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Why Are You Late?

Why are you late?
My mother said that almost every time I walked in the door. Sometimes I was down the street at a friend’s house. His family had the first television on the block. Mickey Mouse Club came on at 4 p.m., and was an hour long. The first half was singing, dancing and acting silly. It was all right. I was too young to appreciate fully Annette Funicello at that time. When I was older she became Annette Full of Jello and much more fascinating. The second half was a serial. My favorite was Spin and Marty, two boys at a summer camp. Spin was a city street kid, and Marty was a naïve rich kid. At first they didn’t like each other, but by the third season they were buddies. As soon as the final song–“MIC, see you real soon, KEY, Why? Because we love you”—finished I was supposed to be out the door and headed home. In the winter the sky was getting dark at that time of time. Everyone knew if you were caught outside after dark, something terrible was going to happen.
The only situation worse was to be out of the house in the dark and dark clouds rumbled with thunder and lightning. My brother was bringing me home from the movies one time. He always resented having to pick me up places. It cut into his cruising time up and down the main drag of downtown. On the average I’d have to wait about thirty minutes on the street outside the theater. When I decided to start walking home, he became even madder I wasn’t where I was supposed to be.
“Why are you late? Didn’t you see the clouds in the sky? Didn’t you realize it was about to rain?” my mother said with a particularly angry exasperation.
Yes, I knew it was about to rain. I knew she was going to be hysterical, but there wasn’t much I could do about it since my brother continued to scour Main Street for a girl desperate enough to go out with him. Of course, I would never get away with saying that so I instead went into my sniveling little coward role and whined, “I’m sorry.” I suspected she gave up her tirade because she didn’t want to listen to me whimper. On the other hand, my brother jutted his chin up and out as he walked right past Mother without acknowledging her.
As a child I seriously debated with myself whether I wished to bother to try to date when I was a teen-ager. The appeal of the young ladies hardly seemed worth the inquisition. If my brother came in after ten o’clock, she would greet him at the front door with her hands on her hips. She knew the movie downtown never let out after nine o’clock. You could drive a young lady home anywhere in town and still be home by ten.
“Why are you late?”
He tried to ignore as was his custom, but she blocked his path. Squinting she pushed her nose into his face.
“Let me smell your breath.”
“Aww, Mom.” He took a quick step to the left and escaped into the next room.
“Are you having sex with that girl? You better not get her pregnant!”
That imperative statement contained two major ironies. One, my brother did start coming in staggering from too many beers, and when he did Mother just stood there giggling, finding the way he lost his balance and fell on the sofa to be quaintly enchanting.
However, Father was not amused at all. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? You’re scaring the hell out of your little brother!”
The other irony was that by the time he finally got a woman pregnant I was married and had impregnated my wife, and I was six years younger than he was.
The fear of being on the receiving end of the withering question “Why are you late?” tended to make any situation worse. One year for Halloween my mother took me downtown to a five and dime so I could buy a mask for the school festival. She sat out in the car while I was supposed to rush in to pick out the mask. I stood in front of the table and froze. Not only did it infuriate Mother for me to be late, she also blew up if I spent too much money on foolish things such as Halloween masks. I saw ones I liked but they were too expensive. Dithering for too long a moment, I finally decided on the cheapest thing I could find. By the time I paid for it and ran out to the car, it was too late—Mother’s face was crimson.
“Why are you late? How hard was it to pick out a simple mask? Now I have a splitting headache!”
Well, that took the thrill out of Halloween, and it was the last one before entering junior high school. Once you’re in junior high you’re too big to wear silly Halloween masks.
I soon found out the reason Mother had such a short fuse. She had cancer and died before I entered high school. All dread of the scoldings went out the window. After a while I kind of missed them. It wasn’t any fun staying out after midnight on a date because Father went to bed at 9 o’clock every night and didn’t know when I came in or even that I had gone out in the first place. In fact, I was usually home by ten o’clock anyway. After all, the movie was over by 9:30. We could make the drag a couple of times to see who else was out that night, drop by the local drive-in for a quick soda and still be home in time to make Mother happy, if Mother had been there.
I am now older than my mother was when she died. I’m still home by ten o’clock. I never had to stand by the front door demanding why my children were late coming home. My son hardly ever went to movies unless it was Star Wars, and my daughter always dated guys who had earlier curfews than she did.
With luck I have a few more years. Boring people like me usually live a long time. It’s too strenuous to do anything exciting. But I do know that when my life is up and I finally am reunited with my loved ones in heaven, my mother will be standing at the Pearly Gates with her hands on her hips and a scowl on her lips.
“Why are you late?”

The Old Dress in the Trunk

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(Author’s Note: I always think of November as the time to remember family, with Thanksgiving and all. So every Monday in November I’m going to share memories about my family.)
Grady and Florida had been married so many years they had forgotten why.
Florida liked to tell how they met. She was on a joy ride with a boy who was showing off his new car. The car was more interesting than the boy. She lived in Era, a farming community in North Texas during the Great Depression. Girls had to do something for thrills. They were chugging along at a breathtaking thirty-five miles per hour down a dusty road, when Florida saw this young man walking in the same direction they were going. He was tall, had thick black hair, and his shoulders were as broad as a barn.
“Oh, there’s a good-looking man,” she chirped. “Let’s stop.”
Well, the durned fool stopped. She thought it was mean of him to put her in an awkward position just because she asked for it. Florida jumped from the car and walked up to the man who was still walking down the lane.
“Excuse me, sir,” she said in her best damsel in distress voice.
He kept on walking. Now was that rude of him. She ran to catch up and tapped him on the shoulder.
“Excuse me, sir,” she said peevishly. “I called to you. Didn’t you hear me?”
When he turned to look at her, she blinked. He looked like a cowboy movie star. Florida could not quite decide which one. Next she noticed he had only one good eye. The other one was oddly white.
“Huh?”
Great, she thought. He’s half blind and deaf. He smiled and deep dimples appeared in his cheeks. The one eye, which was a dark brown, was gorgeous. Then there were those broad shoulders and the hair she wanted to run her fingers through.
“I said do you know if the high school football schedule has been announced yet?” she asked in a loud voice.
“No.”
“Sorry to have bothered you.” She smiled sweetly.
“Okay.”
She extended her hand. “I’m Florida Flowers. We have a farm on the other side of town.”
He looked at her hand a moment like he didn’t know what he was supposed to do. Finally he shook it, gently, because it was so small.
“Okay.”
“Now, remember. Florida Flowers. Like, Florida is the land of flowers.”
“Okay.”
“And what is your name, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Grady.”
“Grady what?” She glanced behind to make sure the boy was still waiting for her. Much to her displeasure, he was laughing.
“Grady Cowling.”
“It was certainly a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Grady Cowling.”
“Okay.”
“You do remember my name, don’t you?”
“Sure. Florida.”
“Florida what?” She didn’t know if she were getting annoyed or romantically aroused.
“Miss Florida Flowers.”
“I hope to see you at one of the football games this season, Mr. Cowling.”
“Okay.”
In September she attended the first game between Era Hornets and Valley View Panthers. Looking around the stands she saw Grady sitting by himself. She plopped herself next to him and began to talk. She talked and he listened for the next six months. When she stopped to take a breath sometime in April, Grady asked her to marry him. He had saved enough money to rent a farm down the road from her family so it was convenient if she wanted to visit her mama from time to time. That made sense to her so they went to the preacher’s house the next week and said their vows. She had sewn herself a new dress, and Grady took a bath.
“How much do I owe you?” Grady asked the preacher, with his wallet in his hand.
“Pay me what you think she’s worth.”
“Oh, I couldn’t pay you that much.”
Florida did not remember what bill he took from his wallet, but she thought at the time he could have afforded to give the preacher a bit more.
She did not mind much. Florida knew he was a hard worker and saved every penny he could. After a few years they could afford to buy the farm they were renting. The house was small. She had to store memorabilia in a trunk stored in the barn. Maybe they could add a room as the family grew. And it did grow. They had two boys right off, but one of them died. Doctor bills took the money set aside to buy the farm. Then another boy came along. Florida was excited the year Grady had a bumper crop of cotton. This would be the year they would buy the farm. But the government ordered half of all cotton plants be plowed under to boost prices. She cried when she watched Grady tilled over them. Grady did not say anything. It was just another day of work.
As the boys grew, the possibility of buying the land diminished until one day the dream died as they sat around the kitchen table and decided they had best pack up and move to the nearest town, Gainesville. With ten thousand people, it was almost considered a city. Grady had already found a job driving a Royal Crown Cola truck. Eventually, hopefully, they could buy a house with a big enough lot to plant some corn, potatoes and beans. And a flower garden. Florida always liked her flowers.
The day came when Grady borrowed his brother’s big truck to load the furniture. They were in the barn gathering the last of their possessions. It was a slow job, because Florida had to stop and cry. Each item that went into the truck reinforced the reality they would never have their own farm. Grady just kept on working. Besides, he did not know what to say to her.
Last to be loaded on the truck was an old trunk. It had been there as long as they had been married, and they had forgotten what was in it. Florida wanted to take a moment to look inside. Grady opened it, and lifted out an old dress, dirty, stained and gnawed around the edges by rats that inhabited the barn’s dark corners.
“I bet you don’t even remember what that is,” she said. Her voice—which she always raised so he could hear her–was tinged with bitterness. It had just crept in over the years of hope, despair and the monotonous chore of surviving.
Grady held the dress tenderly, like he had held her hand the first day they met on the dirt road.
“It’s the dress you got married in.”
Without another word, he put it back in the trunk which he lifted into the truck. The boys clambered into the back. Grady and Florida sat silently in the cab as the truck headed to Gainesville for the next phase of their lives. They didn’t expect much, just more of the same.
They had the wedding dress though. Like their marriage, it was dirty, stained, had holes in it, but it was still there.

My First Date

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Every so often I think of my first date when I was 14 years old. I don’ know why, but I felt some social obligation to start dating that early. Even today I can imagine someone reading this and thinking, “Fourteen? Why so late?”
It was around Christmas and my school’s National Junior Honor Society was having a party at this private club’s lodge across the Red River from my home in Gainesville, Texas. That meant we were going out of state into the woods of Oklahoma. Only God knew the exact location of this place.
To be honest, I thought it was the best way to get close to this girl who went to the same church as I did. You see, I thought we would be more likely to get home if God knew it was two good church kids under his guidance. More than that, I had an awful crush on her. She was a year ahead of me in school, had a sweet smile, was smart and never said anything bad about anyone. She was perfect. Freud would add that she looked like my mother, but I think that’s a creepy observation so I’m just going to move on from there with no further comment.
My mother couldn’t drive me to pick up the girl so she asked my uncle to do it. Big mistake. He laughed too loud and tended to spit out the car window and sometimes the spittle landed in the back seat.
He decided to walk to the girl’s front door and wait in her living room with me until my date emerged. Her father sat on the sofa watching television.
“And there’s her big ol’ fat daddy!” My uncle laughed, very much amused by his own humor.
He took us to the school where all the couples were put into the backseats of cars driven by chaperones and/or parents. We ended up in the backseat of a car driven by the banker’s wife. It was a tight fit because the banker’s son was the star of the football team. His date was also a high school freshman, like my date. The girls knew each other and chatted all the way from Texas to Oklahoma.
The private club’s lodge looked like an abandoned house in the woods. The main room was not much bigger than my living room. We sat with another couple—the girl also knew my date and the guy also played football. He wasn’t a star like the banker’s son but still did some fancy footwork on the field. He sat slouched in a chair staring at nothing and stood every so often when the girl wanted to dance.
Neither my date nor I danced because, after all, we were good church kids. I thought this would be my chance to show what a brilliant conversationalist I was.
From time to time she’d crinkle her cute little brow and ask, “Is that a joke? I never know when you’re not being serious.”
When all four of us were together I tried to make a joke about what the adults were saying in the other room.
“Why do you care?” the football player’s date pointedly asked.
After that I imitated the football player, slouched in my chair and stared straight ahead. At one point the adults told us to line up for refreshments. As a gentleman I asked my date if she would like for me to bring her something so she wouldn’t have to stand in line. She said yes.
It was only after that I noticed all the other girls were in line and there sat my date waiting to be served, with a sweet smile on her face.
The party eventually ended, proving that there was indeed a God. On the way home, however, my faith in the church and all things sacred was put to another test. The banker’s wife, once she crossed the Red River into Texas, took a turn off down a road I had never been on before. It was dark with lots of trees on each side of the road. Then I heard this murmuring which bordered on moaning. And slurping sounds. Out of the corner of my eyes I could see the other couple had merged into a squirming monolithic dark romantic mass.
I don’t think this was the banker’s son’s first date.
Somewhat emboldened by the example he was giving, I raised my right arm up and put it across the back of the seat. That was the extent of my courage, however, because I didn’t lower my arm around my date’s shoulder. After all, she was a good church girl and was perfect.
I glanced over at my date, and she still had that sweet smile on her face, pretending nothing unusual was going on. After all, she was perfect.
Within minutes my arm began to hurt, but the back seat was so tight I couldn’t return my arm to its original position. It was stuck on the back of the seat until the banker’s wife had given her son enough whoopee time with his date and returned to the main road where I saw the lights of civilization again. This detour through hell was almost over.
The banker’s wife first dropped my date off at her house. I said I hope she had a nice time, and she replied she did. At least she got to talk to two of her girlfriends part of the time.
I felt relief when the banker’s wife finally pulled into my driveway. I thanked her for the nice time and said good night to the football player and his date who giggled, “Bye.” He only grunted. Thank goodness that was over. I got ready for bed and slipped in only to find my mother there.
“Well, how did it go?” Her eyes twinkled.
I told her what my uncle had said. She replied it sounded just like something he would say. I told her we had a nice time listening to the music while the others danced. Honestly I can’t remember if I confided in her about the ride home. There are certain things you don’t share with your mother.
“And how did your date enjoy the evening?”
I put on a nice sweet smile.
“Oh, she was perfect.”
Perfect.
Perfect.
Perfect.

Angels in My Eyes

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Children see and feel more than we realize. Sometimes they say things that are so fantastic we decide they have to be lying. They only lie out of fear, the most threatening feeling of all. It takes years for a human being to lie for profit and self-aggrandizement. So when children make statements that appear to be lies, they are actually trying to express complex situations.
For example, when children complain their stomachs hurt, they’re trying to say they are scared, anxious, upset because someone has hurt their feelings. Even the idea that they didn’t want a parent to tell them to stop acting like a baby would be enough to bring on a nasty bellyache.
I know because I remember going through a similar experience, except I didn’t have a stomach ache.
I saw angels floating down from heaven.
I wasn’t hesitant to grab any adult available and point to the sky.
“Don’t you see them? Angels are coming down from heaven.”
Most neighbors were nice and merely said, “No, I’m sorry. I don’t see anything.”
I was not so lucky with my own family. My father scared the hell out of me. Remember I couldn’t have been more than four or five when I saw the angels, so I was very short. My father was six-foot two, two hundred fifty pounds and always looked like he was about to explode into a spate of dirty words—which he often did. I don’t think I said hello to him I was eight and then I only whispered it so he didn’t hear me.
When I told my mother, she demanded I should get those foolish ideas out of my head right now. I was taking up valuable time of people who had really important things to do.
My brother, who would eventually become an alcoholic, warned me never to say that to anyone else ever again. “People will think you’re crazy, and they’ll lock you up in the state mental hospital and keep you there until you die. I didn’t completely understand what all that meant but it sounded awful.
My older brother, who would spend much of his adult life in the aforementioned state mental hospital, pooh-poohed my observation. “Oh, you just want attention.” I didn’t think there was anything wrong with wanting attention. Everyone wanted attention at one time or another, but I decided not to continue the discussion because I didn’t want to be accused of wanting attention again.
Eventually I forgot that I could see angels floating in the sky. Surviving childhood took up all my time. I think it was after I was married and had children I discovered something quite enlightening. Humans have secretions to keep the eyeballs moist. Dry eyes are not comfortable. That’s why we have to put drops in our eyes sometimes.
When putting drops in my eyes once, I noticed rivulets going down my eyeballs. They looked just the angels coming down from heaven.
So it wasn’t foolishness, it wasn’t insanity and it was a cry for attention. I really saw something and only described it the best way I knew how as a small child.
They weren’t angels in the sky. They were angels in my eyes. I think it’s better that way.

Wheezes in the Dark

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I hate August in Florida. And it’s not because of what you think. Sure it’s hot, but I never minded that. I grew up in Texas where it was still 99 degrees at midnight in August.
No, what I hate about August in Florida are all of the disgusting plants in the swamp decide to pollinate and release their nasty little pollen spores whose only purpose in life is to find their way up my nose.
Once ensconced in my nasal cavities, they begin to work their magic. I should be in the Guinness Book of World Records for the number of sneezes in a row—and no little choo-choos but ACHOO, ACHOOs.
Invariably I would also get an infection wanting to join the party so then I have to include a doctor in the game who supplies the drugs—antibiotics, I mean. I thought I was smart enough to end the party when it wanted to travel down to the lungs because that can lead to pneumonia which can end in death even now in the 21st century.
Which brings me to where the real story begins. A few weeks ago I was hosting another mucous gala when I realized that the infection arrived. For whatever reason I decided not to go to my doctor for an antibiotic. Maybe I thought this time the routine would be different. At age seventy-one I should have known better.
I noticed in the quiet of the night I could hear the wheezing from the lowest recesses of my lungs, and those wheezes began to sound like voices. This was not new to me. I have a REM sleep disorder which means I stay in the dream state all the time. I think I see things and hear things in that nether world between dreams and reality.
At first I thought they were clever and cute. I had never heard these voices before. They were like new friends at the mucous party. They stayed for several more evenings and I kept feeling worse. I dragged through the days and lost more of the little sleep I did get.
Then one night the voice changed. It shouldn’t be called a voice at all. It was just wheezing from the bottom of my lungs which no one else could hear. But this voice was very clear and recognizable. It was my five-year-old granddaughter.
“Papa, please call home.”
At first I thought of the line from the movie ET but she sounded scared instead of motivated.
“Papa, please call home, please.”
It was so real I actually woke up, so concerned now I almost considered call my daughter in the middle of the night to make sure everyone was all right. Then I thought the phone call itself would upset her more than any upset she might be in. And if everything was all right there, then she would assume there was something wrong with me. And there was nothing wrong with me.
Oh.
Wait.
Cough. Cough.
The next day I called my doctor who checked me out and prescribed an antibiotic and prednisone. The mucous party is over, and I really do feel better.
All I’ve got to say now is if my granddaughter wants to talk to me through my wheezes in the dark, she has my loving permission.

Memories of 4th of July Past

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July Fourth brings back a time I worked for the Dallas Morning News on its editing desk. After five p.m., calls to the information center downstairs were rerouted to the editing desk. Why, I don’t know. We didn’t have the authority to reply to requests. We were on an assembly line of correcting typos and writing headlines fast so our readers would have their newspapers to skim as they ate breakfast.
One July Fourth night I got stuck with a call from a woman in tears.
“Why don’t children respect holidays anymore?”
“I don’t know, ma’am.” I kept reading for mistakes in an Associated Press story from Indonesia or some such distant location which had undergone a catastrophe.
“We always tried to make holidays special for them, but they didn’t appreciate it.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Nothing means anything to them anymore, except their silly fishing boats and always drinking that beer.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
My mind went back to a July Fourth long ago when I asked my mother if we could do something special for the holiday. My father was a Royal Crown Cola salesman and those grocery stores needed fresh supplies of soda pop whether it was a holiday or not. That meant the rest of us just sat home and ate hot dogs and watermelon. For entertainment my brothers lit firecrackers and threw them at me. I was only seven or eight so I screamed and ran. That’s why I was hoping this July Fourth we could do something different. If dad could take off a little early maybe we could go out to the local lake for a picnic and splashing in the water.
“We’ll have to ask your father,” she said.
“Yeah, sure, if I get done,” he said.
On July Fourth morning I was up early. I knew we couldn’t leave until dad came home, but I wanted to be ready when he did roll his truck in the yard and load us into the car for the lake. But he didn’t show up. Mom fixed the hot dogs for lunch, and we ate watermelon. In the afternoon, my brothers threw firecrackers at me and laughed when I screamed and ran.
Not only did dad not take off early, he worked extra late so he even missed supper. I didn’t say anything to mom because I didn’t want another lecture about how selfish a little boy I was for expecting dad to do anything except work hard. Here he slaved away to pay the bills and buy groceries and all I could think of was having fun.
“The children never show up for holidays,” the woman on the phone said through her tears.
“I wish I could do something to make you feel better.” I was only in my twenties. I didn’t know the right thing to say.
She sniffed. “Oh, that’s all right. Thank you for listening.”
After she hung up, I realized I was working on July Fourth, and my wife and baby boy were home alone. Some things never changed. No, I told myself. The difference was I wanted to be at home with them, and I promised myself to be there with them every holiday I could.
Then it was time to write another headline. After all, the newspaper had to come out on time.

Remember Chapter Seventeen

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Previously: Retired teacher Lucinda remembers her favorite student Vernon. Reality interrupts when another boarder Nancy scolds her for talking to her daughter Shirley. She remembers letting it slip to Vernon that she didn’t like Nancy. Vernon decides to marry Nancy. Vernon is drafted.
“They caught up with me real fast,” Vernon said. “I thought it was nice of them to let me finish this semester first, though.”

Emma lumbered up the stairs and pushed Lucinda aside. “For God’s sake, get out of the way! Ain’t you got no common sense?”

“This is the fire marshal’s secretary?” Bertha’s voice trembled. “I got a message for him.”

Emma heard what Bertha was saying and charged over to her. “Bertha!”

“Yes, ma’am, my name is—“

Grabbing the receiver from her sister’s hand, Emma blurted, “She’s a damned fool, that’s who she is. Sorry for lettin’ her bother you. Good bye.” She slammed the receiver down.

“Emma!” Bertha’s hand went to her face.

Lucinda found herself caught between the worlds of present and past. Vernon was still there, but his voice was a distance echo.

“Who’s that? Another memory?”

She put her hand up. “Hush, Vernon.”

“Why did you tell that woman I was a damned fool?” Bertha was on the verge of tears.

“Because you are!” Emma retorted.

“I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings,” Vernon apologized.

“Vernon, I want to hear what’s going on.” Lucinda stepped away from the basement stairs.

“The very idea of callin’ the fire marshal!” Emma scolded. “Don’t you know I can’t afford those changes?”

Tears rolled down Bertha’s cheeks. “That’s a terrible thing to say to a complete stranger, that your sister is a damned fool!”

“Mrs. Cambridge?” His voice faded even more.

“You didn’t seem to mind to turn your sister into the law!” Emma wagged a finger at Bertha.

“It’s for our own safety, Emma!” She held up her hands in defense. “We could all die if this place caught fire!”

“You damned fool!” she bit back. “This place ain’t gonna burn down!”

“It could, the way you smoke all the time!” Bertha jutted out her chin.

“Bertha, now you shut up before you have another one of your fits and I have to slap you!” She didn’t wait for a reply but stormed past Lucinda down the stairs to the laundry room.

“Don’t you walk off on me! And I’m not gonna have a fit! I ain’t had a fit in weeks!” With that Bertha exploded into loud sobs and stormed out of the kitchen and up the stairs to her room.

In the new silence, Lucinda drifted back to that spring day in her classroom. Vernon’s voice grew strong.

“I came to say good bye. Please, Mrs. Cambridge, stop grading papers long enough for me to give you a proper good bye.”

“What?” Then she remembered what she did next to Vernon, and she wanted to escape. Lucinda forced herself into the present tense and walked away, going upstairs to her bedroom.

“I’m sorry for what I said the last time we talked.”

She ignored him as much as possible as she opened her door and went straight to bed. All this would go away, if only I could nap awhile, Lucinda told herself. Before her head rested on the pillow, she heard another knock at the door. She hoped it wasn’t Bertha. She could not endure another rant from the landlady’s sister.

“Miz Cambridge, may I come in?” It was Cassie.

“Of course, dear.” She sighed and sat up.

“Mrs. Cambridge, please,” Vernon pleaded.

“What, Vernon? I’m in a hurry. Cassie wants to come in.”

“Well, I guess I’ll go. Good bye.” Trying to be light hearted, Vernon threw his hand across his chest in a mock salute. “I’m off to Vietnam to give my life for my country.”

Lucinda stood and walked to the door to let Cassie in. “Humph,” she threw carelessly over her shoulder.” “You’d better worry more about driving home today than going to war. You’re more likely to be killed on the highway than on the battlefield.”

Remember Chapter Sixteen

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Previously: Retired teacher Lucinda remembers her favorite student Vernon. Reality interrupts when another boarder Nancy scolds her for talking to her daughter Shirley. She remembers letting it slip to Vernon that she didn’t like Nancy. Vernon decides to marry Nancy.
“Miz Cambridge?” Bertha called out. “This is Miz Godwin.”

“Come in.” She spoke softly and with difficulty.

Bertha cracked the door just enough for her to slip into the room, glancing back into the hall to make sure no one saw her. She padded over to Lucinda. “I jest wanted you to know I’ve made up my mind about calling the fire marshal and thought you ought to know that you might have to look for other lodgings if they shut Emma down.”

“It makes no difference.” She was lifeless, almost not hearing what Emma Lawrence’s sister was saying.

“I know you only moved in here because it was cheap,” Bertha continued with self-deprecation. “I hope this won’t put a crimp in your pocketbook.”

“Don’t worry.” Lucinda forced a smile. “I have plenty of money. Finding another place to live won’t be difficult.”

“But I thought—“

“I had other reasons for living here,” she interrupted Bertha, “but that makes no difference now.”

“Well, that’s good. Here I go. Wish me luck.”

“Good luck, Mrs. Godwin.” Lucinda wished the woman would leave the room, do what she had to do and leave her alone.

Bertha was almost to the door when she turned back to look with pleading eyes at the teacher. “The only phone is in the kitchen, where Emma can keep an eye on it. She’s in the laundry room in the basement right now starting a load of clothes. Could you come with me and stand at the top of the stairs to let me know when she’s coming up. If she catches me on the phone with the fire marshal she’ll kick me out of the house for sure.”

Actually Lucinda wanted to lie down for a nap but she could not resist Bertha’s soulful plea. They went down the stairs. Bertha went to the phone, and Lucinda took her place at the top of the basement stairs.

“I’m so nervous I can’t remember the number.” Bertha reached for the phone book on the kitchen counter and fumbled with it as she flipped through the pages.

Lucinda would rather be anyplace but standing guard on the lookout for Emma Lawrence. And then she wasn’t there but back in her class room as Vernon, dressed in blue jeans and a freshly pressed short sleeve shirt, came through the door.

“Vernon. What are you doing here?”

Vernon looked down at his feet. “I know it’s been a long time, since last Christmas.”

“Oh, you mean it’s that spring already?” she muttered to herself.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been by your class room this semester.”

“Vernon, I’m very tired. I really don’t have the energy to listen to this. Would you please leave and come back later?”

“I know you have a lot of papers to grade, Mrs. Cambridge, but I’ve got to talk to you.”

“So that’s how I began, by asking him to leave,” she told herself. Lucinda looked at him, plastering her best sympathetic smile on her lips. “Very well, what is it?”

“I guess you heard about Nancy and me.”

“Yes.”

“We were all decided to get married after the spring semester started,” he began slowly. “I found me a pretty good job to support us. I could only take nine hours so I didn’t take your course.”

“You don’t have to explain, Vernon.”

“Nancy said she wanted to go out of town to visit her grandparents one last time as their little girl. That sounded kinda sweet to me so I didn’t think nothing—“ he paused to look at Lucinda. “Ain’t — aren’t you going to correct me anymore?”

“You’re able to correct yourself.”

Before Vernon could continue, Lucinda became aware of Bertha’s screeching voice on the telephone.

“Hello? Court house? Can I talk to the fire marshal? You’ll connect me? Thank you.”

“I guess you’re right.” He breathed in deeply trying to compose himself. “Anyway, the day after the last day to add or drop any classes Nancy came back to town.” He pursed his lips. “It seems it was some dark-haired guy and not me that had got her pregnant and when she told him about it, he married her right on the spot.” He smiled in sadness. “So I guess the joke was on me.”

“He ain’t there? Is there somebody else I can talk to?” Bertha drew Lucinda’s attention back to the present but only for a moment.

“You can make up those courses this summer and still enter the university on schedule next fall.” She tried to be comforting.

“No, I can’t.”

“Why not? Surely money can’t be a problem now—“

“I’ve been drafted,” he interrupted her.

“Oh.”

Remember Chapter Fifteen

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Previously: Retired teacher Lucinda remembers her favorite student Vernon. Reality interrupts when another boarder Nancy scolds her for talking to her daughter Shirley. She remembers letting it slip to Vernon that she didn’t like Nancy.
“Well, she lies. I caught her in several lies when she was in my English class.” Lucinda wagged the piece of chalk at him. “She was very irresponsible about homework.”

“I don’t believe this.” Vernon stood. “Just because someone doesn’t turn in their homework you think they’re evil?”

“I didn’t say she was evil. But other teachers have told me—“

“Here this poor girl is carrying a baby out of marriage and all you can talk about is what kind of student she is?” He shook his head in disbelief.

“It’s more than that.” Lucinda noticed how she was using the chalk and put it down. “I just began with that.”

“When I came in here I thought you’d give me some good advice. Some help.” Vernon turned toward the door. “I never thought you’d attack Nancy.”

“I’m not attacking Nancy.” She pounced on the word “attack” to giver herself a platform for her defense. “She’s always been civil to me. It’s just what I’ve heard—“

“I never thought you’d stoop to petty gossip.” He kept walking out.

“This is a hard question for me to ask — but are you sure you’re the only one she’s been to bed with?” Lucinda lurched toward him. “Are you sure you’re the father?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Cambridge.” He turned to assess her with a cold eye. “I didn’t know what to do until I came in here.”

“Vernon—“

“I didn’t know if I wanted to marry her or not. Now I know I have to marry, if for nothing else than to protect her from vicious gossips — like you.” The last words he spat with hot anger.

“No, Vernon—“

“So now I know what I’m going to do. I’ll take nine hours next spring. That will leave time for a full time job to support my wife and my baby — yes, my baby.”

Lucinda noticed his voice was fading back into her memory. Vernon’s image floated between the classroom of ten years ago and her boarding house room of today. “Vernon! Don’t do that! It’s a mistake! Vernon!”

“I have just one last thing.” He pointed out the door into the boarding house hall. “Nancy’s little girl. She’s mine, ain’t she?”

“Isn’t, not ain’t,” she said, slipping back into her old ways.

“I’ll say ain’t if I damn well want to!” For the first time in front of his teacher, Vernon raised his voice in rage.

“Please, Vernon—“

“She’s my little girl, ain’t she?”

“Legally—“

“Ain’t she!?” He lost all control of his emotions.

“Yes.” Completely depleted, Lucinda collapsed into her rocking chair, now firmly affixed to the present. Her hand went to her chest.

“I’m a daddy.”

“She’s lovely — and smart.” Lucinda closed her eyes and smiled. “She has this way of seeing the world clearly, like you.”

“She’s smart.” His voice was fading like an echo.

“Very.” She rocked slowly, comforted by her mind’s images of Shirley.

“And good. I want my little girl to be good.” His voice was hardly discernible.

“No sweeter child ever lived.”

“I wonder what she thinks of her goofy old daddy.” Vernon laughed.

Lucinda’s eyes opened, her consciousness jostled to harsh reality. “Well . . . .”

“What?” His laugh evaporated.

“She doesn’t know.”

“Who does she think her daddy is?”

The very absurdity of the words caused Lucinda’s breath to become labored. “Nancy told her Warren Beatty, but Shirley doesn’t believe it.”

“Shirley?”

“Nancy named her after Beatty’s sister, Shirley MacLaine.” She covered her mouth with her hand to hide her quivering lips.

“That’s an old lady’s name.”

“That’s what Shirley says.”

“So she doesn’t know about me?”

Lucinda closed her eyes again and shook her head.

“You live in the same house, and you haven’t told her?”

His voice invaded her being and was intolerable. With all her strength she whispered, “It’s not up to me to tell her. I keep hoping Nancy will explain it.”

“The only thing I ever made that turned out good, and she doesn’t know I even existed?” Vernon’s voice weakened again, going down into the darkness of unpleasant memories.

“It’s not up to me.” All she could do was to repeat herself.

“I don’t exist for my baby.”

Lucinda’s native, irrational optimism gave her strength. “She’ll know someday. You’ll see.”

“Maybe I won’t.” His voice was almost gone. “Maybe Nancy will forget all about me before she tells Shirley. Then I’ll really be gone. Nobody will care.”

“I care.” Lucinda more than cared, but she did not have the courage to admit her feelings to Vernon.

“No, you don’t. Nobody cares.”

The words were vaporous, and she almost did not discern them. When she opened her eyes, Vernon was gone, and someone was knocking at her door.

Remember Chapter Fourteen

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Previously: Retired teacher Lucinda remembers her favorite student Vernon. Reality interrupts when another boarder Nancy scolds her for talking to her daughter Shirley. She remembers letting it slip to Vernon that she didn’t like Nancy. She helps him with an essay about death, but leans in too close to Vernon.
Lucinda collapsed on the bed and at once fell into a deep sleep. Only minutes seemed to pass when another knock at the door interrupted her rest. Looking at the alarm clock on the nightstand, she saw it was already a little after five o’clock.

“Listen.” Nancy stood on the other side of the door. “We gotta talk.”

“Of course.” Lucinda stood and went straight to her rocker and sat. “Come in.”

“Somehow Shirley has heard the name Vernon Singleberry, and I don’t like it.” She stood in front of the old teacher. Her hands were on her hips.

“Shirley’s a very bright young lady, and she deserves to know the truth.”

“Maybe someday.” She narrowed her eyes and shook a finger at Lucinda. “But not now and for damn sure not from you.”

The old woman rubbed her chest and tried to show a knowing smile. “She already knows the story about the movie star is foolish. That’s why she doesn’t like school.”

“What’s so bad about not likin’ school?” she asked with a sneer. “I hated school.”

“Don’t you want better for Shirley?” Lucinda leaned forward in her rocker.

“What the hell’s wrong with being a beautician?” Nancy folded her arms across her chest and pinched her lips.

“Nothing. It’s just that—“

“Stop it,” she interrupted with acid on her tongue. “I ain’t your student no more. You ain’t nobody’s teacher no more. Nobody cares what you think. Git it?”

“Yes.” Lucinda fell back in her chair.

“If you don’t stop this, I’m goin’ to tell everyone the truth.” Nancy stepped closer and lowered her voice in a threat. “You had the hots for Vernon. Yeah, I know about the time you fell all over him. Vernon was so dumb he thought you had lost your balance, but I knew you wanted to cop a feel. Do you want these old biddies to know about that?”

“No,” she replied, too tired to fight back.

“Good. We understand each other. Don’t talk about Vernon again.” Nancy turned and slammed the door on her way out.

Lucinda breathed in, trying to fill her lungs and found herself swept back to her classroom. When she saw Vernon enter she smiled. He wore another sweater and, for once, has no books in his arms.

“Mrs. Cambridge?” he asked in a shy whisper. “May I speak to you a moment?”

“Vernon. I’m so glad you came back.” She smiled. “You’ve really been a comfort to me today.”

“Oh. Then maybe I should come back another time. I’ve got a problem.” Vernon shuffled his feet and looked down.

“Don’t mind me.” Lucinda motioned to a chair. “You know I always told you to come to me when you’ve got a problem.”

“Thank you.” He sat but kept his head down.

“Well, what is it?” She touching the tips of her fingers together, assuming the posture of a sage. “Some assignment giving you trouble?”

“No.”

“Coach Cummins harassing you again about your game playing?” She was running out of possibilities.

“No.”

Her hands went to her face as Lucinda straightened in her chair. “This is right before Christmas of your sophomore year, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“It’s Nancy Meyers.” She felt a knot tighten in her stomach.

“Yes.”

“I remember now,” she whispered.

“Mrs. Cambridge, I love Nancy very much.” He paused to search for the right words. “She’s the only girl who’s ever cared for me.”

“Oh, I’m sure others—“

“I mean,” he interrupted her, “she’s the only one who thought — who took me seriously as — you know, as someone you might want to love and — maybe — spend the rest of your life with. And I do, I do want to spend the rest of my life with her.” Vernon paused. “But not starting right now.”

“She’s pregnant.”

“Yes.”

“And it’s your baby.”

“If we get married right now.” His eyes strayed out the window. “I’d have to take fewer classes so I could work.”

“But you can’t take less than twelve hours or—“

“Or I’ll be drafted and sent to Vietnam,” he finished her sentence. A grimace darkened his face. “I don’t want to go to Vietnam. I’m afraid I’ll die there.” Vernon put his head down into the palms of his hands and cried.

Lucinda’s impulse was to go to him and put her arms around him, but she restrained herself, remembering the previous incident. “Vernon, Vernon, that’s all right.”

“I don’t know what to do.” He shook his head.

“There, there.” She thought if she continued to sit there she would begin to cry herself.

“Damn. Only babies cry,” he chided under his breath.

“Are you sure? Sometimes girls think they’re pregnant and they’re really not.”

“It’s for real.” He nodded, now staring at the floor. “She went to the doctor today.”

Without thinking about what she was doing, Lucinda stood to go to the chalk board and wrote the word “parents” as though she were about to parse a sentence. “How about your parents? Do you think they would help out enough to allow you to maintain a full class load?”

“My old man?” Vernon snorted. “You must be kidding.”

“Her parents?” She began to add those words to her list.

“They don’t have any money to spare.” He shrugged. “They’re as poor as we are.”

“Or least that’s what she says.” Her hand holding the chalk stayed motionless.

“Yeah.” Sniffing, Vernon sat up straight and looked at Lucinda with an incredulous glare. “That’s not a very nice thing to say.”

She turned back to Vernon, rolling the chalk between her hands. “I don’t know how to say this without hurting your feelings, Vernon, but Nancy isn’t as nice as you think.”

“What do you mean?” He took a handkerchief out and wiped his eyes.