Rye Curtis - Kingdomtide

Ino longer pass judgment on any man nor woman. People are people, and I do not believe there is much more to be said on the matter. Twenty years ago I might have been of a different mind about that, but I was a different Cloris Waldrip back then. I might have gone on being that same Cloris Waldrip, the one I had been for seventy-two years, had I not fallen out of the sky in that little airplane on Sunday, August 31, 1986. It does amaze that a woman can reach the tail end of her life and find that she hardly knows herself at all.

I sat by the window and my dear husband, Mr. Waldrip, sat on my right. He had his hands busy fiddling with a ragged cuticle. My husband was a kind, bird-faced man and he wore strong glasses. He was born in Amarillo, Texas, to an awning salesman and a midwife. I first ever laid eyes on him in the summer of 1927 at a county dance in the town hall. This was after his family had moved the some sixty miles east from the big noisy boomtown of Amarillo to little ole Clarendon, where I was born and raised. He was a terribly handsome boy, tall and dark-haired. However he wore a little blue cap that made him look mighty silly. We were both only kids. I had just turned thirteen. He gave me a pitifully wilted rose he had stolen from Mrs. Mckee’s garden.

On that morning in August of 1986 he had a dab of jalapeño jelly on his chin. It had been there since our complimentary breakfast at the Big Sky Motel in Missoula, Montana. I was going to tell him to use the handkerchief I had embroidered with his initials and given him some many Christmases before, but he had already begun for the pilot a monologue on rainfall. Such was his custom with men he had just met.

Mr. Waldrip had arranged for us to take a scenic flight to an airfield near a cabin we had rented in the Bitterroot National Forest. The pilot he had hired was a strong, well-groomed young man by the name of Terry Squime. Terry was not a hair over thirty and was newly wed. He showed us a photograph of his bride. She was pretty and resembled Catherine Drewer, a rude and frustrating brunette woman I knew from our church, First Methodist, only Mrs. Squime was quite some years younger and had a jaw less like a shoehorn and a nose less like an old mushroom. When I would later come to know Mrs. Squime, whom I have cautioned against reading certain passages of this account, I would find her to be a pleasant and selfless young woman, and to be very little like Catherine Drewer at all.

Mr. Waldrip carried on about rainfall and the nuisance of beavers and I returned to looking out my little window. The Cessna 340 is a little twin-propeller airplane of six seats, and ours had taken off from an airfield outside of Missoula and was flying south over the Bitterroot Mountains. I mean to tell you these are mountains, the kind that remind a person, no matter how old they are, that they are infinitely young to the earth. These mountains are edged and scalloped like gigantic kin to the arrowheads my little brother, Davy, God rest his tiny soul, unearthed in Palo Duro Canyon when we were small. I had lived seventy-two years in the Texas Panhandle and mountains are not a geological feature you will find in that country. The land is as flat as flat can be, level with what is level in the constitution and spirit of the people who walk it. We plains folk are a grounded people and rarely see a mountain. But having seen what I have now seen of them, when I say these were mountains, you would be right to believe me.

I was then fifty-four years married to Mr. Waldrip. We lived in a little brick ranch house in the orbital shade of a municipal water tower that serviced the some two thousand thirsty souls in Clarendon. Only the day before we had locked up the front door and had taken the truck to the airport in Amarillo, where we had then flown, with a quick stop in Denver, to Missoula on a jet airplane. We did not often venture far from our little house, and this was to be the first trip we had taken in a good long while. We had spent the first night of it under a full moon in the Big Sky Motel, off I-90, an establishment with damp carpets and laminate wood. Mr. Waldrip was not a poor man, but neither was he an extravagant man. I had come to terms with this early on in our marriage.

Mr. Waldrip hesitated half a second on the subject of rain gauges and Terry took the opportunity to ask how long we were planning to stay in Montana.

Just a few days, Mr. Waldrip said. Our pastor and his wife had the best time up here. Figured we’d get ourselves a cabin, do some fishin and kick back. But we sure need to get back this comin Thursday.

Mr. Waldrip likes to pretend he is not retired, I said.

Terry looked back. What kind of work did you do, sir?

I bought a cattle ranch in ’45. We sold it a year ago September.

Well, I bet you two will have a great time up here, Terry said.

We’re countin on it, Mr. Waldrip said, and he pulled the cuticle from his thumb. A point of blood rose on the nail and he stanched it on his blue jeans.

Doing Mr. Waldrip’s laundry, you might come across several pairs of blue jeans peppered with blood like that. If you did not know him, you could mistake him for a fighting man. But the only physical altercation I ever recall him having was with a mean old possum that had got itself snagged on a nail under our porch. Mr. Waldrip had his small ways of fidgeting. I suppose it was the result of his mind always being a few steps ahead of the rest of him, quick as he was, and it made him nervous trying to catch up.

Did you work, Mrs. Waldrip? Terry asked.

I had taught English in elementary school and was the librarian for forty-four years, and I told him so. I retired two years ago, I said.

Now we only got time for relaxin, said Mr. Waldrip, patting my knee.

Any kids? Terry said.

Never did get around to it, Mr. Waldrip said.

I turned back to my little window. The blue sky and the pane gave back my reflection. It reminded me of the oval portrait of my great-grandmother June Polyander which had hung over her bed until she passed away in her nineties. I fixed my hair. I wore it like many of the ladies at First Methodist. Permed up, we called it. When I was a young woman it had been the color of lovegrass in winter and I had worn it longer then. It started going gray in my forties. The grayer and whiter it went, the more Mr. Waldrip said I looked like a dandelion going to seed.

I have never been a great beauty—my nose is too much like a man’s to earn that appellation—but I have always done my best to be presentable. A spiky-haired woman named Lucille Carver came to church often as not looking like she had been fired there out of a cannon. I never could understand why she would let herself out of the house like that. I had always supposed it had to do with a disrespect for worship and a disregard for femininity, but now I am not so sure. That warm Sunday in August I wore a pleated tan skirt and a white blouse, and I was carrying my nice leather purse. I am mighty glad now that I was also wearing my most comfortable pair of walking shoes.

I suppose women like me are a phenomenon of the past. In Dallas I saw a young woman with long, screwy unwashed hair hold a restaurant door open for a man. I thought at the time that this young woman was without a sense of decorum and propriety. However I think now she was a sign of the times. Maybe something good and new of the future.

I spent my entire life with women to whom I felt akin, sitting in the fourth pew from the front at First Methodist. I know that each of them have had their hardships and have suffered one way or another. Mary Martha had been born with an odd-shaped kidney that did not work the way it ought to and caused her much pain and turned the whites in her eyes the color of egg yolk. Sara Mae lost her little boy in an accident involving a tire swing, and Mabry Cartwright never married, being that her teeth might as well have been woodchips and her breath the wind over a feedlot. I do not know how my trials and tribulations tally against those of any of these women. We do not know anyone’s suffering but our own. However I do sometimes wonder if any of them could have survived the Bitterroot.