I had rented a hospital bed and folded my dining room table away. He could sleep in there. He had been advised to avoid steps for a while. Getting him into the car was a bit of a struggle, but Grant was there to help.
“Come on, old boy, that’s right, lean on me,” Grant said.
“I feel like an old woman,” Tom said.
“You are an old woman,” Grant said. “Maybe you should lie down in the backseat.”
“Good idea,” Tom said.
“I’ll roll the wheelchair back inside,” Beth said.
“Okay, thanks. Tom, you okay?” I said.
“Yeah, okay, let’s go,” he said.
Grant closed Tom’s door and held the passenger door open for Beth. He leaned in to speak to me.
“I’ll follow you home,” he said, “but I have to come back to do rounds.”
“No problem, Grant. Thanks.”
After we got Tom settled, Grant left and I gave Tom lunch. He sat up on a kitchen bar stool and fed himself a sliced chicken sandwich with lettuce and tomatoes, a handful of potato chips, two pickles and a Coke. This was not a dying man; this was a hungry man.
“Boy, am I glad to be out of that place,” he said.
Over the next two days, we continued to plan for the holidays and our lives found a noninvasive routine together. Tom’s recovery was extraordinary. After work at the library, I’d come home, make supper and go to work on my other job. While Tom and Beth did the dishes, I escaped upstairs. He watched television in the living room, Beth studied in my room and I wrote and laughed in her room. Tom seemed to be doing so well, Beth was happy and I was glad to have the chance to do something for him. His illness had given us all a lesson in compassion.
At the end of the week, he moved home to his apartment. We were both aware of the legal jeopardy that it posed to have him at home and it was really time for him to leave. He was fully mobile and getting antsy. Beth pouted a little when he left, but she understood.
I knew he had an appointment with Dr. Youngworth to go over his pathology report the following Monday. I expected to hear from him with an update. We were all feeling pretty relaxed, figuring that if it had been really bad news, we would have heard right away. Bad news traveling fast, and all that.
Monday evening he rang the doorbell.
“Hi!” I said. “How’s it going? Want a beer?” I knew the moment I saw his face that something was wrong.
“Hi,” he said and gave me a peck on the cheek. “Where’s Beth?”
“I’ll call her,” I said.
Beth came running down the stairs and hugged him. I knew all at once why Tom had come over instead of calling. He could’ve been Marvin Struthers. There’s a feeling of sliding down a chute into blackness that came over me before he told us what he had come to say.
“What’s wrong?” Beth said.
“Why don’t we all sit down,” Tom said.
Beth sat next to me on the sofa. Tom stood in front of us.
“Beth, Susan, I have something to tell you that’s very hard to find the right words for, so I’m just going to come right out with it. It seems that I’m very sick. My cancer spread into my lymph nodes and metastasized.”
“How far?” I said.
“Daddy! What are you saying?”
“Honey, I’m saying I might not have a lot of time left.”
Beth flew from the sofa to him and threw her arms around him, holding him tightly and screaming, “No! No! No! Tell me it’s a lie, Daddy! Tell me it’s a lie!”
“I wish it were a lie, Beth, believe me,” Tom said, his voice cracking, his heart breaking.
“I can’t lose you! I need you, Daddy! Daddy, I need you!”
Tom held her while she sobbed and I went to them, putting my arms around both of them. Tears rolled down our cheeks and mixed with each other’s as we kissed Beth over and over. Beth cried so hard that she shook all over. Finally, she sank to the floor in despair. Tom knelt at her side and whispered to her.
“Please get up, baby,” he said. “Please be brave for Daddy’s sake. Please don’t fall apart, I need you now. Please, Beth. I need you, honey.”
When he said that he needed her, she looked up at him. “Oh, Daddy, please don’t die,” she begged, hugging him hard around the waist.
“Sweetheart, I don’t want to die, you know that.”
“There must be something they can do,” I said. “Isn’t there anything?”
“Some radical treatments, heavy radiation and chemo, some experimental stuff—a new medication that looks promising on laboratory mice,” he said. “I mean, you can be sure that I’m gonna try everything on the planet.”
“Oh, my God,” I said. “Come on, Beth, let’s get up, sweetheart. We’ve got to be brave for Daddy.”
“Tom, you know we’re gonna help,” I said. “Whatever we can do, we will.”
“I know, Susan. Thank God for you,” he said. “Come on, Beth, let’s try to pull ourselves together, okay?”
We lifted Beth from the floor and put her to bed. She continued to cry for three hours, nonstop. I cried with her. Tom sat by her and rubbed her back. Finally, she was quiet. When we were sure she was asleep Tom and I went into the living room.
“Tom, I’m so damn sorry. I’m so sorry,” I said, and realized I was crying again.
He put his arms around me and gave me a squeeze. “Why are you sorry, Susan? It’s not your fault. It’s nobody’s fault. Listen, why don’t you help me plan whatever future I’ve got? Maybe there’s someplace we can go, the three of us. A trip you always wanted to take?”
“Yeah, but Tom, what if you get sick? How would I care for you? How long do…”
“Do I have? Well, if that undertaker surgeon is right, about thirty years if I’m lucky. Six months if I’m not. Certainly enough time to put my affairs in order, which, by coincidence, I had already started doing.”
“Six months or everything,” I said. I was quiet for a few minutes. Six months was not a lot of time. If I could have had my father for six months, what would I have wanted? “Spend the time with Beth if you can. She needs all the good memories you can give her, no matter what happens. You know?”
“You’re right. Well, my life’s not a total loss. I had the good sense to marry you and have Beth.”
“She’s the undisputed love of my life, Tom. Thank you for giving her to me.”
“She is mine too. You’re welcome, but let’s not get too maudlin. I feel fine, other than a little nausea now and then.”
“I’ll pray for you, Tom,” I said.
“Thanks. I think I’m gonna need all the prayers I can get.”
“You pray too, okay?”
“Are you kidding? Hey, cheer up, I’m still breathing.”
He put his arms around me, my head touched his shoulder and he stroked my hair down the back of my head as though I was his child as well. When he left at last, I watched him back out of the driveway and listened until I could no longer hear his car in the distance.
Beth was the best thing in his life. She didn’t know what heartache lay ahead for her, but I did. My grief for Tom and for her was magnified by the burden I had carried since the day my own father died.
It was midnight when I finally went to bed. I was under covers up to my shoulders. Everything was quiet. I barely made out the soft sound of Beth’s footsteps coming to my room.
“You still awake?”
I said, “Sure, come on in.”
She crawled in the bed next to me. The house was chilly, as the furnace had gone on the night cycle at ten o’clock.
“Think Dad’s gonna be okay?”
I patted her leg with a reassuring hand. “Yes, somehow I do.”
“Can I sleep with you tonight?”
“Sure, sweetheart. Now turn off the light and let’s get some shut-eye.”
In the darkness of my room, I listened to the rise and fall of her breathing. She curled in a fetal position on her side with her back to me, sleeping almost right a
way.
Seventeen
Christmas 1963
MOMMA’S door opened without a sound and Livvie appeared there, her face somber. We watched and waited to hear what she would say. She said nothing. She passed me and her hand rested on my shoulder. Then she touched the shoulder or arm of Maggie and the boys. She’d arrived at our house an hour ago and she’d been in there ever since. It was the morning after the day our father had died. We thought Livvie was leaving us.
“Gone sweep the steps,” she finally said, and we exhaled for the moment.
We got out the masking tape and came and went from the chairs around the kitchen table, moving in a wounded trance, corpses ourselves. The visiting neighbors, their hands outstretched, with generous offerings of fruited hams, bowls of potato salad and pound cakes. The hams were baked with secret glazes, the potato salads made with closely held recipes, the pound cakes, each egg beaten in by hand. But our throats were closed to food. In spite of their kindness, food was the last thing we wanted.
Our neighbors and friends were awkward and uncomfortable, anxious to have their duty done. They said they were stunned, that they’d see us at the wake, that they were so sorry, that if they could do anything…but what could anyone do?
The wake broke all records for McAlister’s funeral home. That’s the main thing I remembered. Huge clumps of time were missing from my father and grandmother’s wake and funeral and I guessed that was a blessing. But in my recollections were snippets of the events.
There were a ton of flowers. So many that I’d always hate gladiolus and carnations. Gladiolus never bloomed right. If the middle of the spear looked good, the tops were too tight. If the tops were in flower, the middles were on the wane. And carnations. Oh, Lord, I hated carnations. I knew the florists used them so much because they lasted a long time, but the smell of them was sickeningly sweet to me.
I remembered seeing Daddy in his casket at the funeral home and that was pretty terrible. He seemed far away, at the end of a foggy tunnel. His skin looked gray. Maybe I never went up to it, maybe I did.
On the day of the funeral Mass, Stella Maris Church was packed with people. And the bells. Mr. Struthers rang the funeral bells slowly. The bells rang out from the tower and every dog on that end of the Island began to bark. My skin crawled. Reality began to sink in. This was the moment we would put the final blessing on them. They were gone.
We stood in a line outside the church as the two hearses were opened and the pallbearers removed the caskets. My knees started to knock and I couldn’t swallow. We were to walk behind Momma, Maggie and I, then Timmy and Henry, following the bodies of our father and grandmother. Aunt Carol had arranged us and told us what to do. She and Livvie would follow with the twins.
We watched the caskets slide from the back like so much cargo. Lifeless. Still. Just the weight of our dead and their crates. They can’t breathe in there, I thought ironically. Henry must’ve heard my thought and he began to sob. Then Timmy lost his composure, and began crying too. I grabbed Henry and rubbed his head, trying to console him. Maggie threw her arms around Timmy and I could see his back convulsing. Momma turned and saw us and her heart flipped over, finally realizing the enormity of our feelings. Unable to cope with us on any real level, she lifted the veil of her black hat and opened her purse.
“Come on, now,” she said, rubbing our backs slightly and dispensing tissues, “your grandmomma and your daddy wouldn’t want you to carry on. Let’s try to put on a brave face now and show everyone how strong we are.”
“My daddy’s in that box, Momma!” Henry said, continuing to weep in my arms.
“Henry, you listen to me,” I said, not knowing what I would say next. “This isn’t a bravery contest! Daddy’s in heaven. That’s just his body. This is a terrible day. Just hang on to me! If you want to cry, go ahead.”
His huge blue eyes searched mine and he felt I had given him something, I guessed, because he took some deep breaths, fell against me again and then stood back. I’d never forget the fury in him as he lashed out at Momma. My daddy’s in that box, Momma! My daddy’s in that box, Momma! I’d never forget his words. And his little eyebrows, they knitted together in worry and sadness. I wondered again what would become of us. We just had to hold on to each other, squeeze our eyes shut and soon it would be over.
The Mass was another blur in my memory. I only recalled the horrible maudlin songs of our choir. Even as we pulled away from the church in the funeral procession to the cemetery, I could hear the mournful music.
By the time we got home, I was so tired. I’d never been so tired. I just wanted to sleep. The house was still crawling with people, but I managed to slip away to my room, close the door, kick off my patent leather shoes and lie on the bed with all my clothes on. I pulled my quilt up around me. I should’ve recorded everything about the funeral in my journals, I should’ve checked on the twins. I should’ve been doing almost anything else, but I felt like I had turned to stone, sinking into my mattress. The window was opened just a little and the sheer curtains floated out like spirits on damp air.
I buried my father and my grandmother today, I thought. I should’ve felt worse about it than I did. That was the problem, I didn’t feel anything much except tired.
I must’ve drifted off, because when I opened my eyes, it was night. I washed my face, splashing cold water in handfuls over my eyes and cheeks and, at last, went downstairs to the kitchen. Uncle Louis, Aunt Carol, Momma and Maggie were talking, sitting around the table. I looked out the window over the sink. The yard was finally empty of the cars, except Uncle Louis’s.
“We’re just talking, Susan,” Aunt Carol said. “Why don’t you join us? Are you hungry, honey?”
“No, thanks, I don’t have much of an appetite today.”
She was oddly solicitous. I looked over to Momma. She had big poofy bags under her eyes, but for once, I didn’t blame her for that. If I’d been her today, I probably would’ve torn out my hair. We had all become older overnight, I thought. Yesterday I hated my mother for not taking care of us, and today I sympathized with her. I poured myself a Coke and took a seat.
“I was just going over some options with y’all’s momma, Susan,” Uncle Louis said. “You know, honey, things are going to have to change around here.”
“Daddy didn’t have life insurance, Susan,” Momma said.
“What does that mean?”
“In a nutshell, we’re flat broke,” Maggie said. “Flat out broke.”
“Y’all’re kidding, right?” I looked around at the faces of my family. Jeee-sus, when would the trouble end?
“Now, Maggie, don’t go scaring your sister,” Uncle Louis said. “We’ve all been through enough for one day. Honey,” he said to me, “here’s the truth. What money y’all have is what’s left in your daddy’s savings account and checking account. It’s not much. Your momma can get a job. But if she does that, she can’t earn very much because she never went to college. Then, too, who would take care of the twins and Henry? And by the time you subtract the cost of transportation and clothes and so forth, it doesn’t make economic sense. So, if she’s going to work, it would have to be something she could do at home. For one thing, I have a friend who’s always looking for a bookkeeper.”
“Louis, I don’t know the first thing about bookkeeping!” Momma said, panicking.
“Well, then damn it all, MC, if not that, then something else! You are simply going to have to find a way to earn whatever you can! I’m sorry to say it so bluntly, but it’s true!”
It was the first and only time I’d ever heard Uncle Louis curse, but I forgave it right away because I cussed my ass off all the time. Uncle Louis was usually in a good mood, Mr. Easygoing, but this situation would have stolen anybody’s sense of humor.
“We’ll see about that, Louis,” she said.
“What? Do you think that I can take care of all of you?”
“I’m going to bed,” Momma said in a low voice. “I need to rest a little.?
??
She rose slowly from her chair and looked hard at Uncle Louis and Aunt Carol. She was pissed off to the gizzards. I understood. If our momma hadn’t spent her life taking care of Uncle Louis’s parents, she might have gone to college and wouldn’t have been in this hopeless predicament today.
Uncle Louis refused to meet her eyes. He merely sighed, dropped his head and rubbed his ears and the back of his neck. He probably figured it wasn’t his fault she was a girl.
After Momma left the room, Aunt Carol smiled, got up and investigated the contents of a cake cover, lifting it and inhaling. “Mmm! German chocolate cake! My favorite! Won’t someone share a slice with me?”
BY THE NEXT week, Uncle Louis had his plans for the survival of us Hamilton children and his sister. Uncle Louis was a pretty handy guy. If a sink backed up, Daddy would always call Uncle Louis. In five minutes he would be at the back door, next heard lecturing my father on what was a man worth who couldn’t fix a sink? My father’s voice would bounce all over the house, calling Uncle Louis a big old know-it-all smart-ass. Fifteen minutes later all the insults would be forgotten and they’d be drinking a beer together on the front porch, laughing and cutting up the fool.
Once our washing machine went crazy from being overloaded and danced across the kitchen floor. Daddy had to call Uncle Louis to help him move it back into place. Uncle Louis and Daddy laughed like crazy over that. In fact, it was Uncle Louis who actually did most of the building on the new bathroom for Livvie. If you needed supervision you called Daddy. If you needed something fixed or built, you called Uncle Louis.
Maggie, Timmy and I were washing supper dishes with Livvie when Uncle Louis showed up at the back door. Momma was sitting at the table sighing. He informed my mother that he was going to remodel the second and third floors of our house to rent the rooms since she was too lazy to get off her fat behind and go to work. Momma’s face turned beet red.
“The house has no mortgage,” he was saying, whatever that was, “so whatever you earn from rent can cover the cost of feeding your children and the maintenance on the house.”