Everyone was
having such a good time. She could hear
them talking over their plates of food.
So many people had come to bring things; casseroles, salads, and all
kinds of desserts. Laura lay on Granny’s bed listening to the noises of the
house. The sound of dishes clinking and
clanking came from the kitchen. The
doorbell rang, new voices entered, and she could hear someone clearing off the
buffet to make room for more gifts of food.
Was this a Southern tradition - this endless bringing of things to eat? It didn’t make any sense. The last thing she wanted right now was
food. She felt as if she would never be
able to eat again... or sleep again either.
Nothing would ever be okay again.
Nothing.
Laura tried to
cover her ears with a pillow. She couldn’t
bear to hear all the talking, but the pillow only muffled the sound; it was
still there. The doorbell rang, another
gift of food was presented, and several more voices were added. There was no way to avoid hearing the North
Carolina drawl as they spoke.
“I’m so terribly
sorry.”
“How did it
happen?”
“She was only 45
- just a young woman.”
“Such a tragedy. How is Laura?”
“How will that
dear child handle this in her condition?”
When she tried
to roll over, Laura was reminded of the reason for the questions about her
“condition.” The baby in her belly was
nearly six months old, and had almost been lost three separate times to
miscarriages. There had been so many
complications... and now this. “If my
child survives in spite of all that’s happened in its short life, I guess I’ll
know how much it wants to be here,” she thought to herself. Then the doorbell disrupted her reverie once
again, followed by the foghorn voice of her grandparent’s neighbor, Mrs.
Stanfield. “Where’s Laura? Laura dear, where are you sweet child? How will she ever bear this? Barely in her twenties… a baby havin’ a
baby! Paper said the death was an accident,
but that’s not what I heard, no sir...”
Laura buried her
head deeper in the pillows until the words were just a mumble. No one was supposed to know. That was Granny’s decision. Don’t tell anyone. There was no need to talk about it, not even
to each other. Laura heard a sudden rush
of footsteps on the wooden floor as Mrs. Stanfield was whisked out to a
seat at the far end of the dining room. The
Protectors were at work again; two cousins who were the self-appointed
sentinels of the family’s grief. They
had been working vigilantly for two days, making sure that no one got too
close... said too much... interfered with the families denial. They had done their job very well... until
now. Suddenly the idea was in the air,
and it hung there like a ravenous beast, waiting to devour them. The attack came in soft whispers.
“What did she
mean, not an accident?’
“Pastor said she
slipped and fell!”
“The woman did
have cancer, you know, but I heard it
was under control.”
“You don’t
suppose it could have been... suicide?”
At last,
there was the word. It was said by
someone Laura had never seen before; a fiftyish mousy looking woman who had
arrived bearing some kind of cake. It
was the first time the word had been spoken aloud, and it hovered over the
people, dripping it’s poison. It grew in
Laura’s head, multiplying, reverberating, amplifying to a deafening roar. Suicide.
A sixth story hotel window, a desperately hopeless woman, and a fatal
leap to the concrete below.
Suicide. “The victim never
regained consciousness,” the reports would say.
Suicide. Quick and probably
painless, at least for the victim. But
who was the real victim... the one who died, or the ones who were still alive?
Laura cried
herself into a deep merciful sleep, and the bedspread under her head was still
damp with her tears an hour later when she woke. For just a moment she experienced that gentle
state of amnesia that sleep often brings, and then reality roared into her head
once again. “I’m at Granny’s house. People and food are everywhere. There was a memorial service this morning at
Oakdale Baptist Church. The Minister of
Music sang 'Because He Lives,' and Pastor Gary talked about seeing our loved
ones in heaven some day.” It had really
happened. All of it had really happened.
There was no
formal viewing and no graveside service.
That was the way her Mama had wanted it. But Granny and Granddaddy had to see the
body, so they made Aunt Willie take them.
Granny said that Laura needed to go so that she would accept the
death... but what kind of memory is that to engrave on your mind? They went without her. One day she would wonder if her grandmother
had been right about the acceptance part, but for now, Laura had enough demons
to face. She stayed at the house and
tried to keep taking one breath after another.
“For the baby,” she kept thinking.
“I have to keep going for the baby.”
Now it was all
over; greeting the relatives when her plane landed, deciding on the music for the funeral, the surreal job of choosing clothes for her
mother to be buried in... and then somehow
managing to sit through the service. All
that was left was to endure the endless smorgasbord of well-wishers bearing food. She glanced through the French doors into the
living room and saw her grandparents huddled together surrounded by sons,
daughters, grandchildren, long-time friends, church acquaintances. “Guess they needed this - it seems to be good
for them,” Laura thought. “I suppose I
should be grateful.” But gratitude was
in short supply for her right now. The
Protectors had been watching her from a distance, giving her space to
grieve, but now it was evident that she
needed more than solitude. They settled
in at each side of her on the old mahogany four-poster bed, stroking her hair
and speaking words of comfort. Laura
loved them for being there, and yet their support was threatening her
self-control. The doorbell rang again,
and someone called from the kitchen,
“Does anyone want more cherry pie?”
The tears that had been leaking in a steady stream down Laura’s cheeks
now became a flood, racking her body uncontrollably. Then she was speaking, but the words were
indiscernible through her sobs. When her
cousins could finally understand what Laura was saying, the words broke their
hearts. They were words of someone
insane with grief. “They’re having a
party,” she sobbed. “Make them stop! Please make them stop! My mother is dead! She killed herself and everyone’s having a
party! Oh God, please make them stop!” Her words had risen to a scream and the
people in the living room looked toward the French doors uncomfortably. They glanced at each other, shifted awkwardly
in their seats, paused in mid-conversation.
For a moment, the silence was broken only by a daughters desperate
inconsolable sobbing. Then once again
the doorbell rang, and Laura’s anguish... the anguish of a child whose mother
had chosen to leave her forever... was lost in the rush to serve up hot fried chicken
and freshly baked cherry pie.
(Written in 1988)
