Sorrow Floats (32 page)

Shane didn’t die that night, or the next day while I was crawling around the strawberry fields, feeling sick. When we stopped for lunch—which Granma called dinner—Marcella said he was in and out of delirium, mostly in. One of the times he was out, he’d had the strength to ask about me.

“I told Shane you were picking,” Marcella said.

“Was he entertained?”

“He said you must be having kittens. I don’t know what he meant by that.”

My stomach refused to accept fried okra or corn bread. It’s like I looked at the glistening grease and a fist grabbed my belly. Instead, I drank a half gallon of pre-sweetened iced tea.

That afternoon Lloyd finished whatever it was he’d been doing in the burned-down barn and came out to help Brad, Hugo Sr., and me with our migrant worker act. Lloyd looked right at home in those white overalls with no shirt, all he lacked was a tattoo—
Born to Farm
. He worked the row next to mine, which made me somewhat nervous because I knew he was on the lookout for crash symptoms. So was I. I kept expecting the earth to boil over with spiders and cockroaches, but all I saw were a couple of worms that I suspect were real.

“You ever get DTs?” I asked Lloyd.

From the crouch position, he rubbed his overalls leg. “I never hallucinated that much, but for a couple weeks there whenever I tried to sleep I felt rats running over my body. They would bite me in the face and I’d come to screaming.”

“How did Shane handle it?”

“Made me sleep in a bathtub full of cold water while he watched to keep me from drowning. It was his own technique. I’ve asked people in AA, and no one ever heard of his therapy.”

“Whatever works,” I said.

“Once I felt a snake crawl up my anus.”

“You think that’ll happen to me?”

“I’d been drunk twenty-three years, you’ve only lost eight months.”

I went to turn in a rack of strawberries, and Patrick told me I wasn’t picking fast enough. He compared me to molasses. His family owned a place down the road where they grew green peppers and tomatoes, but every May he and the kids came over to help Granma harvest. Patrick’s respect for a person was determined by their ability to do farm work, so he didn’t have much use for me.

“You’d never last a day in peppers,” he said.

“Yeah, but I can dehorn steers. And I’m a whiz at castration.”

I’d made nine dollars twenty-five cents on the morning shift—price of a midlevel bottle of Canadian whiskey. I wish. At least the temperature was nice. It would have been an okay day if I hadn’t been farming sober.

“Has it occurred to you that Shane drug us across the country simply because Granma needed help getting the crops in?” I said to Lloyd.

He straightened and put both hands on his back. “He had more on his mind than picking strawberries.”

“I mean besides nookie.”

Lloyd took off his cap. “You’re not the only one sworn to carry out Shane’s last requests.”

This was interesting. Shane was using his own death to blackmail his friends. “What’s he got in mind for you, a statue in the town square?”

Lloyd wiped his hairline with his arm and put his cat cap back on. “I can’t leave Granma until the barn is rebuilt.”

“He’s making you give up Sharon?”

“Shane and I stopped a few months now and then to earn money. He’s not making me give up the search, just call an intermission. I figure if we don’t take any days off, we’ll have it built by fall.”

“We?”

***

That night I sat in the rocker watching
Columbo
while Brad and Hugo Sr. played chess and Lloyd and Andrew played Candy Land. They tried to get me involved, but I wasn’t in the mood. Alcohol withdrawal and Candy Land don’t mix. Columbo had something wrong with one eye, which made him look at everything sideways. For some reason, that chipmunk head twist irritated me. And he carried this pitiful beagle-looking thing around in his arms, like the dog couldn’t walk by itself or something. That irritated me, too.

I wondered what Lloyd would say if I asked for the keys to Moby Dick.

“You’re a cheater,” Andrew yelled. He was wearing his red pajamas with the black oil derricks. Granma had made Marcella cut his hair.

“I am not,” Lloyd said.

“Are too, are too.”

“Am not, am not.”

“Shut up!” I said considerably louder than I’d meant to. Both games halted while the males stared at me, but I didn’t care. I felt reckless. “Nobody in the whole world gives a hoot about your stupid game, so don’t argue about it. You’re taking up too much air.”

After a moment of silence, Brad said, “Mellow out, Miss Pierce.”

I could have used that blatant insult as the excuse to storm out and go get drunk, and a month ago I would have, but this time I stayed put. Let’s all give me some credit here. I bit my lip, forced back the leaky eyes, and rocked the chair for all its worth. Marcella made unnecessary noise bringing in a huge bowl of popcorn—exactly the same as my mom would have done in the situation. Most moms think snacks relieve tension.

“Shane woke up a while ago.” Marcella stood behind Hugo Sr. with one hand holding the popcorn and the other touching his neck above the collar of his Ban-Lon shirt. Something about their domestic casualness made me resentful. I hate it when people are casual while I’m tense.

“He asked if you’ve had a drink yet,” Marcella said.

“Tell him I’m sober as he is.”

Marcella brought the popcorn over. I refused to touch the stuff. “It’s so wonderful what you’re doing for him,” she said. “Shane knows that every hour he can keep going is one more hour you stay sober. All his life, he loved to help people, especially alcoholics, and now you’ve allowed him one last chance to save somebody.”

I rocked violently. “Your brother is a damn saint.”

Marcella seemed surprised. “Why, no, you are, Maurey. You’ve given Shane a reason to live.”

***

After a while, Lloyd and Marcella traded places with Lloyd going in to sit by Shane and Granma, and Marcella dealing with Andrew. Hugo Sr. had been winning most of the chess games before Marcella came in the living room to stay, but after that Brad blitzed him. Hugo was too busy making goo-goo eyes at Marcella for either of them to concentrate on their boards. Andrew gave up on Candy Land and crawled into my lap on the rocker and fell asleep. When Marcella brought Hugo Jr. in to nurse, I thought Sr. was going to drool on his pawns.

Personally, made me sick. I tried to picture the two of them in bed, but in my wildest imagination I couldn’t strip Hugo of his black socks and glasses. A week ago I couldn’t have imagined Marcella making a peep during the act, but the last week had shaken my basic assumptions about human behavior. Maybe meek women have orgasms, too.

Brad got disgusted with his worthless opponent and went out to Moby Dick, where he and Lloyd slept last night. Before he left, he kissed me on the cheek, just like I was a regular mom.

“You’re doing fine, Miss Pierce,” he said.

“Yeah, right.”

Between Brad’s kiss and the smell of Andrew’s hair, the tear duct thing was a constant threat. Dad never had much patience with tears—said they weren’t cowboy. Or maybe he didn’t say it but I assumed he felt that way because he was a cowboy and I never saw him cry. I was getting more and more confused over what people expected of me and what I’d made up along the way. Columbo’s loyalty to the stupid dog had me puddle-eyed, too; then there was a commercial about a mother and daughter that no one could tell apart because their hands were equally soft. By eleven o’clock, I was a mess.

Some domestic signal I didn’t catch passed between Hugo and Marcella that sent them packing off to bed with their flock.

Marcella said, “Sleep tight.”

Hugo Sr. said, “Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

“What’s that mean?”

He looked at me without understanding. “Don’t let the bedbugs bite?”

“You think I’ll hallucinate, don’t you.”

“It’s a saying,” Marcella said. “Goes with ‘Sleep tight.’”

“I don’t appreciate these snide little remarks about my condition,” I made my voice high-pitched and tacky.
“Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

Marcella loaded up the baby and Hugo loaded up Andrew, and they disappeared up the stairs with Hugo repeating, “What’d I say? What’d I say?”

The news had a story about a family of six who perished together in a trailer fire, tobacco futures were either up or down, and the governor of Wisconsin wanted Nixon to resign. Lloyd came in midway through the weather report and caught me crying like a child.

He rubbed his leg while staring down at the pieces on the chess board. “I don’t think Granma has slept since we showed up yesterday,” he said. “She’s a remarkable woman.”

“Lloyd, I don’t feel so good.”

He looked at me and said softly, “You’re not supposed to, Maurey. If it was easy, there’d be no alcoholics.”

“But it’s not supposed to be like this.”

He came over and knelt in front of me and took my hands. “Just think about how much better your life will be afterwards.”

“Will it?”

“Yes.”

I looked at his face. “I hate myself for thinking it, but sometimes I wish he would die so I could drink in peace.”

“I know. So does he and he understands. It’s normal.”

“Normal? Wishing someone you love would hurry up and die is normal?”

He looked down at our hands. The tears felt kind of nice, in a sick way, and telling him what an ogre I was helped, even though I didn’t believe for a minute it was normal to choose whiskey over someone’s life.

“I’m scared to death I’ll fail,” I said.

“But you’re equally scared you’ll succeed.”

I nodded. “I can’t conceive of my life without Jack. I can’t go on like this forever.”

“Just go on for today. We’ll make it through tomorrow tomorrow.”

I got angry. “Don’t spout AA slogans at me. I’m no wino off the street.”

As soon as I said it I knew the words were bullshit. I was a wino off the street—or something just as bad. Looking at the lines on Lloyd’s face, I had that same powerlessness feeling I’d had when Armand prepared to rape me.

“So, how do people quit?” I asked.

Lloyd’s eyes were totally Jesus. It was as if he’d felt all the pain anyone anywhere ever felt and knew there was more to come. “Most alcoholics do something so awful, they scare themselves off the binge,” he said. “You hit bottom hard and say to yourself ‘My God, what have I become?’ and you stop for a while.”

“I’ve been there. I am there.”

“But I’ve never known fear alone to cause a long-term cure. In a few weeks the denial sets in and you take another drink. To really quit, you must replace the fear with something that lasts. You’ve got to change your entire self.”

I wiped the tears from my eyes so I could see him. “I’m so whacked out tonight I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“I know.”

We sat there not talking clear through the sports. Basketball. First of June and I was in a place where the sports guy talked about basketball. Everything was upside down.

Lloyd fished a bandanna from his overalls pocket. I blew my nose with a sound like a honker. “You said you’d stay with me.”

“I will.”

“There’s bunk beds in Shane’s room. Will you sleep on top of me in case I need you?”

“We’ll talk all night if you want.”

I tried to smile and screwed it up. “I probably won’t talk. I just want you close by.”

Dear Dad,

Because I was selfish I didn’t let you go. I held on for nine months, same as it takes to make a baby. I love you, I won’t forget you, but life and death are separate and I must choose for both of us.

I choose life for me, death for you.

Good-bye,

Maurey

***

Wednesday—Shane still lived. Strawberries aren’t like potatoes or wheat where you harvest a field and go home. With strawberries, the same field has to be picked every other day for nearly two weeks as the berries ripen. To my horror, I found myself bent over the same plants I’d bent over two days ago. That night I used Marcella’s foundation powder to cover my scar. Made me look like a corpse.

Thursday—Shane slipped into a coma, but he still lived. At noon, I heard Paul Harvey’s voice coming from a transistor radio in Patrick’s breast pocket. Maybe it was the radio speaker the size of my thumbnail, or maybe it was my new expectations, but Paul no longer resembled God or Dad either one. I dropped off my six quarts and walked away.

That night Lloyd and I sat with Shane three hours while I prayed he would and wouldn’t die. The cough was back, and his skin had gone mushroom-colored. I talked like a maniac—told Shane everything I could remember about my life up until the day I lost my virginity. Granma and Brad got in a fight over Merle in the house. The kid stood up to her, but both boy and cat ended up in Moby Dick for the evening.

Friday—My appetite showed up. Even though I ate a number of strawberries, I still cracked twenty-five dollars for the day. Lloyd never left my side. I made him sit on the closed toilet lid and talk to me while I took a shower. He told me about his wedding. He and Sharon got married at the Chapel of the Little Lamb on the Strip in Las Vegas. The “Wedding March” record had a bad scratch, and he drank two magnums of champagne. I asked Lloyd if I bought him a pair of jeans and a shirt, would he wear them? He said, “No.”

That night I got suckered into a game of Chutes and Ladders with Andrew. Granma let Brad and Merle back in the house. Lloyd said tomorrow was the day Shane would die.

“How do you know?”

“He told me.”

“Shane told you he would die Saturday?”

“The night he made you make the promise, he asked me how long you could be forced into sobriety and I said a week.”

“But I was planning to quit forever anyway.”

“Would you have made it this long without the promise?”

I didn’t need to think about that one. “Hell, no.”

“See.”

***

Although my brain sizzled like a walking case of emotional hives, the only physical symptoms left over from the cold turkey experience were messed-up sleep patterns and a sense of smell about ten times better than anyone needs. Maybe my nose was only normal and it’d been numbed so long I couldn’t remember what normal smelled like, but I don’t think so. Sober people don’t usually smell each other coming from sixty yards. Sticking my head in Moby Dick was like morning sickness all over again.

The messed-up sleep pattern had me dozing off at midnight, then snapping awake around three-thirty. I’d lie on my back, hyperalert, mind racing like a revved-up truck with a blown clutch, until six when I fell into the sleep of the dead. Lloyd yanked me out of bed a half hour later.

Friday night, early Saturday morning, I was dreaming about Frostbite and another horse I didn’t much like named Buster Keaton. Buster bit horses, dogs, and people, mostly people. In the dream they were swimming across a river toward me. Frostbite stayed downstream with his head pointed up, facing Buster, and when he reached dry land he pulled himself out by his front legs, and the truth hit me: it hadn’t been a week.

I came awake in a heartbeat. Outside, the rain did a soft background number, while Lloyd’s gentle snore made the air above me familiar. The blowout with the fifth of Yukon and pills had been last Saturday, but I drank a juice glass of Scotch late Sunday afternoon. Shane must have forgotten, and Lloyd never knew. Shane didn’t have to die yet. I owed him another day.

Careful not to wake Lloyd, I slipped into my jeans and shirt and padded downstairs barefoot. The house had a museum smell in the dark, as if it were being preserved for future generations of tourists. The air was like inhaling that blue stuff Mom put in our toilet tank. I hesitated before pushing open the door to Shane’s sickroom. My mission smacked of irrationality. Why was it important to tell a man in a coma he’d miscounted the days? What’s a day to the dead, anyway?

Granma was asleep at her desk. She hadn’t slumped forward or anything you’d expect, just sat there sleeping with perfect posture. The circle of light from the lamp made her appear etched, which enhanced the closed museum feel. I wiped Shane’s forehead and the twin tracks of blood coming from his nostrils. He’d lost flesh and color in his face; his hair looked dirty. When I touched his forehead with the damp washrag, his shallow breathing stuttered, then went on.

“It hasn’t been a week,” I said. “You told Lloyd you’d keep me sober for a week.” It’s so weird watching a person die. It’s magic—I mean, the definition of magic is to make things appear and disappear, right? And birth and death are the only times things appear and disappear from nothing into nothing. Doesn’t seem possible.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Andrew had an interesting life,” Granma said. “No matter where he’s going next, he said being here was worth the trouble.” Her eyes were open—other than that, she hadn’t moved.

“Where does he believe he’s going next?” I asked.

“Andrew agrees with my views on that question. We’re both taking a wait-and-see attitude.”

I sat watching his face, trying to memorize it so I could draw a picture of him in my mind after he was gone. I’m not good at picturing people after they’re gone. I see Dad, and I don’t know if I’m seeing Dad as he was at the end or earlier when I was little or the face is something I remember from a photograph.

“Where is Shane’s mother?” I asked.

“Gone. She was the daughter of a hired man. Pretty girl, had curly hair, but she couldn’t take criticism. She gave birth to Andrew and fled. He and Marcella have different mothers. My son had a way with women.”

“Where is he now?”

“Dead.”

The door opened and Lloyd slid in. He took a stool from Granma’s desk and sat next to me, only lower, on the same level as Shane’s face. No one said anything. A half hour later Brad came in, carrying his charcoal and sketch pad. He stood behind me with his hand on my shoulder, looking down at Shane. After a while, Brad went over by Granma and sat on the floor with his back against the wall and his knees up, supporting the pad.

Just after dawn, Marcella came in. I gave her my chair and moved over to the wall, beside Brad. From the floor I could no longer see Shane’s face, but I could see Marcella’s and Lloyd’s in the gray-pink light. Lloyd blinked with slow deliberateness; Marcella leaned a little forward with one hand touching the quilt. Losing Shane would change the way I looked at people and things around me, and I’d only known him a couple of weeks. For Marcella and Lloyd, this must have been one of those intense moments that only happen four or five times a life.

Brad was drawing a picture of Shane tipped back in his chair while I lowered him over a curb. I recognized Memphis in the buildings behind us. Shane held the harmonica to his lips with one hand while the other hand controlled the wheelchair wheel. His eyes rolled upward, toward me. My mouth was open. Brad’s fingers moved with amazing speed, shading and filling, capturing a moment I couldn’t remember.

The light changed to a morning greenish yellow. I heard Hugo Sr. and Andrew slamming drawers in the kitchen. Out in the yard a pair of birds we don’t have at home argued over something territorial. Or maybe they were doing a mating thing—who can tell the difference between arguing and foreplay?

The room was really quiet for a long time, then Marcella said, “He’s gone.”

I discovered I’d been holding my breath. Granma stood up, walked over to the bed, and touched Shane’s eyes. I went over to look at him. I can’t say he looked at peace or like his spirit had flown or any of that other stuff you hear. Right then, he just looked like Shane, only not breathing.

Lloyd patted his shoulder and said, “So long, pal.” I didn’t know what to do.

***

Lloyd and I wandered out on the porch to look at the new day. The rain had stopped, but the trees still dripped and the sky looked washed. The birds I’d heard earlier were perched on the bath, jerking up and down and walking with a tic. They resembled what we call ouzels back home, but they weren’t ouzels, probably some Appalachian form of sparrow.

Lloyd stretched with both his hands in his back pockets. He squinted into the sun. “I suppose you’re off for the nearest liquor store?”

“I suppose.”

“If you’re willing to wait long enough for me to find my shoes, I’ll give you a lift into town. I’m heading in for an AA meeting.”

“AA, huh?”

He nodded and rubbed his hand on his leg. Lloyd’s Adam’s apple was more pronounced than ever, looked like he had a rock in his throat. “Seven-thirty morning meeting for the working folks. Starts their day with a boost.”

A milk truck went by on the highway. The more colorful male bird took off west, followed quickly by the female. I felt as if I were telling a life good-bye.

I mumbled to Lloyd, “Mind if I tag along to the meeting?”

“What’s that?”

“You heard me.”

Lloyd’s eyes got smoky, as if he were looking at things I couldn’t see. When he swallowed, that Adam’s apple took on a life of its own. “I’d be honored. So would Shane.”

“Just one thing. You mind if we borrow a cup from Granma? My stomach goes queasy at the thought of drinking coffee out of Styrofoam.”

Lloyd turned toward me. “I’m certain we can arrange something you’ll find acceptable.”

I bit my lower lip and thought of Auburn. “Let’s do it.”

Lloyd smiled and said, “Banzai.”

I smiled and said, “Motherfucker.”