Tending to Virginia Page 12
“Charles has always worn boxers,” Cindy said, ten weeks married and six months pregnant. “He went right from Buster Browns into boxers and I’m telling you it was like one of those fertilizer spikes that you stick into your potted plants, thousands of fertile little things making their way to the root. I was helpless I tell you; this baby had took root before I could even get myself back in the front seat of the car. Charles and I were both virgins.” Cindy’s face was so serious that Virginia didn’t even laugh at the “virgin” part. “You better watch out Ginny Sue,” Cindy said. “I’d give anything right now to be skinny and wearing hotpants, hanging out at the Texaco station in Clemmonsville drinking beer.”
Virginia pulls into her parents’ driveway and everything is just the same, always the same, the cool thick ferns hanging on the small front porch, that worn vinyl cover on the glider, the windows sparkling clean both inside and out. It is cool inside, neat and orderly, as she makes her way down the carpet runner in the hall where there are pictures of her and Robert at every stage of their lives, except now. There is no big fat picture of Virginia. Her most recent is from the wedding, Mark holding the car door while she gets in, waving as if she will never return. She stares at the picture, the suitcase in Mark’s hand, and realizes that she has brought absolutely nothing with her, not even a toothbrush.
Now she has the impulse to move, to get out and walk, get some exercise, some air. She’ll walk to the duplex, certain that if her mother is not there right now that she soon will be.
“I’m home,” she yells into the living room where her father is sunburned and dozing on the couch. “I’m going to Gram’s,” she adds but he only mumbles and turns. The TV is on, tuned to MTV which her mother says he has watched faithfully since they got cable. The Stray Cats are singing “She’s Sexy & Seventeen” and this girl is running around in her bra and underwear. It makes Virginia feel like she’s missed out on something; it makes her feel old.
The smell of the hot pavement reaches her and again she feels that odd sense of detachment like her arms and legs all operate separately. Ginny Sue is pregnant. Virginia Suzanne is with child. She wishes Gram still lived in the old house, the high ceilings and window fans, the bedroom on the back corner overlooking the garden and side yard. Her grandfather built that house in 1917. It was way out of the city limits then, but closer than the farm where her grandmother grew up and he picked her up in his buggy, rode toward town and when he got to the clearing he stopped, took her hand and said, “That’s ours, Emily. It might not look like much but it’s ours.” Virginia knows that story by heart, every twist and sigh of Gram’s voice, “and he proposed right there in the buggy and we went and sat down right in the middle of where our house was gonna be, and then we took sticks and drew just what we wanted there in the dirt.”
“We’re going to be renting for quite a few years,” Mark had told Virginia as she stood in that rented kitchen and surveyed the peeling plaster, all of the boxes that she had to unpack.
She has only gone three blocks and already the sweat has gathered in her thick hair; she wishes she had a rubber band and could yank it into a high ponytail like she used to wear when she played in all of the vacant lots that are now crammed with new houses. She doesn’t know who lives in any of them. There is a woman in the front yard of the Peterson’s old house fixing a sprinkler while two little girls stand off to the side in their bathing suits. “Hot isn’t it?” the woman calls and she nods, loosens the strings on her tennis shoes. Virginia doesn’t tell the woman what they said on the radio, doesn’t tell her that she is draining the Saxapaw River. The sprinkler begins to twirl and the two girls run close, their faces and outstretched arms catching the spray.
“Don’t touch the sprinkler,” the woman calls across the yard while one of the girls squats over it. “Did you hear me, young lady?” The girl makes a face at her friend and promptly obeys. “Don’t make me have to tell you again.”
Don’t make me have to tell you again. Virginia has heard it a thousand times. “You let Robert stay out past eleven when he was my age,” she had said all through high school. “It’s a little different,” her mother always replied. “Robert is a boy.”
A son is a son until he takes a wife, but a daughter is a daughter all of her life. That’s what her mother says; that’s what Gram says. “I cannot tell Susie how she’s ironing Robert’s shirts all wrong, the way the collar stands up,” her mama says. “Robert is my son but he’s a grown man and I can’t go telling his wife how to iron.” Then there is a pause, a deep breath like a big secret is about to be revealed. “But you are my daughter and I can tell you that a little spray starch is all it takes. A little spray starch will go a long way.” Virginia just listens, nods and listens; she takes shirts from the dryer when they’re still warm, puts them on a hanger, buttons a couple of buttons.
Virginia should have driven. Her feet feel so heavy, lead, concrete; watching the sprinkler makes her dizzy. One more block. One more block to the duplex.
“Hey Ginny Sue!” She hears the familiar scream, the horn toot, and sees Cindy’s car all at the same time. Cindy gets out of the car with the engine still running and props her elbows on the hood. “Look at you now, grown a foot since last week. Like the dress?” She steps around in front of the hood and poses, her hands on her hips, eyes squinted against the sun, five or more chains dangling down the neck of that sundress that Virginia will never squeeze her body into again. “You got no business walking the streets. Hop in.” Cindy gets back in the car and Virginia sinks into the passenger seat, the air-conditioning vent turned on her. “Ginny Sue how I saved her from a life of walking the streets.” Cindy grinds out the cigarette that she had left in the ashtray. “You don’t look so good, Ginny Sue. Where you going, the Old Folks Home?”
“Yes,” Virginia nods, leans her head back into the seat, that vinyl so cool against her back and neck. “Where are you going?”
“Over to Del Taco for a little lunch for me and Constance Ann.” Cindy turns the radio down a little. “We just got that new Del Taco and me and Constance Ann are hooked on nachos.”
“Hmmm,” Virginia says, the thought of a nacho making her sick, the thought of anything in her mouth or on her stomach.
“You are about the biggest knocked-up girl I’ve ever seen,” Cindy says and stops in front of the duplex, the sun so hot on that treeless lawn, yellow brick, storm door. It looks like it should be an office of some kind. “I can’t wait to tell you about this man I’m dating; he went to Saudi Arabia once and can shag like hell. If I’d known you were coming to town, I would have pulled a sick.”
“I hadn’t planned to come but I ran out of things to do,” Virginia says, still studying that duplex, Felicia stretched out in a lawn chair on her half of the yard.
“God, I wish I’d run out of things to do for once.” Cindy picks at her eyelashes in the rearview mirror. “Are you going to spend the night?”
“I don’t know,” Virginia says, wondering now what she is going to do. It doesn’t seem as important as getting indoors where it’s cool.
“Spend the night,” Cindy says. “I’ve got plans but I could see you first thing in the morning while Chuckie’s still at Mama’s. I’ll tell you all about my date at Ramada Inn that I’ve got tonight. . . .” Cindy’s voice trails off in a lingering question as if hearing about her date will make a difference in the decision. Virginia is thinking now of all of her things left behind in that house. She did not even make the bed or wash the dishes from last night. It’s not like her to leave an unmade bed; if you sleep in an unmade bed, it feels like you’ve been sick all day. She wants to tell Cindy the real reason she’s here, but she feels short of breath, has to keep swallowing. Cindy doesn’t notice.
“I would call in sick but Constance Ann would have a fit if I didn’t bring the nachos. I’ve got so much to tell you. Mama is so on my nerves and Chuckie is a pain in the rectum.” Virginia forces a laugh, her hand on the door handle. Cindy’s whole vocabul
ary has changed since she got her job at the medical center, rectum instead of asshole, breasts instead of titties; it’s been a positive change.
“I’ll talk to you before I leave,” Virginia says, lifts her hand to Felicia, who is sitting up, her hand shielding the sun while she looks at them parked there.
“All right,” Cindy says and starts singing “We’ve a Story To Tell To The Nation,” which is a song they had to memorize for Girl’s Auxiliary. Virginia hated GA’s; she dropped out before she even got to be a maiden, just like she dropped out of Brownies before ever being a Girl Scout. Cindy was a Girl Scout, she said because everybody else was one. Cindy got to be a queen in GA’s. “It isn’t because of the religion,” she had told Virginia. “I did it so I could get me a long white dress.”
“Have fun,” Virginia says and opens the door, the heat hitting her full force. “Thanks for the ride.”
“Sure thing,” Cindy says. “I’ll tell you all about tonight. Well, maybe not ALL of it, not in your condition.” Cindy laughs and pulls away from the curb, her arm waving out the window until she rounds the corner.
“Well, aren’t you something?” Felicia asks. “You look real good Ginny Sue.”
“Thank you.” Virginia smiles and waves, though she feels so funny, like the heat has fallen and settled in a cloud around her, a beeping, flashing cloud. “I’ve got to get where it’s cool,” she says and Felicia nods and lies back in her chair. Felicia probably wanted to chat, but she can’t help that. “I think she’s lonely,” her mother has said. Her mother is always thinking of how somebody else is feeling. Well, Virginia can’t help it; she can’t think about Felicia or Cindy’s date or anything except getting cool. She turns the knob but it’s locked.
“Your mama ran to the grocery,” Felicia says. “I told her I’d keep an eye on things.”
“Gram?” Virginia knocks on the door and then goes to a window where the drapes are parted and she can see Gram slowly rolling her chair to the door. “It’s me, Gram. It’s Ginny Sue.” She hears her fumbling with the knob and finally the door cracks open.
“Don’t tell Hannah I moved,” Gram says, her hair so white against that pink fluffy robe. It is not much cooler in the house than it is outside. Virginia closes the door and pushes Gram back into the small living room where Lena is sitting flipping through a magazine, the hood of the old-style hair dryer covering her face. “Lena’s been screaming to get that dryer turned off but Hannah said we were not to move.”
Virginia goes and lifts the dryer cap and Lena looks up, her eyes so dull against that red face, the hot pink clamp on curlers.
“Thank God,” Lena says. “I thought you’d left me to smother.” “That’s Ginny Sue, now,” Gram says and rolls herself over beside Lena’s chair. She reaches up and feels the curlers on Lena’s head. “She’s not done. She could take the pneumonia in this weather.”
“Weather?” Lena asks. “It’s hot as hell. It’s a oven.”
“Is it, Ginny Sue?” Gram asks and she nods.
“The sign at school says it is June,” Lena says and puts her hat on top of her curlers. “It says the weather is hot. Now don’t I know it? Step outside and find out, yeah boy, all you got to do is step outside.”
“I think she can sit without the dryer,” Virginia says and walks toward the bathroom, a short dark hall.
“You’ve gained some weight, Ginny Sue,” Lena says. “I need to use the bathroom, too.”
“You are not to leave your chair,” Gram says.
The bathroom is cool, that air-conditioning vent blowing onto the white tile floor. Virginia feels sick, dizzy; if she can just get her face against that cool floor, curl up on that cool floor. She feels so strange all over, rolls on her back and tries to lift her legs the way Gram used to tell her to do for cramps.
“That’s not real ladylike looking.” Gram is in the doorway, leaning forward in her wheelchair. “Lena says she needs to tee tee. Should I let her?”
“Let me go first,” Virginia says. “I’m not feeling good, Gram, so let me go first.”
“I’ll close the door.” Gram reaches for the knob.
“No, no, leave it open.” Virginia reaches up and holds onto the counter and pulls herself in a squatted position. “Stay there, Gram,” she says, her face so cool and clammy when she puts her head between her knees.
“Lena says she’s about to pop.” Gram’s voice gets loud on “pop” and Virginia opens her eyes, tries to focus before standing.
“Oh God,” she whispers. “I’m bleeding.” She sits back and stares at Gram. “Gram, I’m bleeding.”
“All women bleed, Ginny Sue,” Gram says. “Hannah should have told you that before this happened.”
“I can’t wait.” Lena shuffles into the hallway and stops right behind the wheelchair. “You’ve got to let me in.”
“Will you hold your horses,” Gram says. “Ginny Sue has got the curse.”
“Hush now,” Lena laughs, her legs crossed in those baggy polyester pants. “I hadn’t thought of that in years.”
“Get somebody,” Virginia says and lies back on the floor, her cheek turned against the cool tile. “Please Gram, just get somebody.”
“It’s not the kind of thing to discuss,” Gram says.
“I am gonna wet my britches.” Lena pushes past the wheelchair and steps over Virginia, fumbles with the zipper on her pants.
“I’m bleeding.” Virginia looks up and Lena is leaning forward, gripping the commode bars, staring down at her with those blank olive eyes, yellow flecks like a cat.
“Best get used to it,” Lena says. “Can you turn on that spigot ‘cause I can’t seem to go.”
“Didn’t you hear me?” Virginia screams and Gram turns her head away, lifts her chin. “Why are you this way?” Virginia is crying now, turning her head from side to side, the steady trickling of urine while Lena wraps the toilet paper around and around her hand. She hears Gram’s wheelchair as she backs out of the hall into the other room.
“Have you ever worn Charlie cologne?” Lena asks but Virginia concentrates on the sounds of Gram; she hears the phone receiver lifted, the slow methodical dialing.
“It ain’t Channel but I like it,” Lena says, her hand bound in toilet paper, those gold slide slippers right beside Virginia’s face.
“Felicia?” Gram says. “This is Miss Emily Roberts. I’m very well, thank you. Yes, I was so surprised that she came to visit. No, no, I didn’t know how hot it was until they told me.”
“Gram, please.”
“Felicia, this isn’t a pleasure call. No, now you might not be able to help out with this because we need to borrow a Kotex. I know what people say about you and so I don’t know that you’ve ever used a Kotex. Ginny Sue has got the curse and she won’t get off of the bathroom floor and Lena got out of her chair to tee tee when Hannah told her not to.” There is a pause and then the receiver clicks back on the hook. Felicia is in the bathroom before Gram can roll back in.
“What happened to privacy?” Lena asks, wipes and flushes. Felicia bends and lifts Virginia to her feet.
“I got you now,” Felicia says, her arms smelling like bananas and coconuts. “I’m afraid I’m getting sunning oil all over your dress.”
“I don’t care,” Virginia mumbles, staring at her feet as they squeeze past the wheelchair, into the bedroom, all daylight blocked by those heavy yellowed window shades. She gets on the feather bed, stretches her legs, and Felicia’s cool hand rubs her forehead.
“I’ll call somebody,” Felicia says. “Do you know of a doctor you want?” Virginia hears her words like a whisper against the rustling of paper, a little prayer book by Gram’s bed, fluttering with the air from the vent, her whole body cool now, shaking, and she is being tucked in, a blanket tossed and folded all around her with only the dull ticking of Gram’s huge mahogany clock; a sharp pain in her side dulls, and pillows are under her feet, her legs numb and lifeless. “I got a nurse friend. Says she’ll be right over.”
“Oh now.” Felicia laughs and lifts Virginia’s feet for one more pillow. “She didn’t mean a thing by it. She just doesn’t understand.”
I don’t understand, either, Virginia wants to confess. Please forgive me, Felicia but I don’t really understand, but the words won’t come and instead she focuses on a whirring sound, something outside, far away, a whirring sound. “Hold tight now, Ginny Sue,” Gram says. “Don’t let go of it.” They are in the garden and she is staring at the frayed straw belt that holds Gram’s brown plaid dress in place, the pockets of that dress filled with radishes and spring onions. “Are you ready?” Gram asks and when she nods, Gram places the twine in her palm, closes her fingers around it and steps back. “Hold tight, Ginny Sue,” she says and that june bug whirrs and whirrs as she turns slowly, clutching the string, that shiny blue-black body humming and flying, whirring around and around while Gram bends and works her way down a row of beans.
PART 3
MADGE PLAYS Las Vegas solitaire, which is something Raymond taught her way back when he was still Raymond. She pays fifty-two dollars for the deck, then gets five dollars for every card up on the board; she keeps up with all of her scores in a little book that she keeps with the cards. Madge has been in Las Vegas for years and intends to keep playing until she can pay her dues. All she wants is to break even and right now, she owes $44,725. In December of 1976 she was up by $550, and she should have quit while she was ahead.