS!’ Like ‘we wish you a MERRY CHRISTMAS’!” Ada is almost yelling at this point.
Miss Inez looks at me sharply, “Is that girl yonder saying ‘liquor’?” I shake my head, and Ada, clearly exasperated, replies with a testi-
ness in her voice which delights me because I know the veil of her patience is lifting, “Honestly, Miss Inez. Go on and spell it. That’s what Christmas is to some people anyway.”
Inez starts spelling. “L-I-Q-U . . .” She pauses. “. . . E-R.”
“Oh no, honey, I’m so sorry.” Ada fake pouts, reveling in her pri- vate victory. “Bernice, how about you? Spell ‘Christmas.’ ”
Bernice grins and yells, “L-I-Q-U-O-R!”
Ada Everett is dumbstruck for a second because that isn’t the word she was supposed to spell, but I start clapping immediately and cry out, “Hurray Bernice, you won, sweetheart!” and then other people wake up and start clapping too. Ada, clearly dismayed that she has somehow lost control of the situation, says simply, “So she did,” then looks back over to Miss Inez whose head is now over to one side, sound asleep.
Never missing a beat, Ada pipes up like a North Pole elf. “Well now, that was just fine, wasn’t it, everybody? And congratulations, Bernice,” she nods as she hands her a box of chocolate covered cher- ries with a bow on top. The pitch of Ada’s voice kicks into an even higher key. “Now I think it’s about time we had something to refresh ourselves a little, don’t you?”
She walks in the direction of the punch bowl and cookies. I’m star- ing at the door, thinking about going back to my room for a nap, when Bernice punches me in the side, not so gently, with her elbow. When I turn my head to snap at her, I see that she is holding in her hand one of those little whiskey bottles like you get on the airplane, Jack Daniel’s or something else brown. God knows where she got it, maybe her son traveling all the time. Let me be clear about one thing—I myself do not touch a drop of spirits. Only a nip of dark rum in my eggnog, that’s all. I push Bernice’s hand back down into her lap before Ada can see what she has, but I am too late. Ada snatches the bottle away from Bernice, and knocks Yellow Monkey Benny onto the f loor, and unfortunately that one careless gesture throws Bernice into an all-out hissy fit.