Prayers and Lies (15 page)

“That girl could sell ice to Eskimos,” my father crowed at dinner one night. “Who knew she’d have such a head for business?”

“I bet I could sell things, too,” Tracy trilled. “Don’t you think I’d be a good salesman, Daddy?”

“Probably so, baby.” Daddy smiled. “But you’ve got a ways to go before you can get a job.”

The very next day, Tracy announced she had taken a paper route. For the next two years, she diligently delivered newspapers after school every day, dragging the large canvas bag full of rolled papers in a wagon behind her. Sometimes she paid me a penny a paper to help her roll them. Her customers loved her, often tipping her far more than any of the other carriers received, and Daddy beamed when he talked about his two budding business tycoons.

Melinda spent her days at the YMCA. She was on the swimming and diving teams, and she worked long hours on her rolls and butterfly stroke. Daddy went to all the meets, cheering himself hoarse from the side of the pool. All of Melinda’s ribbons hung from a corkboard in his office, and he proudly boasted of his future Olympian, too.

I spent the summer reading, writing letters to Reana Mae, and whining at Mother. I didn’t remember a summer when we hadn’t gone south, and I didn’t know what to do with myself. I went to the pool with Melinda sometimes, but I didn’t want to swim on the team. I followed Tracy on her paper route, rode my bike to the park, drew chalk pictures on the sidewalk, and bitterly resented my father for keeping us at home.

“I don’t know why we can’t go to the river,” I complained daily. “I think Daddy is just mean to make us stay home.”

After a week or so of this, Mother’s patience wore thin and she told me that every time I complained about staying home, I would have to put a dime in the gripe jar she made and set out on the kitchen counter. After losing a dollar’s worth of dimes, I stopped griping out loud. But I was not happy.

Part of my unhappiness stemmed from Reana’s irregular letters. I wrote to her diligently, twice a week at least, bemoaning my fate and maligning my father. Her letters came less and less frequently that summer, and she seemed not to miss me at all. In fact, Reana Mae sounded happier than I’d ever known her to be. In June she wrote,

Today we had the biggest game of kick-the-can you ever saw. Every kid on the river played, and Caleb was IT. Just when he thought he had everybody, I ran in and kicked the can over. Harley Boy swore he let me kick it, but I don’t think so. Caleb don’t let nobody beat him.

Two weeks later,

Bethany, you are missing the best summer ever! Caleb and me cut a real path all the way to the beach. Boy was Harley Boy suprised! He even got mad and said he was going to do that and we took his idea. But Caleb just laffed at him and said Harley was jelus cause we did it with out him.

In July,

I swam all the way across the river today!!! I was scared to at first but Caleb swam with me the hole way. When he is not working at granpa’s store we swim all the time. And mama don’t even yell when I come home late like she used to. She just smokes her cigs and don’t say anything.

The only dark cloud on Reana’s summer parade seemed to be her daddy’s long absences. Despite his promises in March, Bobby Lee was taking longer and more frequent hauls. Reana Mae wrote that he hadn’t been home more than four days all summer. Still, on the whole she seemed to be having the time of her life. Without me.

Near the end of July, Daddy announced that he was taking a two-week vacation. We sat in stunned silence, gaping at him. Daddy had never taken a whole two weeks of vacation before.

“Are we going to the river?” I asked, already planning in my head all the things I wanted to do with Reana Mae.

“Not this year.” He grinned, winking at Mother. “This summer the whole family’s going to …” He paused just long enough for us to get impatient. “Florida!”

He beamed proudly, Mother smiled, and the other girls squealed in excitement.

“Florida! Oh, Daddy, that’s so cool!”

“Are we staying at the beach?”

“Will the hotel have a pool?”

“We’ll get so tanned!”

I sat sullenly, watching them.

“What’s wrong, Bethany? Don’t you want to go to Florida? Land of the golden sun!” Daddy tweaked my chin.

Mother stood behind him, watching me. She smiled hopefully and nodded.

So I nodded, too.

“Yes, Daddy. I want to go.” I could hardly get the words past the lump in my throat, but I smiled and blinked back the tears stinging my eyes. “That’ll be great.”

Satisfied, he turned to the others, who were peppering him with questions. Mother touched my cheek lightly and smiled. I ran upstairs to write to Reana Mae.

We drove to Florida in the big old station wagon, each of us commanding her usual spot. Mother and Daddy sat up front, of course. Nancy and Melinda laid out their blankets and pillows in the backseat. Tracy and I took the back end. Daddy laid out all the suitcases, then spread several blankets over them. Tracy and I sprawled on top of these, amusing ourselves by sticking our feet out the back window, making faces at the drivers of cars behind us, and bickering.

Our destination was Bonita Springs on the Gulf Coast. We were going to see our Grandmother Araminta. I didn’t remember having seen her before, though Daddy swore I had. Now she had lung cancer, and Daddy was bringing his girls to visit her before she died. I wondered, as we drove, what I would feel for this woman who was my daddy’s mother but wasn’t my Aunt Belle. I wondered what Daddy felt for her, too. If he was worried at all, it didn’t show. He sang nonsense songs, teased my mother, and ate jelly beans as he drove over the speed limit through Tennessee, slowing to obey the signs in Georgia, then speeding again when we hit the Florida state line.

On this special pilgrimage, we didn’t pack our meals. We ate in real restaurants and stayed in real motels—which turned out to be not nearly so glamorous as we’d imagined. Six people in a single motel room did not lend itself much to glamour. Mother and Daddy slept in one bed, Nancy and Melinda in the other, and Tracy and I spread the blankets from the back of the car on the floor to sleep.

We unloaded the car just after lunch on the third day at a small motel six blocks from the ocean, raced for the bathroom to change into our swimsuits, then waited impatiently while Mother donned her suit and Daddy found the cameras. Finally, we climbed back into the car and drove to the beach, where Daddy fumed at the injustice of paying fifty cents for a parking place, and we swam in the ocean, letting the waves knock us about, screaming at the cool water, while Mother fussed about sunscreen and sharks.

The next morning, we showered and shampooed and donned the Easter dresses mother had draped so carefully across the motel beds. Daddy paced about the small room, barking orders and checking the cameras again and again.

“Nancy, you are not wearing those green stockings. Helen, did you see Nancy’s stockings? She can’t wear those today.

“Melinda, tie your hair back, for Pete’s sake! You look like you just got out of bed.

“Bethany, where are your shoes? No, you can’t wear your sandals. Where are your nice shoes? I know your mother packed them. Get them on your feet … now, Bethany!

“Tracy, where are you? Helen, where’s Tracy? What’s she doing in the bathroom? We’ve got to go, ladies. Come on, we’re late!”

I’d never seen my father so nervous. Mother moved wordlessly from suitcase to suitcase, finding stockings and hair bows and patent leather shoes. Finally, we lined up for inspection. Daddy looked us over critically, pronounced us fit to be seen, snapped a couple of pictures, and herded us to the car.

“No, girls, you can’t ride in the back in your nice dresses. Tracy, you sit up front with us. Bethy, you’re with Nancy and Melinda. Everyone ready? Okay, let’s go.”

The apartment my grandmother shared with her daughter was in a gated village called Green Palm Estates. It seemed like everyone who lived there was old—white-haired men toddled around the lake; leathered old women lay like so many raisins by the pool. I’d never seen so many old people.

The buildings were pink stucco, the railings on the walkways dark green. The August sun glared down so hot and white, it washed out the colors to faded pastels. The humidity was unbelievable . By the time we’d trudged around the man-made lake to our grandmother’s door, the curls Mother had so carefully crafted in my hair clung limply to my neck. My bangs stuck to my forehead like wet tissue. Daddy mopped his bald spot repeatedly. Only Mother looked cool and collected, as she always did.

Before Daddy even knocked on the door, it swung open and a tall, thin redheaded woman stepped out and flung her arms around him. She kissed Daddy on both cheeks, then drew back to look at his face. She had more freckles than any human being I had ever seen, more than Melinda—more than could ever be counted, I thought.

“Hello, Jimmy! Hello! We’re so glad you’re here. And, Helen.” She turned to Mother. “It’s wonderful to see you. And look at your girls.” She breathed deeply, apparently enraptured at the sight of us. “My goodness, you all have grown up into such fine young ladies. Why, the last time I saw you, you were just little girls. And now look at you all.”

So we did. We looked at one another, to see if we really were fine ladies. But we were still only us—dressed in our finest, to be sure, but sunburned red and drenched in sweat.

“Girls, you remember your Aunt DarlaJean?” Daddy pointed to each of us in turn. “DJ, that’s Nancy, Melinda, Tracy, and Bethany.”

“Why, that cannot possibly be Bethany Marie!” the woman cried, apparently disbelieving her brother’s words. “Darlin’, you come over here and give your Aunt DJ a hug.”

She scooped me in with her long thin arms and crushed me to her bony self.

“The last time I saw you, you were just a little baby! Suckin’ on a pacifier and hangin’ on to your mama’s skirts. And look at you now! Look at all of you. Well, my soul and salvation, I’d never have known you could be so grown up. Sakes alive, Jimmy, where does the time go to?

“Well, come on in, come in, all of you. You must be wilting in this heat. August is
not
the time to visit Florida!”

We stepped into a delicious burst of cold air.

“We keep the AC running nonstop during the summer. It’s just unbearable outside, you know. Did you see the ladies down by the pool? How they stand this heat, I will never fathom! But they’re down there every blessed day!

“Now, you all just sit down and make yourselves at home. I’ll get us some nice, cold lemonade. You like lemonade, Bethany?”

I nodded, smiling.

She bustled out of the room, and I sank down onto the couch beside my sisters. The room was cool and dark, the shades drawn against the sun. Once my eyes had adjusted to the abrupt change, I saw that the room was decorated in the same colors as the outside buildings. The sofa and chairs were patterned with huge pink peonies and dark green leaves; the walls were pink, the carpet dark green.

And then I spotted the memorial wall. That’s all I can call it, really. At the end of the room the furniture simply ended and the wall stood blank—except for the pictures. There must have been a hundred of them framed on the wall. Each photo was matted in pink and framed in dark green. The effect was dizzying.

I rose and went to take a closer look, then nearly dropped back into my seat. The pictures were of us—me and my sisters and my parents—all of them. In one lower corner, I even saw a photo of our dog, Skipper. There were baby pictures and school pictures and Nancy’s latest prom picture. Snapshots of family picnics, Melinda with her swimming ribbons, Tracy with her friend Lynette, me opening birthday presents. In the middle of it all, smack in the center of the wall, was a huge black-and-white portrait of my parents on their wedding day—Daddy grinning with a full head of reddish-blond hair, Mother smiling shyly in her long white dress.

I turned back to see Mother smiling at my reaction, as my aunt reentered the room, carrying a tray of glasses and a pitcher of lemonade.

“That’s right, Bethany. There you are.” She beamed, pointing at my baby picture. “There you all are.”

She sat down in the rocking chair across from the sofa and began pouring lemonade. “Your daddy sends us all kinds of pictures, you know. Why, we hear all about you girls, so we feel like we almost know you already.”

I sat back down on the couch as Daddy asked, “Where’s Mother, DJ?”

“She’s resting in her room, Jimmy. She always takes a nap late morning. She don’t sleep much at night.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Well, she’s been better, Jimmy. She’s been better.” Aunt DJ sighed. “Some days are good, some not. But we go on as best we can. What else can you do, after all? Helen, would you like a sugar cube in your lemonade?”

“But, DarlaJean, what do the doctors say?” Daddy leaned forward, his brow creased.

“Oh, Jimmy, you know how doctors are. They’re always pestering her to come to the hospital. They want to stick her with needles and fill her full of drugs. And she don’t want any of it, no, sir! And neither do I, you know. I can take care of her just fine here. We do fine together, the two of us. We always have, you know.”

Daddy’s brow furrowed deeper. “But what kind of treatment is she getting, then?”

“Well, right now she ain’t doing that, Jimmy. She just wants to stay home and let me take care of her. And I do, you know. I take care of her, just like always.” She smiled proudly.

“Is she taking chemotherapy?” Daddy asked. “Are they trying any drugs? What are they doing for her?”

“Well, Jimmy, it’s like I told you, Mama don’t want those drugs no more. They made her sick as a dog, I can tell you. She was sicker on ’em than she was before. It was just awful! Now she just wants to stay here and let me take care of her.”