Homefires (47 page)

My breath came in short gasps, hurt. “After I tried so hard to keep him from having to deal with it.” My voice slumped as low as my heart. How
could
she? I shot Anne a bleak look. “How’s he handling it?”

Anne raised her eyebrows and gave a dubious shrug. “You know
Chuck.
Nothing ever seems to really –
get to him
. You know?”

“Oh, it does. Inside. It gets to him.”

Anne nodded sagely, her face ablaze. “It would have to.”

Trish came scurrying up the corridor, a round, sweet little flurry of winded and apologetic movement. “Sorry I’m late. Gene and I had a funeral at ten and – ” She braked and peered warily at us. “What’s wrong?”

As Anne repeated the latest of the Chuck/Teresa saga, Trish’s eyes rounded to donuts then slitted to mere strips. “Let’s go beat up on her, Sis,” she balled her fists, thumbed her nose and danced a couple of steps back and forth. Trish’s weight gain through the years had spawned revved-up comic improvisations that rarely failed to crack me up.

Today, I sighed heavily. Sickly. “Wish it were so simple, Trish.”

“Then God would get
us
, too.” Trish hugged me hugely, hooked arms and we went in together to undergird our brother for battle.

This one,
I thought, would rank Chuck’s fight with Dad under
Romper Room stuff
.

Chuck’s fifth hospital day saw him upright, moving haltingly, pulling along his oxygen tank, of course, but
walking.

I called Kirk that evening at nine-thirty to rejoice. I
missed
him with an ache. When there was no answer, I decided to call later.

Chuck’s room buzzed with family noises and laughter. Only Teresa was absent. And Poogie. I’d learned, by now, that this was standard for Chuck, them not being there. His divulgences were never whiny. Nor did they deprecate. Nor were they freely given. I gleaned just that hint of his loneliness overhearing phone calls and one visitor’s conversation with my brother. His disclosures were simply emotionless, cut and dried, this-is-the-way-it-is.

For those
not in the know
, Teresa and Poogie came out smelling like honeysuckle.

I coped by putting my emotions on hold. Shelving them. By loving Chuck extra.

By praying.

“I want to go to Anne’s tomorrow and eat Sunday dinner with ya’ll,” Chuck declared on Saturday afternoon, clutching his scrawny chest, “I’d
die
for her macaroni-cheese pie.”

“Your transfer to the Pinehurst Convalescent Home should be completed by five-thirty today,” the nurse signing Chuck out said. “You’re feeling so much better, I see no reason why you can’t go.”

Nursing home
. The sister-me screamed in protest. In reality, I held no control over Chuck’s destiny. Teresa had, quote,
power of attorney over her husband’s life decisions.
Seems in this last life-death episode, my sick brother was coerced to sign away his rights to her, a thing that hit me as screwy, but pitting Chuck against Teresa was like tossing a lamb into a cheetah’s den.

Though I’d always despised the Chuck/Dad explosions, I now found myself wishing back a spark of that spirit for my brother. Thing that made it so difficult was – I knew it would never again be.

“Sis,” Chuck took my hand, seeing my sadness at his relegation to a nursing home. “It’s okay.” His speech remained sluggish and connect-the-dot. “Y’know, if I was home, Poogie might get up one morning, come into my room and find me sprawled out dead. I wouldn’t want that to be her last memory of me – cold and stiff and blue and God only knows what all.” He smiled sadly and squeezed my hand, trying and failing to hold his marvelous blue-gray eyes open. “It’s for the best.”

So I built up his spirit with the promise of a beautiful family day tomorrow at Dad’s and Anne’s.
Home.
I could see his joy building. I called Kirk later, during the transfer – they allowed Dad and Anne to drive Chuck the short distance to Pinehurst – on the pay phone. Our conversation was brief and I was relieved Kirk didn’t command me home immediately. But then, the next day, Sunday, was his busiest. Saturdays were filled with long hours in the church office, where he studied and finalized his Sabbath message. I felt a bit guilty not rushing home, but Kirk seemed preoccupied with home-front things so I didn’t address the subject of when.

The nursing home was dismal at best. Pine and Lysol disinfectants battled urine and body odors. Most of the residents were older than Chuck, the majority beyond mobility and meaningful dialogue. My less than joyful reaction to the dark ambience had Teresa’s nose rising a notch.

“This is the best I can do,” she snapped without apology. “And it’s close to where I work so I can come more often.” Her current job was waitressing at two restaurants, one a lunch specialty diner, the other a classier dinner restaurant, where, she said, her tips were pretty good.

At least
, I consoled myself,
she’ll visit Chuck more.

I called Callie, lonesome suddenly, for home territory.

“Would you check on Mama for me, Neecy?” she asked. “Just a teeny-weeny visit is all I ask.”

“Of course, Cal. Hey – thanks for helping Kirk out when Roxie had her nervous breakdown the other night.”

Silence. “When you went with him to her apartment?” I reminded her.

More silence. Then. “Ohh.” Another long silence. Then, “Hug Mama for me.”

Heather and Toby were enjoying leisure with my siblings, Dale, Cole and Lynette. So when I set out to visit Molly Pleasant, they quickly bade me
adieu
, insisting they didn’t want to tag along. The short solitude became a blessing.

Strolling along Church Street was wistfully nostalgic. I’d spent most of my time at the hospital, worrying about Chuck’s outcome. Now, with him on at least a temporary mend, I dwelled on familiar sights I’d once passed unseeing.

I turned in the direction of Molly’s house. I nearly gasped when I saw her. The Molly I knew was gone. Replacing her was a wasted woman with neatly shortened, natural-waved, snow-white hair. Once glowing skin paled against a long ago attractive, bony face. Her tall frame, Callie’s birthright, appeared scarecrowish, as if draped in loose gauze. And then she smiled.

Molly Pleasant shone through that smile. Her arms, still strong and loving, drove away the spooked feeling that had begun accumulating from the moment I saw Chuck near death six days ago. We commenced to talk about things past and things now. Animated, Molly began to restore my sense of balance. Of continuity from girlhood days to now. As she talked, I saw more of Callie than I’d ever glimpsed before. Not just physical similarities. Gestures, mannerisms. Strange – the things Callie had run from in our youth, she now embraced and emulated.

“How’s Kirk?” Molly asked, with a hint of Callie’s exuberant curiosity.

“Great, Molly. Busy – to quote him – as a one-armed-paper-hanger.”

Laughter rolled from her. “Sounds like Kirk. I’m so proud of him – of you.”

As I departed, she gave me one last, huge bear hug. “Pass that on to Callie,” she whispered, moist-eyed.

Later, that evening, I called Kirk, missing him sorely and eaten alive with guilt, knowing I needed to go home, knowing how – though he rarely admitted it – he hated me gone. But Chuck was going to eat Sunday dinner with us. I did so want to be there for the celebration of his remission.

Tomorrow. I promised myself.
Tomorrow
, I would go home.

Anne and I stayed up late that evening and arose early the next morning and cooked until church time. Daddy departed at ten to pick up Chuck at the nursing home and transport him to the house. Anne sent a warm welcome to Teresa and Poogie to come for lunch, as well. We’d tried calling at Teresa’s residence and got no answer. As usual, the family attended Chapowee Methodist where a new pastor preached. Pastor Cheshire, now retired, still attended there.

“Ahhh, Neecy.” His British clip had softened through the years, but his affectionate hug remained firm. “It’s so good to see you again, my dear girl.” He stepped back to survey Heather, who blushed becomingly at his shameless flattery. Sunlight washed his bald crown shiny. I noticed his little hair strip, which barely topped his ears, was now entirely gray.

His stooped frailty smote me, as had Molly Pleasant’s. Aging was, I decided, a mixed blessing. It destroyed beauty but kept one alive. And as I watched Pastor Cheshire banter with Toby, I wanted more than anything to preserve him
alive.
And well. All the while aware of my selfish motives – I wanted him around to enrich my family’s lives for years to come. Forever, in fact.

We rushed to the house to finalize food preparations. Dad’s car already occupied its graveled spot in the small driveway. We lined the curb, spilled from cars and dashed inside, everyone vying to be the first to welcome Chuck, our guest of honor.

Daddy sat planted on the den sofa, granite Walter Matthau.

“Where’s Chuck?” Anne asked as we scattered, hunting in bedrooms, nooks....

“He’s not here,” Daddy called out, somewhat sharply, aborting our search.

“What – ?” We asked in unison, flocking to our bearer of news. Not good news, I gathered from Daddy’s pale gravity, from his slightly flared nostrils.

His stony gaze riveted to a far, straight ahead wall. “Teresa left orders that Chuck not be allowed to leave with anybody except her.”

“
What?”
I heard myself bellow. “What’s her reasoning?”

Now
that
pulled Daddy’s lip into an ironic one-sided curl, stopping short of a smile. Nothing else moved in his face. “Said she didn’t trust anybody to feed him properly. Afraid it would make him sick after his crisis.”

I clenched my hands and stared into Heaven. “Lord – I
can’t believe this
!”

For long moments, we stood there, emptied, defeated and infinitely grieved.

“He wanted to come so
badly
,” Anne moaned.

The clan erupted into murmurings of misery, amid which Trish and Gene arrived, having fudged a bit of time by ending his sermon early. Their church was thirty-five minutes away.

“C’mon, Neecy,” Anne said resolutely, “let’s fix Chuck the biggest plate of food he’s ever seen and take him a picnic.”

That lifted the mood and soon, we’d finished our meal, piled into cars and formed a caravan to Pinehurst Convalescent Home.

Chuck lit up like a thousand candles when we all converged to form a protective wall about him. He ate two plates of macaroni-cheese pie and three pieces of Anne’s fried chicken before declaring himself
stuffed.

I thanked God for my brother’s rallying spirit.

And I asked Him to increase my mercy-forgiveness index.

I would be needing it in days to come. Fortunately, I didn’t know just
how
much.