The Sweet By and By Read online

  “Can I tell you somethin and you won’t think I’m weird?”

  “I can’t promise you what I’ll think, but tell.”

  “Your nose is like Brad Pitt’s.”

  Mike grins. “I thought you were goin to say somethin serious.”

  “His nose is serious to him.”

  “Is that good?”

  “Hell yeah. Look what it’s done for Brad.”

  “Good, cause I’m tryin my best here, and I need all the help I can get.”

  “You’re doin fine.” I feel a little embarrassed. He clinks his bottle against mine.

  “Well then, thank you, Brad. I’ll buy you a drink next time I’m in Beverly Hills.” He takes a swig. “Don’t hold your breath.”

  Connie is back now in full force. “Hey y’all, go on and fix you a plate. Some of these gluttons will eat everything out there and not think a thing of it.” Mike leads me over to the table where I meet some of Connie’s other friends. Now I’m wishing I had got here earlier, but it doesn’t matter cause I promise myself to take everything one step at the time. Don’t know what tomorrow’s gonna bring. I’m gonna be myself for the rest of today. I might even make a few hair suggestions after I drink another beer or two. We get in line behind forty people or so, and he hands me a doubled up paper plate with a folded redcheckered napkin, along with a plastic knife and fork. “Thanks, I’m starvin to death,” I tell him and help myself to a big serving spoon full of pulled pork barbecue, vinegary and peppery and a little bit smoky all at the same time. “I didn’t know I was so hungry,” I add because it seems like the thing to say and then I think how stupid it sounds.

  “As soon as I saw you I knew you had an appetite,” Mike says, following me in line and loading up his plate with everything Connie had fixed. “I’ve got one too.”

  We round the long table with plates piled up like mountains and take some iced tea from a big aluminum urn at one end. I’m staying all night, I decide, as long as it goes. As long as Mike has got two words to say. Turn it up, make it loud, bring it on. When the police come, I’ll give em a beer.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  LORRAINE

  When I’m afraid, I choose to be the opposite. When I’m sad too, I choose the opposite. Same thing when I’m angry. Sometimes of course it don’t work but lots of times it does. My reason is simple: because this is the day the Lord has made. I live with that thought in my mind and try to let everything else fall into place if it will.

  I come to church because that’s my habit. It’s the only thing I have ever done on Sunday morning unless I’m working. Maybe I’m too superstitious to stop comin now, but I like to think I get something out of it, even if it’s just one thing. The older I am, the more I like a good preacher, and when one’s not good, I’m tempted to get up and walk out, not before saying, “Next time, do your homework before you come to school.” We had a woman preacher from Durham visiting last Easter. She was finishing up at Duke Divinity School and she went to country churches if they needed somebody to fill in when the regular preacher was sick or gone on vacation. I liked that preacher. She stood up at the front and read scripture like she had thought hard about it. She took her time with the words. When she read Psalm 23, The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want, I listened to it, which I usually don’t do cause I’ve heard it so many times. He restoreth my soul; my cup runneth over.

  When I glance down, I see the hands of an old woman, one gettin old anyway. My hands tell the truth of how long I’ve been here. Today I’m holding a purse. Most days I’m holding the hand of someone who can’t stand up by herself, or someone who’s trying to get to the bathroom in time but can’t make it. Or I’m holding a fork to put in a mouth gaping wide-open with no teeth. I’m holding a toothbrush or a comb or a washcloth or a diaper or a pillow or a glass of water or toilet paper. And after I finish, I tie what’s left up in a plastic bag and carry it out with me to add to all the other trash bags from all the other rooms, and all the other nursing homes, hospital floors, and back bedrooms everywhere in the world where people need help to do the simplest things in life. We’ll all get there sometime. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.

  There’s a notice in the service bulletin under the benediction. “The flowers on the altar today are in honor of Mrs. Bernice Stokes and Mrs. Margaret Clayton at Ridgecrest Nursing Center.” I put em up there for no reason other than I felt like it, and they look mighty good if I do say so. I paid more than I meant to for them, but I’m glad I did. I went to the church office on Tuesday so Teresa Clark the secretary could print up my dedication. She looked at me funny when I gave her the names, even though she’s only the typist and not a member of the church. “They’re two of your nursing-home ladies? I don’t guess you really call them patients, do you?” she said like she couldn’t believe I would fix such a big bouquet for two demented old white women I clean up after. In her mind, the only thing that makes me any different from a maid is that I clean up in a rest home instead of somebody’s house. It don’t matter to her that I work with the RNs, take blood pressure, keep medical records, any of that. She thinks I’m like a slave in the big house, yes-ma’aming white people. Well yes, I do clean up. I clean up after anybody who’s too old to do it for themselves and who doesn’t have anybody else who can or will do it for them. I clean up after a lot of hours of loneliness when somebody deep down knows they haven’t got much time left, and the little bit they do have is ticked off by daytime TV shows and holiday decorations in the cafeteria if they’re lucky enough to be able to get down there and see them. I clean up after what’s left of life. That’s what I do, Teresa, while you sit at a machine in a nice dress and believe you have rose above what you call “service.” Well I love serving. No, maybe that’s not true, but I do love people, most of em. I can’t help it. Even when they’re as different from me as anybody could be, even when they don’t make sense, because they are here, Teresa, and right now they are makin their way down the same path that I will have to walk one day. And you’ll walk it too Teresa, whether you have on a nice dress or not and whether you have on lipstick or not. You might not even have enough mind left to know where you are. Her voice broke me out of my daydreaming. “Is that going to be all, Lorraine, or did you need something else?” She was pleasant enough; maybe I’m the one who made her a demon in my head. “No thank you, that’s all I need, just wanted to take care of my ladies,” I said and went on about my business.

  I wish this service would hurry up and start. I saw some scuffling around the door to the choir loft, like they were gettin ready to come in but forgot something and got pulled back out into the hall. Somebody picked up the wrong music or needs a Kleenex or drink of water. I plan on taking the flowers to split with Margaret and Bernice tomorrow, they don’t need to sit in here and die, that ain’t nothin but waste. Miss Margaret needs cheering up. She’s still as bossy as she ever was, and a know-it-all, but it’s like she’s fallin a step behind the clock. The light is dimming some, I expect nobody sees it but me. But I’m watching her, I’ll keep a close eye on her because she needs somebody to call her back, help her hang on, or she’s gon slip. First she’s gon let go of the tiny little things, things that don’t matter, and then they’re gon start adding up, and the next thing you know, she won’t be answering when you speak to her. Or she’ll talk out of her head. I can’t stop that working on her any more than I could on Bernice, or on me when my time comes, but I’ll try to make sure she knows that I know what’s goin on. I do dread the day when that woman stops tellin me what to do. I dread the day when she looks into my eyes and sees somebody else. She won’t know me, or at least I won’t be able to see that she does. Based on what I’ve seen, that’s the day when we shouldn’t keep our good-byes too far out of reach.

  The choir is finally sitting. We’re gon get out late today, that’s for sure. I swear I can’t get used to seein Althea up there in a robe. I never have thought she could sing nothin special, but ever since
she had her last birthday, she says she’s trying one new thing every year. I don’t know if that means she will only do the thing for one year and then drop it, or if she’s gon keep adding on, year after year. If so, she’s gon die a busy woman. God bless her, she’s sittin in the middle of the sopranos and her with a voice on the telephone that sounds like a man if you didn’t know better. That’s all right, Althea, go right on. You’re not through yet and neither am I.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  RHONDA

  I notice how Margaret crosses her legs in one of the dryer chairs. It looks like it’s hard for her to do, but the way she’s sitting makes me know what a pretty woman she was when she was young. “Rhonda honey, how are you?” she says. “Anything new since last week that you haven’t already told us?”

  She and Bernice like to come back down here lots of times when I’m closing up after a long day of doing God knows how many heads of hair. Some of em don’t have any more than a few strands left, but they want it to be fixed and I understand that. I hope I’ve got some pride in how I look as long as I’m alive and got sense enough to do something about it.

  Bernice is skimming through magazines without really looking at anything, just f lipping pages. She likes to lick her index finger now and then to help her turn them, and she looks like a lady in an old movie every time she does it. Like she has all the time in the world and a bunch of servants running around and can read magazines whenever she wants to. Most of what I have in here are in shreds, mainly because I bring whatever ones Evelyn is gonna throw away at the salon, but at least there’s something for people to do while they’re waiting.

  The three of us talk about the same things every time, the weather, what we had to eat that was good, do I know anybody they know who died, which I never do because I don’t know anybody they know period, but I think when you’re their age you feel like you’ve got to see who’s still alive and who’s not. We also try to keep track of any movie stars that have got married or divorced or had babies, and what’s wrong with the way the country’s being run. Those are the subjects, pretty much in that order, and they keep us pretty busy. I never exactly decided to keep my personal life personal, it just doesn’t come up, not that there’s so much to tell. It ain’t a natural thing for me to talk about. I never talked to my grandma at all about my nights or weekends out, I wouldn’t have if you’da put a gun to my head, and Mama was gone before I was old enough to want to do anything with a boy except run a race, which I usually won. But Margaret and Bernice won’t leave me alone. That don’t sound like a very nice way of putting it, I know. What I mean is that those two old women have gotten up under my skin. Maybe I’m still young enough that hanging around with me makes them feel young too.

  I shake out a towel and start to fold it. “Well since you asked,” I blurt out, “Yours Truly went out on a date.” I surprise myself with how the words sound coming out of my mouth, like I’m a teenage babysitter teasing a couple of little girls I’m s’posed to be taking care of. I mighta known the two of them would be on me like crows in a cornfield. Margaret pinches Bernice on the arm in a real satisfied kind of way that makes her drop her magazine.

  “Are you pickin a fight?” Bernice says. “Cause I’m strong. You can ask anybody around here.”

  “Honey, we’re not fighting, we’re talking,” Margaret says. “Didn’t you hear Rhonda? She’s got a boyfriend.”

  “That’s not what I said. I shoulda never brought this up.” I shake out another towel so hard it pops.

  Bernice claps her hands together. “Is it true love?” She sounds like she’s the winner on a game show.

  “Bernice, honestly,” Margaret says. “Don’t always go to the extreme with something.” She gets up to get a Kleenex.

  “Is he Prince Charming?” Bernice bats her eyes and crosses her arms at the wrist over her heart.

  “I said I went on a date, y’all make it sound like it’s the Second Coming.”

  “No, no, no, sweetheart, we’re just excited is all,” Margaret says. “It’s not like you tell us news like this every week. What do you expect from a couple old ladies who think a kiss is a piece of chocolate?” She is pleased with her own joke. “Isn’t that right, Bernice?” she adds, grinning back at her friend.

  “Kiss me you fool!” Bernice cries out, fanning herself with an old magazine.

  “I swear to God, y’all, don’t start blabbin my business around here,” I warn. “I’m tellin you cause I wanted to see what you think, but y’all need to be serious.”

  “Honey, we are serious,” Margaret snaps. “When you’re our age, keeping your eyes open is serious.”

  “What about Bernice?” I ask, knowing in my mind that she doesn’t know the meaning of a secret, at least not anymore.

  “Bernice isn’t going to remember who went on a date, so even if she tells it, which she no doubt will, your identity will be spared, have no fear. Besides, the first person she’s going to tell will probably be Alvin, and by the time she finishes it’ll be so mixed up in a poker game that even he won’t have any earthly idea what she’s talking about.”

  “Okay then,” I say. I can’t help myself. I really am excited to give them the details. In fact, those two old things are the only people I even want to tell except for Connie.

  “So?” Margaret says and sits back down, almost falling backwards in the chair with a soft plunk sound, and crosses her legs again, this time at the ankle, like a picture of the Queen of England, once she pushes the hair dryer out of the way. Bernice has her nose back in a magazine, Progressive Farmer, and I think, how the hell did that get in here?

  “Aren’t you going to tell us his name?” Margaret coos at me.

  “Mike.” I must be crazy. I sound like I’ve never been on a date before.

  “Michael, row your boat ashore, Hallelujah!” Bernice sings at the top of her lungs, then busts out laughing.

  “It’s not Michael; well maybe it is, I don’t know, but he goes by Mike. Just Mike.”

  “Uh-huh,” Margaret says. “And what does Mike do?”

  “He works for UPS. He’s got a real good job.”

  “Good, good, so far so good.” Margaret eggs me on.

  “And…and that’s kinda it.”

  “Where’d he take you?”

  “Dinner under the stars I hope!” Bernice looks up from the Progressive Farmer where she is reading about, or at least looking at, giant pictures of boll weevils. “These right here are something terrible,” she says, tapping a photo. “You’ve got a mess on your hands with these here. I know a lot about pests.”

  I focus more on Margaret, leaving Bernice to the crop bugs. I ain’t proud of myself, but sometimes it’s hard to keep throwing a ball to somebody who never catches it. “It was nice,” I say. “An Italian kind of place with the littlest candleholders I’ve ever seen on the tables, and grapevines stenciled on the walls, you know, real elegant, and soft music, kinda classical I guess, violins and such. I didn’t even think I liked classical, but I liked what they were playin. Anytime I ever hear classical music, it’s all right when it’s soft and pretty but then it’ll surprise you with a loud blast that sounds like the end of the world. It’s like whoever wrote it is tryin to scare you so bad you don’t even know how loud to make your stereo cause if you overshoot it, you might go deaf.”

  “Do they have spaghetti?” Bernice never ceases to surprise me with what she takes in and what drifts on by. “I like spaghetti.” She smiles. “But not SpaghettiOs, no ma’am, I do not.” She turns to Margaret. “You love spaghetti, don’t you?”

  “Yes honey, I think pretty much everyone does, but I’m not sure that’s what Rhonda had.”

  “Why not?” Bernice asks. “She went to Italy.”

  “No Bernice, a restaurant.” I make an effort but decide to leave well enough alone. “We got fish,” I say. “He asked if he could order somethin for me and I said sure, why not.” I look at Bernice, who still is not satisfied about the Italy part. “But y�
�all, it doesn’t even matter what you get cause they bring you spaghetti anyway.”

  “Ha!” Bernice yells.

  “I told Mike, ‘I can’t eat all this. You’ll have to haul me off in a trailer if I do.’ He said, ‘Rhonda, it’s not a contest, just enjoy what you want.’”

  Bernice cries out, “A beauty contest?”

  “No, he meant eatin.” I try to reel her in.

  “I never heard tell of a eatin contest except at the state fair. Eat as many pies as you can, but you’ll get sick if you don’t mind!” Bernice is now howling. She has worked herself up into a full-out party.

  Margaret is serious. “Rhonda, we don’t need all the details. Let’s talk about the important stuff. Is he kind? That’s what I want to know. Do you think he is kind?”

  I don’t answer her right away cause as much as I’ve been thinking about him, I haven’t ever had anybody come right out and put a question to me like that.

  “I guess,” I say. “I mean, I think he is, I don’t know. But he did surprise me. When we got up to leave the restaurant, we passed a table with an older man and woman havin dinner by the window. She looked like she was tryin to carry on a conversation, he was diggin into a prime rib and not payin her any mind. You could tell she had got herself all fixed up to come out to dinner, and left up to him, they might as well be sittin at home in front of a TV eatin leftovers. I didn’t know Mike had noticed until he walked over there as we were leavin and said, ‘Excuse me, I’m sorry to interrupt y’all.’ The man looked up, barely. Mike turned to the lady. ‘I just had to stop and say I don’t know what occasion y’all are celebratin but you look beautiful. Y’all are a real handsome couple.’ I thought that woman’s jaw was gonna drop. She turned bright red and fingered the pearls around her neck and said, ‘Oh thank you. It’s our anniversary. Forty years.’ Her husband had gone back to sawin and chewin. ‘That’s a long time, isn’t it?’ she asked, like she couldn’t hardly get her mind around it herself. ‘Yes it is,’ I said. Mike squeezed my hand. ‘Y’all should be real proud,’ he said and stood still for a minute, like maybe he was waitin for somethin from the man, who sat there dippin bread in a pool of bloody juice on his plate. Mike looked back to the wife. ‘Anyway, sorry to bother y’all,’ he said. ‘Congratulations again.’ He took my arm and we walked away. ‘Thank you so much,’ I heard the woman say, and then back to her husband, ‘Wasn’t that sweet, Raymond?’ He didn’t answer her.”