The Queen of Sleepy Eye, page 15
“Do you like being a coal miner?”
“It’s a living.”
Uh-oh, this guy lacked ambition. The future meant more waitress jobs for Mom and yet another break-up. This was getting depressing.
“Do you know Jesus as your personal Lord and Savior?” I asked.
“Amelia!”
“I’m trying to get to know him. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
Bruce squirmed and looked at everything but me.
“For goodness’ sake, religion is a personal issue. Talk about the weather. Tell him about Westmont.”
I had a better idea. “I think we should take the coffee and cookies on a hike to the marble mine. What do you say to that?”
“Sounds good to me,” Bruce said, standing up. “But it ain’t far, is it?”
I read from the pamphlet Bonnie had given Mom. “‘The hike to the base of the mine is an easy walk along a tributary of the Crystal River.’”
“That’s a beautiful name for a river,” Mom gushed.
“‘Along the trail you’ll see wildflowers like Indian paintbrush and fireweed. A waterfall and a dramatic slope of marble awaits you at the end of the trail. To view the quarry, follow the signs through the massive marble blocks to the trailhead. This portion of the hike is steeper and should only be attempted by healthy individuals acclimated to the elevation.’”
“We’re all accumulated, aren’t we?” Mom asked.
Bruce looked sideways at Mom.
“Let’s go,” she said.
* * *
WE HIKED ALONG a chiseled wall of granite. The valley below us was no wider than a country road. A stream rushed over stony steps, like someone had forgotten the water running in the bathtub upstairs. Where a slab of granite had sloughed away from the wall, a niche of gunmetal gray had been created. Instead of a statue of a perpetually pious Mary, the niche housed a choir of purple flowers with leaves as slender as fingers. Mom and Bruce walked right by the spectacle until I asked Mom if I could use the camera. Then she wanted a photograph of her and Bruce kneeling next to the flowers. Mom reapplied her lipstick, wiping away the excess at the corners of her mouth. Bruce knelt on the pebbled path and Mom sat on his knee. Chest up. Shoulders back. Smile dazzling.
“Smile,” I said, but Bruce only cocked his head.
When Mom and Bruce walked ahead, I took a picture of the flowers to send to Lauren, knowing she would put them in her to-paint-someday box she kept under her bed. Lauren was about the worst artist I’d ever seen, but that didn’t stop her from being one. I hoped she remembered her promise to take art lessons in St. Louis. Then she could paint the purple flowers and give the painting to me for a birthday present. I couldn’t imagine Lauren being happy tinting little old ladies’ hair all day. I fingered the cross necklace she’d stolen for me. Thinking about Lauren made my heart ache, but it was difficult maintaining a worthwhile funk in the narrow canyon that cupped its walls like hands to project the stream’s aria.
Farther up the trail the stream cut a smooth trough through solid marble where we rounded a curve, and the three of us stood slack-jawed at what we saw. A landslide of marble, like sugar cubes the size of Volkswagens, some bugs and some vans, covered the mountainside.
“Oh my,” Mom said. “Now why do you suppose they left all that beautiful marble lying there like that?”
Her question was my cue to read from the brochure. “‘The Italian and Austrian—’”
“Not Portuguese, fofa?”
Mom’s Portuguese pride confounded me. Her family had left Portugal before World War II, and she hadn’t even been born yet. Even so, Portuguese was her first language. How she’d found a nice Portuguese boy to marry in America was a piece of wonderment and statistical improbability meant for more developed intellects than mine. As proud as she was of her heritage, she never spoke of her parents unless I asked. She had answered me with, “They didn’t understand me, and then they died. End of story.”
I looked up from the brochure. “None that they mention, no.” I continued reading. “‘The Italian and Austrian stonecutters left the area in 1917 to fight in World War I. All of the marble for the Lincoln Memorial had been shipped in five hundred train cars by the end of 1918.’”
“Ah, that’s it,” she said. “The Portuguese stonecutters stayed in Washington to finish the work of the Italians and Austrians. That wasn’t the first time.”
I ignored her. “‘In 1926, a flawless block of Yule Marble was sent to Washington D.C. for the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.’”
“I seen that when I was a boy.”
Arrows painted on the marble blocks directed us to the trail that led up the mountainside to the quarry entrance. Bruce leaned against a block of startling, white marble with an unlit cigarette hanging from his mouth as he fished around his shirt pocket for matches. “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll sit here for a smoke. You girls go ahead.”
Mom and I exchanged glances. “You don’t have to sit here alone,” she said. “We’ll wait. I wouldn’t mind a cigarette myself.”
“I think I’ll start up,” I said.
Mom started to protest, but Bruce was already tapping a cigarette out of a pack for her. He nodded toward the trailhead. “Be careful.”
You’re not much of a Marlboro Man, cowboy.
The grade steepened. Within a few yards my heart pounded in my chest. Mrs. Clancy had warned me about the effects of high altitude. I stopped to gulp water from the canteen she’d loaned me and waited for my heart to settle down. I resumed the climb through the forest at a slower pace, stopping to take pictures down the trail I’d climbed. Lauren would be impressed. Cresting the trail, I stood at eye level with the surrounding mountains. Not one tree grew on their peaks. The air, light and congenial, made me giddy. I wished H was there to tell me about the bare mountaintops. That was how magnanimous the scenery had made me.
I sang “Rocky Mountain High” as I strode toward the gaping hole of the quarry. I stopped several feet away from a rusted chain that served as a safety rail. Whereas the marble blocks left in the sunshine had made my eyes ache with their brilliance, gray smudged the walls of the quarry that settled into black pools on the bottom. Very disappointing. Empty. A great gaping hole. Dead. I backed away. As a tourist attraction, the abandoned quarry proved the journey made the destination inconsequential. I turned to follow the trail back to where Bruce and Mom smoked their cigarettes.
Nuts to that.
I sat on a low boulder beyond the mine’s gapping entrance, a front-row seat to take in the bold landscape. Jutting mountains. Singing rivers. Angel-hair clouds stretched across a jubilant sky. Insects hummed and jays called. I hugged my knees to my chest. Only a thousand miles and a range of mountains separated me from California. My chest ached. A breeze as welcomed as a kiss lifted my hair.
The story of David came to mind. Mountains had separated him from his destiny when he asked, “I will lift my eyes to the mountains; from whence shall my help come?” David made it to the throne of Israel despite the machinations of Saul, treachery and arrows, betrayal and spears. All that menaced me was my hopelessly lovesick and easily sidetracked mother.
My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth.
“Lord, you made heaven and earth. Please make a transmission for a 1958 Pontiac Bonneville Sport Coupe Jubilee Edition show up in Cordial. I’d be much obliged.”
Feeling fortified, I tromped down the trail to find Mom and Bruce making out.
“I’ll wait by the truck,” I said.
Seventeen
I emptied gewgaws, mortuary science books, journals, and ledgers from a bookcase in Mrs. Clancy’s office to spray the shelves with lemon-fresh Pledge. She answered the telephone. “Clancy and Sons Funeral Home serving the North Fork Valley sin—”
I turned to listen, like I could see who dared to interrupt Mrs. Clancy’s greeting. She hummed her agreement to the person on the other end of the telephone. With a flip of her wrist, she shooed me back to work.
“Yes, they brought your mother here yesterday,” she said. “We can certainly take care of all that for …”
I stole a peek at Mrs. Clancy. Her eyebrows came together as she wrapped the phone cord around her finger.
“As you like, yes, that’s all included.”
I spread the polish over the wood in apathetic circles.
Mrs. Clancy flipped through a stenographer’s pad until she found a clean page. “You’ll want an obituary at least. Let me—
“Are you sure, dear?
“How long has your mother lived in this area?
“Really?
“No, I can’t say I ever had the pleasure.”
Mrs. Clancy swiveled her chair to look out the window. I held the dust rag in my lap. Her voice took on a quality I’d never heard from her. “Funerals aren’t for the … they’re for the living. Your mother may have had friends you know nothing about. Not having a service is like coming to the end of a good book and finding the last chapter has been ripped out—it’s terribly unsatisfying. A funeral would give her friends a chance to say their good-byes.
“I see. Yes, I see.” She turned back to her desk to massage a temple as she listened. “Please don’t take what I’m about to say as prying. I’m an old woman, my dear. I’ve been providing funeral services most of my life. My father and grandfather were morticians, and I grew up in this very house with my two brothers. In fact, my ties to this place and my profession are so strong, I reverted to the family name when my husband passed away. So you can see, I’ve seen every imaginable scenario, more than one like what you’re describing.” She sighed heavily. “Please understand that I will not make one cent more than what I’ve quoted you for basic funeral services, but I think you and your sisters may want to reconsider a service for your mother. In fact, you should consider the service a gift you give each other. It sounds like you girls have a lot to talk about, and more than a mother to bury to get on with your lives. If you change your mind, call back by Friday. That will give us plenty of time to make arrangements.”
Mrs. Clancy thrummed her fingers on the desk. I replaced the books and gewgaws.
“Hello?” Mrs. Clancy asked. “Are you still there?
“That’s a good plan. I’ll be waiting to hear from you.”
Mrs. Clancy leaned back in her chair, cradling the receiver to her chest. I let the figurines clank together to remind her I was in the room. She pulled a hanky out of her belt to blow her nose and dab her eyes. “Amy, do I smell Mr. Moberly’s meatloaf burning?”
I’d put the meatloaf in the oven twenty minutes earlier. “I better go check.”
Mrs. Clancy called me back. “Would you sing a hymn for this woman’s service? I don’t expect too many people to attend, and Pearl can be so heavy-handed with the organ. The strumming of a guitar would be quite nice.”
Eighteen
Everyone eats a hot dog at the drive-in,” H said.
“Do you know what they put in those things?”
“Okay, okay. One small popcorn and one small Coke.” H turned toward the concession stand.
“Wait!” I called to him.
“What is it now?”
I tilted my purse and shook loose change into my hand. “You’re not paying for the refreshments. You already paid for the admission.”
H rested his arms on the truck’s door and heaved a sigh. “You can pay for everything next time. Does that make you happy?” Clearly, H wasn’t. I’d taken the whole we’re-just-friends thing too far, and now he was hurt. I knew this would happen.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
He shrugged off my apology. “Are you sure you don’t want a hot dog? How about some ice cream?”
“Just some popcorn and—”
“I know, a Coke.” And he was gone.
Over the speaker hooked on H’s window, the Beach Boys sang about California girls. Oh brother. H had convinced me that the Big Chief drive-in was Cordial’s hottest cultural event, that summer wasn’t complete without at least one night at the drive-in. To be there, I banked on the consistency of Mom’s schedule—out at six, back by midnight—which meant skipping the second movie, Herbie Rides Again! I wasn’t one bit sorry to miss it. But I was also playing the odds. Two people had required the services of the funeral home that week—a rest home resident with no near relatives and a woman who had come home to be buried by her husband and infant son. Based on the seven weeks I’d been in Cordial, my chances were better than even that no one would die that weekend.
Gravel popped and pinged as drivers doused their headlights to stalk the aisles for the perfect parking spot. As twilight slid into night, kids played on the swings and slide under the screen.
A family—dad, mom, and two small daughters—sat in their station wagon next to H’s truck. The younger sister, dressed in her pajamas, climbed over the seat to be with her parents, then returned to the backseat to annoy her sister. “Ruthie, wherever you are when the movie starts, that’s where you’re sitting.” Her father’s warning started the game in earnest. Where would Ruthie be when the movie started? Ruthie wiggled over the seat head first, her feet kicking the air beside her dad’s head.
“I can stand on my head, Daddy.”
The mother turned toward the passenger window to stifle a laugh. The dad flipped Ruthie upright and drew her into the crook of his arm. I watched Ruthie’s silky curls out of the corner of my eye, waiting for her to restart her game of seat hopping. Ruthie nestled into her dad’s chest and stayed put. The scene warmed and pierced me.
From the back of the drive-in, girls screamed and boys yelled, “Fight! A fight!” Dust floated in the beams of headlights, and a crowd gathered. I ran toward the concession stand, stooping under the speaker wires as I ran up and down the parking humps. Inside the cinder-block building, wide-eyed customers turned toward the growing commotion but stayed in line. No H in sight.
Outside, I stood with my back to the concession stand. Two men with flashlights hurried toward a cluster of onlookers and pushed their way into the circle. “That’s enough! Go back to your cars!” The onlookers fell away. Three boys plowed punches into a boy on the ground. My heart sank when H’s sensible boots flailed to make contact with his attackers. Their taunts continued.
“Boo-hoo, little baby. Did you leave your doggie at home?”
“Go back to fairyland, fag boy!”
The boys stopped mid-punch when the flashlights lit their faces.
“You heard what I said,” the man in a blue vest shouted. “Get back to your cars, Tom! Mark! You don’t want me calling your dad, do you, Jim?” The last boy standing over H hesitated, looked down at him and tapped H’s shoulder with his fist.
Counting coup?
The thick-necked goon strutted toward the back of the parking area where a welcoming crowd high-fived him into the darkness. The man in the vest offered H a hand up, but H stood on his own. Empty cups and spilled popcorn lay at his feet. When H started to pick up the containers, the man said, “Leave it. I’ll get you some more, on the house.”
The lights on the concession stand winked and darkened as the projector rattled from its room on top of the building. From a hundred speakers, the Looney Tunes theme played. H strode toward the exit. I ran to catch him.
“Are you all right?” I asked, trotting to keep up with him. “Who were those guys?”
He walked faster, his head down and turned slightly away.
“Your elbow’s bleeding. H, stop and talk to me. Shouldn’t we get your truck?”
We walked past the twin box offices. A few stragglers waited as a boy in a cap and T-shirt opened the trunk of his car for the box office attendant. “Well, look what we’ve got here. That’ll be another $1.50, young man.”
As we reached the street, the toe plug of my flip-flops popped loose. “H, can you slow down? I have a shoe problem here.”
He stopped. “This was a really bad idea.” He swiped at his eyes with the sleeves of his T-shirt.
I kept my head down, like putting a flip-flop together required the same concentration as brain surgery. I didn’t want to make H feel any worse, but I sure didn’t want him bullied by those creeps either. “Those are the guys you want for friends?”
He continued walking. “You don’t get it.”
“You’ve got that right,” I yelled after him. I slid my foot in the flip-flop and quick stepped to catch up with him. “My friends don’t throw me to the ground—”
“I was tripped.”
Lauren had lied and stolen for me, but she had never tripped me. “Friends don’t trip each other, either.”
H threw his arms up and kept walking.
“H!”
“What?”
“You deserve better.”
“Talking doesn’t help.”
That couldn’t be true. I’d been the captain of the debate team for two years. All I needed was one counterexample to disprove the fallacy that silence solved problems. Let’s see, although the Gettysburg Address expressed the urgency and divine necessity of a strong union, battle weariness and the collapse of the Southern war machine ended the Civil War at Appomattox. The negotiators at the Paris Peace Talks took months to agree on the shape of the conference table and another five years to end American involvement in the war. And just a couple months earlier, I’d debated for continued American involvement in Vietnam the very week Saigon fell. I lost. My heart wasn’t in it.
H and I walked in silence along Main Street and turned on Second Street toward the funeral home. A car shot out of the alley to straddle the sidewalk just feet in front of us. The driver was the thick-necked goon from the drive-in.
H swore.
“Hey, dork face,” the driver called, flicking cigarette ash on H’s shoes. “You left before the cartoon. Did Porky Pig scare you?”
I pulled on H’s arm. “Come on, H. Let’s go.”
H stood his ground.
The power of the boy’s car engine rumbled against my chest. His chunky bicep rested on the opened window. It was bigger than my thigh. Too bad. I was the voice of reason in this otherwise Neanderthal match of wits. I took a tentative step toward the car. “Excuse me.”
