The Supremes at Earl's All-You-Can-Eat (37 page)

The rooms in the Intensive Care Unit formed a square around a large nurses’ station. Every room was the same: one bed, one chair, one window on the outside wall, three inner walls made of glass. Unless the curtains that lined the walls of each room were pulled shut, I could see into every room in the ICU. I didn’t need to peek to know who lay in the other beds, though. My neighbors were up and about every bit as much as they were in their beds. The lady confined to the bed next door to mine regularly left her physical self behind and roamed the corridors performing elaborate dances with a fan of white ostrich plumes. The ancient man across the way from me withered away as a ventilator breathed for him. But I also saw him as a broad-chested, yellow-haired fisherman who politely tipped his lure-covered cap at his fan-dancing neighbor whenever he passed by her on the way to his secret fishing hole. They stepped out of their diseased or broken bodies and had a good old time until they were drawn back to their flesh by a rush of hormones or some medication that suddenly kicked in.

I only left my body behind when I slept. When I was truly asleep, not just incapacitated by sickness or floating in a fever dream, I always traveled to the same place. I relaxed, alone, at the foot of my sycamore in Leaning Tree. Leaving that spot, with its view of the silvery creek I’d played in as a child and the twisted trees that bordered Wall Road, and returning to ghosts and grief in my hospital room was the hardest part of those six days.

I learned from those days in the hospital that if you really want to hear the secret details of people’s lives, all you need to do is lapse into a coma. It’s like opening up a confessional booth and inviting all comers. People kept showing up and telling me things that they couldn’t bring themselves to tell me when I was responsive.

Clarice started the confession ball rolling when she stopped by on my second day in the hospital. She walked into my room all full of optimistic chitchat. She told James about people she’d known who had recovered after being in far worse condition than I was in, and she went on about how she was sure I’d be up and about in time to accompany her and Barbara Jean to New York City when she went to play for the record producer there. Then she took a good look at James, baggy-eyed and haggard, and ordered him to go to the cafeteria for something to eat. As soon as he was gone, she sat on the edge of my bed and confided that she was sleeping with Richmond again. Barbara Jean and I had long since figured that one out, but Clarice was having such a nice time with her secret that we didn’t want to ruin it for her by letting on that we knew. Unfortunately, Clarice had made the mistake of talking to her mother about it. Now Mrs. Jordan had Clarice worried that she was headed for hell. Her mother put it in her head that having sex with her own husband while refusing to be his wife in any other way was the height of wantonness.

Clarice said, “Maybe I should just go back home. I love being on my own in Leaning Tree, but it can’t be that simple, can it—just doing what you want because it feels good? Mother always says, ‘Happiness is the first sign you’re living wrong.’ ”

Mama, listening in, said, “I’ve always liked Clarice, but right now I wanna slap the shit outta her. Don’t she know how lucky she is, havin’ that good-lookin’ man at her beck and call like she does? She needs to stop this damn whinin’ and get to work on a how-to book. There’s about a billion women who’d pay good money to learn how they could be in her position. Your father was a good man, but if I coulda had him when I wanted him and then sent him away when I’d had my fill, I’d have been too busy thankin’ Jesus to worry whether I was committin’ a sin. Poor Clarice, that mother of hers did a real number on her.”

Considering the peculiarity of Mama’s legacy to me, that struck me as the pot calling the kettle black; but, out of respect, I didn’t say so.

Clarice also confessed to trying to outdo my daughter Denise’s wedding when she planned her own daughter’s ceremony more than
ten years ago. She said the guilt had been preying on her mind ever since she’d started helping Veronica put together that mess of a wedding for poor Sharon. If I could’ve, I’d have sat up and said, “Tell me something I don’t know, why don’t ya?” Then I’d have said, “We’ve been together too long to worry over trivial shit like that, sister. Forget about it.”

Richmond came by later that same day and showed that side of him that made Clarice, and so many other women, melt in his presence. He rattled off jokes and stories until he coaxed a genuine smile from James. Then, just the way Clarice had done, Richmond practically tossed James out of the room, insisting that he go get some dinner.

Once we were alone, Richmond got to confessing. And, let me tell you, when Richmond Baker started listing the whos, whats, and wheres of the wrongs he’d done, he drew quite a crowd. The dead, Mama and Mrs. Roosevelt, and the almost-dead, my colleagues from other beds in the ICU, couldn’t get enough of him. They bellowed with laughter and giggled from embarrassment as Richmond confided some of the carnal sins he’d committed. Mama was quieter than I could ever remember seeing her, uttering only the occasional “Oh my.” Mrs. Roosevelt pulled a bag of popcorn out of her oversized black alligator pocketbook and munched away like she was at a Saturday matinee. Every now and then someone grunted in disapproval, but they all stuck around to hear every single word of it.

When Richmond was done telling a string of the dirtiest tales I’d ever heard, he stroked my hand and told me that he couldn’t imagine the world without me, which touched my heart. Then one last confession. He told me that he’d been terrified of me for years, which made me even happier.

He finished up by talking about Clarice. He went on about how he was so in love with her and how he didn’t think he could go on living if she didn’t come back home. “I love her so much, Odette. I don’t know why I do the stuff I do. Maybe it’s an addiction, like alcohol or cocaine.”

Mama thought the addiction theory sounded like an excuse. She’d never had patience for what she called “the navel-gazing of philanderers.”
Mama slapped the side of Richmond’s head with the bong she’d been sharing with Mrs. Roosevelt—he didn’t feel it—and said, “Shut the hell up. You’re not addicted. You’re just a horndog, you stupid sonofabitch. Odette, tell him he’s a dog and that he should just do the decent thing and carry a Victoria’s Secret catalog into the bathroom and take care of business when that mood strikes, like every other God-fearing married man in America. Tell him, Odette.”

Of course, I wasn’t about to tell Richmond something like that, even if I could have. There are some things even I won’t say.

It turned out that even the dead still had things to confess. On my third day in the hospital, Lester Maxberry visited me. Or rather, he came to watch Barbara Jean visiting me. He strolled into my room dressed in a spring walking suit that was the color of orange sherbet. His short pants were cut mid-thigh and he wore knee socks and suede espadrilles that were the same shade of light blue as his old Cadillac.

Barbara Jean sat in the visitor’s chair while James sat on my bed beside me. The ICU allowed two visitors at a time but, oddly, provided just one chair per room. I did notice, though, when the fan dancer passed away surrounded by six family members, that they relaxed the two-visitor rule when they figured you were about to die. James and Barbara Jean talked about my condition, the weather, and the new volunteer job Barbara Jean had taken. She taught reading to poor kids from the tiny hill towns outside of Plainview. “There are so many more hours to the day when you stop drinking,” she said.

While they talked, I took the opportunity to converse with Lester. I said, “Hey, Lester, you’re looking sharp.”

“Thanks, Odette. Clothes make the man, you know.”

“Nope, it’s the other way around, my friend. Have you been doing all right?”

Lester nodded, but he wasn’t really paying any attention to me. He watched Barbara Jean with the same affection and longing he’d had for her when he was alive. “She’s still the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen some amazing sights over these last eleven months.”

“Has it been that long, Lester? I swear it seems like yesterday the six of us were together at the All-You-Can-Eat.”

“Sneaks up on you, doesn’t it? It’s been almost a year.” He continued staring at Barbara Jean. “I should never have married her.”

“Why would you say that?” I asked.

“It wasn’t right. She was practically a child and I was a grown man. I should’ve known better. Did know better. But when I saw that she was desperate because of the baby, I couldn’t stop myself. I told myself it was okay because she’d come round to loving me over time.”

“I’m pretty sure she did, Lester.”

“Maybe, but mostly she was grateful. And gratitude’s not a thing to build a marriage on. I was old enough to know that. She wasn’t. Odette, I felt bad about that every day we were together, but it didn’t stop me from holding on to her.”

“Did you ever tell her that?”

He said, “No.” Then he grinned at me. “But you can. The next time you talk to Barbara Jean, you can tell her I’m sorry, that I should have been stronger. Will you do that for me?”

Only someone as over-gentlemanly and overly moral as Lester Maxberry could let a thing like that eat away at him for decades. Any other man would say, “All’s fair in love and war,” and spend the rest of eternity bragging about how he’d managed to get the most beautiful girl in town to be his wife. I told Lester that I had it on good authority, both medical and ghostly, that I probably wouldn’t be talking to Barbara Jean again in this life. But he kept at me until I promised I’d say something to her if I got the chance. Then he thanked me and went back to silently watching Barbara Jean.

The next morning, Chick Carlson dropped by and caused an even bigger fuss in the ICU than Richmond had. The nurses at the station, all full-grown women, fanned themselves and fell against each other in mock swooning after he walked by. When he came into my room, Mama eyed him up and down and nodded her approval. Even Mrs. Roosevelt sat up straight and fluffed up her fox stole. Decades had passed, but Ray Carlson was still the King of the Pretty White Boys.

Chick gave my hollow-eyed, gaunt husband the once-over, and then did what all my friends had done. He badgered James into abandoning
his vigil long enough to go get something to eat while Chick watched over me.

When James left, Chick sat in the visitor’s chair and began to chat with my silent body. He started talking about the All-You-Can-Eat and Big Earl, all that stuff from the distant past. He’d been by my house several times over the months since he’d first visited with me in the chemo room, and every time he sat down with me he’d wanted to relive or analyze the old days. He was just as caged up in the past as Barbara Jean.

That day in the ICU, he also shared a tale with me that made me wish I could sit up right then and call Clarice on the phone. He told me all about how his tower project at the university had successfully released two rehabbed peregrine falcons just that previous Saturday. He described in beautiful detail how his birds had taken flight in front of news cameras and impressed donors. The birds, he said, were majestic and awe-inspiring.

I thought about the two hawks who had swooped in on Sharon’s wedding that same Saturday and said to myself, “Majestic, awe-inspiring, and
hungry
.”

Outside at the nurses’ station, I heard one of the nurses saying, “Hi there, Mrs. Maxberry.” The staff all knew Barbara Jean from the many visits she had made to the ICU when Lester was in the hospital to have something removed, reattached, repaired, or replaced. When Barbara Jean entered my room, Chick hopped up like the seat of his chair had been electrified. They exchanged greetings and then stood there staring at each other. They were like teenagers at a school dance—both of them eager to say something, neither of them knowing how to say it.

Chick claimed that he’d just been leaving, even though he’d told James he would stay until James returned. He said, “It’s nice to see you, Barbara Jean.” Then, through my glass walls, I watched him walk past the giggling nurses on his way to the elevator. Every fifth or sixth step, he looked back over his shoulder for another glimpse of the most beautiful woman in town.

Barbara Jean sat in the empty visitor’s chair and chewed her lip for
a while, then she began to talk. The bedside confessional was open for business again.

“My sponsor, Carlo, says I need to talk to Chick. He says I need to make amends; it’s one of the twelve steps. See, I did something terrible that I never told you about.”

Then Barbara Jean told me a story about going to see Chick on the night of their son’s funeral and how what she’d put in motion that night had eaten away at her soul for all the years since. When she got to the end of her story, she was crying hard. Her tears caused her makeup to streak and rain down onto her powder-blue blouse in brown and black droplets that she never made a move to clean up.

Just when you think the world can’t hold any more surprises for you
, I thought. Unlike most of the people I knew, I had never believed the rumor that it was Lester who’d shot Desmond Carlson. Even though Desmond had killed little Adam, Lester Maxberry couldn’t have pulled that trigger. Former soldier or not, Lester was no killer. Truth was, I had always assumed it was Barbara Jean who’d done it, probably because that’s what I would have done. Also, the way she’d fallen apart right after, with the drinking and all, she’d seemed as much guilt-ridden as grief-stricken. I had just misjudged where the guilt was coming from.

James came back as Barbara Jean attempted to put her face back together, cleaning up trails of mascara with a handful of tissues. Misreading the situation, my good James knelt on one knee beside my friend and patted her shoulder. He said, “Don’t you worry, Barbara Jean. She’ll pull through.”

She stuffed the tissues back into her pocketbook and said, “I know she will. It all just gets to you sometimes.” She pecked James on the cheek and left the room, making her way through the crowd of people, all invisible to her, who’d been eavesdropping on her conversation.