“But?” I asked.
“But right lately he’s been asking me a lot about what it means to be saved. And what somebody needs to do to get right with the Lord. Now I know he’s getting old and starting to slow down a bit, but getting right with the Lord’s never been something he cared one lick about, now is it?”
I had to admit she was right about that. I don’t have a clue about Daddy’s religious beliefs, but I do know he never goes to church except for weddings and funerals. He adored Mother, but I’ve never heard him speak of being reunited with her in heaven and, if asked, would have to say that he probably doesn’t believe in a heaven.
Or hell.
“You don’t reckon he’s sick, do you?”
“Does he act sick?”
“Well . . . no, not really. And he still eats good.”
I waited while she seemed to concentrate on cooking. The chops had nicely browned in the hot grease, so she put them in a bowl, poured off most of the grease, and began to brown some diced onions and a little flour with the pan scrapings.
Even though I had skipped lunch, I didn’t think I was hungry, but those sizzling onions gave off an aroma that made my mouth water. I tried to ignore the rumble in my stomach.
“He’s just not hisself these days,” Maidie said, cocking her head at me. She’s only fifteen years older, but her hair had passed the tipping point and was now more gray than black. (Of course, mine may be gray, too. Only my hairdresser knows for sure.)
“Has he been to a doctor?”
“No.”
“Well, if he’s eating good and staying active, what’s got you worried, Maidie?”
She shook her head and didn’t answer. I watched as she poured water in the pan and a cloud of steam boiled up. After stirring until the water and the flour and onions had turned to a smooth gravy, she put the pork chops back in the pan, covered them with a lid and turned the flame to low.
Her face was troubled as she sat down at the table across from me and the cat slid off my lap in one graceful, fluid motion to go sit in hers.
“I don’t want you laughing at me,” she said at last, smoothing an almost nonexistent wrinkle from the red-and-white cloth on the table between us.
I was indignant. “When did I ever laugh at you?”
“Just don’t you be starting now.” She stroked the cat, who began to purr so loudly I could hear him clearly from my side of the table. “All his talk about getting right with the Lord? I’ve seen it before, Deborah. Sometimes old people seem to know when it’s their time. They can be up and doing one day and then tell you they’ll be gone by that time next week. It’s like they feel His hand on their shoulder saying ‘Come on along now, child. Time to go home,’ and they just lean back in their rocking chair or lay down on their bed and they’re gone. Gone home to Jesus.”
Her words chilled me on two levels. One, because she was right. At least twice I’ve seen elderly relatives who had never talked of death suddenly say quite matter-of-factly that their time was up. They said it without drama. No sadness, no anger. They spoke of their imminent death as casually as if they were discussing the weather. Except that in a day or two, they died.
(Of course, I’ve also heard even older relatives claim they were ready to go and then linger on for another five or six years in increasing impatience. As if they’d missed a celestial bus and had to wait till the next one swung past them again.)
But Maidie’s forebodings touched an even deeper, more primal level that my brothers and I won’t even discuss. We know Daddy’s getting old and he’s not as strong as he used to be. But his spine is still straight as a flagpole and his mind is as sharp as it ever was, so we tell ourselves that he’s going to live forever.
Intellectually, we know it isn’t so.
Emotionally?
Once when I was little, I woke up crying in the night because I had suddenly realized that everyone dies—my cats, my chicken, my brothers, my parents—everyone, and it was breaking my heart to think I might be left alone. He had picked me up and carried me out to the porch swing. As I sat on his lap with my head against his chest and we gently swung back and forth in the moonlight, he had solemnly promised me that he would not die till I was an old, old woman.
I remind myself that he’s never yet broken a promise to me.
And thirty-nine isn’t old, old.
“Maidie, are you sure he was asking questions about religion for himself and not so’s he could pass it on to someone else?”
“Now why would he do that? He wants to know about God, all he’s got to do is talk to Herman’s wife. Nadine’s his own daughter-in-law. She’d tell him all about it.”
“Yeah, and then she’d try to haul him off to her church, wouldn’t she?”
Nadine’s one of those straitlaced born-again Blalocks from Black Creek and she’s always trying to get us to go visit her home church. Their preacher’s a male chauvinist whose bark is worse than his bite. I once sat through a sermon that was basically a reminder that a woman’s place is in the home, yet immediately afterward he told me quite sincerely how proud they all were that I was now a judge.
I grinned at Maidie. “Daddy probably feels it’s safe to ask you. He knows you won’t try to get him to Mt. Olive.”
Like it or not, our churches are the last bastion of self-segregation. No white would ever be turned away from a black church; no white church would ever bar its doors to blacks. We’re tolerant as hell and on Sunday morning, we smile when the nursery class sings
Red and yellow, black and white,
They are precious in His sight.
Jesus loves the little children of the world.
All the same, our churches still split along racial lines for the most part.
“Daddy may want to get right with the Lord, Maidie, but he also might be up to something. You say you never know when he’s going to be home these days. What’s he doing?”
“Oh, honey. You asking me where he rambles? That’s like asking me where this cat goes when I put him out for the night.”
“Then tell me this. Did Mother ever have any fancy jewelry?”
“Why sure she did. You remember that pretty ring Mr. Kezzie give her for their anniversary and them sapphire earrings? Didn’t he give them earrings to you? I know he gave the ring to Will when he married Amy. And—”
“No, I’m talking diamond earrings worth thousands.”
Maidie shook her head. “Your mama had some diamond earrings from her mama. You don’t mean them, do you?”
“No.”
Those went to Aunt Zell at Mother’s death, but again, they were simple teardrops, nothing like the glittery splash I had seen Daddy snatch up before I could get a good look.
“Why you asking about her stuff?”
“Just wondering,” I said.
She cut her eyes at me, but Cletus came in then and I quickly stood up to go.
“I thought I saw your car up at the house,” he said. “You ain’t staying for supper?”
“And leave you with only one pork chop?” I teased.
“That what smells so good?”
He insisted on giving me a dozen eggs and some fresh ten-dergreen for a salad and then went into the bathroom to wash up. I hugged Maidie and told her not to worry. “Daddy’s going to be just fine, but you call me if it looks like he’s up to something, okay?”
“If you say so, honey. But you know how he don’t like nobody hound-dogging him, so you can’t tell him I told you.”
“I won’t,” I promised.
I could have checked back by Seth’s again, but it was getting on for dark and besides, I was starting to have second thoughts. What if I’d totally misunderstood? What if that earring had been nice rhinestones instead of diamonds? Good period costume jewelry can fetch decent prices these days and the best seems to come from estate sales.
Instead of “thirty thousand retail,” maybe that jeweler had really said “thirty now at retail,” meaning he could sell it for thirty dollars and would therefore offer Daddy twenty.