a while, I said, “I guess this is when I’m supposed to start praying for a miracle.”
Mama shrugged. “You know, I don’t think I much believe in miracles. I think there’s just what’s supposed to happen and what’s not, and then goin’ along with it or standin’ in its way.”
I said, “Hmm, I’ll have to think about that. I like the idea of a good miracle every now and then.”
She shrugged again and, after a few seconds, said, “I’ve got to say your James has been more wonderful than I imagined he could be through this whole thing. Not that I ever thought bad of him. I just didn’t know he’d be this good.”
“I’m not surprised at all. James is being exactly who I knew he’d be. I’m lucky.”
“We’re both lucky, you and me. I got your daddy and you and Rudy. You got James and those sweet kids.”
“And the Supremes,” I added.
Mama nodded. “That’s what you’ll think about when you pass, you know. How good your man was, how you loved your children. How your friends made you laugh till you cried. That’s what flows through your mind when the time comes. Not the bad things.
“I don’t know if I was smilin’ or not when you found me dead in my garden, but I should’ve been. At the end, I was thinkin’ about you and your grandmama and how she’d put you in those horrible dresses she made that you loved so much. And I thought about how good it felt to kiss your daddy.
“I don’t recall hittin’ the ground after throwin’ the rock at that squirrel. I just remember havin’ those sweet thoughts and then seein’ your daddy standin’ over me, stretchin’ out his hand to help me up. When I got to my feet, my garden was more beautiful than ever—no damn tulip-bulb-eatin’ squirrels in the afterlife. Wilbur and me hadn’t walked more than five feet before we ran into your aunt Marjorie. She was doin’ one-arm pushups and lookin’ more like a man than ever. Her mustache had filled in real nice and she’d taken to waxin’ it and twistin’ it at its tips. Looked good on her. My big brother was there, too, all decked out in his army uniform, wearing all those shiny medals the government mailed home to us after the war. And the first person to say hello to me was Thelma McIntyre. She handed me a big fat doobie and said, ‘Hey, Dora. Take a hit off this. And don’t bogart it the way you always do.’ It was lovely.”
I hoped Mama was right. There had been so many beautiful days with James and the children and the Supremes, so many days I wanted to carry with me when I crossed over into whatever came next. And if I could shed the bad times like a dry, ill-fitting skin, that would be nice, too.
I always feel guilty when I think back to my worst day ever because others lost so much more than I did. Still, that day is there in my memory as the worst. And I believe, no matter what happens to me from here on out, that day will forever have its hooks in my mind.
Barbara Jean had just set out coffee for Clarice and me in her kitchen when the doorbell rang. It was the first weekend of May 1977 and the three of us were planning a birthday party for my Jimmy. All of our children had their parties at Barbara Jean’s. Clarice and I had both moved away from Leaning Tree and into new developments with small lawns by then. So letting the kids loose in Barbara Jean’s spacious yard, with its topiaries and flowering trees everywhere, was like setting them free in an enchanted forest.
Clarice’s children were at home with Richmond. My three were at Mama and Daddy’s house being bribed into good behavior with candy bars and potato chips. Barbara Jean’s Adam was at Mama and Daddy’s, too—at least that’s what we thought. He’d left about half an hour earlier for the fifteen-minute walk to Mama’s house. This was a period of time when no one thought twice about a child of seven or eight walking a familiar path alone in Plainview. It was the last day of that era.
Lester answered the doorbell and I was surprised to hear James’s voice. In that big house the kitchen was half a block away from the front door, so I couldn’t make out exactly what