We Are All Welcome Here Page 6

  “I don’t know,” I always said. I really didn’t. But my mother, who on that sad day in the iron lung had vowed to use whatever power she had left, did exactly that—with a vengeance. She listened more carefully than anyone: to music, to birdsong, to the wind and the rain, but especially to people—she heard not only what they said but what they felt. She could tell when something in the oven was done by the smell alone; from across the room, she could tell which wrapped box under the Christmas tree held dusting powder. She taught me about good food by her varied and dramatic responses to the taste of it. Most amazingly, she transformed the look in her eyes into her entire body. In anger, those eyes were her grabbing you and holding you down, bending your will to her own. Though she could do nothing but stare at me, I feared her, mightily and distinctly. If she had told me to slap my own face, I would have.

  “Now go to bed,” my mother said, and I did.

  In the morning, I awakened full of energy and bolted to my window to check on the weather—cloudless, I was happy to see; we’d have a nice evening. Then, like a soft punch to the stomach, came a familiar realization: My mother would never again be able to do this, fling back the covers and leap out of bed. Go to the window of her own volition. Go anywhere of her own volition. Of course I knew this, knew it in my brain, anyway; but I was nonetheless reminded of it in my heart in these unexpected and most random of ways. I can only describe it as the way you touch something bare-handed that you just took from the oven. Impossible as it seems, every now and then I would simply forget my mother was paralyzed. I would hold something out to her. Or I would call her to come over and look at something. I would point at my own mouth to indicate that she had a crumb stuck at the side of her own.

  She understood this phenomenon; she’d had plenty of experiences with other people having what she called “brain skips.” One summer night, when she was sitting outside with my mother, Brenda felt a June bug land on the back of her neck. Brenda was deathly afraid of June bugs. She’d leapt out of her lawn chair and started dancing around and around, shrieking at my mother, “Get it off! Get it off!”

  “Yeah, okay, in a minute,” my mother had said.

  I once asked my mother if she herself ever forgot her circumstances in this way. “I don’t forget,” she’d said, “but sometimes I have dreams. And then I have to wake up.”

  “What kind of dreams?” I asked.

  She seemed reluctant to answer. But she said, “Well, I dream…it’s the simplest things, really. I’m waving. I’m hanging out the wash. I’m just walking down the street, and it feels like floating.” Then she said, “I don’t want to talk about this anymore, Diana.”

  This morning, my sorrow at my mother’s inabilities was tempered by my anger at her for biting me. I’d gotten up twice to assist her in the night, and beyond her telling me what she needed, neither of us had spoken.

  “If you up, get on down here,” I heard Peacie call.

  “I’m not up,” I yelled, and moved back into my bed.

  “Get down here anyway; I need some help with your mother.”

  I lay still for a moment, full of a flat kind of hate, then started downstairs. When I left here, when I lived on my own, I was not going to have so much as a cactus to take care of.

  I found Peacie in the kitchen, washing dishes. I sat at the kitchen table. “Peacie? Can I ask you a question?”

  “You just did.”

  “We’re having a play tonight, and I wanted to know if LaRue could be in it. All he has to do is read a couple of lines at the end.”

  She shut off the water and turned around. “You want LaRue? In your play?”

  “Yes.”

  She considered this for a moment, frowning, which was often Peacie’s way of smiling. Then she said, “He’ll do it. What time?”

  I told her, then said, “But how do you know for sure he’ll do it?”

  “I know him, that’s how. Since you so worried, I’ll call later and check with his agent. But right now I need you to help me.”

  My mother was having her hair washed. Peacie always needed help with that; it was a difficult process. My mother would be wheeled into the bathroom and the backrest of her wheelchair lowered flat. Next, Peacie and I would each grab under an arm and pull her up so that her head cleared the chair and was over the toilet bowl. Then, while I held her head over the toilet, Peacie would pour water over her hair and quickly shampoo and rinse it. It’s surprising how much a head weighs; you never really think about it. But it becomes heavy when you hold it this way. And heavier still when you don’t want to look into the eyes of the person whose head you’re holding. At one point my mother said, “Stop, Peacie.” And while Peacie held aloft the battered pot we used to pour water, my mother said, “Are we not speaking, Diana?”

  I said nothing.

  “Diana?”

  Reluctantly, I looked at her.

  “I want you to snap out of it,” she said. “Susan Hogart’s coming here today. She called yesterday.”

  “So? I’ll just get sent outside. That’s what always happens. She never talks to me.”

  “She does sometimes. And she might today.”

  I shifted my shoulders, tightened my grip at the back of my mother’s neck.

  “Ow,” she said, on her next exhalation, and I said nothing. But I relaxed my hands somewhat.

  “So can I rely on you?” my mother asked.

  “For what?”

  “To say the right things?”

  I sighed, and Peacie said, “That’s ’bout enough of y’all’s summit conference. Let me finish now, ’fore we all fall down.”

  We washed my mother’s hair in tense silence. Then we straightened her up, wheeled her out to her bedroom, and while Peacie put her hair up in pin curls, my mother briefed me on what I should tell the social worker. “You’re doing fine; you like your caretakers—whatever you do, don’t suggest in any way that there’s no one here at night.”

  “Why is that such a big deal? I know how to do everything.”

  Peacie and my mother looked at each other. Peacie’s face was impassive; my mother looked worried.

  “Because if you tell, we could get in a lot of trouble. Diana, you’re old enough to know this: We’re getting money for a nighttime caretaker. But I use it for other things—things for you.”

  “And for you!” I shot back.

  “Yes. That’s right. Things for me, too. But the point is, we’re cheating the system.”

  “You have to!” Peacie said.

  “We have to,” my mother echoed.

  Peacie tied a filmy yellow scarf around my mother’s pin curls. The long ends fell down on either side of her head. “You look like one of those floppy-eared rabbits,” I said, and my mother smiled. But it wasn’t true. Even in pin curls, my mother looked lovely.

  “You want to sit by the window for a while, Paige?” Peacie asked, and my mother nodded.

  “You come with me,” Peacie told me. “I need your help out the kitchen.”

  “I haven’t even washed my face!” I said. “I haven’t even brushed my teeth!”

  “You think I don’t know that? Next state over know that!” She walked toward the kitchen and then looked over her shoulder to see if I was coming. “Move your behind!” she said, and I followed her.

  In the kitchen, I sat at the table and she put a bowl of Cheerios before me. “Breakfast in bed—almost,” she said. I did not smile. She sat opposite me. “Now, tell me true, you nervous about that social worker?”

  “No.” I picked sleep from one eye irritably.

  “Are too. Now, listen, I seen these things plenty of times. You just answer every question real calm. You say Mrs. Gruder and Janice just fine. And you say I’m the best one. Which I am.” She eyed my untouched cereal. “And you eat that ’fore it gets soggy. Don’t you make me waste food.”

  I picked up the spoon and had a bite of the cereal. It tasted good with the wild raspberries Peacie had put in it; they grew in her yard. “Why
do you think she’ll ask me questions? She hardly ever speaks to me.”

  “You getting older,” Peacie said. “That’s why. She been asking your mother about you, talking ’bout puberty.” She pronounced it “pooberty,” like a science teacher of mine had. “She say she want to start talking to you more often. Today might be the day. Now let’s us practice.”

  She stood up and pushed her chair in, affected a high white voice. “So. Diana, dear. How you doing?”

  “Just great,” I said. “Living here in the lap of luxury. Every day is ecstasy.”

  “Well, I tell you what,” Peacie said. “We can finish in a minute, or you can sit in here all day. Makes no never mind to me.” She started humming.

  “I’m very well, thank you!”

  “And how your caretakers treat you?” Peacie asked.

  “Oh, they’re really good,” I said. “Especially Peacie, that angel of mercy, that model of perfection.” I was impressed with myself. Hanging around with Suralee was doing me good. I spoke above myself in a way I found thrilling.

  Peacie went to the icebox and got out eggs, then took a bowl from the cupboard. “Yup, I got all day,” she said. “I’m gon’ be here anyway.”

  “Fine!” I said. “But don’t make me practice! Just tell me what you want to tell me and let me go!”

  Peacie put the bowl down on the counter and came to stand before me. I stared at the little flowers on the waistband of her apron. “Just don’t mess up,” she said. “That’s all. Don’t talk ’less you have to. Be polite and make her think everything just fine. You got no idea what could happen if you mess up.”

  “I won’t mess up!” I said. “I’m not stupid!”

  “You ain’t stupid,” she said, “but you act like it sometime anyway.”

  “Why don’t I just not be here?” I said, but just then the doorbell rang.

  Peacie raised her eyebrows and pointed at me, her fingers held like a pistol. I had a nearly irresistible impulse to bury my face in her apron and weep. Instead, I said, “Okay!” and gobbled the rest of my cereal.

  “I’m coming!” Peacie yelled toward the door. Then she whispered to me, “Tell her you like her dress, or whatever she got on. She always like that. Tell her it’s her color, whatever color it is.” Her mouth smelled of licorice. She chewed anise seeds, carried a supply wrapped in a hankie in her purse. Once I’d eaten some and she’d smelled them on me. “You steal my breathsweet again I whup your hide,” she’d said. She hadn’t even bothered to look at me, saying this. But I never did take any more after that.

  Susan, wearing a plain yellow blouse tucked into a navy blue skirt, penny loafers, and white socks, seated herself heavily on the sofa and pulled papers out of her briefcase. Peacie, my mother, and I were gathered around her. “Nice skirt, Miss Hogart,” I said.

  She looked up at me. “Thank you, Diana.”

  “It’s your color,” I said, and she looked at me, puzzled. Finally, “Thank you,” she said. I cast a murderous glance at Peacie, who looked pointedly away.

  Susan shuffled through her papers, then smiled at me. “Everything okay?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “Enjoying your vacation?”

  Again I nodded.

  “What kind of things are you up to this summer?”

  I shrugged.

  Susan waited.

  “I’ve been to some baseball games. And movies. And swimming. I’ve been over at my friend Suralee’s house a lot. We like to draw pictures. I’ve been to the library almost every day—I believe I’ll finish all the Nancy Drews pretty soon!” I kept my lying voice high and sweet. I sat with my knees together, my hands folded in my lap.

  Susan looked satisfied, and though I suspected Peacie was just short of rolling her eyes, her face revealed nothing. I knew a lot more than Peacie thought I did. “Suralee and I are doing a play tonight, in the backyard, me and my friend Suralee. We’re inviting a lot of people.”

  My mother looked over at me, surprised, but said nothing.

  “Oh!” Susan said. “What play?”

  “One we made up. We make them up.”

  “Isn’t that wonderful!” Susan said, and now I did see Peacie rolling her eyes.

  “You want to come?” I asked.

  “Well…how about if I speak to your mother for a while? You go ahead upstairs, Diana. You must be wanting to get dressed and go outdoors.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Nice seeing you.” As I walked past Peacie I smirked, but she was again finding something off to her left fascinating.

  By the time I dressed and came downstairs, Susan was leaving. I walked out to her car with her. “Your mother’s quite a woman,” Susan said.

  “She shouldn’t be so hard on me, though.” My finger was hurting. I was feeling spiteful.

  “Well,” Susan said. “I don’t know a child in the world your age who doesn’t think that. It’s all part of growing up. Don’t you think so?”

  I looked up at her plain face, her earnest brown eyes. “Yes, ma’am, I guess so.”

  “You’re a sweetheart, Diana. And just as pretty as can be—you look a lot like your mother.” She leaned down and hugged me. I kept my bandaged finger behind me.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Peacie at the window, watching. I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of coming back in to tell her what Susan and I had talked about. I ran down the sidewalk toward Suralee’s, and jangling around inside me was thrilling information: Susan had said I was pretty.

  Noreen was coming down the steps in her usual go-to-work outfit. But she looked better than usual. She wore a nice white blouse that looked brand-new with a black pleated skirt, and her shoes were red patent leather. A scarf at her neck tied the colors all together. “I’ll see you tonight!” she said, gaily waving, and clicked her way toward the bus stop. I watched her go, watched her hips swing, watched her readjust the purse strap that kept sliding off her shoulder. She was just a woman who would always look like she had a greasy mouth, even if she didn’t. I went in to find Suralee.

  Suralee and I personally invited anyone we saw in town—or on the way there—to our play. And anywhere that would let us, we taped one of the flyers she’d made advertising that evening’s performance. I was wildly excited at first, for Suralee had decided to use The Night Can Be Measured as a title. But I soon became embarrassed about it; the prevailing wisdom seemed to be that it was a silly title, incomprehensible, in fact, as evidenced by reactions like Brooks Robbins’s. “What the hell does that mean?” he asked. The librarian said nothing, only smiled a deadly smile. Old Mrs. Beasley said, “The night can be…what’s that? Measured? Huh. Y’all sure about that?” The manager at the grocery store said, “What is this, a science play? Or math or something?” As for Debby Black, she said she was “going out for a Coke” when she saw us headed for the dress shop. She hung the BACK IN FIVE! sign up and came out to lock the door. I noted with satisfaction that she had a run starting in the back of her left nylon. When we asked if we could wait for her return and then post our flyer, she fiddled with her pearls and then said, “Well, you know, I don’t really do that, put flyers on my window. I think it’s tacky.” She whispered this last. When Suralee reminded her that she had a flyer for the Presbyterian church pancake breakfast only last week, she put her hand on her hip and said, “Well now, come on. That’s different.” She looked at her watch. “I’ve got to run. Say hi to your moms. Tell ’em there’s a sale coming on those pillbox hats that are exactly like Jackie’s but way cheaper.” I imagined my mother in her wheelchair, wearing one of those hats. Then I imagined Noreen wearing one. My mother looked better.

  “I guess it’s too late to change the title,” I said, looking down at the flyers I held. The good news—and the bad—was that I had only three flyers left of the twenty Suralee had made.

  “It’s a beautiful title,” Suralee said. “This is just what artists have to contend with all the time, is a bunch of morons who don’t get anything. Especially if it’s
the least bit poetic. They are absolutely allergic to poetry.”

  “We could cross it out and put in something new,” I said. “We’ll just backtrack and put in something new.”

  “I’m not changing a thing,” Suralee said. “I’m going home to rest up. I can’t give a good performance without a nap. I need a nap and then I need to suck on a lemon for my voice.” She stuck one of the flyers in the dress-shop door and started walking rapidly toward home. I followed, more slowly.

  “But maybe people won’t come if it’s a bad title,” I called mournfully after her.

  Suralee turned around to look at me. “Like they were going to come anyway,” she said.

  “True.” I felt better, though I knew I should have felt worse.

  When we passed the baseball field, a game was in progress. Suralee stopped to watch, then pointed to two blond boys sitting beside each other on the bench. “That’s them,” she said. “Wade and Randy Michaels. Oh la la. Randy’s mine; you can have Wade—he’s the younger one. I’m going to invite them to my house some Saturday night when my mother’s gone.”

  “Okay,” I said, squinting to try to see them better. Lately I’d been thinking I needed glasses, but I didn’t want to tell. One, glasses were ugly; two, they were expensive.

  “Can you see them?”

  “…Yeah.”

  “Can you?” Suralee turned to look at me.

  “Pretty good.”

  “Well.” She turned back toward the game. “Just trust me.” The boys leapt up to run outfield, and Suralee tried to catch their attention by waving, but they didn’t see her. “Can you kiss good?” she asked me, starting to walk again.

  “What?”

  “Can you kiss good.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  We walked a bit more and then she said, “Well, can you?”

  “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, if you don’t kiss, your lips will rust.” I smiled at her.

  She stopped walking. “Diana. Have you or haven’t you?”