Part I: Journeys (Chapter 37)

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Journeys

July 10, 1983– Nicole today!

Had to do extra shopping today, bought extra chicken breasts, fresh tomatoes, and new potatoes. Samantha and Nicole finally here, direct from Disney World. (Fla.). S. terribly sunburned, N. black as coal. Little Black Chicken, ha, ha. S. lost weight, much too thin now. Feast or Famine with that girl. N. called me Great Nana. Told her Nana good enuff. S. Nitpicks at her constantly. I told her

I’m glad you’re not MY mother.

I meant it, too.

Took the girls to Catholic Daughters potluck. The old ladies fussed over N., said she was a cute thing. Spoiled, spoiled.

Good food today, ate like a pig.


Lasagna (Hazel Leedom), Green Bean Casserole (Julie Casey), Turkey Meatloaf (Marguerite Whitlock), Orange Jello with Marshmellows and coconut (Doris Farlow), White Cake w/ Peanut Butter Frosting (Colleen Harrison), Homemade Chocolate Chip Cookies (Mary Lou Keenan). I brought homemade bread, none left to take home.

Wore my green plaid dress today, too tight around bosom. After lunch, tight everywhere.

Weight Today = 140 lbs. Too fat, what was I thinking.

Gluttony a Mortal Sin.

Diet tomorrow.

Part I: Journeys (Chapter 36)

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Journeys

“Do we have to go so fast?” Nana says as she grips the dashboard.

“We’re not going that fast,” I say, as I note the speedometer set squarely on 55. If nothing else, Sheldon is a careful, methodical driver who would rather die than break the law, even a minor one.

“In my day, we didn’t go so fast.”

“In your day, you didn’t have superhighways,” I say, watching the road ahead of us wavering in the Iowa heat. Mirage puddles glimmer ahead and then disappear just before we reach them.

“Well, we didn’t need them. No one felt the need to hurry so much. Everything these days is ‘hurry, hurry, hurry...’”Nana tightens her grip on the dash. “I’m afraid.”


Sheldon slows down to 50. Phil and Sal’s van, which has been following us, also slows downs and then whips around and passes us. As the van passes, I can see Sal’s mouth moving, “Is everything okay?”

Sheldon nods and waves the A-OK sign to the Millhouse vehicle. He glimpses over to his shoulder to Nana. “Better?”

Nana loosens her grip, but keeps her hand on the dash. “Maybe a little.”

“If I go much slower, I’ll be pulled over for being a nuisance.” Sheldon is being surprisingly patient with Nana.

“I’m 89 years old,” Nana says, her voice wavering. “And I’ll die soon.”

A simple declarative statement. I don’t know what to say–any reassurance would ring false, so I say nothing.

“I’m scared.”

Sheldon shuffles around in his seat.

I can almost sense his shift from grandson-in-law to therapist.

Sheldon draws in a deep breath. “So how do you feel about dying?”

The silence is palpable and hangs in the air like a hint of rotting flesh.


Nana pulls her hand away from the dash. She draws in a deep breath, tugs at the collar of her green Qiana blouse, and smooths out her matching Polyester pants. The pant legs have a sewn-in crease, but the left one is crooked. “What am I supposed to feel?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

“Do we have to talk about this?”

Nana turns around and wags her figure at me. “You keep out of this, little missus.” She places her left hand on Sheldon’s shoulder. “I’m not afraid to die, if that’s what you mean.”

“Well, then, what are you afraid of?”

Nana turns around and looks directly at me. “I’m afraid something bad’s up with Nicole, and I’ll never find out about it.” She stares at me, her eyes boring into me as if any secret could be drilled out through sheer O’Toole will power, and then she turns away. She runs her fingers through her hair.


I look out the window and watch as cornfield after Iowa cornfield passes by in a blur.

“I’m afraid I’ll never see my Nicole again.”

Part I: Journeys (Chapter 35)

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Journeys

I have never felt closer to Nicole. I’m grateful to Auntie for the inheritance, not that I wanted her to die. It’s not that at all. It’s just that Auntie’s money has allowed me to take Nicole on this trip to Disney World.

It’s been SUCH a great trip! Five days in the Magic Kingdom theme park, one day at Kennedy Space Center, and one day at Marineland.

I’ve always wanted to take my daughter on a vacation like this, but money’s always been tight, with my divorce, going to school, and all. I know I haven’t always been the best mother–all that past drug use must have blown my brain chemistry. It seems as though I have lived my life backwards, and I’m sure my zigzag course has affected my relationship with Nicole in negative ways.

Though she never says much about it. These days, she seems to be preoccupied with something else, something puzzling and mysterious–-I can’t put my finger on it. Maybe it’s just a kid thing.

So when Auntie died last year, and my inheritance confirmed, I said, “Yes! I’m taking Nikki to Disney World!” She’s nearly 13 now, but looks and acts 10, and I have one last chance to make things right with her, to let her know that my split with her dad wasn’t her fault. Not anyone’s fault, really, but definitely not her fault.

It’s also a break from Sheldon and his troubles with the divorce from Molly. He needs his space right now, I need mine. Win-win for all.

Besides, I’m not at all sure about my relationship with Sheldon. Now that he’s put the divorce into motion, I’m getting this thud in my stomach, a feeling that I can’t turn back now, that I’m committed whether I want to be or not. But that’s another story.

Still, I see other guys out there and I wonder if I’m really ready to settle down with one person.


I’m feeling thin and saucy these days. I knew I was really looking good when a college guy, a guide on the Jungle Cruise, asked me out. I know I appear younger than I am because this guy wasn’t the first college kid to ask me out, but never in front of Nikki before. I was SO embarrassed because Nikki kept asking questions about what the man wanted–-I told her he was just being a jerk, that it was nothing–but I was also flattered. If Nicole hadn’t been there, I might’ve accepted, but my daughter comes first right now. Still, it was tempting...

But I’ve got to focus on Nicole; she’s the reason for this trip, not a romp with some horny young stud muffin.

And she’s so excited, she can barely contain herself. When I first told her about this trip, I thought she’d wet her pants.

“Mommy,” she asked. “Are we REALLY, REALLY going?”

She kept asking me this over and over as if she needed to remind me of my promise, that I might forget about the trip, cancel at the last minute. I know. I’ve let her down before, but I always had very good reasons: school, last minute projects, jobs to keep body together and roof over my head. But I could always feel her disappointment, palpable and intense. They say children are quick to forgive, but not Nicole. That girl can hold a grudge like no other person I have known. But, eventually, even she comes around, usually signaling with a hug and a slurpy kiss on the cheek.

But, I knew, short of dying, I could never cancel this trip; this event denotes a definite turning point in our lives, a line that can’t be crossed–-this is more than just a trip to Disney World.

Our entire mother-daughter relationship hinges on it. In short, if I had let her down this time, our relationship would have been kaput. I can’t let that happen.

Every time I see Nikki, my heart does a little flip; I can’t believe what a pretty child she is, with her long shiny black hair and dark brown eyes–and she’s going to be a stunning adult. Thank God she’s never inherited my problem. She’s one of those kids who’s built like bean pole, straight up and down–-though sometimes I think she’s too thin.

I think she’s going to grow tall and remain lithe. God, I hope so.


She’s all angle and bone, at least that how I’m trying to paint her. At school, on my easel rests her portrait, as of yet unfinished. I have decided that her prevailing color is red, but I still have difficulties working with red; it hurts my eyes, and I just can’t quite mix the whites and blacks with red and still achieve the depth required. Professor Carruth, my painting teacher, says I’ll get it right soon enough...

Even if I never get the painting the way I want it, it’s okay. Just so Nicole can live her life easier than I’m living mine. I don’t want her to struggle keeping her weight down, going on diets all the time or paying the consequences of being fat when dieting becomes too hard, which inevitably it does.

And having a child who’s ashamed of you when you’re fat. That’s the hardest part. It’s bad enough when strangers stare at and judge you for being fat and sloppy and lazy, but when your child averts her head in shame when your rolls of fat shake like an earthquake, it just confirms your inadequacy.

I still have the note she left for me one morning before she left for school:

Mommy, You don’t have to go see Mrs Jackson after all, she says its okay if you don’t come tonite. I’m doing good in school and besides dad says he can go instead, both parents don’t have to be there, just one has to be there. Love your child, Nicole Anne Dunkel.

She was eight; at the time, I weighed close to 200 pounds. I could see her cringing at the sight of me pushing my bulk through the classroom door, the teacher and other kids staring at my wiggling fat.

That’s when I decided to lose the weight. It took me almost a year, but it was worth it. Now Nicole hangs on me, wants to be with me all the time, wants her friends to meet her “new” mom.

Even as I parade my new slender body, Nicole and I are still an unlikely mother/daughter combination. Unlike me, what with my pale freckled skin and red hair, Nikki’s dark complected like her father’s side of the family; she has inherited their dark brown eyes and jet hair. Sometimes I wonder how this un-Mallory-like child found her way into my womb; she’s Dunkel all the way, a soul mate to her dad.

And, yet, this trip has uncovered a surprising connection between us. Just the other night, I wanted Nicole to experience fine dining in an expensive restaurant because I don’t know when she’ll ever have the opportunity again; after all, when we leave here, we turn back into pumpkins.

I took her to a place called The Crab House–-okay, so it’s not exactly top tier in terms of fine dining, but when Big Macs tend to stretch your budget to the snapping point, a place like The Crab House might as well be the 21 Club or the Four Seasons.

We even dressed up, I in a thigh-slapping satin red number with spaghetti straps and Nicole in an aqua summer dress.


As we were seated and looking over our menus, I told her, “I’m SO lucky; I have a hot date with my beautiful daughter.”

Nicole blushed. “You’re my perfect mother.”

For that one moment, I was the perfect mother, and I was going to milk the moment for all it was worth.

“The sky’s the limit. Order anything you want.”

Nicole squirmed in her chair, and played with her menu. “I’m not really that hungry tonight.”

I laughed. “What does hunger have to do with anything?”

Nicole shrugged. “I dunno.”

I can hardly fathom a child issuing from my genetic pool not experiencing constant hunger. I can’t even imagine not feeling hunger; I can’t remember the last time I wasn’t hungry, unless my rare non-hunger was chemically induced with diet pills. Or, rarely, over-the-top indulgence or illness.

“Seafood is always a good choice, not too heavy.” I pointed to her menu. “What about that nice Shrimp Scampi dish?”


Nicole’s eyes grew big. “But it’s so expensive!”

“It’s okay, honey.”

So Nicole ordered the Shrimp Scampi with plain baked potato and steamed green beans. I ordered the Surf ‘n Turf–steak and lobster tail–-with side salad and ranch dressing, rice pilaf, and green beans almondine.

As we waited for our food, I looked over the desert menu. Chocolate-peanut Butter Pie, Key Lime Pie, Boston Creme Pie, Mississippi Mud Pie, impossibly-designed ice cream sundaes. “I hope we have room for desert.”


“Really, Mother,” Nicole said as she pushed a strand of black hair from her brow. “We don’t have to make pigs of ourselves.”

Like a flash, it hit me: my daughter might be naturally lithe, but it doesn’t mean that she doesn’t worry about what she eats.

Could it be she scrutinizes every bite that goes into her mouth?

The server brought our bread, some hot cheesy stuff that cranked my appetite into overdrive, and my salad. I ate both my and Nicole’s cheese bread. “I don’t eat that stuff,” Nicole said. “But I’ll take a bite of your salad.” She picked at my salad until she found a naked lettuce leaf.

When our main course finally came, I was ready to dive in. Bread never seems to satisfy my hunger; I don’t know why I continue eating it when I know it packs the pounds on my body and when it doesn’t really seem to fill me.


Bread draws me to the gustatory fire.

I was still so hungry that I felt gaunt, my body empty.

I noticed that Nicole picked at her food and made much of pushing it around on her plate, but she ate very little; I guess I shouldn’t have pressured her into ordering something exotic. Maybe she would’ve been happier ordering an ordinary burger or hot dog.

I felt guilty, I was thinking, Oh, baby, I’m sorry you don’t like your dinner; 10 years from now you’ll appreciate the finer points of this kind of dining.

“What will I appreciate 10 years from now?” Nicole asked.

A chill went through me; I don’t like anyone reading my mind, even my daughter. And I wished she could have enjoyed this meal more, our special time together.

“It’s okay, Mom. I’m just happy being with you.”

I reached across the table and held her hand.

Then I polished off her leftovers.

*


It’s our last day here at Disney World; it’s nearly 10:30 p.m., and I want to milk every minute of our time together. We’re still in the Magic Kingdom–the theme park doesn’t close until midnight, although the park is emptying out; unlike during the peak daytime hours, the lines have grown short and even non-existent. But I can tell that Nicole’s flagging, that when we finally hit our room, she’ll drop into bed like a stone. Still, I don’t want this day to end just yet.

“C’mon, Nikki! Just one more time,” I say, grabbing her hand and leading her to the Haunted House ride for the seventh time.


“Do we have to?”

Part I: Journeys (Chapter 34)

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Journeys

We pull up to the door of Happy Haven Nursing Home, and Phil pulls up behind us. I don’t like going inside these places, and Shel knows it, so he stops the engine and runs inside to the reception desk.

Such places always depress me–-Way Stations to Death. You have to wonder how death can survive in such clinical, antiseptic environments–-nurses in their bright whites, ammonia and cleansers in the air, gleaming floors, bland food, and boring activities. Death is here, sanitized, disguised as happy face posters and Bingo games.

Shel leads a young nurse, no more than 21 or 22, as she wheels Nana out to the car. I get out of the car and arrange the passenger seat so that Nana has enough room to stretch and put her seat back if she gets sleepy. I’ll sit behind Shel.


“I thought you forgot me,” she says, yanking the plaid blanket off her lap. “Don’t know why I need this. It’s at least a 100 degrees out here.” She tosses the blanket over her shoulder, hitting the nurse in the face.

The nurse jumps back, obviously taken by surprise by the flying blanket. “Okay, Mrs. Mallory,” she says, peeling the blanket off her face.

“You okay?” I ask the nurse.

“Fine,” she says, folding the blanket.

“Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay,” she whispers. “It’s part of the job.”

“Look, I’ll take that with us,” I say, taking the blanket. “It might cool off at Winnehaha.”

Nana starts to climb out of her chair.

“Wait, Mrs. Mallory,” the nurse says, taking Nana’s arm. She guides Nana into the front seat, and snaps on the shoulder/seat belt. “There. Comfortable?”

“It’s too hot.” Nana scrunches around in her seat and bunches up her sleeves.

“The air’ll be on soon,” the nurse says. “Have fun, Mrs. Mallory. See you later!” She waves goodbye to Nana and disappears inside the building.

“I’m hot!”

“I’ll start the engine,” Shel says, turning the key.

“I want my wheelchair with me.”

“There’s no room in the car,” I say. “Sal’s taking it in the van.”

“But I want it here!”

Sal jumps out the van and pokes her head inside Nana’s window. “What’s the major malfunction here?”

“I want my chair!”

“Ma, we’re going to be right behind you.”

“What if there’s an accident?”

“We’ll all drive carefully, won’t we?” Sal says, looking right at Shel.

“You bet,” he says.

“I hate being old and sick,” Nana says to no one in particular.

“But you’re looking real good today,” Sal says.

“I’m dying, and everyone knows it.”

“Oh, Ma...”

“Let’s get this show on the road,” Nana says, wagging a finger at Sal. “Time grows short.”



*

As we head for I-29, Nana folds her arms and scowls. “Heard you got in last night.”

“That’s right. About seven,” Shel says.

I brace myself for what’s coming next.

“Well, you’d think you’d find some time to visit an old woman instead of cattin’ around town all night.”

“Oh, Nana...”

Nana turns around and looks right at me. “Mark my words, little missus. When I’m buried up in Calvary, you’ll be sorry you weren’t nicer to me.”

“Sal said you were tired,” Shel says, merging south on I-29.


“So, what? I was waiting for you.”

“Sorry. We thought you were asleep. Besides, we were tired, too,” I say. “We had to make the trip here in two days.”

“I had some last minute clients I had to see,” Shel says.

“I don’t understand all that old shrink stuff.”

“Nana!”

“Well, I don’t. In my day, you were expected to get your head on straight yourself. None of this spillin’ your guts to an outsider. Family business stayed in the family.”

“The world is different now,” Shel says. “The pressures are worse.”

“I’m glad I’m dying.”

Shel and I don’t say anything. I, for one, don’t know how to respond to such statements, especially when I know they’re true. It’s no use sugar coating things for Nana.

“You all went out last night, didn’t you?”

I sigh. “Just to North Sioux for a few beers and to play a few slots. We didn’t stay long. Shel and I went to bed early.”

“I still think you could’ve visited an old woman first....”

I can see that this conversation is stuck in a loop, and so I search my brain for the “Ctrl-Alt-Delete” button that will shut this subject off. I decide to introduce another hot topic, one that I have been rehearsing for weeks.

“By the way, Nicole sends her love.”

Part I: Journeys (Chapter 33)

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Journeys

Gargantua Goes on a Diet

by

Nicole Anne Dunkel (Copyright 1982)

Once upon a time there was a little girl who ate SO many Bing Candy Bars she grew & grew SO tall that she looked DOWN on the Empire State Building. Her body was so stretched out that it couldnt stretch any more, but Gargantua, the not-so-little girl’s name, kept on eating Bings anyway & so all that blubber had to go somewhere, so it began spreading out, out, out. Gargantua grew into a blob of mountainous fat. She grew SO fat she couldnt move at all so the New York City Police decided to leave her next to the Empire State Building & build a fence around her. There she sat, Fall, Winter, Spring, Summer, while all the city folks gawked & stared & fed her all kinds of sweets. Once, some tourists from Sioux City, Iowa even gave her Bings.

One day, some people from the Modern Museum of Art decided to buy Gargantua & made plans to build an art gallery around her.

“Thank you,” Gargantua said. “It’s getting cold out here.”

But the museum people said building a gallery to fit around her would cost too much money. “You’ll have to go on a diet.”

“But I don’t want to go on a diet!” she wailed.

“You have to! We spent $1,000,000 for you so you have to do what we say.”

So Gargantua went on a diet, restricted to just 100 dozen Twin Bings a day.



“I’m SO hungry!” she wailed daily, every single day. But the museum people held fast.

Gargantua grew thinner & thinner & shorter & shorter.

Eventually, Gargantua grew small enough to fit the museum’s budget, & the building grew around her, until she was covered over by a glass pyramid.

People who visited the museum paid lots of money to watch Gargantua shrink.

This pleasant life continued for many years, but Gargantua missed her mommy & daddy.

One day, the museum people called Gargantua into the office.

“You are free to go,” they said cheerfully.

“But, you paid a lot of money for me, don’t I owe you some money for my room & board?”

“You’ve more than paid your room & board. We made over $12,000,000,000 (that’s billion!) on your exhibit.

Besides, look at you!”

When Gargantua looked at herself in the mirror, she was surprised to see a normal little girl with large brown eyes & long black hair staring back at her. She wore a pretty red dress with white dots.

“So we have to fire you, & bring in another Gargantua to fit in the exhibit.”

“Goody, Goody!” Gargantua said. “I can go back to mommy & daddy.”

“You can take back your old name.”

But Gargantua couldnt remember her old name, it was so long ago.

“We’ll look it up,” said Ms Moma, the head museum lady. She flipped through a card catalogue.

“Aha! I found it! Your real name is ‘Nikki’!”

So Nikki packed up all her new skinny clothes & vowed to NEVER EVER eat another Bing Candy Bar.

She went home to her mommy & daddy.

Except mommy was gone & daddy was crying. Mommy told daddy she didn’t love him anymore & ran off to college.

Gargantua wished she had some Bings.

THE END

P.S. Nikki stayed with her daddy for many, many years, and when her mommy got old and sick, she stuck her in a nursing home.

Part I: Journeys (Chapter 32)

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Journeys

“Just grabbing a quick smoke,” Ruby says, firing up yet another Virginia Slims. “I never know where I can smoke around here.”

Pool side. We’re about to head out for the reunion, but I can’t find my sandals and thought I might have left them out here. Instead, I find my sister dragging on a cigarette.

“I’m sorry,” I say, trying to sound sympathetic, but, I, too, dislike secondhand smoke, though I’d rather die than admit this to Ruby.

“Well, it doesn’t matter.” Ruby draws in a deep drag. “We’re going home tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? I thought you were staying until Tuesday.” Three days from now.

“Ray’s got work piled up.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, he’s working on a diesel engine. He needs to finish by Friday.”

“I see.” I might be dense, but the fog eventually clears like a curtain opening up: my sister can’t wait to escape this family–what has taken me years to figure out has taken Ruby just hours. She’s just trying to be polite about it, but, in essence, she’s telling this family to kiss her skinny white Southern ass.

“Where’s your daughter?” Ruby asks.

“Nicole?”

“I was looking forward to meeting her.”

“She couldn’t come.”

“Why?”

I draw in a deep breath. I’m tired of lying. Besides, Ruby already knows about Roger, the Circle of Love, and Nicole’s pregnancy. “Because I told her not to.”

“I don’t understand.”

I tell her about my fears, how Nicole’s condition might shock and kill Nana, blah, blah, blah. In the retelling, my reasons are beginning to sound and feel hollow.

“That’s it?”

“Well, I’d feel guilty if Nana up and died because of Nicole’s outrageous behavior.”

Ruby shuffles around a bit. She stubs out her cigarette in a cereal bowl, a makeshift ashtray.


“I dunno about that...”

“What’s not to know? Nana’s very frail right now.”

“Maybe so,” Ruby says, pulling another cigarette out of her pack and tapping it on Sal’s redwood fence. She puts it between her lips but does not light it. “But it seems to me she’s not going to get any less frail. From what I hear, it’s only a matter of time...”


“...But it doesn’t have to be today.”

“What the hell difference does it make? I mean, if your Nana has a chance to see her granddaughter one last time and die today OR live a bit longer, what choice do you think she’d make?”

I just want to tell Ruby to mind her own business, that she, an interloper, has no idea what she’s talking about, that she’s a de facto outcast who will probably die young from lung cancer, that my memories of her cute cherubic 22-month-old face will carry her only so far, and that I’m about to give her a serious piece of my mind.

But I’m not about to do anything that would open up our familial chasm even deeper. I couldn’t bear that.

Besides, what she says strikes a chord, perhaps just a soft, minor one, but, like in “Bolero,”one that is likely to grow and intensify.

So I say nothing.

“Y’all got to stop judging each other so much,” Ruby says, finally lighting up her cigarette. She takes in a long drag and blows smoke toward the sky.

“Samantha!” Sheldon’s distant voice. “C’mon. Time to go. Everyone’s waiting!”

As I turn to leave, I find my sandals nestled under some Bridal Wreath, next to an old Twin Bing wrapper.

Part I: Journeys (Chapter 31)

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Journeys

I don’t understand why you won’t come to the funeral. She’s your mother, and you should want to pay your last respects. I’ll even pay for your airplane fare, just tell your professors why you won’t be in school. No one’s going to flunk you for going to your own mother’s funeral. Can’t you take your finals during summer vacation?

I just don’t understand you, Samantha. Even if you don’t see her as your mother, she’s still your sister, and you love all your sisters, don’t you?

I know California’s a long way from Pennsylvania, but haven’t you heard of that new invention called the jet airplane? If you don’t come, it’ll break Johnny’s heart. He loved your mother so much, and she treated him so mean. And now she’s dead....

Poor Johnny cries all the time, and he asks about you. Says he has something important to tell you. I can’t imagine what, though. You really should put all that old bitterness behind and get your head on straight. Stop acting like the spoiled brat that you are.

And don’t you want to see your little brothers? Johnny junior’s 15 now, doin’ real good in the group home, and Georgie’s 13. Plays football at his junior high. Tsk, Tsk. They grow up so fast, I just can’t believe how big they are now.

You know, Sal’s upset with you. She thinks you’re being disrespectful to your mother, and people’ll talk if you don’t come. If you hurry, you can be here by tomorrow, and the funeral’s not until the day after.

I said I’d pay your fare. It’ll cost me a fortune, over $800, but don’t worry about the money. I’ve always managed somehow on my investments and social security. I’ll just skimp somewhere, maybe not go to Bingo for a year or not paint the trim on the house. I’ll find the money somewhere, maybe borrow it from Auntie. It’s important that you come, and if I have to tell you why, then all the college education in the world isn’t going to make you smart.

I just don’t know what I’m going to tell people. Sometimes, I wonder if you really belong to us, if the hospital didn’t give your mother the wrong baby. I’ve heard of such things. If you didn’t look so much like your mother...

I don’t understand why she had to die so young. Tsk, tsk, 48 years old. Why her liver gave up like it did. Just look at your Uncle Freddie. He drinks like a fish, always has, and he hasn’t got a bad liver. And he’s 75. That old fart just keeps going. Mean as hell and proud of it. Maybe your mama just wasn’t mean enough.

I still don’t understand why my Rosalyn couldn’t stop all that old drinking. Why all that booze was so important.

I tried everything to get her to stop. I really did, but there’s only so much a mother can do....


I just hope you learn a lesson from this. If you don’t start watching what you eat, you’ll die an early death, too. They’ll need a derrick to bury you. You remember old Mrs. Niles, don’t you? She’s buried in a piano case, you know. She was so big, they had to buy two burial plots for her. Can you imagine? Remember that old saying? Now what was it? Oh, yes.

“Don’t dig your grave with a fork.”

I called Dean Platts. He asked about you, wondered how you’re doing. Says he’s glad you’re going to college, that he always knew you were smart. He gave me Ruby’s phone number. You know what she said when I told her the news and offered to pay her way to the funeral? She said, “I’m really sorry, Grandma Mallory, but I didn’t know her.”

Part I: Journeys (Chapter 30)

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Journeys

The car radio is tuned to a jazz station. “Taking the Plunge (for Jennifer)” from Spyro Gyra’s Alternating Currents album wails through the four speakers, and I get this urge to hum along.


Instead, I help Shel load up the trunk of the Jetta: one cooler filled with beer, soda, and ice; another filled with potato salad, hot dogs, lunch meats, and hamburger; grocery bags filled with buns, potato chips, and condiments; and two Orioles’ bags stuffed with swimming suits, towels, and long pants for Shel who freezes to death when the temperature drops below 75 degrees.


Rolled up and stuffed in the back, along with dozens of failed attempts, is my latest painting, a geometric self-portrait in various tints of Prussian Blue, my trademark color. This 48" x 72" masterpiece is the culmination of my life’s work, the result of at least a hundred false starts–an attic filled with flawed selves, some of them stretched and framed, but most of them only half-finished and rolled up, stuffed into the eaves. I just can’t seem to destroy those mistakes, and yet I can’t show them to anyone; it’s important I keep them safely hidden away, away from those who would judge and stamp them as “unacceptable.”

Although I’m almost certain that I was awarded the grant to France on the merits of this latest work, I haven’t yet decided if I’ll show the painting to my relatives. I’m not sure they would understand its significance in my life. Mostly, I’m afraid they’ll laugh at my work and marginalize it just because they won’t understand it.

Next to the painting is a portfolio filled with some old letters, photos, and other memorabilia, stuff I haven’t even looked at in years. I even have copies of those letters I wrote a few years back to George, my prisoner pen pal. I wonder whatever happened to him? I’m not even sure why I have dragged the portfolio along. I doubt very much if I’ll be sharing most of that stuff with my family.

“Samantha!” Shel shouts from the top step leading into Sal’s house, “I can’t find my jeans.”

“I’ve already packed them.”

“Oh.” Shel bounds down the steps and pokes his head into the back seat. “God, look at this mess!”

Debris from the trip litters the floor: McDonald cups and wrappers, candy papers, old newspapers, and crumpled paper towels.

“We’re picking up Nana in five minutes,” I say. “Sal says they don’t have room in the van.”

Shel slaps his forehead. “I’ve got to clean this mess up. Can’t put her in this pigsty.” He begins swooping up garbage and tossing it into a trash can outside the garage. He does this until the car is cleaned out. Then he slaps his hands together. “Still a filthy car.” He looks into the trunk. “We even have room for her wheelchair?”

“Sal’s taking it in the van. So we’ve got to make sure we all arrive at the nursing home and then at Winnehaha at the same time.” I jump into the passenger side and turn down the volume on the radio, which is now playing Heavy Weather by Weather Report.


“Complicated arrangements...”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, it’s nothing.”

Part I: Journeys (Chapter 29)

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Journeys

St. Patrick’s Day, the night before his funeral, Pappa comes to me in what appears to be a dream, but I know it isn’t. Dreams feel different, somehow, more surreal and symbolic, and Pappa’s visit is, well, concrete:

I’m walking up a large hill near St. Boniface, my old grade school. Somehow, I know this is where we have agreed to meet, it feels right to be in this place at this time. It’s a bright sunny day–looks like October, my favorite month, blue sky, scarlet and yellow leaves, not an icy day in March. I’m walking uphill when I feel him behind me. I turn around. He dashes up the hill like a young man and catches up to me.

“Not bad, Sammy Anne, this spiritual life,” he says, not even a little out of breath. He still looks the same–balding, gray hair, lined skin–but he has a spring in his step that I don’t remember. “I just couldn’t leave without saying some things to you,” he says.

“I was hoping to get to Sioux City before you, well, you know–”

“–Died. It’s okay to say it. I was ready, though I was hoping to hang around long enough to catch a few words with you. You know, you REALLY should work on that fear of flying.”

“I know.”

“What’s the worst that could happen?”

“The plane would crash, and I’d have to join you here forever.”

“Damn right! How’s Doug and Nicole?”

“Just fine. Nicole’s getting so big–almost four now–and Doug, well, he got laid off again, but we’re going to be okay–”

“It’s not going to last, this thing with Doug–”

I can feel the tears in my eyes. “I know.”

“I can’t tell you any more–as it is, I might be putting in some extra Purgatory time for shooting off my mouth. But you’ve got to be prepared.”

“I’ll make it last as long as possible.”

“Yes, I know you will.” Pappa points toward the horizon. “Let’s go over there, by that wall. There’s some other things I need to talk to you about before I go.”

We are sitting on what appears to be a cloud.

“You know, when you die, things become clear, like someone lifting a black curtain from your eyes. You get smart real fast. I know things now.”

I don’t want to hear any more. Even in death, Pappa should not know the details of my life.

“I’m sorry if I didn’t understand you better.”

“It’s all in the past.”

“I should’ve been there more–”

“It’s okay.”

“That bullshit with Dan and that creepy chiropractor–”

“Please...I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I always knew there was something funny about that doctor.”

“Stop, Pappa!”

“Even said something to your Nana about him, but–”

I put my hands over my ears. I want to go back to Sioux City, away from this place where there are no secrets. “STOP IT!” I break into tears.

He takes me in his arms and strokes my hair. “Okay, okay.”

“There’s just so much going on right now.”

“I understand. But don’t you know you’ll always be my little girl, and I can’t stand it when...?”

“I’m a woman now.”

“I just can’t stand it!” He buries his head in his hands and sobs, his body shaking. I put my arms around him.

“It’s okay. Really,” I say, my turn to comfort him.

We hold each other for a long time, knowing this will be the last time we’ll ever see and touch each other. I wish we would have done it more in life.

And then I realize that even this time together grows short.

As if he has read my mind, Pappa pulls away from me and looks at his watch, a duplicate of the VFW watch I have inherited. “I think we still have some things to talk about.”

“Maybe.”

“Please. It’s important.”

“We’ll see.”

“It’s just that your Nana and me, well, we never knew the kind of kid you were. We just thought you were ordinary, maybe even a little on the stupid side–”

“I know.”

“We were wrong. We didn’t know what was going on in your head.”

“No one did.”


“Things could’ve been different–”

“It’s a moot point. Besides, you were what you were, and I am what I am. I just got dropped among the wrong people, that’s all. It happens.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I still love you.”

“Oh, God, I love you, too.”

“Just tell me one thing....”

“Anything.”

“How come we never took Ruby home with us?”

I might as well have taken a whip to Pappa.

He shrinks from me, turns away, and folds his arms. “You’ll have to ask your Nana that.”

It’s then that I realize that I won’t be getting the answers I need, at least not from him.

“Let’s walk,” I say, touching his shoulder.

He turns around. His eyes are red.

As we walk, I notice that we are again walking the periphery of my old grade school. I try tugging at the chain link fence that surrounds the school property, but the links have no substance, and it’s like pulling at air.

“I remember walking you here that first day. Your little hand was shaking so much.”

“I was scared shitless.”

“I loved those times. You were so innocent–”

“Please, Pappa!”

“I’m not going to pry, Samantha. I just need to tell you some things.”

“Okay.”

“I haven’t always lived a good life,” Pappa says. “You should know this before anyone else says anything. I want you to hear it straight from me.”

My grandfather tells me about his alcoholism and how he stopped drinking back in 1935, how his bootlegging operation almost cost him his marriage to Nana, how he started the bookie business. He hints that there may have been another woman at some point in his life, but that had been long ago, even before Sal was born, and the relationship never really went anywhere.

As he tells me these things, I begin to see another man, a younger version of Pappa, a slim man with dark brown hair and a quick sense of humor evident in his blue eyes, the swain who must have swept Nana off her feet back in the early 1920s. I no longer see the old man diminished by age and illness, but just a young man with a tiny bit of the devil in him.

“I’ve no regrets, Sam. I lived my life the way I needed to live it. I never felt I did anything wrong. I just did what I had to do.”

And, suddenly, I realize what this otherworld visit is all about, why my grandfather really needed to see me one last time.

“You’re so much like me it scares me. But I was a man, and the rules were different for me.”

The anger rises up in me, not for my grandfather, really, but because I know what he says is true, that my road will be filled with obstacles, my life disapproved of by dowagers with wagging tongues.

“I’ll be just fine,” I say. “And I’ll live the way I see fit.”

“Oh, God. I hope so,” Pappa says, hugging me close. “Just be careful.”

“I just don’t know if I can.”

“Well, then. That’s all I’ve got to say. Time to go.” He pulls away from me. “Bye, honey.”

“Bye, Pappa.”

I turn away from him. Ahead is a hole in the fence. Somehow, I know this is the way back.

“Samantha?”

I turn around. He’s so far away now that I can barely see him, but his voice resonates clearly in my head.

“Yes?”

“You WILL sing again.”

Part I: Journeys (Chapter 28)

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Journeys

“When I die,” Aunt Sal says, “I want something important for my obituary.” She looks up, her eyes following the electrical lines which run directly over the swimming pool in her backyard.


I used to dream about those wires crashing down while I swam laps, and for a while, I refused to swim in Sal’s pool. But, now, I figure that I’m more likely to pick up an exotic disease there than have an electrified wire snap apart and fry me to death. Sometimes, you just have to narrow your fears down to a few major ones. Otherwise, life gets too damned complicated. I’ve got my fears narrowed down to the big three: flying, chiropractors, and Sheldon catching me in bed with Ian.

“That’s why I decided to join the Board of Eminent Domain. That’ll look good in my obituary when the time comes.”

“Well, what d’y’ll do on this board?” Ruby asks, taking a drag on the ever-lit cigarette.


Sal shrugs. “I don’t know. I was just appointed. My first meeting’s next week.”

“They condemn your property,” I say, “And then they snatch it from you for a song for government purposes.”

“Over my dead body!” Sal says. “Not on MY board.”

“That’s the general idea, your reason for being, Sally-baby.”

Ruby leans her head back and closes her eyes. “Hardly seems fair government officials coming in willy-nilly and taking your land.”

“Well, all I can say, I’m gonna be a watch dog. See that no one gets ripped off.”

“Like the Winnehaha deal?”

“Well, at least they built something fun, not just another old road!”

Ruby sits up. “What’s ‘Winnehaha’?”

“Long story. Indian tribe claimed some land and a lake out by the airport.” I tell her about the casino and theme park.


“Oh. Isn’t that where we’re going for the reunion?”

“That’s it,” Sal says, rubbing her hands together. “Maybe we can get in a little slot action.”

“I don’t gamble,” Ruby says. “Might as well throw money into the gutter.”

Sal and I just look at each other.

A person with Mallory blood who doesn’t gamble?

No way!

An awkward silence. What can the three of us possibly talk about? I could always rib Sal about something, but I don’t really want her getting started on the weight thing, not with Ruby around.

“Well, it sure does sound like important work, this Eminent Domain stuff,” Ruby finally says.

“I like that: E-m-i-n-e-n-t--D-o-m-a-i-n. Should look REAL good on the obit page.”

“They always leave out the really interesting stuff,” I say.

“Like what?” Sal asks.

“Well, you know. Like old Charlie Simms having three wives at one time.”

“That’s libel!” Sal says.

“Not if it’s the truth.”

“Well, it just isn’t right, airing someone’s dirty laundry out in public.”

“But it’s interesting. God, can you imagine opening up the paper every day, just knowing that something juicy’s going to be printed, like when they dug up old Mrs. MacIntrye’s dead baby in the basement? Fifty-five-year-old corpse. Remember that?”

“Ma was beside herself,” Sal says. “She still thinks the old bag should have gone straight to jail for murder.”

“Except that Mrs. MacIntyre was in a coma, hooked up to a respirator.”

Sal gives me the look. “Don’t get Ma started on that today.”

“Not a chance. I’ve got better things to do.”

“Well, good.”

“The point is, when she died, there was nothing in her obituary about the dead baby. It was all very dry. She was born, she married, she had a surviving son, the husband died, was a homemaker for 65 years, blah, blah, blah. Not even a mention of a baby that died.”

“Sam, you’re ill.”

“I think it all sounds like a good idea,” Ruby says. “I mean, why not lay out the bad with the good stuff? Show life like it is.”

“Because you gotta show respect for the survivors. Their last memories should be good ones. Say, I’m working hard on getting together an outstanding obituary. I’ll kill anyone who farts with it.”

Ruby and I snicker.

I rub my hands together. “I can see it now:

SALLY MALLORY MILLHOUSE

Champion of the Oppressed
Board of Eminent Domain
Slot Players Association

Sally Mallory Millhouse, 99, died at 12:01 a.m. Sunday morning just after hitting big at the Winnehaha casino. She hit quadruple sevens for a total of $150,000. Family members were slot-side and were helping to count out winnings when Mrs. Millhouse, widow of the late Phillip Millhouse, was stricken.


Mrs. Millhouse was born on December 24, 1936, in Sioux City. She was the daughter of Charles Wickham Mallory, notorious bootlegger of the 1930s and local bookie before his death in 1974–”

Sal jumps up from her chair. “Where’d you hear that?”

“I–”

“You just strike that last bit right now–”

“Lots of bootleggers where I come from,” Ruby adds.

“Well, I want it out–NOW! I don’t want my kids knowin’ about all that old stuff.”

“I used to go with Pappa when he collected his bets.”

“So what. I tended bar when I was 10. Look, Samantha, long after you go back to Pennsylvania, I have to live here. Dad’s shenanigans might be cute to you, but I have to live with ‘em. So, cut it out.”

“Okay, okay, we’ll edit that last piece–”

“Forget it, Sam. Save it for your psychedelic wake. I’ll write my own obituary.”

Part I: Journeys (Chapter 27)

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Journeys

At Pappa’s funeral, I get this urge to laugh. I don’t know why, there’s nothing funny about my Pappa laid out in his casket, soon to be lowered into the ground. But I can’t help it. First, I begin to giggle; I try stopping, but that only makes it worse. Nana digs her elbow into my side, but that doesn’t help, either. But now, I’m holding my sides and laughing so hard that the entire congregation stares at me. Father Salvatore has just stopped the Requiem Mass, and I’m sure they’ll all be gossiping for the next 50 years, but who gives a fuck? I’m only 23 years old, and I’ve just lost my Pappa. A very funny man who did gross things with his false teeth, who told humorous stories about a curly-tailed dog that died long before I was born, a man who had taught me the fundamentals of booking bets at the dog track. I have lost that forever. I have the right to laugh however and whenever I want. It’s just that the absurdity of living and dying–or maybe it’s the echo of the eighth grade choir in the throes of their hormone war–has hit me in a way that I can’t ignore. The absurdity of finally figuring out what family is all about, only to have a significant part of it ripped away forever. I can’t stop the obscene guffawing. Guttural sounds rise up from my gut, and I’m gagging. Cousin Jimmy comes for me and says, “C’mon, Samantha, let’s go outside for some fresh air.”


As Jimmy leads me away, I look around the church, and I don’t see any strange children there. Not that my grandfather’s family would ever need to hire children to attend his funeral–the church is packed with mourners, most of whom I don’t even know–but, still, he was my grandfather, and I would have hired children anyway, just for good measure, for extra Indulgences, even if we had to stack the little brats in the vestibule or stuff them into the trapezoidal confessionals or make them stand outside on the icy steps.

Outside on the landing, I feel nauseated; I lean over the wall and let loose of the bile and waste of the past 23 years, and it keeps on coming up, and I know it’ll never stop unless I make it stop, and even when the stuff is gone, my gut is still racking with spasms.

Finally, I’m finished, I’m tired, and I’m ready to go back inside, to say goodbye, to mourn.