House of Rougeaux(25)
Not long ago, over at Loretta’s apartment painting their nails the sassiest shade of pink, Rosalie asked her sister if she planned on marrying Charlie.
“Yeah, I will,” Loretta said, smiling slyly, “soon as I’m ready.”
* * *
The old radio set in the Hubbard parlor is draped in a white linen runner with lace edges tatted by Rosalie’s Grandnan Hubbard on her father’s side, who came up from the South with her family, as did her mother’s mother around the time of the First Great War. Most everyone Rosalie knows has people in the southern states, though she, like many of her peers, has never been to visit. Upon the linen runner are arranged numerous framed photographs of the Hubbards and the Montgomerys, Aunt Violet’s family. And above these on the wall hang the older generations. Among them are Rosalie’s maternal grandparents, Papa Dax and Grandnan Emily Rougeaux, on their wedding day. Rosalie never knew Papa Dax, the one exception to the family’s Southern origins. He came down alone from French Canada, as a young man. All those pictured on the wall are now gone, while those on the radio set still dance with the music of life. All but one.
Rosalie was only three when Azalea, nearly twelve and second to oldest, was snatched away from them by a case of diphtheria. So Rosalie’s memories of her sister are scant. She remembers her laugh, like a handful of jingle bells, and how once they danced at a birthday party, the song was “The Gypsy.” In fact they danced to that song every time it came on the radio, during the After Supper Music Hour. Rosalie remembers how Azzie shook her finger, mouthing the spoken line in the song.
She looked at my hand and told me
my baby would always be true,
and yet, in my heart I knew, dear
that somebody else
was kissing you…
Last year Rosalie found a copy of The Best of the Ink Spots at the record shop on Broad Street. That day when she arrived home the house was empty. She unwrapped the record, laid it on the family hi-fi and played “The Gypsy” over and over again for an hour. Why was that song so terribly sad? Well, because the man knew he couldn’t keep his baby, even though he loved her so, and that the other part of his heart still held on to the dream. Rosalie drenched herself with tears.
Nelie named her baby daughter after her, which is one way her name carries on. Well before the baby was born Nelie knew she’d be a girl, and that her name would be that most beloved one, Azalea. They call the child Lea, she isn’t Azzie after all, and needs the name to be her own too.
Rosalie also remembers the funeral. Or rather she remembers a lot of black clothes, and the awful sound of adults weeping. And she remembers Aunt Violet’s lavender smell, as she carried her down a hallway, saying they were all of them in God’s hands.
* * *
There weren’t words to describe the axe-blow Rosalie’s mother Virginia experienced when her daughter died. The blow that never ended, and stretched out into the most unbearable future. In those first terrible days and weeks the grandmothers of the community took over, directing prayer meetings and casseroles in a steady stream. They bore up Virginia and her family as they themselves had needed it in the past, and would likely one day need it again, asking God collectively for His grace. May He lighten the burdens He allowed them to carry. May He teach them to accept even His reasons, however unknown to them, for calling little children Home.
When the initial storm cleared and life presented itself as needing to go on, Virginia was blessed to be supported, especially by her sister Violet and her oldest child, Loretta. Loretta was fourteen and steadfast, and would have rushed to her mother’s side had she not already been there. She saw the care of her parents as her first duty, while her aunt stepped in to help with the younger children. With time, Virginia and Lionel Senior righted themselves again, though Lionel lost that easy merriness he’d always had, and Virginia remained just slightly bent forward, as if walking perpetually into a strong wind.
The other person perhaps most deeply affected by Azzie’s death was Nelie, so much so that the family feared they might lose her too. “Two peas in a pod” didn’t describe what Azzie and her cousin had been, because they were far closer than that, and far less alike. Cornelia, who was shy and dreamy by nature, was like a balloon held to earth by Azalea. Azzie protected her fiercely and never gave a second thought to the ways Nelie was different, nor to the unearthly things Nelie seemed to know sometimes.
Indeed that balloon hovered indecisive for a time. When Nelie fell ill and lay abed with her eyelids fluttering, they feared the diphtheria had returned. But Dr. Leventhal, who came to the house straight away and examined her with the utmost concern, assured them it had not. This was a case of shock, he said, packing up his black satchel. He prescribed a regimen of broths and rest and massages to the feet. Harold Leventhal had learned the scientific care of the body in medical school, but his own grandmother had taught him a thing or two about the care of the soul.
When Nelie recovered she said that Azzie had visited her in her sleep, and that Azzie had shown her Heaven. She said Azzie was happy and had asked them all to please not be sad. Azzie was with God, and God looked a lot like the Goodyear blimp, but much shinier.
Virginia held the hand of her niece and said, “You say Azzie is happy, Honey? And that she’s with God?” And Nelie said Yes’m all over again.