Forever Friends (8 page)

“In all of the rest of the years that we were married, there was nothing that he did that made me love him more than I loved him that day.” She brought the chocolate to her mouth
and drank the last swallow. “He never asked me why I left or what I did while I was away or if I thought I'd leave again.” She sat forward and put her cup on the table. Then she slid her chair back and rested her chin on the palms of her hands. “He just welcomed me home. He handed me those five little stems of yellow flowers, reached out, took my luggage, and welcomed me back home.”

Margaret remembered the day she returned, how hot the vinyl on the seat in Luther's truck was and how he pulled her away from the door before she got in, took a towel from behind the seat, folded it, and draped it across where she would sit.

She remembered how the sweat beaded across the top of her lip, how a strand of her hair kept sticking across her eyes, and how he turned to her at the end of the road just before their driveway. She thought he would ask if she really meant to be home.

She remembered the smell of grass, the white clouds, and the taste of salt on his neck when she leaned over to kiss him. She remembered the strength of his hand on her leg and the pink and lavender snapdragons blooming at the front porch of their house, the reflection of the sun on the tin roof and the way Luther opened his door and reached for her across the seat. She remembered being happy and sad at the same time, how it felt to leave and then come back. Empty in some places, filled up in others.

Margaret turned her attention to her friend.

“See, the thing about being restless is that it isn't about who you're married to or where you run off to.” She wasn't
sure she was saying the right thing, but she kept going. “It isn't about anybody else and what you feel for them or don't feel for them.” She interlaced her fingers, her hands readied for prayer.

“What I'm trying to say is that a person never finds what's missing from their lives in somebody else. Or in Memphis,” Margaret added, thinking of her own displeasure and departure from home.

“I felt stuck in those early years, edgy and unfulfilled, but I didn't feel those things because of the man I married or because of where I lived.” She swallowed and then finished. “I felt that way because I had not come to terms with what was inside my heart.”

Lana did not speak.

Margaret continued. “So, when I came home I did that. I listened to my heart. I tried finding out how I felt about things, and it was hard at first because nobody ever taught me how. I never knew a person could feel things so deeply like sorrow or anger or disappointment and then cover them up with indifference or frustration. I thought you grow up, you do the things you've been told to do, you go to work, you eat and sleep and make a life for yourself, and that the happiness, the fulfillment that everybody else seems to have, would just show up. I never knew you had to choose to be happy, choose to find out who you are in the midst of all those days of doing what you think you're supposed to do. I never realized that peace is what you find when you're able to sit with
all the parts that are your life, all the fears and surprises and mistakes and regrets and all those fine, perfect moments of being loved and say to yourself, ‘This is a glorious life.'”

Margaret shifted in her seat, hooking her feet around the legs of the chair. She knew the young woman felt accused, convicted, and she struggled with how to go on since the truth seemed like such a slippery notion.

“Now, Lana, I'll be the first one to admit that I'm no marriage expert, and I know that there are situations where it's better to split up than stay together.” And here she stopped, trying to be careful. “But I don't believe a person can know that without spending some time sitting with herself, alone. A person can't figure those big things out if her head is full of distractions, even tall, dark, good-looking ones.”

Lana fidgeted in discomfort, and Margaret worried that she had spoken too much and that she had only made things worse. She waited, trying to think of something else to say, but there was nothing.

She stood up, preparing to leave, noticing the familiar cloak of discontent that hung about the young woman, the air of misery and the uncertain glaze behind the eyes.

She hesitated a minute and then spoke. “Well, I'm sorry to have gone on so long with my silly story. I know you're needing your sleep.” Standing behind her chair, she placed her hands on the top of it. “But, Lana, I just want you to know,” and she said this very seriously, “if you ever need me for anything, to talk, to baby-sit, to ride with you to Memphis, you
know you can call me, anytime.” And she pushed her chair under the table and walked from the room to get her coat out of the closet.

Lana waited and then got up from her chair just as Margaret was opening the front door. She held it as the older woman walked out onto the porch.

“Anytime,” Margaret repeated to the young mother, who watched from inside the house, still silenced by what was shared.

Margaret turned and walked down the steps and headed to her car. She stood beside her door and waved good-bye. Lana remained inside, holding up one hand as a greeting, and with the other she reached across her chest, covering the gaping hole that was her heart.

Y
ou smoke?” Lamont opened the glove compartment and found the pack of cigarettes.

“No,” Charlotte replied, turning to see what the teenager was doing in her things.

“You used to smoke?” He pulled it out, noticing that the pack had been opened.

“No, never did,” she answered as she switched on the turn signal and changed lanes.

“You got a boyfriend who smokes?” He took a cigarette out and stuck it in his mouth and plugged in the lighter.

“No, and I really wish you wouldn't do that in my car.” She yanked out the lighter.

Lamont took the cigarette out of his mouth and stuck it in the front pocket of his shirt. He turned to the driver as if he was waiting for an explanation.

Charlotte could tell that he was watching her. She looked over and then back to face the road. She felt a bit apprehensive having the young man in her car. She wasn't frightened of him or worried that he might hurt her; she just felt a little nervous having him so close.

Peggy had come by the parsonage with the bail money and asked that Charlotte get him out. The grandmother claimed that she couldn't go because she didn't have anyone to stay with her husband and that she needed the extra time to clean out the bedroom where Lamont would be sleeping.

There had been a fight with Sherry about letting the teenager move in with his grandparents. His mother had said
to let him stay in jail, that maybe that would teach him a lesson. But Peggy had listened to too many late-night phone calls from her grandson when he begged to be released and promised to stay away from trouble. She had talked it over with her husband and they agreed that he could stay with them.

“He can help me out with Vastine,” Peggy explained as she handed the cashier's check to Charlotte. “I could use some extra support.” And she thanked the reluctant pastor and hurried out the door before she could be denied.

Charlotte called the jail chaplain and the magistrate to find out what she needed to do, then she reluctantly drove to Winston-Salem, filled out the paperwork; and it wasn't long before the young man was out of jail and sitting in her car. It was almost an hour's drive back to Hope Springs.

“They're for the Cigarette Lady,” Charlotte said, to answer his questions. “And you shouldn't be going through my glove compartment without me saying it's all right.” She pushed her foot on the gas pedal and got the speed where she wanted it and hit the cruise button.

“You're right,” he said apologetically. “I'm sorry.” He crossed his legs at his ankles. Then after thinking a minute he asked, “Who's the Cigarette Lady?”

Charlotte thought about the elderly lady who lived out on the edge of the community near the church. She had first encountered her three or four years earlier.

“She's this old woman who stands at the end of her driveway, flagging down cars trying to find somebody who smokes.” She reached up and pulled at her shoulder strap.
“Apparently, she runs out of cigarettes quite a bit, and since she doesn't drive and the store is too far away for her to walk, she bums the only way she knows how.”

“In the middle of the road?” Lamont asked with a note of surprise.

“Yep, in the middle of the road,” Charlotte responded.

“Damn,” the young man said, and then he covered his mouth with his hand when he remembered he was with a preacher. “Sorry,” he added.

“It's okay,” she said with assurance. Then she looked at him again. She noticed that he seemed jumpy too. She plugged the lighter back in.

“Go ahead and smoke,” she told him.

He angled himself so that he could face the minister. Once again, she felt him watching her.

“What?” she asked.

“I was just wondering why you give the old woman cancer sticks.”

The lighter popped and he pulled it out and lit the cigarette he had taken from his front shirt pocket and stuck it between his lips. He sucked in a deep breath and returned it. Then he finished what he was saying.

“I mean, I thought preachers don't like smoking.” He let his window down a bit.

Charlotte glanced up to see the cars in the rearview mirror and then caught a glimpse of the boy sitting next to her. He was drawing in the smoke hard and deeply. She stared straight ahead as she drove.

“It does harm the body,” she said, “and I suppose it's not a good thing because of that.” Charlotte began to chew on the inside of her lip as she thought about the old woman and giving her cigarettes. She stopped talking and remembered the last time she had driven down the road where the old woman lived and seen her.

It was just after Christmas and the elderly lady was standing very close to the road, wearing a thin bathrobe and men's slippers. She had an old wool scarf thrown around her neck, and her hair was uncombed, her mouth still a little dirty from an earlier meal. Charlotte had pulled over and rolled down the passenger's side window, and the woman had stuck the whole upper part of her body inside and leaned across the seat.

“Hey, sweetie,” she had said, her voice loud and raspy, the words spoken slowly and deliberately, as if she had to think through every syllable. “You don't smoke, do you?” she asked as she sniffed inside the car, not remembering the previous times Charlotte had stopped.

“No, ma'am,” the minister had answered, “but I bought you a pack of Marlboros.” And she reached into the glove compartment and handed the old woman the pack.

“No, I just need a couple,” she'd always say. “Cleo promised to take me to the store this evening. I'll buy my own then.” And she took out three, maybe four, cigarettes and handed the pack back to the driver.

“I sure do appreciate it, though,” she said as she pulled herself away from the car. “You take care now, honey,” she added as she waved good-bye.

And then Charlotte watched as the old woman walked to her house, waved a final time, went inside, and shut the door.

It was always the easiest bit of ministry the young pastor performed.

Several times she thought maybe she should stop by and make a visit, check on the lady when she wasn't standing by the side of the road, find out if Cleo was really somebody who took care of her. She had even considered asking the church women if they knew who she was and if she needed assistance from the community.

But then she decided that she liked the anonymity in their relationship. That she liked only knowing her as the Cigarette Lady and she herself being seen not as a pastor but only as some passerby with Marlboros in her car. It satisfied the minister to be able just to give her what she asked for, just to take care of that one need, sinful or not, just to benefit the desire of one old woman and then let it be.

It was simple and tidy. An old woman needed a cigarette. Charlotte gave her one. She liked how it felt not to have to worry if the thing she had given was the right thing. There was a wish and she had made it come true. It wasn't at all like she felt after she prayed, when she wondered whether the prayer she had offered was done so in the right way, whether or not she had brought comfort to a broken heart or appeased a God she could never fully understand. She didn't have to agonize about the exchange of this gift like she did after every sermon, unsure if she had even gotten close to revealing a message of hope.

There was no second-guessing or sense of failure like she often felt. So many times it seemed she had been called upon to bring a great and miraculous staff like Moses used to separate the waters and create a way out of no way, and instead she had shown up with only a snorkel, evidence of her disbelief. She found contentment in this situation unlike she could find anywhere else because she knew what somebody wanted and she was able to give it to her. So, sin or no sin, giving the old woman a cigarette was one of the few times during the week when Charlotte felt as if she had done a good thing.

The pastor returned her attention to the teenager's earlier question. “Some preachers do preach against smoking, claim it's the devil's business. Others would say it's harmful to the temple of God, while some might say it's an indulgence of the flesh.” She paused, remembering all the sermons she had heard that included speaking about cigarettes.

“But there's others who don't preach about it because they know too many in their congregation enjoy a smoke once in a while or because they realize that most of the money that comes in the plate on Sunday morning is there because of tobacco farming; so I would say that not all preachers would call smoking a sin.”

“That why you give the old woman cigarettes, because it supports tobacco farming?” He drew in a long breath.

“No,” she responded. “I give them to her because that's all she asks for.”

The young man nodded as if he understood, as if what the pastor was saying made complete sense.

They rode for a while in silence as Lamont pondered his new life, going back to a place he had almost forgotten. He wasn't sure how long he would be able to stay away from a city or from a place where he could buy what he needed to take the edge off how he was feeling.

He had promised his grandmother that he would live with them, help take care of his grandfather, stay with him so that she could get out once in a while, that he would even drive them around town, to appointments and church. And when he had made the promise, he had thought it was completely possible to maintain such an existence, but now that he was heading in that direction, the nicotine not enough to stop his fidgeting, he understood that he would probably soon be breaking another promise.

It wasn't like he enjoyed himself when he did it. It wasn't like his mother said, that he was mean and didn't care. He really wanted to do right, he really desired to keep the vows he had made. It just was too hard. Living without the high was just too hard.

“There's NA meetings at the Lutheran church in Hope Springs,” Charlotte said as if she was reading his mind.

“You got junkies in Hope Springs?” He crushed the cigarette butt in the ashtray and rubbed his hands together.

“I wouldn't know. I don't go to the meetings,” she answered. “But I do know they've been going on for several years, so somebody must be attending.”

“Maybe it's the preacher,” the teenager said lightly. “Maybe he gives out pot to the Joint Lady.”

Charlotte laughed. “Yeah, that's probably what it is. A twelve-step cover-up for a minister's dealing.”

“Never know,” he responded. “One gives out cigarettes, another gives weed.”

“No, it's true; you never know,” Charlotte answered.

Lamont opened the glove compartment and pulled out another cigarette. “You'll have to tell the old woman that I smoked all her sticks.” He pushed in the lighter, waited, and then lit his cigarette.

“So, what's the matter with Granddaddy?” he asked Charlotte.

She noticed the clock on the dashboard. It was almost four in the afternoon. She hoped they were early enough to miss the commute traffic.

“Congestive heart failure,” she replied. “He's been sick a long time.”

Lamont had not seen his grandfather in almost five years. He had rarely come back to Hope Springs since moving in with his mother. He hadn't visited in spite of the numerous requests he had received.

“Is he going to die?” He tapped the cigarette in the ashtray.

“He's a hospice patient,” she replied. “Do you know what that means?”

The young man shook his head and took another drag.

“It's an agency that works with terminally ill people. They gave him a prognosis.” She stopped and decided to use simpler words. “They say he only has about six months to live.” She stared straight ahead.

Lamont nodded with his whole body and twisted his neck to watch the fields and businesses as they sped past.

He was quiet then, didn't ask any more about his grandfather or how he was. He sat and counted the cars passing, saw the restaurants and strip malls, how much things had changed since he'd lived in that area.

“Did they tell you when your court date is?” Charlotte asked.

He shook his head. “I guess it's written on those papers they gave me, but I didn't read them.” He put out the cigarette and slouched down in his seat.

They drove on further, getting closer to Hope Springs.

“Why did Granny send you to get me?” he asked, the question bothering him for most of the drive.

Charlotte shrugged her shoulders. She hadn't really considered the reasoning for Peggy's request. “She said she couldn't get anyone to stay with Vastine and that she needed to clean out your bedroom.”

Lamont nodded. “You think she's afraid of me?”

Charlotte watched as a car came up very close behind them and then pulled around. She checked her speedometer and guessed that it had to have been going almost a hundred miles per hour. She couldn't believe drivers drove with such carelessness.

“I don't know, Lamont,” she answered. “I don't think she liked going to visit you at the jail very much.” She brought one hand down and rested it on the gearshift between the
two seats. “But I suppose that if she was really afraid of you, she wouldn't be letting you stay at her house.”

Lamont thought about that. He wanted another cigarette but felt embarrassed to take a third one out of the pack.