Making Waves (13 page)

Take that fool Harris. Every night I beg the Lord to touch Harris's hard heart. The very idea of him telling me that I got to go to the nursing home! He knows it would kill me, that I can't even stand the thought of it. But he don't care. Harris has always been that way, as You know, Lord. Everybody thinks he's the biggest Christian in Zion, but You and I know better. Oh, he does what he thinks is right, setting quite a store in whether or not something's the right thing to do. The only thing is, it's got to be right according to
him
, not according to Almighty God. Almighty Harris Clark, I call him, behind his back.

I don't mean to sit in judgment on him, only the Lord can do that. But my religion and Harris's just ain't the same. I remember plain as day when Harris got religion. He didn't get saved or converted like most folks do it, not him. When he turned twelve years old, he announced to Papa that he was joining the church. Just like that. No tears or nothing. Then he joined the youth group and started getting himself elected to things, and he joined everything else in the church from then on. He started running all those groups, the Official Board and the Methodist Men's Club and the Christian Athletes group and everything. It was about the same time he started running everything else in Zion County, because he's got to have things his way, and the church is no exception.

I've never approached religion that way myself. Why, even the way Harris and me pray is different, me talking to Jesus every night and him standing up in church and rambling on and on about sin and forgiveness and salvation. His voice trembles in fear as he prays. I guess if I was as bullheaded as Harris, I'd be afraid, too.

It does take me a spell every night to lift up all my relatives to Jesus, and sometimes I just skim over the ones in Mt. Zion that I haven't seen for a while. Like Fannie Clark's bunch; I haven't heard from any of them since Christmas was a year ago. But they're still kin, so I do it, regardless. All except one, that is. I hope You understand and forgive me, Jesus. I just can't bring myself to pray for the newest relative, that Ellis Rountree.

Every night, I save the dearest or neediest relative until last so I can spend extra time on them. It used to always be you, Papa, as you know. But now that you're with Jesus, you don't need me to do that for you. And Rufus, while I had you with me, it was you. But now it is my dear boy Taylor who's always last.

Oh, how I thank the Lord every single night for sending me that precious boy to bless my old age! Only You, Jesus, know how much that boy means to me. I've grieved so these past two years, night after night, but I've always known that You'd return him to me. I couldn't have gone on otherwise.

Before You sent my sweet baby to me, how I grieved over not being blessed with a child of my own. It's been the worst cross I've had to bear, worse than losing Mama and Papa and Rufus, because one day we'll all be together in paradise. But not to have my own little baby! I begged You to grant me that one thing. But once You called Rufus home, I knew then I'd never have a child of my own, because I'd never lay with another man except Rufus Gardner Dean, and I never did.

Yet You still answered my prayer, sweet Jesus! In my old age, when I'd given up hope, you sent me a boy child, my own flesh and blood kin. How I had to fight for him, though! Harris planned for Opal to raise that boy right along with her own boy Sonny, but it wasn't Your will. Opal never could stand Charlotte, so she refused to take in her child. Mary Frances and Cleve had their girls all half-grown and didn't want no baby around.

I did feel bad about poor Frances Martha; she wanted him worse than anything. But she ain't right, never has been, and she wasn't able to raise him. Just to spite me, Harris was going to let her have him, though, until I convinced him that everybody would talk about him something awful if she didn't half watch that baby and something happened to him. Worse than everybody was already talking about his daughter Charlotte for deserting her own flesh and blood. And that did it; nothing Harris hates worse than being talked about. Like Sarah in the Bible, I laughed with joy and clapped my hands when Harris gave in and brought Taylor to me.

Oh, the blessing that child brought into my lonely life! At first it was a lot of heartache. How that poor little child suffered, no one but me and Jesus knows. Poor little thing was so lost and scared at first, he cried himself to sleep every night. Crying for his mama, cries that would tear your heart out to hear. He was half grown before he saw his mama again, and by then all his tears for her had dried up. And he never saw his daddy again—nobody even knows where he is now. Charlotte met him when Harris sent her off to Louisiana to some fancy girls' school—I tried to tell him no good would come of it. He wasn't no college boy, either. Nothing but a bartender, dark as a colored and couldn't half speak English. Charlotte up and married him just like someone common, instead of a Clark from Zion County.

Jesus, You alone know about that early heartbreak in Taylor's life, being deserted by his mama and daddy like that. But only me and You know how hard he tried to cling to all of us once he knew we was the only family he had. For the first time since Papa died, I was glad he wasn't here, for it would have killed him to witness Harris's coldheartedness. It broke my heart the way the boy Taylor tried to take up with his granddaddy, toddling around after him, begging him to take him riding in his car, or fishing, or anything. But Harris was so hurt with Charlotte, and so unforgiving, that he couldn't stand the sight of the boy. I can't help it—I hope that You'll forgive me for this, but I've had no use for Harris since then, though he's my only brother. No matter how big of a Christian and a Methodist he is, I've got no use for him at all.

I've done everything I can to make it up to Taylor for his parents being so sorry and his granddaddy so hardhearted. I'd do anything on earth for him. I believe sure as anything that You will forgive me for the lies I've told these past two years. I know me lying means that I'm no longer pure of heart and will not see You face to face. But I did it for my baby, and I'd do it again.

After I count my blessings and lift up my kin, ending up with my sweet boy Taylor, I then tell Jesus about my day. Somehow just going over every little detail with Jesus makes it more bearable. Shared blessings and shared sorrows.

This morning I woke up with a heavy heart, and I had a lot of trouble getting up to face the day. Poor Maudie. I can't believe that this afternoon I'll have to go to her funeral! It don't seem right that she's gone. Why, it hasn't been two weeks since Mary Frances drove me and Frances Martha and cousin Carrie over to Tuscaloosa to see her.

It broke my heart right slap in two to see her in that awful nursing home. We found her in her room, sitting in her wheelchair, just looking out the window. She hardly noticed when we came in. I couldn't believe it was my dear Maudie, sitting and staring like that, like a shell of the person she used to be! That's all she did once she went in that home, just sat and stared out that window. I wanted to run to her and grab her and cry, “Oh, Maudie—what are you looking for?”

I guess there was nothing else to do there in that nursing home, but sit and wait for Jesus. And He finally came and took her home with Him, after all her waiting and watching. So I know in my heart that she's in a better place now. But I'll miss her so much. She'll never sit with me on the front porch again and watch the sunset, or help me pick peas, or set out the azalea plants. Maudie Ferguson was just like a sister to me, since I'm so much older than the twins and never felt close to them. No, Maudie was my soul-sister, although I never told her so. Wish I had now.

I guess I aggravated Maudie a bit these last few years, and I regret it now. She never married and I used to worry about her being alone. In our younger days I was always saying to her, “Maudie, you ought to go on and marry Corbett Pate and quit teaching. Raise a family of your own, instead of all them schoolchildren of yours.”

I reckon that might have hurt her feelings, like she didn't have anybody. She didn't much; her mama and daddy both gone for years, her only brother down in Florida.

“I think of my schoolchildren as my own,” she'd always say quietly to me. Bless her heart, she sure did. She loved her teaching and her children more than anything. I guess that's what finally broke her spirit and turned her into an old woman, when you think about it. The school board had to call a special meeting and ask her to retire after she turned seventy-five. Bad thing was, there wasn't a thing wrong with her; she was just old. People nowadays act like being old is some kind of a disease instead of a natural part of life. All the young parents, students that she'd taught when they were little, having a fit because she was still in the classroom, wanting someone just out of college with all the new methods of teaching with computers and things. It broke Maudie's heart. She never was the same after her retirement. I reckon the school board had a right to do that, but it never seemed right to me, after all those years she gave them.

But it's wrong of me to grieve too much for Maudie when she's in heaven with Jesus now, walking them streets of gold. I sure hope that Maudie finds heaven to her liking. Funny thing is, one of the last conversations me and Maudie had before she fell and ended up in the nursing home was about heaven. A while back now, but I recall every detail like it was yesterday.

Me and Maudie were sitting on her front porch. It was right after she'd retired and I'd gone over to sit a spell with her, to take her some of my peach preserves and some butterbeans I'd gotten up and picked early that morning. That was back when I was able to get around pretty good.

We sat there on her porch in the late afternoon, shelling them butterbeans, rocking and talking. It was a hot summer afternoon … I can see it plain as day.

Thing is, we started out talking about the library. Maudie was fussing, telling me the librarian Ima Holliman told her how they were going to start opening half days since the town council had voted to cut back on their funds. Maudie was more upset about this than I was. She always did a lot of reading, all kinds of books imaginable, while I only read the Bible and the
Guidepost
magazine. She'd said the only good thing about retirement was that she'd planned on doing all the reading she wanted, and now the town council had cut back the funds. I never heard Maudie talk ugly like she did that afternoon.

“Damn bunch of rednecks!” She ranted and raved. “Country bumpkins—only thing they ever read is
The Tuscaloosa News
. The sports section and the funny papers, at that.”

“Why, Maudie!” I'd said. Maudie was such a lady I couldn't recall ever hearing her use profanity before.

She went on and on about the library for a while before finally quieting down. Then me and her just sat rocking and shelling them beans, watching the sunset. Maudie's porch faces west, and the sun was setting in a blaze of pink. That hushed us because both of us had always loved to see the sun setting over Clarksville. We have one of the best sunsets in western Alabama, right here in Zion County. Maudie said it sometimes looked like her schoolchildren had colored it with their crayons, all red and purple and pink mixed together.

Then out of the blue, with us sitting there shelling butterbeans and looking at the sunset, Maudie turned to me and said, “Della, are you ready to go?”

Well, at first it like to have shocked me to death because Maudie was so well-mannered I'd never known her to be rude. First profanity and now rudeness. But when I looked up from my butterbeans at her, I saw she wasn't looking at me at all but was staring at that red sunset. Her lovely face and snow-white hair reflected the reddish-pink glow. Then I knew plain as day what it was she was talking about.

“No, Maudie. I ain't quite ready yet. I want to see Taylor finish school, maybe go off to college. 'Course I'd love to stay on and see him settle down eventually, too. How about you?”

She had stopped shelling beans and her hands were perfectly still in her lap. A smile came to her lips and she shook her head, the beautiful white waves stirring ever so slightly.

“I don't believe I'll ever be ready to give it all up. I'd really rather stay right here, in Zion County.”

Maudie's like me; she'd lived in the same house all her life, her daddy's house. But then she glanced over at me and continued. “But you know what, Della? It won't be long for either one of us, will it? After all these years together, it won't be long now.”

Neither of us said anything for a while; we just rocked and shelled quietly as the sun sank lower. Maudie finally raised her head to me again, and this time she really did surprise me.

“Della, do you think there's a heaven?”

At first I couldn't even answer her, I was so shocked. Why, Maudie was as good a Christian as they come. She had taught Sunday school and the women's missionary society long as I could remember. I just couldn't imagine her asking a question like that.

“Why, Maudie Ferguson! You read the Bible same as me. You know that Jesus tells us that if it weren't true, he wouldn't have told us.”

“He says there are many mansions, Della. What do you think that means?”

“Well, I believe it means big, nice palaces. And pearly gates, and streets of gold. Just like the good book says.”

“But, Della,” Maudie continued, frowning. “Neither you nor I would want to live in a palace, now would we? I don't care how fine it is, if it isn't home.”