Love Letters to the Dead(72)

Yours,

Laurel




Dear Allan Lane,

On the way home after school today, Aunt Amy turned to me and asked, “Would you like to come to dinner with Ralph and me tonight?” (Ralph, aka the Jesus Man.)

He never comes to the house, at least not when I’m there, but she’s been seeing him, and the rose soap in the shower has turned into a diminishing pink disk. Maybe after I told her about Sky, she wanted to open up to me, too. Maybe inviting me along was part of her trying to be closer with me, I thought, so I agreed.

When we got home, Aunt Amy went about getting ready, dabbing rose oil behind her ears and taking a faded flower dress out of the dry cleaner bag.

We met Ralph at Furr’s. I thought it was weird that he didn’t pick us up or something, but I didn’t ask any questions. We got there first and waited for him by the door. Finally he walked up with a swagger and kissed Aunt Amy on the cheek. He was wearing knockoff Birkenstocks, jeans with a suit jacket, and had long hair that was scraggly and wavy, as if he were literally trying to look like Jesus.

He shook my hand and said, “You must be Laurel.”

I tried to be polite. “Nice to meet you,” I said with my best smile.

We went through the cafeteria line, and he got chicken fried steak, Salisbury steak, and fried chicken—all at once! Plus cornbread, mashed potatoes, okra, and three kinds of pie. And then, when we got to the end, he let Aunt Amy pay. I mean, he didn’t even try to take out his wallet or something. He didn’t even pretend like he was trying.

When we got to our table, I was poking my fork at my Jell-O, and he said, “Uh-uh. What do you think you are doing, young lady? No eating your food before we pray.”

“I wasn’t eating, I was poking,” I mumbled. But Aunt Amy eyed me nervously, so I didn’t make a fuss.

Then he took Aunt Amy’s and my hands and bowed his head and said, “God bless this food we are about to receive. In Jesus’ name we pray. Amen.”

That was the lamest prayer ever, I thought, for a Jesus Man. Aunt Amy always says something that’s relevant to what’s going on, like she mentions me or our family or May, or what she has to be grateful for, in particular.

Once we started eating, Ralph turned to me and said, “So, how’s school?”

“It’s all right.”

“This is a very difficult time in a young person’s life. A time when the Lord gives you a lot of tests.”

“Yeah, I hope I’m not failing,” I joked.

But I guess it wasn’t that funny. He didn’t laugh. Neither did Aunt Amy. She still looked nervous. Finally he said, “The pitfalls of sin are not something to make light of.”

I won’t bore you with all of the rest, but it went on like that, more or less. I tried to keep up some kind of conversation and to figure out what exactly he was doing here. I guess he’s staying in a church and showing up to all of these services to talk about his journeys. The thing is, Aunt Amy didn’t even seem that happy around him. She didn’t do any Mister Ed impressions, or anything like that. She was just really quiet. And I don’t know if it’s because I was there, but mostly she seemed nervous, like she felt like he was going to get up and leave at any minute.

We finally said good night and got in the car to go home. It was too quiet for a while, until we came to a stoplight and Aunt Amy said, “Thank you for coming, Laurel.” She paused, and then she asked, “What did you think?”

“Do you want me to tell you the truth?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said thinly. “Of course.”

“I think you are too good for him. I mean, way too good for him. Like, he doesn’t even hold a candle to you. I think just ’cause you love God definitely doesn’t mean you have to love him.”

She didn’t get mad or anything. She kept her eyes on the road. And then she finally said, “Thank you for giving me your honest opinion. I appreciate that.”

“You do?”

“Yes.” The light turned green, and she drove down the street, turning into the quiet dark of the neighborhood. She pulled up to the little adobe house that she’s lived in for so many years and turned the car off, but she didn’t get out. I waited to see if she wanted to say something else.

“He’s been asking me for money,” Aunt Amy finally said, “to help fund his next pilgrimage. But I’ve been thinking that I don’t want to give him any more. I could be saving for you instead, for college.”

It felt like one of the most generous things that anyone has ever said to me. Not just because of the money—I know I’ll need a scholarship anyway. But because it meant that she really cares about me, and maybe that she was starting to care about herself in a different way, too. I knew that I couldn’t even imagine what it would be like to be lonely for that long, and I wanted her to have someone. I just wanted it to be someone who would really see her.

When we got inside, I asked Aunt Amy, “Do you want to watch Mister Ed?”

Aunt Amy smiled and said she did. The theme song came on, and without her even having to ask, I did the horse hoofs on the table and the horse noise with my lips, until she started to laugh.

Yours,

Laurel




Dear Judy Garland,

I always thought of you as a kid. The little girl tap-dancing in the air-conditioned movie theater in the desert. The little girl whose daddy clapped for her and then carried her through the summer night heat to the station wagon. The girl who sang to stop them from fighting. The girl who sang herself to sleep. And then the one who got signed by the movie studio, where they put fake teeth on her and told her she wasn’t pretty. The girl who took the pills they gave her and wore pigtails and did one picture after another. The girl whose voice broke into sobs as she sang “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” over and over again. You were so tired. But they gave you more pills and told you to keep singing. You kept singing. You were the girl who was about to become a star, just when your daddy died. The little girl whose voice was too big for her body.