The Supremes at Earl's All-You-Can-Eat (30 page)

Clarice said, “Mother, I love you, but this has nothing to do with you. This is between me and Richmond, and I think I’ve made it clear to him where I stand. I’m done with things the way they were. I’ll go back home,
or not
, when I see fit.”

Beatrice whimpered quietly and said, “Honestly, when I think about how hard I fought for us both to live when you were born.” She put the back of her hand to her forehead. “It was a horror show.” When that didn’t produce the desired effect, she changed tactics. In the tone of voice she used when delivering her parking lot sermons, she declared, “Ephesians says, ‘Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands as unto the Lord.’ What do you say to that?”

Clarice snapped, “I say God and I will just have to hash that one out between the two of us. My submitting days are over.”

Richmond spoke for the first time. He said, “I talked to the kids, and they’re shocked that you’ve done this. They’re very upset and confused.”

Clarice said, “You must have talked to four different kids than the ones I talked to. When I told Carolyn, Ricky, and Abe that I’d moved out, they were just surprised that it had taken me so long. And if Carl’s upset, it’s because he’s too much like you and he knows it. The way I see it, I’ve done him a favor I should have done years ago. Now maybe he’ll think about the crap he’s pulled on his wife and realize it might come back and bite him in the ass one day.”

Richmond turned to Beatrice and said, “See? It’s like I told you. She’s talking more like Odette all the time.”

Beatrice nodded. “I’ve always known that girl would cause trouble one day.”

Clarice’s mother believed that a woman showed that she was well brought up by doing three things: dressing impeccably, enunciating like an East Coast debutante, and starving herself to the edge of unconsciousness for the sake of her figure. So, Odette had never made sense to her. But Beatrice had chosen the wrong time to start in on Odette, Clarice’s sick friend who had stepped in time and time again when Clarice needed her and had now even supplied her with a home. The little bit of restraint Clarice had managed to get hold of was in danger of slipping away. She narrowed her eyes at her mother and her husband and prepared to let loose. But just as her scalded tongue was poised to toss forth a red-hot string of long-overdue words, Clarice was distracted by the sound of light tapping coming from the front door. Clarice stood from the bench and said, “My student is here.”

When Clarice rounded the piano on her way to admit her pupil, Beatrice saw for the first time what her daughter was wearing. Beatrice let out a whimper and turned her face away.

During Clarice’s first weekend in the house, she had gone down to the basement to put some things away and came upon a box full of old clothes that had been left behind by one of the previous tenants. Odette had rented the house, furnished, to visiting faculty members at the university. They tended to be an earthy lot and the clothes in the box reflected what Clarice thought of as the academic fashion sense—shapeless, hippie-style items made of cotton and hemp. To celebrate her emancipation, she ran the old skirts and blouses she had found through the washer and dryer and started wearing them.

The skirt Clarice wore that morning was made of a faded blue-and-white-checked fabric. It had a high waist that was embroidered with blue and green stick figures. Strands of puka shells that hung from the fringed hem grazed the floor when she walked and made a rattling noise.

Beatrice pointed at her daughter and said, “Oh dear Lord, first her hair, and now a peasant skirt. Richmond, we’re too late.”

It took every ounce of willpower in Clarice’s body to keep from lifting the hem of her skirt and revealing that she was wearing a pair of Birkenstock sandals that she had purchased a few days earlier at a shop near the campus where young saleswomen who didn’t shave their armpits or wear makeup sold comfortable shoes and artisan cheeses. She continued past her stunned mother and husband and went to the door, where she was greeted by Sherri Morris, a gap-toothed nine-year-old girl whose bad practice habits and resultant sloppy technique gave Clarice fits for an hour each week.

Sherri said, “Good morning, Mrs. Baker. I love your skirt.”

Clarice thanked the girl and made a mental note to put a gold star in her étude book that day no matter how poorly she played. She told Sherri to go to the piano and warm up on some scales while she said goodbye to her guests.

At the door Richmond whispered, “We can finish this discussion at the revival tonight.”

“Sorry, I have students until late in the day today. I’ll be too tired to go back to the revival tonight.”

Richmond sighed and looked at Beatrice as if to say “See what I’ve been dealing with?” To Clarice, he said, “Fine, we’ll talk at church tomorrow.”

“If you really must talk to me, I’ll see you at the All-You-Can-Eat after church. I won’t be at Calvary tomorrow. I’m planning to stop by the Unitarian church for services this week,” she said.

Clarice said that purely for spite. Although she had talked to Odette about maybe giving Holy Family Baptist a try, Clarice had no intention of going to the Unitarian church that Sunday. She was furious that the two of them had come over to gang up on her and preach at her, so she wanted to shake them up. Besides, there was something about putting on a peasant skirt and puka shells that made Unitarianism pop into your head.

Her mother moaned and leaned against Richmond for support. Clarice felt guilty for an instant. She knew that her mother would just as soon have seen her hook up with one of the polygamist congregations that were rumored to thrive in the hills outside of town as hand her soul over to the Unitarians.

But even though she had said it out of spite, Clarice started thinking that it might not be such a bad idea to try out the Unitarians. Why not? She was certainly in the mood for something different from the bitter mouthful she’d been chewing on for all those years.

As Beatrice crossed the threshold of the front door, still clinging to Richmond, she said to Clarice, “I’ll pray for you.” Clarice marveled at how her mother had managed to make it sound like a threat.

Richmond mouthed, “See what you’ve done,” and led his mother-in-law back to his Chrysler.

Clarice closed the door behind them and went to her student, who proceeded to brutally massacre a helpless Satie piece. She kept the promise she had made to herself to give Sherri a gold star, and the girl left happy at the end of her lesson.

Clarice’s roster had expanded since her move. The wealthy families of new Leaning Tree were thrilled to have a locally famous piano teacher within walking distance. And Saturday was her longest teaching day. By that evening, she was exhausted. She made herself a fresh cup of tea and went back to the piano to play a little something to wash away the sound of her students’ uneven performances—a kind of musical sorbet.

She had just settled onto the bench when sharp hammering at the front door abruptly ended the night’s quiet. When she looked through the keyhole, she expected to see Richmond or her mother back for another round. Instead, Reverend Peterson stood on the porch. His dark, wrinkled face managed to appear sorrowful, beseeching, and pissed off all at the same time. She reached to turn the knob and allow him in, but then thought better of it.

Maybe it was more displaced anger, but she couldn’t help but think that Reverend Peterson’s counsel was something she was better off without. His track record was pretty bad, she thought. She had followed his directions for years and had ended up believing that, in a woman, self-respect was the same thing as the sin of pride. And his advice to shut up and pray while her husband made a fool of her by screwing everything in sight had helped to keep Richmond a spoiled boy instead of the man he might have grown up to be. Okay, it might
have been a stretch to blame Reverend Peterson for that, but she wasn’t in the mood to play fair.

Fair or not, thinking clearly or not, hell-bound or not, Clarice turned around and walked back to her piano. She sat down and, to the beat of the insistent rapping on the door, began to play Brahms’s rapturous B Minor Intermezzo. As she played, she felt the stress of the day begin to fade away. Clarice thought,
God and I are communicating just fine
.

After months of good test results, my medicine stopped working. So my doctor started me on a different regimen. The first treatment with the new medication made me far sicker than I’d been on the worst days with the old formula. And when I stopped feeling sick, I started feeling weak.

My bosses had been real nice about adjusting my work schedule to accommodate my chemo, but with this new treatment kicking my ass the way it was, I had to ask for a leave of absence. They—the principal of the school and the food services coordinator from the school board—were very understanding and told me I could take as much time as I needed before coming back. But I could tell by the looks on their faces that they weren’t expecting me to return.

One morning, just after James left for work, I had a bad spell—feverish and achy all over. I was glad it hadn’t happened when he was still there. It was next to impossible to get James out the door if he thought I was in trouble. If I didn’t look okay to him, he’d dig in his heels and declare that he wasn’t about to leave me alone. Then he’d sit staring at me like an orphaned puppy until I convinced him that I felt better.

Of course, James didn’t need to worry about me being alone. The kids called daily to check up on me and kept me talking for hours. Rudy called a couple of times a week. Barbara Jean and Clarice were in and out all the time. And Mama drifted in every day to keep me company. She was there that morning when I shuffled out of the bathroom with a cool towel on my head.

“You’ve lost weight,” Mama said.

I looked down and saw that my nightgown was roomy now where
it used to bind me. I was able to grab a handful of cloth at my waist and twist it in a half circle before the material was tight against my stomach.

“Isn’t this something, all the time I wasted wishing I was able to take some weight off, and all it took to do the job was the teensiest little touch of cancer. Looks like I’ll get the last laugh on Clarice for making fun of me holding on to those old, out-of-style clothes in the attic that nobody ever thought I’d fit into again. I’m gonna wow ’em at the hospice in my parachute pants and Nehru jacket.” I laughed, but Mama didn’t.

I waved two of my cats away from their resting places on the living room couch. Then I lay down, pulled a quilt over myself, and adjusted the couch pillows to support my head. The cats reclaimed their spots near my feet as soon as I settled in. Mama sat on the floor beside me with her legs crossed, Indian-style.

After lying there in silence for a while, I said, “I guess this is when I’m supposed to start praying for a miracle.”

Mama shrugged. “You know, I don’t think I much believe in miracles. I think there’s just what’s supposed to happen and what’s not, and then goin’ along with it or standin’ in its way.”

I said, “Hmm, I’ll have to think about that. I like the idea of a good miracle every now and then.”

She shrugged again and, after a few seconds, said, “I’ve got to say your James has been more wonderful than I imagined he could be through this whole thing. Not that I ever thought bad of him. I just didn’t know he’d be this good.”

“I’m not surprised at all. James is being exactly who I knew he’d be. I’m lucky.”

“We’re both lucky, you and me. I got your daddy and you and Rudy. You got James and those sweet kids.”

“And the Supremes,” I added.

Mama nodded. “That’s what you’ll think about when you pass, you know. How good your man was, how you loved your children. How your friends made you laugh till you cried. That’s what flows through your mind when the time comes. Not the bad things.

“I don’t know if I was smilin’ or not when you found me dead in my garden, but I should’ve been. At the end, I was thinkin’ about you and your grandmama and how she’d put you in those horrible dresses she made that you loved so much. And I thought about how good it felt to kiss your daddy.

“I don’t recall hittin’ the ground after throwin’ the rock at that squirrel. I just remember havin’ those sweet thoughts and then seein’ your daddy standin’ over me, stretchin’ out his hand to help me up. When I got to my feet, my garden was more beautiful than ever—no damn tulip-bulb-eatin’ squirrels in the afterlife. Wilbur and me hadn’t walked more than five feet before we ran into your aunt Marjorie. She was doin’ one-arm pushups and lookin’ more like a man than ever. Her mustache had filled in real nice and she’d taken to waxin’ it and twistin’ it at its tips. Looked good on her. My big brother was there, too, all decked out in his army uniform, wearing all those shiny medals the government mailed home to us after the war. And the first person to say hello to me was Thelma McIntyre. She handed me a big fat doobie and said, ‘Hey, Dora. Take a hit off this. And don’t bogart it the way you always do.’ It was lovely.”

I hoped Mama was right. There had been so many beautiful days with James and the children and the Supremes, so many days I wanted to carry with me when I crossed over into whatever came next. And if I could shed the bad times like a dry, ill-fitting skin, that would be nice, too.

I always feel guilty when I think back to my worst day ever because others lost so much more than I did. Still, that day is there in my memory as the worst. And I believe, no matter what happens to me from here on out, that day will forever have its hooks in my mind.

Barbara Jean had just set out coffee for Clarice and me in her kitchen when the doorbell rang. It was the first weekend of May 1977 and the three of us were planning a birthday party for my Jimmy. All of our children had their parties at Barbara Jean’s. Clarice and I had both moved away from Leaning Tree and into new developments with small lawns by then. So letting the kids loose in Barbara Jean’s spacious yard, with its topiaries and flowering trees everywhere, was like setting them free in an enchanted forest.