Making Waves (11 page)

I walked over to him and held out my hand, despising myself for feeling six years old and tongue-tied again.

“Good afternoon, Daddy Clark,” was all I could manage to say.

His piercing blue eyes behind the gold-rimmed glasses took in my long hair, my ragged shorts and my college tee shirt with distaste. He shook my hand scornfully without saying one word to me. I could feel Sonny gloating as he and Ellis watched.

“Sit down, boy.”

After two years' absence, that was all my granddaddy had to say to me. No solicitations over my health or inquiries about my college life. I knew there wouldn't be any, either.

“Frances, tell Annie Lou that we're ready to be served now,” Daddy Clark said as we sat down. This surprised me, because the maid Annie Lou used to stay and serve dinner only on special occasions. Maybe I was wrong—could this possibly be a special occasion for the Clarks after all—the return of the prodigal?

Annie Lou came in and stood respectfully by the sideboard, giving me a little wave of her hand. I noticed then that the good china serving dishes were on the sideboard, steaming hot and smelling wonderful. Turned out I was hungry after all. Daddy Clark prayed for what seemed like an hour in his gruff old voice, blessing the food to the nourishment of our bodies and then begging the Lord to be merciful and forgive us of our sins. Wonder what sins he was referring to? The old fool never forgave me for being born.

Aunt Frances Martha, seated next to me, grabbed my arm as soon as we all raised our heads from the prayer.

“Taylor, baby, your Aunt Opal wanted me to be sure and tell you she's
so
sorry she couldn't be here tonight. Her circle's fixing supper at Miss Maudie's.” Aunt Frances Martha shook her head sympathetically. “Poor old thing.”

I wondered if she meant Miss Maudie or Aunt Opal, whom I hadn't noticed wasn't here until now. She had never been one of my favorite people, since she was who Sonny inherited his charm from. As Aunt Della was prone to say, the apple never falls far from the tree.

“The United Methodist Women are always there when there's a death in the church, like they should be,” Daddy Clark said as he nodded in approval. Sonny nodded as well and I grinned. Yessir, keep them womenfolks in their place. I watched fascinated as Daddy Clark stirred about ten spoonfuls of sugar into his glass of iced tea. It would take more than that to sweeten him up.

As Annie Lou began to bring the fancy serving dishes to the table, I became more and more sure that in spite of his coldness, Daddy Clark might actually be glad to see me. Why else would they put on the dog so? Annie Lou was dressed in a crisp maid's uniform, and she was using the best Clark china and silver. Pleased in spite of myself, I relaxed somewhat for the first time since arriving here.

The food wasn't to my liking, however. I'd seen this sort of spread often in the past, at fancy dinners and banquets and so forth. It was Clarksville's attempt at gourmet sophistication, shit like processed ham, or chicken cooked in Campbell's Cream of Mushroom soup; store-bought rolls with that fabulous taste of styrofoam; canned vegetable casseroles topped with crushed potato chips and full of crap like pimentos, olives, water chestnuts. I picked around at the plate Annie Lou put in front of me, pushing pukey cherries off my ham slice, thinking longingly of Aunt Della's good old country cooking.

Glancing up, I saw Daddy Clark chewing away, Sonny sawing on a piece of ham, and Aunt Frances Martha stuffing her expressionless face with a roll dripping butter. Ellis, sitting right across from me, was the only one not eating. Instead, she was watching everyone closely, peering with her heavily made-up eyes first at one, then the other. She looked down quickly when she met my eyes.

“Mighty good, sugar.” Sonny smiled at her as he continued to wolf down the awful stuff.

Daddy Clark nodded agreement, still chewing, his fat jowls stuffed like a guinea pig. Aunt Frances Martha smiled sweetly up at me, then looked over at Ellis. “Winn-Dixie's English peas are better than Piggly Wiggly's,” she told her new niece brightly, as though she'd just discovered the theory of relativity.

It hit me then—Aunt Frances Martha was not the only retard in the family. Ellis did all this! The new bride showing out. She must have seen my look of realization, for our eyes met and she looked directly at me, her silver-blonde head tilted, erect and proud. And the old girl wasn't doing it for my benefit either—the maid, the citified food, the good china, none of it. What a fool I was to even consider that. No, Ellis was the Lady of the Manor now, the new First Lady of Clarksville. I choked on the artichoke casserole and reached for my iced tea, coughing like hell. Daddy Clark glared at me as though I'd just farted at the table.

There was little conversation at the Clark table, something I'd forgotten in my absence. An occasional remark, “Um—these rolls are mighty good,” or some such inanity; eating was a duty to be done and not enjoyed in Daddy Clark's house. It was a relief when Annie Lou cleared the dishes and brought in the dessert. I almost lost it then and looked out the heavily draped windows at the setting sun to keep from cracking up. Ellis took the cake platter from Annie Lou and held it up for us to see.

“Who wants some of my mama's delectable Black Forest cake? It's an old family recipe,” she asked, batting her eyelashes.

I had to bite my lip when she turned to Sonny and said, “Your favorite, Hamilton, dear.”

Hamilton! I'd forgotten Sonny's real name. That was funny enough, but I'd bet my last dime Ellis's redneck mama thinks the Black Forest grows around the Black Warrior River. Old family recipe, my ass.

The famed Black Forest cake turned out to be a chocolate cake mix soggy with Cool Whip and canned cherries, which Ellis must have a thing for. I forced a couple of mouthfuls down and thanked God this dreary meal was over. It was easy to turn down Ellis's offer of instant Maxwell House. I had to get up my nerve to talk to Daddy Clark about Aunt Della. He pushed away from the table, grunting, “Mighty good, Miss Ellis,” and started out of the room, but I stopped him.

“Daddy Clark. Could I speak to you a minute, please?” I could tell by his disapproving frown he expected me to hit him up for money, but he nodded curtly and I followed him out of the room into the hall. I saw Sonny and Ellis exchange glances but ignored them. My heart sank when he ushered me into the front parlor, the stuffiest, hottest room in the house. He was determined for me to sweat it out. Literally.

He sat in a large brocade chair and I took the sofa across from him. Before I could open my mouth, he jumped me.

“You in trouble again, boy? Because if you are, you can forget it. I've bailed you out my final time—still paying hospital bills on the last one.” Again, the cold piercing eyes nailed me and I squirmed uncomfortably.

“No, sir. It's not that. It's—”

“And I've not heard hide nor hair from your mama. Far as I know, she's still overseas, whoring around Europe. You heard from her?”

I shook my head, feeling shame, as though it was my fault. “N-No, sir,” was all I could manage to stammer. Damn! Hand it to the old coot, he could still make me feel like a shit. But I remembered Aunt Della's forlorn face and slumped shoulders, and I cleared my throat.

“Daddy Clark, Aunt Della tells me that you want her to go to a nursing home,” I blurted out.

“So? I've not made a secret of it. Della is unable to stay by herself. I've asked around, talked to all the Nigras I know—I cannot find
anyone
to stay with her, Nigras, white trash, anyone. People nowadays rather stay home and collect welfare than do an honest day's work. So I don't see Della has any alternative. 'Course she could come here and live with us, let Frances take care of her. But oh, no, she's too stubborn. Says she don't get along with me and Frances.”

Sweat was pouring down my shirt, and I'd have sold my soul for a cigarette. Wished I had a drink, too. I'd even have settled for a snort of old Ellis's sherry. I cleared my throat again.

“Daddy Clark, Aunt Della feels that you are going to force her to go to a nursing home. And she hates the idea. It absolutely kills her! She thinks that's why Miss Maudie died.”

Daddy Clark grunted and rolled his eyes. “Some of Della's foolishness, talk like that! Della has always run her mouth too blame much. Maudie had been in poor health for years, and she died of a stroke. If Della don't want to go to a home, then she can live here. It's that simple.”

I looked down at my hands. “But she doesn't want to.”

“Well, boy, wouldn't life be wonderful if we got what we wanted?”

I shook my head sadly, knowing I couldn't reason with him. He was on a roll now and I'd have to listen to the whole tirade.

“Della has always been mule-headed. Got no use for a stubborn woman, never have. What's going to happen is that she's going to fall and break her hip, then she'll
have
to go to the home. No retirement wing for her then. If she'll go on now, she can go into the retirement section and adjust before ending up in the nursing wing. But I can't do a thing with her. Papa was the only one Della ever listened to, and he spoiled her rotten after Mama died. That's what's wrong with her now.”

“But Daddy Clark! Surely you can see where she's coming from. She's lived in the same house all her life, her papa's house. She wants to live out her life there, not in some strange place. Surely that's a reasonable request.”

“As I said, boy. Too bad we can't do what we want in life.” He started to get up, slapping his hands on his thighs and sighing deeply. I could tell the subject was closed as far as he was concerned. In my desperation to communicate with him, I overstepped and he got me. He always did. I haven't bested him yet, the sly old bastard.

“You're just afraid of what people will say of you, letting her stay alone there,” I told him hotly, my voice shaking. “Doesn't matter that's what she wants—you're afraid people will say you're not taking care of your sister!”

He didn't say anything for a minute, but stared at me with those cold steely eyes instead. Clark eyes, just like Charlotte's. “Well, I'll tell you what, son. She can stay there. That's fine with me. She can stay there until she dies.
You
stay with her. How about that?”

“Daddy Clark, you know I can't do that. I'll be starting my junior year at Tulane next year.”

“You could transfer, drive over to Alabama every day like a lot of boys around here do. It's up to you.”

“But—Daddy Clark, surely you see—I mean, I'd do anything for Aunt Della, but—I can't
live
here—”

There was a dead silence and Daddy Clark pulled himself up heavily and started out of the room. Just as he got to the door, he turned back to me.

“Don't you talk to me anymore about Della, boy. Not
you
. She's given you everything and you've done nothing but break her heart. She was in good health for her age till all that business with you and the Sullivan boy like to have killed her. But no, you can't give her anything in return, can you?”

He paused one more time to twist the knife before going out the door and leaving me alone. “Reckon you're just like your no-good mama after all.”

The door slammed, and I sat for a minute staring at my hands, my heart pounding, unable to move. The hot room started closing in on me and suddenly I jumped to my feet and ran out, out the hallway and the front door, not even bothering to close any doors behind me. I ran down the brick steps and the long driveway leading up to the house. I heard Aunt Frances Martha calling after me, but I didn't stop to look back.

Goddamn him! I hated every last one of them—Sonny, Ellis, Aunt Opal—the whole shitty family was nothing but a bunch of assholes. I wished to God I'd never gone there. I swore I never would again.

I had no intention of ending up at the football field. I don't even know what made me do it. I started out walking blindly away from the Clark house and just walked without noticing where the hell I was going. I got to the end of Clark Street, then turned down Railroad Street, paying no attention to anything around me, I was so distraught. I couldn't go home to Aunt Della yet. It would upset her too much to see me this pissed.

Before I realized it, I'd walked down by the high school. I stood and looked at it a minute without focusing on it. It was as ugly as most high schools, a sprawling one-story brick building with a flagpole in front, surrounded by a mound of flowers in the school colors. Blue and white petunias.

I walked past the front entrance, around the side of the building where the gym and some other smaller buildings, the bandroom, shop, were. Everything was perfectly quiet and deserted. I sat down on the hot concrete steps of the Ag building and fumbled for my cigarettes. I didn't see a living soul as I lit up, hands shaking like a fool. Then a blue pickup drove by, and the rednecks in it stared at me, but I flicked them a finger and they drove on. I chain-smoked two cigarettes, lighting one off the end of the other, then got to my feet. Without thinking where I was going, I walked down the little street behind the gym.

That's when I remembered that this street led to the stadium. And I saw it dead ahead. The lights were on in the early evening dusk. A bunch of cars were in the field next to the stadium, so something must have been going on there. They always called this field a parking lot, but it looked like a cow pasture, which caused us to be the butt of jokes from the visiting teams.