model train set up in his living room and he’d play this cassette recording of train sounds that about drove Goody mad. When I was little I’d sit on his knee and listen to him talk about the days when trains ruled. He had a whole head full of train stories and loved to tell them all. Especially the one about how once an entire train got buried in a tunnel cave-in under Richmond. That train was probably there to this day, he’d said, with everyone still in it, a piece of information that gave me nightmares for a week. Were the people still sitting in their seats or were they crowded against the windows, trying to get out? How long had it taken for them to die?
The other thing Granddaddy knew about was trees. He could tell a white oak from a red. He could look at a stump and tell you how old it’d been when it was chopped down, and its dry years from the wet ones. I thought everything in the world would be different if Granddaddy were still alive. Just like it would be different if Mama hadn’t gotten sick.
By October, Mama was spending most of her days watching the soaps and reruns of
Roseanne
and
The Golden Girls.
Martha Lee had arranged for County Health to bring over one of those mechanical beds with a button you could push to raise the head or the feet. Daddy hated it, but Mama called it her throne. Sometimes, I’d lie there with her. After a while, she’d send me to get the hairbrush off her dresser. I was a fool for Mama brushing my hair. She’d start with her fingers, lacing them through my hair, pulling it back from my face and lifting it off my neck. Then she’d take the brush and begin, nothing impatient or snappy—not even if there were snarls—just long, gentle strokes that calmed us both. Later, on nights when I couldn’t sleep, I’d pretend she was making those even, slow strokes and just the thought could lull me off.
By then the house was a mess. I could imagine what Goody would say if she got a look, but Mama didn’t care. “Housekeeping’s an overrated occupation, sugar,” she’d say. “There’re more important things in the world than a clean floor.” Like what? I wanted to ask. Tell me, Mama, tell me all the things that are important. Tell me everything I need to know. I longed to turn off the TV and climb up on that narrow throne next to Mama, adjusting it so the foot part was high, and ask her everything I wanted to know. Things I needed to know then and things I’d need to know for the future.
First I’d ask her kitchen questions, like how long to cook butter beans and how to make cobbler so it doesn’t sit heavy after you eat it. And I’d ask how a person would know for certain when another person likes her, and then I’d start on love questions. How did you know when you were in love, and was sex love different from marrying love? Did you need to know exactly what to do when a boy kissed you, or did instincts take over? I’d ask her if you could trust instincts when it comes to love, or did they just land you in a hog pile of trouble. Should you really marry a man because his smile made you crazy?
Then I’d ask her to tell me everything about those months she spent in L.A. I’d ask her where she lived out there and what it was like to work at a real Hollywood studio. I’d listen with both ears so I’d have a head start when I landed out there. I’d start with the pile of postcards she’d sent home and I kept in a cigar box under my bed. There was one of the big
Hollywood
sign, which was not actually a real sign, but giant white block letters sitting on the side of a hill. On the back, Mama’d written that it used to spell
Hollywoodland,
and before the last four letters had rotted away a starlet had committed suicide by jumping off the final “D.” And back in the ’30s, another actress had jumped off the “H.” It gave me the chills just looking at that card. There was another postcard of the Walk of Fame, which was this sidewalk outside a theater in
The other thing Granddaddy knew about was trees. He could tell a white oak from a red. He could look at a stump and tell you how old it’d been when it was chopped down, and its dry years from the wet ones. I thought everything in the world would be different if Granddaddy were still alive. Just like it would be different if Mama hadn’t gotten sick.
By October, Mama was spending most of her days watching the soaps and reruns of
Roseanne
and
The Golden Girls.
Martha Lee had arranged for County Health to bring over one of those mechanical beds with a button you could push to raise the head or the feet. Daddy hated it, but Mama called it her throne. Sometimes, I’d lie there with her. After a while, she’d send me to get the hairbrush off her dresser. I was a fool for Mama brushing my hair. She’d start with her fingers, lacing them through my hair, pulling it back from my face and lifting it off my neck. Then she’d take the brush and begin, nothing impatient or snappy—not even if there were snarls—just long, gentle strokes that calmed us both. Later, on nights when I couldn’t sleep, I’d pretend she was making those even, slow strokes and just the thought could lull me off.
By then the house was a mess. I could imagine what Goody would say if she got a look, but Mama didn’t care. “Housekeeping’s an overrated occupation, sugar,” she’d say. “There’re more important things in the world than a clean floor.” Like what? I wanted to ask. Tell me, Mama, tell me all the things that are important. Tell me everything I need to know. I longed to turn off the TV and climb up on that narrow throne next to Mama, adjusting it so the foot part was high, and ask her everything I wanted to know. Things I needed to know then and things I’d need to know for the future.
First I’d ask her kitchen questions, like how long to cook butter beans and how to make cobbler so it doesn’t sit heavy after you eat it. And I’d ask how a person would know for certain when another person likes her, and then I’d start on love questions. How did you know when you were in love, and was sex love different from marrying love? Did you need to know exactly what to do when a boy kissed you, or did instincts take over? I’d ask her if you could trust instincts when it comes to love, or did they just land you in a hog pile of trouble. Should you really marry a man because his smile made you crazy?
Then I’d ask her to tell me everything about those months she spent in L.A. I’d ask her where she lived out there and what it was like to work at a real Hollywood studio. I’d listen with both ears so I’d have a head start when I landed out there. I’d start with the pile of postcards she’d sent home and I kept in a cigar box under my bed. There was one of the big
Hollywood
sign, which was not actually a real sign, but giant white block letters sitting on the side of a hill. On the back, Mama’d written that it used to spell
Hollywoodland,
and before the last four letters had rotted away a starlet had committed suicide by jumping off the final “D.” And back in the ’30s, another actress had jumped off the “H.” It gave me the chills just looking at that card. There was another postcard of the Walk of Fame, which was this sidewalk outside a theater in
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