Mary Schramski - What To Keep

Another cardboard box was filled with picture albums. Her fingertips touched the images and she’d say how she wished I looked like her. She never talked about my father, and if I asked, she’d stare at me with those soft blue eyes and shake her head, then mention a time before she married, when her life had hope. She’d hold up her yellowing souvenirs, make up pretty lies, then drop them back in their hiding places.

“Your daddy was different. Mr. Grey loved memories, loved his history.” Tildy’s words bring me back. “I remember how your mama and daddy used to sit out on the porch, right out there—” her hand kind of flutters toward the front of the house “—and talk about going home. California certainly wasn’t your daddy’s home. But he seemed to love your mama so much. I guess that’s why he went back.”

Love.

The idea of my parents loving each other is so foreign to me. When she spoke of my father or his family her voice was always brittle. Yet, I hold one image so clear. It was before they divorced. Right before my father was due to come back from a trip my mother would shower, comb her hair and spray Emerada perfume in a halo around her, then sit on the couch and look out the window, as if she couldn’t wait to see him. She always told me it wouldn’t be long until his plane landed and he drove up the driveway. Then months later, she packed our bags, climbed into the blue Oldsmobile and drove all night to Las Vegas, not saying a word, just the glow from the dashboard on her Grace Kelly cheekbones, her tight jaw like a cup, holding all her anger.

I look at Tildy. “I don’t really care about my father.”

A tiny gasp escapes from her. “Sure you do! He’s your family. And Mr. Grey loved family, loved this house, his things because they reminded him of family.”

I shake my head. “Right! Then why is the house practically empty?” I fan his photograph at her.

Tildy takes the picture, as if to protect it. “That’s a real long story. We’ll get to that.”

“There’s nothing personal of his…” I stop. Why am I saying all this? I don’t care.

“I cleaned up when he died. I knew you wouldn’t want to see his hairbrush, maybe find dandruff in it, his toilet items. He was a very private man. He would have wanted it that way. I wanted you to know the nice things about him, know how orderly he was.”

“Orderly! He didn’t even make a will.”

“He thought about living, not dying. Even when your daddy died and we took his ashes to the Greensville family plot, your uncle said your daddy was living in the trees, the grass, the wind. Right after he said those words, an airplane cut a path over us. Not one of those big jets but a little tiny thing, looked like it was just big enough for one person. We all looked up, even the preacher. Mr. Grey said it was a sign from God that James Alexander, your daddy who’d been a pilot all his adult life, was right there with us, and real close to the sky that was so blue.”

I try not to laugh but can’t help myself. Tildy’s big brown eyes widen.

“I’m sorry, that’s just so…silly.”

“It’s the truth.”

“I didn’t mean it didn’t happen. It was probably a coincidence.”

She steps back just a little, looks at me. “I thought you’d like that story.”

I feel like a shit for saying anything. “I did, really. It’s just a lot to take in.”

Her hand touches my shoulder then it’s gone.

“I know.”

“This is the first time I’ve heard anything about my father’s funeral.” I shake my head. “What the hell difference does it make? I don’t even care, really. I was young.”

“Yes, you do. Anybody would.”

“How many people attended?”

“Oh, honey, not many. Mr. Grey and Sara and Sara Lee, they’re old friends of the family. My Alexandria attended, made me proud. The preacher knew your daddy when he was a little boy, and he read that poem about flying. I only remember a few words—‘Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth and’…my land, I can’t recall the rest. But it was beautiful.”

I close my eyes and remember the poem my father used to recite when he drove me to kindergarten. I look at Tildy, “‘Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth and danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings.’”

“That’s it. I thought it was appropriate.”

I wonder what it would have been like, standing in a graveyard, watching what was left of my father go into the ground and hearing that poem read by someone else.

“Your daddy would have wanted you there.”

“Maybe not.” My voice sounds so small. I think about my mother telling me, weeks after my father’s death, that he had died. I was fifteen, sitting on the couch by the window, painting my fingernails with Pink Puff Maybelline Fast-Drying Nail Polish. She walked into the living room, stood in front of me, her arms crossed.

“Don’t get that on the couch.”

“I won’t.”

“Your father—” she took a long breath “—died.”

I looked down and thought, who? When I glanced up, she was gone. I could hear her in the kitchen, filling a glass with ice, then vodka and orange juice. I swallowed hard, told myself I needed to cry but couldn’t. I felt dead inside. It was as if Peter Jennings had announced one of the cast from a black-and-white sitcom had passed away. I knew the character—but not really.

“Sad things happen in life,” Tildy says.

“Did anyone cry?” I imagine myself crying, the wind blowing through my hair, the early May sun practically blinding me as I look up, watch the airplane cut the blue sky.

“I did. Your daddy was nice when we were children. My mama always went on about how Mr. James picked up his clothes and was neat as a pin in the bathroom.”

That day my mother told me about my father’s death, I got off the couch, heard my mother place the vodka bottle back on the top shelf above the silky green ironstone dishes. I walked into the kitchen, my hands in my pockets, nail polish sticking to my soft blue cotton shorts. I needed her to say something to me.

She was leaning against the white counter, the small of her back pressing against it. The glass rim rested against her red lipsticked lower lip, her eyes dull—flat.

“What should I do?” I asked.

“Nothing. Not one goddamned thing. He never came around, and the funeral is over anyway.”

“Mr. Grey didn’t believe in death,” Tildy says, breaking into my memory. “I don’t think he ever accepted Mr. James or Miss Charlotte’s death.” She studies my uncle’s picture. “This was taken a few years back when Mr. Grey used to go out. That was the night of the Sons of the American Revolution annual dinner.”

“Sons of the American Revolution? They still have groups like that?”

“Yes. Mr. Grey, he was big into his groups. Liked to carry on the family name. When he got cancer his life was just sliced away, little by little. Every step was a big shock to him and I think up to the very end, he believed it wasn’t happening—like maybe it was a bad dream. Magnolia Hall held him tight, but then she had to let him go.”

Tildy takes my hand and pats it. “Don’t worry. I knew him all my life. He would have wanted you to have this house. You’re family. It’s like giving it to your daddy—no, more like giving it to his sister, Charlotte. You have to trust in what has happened.”

My mind is swimming with all the memories, stories. “What I need is a drink.”

“Can I get you some iced tea?”

I laugh, realize my chest aches. “I was thinking about something stronger.”

“There’s no liquor in the house.”

“Maybe that’s why my mother was crying.” I laugh again, I guess to combat the uneasiness I feel.