Calling Me Home (12 page)

He pointed to the picture. “This isn’t you.”

“Really?” I shook my head and chuckled, but not too loud. I imagined those nighttime hotel clerks got all out of whack when someone questioned their limited authority, like they were on some kind of power trip or something. “Kindly look to your left,” I said. “That is Mrs. Isabelle Thomas.” I pointed out Miss Isabelle sitting in her car just outside the entrance. I waved at her, and she waved back and shrugged her hands in the air, like “What’s the holdup?”

“This is her credit card and her ID,” I said. “She made the reservation.”

“Well, ma’am, I can’t take ID for someone else. We require the person who made the reservation to show the ID.”

“You’re kidding, right?” I said. “She’s sitting right there. You can see she’s the same person as the one in this picture.”

“I’m following our company policy, and you need to calm down, ma’am. I will have to call security if you continue to argue with me.”

“Calm down?” Really? He said that? And security? For telling the truth? Hot damn. I
was
calm until right about then, just commenting and halfway laughing. But after he said that, I knew the only thing I could do that wouldn’t conclude with my hands around his neck and me getting cuffed and carried off to jail was to bring Miss Isabelle inside.

I huffed out a big breath and grabbed her ID and credit card back before I headed out to the car. I wasn’t going to leave them sitting there when he might walk off and someone else could snatch them. I hardly trusted the idiot alone.

Miss Isabelle lowered the window when she saw me coming. I’m pretty sure my ears were steaming like an old-fashioned pressure cooker going good. “What is it, Dorrie?”

“Mr. Night Manager isn’t confident you are the person in the ID. He would like to see you up close and personal. Mr. Night Manager probably assumes I’ve kidnapped you, considering we don’t exactly look like we’re related.” I growled. I actually growled. “And whatever you do, do not tell me to calm down.”

“You look calm to me, Dorrie—well, mostly—and Mr. Night Manager is going to wish he’d dealt with you, because he’s not going to like dealing with me. Not at all.”

I pulled open the door, and Miss Isabelle unbent herself from the passenger seat. Every time she emerged from the car, it seemed her joints were stiffer and giving her more trouble. Driving cross-country had to be hell on her skeleton and muscles after nearly ninety years of use.

But eventually, she drew herself up to her full height—all something like five feet two inches of it. That woman was tiny, but when I squinted just right, I imagined a hat and gloves, like she was Queen Elizabeth about to walk in there and give that kid what-for.

“Young man, is there a problem with my credit card?” she said, and the night manager blushed and scraped at his Adam’s apple with his grimy fingernails.

“Oh, no, ma’am. No problem at all. As I was explaining to your—your friend here, we can’t take the credit card and ID from anyone but the holder.”

“Well, here I am, then, ten feet closer, and I’m sure you can see clearly now I’m the person in the picture. So do your magic. And be quick about it.” She turned toward a stripy upholstered chair a few yards from the desk. “You can bring me the signature slip.”

“Oh, yes, ma’am. I can do that. I’m sorry for—”

“Now. Pay close attention. Tomorrow morning, we expect your complimentary breakfast buffet to be hot and the coffee fresh and strong. No leftovers from today or shriveled-up stuff that’s been sitting there for two hours. We’ll be down at eight sharp. Or maybe eight-fifteen. We’ll need extra towels and pillows brought to our room within the next ten minutes and help with our luggage. Any questions?”

He tried to run his fingers through his hair, but they got stuck in what was obviously too much Dippity-do. I almost felt sorry for the guy by then.

Not really. But I did laugh a little inside at the expression on his face. He was probably some poor college student who worked the night shift so he could go to class, and I doubted he was paid enough to give us the five-star treatment. But he’d asked for it with his earlier pomposity. I bet the next time a customer was plainly sitting in the passenger seat, giving obvious permission to her companion to use the credit card, whether he followed company policy or not, he wouldn’t tell anyone to calm down.

In the elevator on our way up to our room—Mr. Night Manager followed with the luggage cart on the next trip—Miss Isabelle said, “I hope you don’t mind sharing a room.”

You know, up until then, I hadn’t thought about it. What sense would it make for Miss Isabelle to pay for separate rooms when one room with two perfectly good beds would do fine?

But I wondered how she really felt. I wondered if she’d ever spent a night with someone like me—a person of another race. I wondered how many people in general had spent the night with a person of another race.

“Well, I’m okay with it, Miss Isabelle. Of course I’m okay with it. How about you?”

She gazed at the floor numbers. Making eye contact in an elevator is hazardous to one’s health. “It’ll be nice to have someone else there, Dorrie. I miss having company in my house sometimes. It can be awfully lonely and quiet.” She shifted her point of view to the doors as they slid open at our floor. “But God help me if you snore.”

I snorted. Miss Isabelle’s sense of humor was sharp as a needle fresh out of the package. I could only hope I’d be as shrewd when I had nine decades of experience. “Me, snore? I’m more worried about you.”

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about me snoring. Tossing and turning, maybe, though I can’t even accomplish that efficiently these days. I don’t sleep much anymore. More like little catnaps all night long. All day long, too.”

I’d heard people talk about that happening when a person grew older. I wondered what Miss Isabelle thought about between naps. When I lay awake at night, unable to sleep, my mind mostly raced with worries about my children staying out of trouble—lately, Stevie’s unacknowledged predicament—or whether I could trust Teague, week after week, year after year, to be who he appeared to be now.

Mr. Night Manager placed our overnight bags in appropriate spots around the room, and I wondered if he expected a tip. Miss Isabelle thanked him with another Queen Elizabeth look down the end of her nose—even though he was a foot taller than she was—and gave it a twitch, as if the room didn’t smell so great. I deduced he didn’t get many tips; he didn’t look at all surprised.

It was still early. We’d stopped for dinner outside Memphis and our stomachs hadn’t completely settled. I waited while Miss Isabelle carried her nightgown and housecoat into the bathroom to dress for bed. Once she was settled in the easy chair with one of her crossword puzzle books and the TV remote in hand, I said, “I’m going to step outside and make a few phone calls, Miss Isabelle. Anything else you need right now?”

“Oh, no, dear. I’ll be fine. You don’t have to baby-sit me. Go do what you need to do. And Dorrie?” She paused, and I saw the exhaustion in her face, extra lines I didn’t remember having been there the last time I did her hair. “Thank you. I couldn’t have done this without you. You’re—you must be a good daughter.” Her voice trembled on the last word, and my heart welled up with affection and sympathy. Something told me whatever lay in wait for her—for
us
—at the other end of this journey was going to be harder than I’d imagined so far. I was glad she wasn’t alone, even if it meant I had to study my own problems from afar. I was beginning to feel I was a critical part of this thing for Miss Isabelle—even if I had no idea why yet.

I dug through my purse for my cigarettes and lighter and dropped them into my pocket when I was sure Miss Isabelle wasn’t watching. I hadn’t had a smoke since that morning, before I arrived at her house. I wasn’t as antsy as I thought I’d be. I’d been trying to quit for the thirtieth time and was down to about three most days. Our conversation in the car had distracted me from the cravings, and I hadn’t wanted to draw attention to my bad habit when we stopped for meals or rest-room breaks. I’d told myself I could live without my lunchtime smoke for one day, and I guess my ornery old self had listened. I carried my cell phone conspicuously so Miss Isabelle would think I’d been digging for it.

“I know you smoke, Dorrie,” she called from the easy chair.

Busted.

“You don’t have to hide it from me. I can smell it on your fingers when you fix my hair. Don’t worry, it’s not unpleasant. Reminds me of the old days. Everyone smoked everywhere.”

“I’m trying to quit,” I said on my way out the door, my automatic response to anyone who said anything about my smoking, ever. The habit embarrassed me. It was something I’d sworn I’d never do in all the years growing up around my mother and her boyfriends. I’d rarely seen any of them without a cigarette hanging off the ends of their hands like extra finger joints. My mother was half-dependent on the oxygen canisters Medicaid delivered once or twice a month now, but she continued to smoke, like the oxygen was a treat and not a necessity.

I subjected myself to mental self-abuse every time I lit up, yet I’d never managed to make it all the way to done. I’d started in high school, one or two a day, snuck in the alley behind the vocational ed room with the other cosmetology students. We weren’t supposed to smoke, but the instructors turned a blind eye. They were career addicts and knew it was in our forecast as future beauticians. Smoking went with the territory. They likely hoped our cravings would end at smoking—not something worse. Too often, hairstylists turned to stripping on the side, desperate to supplement measly beginner’s wages with so-called easy money. Then it was a few casual steps from stripping to hooking up for cash to finally doing the hard stuff just to forget about it—cocaine, heroin, eventually crack. A lot of my old friends from class were strung out now, barely existing from fix to fix in the worst parts of my hometown.

I was one of the blessed. I was only a smoker, and I still had my livelihood.

But even though Miss Isabelle hadn’t said a negative word, my smoking suddenly seemed such a waste of income and energy. I could hardly believe—as soft and silky as her skin still felt, and as healthy as her hair still seemed for her age—she’d raised even one of those deadly bones to her lips like she’d described doing at that nightclub.

Now I wondered if Teague, too, realized I smoked. I hadn’t let him too close yet, but we’d watched a few movies together. He’d pulled my hand into his, warm and lanky like the rest of him, and held it loosely. When we parted company, did he press his palm to his nose, breathing in the scent of me as I’d done with his? If so, my secret sin might not be so secret. I held the cigarettes far from my body, always outside, letting the smoke drift away from me, not realizing it lingered on my palms and fingertips like the scent of lotion might on someone else. Leave it to Miss Isabelle to make the first mention of it in all my years of hairdressing.

I’d told myself I’d quit for good before Teague had a reason to find out—if our relationship lasted that long. Now I was determined. But it wasn’t just about Teague. I never wanted my kids to watch me struggle for breath like my mother did. If I quit now, I’d have leverage when I advised them it was dumb to ever begin the habit. Not that I had any reason to believe my oh-so-innocent son hadn’t ever smoked a cigarette. I was sure his troubles already went deeper than sneaking cigarettes behind my back.

I brought the almost-empty pack close to my nose and took a draw of the bittersweet tobacco aroma. I counted to five, then dropped it into the swingy-door trash bin outside the elevator. I almost dropped the lighter in, too, but then convinced myself a lighter might come in handy for all kinds of emergencies. It could come in especially handy for lighting the cigarettes in the two extra packs at the bottom of my suitcase. But I wasn’t going to think about those—not if I could help it.

I couldn’t imagine throwing away two unopened packs. I’d spent good money on them, and I was too married to my money. Quite possibly, to my bad habit, too. Throwing away my current pack was one thing. Going complete cold turkey was another. I still had over a thousand miles to drive in the next several days. I wasn’t crazy.

9

Isabelle, 1939

M
OTHER BEGAN PUSHING
me to interact with the boys at church. Why now, I wondered, when in the past she’d been satisfied to send me off to Sunday school socials or see me seated with a row of girls at church, the boys behind us, their hair slicked back and shoes shined, as if that would keep them from poking at the backs of our necks with sharpened pencils to see if we’d disturb the quiet while Reverend Creech droned on and on. Now, when Mother dawdled after services, pretending to gossip with the other women, my neck prickled. I’d catch her observing me, watching to see whether I singled out any particular boy for attention. After I reminded one boy in my grade that we had a book to read before school started again, she swooped in like a vulture and invited him to our house for homemade ice cream that evening. She gushed at Daddy later, insisting he prepare the ice-cream freezer and chip the ice while she made a rare venture into our kitchen to mix up cream, sugar, eggs, and vanilla.

The boy showed up early, and Daddy cranked the handle of the freezer, grinning, while I attempted small talk with Gerald, who flushed from the top of his skinny collarbone to the roots of his Brylcreemed hair whenever I so much as looked at him.

My brothers guffawed from across the patio, where they reclined on chaise lounges, one of them flinging an entire deck of cards at the other when he lost a game. I’d be sorting cards again soon, I could see.

“Hey, Gerald,” Patrick called, “you better treat Bitty-Belle right, boy. We’ll be keeping an eye on you. No monkey business, ya hear? We’ll come after you.…” Daddy’s arm stopped turning the crank on the ice-cream freezer. Both my brothers doubled over in laughter, and Daddy started cranking again.

Gerald’s face turned an even brighter shade of orange. Mortified at my brothers’ rudeness, I attempted a spontaneous but ill-chosen rescue. “Gerald,” I said, “what do you think about the unrest in Europe?” I’d pored over the Sunday paper all afternoon, trying to understand events across the ocean.