Homefires (38 page)

The following weeks propelled me swiftly toward the college choral Spring Concert. Ensemble rehearsals, coupled with Solomon Methodist Church’s upcoming Easter Cantata, kept me too busy to dwell for long intervals on our family’s loss. Both musical presentations required one hundred percent
,
snapping into play the perfectionism seed burrowed deep inside me – one that needed only purpose to explode into a living, panting being – one whose force astounded me at times. It kept me busy. It kept me from thinking too much.

Kirk seemed as driven as I. At night, we both slid from Zealot to Zombie, collapsing into bed to drown in exhaustion. “I never dream,” my husband told me one morning as we lay
in each other’s arms after I relayed the Technicolor scenes I’d moved through during sleep.

He sighed sadly. “I wish I
could
see Krissie in dreams. I envy you....”

“Don’t. The searching part leaves me – gutted.” In that instant, I envied his cocoon that kept unpleasantness at bay.

Seemed denial – or numbing-out – was second nature to Kirk. A perpetually accessible thing that needed no summons. How could two people, who shared a bed and children, be so different?

Old-fashioned Sunday brought out hitched-wagons, a rainbow of long gingham costumes, top hats, string-ties and enough kids’ overalls to blast Oshkosh stock to Mars.

“Oh my – ” I snatched little Raquel from her mama and snuggled her beneath the hood of her bonnet, kissing her fat little jowls. “You look just like your Mommy,” I cooed. And she did.

“Hey – don’t let Rick hear that,” Tillie gave her jerky, donkey-bray laugh. “He says he
did
have a small hand in getting her here.”

“Course he did.” I glanced around and saw Rick’s handsome blonde head towering above kinfolk scattered over the church lawn. He looked grand in his long black coat and Abe Lincoln hat.
Thank God
, I silently prayed for the umpteenth time, Sarah’s gossip held no water.

Tillie’s Hershey eyes sparkled as she leaned to cup her hand and whisper loudly in my ear, scattering goosebumps over me, “I tell Rick her little butt is
exactly
like his. You oughta see that big ol’ grin spread over his face!” She reared back to gauge my reaction, gurgling all the time. “Oh!” her fringed eyes rounded, “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

“Hey, Mama! C’mere!” Tillie called to Zelda Diggers, who was the antithesis of her sprightly daughter. Tall and lumbering of gait, Zelda’s dull clay-colored eyes and flat expression gave no hint that she’d parented Tillie Dawson. As she plodded toward us, her long brown skirt and sunbonnet reminded me of a boxy-pup tent. I blinked away the uncomplimentary image, feeling guilty and instantly froze my features into my preacher’s
wife smile because, for some reason, I did not feel comfortable around Zelda Diggers. Despite Tillie’s abounding adoration of the woman and her unfailing efforts to get her mom to accommodate the preacher’s family, Zelda remained distant.

Tillie hugged her hugely then gushed. “Did you do one of your carrot cakes that Neecy likes so much, Mama?”

I cringed at the blatant expectancy but quickly covered by giving Raquel a loving shift of hip-position.

“Naw,” Zelda’s bonnet flopped in the breeze, revealing stubbornly straight apricot-tinted bangs above her plain, unfeeling features, “I done a Mississippi mud cake.” I saw Tillie’s face fall. I averted my gaze. Without another word, Zelda pried Raquel from my arms and retreated to her husband, who huddled with relatives across the lawn.

I mentally shook my head, wondering again how this quiet, rather handsome man was ever attracted to such an uncomely, surly woman. Alton Driggers’ genetic legacy to Tillie was all that stood between her and stark homeliness. There, his bequest ended. I’ve yet to determine the source of Tillie’s warmth and charisma and unflappable spirit.

Zelda was – as Tillie and I both knew – well aware of my allergy to her walnut-loaded treat, had been since I’d broken out in hives after ingesting two slices following a homecoming feast.

But, hey! I’d long ago accepted that the world did not revolve around Janeece Whitman Crenshaw. Had not, in fact, ever expected it to. I just hated to see my little peacenik friend’s efforts so callously elbowed aside.

Tillie’s thick lashes blinked a couple of times before she screwed up her mouth and looked at me, clearly apologetic. “I made an egg custard for you, Neecy?” She steepled her clasped hands to her flat bosom in supplication.

I burst out laughing. “Thank you, Tillie.”

“You’re probably the only one brave enough to sample – ”

“Don’t forget Toby,” I reminded her.

Her irrepressible giggles spilled over the day like warm Pepsi fizz. “Toby rarely turns down
any
desserts, regardless of their source,
Neecy!
” She playfully poked a finger in my rib.

“That’s beside the point, my star second-soprano.” I looped arms with her and headed for the choir room, mildly
surprised – no,
pleased
that I’d finally begun to develop a thicker hide.

In late April, Possum Creek Methodist Church called Kirk to assist in Ma McKonna’s funeral. We made the long sad pilgrimage to Oconee County, the four of us, and wept with those to whom we would forever remain bonded by experiences both euphoric and devastating. Years later, I still marvel at love’s adhesive force between flock and clergy family.

The following week, out of the blue, I got a call from Chuck. My brother spoke as though we’d not been estranged over the year – though he had shown up at Krissie’s funeral. I hadn’t heard from him since. Strange, what with all that was happening to me, it didn’t matter. I’d ceased needing Chuck. He knew I was pregnant, via Anne during a recent phone call, when he’d divulged that he and Teresa had separated. More and more, Anne was
Mama
to us all. I reassured him my pregnancy was progressing normally and then he dropped a bombshell.

“I got diabetes, Sis,” he said as though relating the weather.

“Oh no, Chuck...dear Lord. How bad?”

“I’m on insulin shots. But, hey! That’s okay. I’ve learned how to give ‘em myself. Nothing to it.” Above all things, like his sister, Chuck hated pity.

Strobe images flashed through my head of the disease’s destructive path – Mama’s early death, Uncle Gabe’s health struggles.... But at that precise moment, my brother needed encouragement and support.

“You’re tough, Chuck. You’ll be okay.”
Please God
.

“Got that right, Sis.”

“Does Dad know?”

“Nah. No use in setting everybody off. Hey – I’ll be off these shots in no time.”

“Sure you will. Thanks for being here when Krissie died. It was comforting.”

“You okay?” Fatherhood had focused Chuck in miraculous ways.

“I have my moments.” I sighed. “Quite a few of them, in fact. But staying busy helps.”

“Yeah. That helps. Listen – ” Another moment of silence. “If you need me, just call. I might not be able to travel because of my job, but I’m as near as your phone. Okay?”

“I might just take you up on that. Love you, Chuck.”

“Yeah. Me, too.”

We hung up and I reflected on Chuck’s recent legal separation from Teresa, whom I’d never really gotten to know. I’d always wondered if she really loved Chuck. Her aloofness – somewhat like Roxie’s – troubled me. Whatever had happened, my tight-mouthed brother wasn’t about to reveal. He had visiting rights with Poogie, as he called his adolescent daughter Patrice, who now lived in upstate Greenville with her mother. Which was why, according to Chuck, he’d moved there as well.

“Changing jobs was nothing. I’d‘a moved heaven and earth to be near Poogie. Not much left for me without my little girl,” he’d revealed during one of his rare somber moments. Now, to be hit with diabetes. I shook my head and dove into straightening up the den, sorting out papers and notes and stacking textbooks, trying to come to grips with yet another loved one’s unkind fate.

How
much
I understood his grief for his child. My sorrow merged with his and I found myself outside, cresting the back lawn’s hill, heart racing to my sacred spot of solace. There, I hugged the tall pole whose banner still swayed under a balmy breeze. Toby’s labors, though slowed, still kept the pond rippling with six to eight inches of water.

Tears streaked my cheeks and dripped from my chin.

Oh, God –
please help my brother.

“I’m nervous,” Tillie squeezed my arm with icy fingers and did a little bouncing jig as the choir filed into the loft, making her robe vibrate comically. I put my arms around her, listening for Kirk’s cue to begin the Easter Cantata.

“Tillie – your solo is the most beautiful song on the program and – ”

“That doesn’t help at
all, Neecy,”
she whispered, brown eyes round as donuts and nearly as big.

“Okay, just open your mouth and let ‘er fly when your time comes. Just be Tillie.” I dramatically pressed my hand to her
forehead, squeezed my eyes shut, threw back my head and said, “
O-o-oh,
Lord – give Tillie courage!
Ye-es and hallelujah!
She needs it! Amen.”

A gusty giggle trailed her as she filed into the front row.

Kirk’s voice, beyond the heavy crimson velvet curtain, ceased and I took my place on the choir loft’s low platform, checked the score on my music stand and picked up my small baton, a newly acquired thing. In the past, I’d done quite well without one. I’d learned in Music Theory 102 to imagine that water dripped from my fingertips as my hand, an extension of a fluid wrist, beat out time. But I’d gone along with Kirk’s advice to use it and had only recently learned of Sarah Beauregard’s suggestion to Kirk that I would appear more proficient with a wand.

Anything to please, I always said, trying this time not to begrudge compromise.

Tonight, I rapped on the stand to bring my choristers to attention. The curtains behind me silently parted to reveal the white and purple robed chorale standing at adrenaline-charged alertness, eyeing me like hawks ready to swoop in on prey. I silently prayed a quick imploration that Nick’s exuberance not exceed the team’s volume and that Tillie would blink and expel that hypnotized glassy-stare.

Aw, heck,
I raised my baton and both arms,
it’s all yours, God.

Down came the baton and Heather’s fingers flew over the piano keys in a classical introduction to
Crown Him with Many Crowns
. Dixie’s thundering organ accompaniment added majesty and pageantry to the old hymn as the choir sang the first two verses with somber dignity, then, to everybody’s delight, launched into the third with syncopated contemporary swing. The mood lightened and by song’s end, had toes tapping and heads bobbing in time. The program continued with Charlie Tessner’s solo
Were You There When they Crucified my Lord?
I winked at Donna, whose pride in her brother bypassed deadpan features to shine through her eyes. Next came a medley of
Blessed Redeemer
,
Near the Cross
and
Glory to His Name
. By now, we were warmed up and going strong. Anointed, Aunt Mary would declare.