I reacquaint myself with MJ, having nearly forgotten how much I loved him when I was in high school. There's no such thing as a 'B" side on a CD, but only the 'A' side of 'Thriller' was any good.
Drivers up here in DC are not as friendly to me as the ones in the South, which is a shame because traffic is a bitch. I look forward to being home, to maybe eating something. I haven't been able to eat.
rewind: Monday morning
Silvery mists tumble over Carolina hills and across Carolina fields. I've lost track of where I am. I'll just stay on this road until I'm home.
rewind: Monday wee hours
I wake suddenly: my cousin is touching me. "I hated to wake you in case you wanted to sleep in." She did right; I'd set my phone alarm, but my technical skills are haphazard at best.
rewind: Sunday night
She said I could wander around naked up here if I liked, the teen being two floors down, and she and her husband on the first floor. I look at the open blinds and wonder if I should bother closing them at this late point. I try to settle, in hopes of an early start in the morning, but end up writing instead, trying to recreate two days ago's nearly-perfect words. I think I'm close.
rewind: Sunday afternoon
We've been so long at the pool, mostly unbothered by the intermittent showers, drinking sangria and snacking on cheese and fruit, talking and talking and talking, that her husband has called. Twice. He wonders if we're ever coming back to the house. He wants dinner. He'll make it, but... we take pity on a hungry chef, and head back to her beautiful home. It doesn't take much for her to talk me into staying the night instead of pressing on, since I'd be driving in the dark on a bellyful of sangria.
rewind: Sunday morning
I used to go to church with her and her family when we were young. It seems circular to attend church with her family now. "This is the only church she liked," he tells me. "The doors were nice and wide." How long, I wonder, had that been the factor- not just A factor, but THE factor- in family decisions? "Three years." And he tells me the story.
He gives me directions out of town. Because I've spent so much of my time here being where I did not intend to be, he is very specific. "You're gonna drive awhile, now. You'll know the downtown by the tall buildings. After that, you'll drive awhile again, and there's a big farmer's market before the turnoff." I thank him for his specificity, and promise to make it back down soon, soon, like next year.
rewind: Sunday early morning
I am awake at 6. The younger niece stirs, uncomfortable. The chair and ottoman have separated during the night. I point to the empty spot on the mattress I just vacated, beside her still-sleeping sister. With a wordless sigh of gratitude, she slides under the comforter.
His parents are sweet, and invite me to come stay with them on my way home, since I'm heading north after church. I tell them about my cousin and her invitation to lie by the pool drinking sangria. His father, upon discovering that I've made coffee, asks, "Will you marry me?" I remind him that he asked me that yesterday, when I brought beer, and I already said Yes. "Gotta try some of this Democrat coffee," he murmurs. "Hey now," I retort, "that is good Republican coffee that I got from your son's refrigerator. It's only slightly tainted by my Democratic hands." His mother flutters and fusses, debating attending church with us. "You wanted to go home. We're going home," her husband tells her. She flutters some more. I hug them very much as we part.
I take the son and the younger of the nieces in the convertible. We drive and drive. I am finally getting used to Georgia distances. We arrive at a huge facility. The daughter tells me, in a voice that doesn't need to be lowered, since the rock band is so loud, that sometimes they have a holo-preacher. When he appears, she says, "Oh! He's real today," and sounds slightly disappointed.
rewind: Saturday night
He will not hear of my finding a room for the night, and though I briefly consider staying with another friend who has fewer folk to bed down, I feel as though I still have work to do here. I don't know what it is. I watch the end of a fairly stupid movie with the daughter and the nieces, and then everyone settles down. I find a blanket, and tuck it around him as he lies dozing on the sofa, eventually abandoning my computer in favor of a pillow sometime past one in the morning.
rewind: Saturday evening
"Are you the token person of color?" I ask him. He looks what my friend Liz calls 'halfrican', and he admits to a father who is half black. Ah, so not even half. There are a couple of latinos in the room...well, one. I am actively uncomfortable in a group this white. "Are black people even allowed in this county?" "Only in the last twenty years," Dad says, "and there's many as would say that was a mistake." "I guess I'm the token Democrat in the room, then" I say, mostly joking. All conversation halts. I mean, ALL. "You're a Democrat?" asks Dad, horrified. "I just found out something I don't like about you, " Scarecrow says. I frown. How could my political preferences possibly make any difference? It seems to me as silly as disliking someone because they favor pistachio ice cream. "I guess now's a bad time to mention that I'm also Jewish?" I reply. There is a pause, a collective inhale, and conversation resumes.
rewind: Saturday afternoon
We chat and move in and around the house; I move from group to group, opening bottles, brewing coffee. Two of the girls agree to brush my hair, and make a large production of it. The men try to look/ not look. Someone says that we are out of beer. "Come on," I say to him. "I think you need to get away from your family for awhile." He agrees, and we ride topless to the liquor store. His mother wants wine spritzers, which means white wine and 7-Up. His sister also likes wine, but she prefers red. "And what's that beer you like? Ringling?" Sure, Beer Of Clowns. Yeungling. We fill a cart with alcohol, return shortly. "Will you marry me?" his father asks when I walk in carrying beverages. Others relieve me of chore of putting away, and I watch the creation of a wine spritzer. Here is the gang again, looking the same, seeming the same, but not the same. They haven't hung tight in the twenty years since I've seen them? What's going on? Can this occasion be one that reunites them? Why is an occasion necessary? When I left, I thought that I was a lightweight, that I was leaving the party early. That they would go back to partying while I slept it off on the train. Turns out, I WAS the party. I got on the train, and THEY slept it off. And have been talking about it, and me, for two decades.
rewind: Saturday morning
I do not realize I am going to speak until my feet are taking me to the platform, to the podium. I open my mouth and suddenly my improv and my open mike experiences converge and something close to perfectly what I meant falls from it. Strangers- and most of them are- tell me afterwards how moved they were by what I said. What did I say? I hardly know. We drive to a park that would be lovely, but that it's marred with stones and false flowers. More praying and tears, and a rose to put on the casket. I wonder what all of this has cost. It is not mine to calculate, of course. Her procession, which was all of four or five blocks, has had two fire engines and two convertibles. I wonder which would've made her smile more. After returning for 'food and fellowship' provided by the church members who have arrived to represent, we go to the home of the newly widowed man. I ask if we should stop first for alcohol. "We have stuff at the house," he says. I've seen his home. I've seen his fridge. Unless the beer fairies showed up between last night and now... well, I do not argue.
rewind: Saturday early
After alternating between whirlpool and pool, partaking of as much breakfast as seems edible- coffee and half a muffin, two pieces of pale and lifeless fruit- I shower and hurry to meet Scarecrow's family at a waffle place. His children are impressed by my car. He and one child ride with me. Mrs. Scarecrow carries the other children in the mini-van. I'm so happy to have not caved to mini-vanity. We hurry away- it's 'not far', but that means nearly fifty minutes. I try to remember that Maryland would fit into Georgia fifteen times, and that I need to adjust my thinking. We slip in just as things are beginning. I slide up the side and slither into a row second from the front. I hope it's not reserved for family only, because I don't qualify, not quite.
rewind: Friday night
I arrive, much much later than I'd hoped, having received bad directions no fewer than four times. Her sister recognizes me immediately, and rushes in for an embrace. The last of the guests have just left. The friend who finally talked me in over the phone left more than an hour ago. I will see him later. The family tells me it's better I'm late, as there were lines. People stood in line to pay respects. We sit and hand tissues to one another. "She was my best friend," her mother mourns. This worries me in a way I can't identify. The staff starts to hover, to flutter. It's past time for them to close. We exit. I kiss her parents, her sister, shake hands with the sister's husband, and tell the widower I need to find a liquor store. "Of course you do," he says. He guides me in, tells me he must get fast food for his son (who needs no fast food, but Not My Business) and he'll meet me at the house. I walk into the house with two fully loaded six-packs. "Here I am. I brought the party." "Are you kidding? You ARE the party!" he tells me. I drink a bit, visit with the couple I remember, glad to know they're still a couple. His father introduces himself, convinced we've never met. I'm convinced otherwise, but never mind. I must leave soon, carry beer to my other friend, Scarecrow, who lives 'nearby.' I do not trust this designation, so am prepared for the fourty minute drive. Scarecrow is pleased to see me, knew I'd know his house by the child's plastic pail on the mailbox (though the house number was evident), and begins by telling me, "I used to think I was in love with you, but I'm not." This is not news to me. I look at him sideways and ask, "Oh? Why not?" which makes him laugh, which is why he thought he was. It was never about me, only about the way I made him feel. Which I always knew. "My wife even doesn't hate you anymore," he says. "I never thought I'd given her a reason to hate me, " I say. "No, it was me, the way I lit up when anyone mentioned your name," he says, which makes strange and awful sense to me. For the record, I'm convinced that it wasn't how I made him feel, but how I made him feel... about himself.
We drink beer and visit far longer than anyone would credit as innocent, and yet anyone would be wrong. He offers the sofa; I've left items at the hotel. I return, decide against a shower, as I chose the hotel for the pool and whirlpool and breakfast. The bed could've been made of granite; I wouldn't've noticed.
rewind: Friday afternoon
I've missed 85, and not realized it. I am too-too far South to consider backtracking, and have no map to attempt a cross-road. I must press on to 95. I've probably added an hour to my journey by taking the Richmond bypass. Ah, well, live and learn. I'll arrive when I arrive. I've been topless since 9 this morning. It can't be a bad day altogether. A storm blows up suddenly, violent and furious. I pull up my top, drive through as much of it as I have courage to do at speeds that seem reasonable, then slow to a crawl, envying motorcyclists stopped under bridges. What a good excuse they have. I'm in a bit of a hurry, here. When the sun returns I consider pulling over to remove my top again, and decide against.
I've hit Atlanta during rush hour. I am too conditioned to the standstill pace of a packed DC beltway to even attempt the beltway of Atlanta. I drive slowly through areas I remember from years past, wonder where the stream was that we floated down as a caravan, with coolers of beer and rum strung between our floats. My top comes off while I wait at a light. It takes much longer than I wish to find the spot where I'd determined an appropriate hotel was to be found. This location appears chock-full of Hispanic people, black people and drug dealers, which makes me feel right at home. I book a room.
rewind: Friday morning
I leave while it's still damp from night, wondering if I've overpacked yet again, wondering what sort of person has as a goal to someday underpack for a journey, hoping my mother, when she learns I've undertaken this alone, will not freak the hell out too hard, hoping the weather will hold, because a topless road trip beats a regular road trip hands, arms, shoulders, neck down. I am flying low when I get a call from an old friend I've not seen or spoken with since before I had children. Life takes with one hand, returns with another.
rewind: Thursday night
My mother helps me crash clean the guest room; it is currently not guest-ready. E. had told me to not worry about it, but I am anyway. Her offer to stay with the children while I make a sudden short journey was most generous and unexpected. I throw things in an overnight bag, remembering charger cords, camera, photo calendar....if I don't have enough underwear, I'm sure I can buy some in Georgia. Or go without. That would be in keeping with the character the Georgia folk remember.
I phone the woman who made the very generous offer of staying with the children overnight; we won't need her after all, since Hawk will make it home on Friday afternoon, and can stay until YoungEv arrives. I speak to A., who planned to make the drive with me, on the phone. It turns out she's been having headaches and mustn't travel. I don't intend to tell my mother.
rewind: Thursday
I try to teach, but am distraught. People notice. These people, who love me in long-term ways, do not accept words from my mouth that argue with emotions on my face, so I tell my news and my wishes. Keeping your mouth closed is only a good idea when you're a lone Democrat in a roomful of Republicans. My friends are sympathetic, helpful, and make offers I can't, and won't, refuse.
rewind: Wednesday
"Aunt Belle? My mother's dying. I thought- my dad thought- you'd want to know."
rewind: Friday afternoon
I've missed 85, and not realized it. I am too-too far South to consider backtracking, and have no map to attempt a cross-road. I must press on to 95. I've probably added an hour to my journey by taking the Richmond bypass. Ah, well, live and learn. I'll arrive when I arrive. I've been topless since 9 this morning. It can't be a bad day altogether. A storm blows up suddenly, violent and furious. I pull up my top, drive through as much of it as I have courage to do at speeds that seem reasonable, then slow to a crawl, envying motorcyclists stopped under bridges. What a good excuse they have. I'm in a bit of a hurry, here. When the sun returns I consider pulling over to remove my top again, and decide against.
I've hit Atlanta during rush hour. I am too conditioned to the standstill pace of a packed DC beltway to even attempt the beltway of Atlanta. I drive slowly through areas I remember from years past, wonder where the stream was that we floated down as a caravan, with coolers of beer and rum strung between our floats. My top comes off while I wait at a light. It takes much longer than I wish to find the spot where I'd determined an appropriate hotel was to be found. This location appears chock-full of Hispanic people, black people and drug dealers, which makes me feel right at home. I book a room.
rewind: Friday morning
I leave while it's still damp from night, wondering if I've overpacked yet again, wondering what sort of person has as a goal to someday underpack for a journey, hoping my mother, when she learns I've undertaken this alone, will not freak the hell out too hard, hoping the weather will hold, because a topless road trip beats a regular road trip hands, arms, shoulders, neck down. I am flying low when I get a call from an old friend I've not seen or spoken with since before I had children. Life takes with one hand, returns with another.
rewind: Thursday night
My mother helps me crash clean the guest room; it is currently not guest-ready. E. had told me to not worry about it, but I am anyway. Her offer to stay with the children while I make a sudden short journey was most generous and unexpected. I throw things in an overnight bag, remembering charger cords, camera, photo calendar....if I don't have enough underwear, I'm sure I can buy some in Georgia. Or go without. That would be in keeping with the character the Georgia folk remember.
I phone the woman who made the very generous offer of staying with the children overnight; we won't need her after all, since Hawk will make it home on Friday afternoon, and can stay until YoungEv arrives. I speak to A., who planned to make the drive with me, on the phone. It turns out she's been having headaches and mustn't travel. I don't intend to tell my mother.
rewind: Thursday
I try to teach, but am distraught. People notice. These people, who love me in long-term ways, do not accept words from my mouth that argue with emotions on my face, so I tell my news and my wishes. Keeping your mouth closed is only a good idea when you're a lone Democrat in a roomful of Republicans. My friends are sympathetic, helpful, and make offers I can't, and won't, refuse.
rewind: Wednesday
"Aunt Belle? My mother's dying. I thought- my dad thought- you'd want to know."
Michael Jackson, Wanna Be Starting Something
(original draft dated 6/28/09)
