Authors: Wally Lamb
The Wally Lamb Fiction Collection: The Hour I First Believed, I Know This Much is True, We Are Water, and Wishin' and Hopin' (235 page)
“Where you been?” I asked him.
He didn’t answer me. Didn’t even look at me.
“What are you doing out here, Claude?”
He told me it was none of my business what he was doing, but I just stood there, looking at him. “If you must know, Miss Nosey, I’m cleaning some of my tools,” he said then. But his toolbox was shut, still up on the shelf. He had his crowbar in one hand, a kerosene-smelling rag in the other. A pair of his coveralls was in a heap on the workbench. I walked over to them. “These dirty?” I said. “I’ll take them in. I’m doing wash tomorrow.” But when I went for them, he batted my hand away.
“Don’t bother,” he said. “They’re no good anymore. My boots neither.”
It made no sense. I’d bought him those boots for his birthday the month before and they were hardly broken in. “No? Why not?”
He turned and faced me. Gave me a long, hard look. “Because they got nigger blood on them. The overalls, too.” When he said that, my heart sunk.
I said nothing. Just stood there, staring back at him for the longest time until a shiver run through me. Then I turned away and walked back toward the house. A little while later, I stood at the window and watched as he burned those coveralls and boots in the barrel, the flames leaping up and lighting his face like he was Lucifer himself. Like I was married to the devil.
And maybe I had some devil in me, too, because every morning and night for the next several days, and sometimes even in the middle of the day, I’d get down on my knees and pray that Rufus Jones, not Claude, would be arrested—that an innocent man would pay for the crime instead of a guilty one. It was a shameful thing for a Christian woman to do: asking the Good Lord to cover up a lie for selfish reasons, and a terrible lie at that. He didn’t grant my request, either. I found that out the day the radio said that Rufus had been found, questioned, and cleared. That he’d gone off on a three-day toot was all, and witnesses at the places where he’d been had said so.
But at the end of that same long week, the paper and the radio said that Coroner McKee’s report concluded that Joe Jones’s death was accidental—that he’d probably tripped in the dark, stumbled and fallen into the well headfirst, and drowned. The well was made of stone, it said, and was most likely responsible for Jones’s banged-up skull and forehead.
There was some guff about Jones’s death from the colored folks. That big colored woman, Bertha Jinks—the one who’s mixed up in that group, the N Double A CP, and is always stirring up race trouble? She wrote a letter to the editor of the
Record
saying that everyone in town, black or white, knew how unlikely it was that a six-foot man would fall into a five-foot-deep well and manage to get himself drowned. And that if Josephus Jones had been a Caucasian instead of a Negro, the coroner would have concluded otherwise, and the police would have worked overtime until they’d solved his murder and gotten the victim some justice. My heart was near to stopping when I read that letter, and I got so scared that I didn’t even finish it. I just ripped it out of the newspaper and tore it into a million little pieces and burned them in the sink. Other letters to the editor went back and forth for a week or so after that, most of them in support of the official findings, and one or two saying how the coloreds were always finding
some
thing to complain about. After a while, the whole thing died down.
But not in our house. In our house, it kept festering in silence, like an untended-to wound that never quite heals and eventually kills you. Belinda Jean quit her job at the library, stopped speaking to her father, and started staying home all the time. Whenever her friend Peggy called, she’d have me tell her she was out, and after a while Peggy got the message and stopped calling. Claude’s suffering and breathing got worse and worse. And then, nine days ago, he turned purple, gasped for his last breath, and died—unrepentant and undetected in the matter of Josephus Jones’s murder. May God grant him mercy for what he done, I pray each night, and may He grant me mercy, too, for having kept my silence these four years. In the Bible, it says that Jesus told the Jews, “You shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.” It’s in John 8:32. But knowing the truth and telling it are two different things, and knowing the truth about how Josephus Jones met His Maker and not
saying
how hasn’t set me free. It’s put me in a kind of prison. Me and poor Belinda both. . . .
At Claude’s wake last night, it broke my heart the way Belinda Jean kept jerking her head up every time someone appeared at the doorway of the room where we were sitting. I suspect she was waiting for Peggy Konicki to show. Peggy, the only friend she ever had that didn’t get murdered. . . . Her mother come into Benny’s the other day, where I work now, running the cash register. Mrs. Konicki opened her wallet and showed me Peggy’s wedding picture, and a picture of her cute little grandbaby. I hate my Benny’s job, because it keeps me on my feet all day long, and because the manager’s always hanging around, making sure that I ask whoever I’m ringing up if they want the stuff that’s on the counter. “Can I interest you in a can of these deluxe mixed nuts?” Or, “Need any flashlight batteries today?” Or, “How about some bubble stuff for the kiddies? You know how children love to blow bubbles.” . . . I looked at that picture of Peggy’s baby quick. Then I had to look away and pinch my leg hard so that I wouldn’t cry in front of Mrs. Konicki, who was already a grandmother and I was never going to be one.
I still count heads for that movie distributor, Axion Entertainment, and between that and Claude’s Social Security and my Benny’s paycheck, we get by, Belinda and me. Of course, she doesn’t work. Doesn’t leave the house hardly ever, either. Just hangs around all day from morning till nighttime, watching TV in her housecoat. She’s big as a house now, poor thing. Has those two or three double chins and breathes like she’s out of breath, even when she’s just sitting on the couch, knitting and watching her TV shows. I remember when I first come on the scene and laid eyes on her. She was eleven. Half of her eyebrows were missing and she had a wad of paper towel plugging up the bloody nose she’d given herself. Then I took charge and she got better. And now she’s bad again.
Real
bad. She don’t turn off that television at night until after Johnny Carson’s over. I get down on my knees and pray for her every single night.
Tonight, after I’ve gotten myself ready for bed, I’m going to pray for that other little girl, too—the one I saw across the hall last night at McPadden’s Funeral Home wearing her blue dress and Mary Jane shoes. Chick and Sunny O’Day’s little daughter, Annie. She could use some prayer, I think. It’s like that song Daddy used to sing back in Alabama. I heard it on the radio just the other day. Johnny Cash was the one singing it, I’m pretty sure.
Motherless children have a hard time when the mother is gone
. . . . There’s more truth than poetry in that line. When I heard that song again, I sat down and cried a river.
Another thought just come to me: how, even though the circumstances of their dying were different, both Sunny O’Day and Claude died because they suffocated. Because they couldn’t draw enough air into their lungs—her from drowning and him from his emphysema, and maybe because of the terrible thing he done, too. And then they both ended up together in the basement of McPadden’s that night, floating in floodwater.
I’m down on my knees now, asking God why, if He’s merciful, He had to put so much meanness in the world He made. Weasels pounce, snakes bite, dams break, men kill other men. And why would a merciful God let a little child’s mother die? I’m crying now and praying both, for Belinda Jean and that little O’Day girl. And for the souls of Sunny and Claude. And for Joe Jones’s soul, too, and the soul of his brother who died in the flood. Dear Lord, have mercy on all of them, and on me, too, if it is Thy will.
I tidied up my point of view
I got a new attitude . . .
I
’m Dr. Laura Schlessinger and I do welcome you to this hour of the program. Our number here is 1-800-Dr. Laura. That’s 1-800-D-R-L-A-U-R-A. I’m here with Kimberly Neill who screens your calls, Benjamin Pratt who orchestrates our music, and me. I am my kid’s mom, ready to preach, teach, and nag you into doing the right thing. . . . Casey-Lee, welcome to the program.”
“Hi, Dr. Laura. Thank you for taking my call.”
“Thank
you
.”
“I’ve been listening to you since my mom used to pick me up from grade school, and I just wanted to say what an honor it is to speak with you.”
“Thank you. How can I help?”
“I’m . . . well, the thing is . . . Sorry. I’m a little nervous.”
“That’s okay.”
“Do you want me to give you some background, or should I get right to my question?”
“Well, why don’t you just start and we’ll see where it goes?”
“Okay. Actually, I’m calling for my fiancé. He’s got a family situation that he’s struggling with, so I suggested we call Dr. Laura and see what she has to say about it.”
“And your fiancé’s name is?”
“Andrew. His problem—well, his parents are divorced, okay? And his mother’s getting remarried. To a woman.”
“Uh-huh. And your question for me is?”
“Whether or not we should go to their wedding. See, he grew up in a family that wasn’t very religious, but since we’ve been going out, he’s found His Lord and Savior. We already said we couldn’t go, but now he’s getting pressure from one of his sisters about how we should, because it’ll hurt their mother if we don’t. And yesterday his mom’s partner sent us plane tickets so that we can surprise her. And, well, the thing is . . . Don’t you think gay marriage is sinful?”
“What
I
think is beside the point. What do
you
think?”
“Me? I think it is.”
“Okay. Now a minute ago, you said this was your fiancé’s problem. So why is it that you’re calling me instead of him?”
“Oh. Well, because I said I would. He’s right here, though.”
“Ah. Then why don’t you put him on?”
“Oh, okay. [
sotto voce
] She wants to talk to you.”
Muffled voices.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Andrew.”
“Hey. How are you?”
“Fine, thank you. Now, first of all, I have a note here from Kimberly that says you’re a member of the military.”
“Yes, ma’am. United States Army, Specialist E-Four.”
“And what’s your specialty, soldier?”
“My . . . I’m in a nurses’ training program.”
“Ahh. Well, thank you for your service to your country. And hoo-ya!”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.”
“Casey-Lynn says you’re conflicted about going to your mother’s wedding. Why don’t you tell me about it?”
“Okay, well . . . Like Casey said, she’s getting married to a woman, okay? She’s . . . my mother’s an artist. Kind of a free spirit, you know?”
“And?”
“And her and this woman have been living together for a while, and now they’re going to get married. Which, you know, they can do. Legally. Because the wedding’s going to be in Connecticut. And so, part of me thinks I should go because, you know, she’s my mom.”
“And what’s the other part telling you?”
“Uh . . . what?”
“You just told me that
part
of you is telling you to go, so I’m assuming there’s another part that’s telling you not to. Right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Because?”
“Because I don’t, me and Casey don’t . . . we feel that marriage should just be between a man and a woman. Whether, you know, it’s legal or not.”
“So this wedding flies in the face of your values.”
“Yes, ma’am. Plus, I don’t know. I just think that going would be disloyal to my dad. I mean, him and my mom are divorced, but—”
“Divorced for how long?”
“Over a year now. But they’ve been separated for, like, three years.”
“And how long had they been married?”
“My mom and dad? Maybe twenty-six, twenty-seven years?”
“And they decided to end their marriage because?”
“Because of
her
, I guess. This woman she’s marrying. She started working in New York, okay? Because of her art? And she was renting a room in this woman’s fancy apartment, okay? So one thing led to another and . . .”
“And what? Your mother decided she liked women better than men? Fancy apartments? New York deli? Ha, ha, ha.”
“I think it was about living in New York at first. Because of the art scene there. She does these crazy, experimental . . . installations she calls them.”
“Not the kind of art you’d hang over your sofa then. Okay. Got it. Have you discussed your conflict with your father?”
“Yeah, and he’s pretty cool about it. At least he says he is. He may even go to the wedding.”
“Really? Wow! I’m not sure if that makes him the most forgiving man in the universe or the most masochistic. Ha, ha, ha.”
“The thing is, I don’t even think she’s really homosexual. I just think—”
“Andrew?
Andrew?
You need to face the facts. You told me that your mother left your father for a lesbian hookup. That makes her a lesbian. And now she wants to make it legal so that she and her shack-up honey can—”
“I don’t know if I’d put it that way.”
“No, of course you wouldn’t. Honor thy mother, right? But did your mother honor the solemn covenant she made with your father? No, she didn’t. It doesn’t really
matter
what this other person’s gender is. What matters is that she forsook her vow to love, honor, and cherish her husband. To be
faithful
to him. Right?”
“Well, yeah. I guess.”
“Then for whatever reason your
father
doesn’t want to ‘man up’ and say screw you, babe, if you think
I’m
going to your big gay wedding, I see no reason why that obligates
you
to—”
“Well, my dad’s a peacemaker. Plus, one of my sisters keeps bugging me to—”
“Andrew? You and your girl called me for my advice, so why don’t you stop talking over me and
listen
to what I have to say?”
“Okay. Sorry.”
“It doesn’t
matter
what your father’s decision is, or what this silly sister of yours wants
you
to do. If your values are telling you that this marriage is wrong, then going to the wedding would say otherwise.”
“So you’re saying I shouldn’t go.”
“No, I’m saying that if you decide to go, your presence makes a statement. And if you decide
not
to go, that makes a different statement. It’s up to
you
to decide which statement you want to make.”
“Right. But I just feel—”
“Doesn’t matter what you
feel
. What matters is what you
do
. Suppose your commanding officer gave you a direct order to do something. What does he care about? Your
feelings
or your actions?”
“Yeah, exactly. But she sent us these plane tickets. See, the thing is, I already told my mom we weren’t going because we couldn’t afford the trip. But then we got these tickets. With a note that says my mom and her—”
“So
what
? If she wants to waste her money, then let her. The fact that she’s trying to manipulate you—
guilt
you into going—doesn’t obligate you.”
“Yeah, that’s what Casey-Lee says.”
“And she’s right.”
“But family’s family, you know? Both my sisters are going. I’d be the only one of her kids who—”
“Then go. Have a great time, and if one of the brides throws the garter, I hope you catch it. Not sure if they throw the garter or two bouquets at a lesbian wedding. Ha, ha. But if you don’t want to go, I’d suggest you call your mother, tell her you love her very much, and say that you can’t attend her wedding because you don’t condone this kind of union. Just be honest with her.”
“Yeah, but I don’t want to hurt her feelings.”
“So what’s more important? Sparing her feelings, or being true to your own and your fiancée’s moral code? Just don’t forget: there are
two
women to consider here. The one who birthed you, and the one you’re marrying.”
“Yeah. Okay. . . . Wait a minute, Dr. Laura. Casey’s handing me a note. Oh, okay. She wants to know if we should send them a gift.”
“Sure, if you want to. Something modest, a Crock-Pot or a cut-glass vase. Or, if you don’t want to spend the money, send them a pretty card.”
“But wouldn’t that be the same as—”
“No.
Acknowledging
their wedding is different from having to go there and
witness
it. Right?”
“Yeah, okay. We can do that.”
“Good. Now put Casey-Lynn back on.”
“It’s Casey-
Lee
.”
“Excuse me?”
“You just called her Casey-Lynn, but it’s Casey-Lee.”
“Uh-oh. My bad. Thirty lashes with a wet noodle for me. Ha, ha, ha.”
“Here she is.”
“Hi, Dr. Laura.”
“Okay, sweetie, I think we’ve got this all straightened out. By the way, when are you and your man getting married?”
“A little over a year from now. Next October.”
“And tell me. I’m just curious. Are
you two
shacking up?”
“Us? Oh, no. He lives on the base and I’m living with my parents. Partly to save money, but also because, well, I want to save myself.”
“Wow! Good for
you
! And Andrew’s okay with that? Because a lot of men think differently about these things than women do. They’re more interested in slam, bam, thank you, ma’am than deferred gratification.”
“No, Andrew’s . . . he respects that I want to wait.”
“Excellent! In that case, you go out and buy yourself a pretty white dress when the time comes because white will actually
mean
something when
you
walk down the aisle, unlike ninety-nine percent of today’s brides. Especially the ones with baby bumps. Ha, ha, ha.”
“Um, Dr. Laura? Can I ask you one more question?”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
“When we do get married, should we invite his mom and her . . . partner to the wedding?”
“Do you want to?”
“No. Well, his mom, I guess. But not both of them. I just think it might make the other guests uncomfortable.”
“Fine then. Invite his mother, but have Andrew make it clear that you two expect her to leave her spouse at home. And if she’s willing to attend under those conditions, then be polite and respectful to her. Be gracious. And then go ahead and have yourself a lovely day and one hell of a honeymoon. Put on a pretty little negligee for the wedding night and rock his world. And tell that man of yours from me that he’s getting a good woman. That’s rare these days. We’re becoming an endangered species, ha ha. Okay?”
“Yes, okay. And thank you
so
much.”
“You’re welcome, sweetie. Good luck. And you know what? Don’t hang up. I’m going to transfer you back over to Kimberly so that she can take down your address. I want to send you copies of two of my books,
The Proper Care and Feeding of Husbands
and
The Proper Care and Feeding of Wives
. An early wedding present for each of you. All right, sweetheart?”
“Yes. Thanks again, Dr. Laura.”
“
You’re
welcome. . . . Gloria, welcome to the program! Oh, oh, wait a minute. Looks like we’ve got to take a break. Be right back.”
It felt so wrong, it felt so right . . .
I kissed a girl and I liked it, I liked it
“Welcome back. Our number here is 1-800-Dr. Laura. That’s 1-800-
D-R-L-A-U-R-A.
You know, over the break, I was thinking about that last caller. You see what pain and confusion it causes for the rest of the family when a husband or a wife doesn’t respect the covenant of their marriage? The children, especially. Even adult children. I still can’t believe that that husband’s going to attend. What’s he going to do? Walk his ex-wife down the aisle and give her away to her new bride? He’s a peacekeeper? More likely, the poor guy’s probably been so beaten down by the feminist agenda that he’s surrendered his man pants, ha ha ha. Remember a while back when the feministas got all bent out of shape because the bride was supposed to say she would love, honor, and
obey
her husband? Good lord, what outcry! ‘Obey? Oh, no, we can’t have that. That might interfere with my
happiness
—my
fulfillment
.’ So now we have divorce rates hovering around fifty percent, and Heather has two mommies and no positive male influences in her life. You know, I’ve been attacked in the media, accused of being antigay, but the truth is: I’ve counseled many gays and lesbians on this program, and also when I was in private practice. I’m not antigay. I just happen to believe that the sacred institution of
marriage
means one man and one woman. . . . Gloria! Welcome to the program.”
“Hi, Dr. Laura. First of all, I just want to say that, thanks to you, I’m my husband’s girlfriend and my kids’ mom.”
“Excellent. And how many kidlets, and what are their ages?”
“We have two sons, ages four and two. I’m a stay-at-home mom, and I’m planning on homeschooling my boys when the time comes.”
“Excellent, excellent. And what can I do for you today?”