Love & Darts (9781937316075) (3 page)

I could just kick myself for putting that sweater on
her. I didn’t think about dignity. I just wanted her to stay a
little bit warm and I didn’t know it was the last time I’d ever get
to take her anywhere. I would have gone upstairs and gotten one of
Mom’s blouses maybe or at least had her put on Dad’s old hunting
jacket. It’s so stupid. I was trying to put the sweater on her to
cover up the mess on her shirt and the sweater just made everything
a hundred times worse.

Ten years ago she would’ve tore my head off for
putting her in a sweater like that. She must’ve been pretty far
gone already that morning.

I knew about my sister’s project the instant
Grandma’s tiny, veiny arm came through where that sleeve was
supposed to be. But I didn’t remember when I saw the sweater on the
floor by her bed. When I grabbed it up and shook it and started to
help her into it, it was still just Grandma’s favorite sweater in
my mind. She wore that thing every day of the winter for years.
It’s weird how that happens. Isn’t it? I mean you know something’s
changed but because it was always the same forever you only
remember it a certain way.

I don’t know if she cared or not. She let me help
her with the sweater and the door and the steps and the seat
belt.

When she said she wanted to head up 421 I thought
maybe she wanted to go to the cemetery to see Grandpa. But she
didn’t ask and we passed all those quiet plots under trees without
mention. The sun flashed off gravestones as we went by. The shadows
and sun bred some kind of almost-like-hope on the grass.

You know what I’m talking about. I’m talking about
driving fast on a sunny day with a bunch of birds—barn swallows
probably—on the telephone wires. And when the rush of wind, that
updraft from your car coming, hits them they rise and scatter and
you can’t watch them all flying off in all directions like that.
You can just look at the grass in the ditch and see their
fluttering shadows dispersing. Then maybe your eye does follow the
one that flies straight out in front of you, like it can maybe
almost stay ahead of you, maybe fly right alongside the car for a
second, or at least keep up if it flaps hard enough. But then
you’re gone and the bird behind you that was out in front banks
right over the fields and disappears.

I remember everything.

Early summer. The earth seemed so willing. But after
so much negotiation what would not?

The horizon seemed to give in to the call for more
flat corn and patches of distant trees. A farmhouse, wearing out
its paint job, with bikes for sale near the road, all in a row,
biggest to smallest, had its screen door standing wide open.
Probably got stuck in the porch roof. I always wonder why there are
so many bikes in front of one house. I wondered that then. Like
usual.

It was all how it always is on that drive. We passed
the fairgrounds. Quiet before a raucous week in July. We passed the
county airport and the county jail. The place where the city keeps
the snowplows, the towering cone of street salt. The cow corn was
knee-high. Green against that wet black between rows.

And we passed the radio station broadcasting the
price of pork bellies and soybean futures up and out into the
unreceptive sky.

Nearing the interstate the businesses sprang up
again. McDonald’s. Amoco. BP. A fireworks barn. Some kind of truck
stop where they sell laser-engraved blocks of crystal that eagles
fly through for whatever reason.

I remember I said, “You want something, Grandma?”
‘Cause I didn’t know if she wanted to just drive or maybe if she
wanted to stop.

I probably shouldn’t have looked over at her right
then, you know? I probably should have just let her have her
moment. But I didn’t know. I’d been driving. I didn’t mean to look
over at her. It just happened. When I saw that she was crying it
almost made me cry.

You know how it is. With everyone else it’s no big
deal. When I drive my girlfriend around I look at the road and then
I look over at her to ask her stuff. Same with Mom. Or Dad when I
drop him off at work sometimes. You know. I just ask them stuff.
What music they want to listen to. Whether they want the air
conditioner on. If they need me to get them anything from the
Dollar Store later, since it’s right by the garage where I work.
And my girlfriend, my mom, my dad, they’re never crying real quiet
like that in the passenger seat, you know? That never happens.
That’s what makes me think she knew. And her knowing makes me feel
like I should have known and not ever put that sweater on her. But
how could I have known?

I’d give anything not to have looked over at her
when I asked if she wanted anything. I hate what I saw. But once it
was done what could I do? I just handed her an Arby’s napkin.

She gripped that thing, stopped crying real
quick—like it never happened—straightened up, and said, “Bob
Evans.”

I rolled the window down on my side for the rest of
the drive. I wasn’t really choking back tears, you know. I just
needed the air to keep more alert. Can’t hardly breathe all cooped
up inside a car.

I said, “Grandma Charlottie?”

She said, “Yes.”

“I’m not sure I can do the repairs myself. It’s a
big job.”

She didn’t respond. I don’t know if it was because
she was disappointed in me or because she knew there was no money
to hire a heating and cooling guy or if she just didn’t really care
anymore. Because I think she knew, you know?

When we got to the restaurant I helped her with the
seat belt, the curb, the steps, and the hostess. We sat at the
counter. It was easier to lean onto the stools than for her sit
down in one of those low wooden chairs at the tables. The
coffeepots sang silent with their steam. There was no one there who
cared about her sweater. And we each ate biscuits. Turning so slow,
swiveling from side-to-side on our almost-too-resistant counter
stools.

She had to have it, you know? That was kind
of her thing, real grabby-like.

But she was good at things that didn’t rely
on others. She was good at things for a little while and then moved
on. She was good at things like mixing drinks and cooking; like
making jewelry; arranging patio furniture under the setting Texan
sun; gardening, tomatoes mainly; and playing video games. It’s not
like she was neat or whatever. But she liked things a certain way
in a certain place and organized her CDs, rearranged the inside
furniture, too. Alphabetized books on shelves. Stuff like that, you
know. What else? Oh. She was really good at picking songs and
burning homemade compilations for friends. Crafts, too. She made
envelopes, you know. Herself. By hand. Same with cigarettes and
decoupage collages.

Yeah. I can tell you more. There’s always
more.

Mixing drinks:
In a glass vase on the
counter behind the sink she kept long glass swizzle sticks with
bright ornamental figures on the tops. Blown glass, you know? A
monkey. A parrot. A palm tree. And a bright umbrella. They were a
set. An expensive set of art glass swizzle sticks. Kitschy but
beautifully rendered. She was careful with them and for fun
screamed at her friends to be careful with them too. It was like a
joke, but super mean. She made the drinks in the kitchen. Stirred
them with the handle end of a knife, then served them on the patio
wearing their swizzle sticks, expecting comment. Tom Collins. Mint
Julep. Gimlet. Clamato and Spicy Tequila with Lime Juice.

Cooking:
She always used the right
implement or pot for its express purpose. And she didn’t mind the
cleanup that this involved. She didn’t mind at all. I know because
she always told me, “I don’t mind.”

Making jewelry:
She had a red Sears
Craftsman toolbox where she kept all her jewelry-making supplies.
The burliness was explained away. It was a really satisfying
toolbox. In the top she kept all the beads in a carefully-organized
removable tray. Underneath there were different wires and clasps
and pairs of needle-nose pliers and graduated sizes of
similar-looking tools. In the bottom of her butch jewelry-making
box she also kept a paring knife. It had belonged to her
great-grandfather who had come to America from Sweden via Ellis
Island. She said he carved his initials in a lot of walls with that
knife. She told the story saying she didn’t approve of
graffiti.

Gardening:
Her garden was a tribute
to her favorite architects. Bamboo structures were everywhere. She
grew tomatoes on all of them except for the ones where peppers and
sweet sugar snap peas with their
Awwww-look-aren’t-they-sweet?
blossoms grew. But like Monet
with his haystacks she had a focus and was mainly interested in the
best structure to support tomatoes. Tried different things.
Pyramids. Towers. Conical funnels. And round cages. She built
whimsical bent-bamboo tomato trellis forts. After trying everything
she found that an igloo-type structure provided the best support
and ease of harvest for the tomatoes. It optimized the exposed
surface area of the leaves to bright midday sunlight.

Video Games:
She was very good at
video games that involved racing. She could even race the game
itself on the most difficult and trying courses. She was, however,
not so good at the video games that involved the martial arts. Her
roundhouse kick was a personal embarrassment.

Organizing CDs:
If a friend were
depressed and there seemed no way to contribute, she would show up
on a breezy Saturday and organize the CDs as if of course that
would help. She put them in genres—not in alphabetical order like
the books. And once finished she put the DVDs and videotapes away.
And she would look under the sink and put order there. Then she
would make sure that the clothes in closets were not chaotic but
pleasantly satisfying, orderly. She’d make a joke from a movie
about wire hangers. After that, she would link her arm in her
friend’s arm and they would find a place to eat tamales and chicken
wings outside in the afternoon. “You’ll love it. Their cheladas are
great.”

Arranging the Furniture:
The
furniture in her living room was always a little discordant. She
liked to have the bright yellow chaise next to her black metal
apothecary chest right in front of the door as one walked in. It
had an interesting effect. Not exactly feng shui. Coming into the
room one was accosted by the fortress of furniture. But she had it
that way for a reason. The person lying on the chaise could reach
over and open the door without getting up. If the cops came, well,
it bought time.

Burning Songs:
She was a fanatic with
the CD burner. But she made it a moral point to buy exactly one
quarter of the downloaded artists’ songs.

Making envelopes:
The artisan
envelope was her signature. When she sent invitations for her
cocktail parties, which she had on the patio with citronella
torchlight, low funky music, and those fancy blown-glass swizzle
sticks that she yelled at her friends to use with care, she made
the invitation envelopes herself out of old wrapping paper or
wallpaper samples. But the effort was so great that the guest lists
stayed short.

Rolling Cigarettes:
She was very good
at rolling cigarettes. She could do it in her hands. Or she could
do it on her little cigarette-rolling machine that she took with
her to diners late at night. Mostly it was tobacco.

Collages and Decoupage:
She collected
pieces of wood. Mainly small, really quite useless cutting boards.
She never used wooden cutting boards in her kitchen. Didn’t like
bacteria to breed at an uncontrollable rate. But they were such
beautiful pieces of wood, those little cutting boards. So she
bought them, the smallest ones, the most useless ones, whenever she
got the chance. She cut pictures of thin-armed girls in well-suited
homes from magazines.
Dwell. Better Homes & Gardens.
National Geographic
. And
Surf Digest.
She made collages
on the cutting boards with decoupage glue and a pair of really
sharp haircutting scissors from the beauty supply shop.

Planting terrariums in perfume
bottles:
Though short-lived, for a time she made a hobby of
planting terrariums in tiny perfume bottles. She made a great
terrarium and gave it to her elderly neighbor whose children had
decided to sell the old woman’s house and move her into an assisted
living community. Who could blame them for the market? Houses just
wouldn’t ever get these kinds of prices again. But still. It didn’t
seem right to sell an old lady’s house out from under her without
her consent. So my friend with the jewelry-making toolbox and the
art glass swizzle sticks and the optimal bamboo structure for
growing tomatoes stayed up all night and planted a teeny tiny
terrarium for her neighbor to take with her to her last new
life.