Lesley Kagen - Tomorrow River

Grampa Gus mumbles, “Tittles? Minin’ sludge.” He’s still eyeing Lou in a very hungry way. Uncle Blackie is looking at her like a starved dog, too.

Lou nods and says, “Well, long as there ain’t nothin’ ya need from me, best be gettin’ back to the cottage.” Ripping her arm from Blackie’s grasp, she heads towards the screen door. She stops as she opens it and says boldly to me, and only me, “Just wanted to make sure you was all right.”

My grandmother replies in her best belle voice, “Thank you for your concern, Louise. But as you can see, we’re just as fine as fine can be,” and puts her arm around me. She smells like Ben-Gay and the strong incense from church. “Aren’t we, Shenny?”

“We sure are, Gramma,” I lie. “Fine as a fly in July.”

Lou shrugs and gives me the most helpless look. She backs out onto the porch so she can keep her eye on Blackie and Grampa.

“Damn, that’s one fine-lookin’ gal,” Grampa says to Blackie. “Ya sure you wanna move on from that?”

Blackie says something disgusting about Lou’s chest and Grampa’s eyes get more desirous looking. “Nipples the size of silver dollars?” He pushes back his chair and says, “I’ll arm wrestle ya for her.”

“C’mon, sweetheart,” Gramma says. “Let’s go up to your room and leave these men to their celebrating.”

She is trying to save me from Grampa’s and Blackie’s grunts and laughter. Their bragging strongman talk.

I wish I could do the same for my father. He looks defeated and helpless. I say what I used to when I was little and he’d tuck me into bed, “See you in my dreams,” but Papa can’t hear me. His head has fallen back onto the oak table. A string of spit is hanging from his lips.

We’re kneeling at the side of Woody’s and my bed. My grandmother has turned off all the lights and set the Jesus Christ she keeps in her pocketbook in the center of the other statues around a white purity candle on our dressing table. She was the one who gave the Saint Jude statue to our mother, who then gave it to Woody. Gramma has plenty enough to share. Saint Christopher and Saint Teresa the Little Flower, etc. These statues are what she calls her dolls. She can spend a whole afternoon telling Woody and me the stories behind each saint’s suffering and performing reenactments. The Saint Francis of Assisi play has little animal figures and Gramma uses grapes to pretend that Saint Lucy’s eyes have gotten plucked out of her head the way they were. The Saint Joan of Arc story involves a burning at the stake.

Gramma has her favorite wooden rosary entwined between her fingers. She brought a matching one for me along with The Good Old Days photo album, which is lying on top of my pillow. When we’re done praying, she’ll want to spend some time with the performing saints and then she’ll make me look at the pictures with her. She’ll go on and on. “Your grandfather. There he is. This shot was taken at one of our high school homecoming games,” she’ll tell me. “See all those girls swimmin’ around him? How lucky I am to have landed him.” I’ve always thought it was the complete opposite. How butt-scratching Grampa ended up with a woman of such refined tastes beats me. When she’s done caressing the pictures of her husband of forty years, she’ll show me some shots of Papa and Blackie being such darling boys and get teary. Gramma cut Mama out of all the snapshots after she disappeared, saying as she snipped, “Such a nasty business. Out of sight, out of mind,” so our mother’s not in the album.

“Isn’t it nice to have some lady time together?” she asks. She’s about the same size as I am now. She used to be a taller brunette. Usually very pulled together in a fancy dress with petticoats and pearls, her gray hair snug in a bun, she looks fairy-tale witchy tonight with it going every which way. Her skin so frighteningly white. When we got up here, she dusted herself with Mama’s Chantilly powder and took from her purse the red lipstick and smeared it across her palms. This is bad. Very bad. This is the telltale sign that she is about to have a big fit. Grampa upset her downstairs.

I tell her, “I’m not feeling so good.” The whiskey’s got me woozy and warm. My hurt arm is throbbing. And the overpowering stench of Ben-Gay is making my stomach shrink into a hard ball. But I can’t give in to any of that. I need to get over to the Tittles’ to make sure Woody made it over there. On the other hand, what kind of girl would abandon her grandmother in her time of need? No telling what she’ll do if I leave her alone in this state. Once I’m safely downstairs, I could yell at Grampa as I leave through the front door, “Your wife is pitchin’ a conniption,” and then run away as fast as I can. That’s a good plan. “I’ll be right back, Gramma.” I struggle to get up. “I need a breath of fresh air.”

“Not just yet,” she says, grabbing my shirt and pulling me back down to my knees. She is so much stronger than you’d think she’d be. She’ll tell you it’s the power of the Holy Spirit working inside her.

“Please… I-”

“You can have all the air you want when we’re done here, honey. You just go ahead and suffer a bit,” she says. “Jesus likes that. Remember? ‘Suffer ye children’?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say. I’ve calmed my grandmother down before when she got like this, I can do it again. I just have to go along with her for a while until I can find an opening.

“Would you lead us in the rosary?” she says, handing me mine and gathering hers to her chest.

I bow my head. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned-”

“That’s the wrong prayer. That’s the confession prayer,” she says. “What’s the matter with you tonight, Shenny?”

I know the prayer is not the right one. “I’m sorry. It’s just that…” I was trying to relax her. Lull her. Confessing is one of her most favorite things to do in life. She’ll stand in line at Saint Pat’s Cat all afternoon, waiting to get into her favorite confessional. “Do you mind if we do this later?”

“Later?” She titters. “Where are your manners, child? We can’t keep Jesus waitin’.”

I lower my chin again, but I’m eyeing my window of opportunity. The gauzy white curtains are blowing inward with the faintest of breezes, the scent of pink roses lingering from the heat of the day. The trellis. That’s an even better idea. Once I get her calm, I will make my way over there and climb down the way Woody always does, instead of creeping through the front foyer where they could get their hands on me.

“I can’t hear you,” Gramma says. “Speak up.”

“I… I believe in God-”

“Louder,” she demands. “Kiss the crucifix.”

When I bring the rosary’s silver cross to my mouth, His suffering body feels cool against my still-bloody lip. “I believe in God the Father almighty, Creator of heaven and earth. And in Jesus Christ, His only Son…”

She jerks her head up. “Why’d you stop?”

“I… I… my gosh, something really wonderful is happening. It’s a miracle… I think the Lord is answerin’ my prayers,” I tell her, putting on my most awestruck voice. “He’s… yes, I can hear Him loud and clear.”

“What’s He saying?” she asks, suddenly thrilled, but then suspicious. “This could be a trick, Shenny. Are you sure it’s the Lord communicating with you? It could be Lucifer. Is it a real high-pitched voice or is it deep like your grampa’s?”

I pretend to listen again. “Oh, it’s the Lord all right. He sounds exactly like Grampa. He’s tellin’ me that He loves you. He adores you. He wants you to know that you are loved for all eternity.”