The Improper Life of Bezillia Grove (22 page)

chapter fifteen

S
amuel was coming home. That’s what the newspaper said, that’s what Nathaniel said, but somehow I still couldn’t believe it. And although Christmas was just a few days away, I honestly didn’t spend one minute thinking about presents or lighted trees or shepherds standing watch by a manger in an old dilapidated stable outside of a two-bit town in the middle of a desert. Not this year. All I could think about was Samuel Stephenson, the beautiful boy who spoke my name with more tenderness than even Shakespeare or the Virgin Mary could have imagined.

We were all counting the days till he came home, even Mother, though I’m not sure she really remembered who Samuel was. She said she did, but I think she just wanted to share in the excitement. There were a lot of things Mother didn’t remember anymore. Apparently when they send a bolt of lightning through your body one too many times, it can knock part of your memory right out of your head. But she was getting better, at least that’s what Maizelle said. She said she could see it in her eyes. And even though there were brief moments when I had begun to recognize the mother I used to know, I wasn’t quite so sure.

Adelaide had made a chain out of construction paper, the kind it seems we all learned to make in kindergarten as soon as the teacher trusted us with a pair of scissors and a jar of paste. She hung it all around the kitchen so Mother, Maizelle, and I could see with our very own eyes exactly how many days it would be until Samuel was home safe and sound. That chain seemed long enough to wrap around the world when she first made it. Now there were just a few pieces of paper left, dangling above the kitchen sink.

Nathaniel and his wife were planning a special prayer service and a big party afterward in the fellowship hall underneath the church’s sanctuary. Samuel was a hero, and he deserved a hero’s welcome, they said. They mailed handwritten invitations to everybody they knew, including us. But Nathaniel said that, before even one piece of cake was cut, we were all getting down on our knees and thanking the good Lord for bringing his son back in one piece. There were too many parents out there, he said, whose boys had come home in boxes. He didn’t know why that had to be. He’d just add it to a very long list of things he figured he’d never fully understand until he stood at God’s feet. So only after the good Lord was thanked and praised would we head downstairs for some of the best barbecue in all of Nashville.

Nathaniel could not stop smiling. Just talking about his son coming home left him trembling with excitement. He walked into the kitchen and looked up at Adelaide’s paper chain and nearly shouted, “Three more days! Praise the Lord, three more days!” Then he headed into the dining room looking for Mother’s tea service. Polishing the silver might just calm him down a bit, he thought. Maizelle said she thought it might take a shot of whiskey and then turned around and walked out of the room, laughing to herself.

The front doorbell rang shortly before noon. Adelaide, Mother, and I had all gathered in the den. Adelaide was sitting on the floor writing Christmas cards to a few of her friends. She had made them herself, using the rest of her construction paper and pieces of silver and gold foil left over from some long-forgotten school project.

Mother was relaxed on the sofa, knitting Samuel a sweater. Not long after she came home from the hospital, she’d picked up a pair of Adelaide’s knitting needles, and she hadn’t put them down since. I had never seen my mother knit, but she said she used to do all sorts of handiwork when she was a little girl.

She chose a deep red yarn for the body of the sweater and then placed a bright green Christmas tree, perfectly trimmed with shiny blue ornaments and topped with a yellow star, right in the middle. And even though I couldn’t picture this sweater on a young military hero, I looked at my mother and reassured her that Samuel would love it.

Uncle Thad came in from the back and knelt down by the fire just before the bell rang. He had three logs tucked under his left arm and snowflakes stuck gently to the top of his head. He carefully stoked the fire, making room for fresh wood but careful not to throw sparks onto the rug. It had started snowing not long after breakfast, just enough to lightly cover the ground, just enough to make everyone want to sip hot chocolate and listen to Adelaide’s collection of rock ’n’ roll holiday albums on Father’s old record player.

“Lord have mercy, if you don’t look like a Christmas card yourself,” Maizelle said as she walked to the front door. But when she saw a young, dark-skinned girl standing on the porch, she dropped to her knees and cried out loud. Nathaniel came running from the back of the house. He let out a scream from somewhere so deep within his belly that I was afraid his insides might come spilling right out of his mouth. The sound washed through my body, leaving me numb and scared, and for a brief moment I found myself hiding behind my mother. Sometimes, even now as an old woman when I dream about Samuel, when we’re wrapped in each other’s arms underneath the cherrybark oaks, I wake to the sound of that tortured cry. The young girl rushed into the house, not waiting for anyone to formally invite her in.

“Daddy, no, it’s not what you think!” she cried. “It’s not what you think. Samuel’s fine. Samuel’s here. He’s home. He got here this morning, not long after you left. He wanted to surprise everybody. Mama told me to come and get you. Everybody’s at the house now waiting for you. Daddy, stop crying,” she pleaded softly, realizing that her sudden appearance had left her father thinking that his only son was dead and gone.

And like a set of dominoes tipping forward, we all seemed to fall to the ground, so overwhelmed with relief and joy that even the weight of our own bodies was too much to bear. Mother, in a fit of unexplainable tears, wrapped her arms first around Nathaniel and then Maizelle. And once we’d caught our breath, Adelaide and I started screaming with excitement. Adelaide said she just couldn’t believe it because there were still two paper loops hanging over the kitchen sink. I’m really not sure how long we stood there. Time seemed to have no meaning that day. Finally my uncle mouthed something to me that I couldn’t quite understand. He motioned for me to come closer and then spoke quietly in my ear.

“Bezellia, sweetie,” he said, “go get Nathaniel’s coat and hat. We need to drive those two on home. Neither Nathaniel nor his daughter is fit to be behind the wheel of a car right now. They’re just too overwhelmed with emotion to think straight, let alone drive across town. I’m not sure how that girl got here without winding up in a ditch. The roads are already getting a little slick. I’ll drive Nathaniel’s truck, and then you follow in mine, just put some good snow tires on it the other day.”

But I stood there, like a schoolgirl playing freeze tag and waiting for her turn to run. Shocked maybe by the excitement, at least that’s what I think Maizelle would have said. My uncle kept talking to me. I guess repeating the same instructions until I finally nodded and stumbled down the hall, feeling my way with my hands. My eyes were clouded with tears, but I found the closet by the back door and reached for the brass knob in front of me. When I touched Nathaniel’s hat, the soft, worn felt between my hands, my body started shaking uncontrollably. Nathaniel was wearing this hat the day he introduced me to Samuel. He was smiling so big, so proud of his boy. Now Samuel was finally home. That’s what his sister had said. She walked right up to my front door and said it. But I was almost afraid to believe it was true. I wondered if Nathaniel felt the same way.

Uncle Thad drove directly in front of me, checking his rearview mirror every second or two, careful to keep me close in his sight. I could see Nathaniel and his daughter on the seat next to Uncle Thad. I could tell the two of them were laughing and crying just by the way their heads kept bobbing up and down. I had never been on the other side of the river. Mother used to say there was nothing over there worth seeing. “That’s where the colored live, Sister. You cross that river and you just might get shot.” That’s what she used to say.

The houses were smaller and closer together, but the streets seemed tidy and well kept. Even under the gray December sky, the neighborhoods, all decorated for the holidays, looked welcoming and friendly. Small children bundled in heavy coats were walking on the sidewalks with their mothers, hand in hand. No one was carrying a gun. No one was lying drunk on the side of the road. I wondered if Mother had ever been over here or if she had just made all of that up.

Nathaniel’s house was made of stone and topped with a black-shingled roof. A large porch wrapped around the front, just like ours. It was bigger than the other houses on the block, and his yard was planted with grand, aged boxwoods and scores of hydrangeas looking dormant and twiggy in the winter cold. A lush pine wreath was tied to the front door, and brightly colored lights tacked along the roof-line were blinking on and off again, seeming to welcome everyone who walked by. And right in the middle of the yard stood a bare old oak tree with a huge yellow ribbon tied around its trunk. It looked as though it had grown weary waiting for Samuel’s return.

Cars were already parked along both sides of the street as far as I could see. Men in work clothes and dark suits and women in woolen coats and colorful hats had filled the yard, patiently waiting their turn to get inside the house and wrap their arms around their hometown hero. In a strange way, it reminded me a little of my father’s dying and all the people who had come to pay their respects, except this time everyone truly cared.

Nathaniel jumped out of the car and rushed to the low gate that surrounded his property. He fumbled with the lock, and when the gate finally swung forward, he almost fell onto the grass. A large man grabbed him by the elbow and led him into the house. His daughter stumbled behind them. Every few steps somebody would grab her and give her a big hug and then set her free again. And just as soon as she’d regain her balance, someone else would scoop her up in his arms and hug her so tight it looked as if her tiny little back might snap in two just like one of Maizelle’s green beans.

By now, everyone standing out in the front yard had turned around and was looking at Uncle Thad and me. No one readily spoke or invited us in, and I realized I felt as out of place in this world as Samuel must have felt in mine. Uncle Thad offered a few quick hellos and then gestured for me to get in the car. But again, I just stood there, seemingly frozen in place. I desperately needed to see Samuel. I needed to tell him that I’d got his letters. I needed to tell him that I’d read each one at least a hundred times. I needed to tell him that I still loved him. But I wasn’t welcome here. I could see that.

Uncle Thad said this was a very emotional day for this family, and we needed to give them some time alone. Maybe so. Maybe I’d have a chance to talk to Samuel later. We didn’t see Nathaniel again that week. His daughter called the house and said that her mother and father surely appreciated the large bouquet of flowers Mother had had the florist deliver as well as the country-baked ham. They had been eating on it for two days now. They sure looked forward to seeing us at the church on Saturday, and she promised that her daddy would be in touch as soon as he could.

Maizelle visited the family two or three times, always carrying a chicken noodle casserole with her. She said Samuel’s mama didn’t need to be worrying about cooking any meals right now. She just needed to be loving on her baby boy. Maizelle always came back from the Stephensons’ looking happy and kind of mad all at the same time—happy to see Samuel again and mad that he had been sent to that jungle in the first place. She said some days she felt like throwing a brick right through the president’s big white house. Samuel had nearly given his life, she said, for a country that probably wasn’t going to treat him any better now that he was home. “Not right. Just not right.”

I asked her a thousand questions about Samuel every time she came back from a visit. And she patiently answered them all, although she’d look at me with one eye slightly closed and her head tilted sharply to the right. “Samuel coming home hasn’t changed anything, sweetie. You remember that.” But she was wrong. It had changed everything.

Late Friday afternoon, Nathaniel called the house. Mother spoke to him from the telephone in the kitchen. I could tell she was trying not to cry, but her voice quickly grew weak and teary. I didn’t think too much of it really. Mother found more and more to cry about these days—a pretty sunset, a perfect rose, even one of Maizelle’s fresh, hot pound cakes could reduce my mother to tears. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and lowered her body into one of the kitchen chairs, the one with the uneven legs, and gently started rocking back and forth.

Nathaniel and his wife wanted the Groves to sit with his family at the church service tomorrow. Mother told him she didn’t deserve such an honor but promised we would all be there on time. And she’d be real happy to bring another ham if he thought they might need it. Nathaniel told her that their stomachs were good and full for now, but he would see her at the church tomorrow morning.

“Can you believe that?” Mother said as she handed me the receiver. “Nathaniel wants us to sit with his family.” She just sat there and smiled, big tears once again welling in the corners of her eyes. She was so pleased to be considered part of Nathaniel’s family. I couldn’t help but wonder if she could remember the way her daughter used to admire Nathaniel’s son when he came to work at Grove Hill.

The next morning, precisely ten minutes before eleven, the Grove family walked into the sanctuary of Mt. Zion A.M.E. Church and took our seats on an old, hard wooden pew right behind Nathaniel and his wife. A crisp white bow was tied on its end, indicating that this space was reserved for the Stephensons’ family. The church was packed with people waiting to welcome Samuel home, except everyone else was black. I knew they were looking at us. I could feel their stares falling across my back. But surely, I told myself, countless men and women had sat on this very same pew—praising God, begging for some needed strength and courage. So now I rubbed my hand against the wood, trying to absorb the gifts of the generations who had rested here before me, who might have even found my presence in their church strange and awkward too.