Garden of Angels (7 page)

Nine

November

It became harder to go to Atlanta every Saturday. Not because I didn’t want to see Mama—I did. But because I could hardly stand to see what the chemo was doing to her. Her hair was gone, even her eyebrows and eyelashes. “Better tell Marcia I won’t be needing that weekly appointment at her salon,” Mama would say in an effort to make light of her loss.

She grew thinner. “Now I can eat all the chocolate I want,” she’d tell us. She grew weaker. “I think I’ll just sit here in bed and visit with you today, if you don’t mind.” She grew more tired. “Let me just doze a minute, all right? Now, don’t leave. I want to visit more right after a little catnap.”

I cried every week on the way home. “Seems to me the chemotherapy is killing her,” I’d wail from the backseat.

“Now you hush,” Adel would hiss. “Sure it’s bad, but it’s killing the cancer too.”

Papa didn’t say much of anything. He looked grim and sad and lost without Mama.

Carole and some of the church ladies drove over on Mondays to visit Mama. And casseroles, fried chicken, roasts and other yummy Southern cooking showed up at our house every evening like clockwork. We were all grateful. Not only because the food was good, but because we were all worn down from the strain of holding things together. It wasn’t just that we missed Mama, but her absence had left a hole in our family and we didn’t know how to realign ourselves to fill in the empty space.

Papa stayed late at the bank working most nights. After work, Adel shut herself in her room and wrote long letters to Barry and talked on the phone to Sandy. I buried myself in my schoolwork. The college-prep courses were tougher than other schoolwork I’d done over the years, so I doubled my efforts on every assignment, telling myself that Mama would be proud if she knew how hard I was trying.

We were sitting on the porch of the little house, visiting Mama, when Adel said, “I want to ask Barry to come for Thanksgiving. His commander is offering three-day passes and I want to invite him to stay with us. He can’t get to New York and back, and I’d hate for him to spend the holiday stuck at the base.”

“I don’t know—” Papa started.

Mama interrupted. “Why, that’s a wonderful idea. Poor boy’s so far away from home. He should be with a family.”

“I’ll cook, Papa,” Adel said quickly. “I know all of Mama’s recipes.”

Papa and I exchanged glances, and I knew we were thinking the same thing about Adel’s cooking and wanting Barry to enjoy the meal and still be fond of Adel. “Um—I’ll help,” I said.

“I think the girls should do it,” Mama said.

“What about Barry staying over?” Adel asked. “That way we can have two whole days with each other.”

“He’ll need a place to sleep,” Papa said. “The back porch is too cold this time of year. Your mother would fret herself silly if we didn’t offer him a proper room.”

Mama agreed.

“Barry can have my room. I’ll sleep on the living room sofa,” Adel said.

I knew what I had to do to save the day. I said, “Barry can have my room and I’ll sleep on a cot in Adel’s room. My bathroom is right across the hall, and Adel and I can share hers.”

All eyes turned to me.

“That’s hospitable of you, Darcy,” Mama said.

“I appreciate your offer,” Adel said. She looked relieved and even grateful.

I felt like a hero.

I was in the cafeteria, eating a late lunch by myself. I had been excused from my regular lunch period because I’d been in speech class practicing for an upcoming debate, so I was still eating when the juniors and seniors came in.

The football team had a special table set aside where they ate together every day. The team was into state playoffs—they’d won our district—and everyone in Conners was cutting them a lot of slack. As if they needed it. They already behaved like they were royalty, which they weren’t, but the newspaper kept them on the front page and everywhere they went people bowed and scraped. I never understood why football got more attention than high grades, but it did.

Fortunately, J.T.’s back was to me. I shoveled my food, swallowing without tasting. I wanted out of there before he took notice of me. I was almost finished when I looked up to see Jason coming out of the line. He started toward a table by the windows. Unfortunately, he had to pass the football table to get there. That was when I saw J.T.’s foot snake out into Jason’s path. Jason didn’t see it.

My breath caught. I stood up and yelled, “Jason, watch out!” But my warning came too late.

Jason went down and his tray clattered to the floor, scattering its contents every which way. The voices in the cafeteria stopped humming and every head turned to see what had happened.

“Whoops,” J.T. said, leaning back in his chair. “Didn’t see you coming, man.”

I couldn’t see his expression, but I knew it wasn’t one bit sorry looking.

Jason got back on his feet. His jeans were smeared with vanilla pudding and his hands sopping with soup. He slung off the wetness, making sure some of it hit J.T. “You did that on purpose,” Jason said. His voice was low, his face pale as milk.

“Didn’t either. Did I, guys?” J.T. looked to his friends, who all shook their heads.

Jason rested his palms on the edge of the table and leaned into J.T.’s face. “Know what your problem is, J.T.? You think everybody’s afraid of you. Well, I’m not.” Jason’s gaze was cold and it struck fear in me. “It’s time you got dusted once and for all.”

“I’ll take you anytime you want,” J.T. bragged. He looked around at his friends. “After football season, though. If you can hold off.”

Of course, they all laughed.

“You have messed with the wrong person, jerk-off,” Jason said, his voice still low and menacing.

J.T. jumped to his feet, knocking his chair backward. “What did you call me?”

Jason didn’t move, didn’t back up. His mouth was set in a firm line, but his hands hung loosely at his sides. “So you’re both dumb
and
deaf, are you?”

I held my breath because I knew J.T. was going to hit Jason, but just then Coach came running over. “What’s going on here?”

“Nothing,” J.T. said, shrugging his huge shoulders. “Jason had a little accident and thinks it’s my fault. He was clumsy and is trying to blame me for it.”

Jason didn’t say a word but just kept staring into J.T.’s lying face.

“Save it for the field, J.T.,” Coach said. “Now sit down.” He turned to Jason. “You all right, son?”

“No damage,” Jason said.

“Then you go clean up. I’ll get a janitor in to mop up the mess.” Coach sounded sympathetic, but it made me mad to think he wouldn’t do anything to J.T. because of the upcoming game. He wouldn’t dream of benching his star player.

Jason turned, stepped over the tray and headed out of the cafeteria. I watched with new respect for Jason Polwalski. In all my years, I’d never seen anyone stand up to J. T. Rucker. Jason’s bravery made me like him all the more. Really, really like him.

I told Becky all about it when we walked home, except for the part about how much I liked Jason. She said, “Jason’s either very brave or very dumb. Taking on J.T. is not for the fainthearted.”

“I don’t think Jason would have said what he did if he didn’t think he could take J.T.,” I said.

“J.T.’s got three inches and thirty pounds over Jason, you know.”

“So what? The race doesn’t always go to the fastest.”

“You sound like you’ve taken a shine to Jason.”

My face reddened, but I kept my gaze frontward. “I’d just love to see somebody give J.T. what he’s been needing all his life—a good whipping.”

“Sorry, friend,” Becky Sue said. “Jason may be brave, but I really don’t think he’s the one to do it.”

I didn’t dare say anything or Becky would suspect me of other motives.

Later that afternoon I was working in the yard when someone called my name. I looked up and saw Jason standing on my back porch. I dropped my armful of bush clippings.

“I brought over a casserole from Carole,” he called. “I rang the front bell, but nobody answered. Your front door was unlocked, so I brought it inside. Carole said you were expecting it.”

He was walking toward me as he explained.

“Nobody locks their doors in Conners,” I told him. I was grubby with yard dirt and sweat. My hair hung in my eyes, and I was certain that I smelled like a wet dog.

He looked around. “Whoa. This place is beautiful. Is it yours?”

“My family’s,” I said. “Mama can’t keep it up now, so I do it for her.”

“Can I look around?”

“Sure.” I rubbed my dirty hands on my jeans. “Don’t they have gardens in Chicago?”

“Not in my neighborhood. Just concrete and asphalt.”

His description of home surprised me. I couldn’t imagine growing up without grass and trees all around. “Want some iced tea?” I asked, thinking of a way to go inside and make myself presentable and to keep him around a bit longer.

“Everyone drinks iced tea around here. Is it the beverage of the South?”

“That would be RC Cola.”

He grinned. “All right. I’ll drink some iced tea.”

I hurried into the house, where I threw cold water on my face and brushed my hair. In the mirror, I looked at a skinny, flat-chested girl with blond hair, fine as cornsilk, and a face as plain as brown wrapping paper. Disgusted because I wasn’t pretty like Adel, I rushed back to the kitchen and dragged out the iced tea pitcher from the refrigerator. Mama kept sweet tea ready to pour year-round. “It’s hospitable,” she told us. So even with her away, Adel and I kept up her tradition.

I carried two glasses outside and discovered Jason sitting on the bench overlooking the pond. Cooler weather had caused the vines to die back, but the autumn clematis was in bloom along the fence and looked beautiful with its tiny star-shaped white flowers. I handed him a glass and sat at the farthest end of the bench, my nerve endings tingling.

“That’s pretty. What is it?” He was pointing to the flowering vine.

“
Clematis vitalba
. That’s its Latin name. It only flowers in the fall.”

“I’ll bet you know the names of every single plant in this yard, don’t you?”

“Mostly,” I said. “I love Mama’s gardens.”

“I don’t blame you. They’re really pretty.” He sipped his tea and continued to look around. “I asked Carole to let me bring over the casserole,” he said.

“You did?”

“I wanted to thank you for trying to warn me in the cafeteria today.”

“I’m sorry the warning wasn’t in time.” I traced my finger around the rim of my glass. “You really aren’t afraid of J.T., are you?”

Jason shrugged. “I’ve taken down tougher guys.”

“Really? How?”

His eyes held mine. “I fight dirty,” he said simply. “But I win.”

I didn’t know what to say. I’d never heard anybody be quite so frank.

“You don’t seem to be afraid of him either,” Jason said.

I thought before answering. “I wouldn’t rile him on purpose, but most of the time, he makes me more angry than scared. I never did take to people who pick on others just because they’re bigger or meaner. And someday, someone’s going to come along who’s bigger and meaner than J.T. Then he’ll get a taste of what he’s put everybody else through.”

“You’re right,” Jason said, standing and handing me back the empty iced tea glass. “There’s always someone who can take you down.”

I didn’t want him to leave, but I couldn’t figure a way to ask him to stay either. “Thanks for bringing our supper over.”

“Like I said, I asked to bring it.” He looked around the yard one more time. “And I’m glad I did, or I’d never have seen this place.”

I followed him around to the front of the house, where his motorcycle was parked in the driveway. The tea glasses were cold in my hands and the air had turned cooler too. Jason threw his leg over his cycle and brought the engine to life.

“You can come visit anytime,” I blurted out.

He measured me with his cool green eyes, waved and pulled away.

Feeling hot and cold all over, I watched him ride off. I brought the glass he had held to my cheek, rested it against my warm skin and shivered.

Three days before Thanksgiving, Mama called. “I have wonderful news,’’ she said. “My doctor is allowing me to come home. Oh, Graham, girls . . . I can come home!”

Ten

I made a banner that said Welcome Home and Adel and I hung it across the front veranda so that it would be the first thing Mama saw when she and Papa drove up. Becky Sue helped me blow up about a hundred balloons and we hung them all over the house, along with crepe paper streamers. Adel baked a cake—Mama’s favorite, lemon chiffon—and polished up the silver coffee service in the dining room in honor of her homecoming.

When they arrived, I bolted out of the house and practically threw myself into Mama’s arms. Papa said, “Slow down, missy. You’re going to knock your mother over.”

She smiled. A bandana covered her head and her clothes hung loosely on her body. “Oh, girls, this is so lovely,” she said. “Thank you.” She caressed the house and front yard with her gaze. “What a sight for sore eyes. I’ve missed my family and my home so much.”

Her tears caused a lump to rise in my throat. “Come on in, Mama,” I said hastily. “We cleaned and cooked and decorated all morning.”

Papa helped her up the front porch steps, for she seemed weakened, as if all her vitality had been drained. I grabbed her suitcase out of the car. In the front hallway, she stopped, stood and wept. “I don’t ever want to leave this house again until the undertaker comes for me.”

No one spoke. The image of the black wreath from Grandmother’s funeral appeared in my mind.

Mama sighed and shook her head. “Oh now, where’s your sense of humor? I already look half dead and all of you know it. This is a brand-new day and we have company coming for the holiday. What are you girls cooking up for Barry?”

The bank closed midafternoon on Wednesday, and Adel had taken off Friday. Although we had plenty of offers from friends to fix our holiday dinner, Adel and I decided we could do it ourselves. We went to the grocery store together and, armed with lists of ingredients for Mama’s recipes, bought bagfuls of groceries.

Wednesday evening, Papa set up one of the comfortable overstuffed chairs from the living room in the kitchen and Mama sat, curled up with a quilt, and supervised our preparations for the big feast. “Think you’ve got enough?” Papa asked mildly. He stood beside Mama’s chair and surveyed the pots bubbling on the stove and the counters filled with cooling pies and gelatin salads and chopped vegetables ready for cooking.

“I don’t want to wait until the last minute,” Adel said. “Besides, it’s not only Thanksgiving, it’s a celebration too. Barry’s never eaten my cooking, you know.”

I was mincing celery for turkey stuffing. “That might not be a bad thing.”

Adel turned on me. “I don’t need any smart remarks from you, Darcy Rebecca. Is your room ready for him?”

“Squeaky clean. I changed the sheets, swept the floor, hung up all my clothes.”

“And your bathroom?”

“You can eat off the floor.”

“What time do you expect Barry?” Mama asked.

“Around ten o’clock. I thought we’d eat around one.”

We usually ate our big Thanksgiving feast in the early afternoon, so Adel was sticking to tradition. “Did you get fresh cranberries?” Mama asked.

“And fresh oranges,” Adel said. “Darcy’s going to grind them together just like you always do.”

I pulled the food grinder from the cabinet to reinforce Adel’s claim. “We’re doing everything just like you always do,” I said.

“Goodness . . . you don’t even need me.”

I knew Mama was trying to encourage our efforts, but none of us had words to tell her just how much we needed her. “I need you,” Papa said.

I saw Mama slip her hand into his and him hold on to hers like a man holding a rope so that he wouldn’t drown.

Later that night, as I was throwing a quilt over the cot in Adel’s room, I said, “I’m glad Mama’s home. I’ve missed her.”

“Me too,” Adel said.

I yawned and stretched out under the quilt. “Everything is perfect. Mama’s home and you haven’t burned anything edible.”

She threw her hairbrush at me.

Adel set her alarm, rose at six and went down to stuff the turkey and get it in the oven. I pulled the covers over my head. By nine, we were all up helping in the kitchen, even Papa. I set the table with our best family silver and Wedgwood china on Great-Grandmother’s finest Irish linen tablecloth. I made a centerpiece of mums from the garden in a silver bowl and set matching silver candelabras with tall white tapers upon the table. I hand polished the mahogany sideboard and chair backs until they gleamed. I was admiring my handiwork when Barry’s rental car pulled up in our driveway.

Adel rushed outside to greet him, brought him into the living room and introduced him to Mama. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Mrs. Quinlin,” he said.

“Call me Joy,” Mama said, blessing him with her smile.

Barry was dressed in civilian clothing— civvies, he called them—and he looked more handsome than ever. I couldn’t wait to show him off to Becky Sue. Eventually I took him upstairs to my room so that he could stash his army duffel bag. “Thanks for giving up your room,” he told me, looking around at my spiffed-up quarters. “I would have slept on the floor.”

“I’d have slept on the floor first. Hospitality matters. It’s the Southern way.”

He walked over to my rather large poster project. It was thumbtacked to the longest wall, and it stretched the whole length of it. He examined it closely. “What’s this?”

“Special project for my government class,” I said. “I’ve been working on it for weeks, even though it isn’t due until May.”

“I thought most kids your age put up posters of their favorite rock band.” He grinned. “So tell me about it.”

I shrugged self-consciously. “I still have to do the written part of the report, but this is a time line of America’s involvement in Vietnam. See here?” I pointed to the first date and my neatly written historical notes. “This is 1955, when our country started messing around in the politics after the French were forced out. Here’s 1961, when President Kennedy tried to negotiate a settlement between the Communist party holding the north part of Vietnam and the non-Communists in the South. Here’s 1963, when things started to escalate after the President was assassinated.” I stopped and turned to Barry. “Did you know that Buddhist monks set themselves on fire to protest religious persecution? Can you imagine?”

Barry shook his head. “No, I can’t.” He ran his finger along the line, reading as he went. “ ‘August 1964, the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution, U.S.S.
Maddox
battleship attacked and more troops sent. . . . 1965, Operation Rolling Thunder, sustained bombing missions begun by U.S. . . . 1966, North Vietnamese Army crosses Demilitarized Zone and is driven back in heavy fighting. . . .’ ”

I drew his attention to a second time line I’d drawn in bright red, running beneath the first. “This is what was happening in this country during the military buildup in Vietnam,” I said. “See? In 1965, protesters started marching on college campuses. By 1968, at the Democratic National Convention, there was a free-for-all, with protesters burning flags and draft cards and fighting in the streets of Chicago with police.”

Barry ran his hand along both lines but began reading again from the one about the war. “ ‘Nineteen sixty-seven, the Tet Offensive buildup begins; 1968, the Battle for Khe Sanh.’ ” He stopped. “Khe Sanh . . . that’s the firefight that my brother was in.”

“Really?”

“It scarred him for life,” Barry said. He looked grim and suddenly I wondered about the wisdom of showing off my project to him. Adel was going to kill me if I ruined Thanksgiving.

“Well, soldiers also started coming back home in sixty-eight,” I said, trying to put a positive spin on my chart and pointing to my notations.

“But the war spilled over into Cambodia and Laos,” he said, following a branch of the time line shooting off one side dated 1970 and 1971. I had made factual addendums to the chart about Vietnam’s neighboring countries and the encroachment of the war over their borders.

“Yes, but by 1972, all but a third of U.S. troops were pulled out,” I said, talking fast to finish up because I could see that he was determined to follow the chart to its conclusion. “In January 1973, we signed the Paris Peace Agreement. And in March 1973, our combat soldiers left and today only military advisors and troops protecting U.S. installations remain.”

“And that’s where your time line stops,” Barry said.

“Because the war is up to the Vietnamese to finish,” I said. “I’m not sure how to end my project. Doesn’t seem right not to give it an ending.”

“Maybe you should write the North and South Vietnamese governments and ask them to get it over with so you can turn this in.”

I smiled. “Maybe so.”

He ran his fingers over boxes I’d drawn at the bottom of the chart. “What do you plan to put here?”

“Casualties,” I admitted. “Another reason to get the war over with. So that people can stop dying.”

With Barry scrutinizing my project, it took on a face and gained substance for me. Real people had died in Vietnam—brothers, fathers, sons, husbands—living, breathing men. Until that moment, my chart had been an abstract exercise to win a better grade. But seeing it through Barry’s eyes had turned it into a chronicle not only of history, but of people’s lives.

Barry stepped away from the wall, shoved his hands in his pockets. “You’ve done a good job, Darcy. If I were your teacher, I’d give you an A-plus.”

“Thank you,” I said, feeling a heaviness in my heart.

“There you are!” Adel swept into the room. “Did Darcy kidnap you?”

Barry put his arm around her. “I was just looking over one of her school projects. She’s a bright girl.”

Adel eyed my chart suspiciously, then turned back to Barry. “I wondered if you’d like to come down and join my parents while Darcy and I finish up the meal.”

I understood the message she was sending about needing my help.

“Sounds good,” Barry said.

They left hand in hand. I waited a few minutes before following them downstairs. Afternoon sunlight filtered through the curtains in the dining room and the aroma of turkey filled our house, yet all I could think of were the soldiers who would never have Thanksgiving dinner again because they were no more.