The Queen of Sleepy Eye (16 page)

“Let's talk about something else.”

And so we did. H pointed out star constellations. I told him how close the Gilbertsville debate team had come to winning the Illinois state championship. We talked about our most embarrassing moments and how scary the world had become.

“Wait until you get to California. That's a scary place.”

“How would you know?”

“We visited my aunt and uncle in Pasadena a couple years ago. They live above the Los Angeles basin in the San Gabriel Mountains.
In the week we stayed there, the smog was so thick, you couldn't see anything in the valley. It was like flying above the clouds. They'll be wearing gas masks before long.”

The girls with straight, blonde hair would figure out a way to look cute with their hair plastered down by gas mask straps. For me, it would be
Bozo Rides Again,
chapter three thousand. “That's depressing.”

“Disneyland was neat, and despite third-degree burns on my shoulders, I liked the beach. Maybe I could visit you and teach you how to body surf.”

“I'm not that good in the water, remember?”

We discussed the Equal Rights Amendment, the Cold War, and Earth Shoes.

“Do you have a theme song?” he asked. “Mine's ‘One Tin Soldier.'”

“I didn't know I needed one.”

“It's a cool song. It's about people who are only interested in the material value of things. They don't get what really matters. The heroes will be the people who stand up to protect the spiritual things, the things that can't be bought and sold.”

“You sound like a hippie.”

“No way. They're the ones destroying all that's sacred. They say they've found a better way, but all they're doing is making excuses for bad behavior.”

I yawned. “They're not all like that, H. You can't make generalizations.”

“Why not? They do.”

“If you believe that, then you'll need a new theme song.”

H eased himself up to one knee. “The coast is clear. Let's go.”

* * *

H AND I squatted in the lilac hedge behind the funeral home. “You have to go straight home,” I said.

“I'm walking you to the door.”

“That's too dangerous. I'm going through the basement. Jim won't be able to see me from the street.” I fished the key ring out of my purse. I gripped the padlock key with one hand and touched H's arm with the other. “You're ten times the man he is.”

“Only ten times?”

“Don't press your luck.”

“I deserve a kiss for saving your life, don't I?”

“You almost crushed my hand.” I left H and sprinted across the lawn. The closer I got to the basement door, the faster my heart pounded. This would be my first visit to the preparation room where Charles worked with the bodies. That was how badly I didn't want to see any more of Jim that night. I waved H off and stepped into the darkness of the basement.

I waited for my eyes to adjust to the dark. The stairs to the kitchen couldn't be far off, but I wasn't interested in feeling my way to a light switch. The streetlight's beam barely bled through the narrow windows. Before long the form of a table took shape along with an assortment of bottles hanging from poles and rubbery hoses.

Enough!

I oriented myself. The stairs to the kitchen should be just a few paces to the right.
Right … okay … just a few steps and I'm home
free.

“Oh Lord, get H home safely and help me find the stairs.”

A passing car's headlights scanned the room through the window and stopped to illuminate the wooden stair railing. “Thanks, Lord.”

Mrs. Clancy tugged at the lapels of her funeral suit, a polyester jacket that no longer closed over a white blouse and a skirt that pulled tightly over her bottom. She nodded at Pastor Ted who surprised us all by setting two chairs in front of the casket to face the three daughters of Vilda Hardin, the deceased. He patted the seat next to him. “Amy, why don't you join us?”

I turned to offer Mrs. Clancy my seat, but she had already left the room.

Mrs. Clancy had run Mrs. Hardin's obituary in the newspapers of three neighboring towns. Only the daughters appeared to pay their last respects. None of them looked happy about being there, but even if people weren't particularly broken up about someone's demise, they usually maintained a somber countenance. The daughters looked more disgusted than mournful.

The most outspoken daughter wore motorcycle leathers—jacket emblazoned with skulls, fringed chaps over skin-tight jeans, and boots Paul Bunyan would have rejected as too cumbersome. Since she
didn't sign the guest book or introduce herself, I dubbed her Motorcycle Mama. Next to her sat a mouse of a woman. Her gray hair lay down her back in a spindly ponytail. She busied her hands straightening her collar, smoothing her perfectly obedient hair, and snapping the clasp of her purse open and closed, open and closed. Her eyes scanned the room as if judging the shortest distance to an exit. Of the three daughters, the next woman—Jane, from the introduction she'd made as the first to arrive—was the kind of woman who worked at a bank or sold real estate: confident, comfortable, and collected. Her navy suit followed the curves of her body, and her hair bent into a smooth bob with winged bangs. If she'd been in Home Economics with Lauren and me, we would have dosed her brownies with Feen-a-Mint when she wasn't looking. That kind of perfection couldn't go unchallenged.

Pastor Ted checked his watch. “I guess it's time to get started. Since this is an intimate gathering, I think we'll all be more comfortable sitting together.”

The mouse sister redoubled her search for an exit.

“Let me say a little prayer to get us started, and then Amy will perform the song she prepared for today.” He bowed his head and clasped his hands. I paused long enough to see the sisters exchange looks. I felt three pairs of eyes boring holes into my scalp as I waited for Pastor Ted to pray.

“Dear Father in heaven, you understand the pain of separation these sisters are feeling today. Comfort them. Be near as they say good-bye to their dear mother.”

I cringed at Pastor Ted's prayer. Obviously, Mrs. Clancy hadn't briefed him on the broken relationship between the deceased and her daughters.

“We ask you for grace to remember the good times and the mercy to release the bad. In Jesus' name, Amen.”

Pastor Ted nodded at me, and I strummed the introduction to “Great Is Thy Faithfulness.” When singing for a crowd, I sang over their heads to the people standing near doorways, the ones ready to flee if the program proved disappointing. I appreciated their honest and immediate feedback. The circle of chairs felt claustrophobic. I closed my eyes.

“Is this absolutely necessary?” asked Jane.

I stopped singing.

Motorcycle Mama and the mouse stared Jane down.

“One verse will be sufficient,” Jane conceded.

Pastor Ted patted my knee, a signal meant to start me playing. I sat frozen.

Motorcycle Mama said, “Do you know ‘The Old Rugged Cross'? That was Mama's favorite.”

Jane leaned forward to speak around Mouse. “And just how do you know that?”

“You'd be surprised what I know about Mama.” Motorcycle Mama turned to me. “Sing all of the verses, won't you?”

“Sure.” I played a short introduction and sang a bit up-tempo for a funeral to speed things along. When I sang, “Then He'll call me someday to my home far away,” Motorcycle Mama sniffed, Mouse sighed, and Jane groaned. I plucked faster to hurry through the chorus one last time. The chair scraped against the floor as I stood to leave.

“That was lovely,” said Pastor Ted with a hint of surprise in his voice. “But don't go away. We would love to hear you sing again. I had no idea you were so talented.”

I scanned the faces of the sisters. Motorcycle Mama smiled to reveal a golden front tooth. I sat down, but I held my guitar like a shield.

Pastor Ted leaned back in his chair. “Let me be perfectly honest
with you ladies. I didn't have the pleasure of knowing your mother. I did some calling around to see if I could talk to a few of her friends, learn a bit about her for my message, but your mother treaded lightly on this earth. I didn't find one soul who knew her.”

“Treaded lightly? That's because she used us as her stepping stones,” Jane said. “I could have saved you a lot of trouble, Reverend.”

“It wasn't any trouble at all.” He cocked his head as I'd seen boys do when they wanted to soften a girl's heart. “Perhaps you can help me.”

“I can help you, all right.” Jane crossed her legs. “Our mother wasn't happy unless everyone around her was miserable. I can hold my own in a roomful of businessmen without breaking a sweat, but every time I saw her—and I made a point of coming to Colorado four times a year—she pushed and pushed until I cried. Nothing I did satisfied her. If I brought her a yellow nightgown, she wanted a blue one. If I extended my stay as she wished, I should have stayed longer. She ruined every event she attended.” Jane leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “After I'd been awarded a scholarship to any school in Michigan, she bragged about a friend's daughter who had won a Duncan Scholarship to Harvard.” Jane's eyes became slits and she sneered as she mimicked her mother. “‘Why didn't you do something I could be proud of? Going to Harvard, now that's something.'”

Mouse played with the hem of her jacket. “She wasn't always like that.”

“How would you know, Monica?” Jane countered. “I can't remember you speaking to her, let alone incurring her wrath. Did you enjoy watching me take all the hits?”

Motorcycle Mama scooted her chair to look at Jane. “We all know Mama would never win Mother of the Year, but she didn't have the greatest teacher either.”

Jane wagged her finger at Motorcycle Mama. “You've always made excuses for her.”

Pastor Ted raised his hand. “Now, girls—”

Jane scooted to the edge of her chair. “You didn't look over your shoulder when you left.”

“You had a way of getting under her skin.”

“A mother's love should be unconditional.”

“Interesting. You're an expert on mothering, are you? That would explain why you haven't spoken to your son in six months.”

Jane slid back in her chair. “You don't know anything about me or my son. I haven't seen you in—” She glanced at Pastor Ted. “It's been several years.”

“It's been eight years this August.” Motorcycle Mama tucked her chin. “Your son calls me every Sunday.”

Jane deflated as if someone had poked her with a pin. Outside, yet another truck thundered by, and children riding by on bicycles called to each other. Pastor Ted sat motionless. Surely the man had something magical to say to lighten the mood.

Instead, Monica asked him, “Why are you even here? There's not one solitary thing you can do for her. Our mother is in hell.”

“Is she?” he asked.

Monica blinked at the question. “Of course she is. She never went to church … and she used the Lord's name in vain constantly.
And
she smoked tobacco.”

“We did too go to church. At least we did when I was little,” Motorcycle Mama said. “Just Mama and me, and Monica. Jane joined us when she was born. We went every Sunday. I remember because Mama wouldn't let me wear my cowboy hat into the church. I put up an awful stink about that, and she still made me go.”

Pastor Ted rested his elbows on his knees to talk to Monica.
“Anyone who claims to know where your Mama is right now would only be guessing or wishing. She has only one judge, and he has a welcoming heart for sinners. He keeps knocking at our heart's door until we respond—or not. In fact, Jesus granted the thief on the cross entrance into Paradise. That wretch of a man had never attended a church in his whole life, made his living preying on the hardworking and guileless, and yet he walks with the Savior today.” Pastor Ted straightened. His voice cradled me. I felt safe. “I'm not here to judge your mother or to pray her into heaven. You and me, we have the same job, to love God and those around us and to tell the story of God's love to anyone who will listen.”

“So you're telling us there's room in heaven for women who treat their daughters like dirt?” Jane asked.

Motorcycle Mama's chair fell backward when she stood. “Do you remember the last time I got sick of listening to your sarcasm, Janey dear?”

Jane made a tent of her hands over her nose.

“Okay, okay, okay,” Pastor Ted said. “Let's all take a deep breath, take a moment to collect ourselves.” He righted Motorcycle Mama's chair. “Have a seat, Raylinia.”

Raylinia?

“It's Ray.”

Jane cradled her head in her hands. Monica crossed and uncrossed her legs. Ray flexed her neck until it popped.

“Your mother left a painful legacy of disappointment for you girls, but that doesn't matter to us today.” All heads popped up, including mine. Pastor Ted took on the vigor of a coach whose team had given away home-field advantage. It was halftime. The dispirited team members needed reminding of their objective. “Your mother had her life and her chance to make of it what she would. Now it's your turn.
God has given you a sphere of influence. You have family—certainly two sisters each—maybe a husband and children, I don't know. You have friends, coworkers, neighbors, a postal carrier who brings your mail, and clerks where you shop, or a trusted mechanic.

“What legacy will
you
leave behind? It's up to you. Your mother's gone. She won't be looking over your shoulder to pass judgment on what you do or don't do. You're free to be the people God created you to be. Will you choose to be happy? Will you choose to be generous with your approval and kind to people who disappoint you? Will you be an understanding ear for someone who has experienced crushing shame?”

Jane started to speak, but Pastor Ted held his hand like a stop sign. “I wouldn't try to answer these questions today. There's too much swimming around in your heads. I'm going to pray for you, and Amy will sing something of her choosing. Is that all right with you, Amy?”

The first song that came to mind was “She'll Be Coming Around the Mountain,” a song the Basement Beacons performed to rouse a quiet audience.
Keep thinking.
Something spiritual. Something comforting. I plucked an introduction for a chorus I'd learned for Vacation Bible School.

After the service, I peeked through the drapes to watch the sisters linger in the shade of a tornado tree, taking turns looking at their feet and sharing a hankie for their tears. Ray opened her arms to Jane who fiercely gripped her sister. Monica inched closer to join the knot of sisters.

“Close that drape,” ordered Mrs. Clancy, her purse and ledger
book in hand. “This isn't a circus. People deserve their privacy.” And she left.

I moved to the kitchen door, feeling the need to hug Mom and to cook something special for dinner. Maybe she would stay home that night and play Monopoly. She usually sat in the shade of the garage during services, smoking and reading magazines. That day wasn't any different, except she wasn't alone. Through the screen door, I watched Charles bend to light Mom's cigarette. She turned her head to blow the first puff of smoke away from him. He leaned against the garage. Mom laughed at something he said and closed the magazine in her lap. She had never closed a magazine for me.

Charles crouched against the garage. Mom sat a car's length away. The image of a man coaxing a feral dog to take a bone from his hand came to mind. I shook the image away. He was probably telling her about his dream to own a mortuary with a state-of-the-art preparation room and a room equipped with lighting to eliminate postmortem makeup. No wonder Mom had stopped laughing. Besides, Charles was old, thirty-eight he'd told me, and not much to look at with his meatloaf belly and bland features.