Love & Darts (9781937316075) Read online

  I’d been thinking about whether or not to refurbish the utility room. I don’t know who did the sheet metal work in there but the seams are opening up. No matter how high we set the thermostat that furnace can’t warm up any room for all the heat that escapes.

  When she asked to go for that drive she hadn’t been in a car in eight months. My dumb ass took it as a sign of improvement. I said, “Sure. Where you wanna go, Grandma?”

  I used to pick up the prescriptions after her radiation treatments. I remember waiting for something called Magic Mouthwash. The girl in the pharmacy said it would take a little longer because they have to mix it up special. I said, “What’s in it?” The girl—she wasn’t really pretty or anything—said, “Something to coat the ulcerations. Something else to numb the whole area. She can use it every few hours. Whenever she feels her throat burn.” I said, “Fine. I’ll wait.”

  And I did. I was patient. Read an issue of Car & Driver. I remember that’s when I called my friend back about the job in his garage—not that I want to put tires on cars my whole life. But. It’s good money for a while and he didn’t do a credit check. Anyway.

  She hadn’t been in a car in eight months and then she said, “Take me up 421. Would you, please?”

  Polite and poor. That’s what the minister should have said in her eulogy. Not that twenty-minute story about her going to Duluth for a typing job for two months. Who gives a shit about Duluth? That wasn’t her. That’s only two months. The rest of the time she was here, with us.

  But I’m glad we went for that drive.

  Her shirt was covered with her own blood spat out and dried up. But there was no other shirt. Mom put ‘em all away when we thought hospice was a place she had to go. So I didn’t say she should change. Grandma’s bare arm was thin and the skin gathered at her elbow and again at her wrist. Weird skin. Kind of yellow. Almost like you could see through it. I wasn’t thinking when I grabbed for her sweater. I forgot it only had one sleeve because my sister cut the other one off to start making an afghan. Well. It would have been a nice afghan if she didn’t give up trying to do a whole blanket to help keep Grandma warm, if there was more time, more yarn.

  Grandma Charlottie pretended not to notice the cockroaches running in all directions when I picked up her sweater.

  I pretended not to notice, too. Just shook it real good.

  And I guess I was sort of pissed about there only being one sleeve when I helped her put it on. I was mainly pissed at myself for forgetting. But then I was pissed at my sister for even trying to make an afghan out of her favorite sweater. Grandma just went ahead and let me put that one-armed sweater on her, you know, went through the motions, seemed not to notice what was undone and missing.

  We had the heat on because she was always cold. Even that morning. Even though it was summer. Damn ducts in the bedroom need to be repaired, too. I shifted my weight back and forth while I helped her with the sweater. I could feel a stream of hot air coming through a crack in the metal. I’d move my body into it so I could feel it on my head and then move it back to get away.

  I could just kick myself for putting that sweater on her. I didn’t think about dignity. I just wanted her to stay a little bit warm and I didn’t know it was the last time I’d ever get to take her anywhere. I would have gone upstairs and gotten one of Mom’s blouses maybe or at least had her put on Dad’s old hunting jacket. It’s so stupid. I was trying to put the sweater on her to cover up the mess on her shirt and the sweater just made everything a hundred times worse.

  Ten years ago she would’ve tore my head off for putting her in a sweater like that. She must’ve been pretty far gone already that morning.

  I knew about my sister’s project the instant Grandma’s tiny, veiny arm came through where that sleeve was supposed to be. But I didn’t remember when I saw the sweater on the floor by her bed. When I grabbed it up and shook it and started to help her into it, it was still just Grandma’s favorite sweater in my mind. She wore that thing every day of the winter for years. It’s weird how that happens. Isn’t it? I mean you know something’s changed but because it was always the same forever you only remember it a certain way.

  I don’t know if she cared or not. She let me help her with the sweater and the door and the steps and the seat belt.

  When she said she wanted to head up 421 I thought maybe she wanted to go to the cemetery to see Grandpa. But she didn’t ask and we passed all those quiet plots under trees without mention. The sun flashed off gravestones as we went by. The shadows and sun bred some kind of almost-like-hope on the grass.

  You know what I’m talking about. I’m talking about driving fast on a sunny day with a bunch of birds—barn swallows probably—on the telephone wires. And when the rush of wind, that updraft from your car coming, hits them they rise and scatter and you can’t watch them all flying off in all directions like that. You can just look at the grass in the ditch and see their fluttering shadows dispersing. Then maybe your eye does follow the one that flies straight out in front of you, like it can maybe almost stay ahead of you, maybe fly right alongside the car for a second, or at least keep up if it flaps hard enough. But then you’re gone and the bird behind you that was out in front banks right over the fields and disappears.

  I remember everything.

  Early summer. The earth seemed so willing. But after so much negotiation what would not?

  The horizon seemed to give in to the call for more flat corn and patches of distant trees. A farmhouse, wearing out its paint job, with bikes for sale near the road, all in a row, biggest to smallest, had its screen door standing wide open. Probably got stuck in the porch roof. I always wonder why there are so many bikes in front of one house. I wondered that then. Like usual.

  It was all how it always is on that drive. We passed the fairgrounds. Quiet before a raucous week in July. We passed the county airport and the county jail. The place where the city keeps the snowplows, the towering cone of street salt. The cow corn was knee-high. Green against that wet black between rows.

  And we passed the radio station broadcasting the price of pork bellies and soybean futures up and out into the unreceptive sky.

  Nearing the interstate the businesses sprang up again. McDonald’s. Amoco. BP. A fireworks barn. Some kind of truck stop where they sell laser-engraved blocks of crystal that eagles fly through for whatever reason.

  I remember I said, “You want something, Grandma?” ‘Cause I didn’t know if she wanted to just drive or maybe if she wanted to stop.

  I probably shouldn’t have looked over at her right then, you know? I probably should have just let her have her moment. But I didn’t know. I’d been driving. I didn’t mean to look over at her. It just happened. When I saw that she was crying it almost made me cry.

  You know how it is. With everyone else it’s no big deal. When I drive my girlfriend around I look at the road and then I look over at her to ask her stuff. Same with Mom. Or Dad when I drop him off at work sometimes. You know. I just ask them stuff. What music they want to listen to. Whether they want the air conditioner on. If they need me to get them anything from the Dollar Store later, since it’s right by the garage where I work. And my girlfriend, my mom, my dad, they’re never crying real quiet like that in the passenger seat, you know? That never happens. That’s what makes me think she knew. And her knowing makes me feel like I should have known and not ever put that sweater on her. But how could I have known?

  I’d give anything not to have looked over at her when I asked if she wanted anything. I hate what I saw. But once it was done what could I do? I just handed her an Arby’s napkin.

  She gripped that thing, stopped crying real quick—like it never happened—straightened up, and said, “Bob Evans.”

  I rolled the window down on my side for the rest of the drive. I wasn’t really choking back tears, you know. I just needed the air to keep more alert. Can’t hardly breathe all cooped up inside a car.

  I said, “Grandma Charlottie?”
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br />   She said, “Yes.”

  “I’m not sure I can do the repairs myself. It’s a big job.”

  She didn’t respond. I don’t know if it was because she was disappointed in me or because she knew there was no money to hire a heating and cooling guy or if she just didn’t really care anymore. Because I think she knew, you know?

  When we got to the restaurant I helped her with the seat belt, the curb, the steps, and the hostess. We sat at the counter. It was easier to lean onto the stools than for her sit down in one of those low wooden chairs at the tables. The coffeepots sang silent with their steam. There was no one there who cared about her sweater. And we each ate biscuits. Turning so slow, swiveling from side-to-side on our almost-too-resistant counter stools.

  CHARACTER SKETCH, 1997

  She had to have it, you know? That was kind of her thing, real grabby-like.

  But she was good at things that didn’t rely on others. She was good at things for a little while and then moved on. She was good at things like mixing drinks and cooking; like making jewelry; arranging patio furniture under the setting Texan sun; gardening, tomatoes mainly; and playing video games. It’s not like she was neat or whatever. But she liked things a certain way in a certain place and organized her CDs, rearranged the inside furniture, too. Alphabetized books on shelves. Stuff like that, you know. What else? Oh. She was really good at picking songs and burning homemade compilations for friends. Crafts, too. She made envelopes, you know. Herself. By hand. Same with cigarettes and decoupage collages.

  Yeah. I can tell you more. There’s always more.

  Mixing drinks: In a glass vase on the counter behind the sink she kept long glass swizzle sticks with bright ornamental figures on the tops. Blown glass, you know? A monkey. A parrot. A palm tree. And a bright umbrella. They were a set. An expensive set of art glass swizzle sticks. Kitschy but beautifully rendered. She was careful with them and for fun screamed at her friends to be careful with them too. It was like a joke, but super mean. She made the drinks in the kitchen. Stirred them with the handle end of a knife, then served them on the patio wearing their swizzle sticks, expecting comment. Tom Collins. Mint Julep. Gimlet. Clamato and Spicy Tequila with Lime Juice.

  Cooking: She always used the right implement or pot for its express purpose. And she didn’t mind the cleanup that this involved. She didn’t mind at all. I know because she always told me, “I don’t mind.”

  Making jewelry: She had a red Sears Craftsman toolbox where she kept all her jewelry-making supplies. The burliness was explained away. It was a really satisfying toolbox. In the top she kept all the beads in a carefully-organized removable tray. Underneath there were different wires and clasps and pairs of needle-nose pliers and graduated sizes of similar-looking tools. In the bottom of her butch jewelry-making box she also kept a paring knife. It had belonged to her great-grandfather who had come to America from Sweden via Ellis Island. She said he carved his initials in a lot of walls with that knife. She told the story saying she didn’t approve of graffiti.

  Gardening: Her garden was a tribute to her favorite architects. Bamboo structures were everywhere. She grew tomatoes on all of them except for the ones where peppers and sweet sugar snap peas with their Awwww-look-aren’t-they-sweet? blossoms grew. But like Monet with his haystacks she had a focus and was mainly interested in the best structure to support tomatoes. Tried different things. Pyramids. Towers. Conical funnels. And round cages. She built whimsical bent-bamboo tomato trellis forts. After trying everything she found that an igloo-type structure provided the best support and ease of harvest for the tomatoes. It optimized the exposed surface area of the leaves to bright midday sunlight.

  Video Games: She was very good at video games that involved racing. She could even race the game itself on the most difficult and trying courses. She was, however, not so good at the video games that involved the martial arts. Her roundhouse kick was a personal embarrassment.

  Organizing CDs: If a friend were depressed and there seemed no way to contribute, she would show up on a breezy Saturday and organize the CDs as if of course that would help. She put them in genres—not in alphabetical order like the books. And once finished she put the DVDs and videotapes away. And she would look under the sink and put order there. Then she would make sure that the clothes in closets were not chaotic but pleasantly satisfying, orderly. She’d make a joke from a movie about wire hangers. After that, she would link her arm in her friend’s arm and they would find a place to eat tamales and chicken wings outside in the afternoon. “You’ll love it. Their cheladas are great.”

  Arranging the Furniture: The furniture in her living room was always a little discordant. She liked to have the bright yellow chaise next to her black metal apothecary chest right in front of the door as one walked in. It had an interesting effect. Not exactly feng shui. Coming into the room one was accosted by the fortress of furniture. But she had it that way for a reason. The person lying on the chaise could reach over and open the door without getting up. If the cops came, well, it bought time.

  Burning Songs: She was a fanatic with the CD burner. But she made it a moral point to buy exactly one quarter of the downloaded artists’ songs.

  Making envelopes: The artisan envelope was her signature. When she sent invitations for her cocktail parties, which she had on the patio with citronella torchlight, low funky music, and those fancy blown-glass swizzle sticks that she yelled at her friends to use with care, she made the invitation envelopes herself out of old wrapping paper or wallpaper samples. But the effort was so great that the guest lists stayed short.

  Rolling Cigarettes: She was very good at rolling cigarettes. She could do it in her hands. Or she could do it on her little cigarette-rolling machine that she took with her to diners late at night. Mostly it was tobacco.

  Collages and Decoupage: She collected pieces of wood. Mainly small, really quite useless cutting boards. She never used wooden cutting boards in her kitchen. Didn’t like bacteria to breed at an uncontrollable rate. But they were such beautiful pieces of wood, those little cutting boards. So she bought them, the smallest ones, the most useless ones, whenever she got the chance. She cut pictures of thin-armed girls in well-suited homes from magazines. Dwell. Better Homes & Gardens. National Geographic. And Surf Digest. She made collages on the cutting boards with decoupage glue and a pair of really sharp haircutting scissors from the beauty supply shop.

  Planting terrariums in perfume bottles: Though short-lived, for a time she made a hobby of planting terrariums in tiny perfume bottles. She made a great terrarium and gave it to her elderly neighbor whose children had decided to sell the old woman’s house and move her into an assisted living community. Who could blame them for the market? Houses just wouldn’t ever get these kinds of prices again. But still. It didn’t seem right to sell an old lady’s house out from under her without her consent. So my friend with the jewelry-making toolbox and the art glass swizzle sticks and the optimal bamboo structure for growing tomatoes stayed up all night and planted a teeny tiny terrarium for her neighbor to take with her to her last new life.

  Humming: But. You know how things go. There are ups and downs. Not everything is the way you might hope. My friend was just like anyone that way. She panicked. She threw things. She shoved people. She held close friends in vicious contempt. She was paranoid. She didn’t care. She was defensive. She was wounded. She was on drugs but not like they teach you in school. She was above all that and did drugs for fun, for freedom, for something to do with her disposable income, for the hell of it, for the experience, for enough quality bonding time, for better sex, for enlightened transcendence and Whip-it! laughs. Sometimes she cried and screamed with an infantile sense of injustice. But. Whenever she was driving alone she was happy. And she hummed.

  SMILES

  Sometimes you are standing in line at the bank. And you smile because you feel you must. You don’t expect to chat and converse but the teller is an old enemy from high school. You already know her st
ory. You’ve heard five different versions of it. Worse. She knows yours.

  You’re in hot-pink sweatpants from Victoria’s Secret. They’re pulled up to mid-calf. And you don’t remember in the moment that they were buy-one-get-a-free-purse-sized-perfume. You’re wearing flip-flops with a row of rhinestones passing over the tan you rubbed on your feet, your belly, your shoulders, your legs. Your mother, every mother you know, used to say, “You can be anything, honey.” She used to say, “We don’t quit.” Now she says, “I don’t think you heard me the first time. I don’t care who he is.”

  Your hair is a mess. And who gives a shit? It’s ninety degrees and humid. You really weren’t planning on seeing anyone anyway. Definitely not this chick.

  Dammit. There’s no avoiding her. She’s already seen you and the other lady must be at lunch. You’re next. You’re waiting for your turn to reach out and grab a sucker from the baseball-shaped ceramic mug. You’re behind the overweight guy in Wranglers, a dusty blue flannel work shirt, and big, red, wide suspenders. So what if she’s looking at you, trying to wave a little bit, craning her neck around Mr. Can’t-Wear-A-Belt-Like-A-Normal-Person to say hi before he’s finished his business? Just stare all you want at the one brass clip on his waistband, which is slowly letting go of that denim edge. Metal fatigue, probably. The thing’s got no grip left. It’s gonna pop at any moment.

  Your mother used to say, “Quit staring.” But why should you? That thing is barely holding on and you want to see it spring loose the next time he heaves with one of those COPD coughs. What’s the point of looking away? What’s the deal with all this shame, all this pretending nothing’s happening, all this putting a good face on a whole bunch of bullshit? And why should you do it for this guy in suspenders or for the old enemy from high school who counts a stack of twenties and keeps starting over? It’s not pride or social etiquette. It is not prayer—that’s elsewhere. There is no reason to pray for this girl or some old, fat guy with red suspenders. So just keep looking at that brass clip, which will definitely pop before he gets back to his truck, and let your mind start its usual subservient free fall.