The Sweet By and By Read online

  I thank God when “Here Comes the Bride” starts. It’s the most familiar thing to me so far at this wedding and it has got to mean we’re gettin close to the reason we’re here. I tell Margaret and Bernice they don’t have to stand up if they don’t feel like it, but they both surprise me and get on their feet by holding onto the pew in front of us and pulling up. I’m grateful they can. Rising up when you’re weak makes a person stronger. By standing, they’re saying that Rhonda matters and they matter too. I feel better when I think about how showing respect to one person makes every person worth more. Standing in this crowd makes the ladies as much a part of life as anybody else. Bernice jabs me hard on the shoulder with a bony finger. “Here comes the bride!” She can barely stand it she’s so excited. Holding on, I rise up too.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  MARGARET

  My mouth is cotton. The oversized red numbers on the digital alarm clock beside my bed read 9:42 P.M. The colon between the 9 and the 42 flashes all the time, marking the seconds, which could make me lose my mind if I stare at it. I have got to have something to drink, and I don’t want water. I don’t know who’s on duty at this time of night but it won’t be Lorraine, and she’s the only one who’ll bring me Co-Cola because it has caffeine in it. I’ll have to take my chances and ring the buzzer. The only other light in the room besides the alarm clock is an electric jack-o’-lantern plugged in on top of my bookshelf. I don’t know where it came from, I guess Ann brought it, although plug-in plastic is not usually her style. I know they wouldn’t let us have a real pumpkin because it would start to rot and bugs would get in it, and it’s probably against the law to have a real candle inside. This one’s eyes are upside down triangles with upturned eyebrows like he’s surprised. I don’t care if it’s plastic; I like it. I like the glow.

  “Yes ma’am?” There’s a young woman with jet-black hair at the door. “Did you want something?”

  “Are you a nurse?”

  “No ma’am I’m not. Do you need a nurse?” She is not smiling.

  “No ma’am, I need a Co-Cola if you could spare one, please. I’m about to thirst to death.”

  She walks away. “I’ll be back,” she says.

  I look back at the jack-o’-lantern. I’m going to call him Ole Jim. When we were little, Callie and I loved ghost stories. I think what we really loved is that Mother could make up tales that were as good as any you could read in a book. She used to tell one about a man named Ole Jim, who lost his mind and threw two children, brother and sister, down a well where they drowned on Halloween night. Mother said Ole Jim’s soul was punished by roaming the earth until he could hold a little child’s hand and say he was sorry. She told us if we were ever lying in bed and got a chill out of nowhere, that was Ole Jim trying to snuggle up beside us and say he was sorry. That might sound like a scary thing to say to a child, but Callie and I ate it up like sugar. Mother had a hundred stories she learned from her grandmother, who had a touch of Lumbee Indian in her. Mother may not have believed in ghosts, but she definitely allowed for things in this world that cannot be explained by anyone. That, combined with the fact that she taught Sunday school every week of her life that I remember, made her a most interesting minister’s wife. She called herself religious, but she didn’t have any problem also saying that she didn’t think it was possible to know everything there was to know about God from the Bible or a church or a preacher.

  The girl with the black hair is back. She looks like she could be part Indian herself, her cheeks are so high and proud. Her hair is shiny in the fluorescent hall light.

  “I’ve got a Sprite here for you. Can you drink it by yourself?”

  “Have you got a straw?” I ask. She’s already gone.

  I take a good long sip of Sprite even though it’s not what I asked for. It burns the back of my throat a little, but in that lovely way an ice-cold drink does when you’re parched. I feel the TV remote under my left hip and retrieve it. I’m wide-awake, might as well see if anything is on.

  “Boo!”

  I look at the doorway and no one is there.

  A single hand reaches around the door like a claw, and I hear a wicked laugh. “Boo!” again. Bernice is looking in now, pointing at me and laughing. “I got you!” she says. “I scared you!”

  “What do you want in the middle of the night?”

  “You’ve got the TV on. Are you having a pajama party?”

  “I’m having insomnia,” I say, thankfully feeling a little tired again already.

  “Let’s watch TV.” She pulls up the visitor chair. It makes a scraping sound on the floor that makes me cringe slightly. Before sitting down, she snatches one of the blankets off my bed. “You don’t need two, do you?” she says, “You don’t look cold.”

  She takes the remote and starts clicking. She flies past CNN, MTV, and the Food Network, which I have loved ever since being in here where nothing tastes like anything you’ve had before in your life, and I don’t mean that as a compliment. She lingers for a moment on a nature program about snakes but keeps going until she lands on a black-and-white movie with Vincent Price. “This is scary like Halloween. Let’s be scared, okay?” She is trying to edge up into the bed with me, and I let her.

  “Trick or Treat’s coming,” she continued. “We’re gonna have to get some candy.”

  “Well you’re not going to find a thing in here. All I’ve got is peanut brittle somebody brought, and please tell me who in here has the teeth for peanut brittle.”

  “Trick or Treat is his favorite day because he loves sweets.”

  “Are we going to watch this or not, Bernice?”

  “He didn’t want to dress up at all but I said he couldn’t go to people’s doors without a costume.”

  I am accustomed to Bernice not making sense, but I feel annoyed, I can’t help it. “Stop talking and moving around before one of us falls out of the bed,” I tell her.

  “You can dress up like a monkey if you want to but that’s not very scary, sweetheart. How about a green goblin with a big hook nose?”

  “Who?” I ask tersely.

  “Why are you acting like you don’t know my boy when you’ve met him a hundred times?”

  “You’re talking about Cameron’s children? I’m sure they’re long in bed by now.” She practically disregards me.

  “No, Cameron’s too old for Trick or Treat. He won’t go. Don’t make him, his daddy said.”

  A woman screams on TV. A wax museum figure has just reached out and tried to strangle her. It is blood-curdling. I take the remote from Bernice and turn the volume down. It occurs to me that Vincent Price looked dead even when he was alive. He is young in this movie but he still looks like a corpse. I feel sorry for him. I wonder if he ever got married.

  Bernice continues. “He told me he wanted to be a monkey because he thinks they’re nice and I told him that some monkeys are not that nice, but he said the ones he likes are nice and he wanted to be one. I have never been one to sew very well but I learned that Halloween by trial and error.”

  “Bernice, are you telling a story?” I ask. She could have seen an article in a magazine for all I know and I personally have always felt that she was taking in a lot more than any of us think.

  “I’m telling it exactly as it happened. Wade knew what he wanted to wear and he stuck to it.”

  “Wade?” I’ve never heard her say his name out loud. I probably wouldn’t even know if it weren’t for Rhonda. Bernice is not acting like Bernice. I’m wondering if I should call the black-haired girl or a nurse to come down here. Bernice is trying to talk about something important and there’s nobody here. They ought to call Cameron.

  Bernice turns the volume back up. Vincent Price is standing in the dark except for a few candles. You would have to be an idiot not to know that he is the murderer. As far as I know, he’s always the murderer.

  “Bernice, I want to call a nurse. Will you tell me some more about Wade? I think somebody needs to come down here.”
r />   “That’s the end of the story. I made his monkey outfit, and right before he walked out the door, he decided to carry a bunch of bananas with him, and whenever he rang the bell, he yelled ‘trick or treat’ with a mouthful of mashed-up banana, holding the uneaten part up in the face of whoever answered just in case they might not know he was a monkey. He was so cute you could eat him, and he got more candy than anybody else. Maybe people were tired of scary things and they liked the change.”

  I ring the buzzer. What’s going on in her head right now? Is she trying to break through or does she even know what she’s saying? What does it feel like when all the stories inside you dry up and the only thing you can talk about is what’s in front of you in the moment, without the comfort of your own memories or intelligence? That’s how she lives every day, but she is telling me this now and I believe she knows that she’s telling me.

  Mathilda, the pill nurse, doesn’t know how to speak except to shout. “What are you doing in that bed, Bernice? Don’t you know we have insurance to think about around here? Get out before one of you falls out and breaks your neck!”

  “Mathilda, this is important. Bernice is talking about her deceased son, and I think you should call Cameron and tell him. Or maybe a doctor.”

  “When is Bernice not talking?”

  “I know. This is not the same. She’s talking about her life.”

  “I am not about to disturb her son and family, much less the doctor on call at this hour. I don’t see any substantial change to report.”

  If I could throw something and knock that know-nothing redheaded hog square in the mouth I would do it with every ounce of strength I have and not even ask God’s forgiveness for it. That’s how mad she makes me.

  Bernice has taken the peanut brittle off my nightstand and is biting down on it with her molars but not having much success. I take the candy away from her.

  “Tell her what you told me, honey. Tell Mathilda.”

  Bernice looks at me, then slowly at the scowling face in the doorway. “I told her about Wade and the Trick or Treat when he dressed up like a monkey. I made the costume like a chimpanzee, but he said that would not do because he wanted to have a tail and chimpanzees did not have tails. ‘Don’t you know that, Mother?’ he said, frowning. He couldn’t believe I might not know my monkeys.”

  Mathilda’s expression has not warmed at all. “She is having a delusion about her dead son, Mrs. Clayton, no more and no less. It happens in cases of dementia. There’s nothing to worry about. Bernice, come with me to your room and I’ll give you something to help you sleep.”

  “No thank you, dear.” Bernice smiles. “We’ve already ordered.” She turns to me and I see in her eyes that it’s gone, the light, the flicker of an old light. “I guess we’ll have to save room for dessert!” She takes another slab of rock-hard peanut brittle. The police are taking Vincent Price away. He does not look as though he even realizes what’s happening to him, a real loony. Mathilda turns the TV off without asking and helps Bernice down from my bed and onto her feet, then escorts her into the hall, and shuts off the light with a sweep of her hand, not looking back at me. Ole Jim is staring his crazy-man murderer smile across the room. He looks like he wants to tell me something. I want to remember everything that’s ever happened to me, all that I have done, and every person I’ve known. I want to be able to call every name, recall every joke, keep secrets. I have to try. It’s easier to let all of it slide down the bank and float away on the river’s current. If I lose something, anything at all, there’ll be no one who can help me find it. It will have been washed away, gone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  RHONDA

  I told Mike to go on and go fishing. It’s Sunday, I’m taking the day off, and I want to spend this morning writing thank-you notes. Connie’s coming over and we’re gonna go to either Pizza Hut or the cafeteria, whatever she’s in the mood for. It don’t matter to me, I told her let’s do something that’s fast and easy. It’s not like we got so many wedding presents that it’s gonna take me all day, but I want to take my time and do these right. I want to say something I really mean instead of the same words over and over. I owe it to Margaret Clayton for teaching me how to write a proper thank-you note while I was shampooing her hair. She told me first you’re supposed to say a general thank-you like “thank you so much for your thoughtful gift,” then you mention something specific about whatever it is you’re being thankful for so they know you paid attention, like “I especially like the blue because it will fit so perfectly in my dining room,” then finally you say something about the future, “I look forward to seeing you again soon,” or “I hope you have lovely holidays,” something like that.

  At the end of Margaret’s lesson, Bernice stood up and put her hand over her heart and said, “Why don’t you write, ‘Thank you so much, you’ll never know how much this means to me. I do so love you.’”

  Margaret said, “She’s been watching old black-and-white movies. I believe I’d try to think of something else.”

  I feel like I’m already behind. I haven’t had the chance to get everything back together since the honeymoon. Mike took me to Cozumel for a week. It wasn’t a surprise, we planned the whole thing together. Connie had already been there and she told me it was her favorite vacation she ever had. Plenty of sun, margaritas on the beach, and real cheap. It didn’t rain a drop the whole time we were there so we basically lived on the beach, going back and forth to the pool bar. I went parasailing too, which was a hoot because I couldn’t understand the teachers, if that’s what you call them.

  Mike said, “Honey, what were you expectin? I told you to learn a little Spanish before we came.”

  They gave me a lot of instructions while they were strapping me in on the beach, four little men all talking at the same time. “Hold here, señora. Raise up arms, señora. Let go with your feet, señora.” Any time one of them said something that sounded like a question, I nodded and said, “Gracias” because I didn’t want them to think I wasn’t listening. With no warning, the boat motor fired up and started pulling, tightening on the rope and I had to run because it was pulling me across the sand with the parachute blown up behind. Those Mexican guys were talking and pointing the whole time, but by that point I was in take-off mode and not thinking about anything else. Mike cupped his hands and yelled over the sound of the motor, “You know what to do, right? Do you know what you’re supposed to do?” I didn’t know there was anything to do and I figured he was messing with me, but he sounded sort of concerned, so I wondered if there might be something I should be concerned about.

  As the motor got louder, I left the ground and my legs were dangling in the air. I was surprised at how not scared I was. It was like being a big old seagull, gliding over sand and water, looking down at tiny moving things. When I thought we were far enough out for my liking, I tried to get their attention, “Hey y’all! Hey!!” They were so far down I prob’ly sounded like a bird. Finally we took a real wide turn and started heading back in. “This is more like it,” I thought. I liked being where I could see land getting closer instead of further away. I could also see Mike the size of an ant in bright red surfer shorts. I waved real wild with one arm because I wanted to hold on with the other one even if I was strapped in. Somebody blew a high shrill whistle, off in the distance. I didn’t think much of it, but they kept blowing like there was a fire. I was waving to Mike, but then everybody on the beach, Mike and all the Mexican guys, were waving at me, but not waving like when you’re saying hi. And I’m thinking, “Why is that idiot down there blowin a whistle like he’s directin traffic?” We got close enough in that I thought we oughta be going down, but the boat engine revved up again and we turned back out into the ocean. I yelled, “Hey, where the hell are y’all goin?” like it did any good to yell and me a mile up in the air hanging on a string. The three guys on the boat all made the same gesture like they were pulling something in the air, then they pointed up at me. It took a couple of rounds of charades
to get me to notice a canvas web belt hanging by my right shoulder. It had a bright fluorescent orange loop tied into it that made it seem like something you were supposed to notice, so I grabbed it and pulled. Nothing happened that I could tell, but they clapped and cheered down on the boat. I figured I’d keep pulling as long as they weren’t going crazy or blowing whistles, which they didn’t do, so we came in for a landing, real soft. Connie laughed ’til she about peed because she couldn’t believe I didn’t know you had to pull on the rope to help bring the parasail back down. “Didn’t you listen to a word they said?” She fanned herself with a napkin. I told her I didn’t have any plans to do it again, so she was wasting her breath on me.

  I asked her if she had a good time at the wedding, but she confessed that she couldn’t talk about it without saying something about the fight. Lynn Barber had made a comment that she didn’t know who that colored woman was with those two old ladies, and did anybody know why she was here. Connie already didn’t like the tone she asked in and said yes she most certainly did know, and that the black woman was a nurse that worked with Rhonda and what did it matter to Lynn anyway? Lynn said, “Since when are you in the NAACP?” and Connie hauled off and slapped her.

  Connie said, “Rhonda, I would have told you that day, but I didn’t see any sense in messin up your wedding. That ain’t a thing but ignorance.”

  “It’s okay. I don’t know what I would have done if I’da heard it. Maybe I wouldn’t have hit her though.”

  “Hey, it’s not like I go around beatin up bridesmaids,” Connie said.