After the Flag Has Been Folded (17 page)

Grabbing a waste bucket, I rushed over to her. She puked into the bucket, again and again and again. I ran hot water over a washcloth and washed her face. She was still crying as I took her by the arm and led her to her bed. I took off her heels and nylons and helped her out of her dress and into her silky pajamas. After I pulled the covers up around her, Mama reached up and pushed my hair away from my forehead. “Sometimes I think you are my guardian angel,” she said.

Mama was so drunk, I knew she'd never remember what she said the next day. But I never forgot it. Her remark was the closest thing to a loving moment that the two of us had shared since Daddy died.

Was this the very same night she called Hugh and threatened to kill herself? I suspect so.

But Hugh would not be swayed, not even by Mama's pathetic state. “Well, then, Shelby, go ahead and shoot yourself because I am
not
coming back to Georgia,” Hugh said.

And he never did.

Guilt drove Hugh Lee away. “I have never been able to forget you walking in on me and Shelby,” he said. “Every time I look at you I see the face of that little girl, seeing us like that. What we were doing was wrong. I couldn't let it go on no more.”

Years of nagging guilt was wasted. My uncle thought that I knew it was him in bed with Mama that day. But I didn't. I had never been able to recall the man in the flashback. I could only recall Mama in detail. I didn't know until he told me that Hugh Lee had been the man in bed with her that day. My uncle's confession stunned me, but it didn't alter the love and respect I have for him.

Hugh Lee isn't convinced that Mama really loved him. “I think she needed me,” he told me. “She needed me to help raise you three kids. I don't know if it was love or need.”

But he's sure of one thing. “I didn't love Shelby.”

M
AMA HAD HER CHARMS, BUT IT WAS HER FIRM BUTT AND COMELY LOOKS THAT SHE RELIED UPON MOST.
The men who took advantage of Mama usually did it with her full consent. She knew she could get men to do what she wanted as long as she gave them what they were after.

Guilt and regret are two garments Mama has never wasted any time fussing over. Best to shove those ugly rags to the back of the closet, out of the way. She's always subscribed to the notion that no matter what the situation is, you have to put your best foot forward, especially if you own a pair of good leather shoes. Hold your head up, your shoulders back, and—oh Lawd!—protect the poor woman who faces the world without a good padded bra. Mama wore padded bras like heart armor—the thicker the better.

The bras tossed into the hamper basket held their form so well that Frank's T-shirts boasted breasts. I don't know whether it was those bras or something else that made Mama so confident, she'd string men together like a line of rainbow trout.

She already had a great catch on the line before she ever flew out to San Francisco to meet Hugh Lee. Lewis Jones was the redheaded fellow she'd met on a blind date some six months before. Not a particularly patient fellow by nature, Jones, nonetheless, quietly bade his
time until things cooled down between Hugh and Mama. Then, in no time at all, Mama had the hots for him.

Compared with most of the men Mama dated, Lewis was wealthy. An architect, by trade, he owned his own home, a brick house, with a big yard, a couple of bedrooms, and glossy hardwood floors. He had a console television set and a formal dining room with chairs made of polished wood instead of chrome and vinyl. He played tennis and drove fancy cars. He read books and listened to classical music, not Floyd Cramer. He was an avid Auburn Tiger fan during a time when Bear Bryant and Vince Lombardi were demigods of the South. Mama didn't give a hoot about football, but to please her man, she pretended she did. Lewis didn't have a wife, never had, and he didn't have any kids, which was his weakness.

He didn't know how to relate to kids. Oh, he tried. He always greeted us with a generous smile and hello. But beyond that, he didn't really know how to talk to us. We knew what he really wanted to be doing was giving all his attention to Mama. And, in return, getting all of hers.

Lewis tolerated Linda the best because she was quiet and compliant and she kept to herself. An easy child, Linda didn't backtalk, didn't pitch fits, and didn't demand attention. The thing she wanted most was to get through her growing-up years without causing Mama any more heartache. So Linda taught herself how to stay out of the way. I think Lewis wished Frank and I would do the same.

Frank and Lewis disliked each other from the get-go. Frank would hardly make eye contact with Lewis. When Lewis arrived on the scene, Frank knew his days were numbered. It was Lewis who first suggested to Mama that she ought to send Frank away. “A military school will teach that boy some discipline,” he said. “He's out of control, Shelby. You've got to do something.”

Mama knew Lewis was right, that Frank needed a male figure to straighten him out. Military school would give him plenty of men
to model himself after, as well as the structured environment Mama couldn't provide.

When Frank once again landed in juvenile court—this time for stealing Mama's car and wrecking it—the judge threatened to send him to detention school. Mama protested, saying she already had a plan. “I've enrolled him at Lyman Ward Military Academy, sir,” Mama said.

“That'll work just as well,” the judge said.

The decision to send Frank away convinced me that Mama was, without question, unfit to be a mother, or at least our mother. I viewed it as the ultimate treason a mother could commit. To me, she was choosing her lover over her son.

Up until then, I hadn't harbored the seething resentment toward Lewis that Frank did. I didn't really have any reason to. Lewis tried his best to win over my affections. One Saturday morning he showed up at the trailer door with a gift just for me. A wooden tennis racket, signed by Billie Jean King. I'd never played tennis a day in my life, but Lewis did. He gave me the racket and then asked me if I wanted to go with him to the courts. It was the one and only time that I remember any of Mama's lovers asking me to do anything just one-on-one. Floyd had spent a great deal of time with me, but we never did anything just the two of us, the way a father and daughter might. The way Daddy and I did before he died. I cherished the personal invite from Lewis even more because I recognized how difficult all this was for him. I knew he'd much rather spend his days off with Mama, alone.

Lewis drove me all the way to Phenix City to try out my new racket. The drive, about twenty-five minutes, lasted longer than the actual court time. I am not a natural athlete, I didn't know how to hold the racket, much less hit something with it. Lewis spent more time on my side of the court than on his.

On the ride home, we were both sweaty, frustrated, and thankful for the silence. I didn't take another tennis lesson until I was in college.
Lewis never made any more attempts to cultivate a relationship with me. And I really began to worry that Mama was only keeping me around to care for Linda. I feared she might ship me off soon, too.

I was a horrible caretaker for my sister. Linda and I didn't sit around painting each other's toenails or braiding each other's hair. Instead, we scrapped like a couple of ill-bred barn cats, clawing, pawing, scowling, and ripping out hair. We fought over the dumbest things. I'd order her to dust while I cleaned the kitchen. She'd whine. I'd slap her. She'd grab my forearm and dig in her hardened nails. I'd curse and kick her. She'd kick back. We'd carry on like that for fifteen minutes or better, until one of us tired out or tore away from the other and took off out the door. Usually, it was Linda fleeing. She wouldn't come back until Mama got home. Then she'd recount the scene, replete with crocodile tears streaming down her rosy cheeks. Invariably, I'd get slapped or grounded by Mama. In return, I'd swear to hurt Linda worse the next time we were alone.

Personally, I don't think Linda would've turned out to be the charming soul she is today if not for the bad behavior displayed by Frank and me. She swore as a little girl she would never grow up to be like either one of us. And she never did. Linda was born good-natured and kindhearted. She seemed assured that God's grace greeted her each morning and tucked her in each night. She's never had to arm-wrestle the demons of darkness that haunted Frank and me. God's mercy is wasted on folks like her.

 

I
N
J
ULY
1970, a nursing buddy of Mama's, Mrs. Yearty, asked if she could take Linda and me to Vacation Bible School. Mama didn't mind as long as the lady wanted to drive all the way out Macon Road to pick us up and get us back home. The church, Grace Baptist, was located in downtown Columbus, a good half-hour drive from Crystal Valley. Mama wasn't in school that summer, but she was working.

We had not been in a church since we'd left Tennessee. In the early weeks following Daddy's death, Frank and I were baptized at
the First Baptist Church in Rogersville. The same church folks who had filled our refrigerator with platters of crispy fried chicken, heaping bowls of potato salad, and plates of sliced tomatoes when Daddy died later wept as Frank and I were dipped and resurrected from the cleansing waters of the church's baptismal.

“Praise Jesus!” someone said.

“Thank you, Lord!” another shouted.

I cried, too. But not so much because I felt cleansed, or even saved. Fact is, I felt as disconsolate as I had the day I'd walked into Nash-Wilson Funeral Home and seen the dead man, cold and blue, lying in the casket and heard the strains of that forsaken song: “Just as I am, without one plea, but that Thy blood was shed for me.”

I got baptized that day for two reasons—neither of which were very good. First, because Frank was doing it. During my early life, I patterned my steps after his. The second reason was because I was afraid not to. Baptism was my pass to heaven. I couldn't get in without it. And since Daddy's last orders had sent him marching there, I certainly didn't want to be locked out, standing on the other side of the gates and screaming out his name for all eternity. I had to make sure that I could get in should I tragically ended up dead, too.

Throughout my childhood, death struck me like a bad fever. Whenever I thought about it, pearls of perspiration rolled from the crevices of my neck, my crotch, and my palms. My stomach cramped. My eyes glazed vacant as my mind lumbered toward a black forest, where, I figured, dead souls gathered and waited in silent agony for Jesus to return and guide them toward the light of heaven. The fever gave me fits, causing my mind to pitch back and forth, as if in the throes of some horrific dysentery. I thought about the here and now and the hereafter. I thought I would literally go nuts. “Stop it! Stop it!” I would cry.

But those cries would only echo between my ears. No one else knew how terrified I was, so no one was ever capable of calming me. Besides, I knew from the get-go, death would never yield to
anyone. Sooner or later, even the most powerful people alive succumb to its violent strangle. There's no escape. No way out.

Not even the salvation I'd found in Jesus Christ that summer offered me much assurance.

I'd participated in Vacation Bible School during summer trips to Granny's. And I'd attended church in those amber years before Daddy died and Mama got so mad at God she quit speaking to Him. As a teenager I didn't relish the idea of going to church. I was, after all, an incoming high school freshman. Mama had bought me a new bedspread (bright orange) and a rug (royal blue) to honor my position among the Columbus High School Blue Devils. (I suspected Lewis might have had something to do with her purchases, since Columbus High bore the exact same school colors as Auburn University.) But I agreed to go to the Vacation Bible School because I was a people-pleaser; and since Mama's friend had been generous enough to invite me, I didn't want to disappoint her.

To my good fortune, Grace Baptist Church had a slew of teenagers, some even older than me. They were friendly and embracing. One girl in particular seemed genuinely glad to make my acquaintance.

Patsy Ward was an itty-bitty thing. But she had the golden looks of the beauty queen she would one day become. She had a mass of honey-hued hair, which she wore in a Marlo Thomas–style flip. Her white-hot smile could melt frozen butter. But it was her voice that made people plunge headlong into worship or idolatry, depending on whether they focused on Jesus or on the lovely Patsy. Even today, a quarter century after her untimely death, the memory of Patsy singing “When I Survey the Wondrous Cross” or “Something About That Name” causes me to weep in sheer admiration. Patsy loved Jesus with a wholehearted purity that was as uncommon then as it is today.

Many people are glad if they can produce a flicker of Christ's reflection during their daily lives. Not Patsy. She wanted to be a spotlight for Jesus. She had a way of drawing people away from the lure
of evil's darkness to Calvary's hill, where a luminous transformation awaited them.

I was no exception. From the moment I met her, I wanted to emulate Patsy. I was thirteen and she was about to turn sixteen. Patsy loved birthdays, especially her own. She would announce to anyone within earshot: “Only seven shopping days left. Better hurry up and buy me a present!” Young men and old codgers vied for Patsy's affections. And because she was a generous soul, who loved to be loved and to love, she never denied anyone a hug, a smile, or a wink. She charmed us all.

Patsy did not, however, lead a charmed life. Like me, she was missing a parent. Her mother died when Patsy was too little to fix her own ponytail. Patsy had a younger brother, Mike, who came to church with her sometimes, and an older, very handsome brother, Danny, who didn't, and a sister, whose name I can't recall. Patsy, Mike, and Danny lived with their father and his parents in a house in an older neighborhood, near historic downtown Columbus. I think the home was formerly a mill house built for the textile workers who once made up the fiber of the town's business district. The house had two separate kitchens and living areas.

Patsy's younger sister didn't grow up with her older siblings because she was a baby when their mother was killed in a car crash. She was sent to live with another family member. It wasn't until 1979, when Patsy tragically died from a brain aneurysm a week after the birth of her only child, a boy named Stephen, that some thought that perhaps Patsy's mother had really died from the same troubling defect, which could have caused the car crash.

Patsy's father did not share her love for Jesus. I don't ever remember him attending church to hear his talented daughter sing. The church elders took Patsy in as their own daughter. In the hundreds of times I was at Patsy's home, I never saw her father much. Sometimes, we would daydream that her father and my mother would find Jesus, find each other, and fall in love, and we would all live happily ever
after. It wasn't my first attempt at fiction, but it was likely one of my poorest efforts.

I continued attending Grace Baptist Church long after Vacation Bible School ended. The youth pastor, a kindly gentleman, and his wife invited me to participate in car washes, bake sales, and other fund-raising activities. The youth were planning a big summer-blowout trip to Atlanta's hottest theme park—Six Flags over Georgia—and invited me along.

I had never been to an amusement park of any sort. I'd never ridden a roller coaster or a Ferris wheel, never plucked my way through a puff of cotton candy or licked the skin of a candied apple. Going to Six Flags seemed as foreign to me as a trip to Mozambique. I'd wash a hundred muddy tires for the chance.

We made the trip in mid-August, the week before the start of my freshman year at Columbus High. Patsy, her cousin Darlene Jackson, and I joined a slew of other teens on the church vans shortly after daybreak. We didn't return until almost midnight.