Call This Fatback?
Miss Sister Easterbrooks held the plastic-wrapped slab of
pork up close to her Coke-bottle-thick glasses. The milky
brown eyes took a long, educated look. She sniffed
disdainfully. "Don't look like fatback. Don't smell like
it neither."
Her sister, Miss Baby Easterbrooks, nodded in agreement
and clucked her tongue. "Couldn't find no pig knuckles at
all. Sorry. That's what. The Auburn Avenue Curb Market got
all cleaned up and fancy. Too good for itself, that's what
I say."
"I know that's right," Sister said. "Can't make no mess of
greens with fatback smells like a shower curtain."
Baby and Sister are technically employees of The House
Mouse, our cleaning business. "Older than dirt" was the
only age either one would admit to, although we guessed
they were closing in on eighty. Baby is as close to
deafness as Sister is to blindness, but the two of them
manage to clean maybe one house a week, working as a team.
They had been carping about the downfall of the Auburn
Avenue Curb Market ever since the Atlanta institution on
the corner of Auburn and Butler was renovated a few years
ago. Health inspectors had demanded sneeze guards and
hairnets and plastic gloves. Soul had been sacrificed for
sanitation, and Baby and Sister were still mourning the
loss of their favorite vendors. They would have no truck
with meat they couldn't view up close and personal.
Baby recited the menu as she unloaded the grocery sacks.
"Fried chicken. Collard greens. Sweet potatoes. Biscuits.
Apple cobbler. Now, Callahan, it ain't fancy, but your
mama, she'll be ready for some home cooking. Ain't that
right?"
It was Edna's coming home dinner. She'd gottena bad cold
in September, and it had lingered and worsened until her
racking cough had led me to bundle her into the car and
deliver her, wheezy protests and all, to our family
doctor. An hour later she was admitted to Piedmont
Hospital, diagnosed as having pneumonia, and put on oxygen
and intravenous antibiotics.
I still shudder when I think of the way she looked in that
hospital bed. My larger-than-life mother shrunken with
illness and fatigue, blue-tinted hair matted to her head,
her face the color of unwashed sheets, eyes ringed with
dark circles, tubes everywhere.
Edna had had a double mastectomy years ago, but I was a
kid then, and my father was still alive, and with the
invincibility of youth, I thought of her hospital stay and
recuperation back then as a minor inconvenience to the
family. Five years ago I had my own brush with the C word:
a lump on my right breast, followed by a lumpectomy and
the happy news that my cancer was early and noninvasive.
Since then I've tried to be a good little girl. I eat my
broccoli and cauliflower, drink bottled water, cross my
fingers at mammogram time, and try to avoid stepping on
the cracks in the sidewalk.
My mother had been smoking three packs of cigarettes a day
since her early teens. Nothing anyone said or did could
detach those long slender fingers from her filter tips.
Now it was all I could do to stand by the bed and hold her
hand while Jeanne Payne, our family doctor, ranted at her
about her smoking.
I'd known Jeanne since we were in Girl Scouts together.
She could probably still fit in her Brownie uniform. Five
foot two, slender, with thick, wavy dark hair, she somehow
managed to cut an imposing figure in her white lab coat.
Maybe it was the bifocals she wore on the bridge of her
nose. Or the fact that she'd finished Emory Medical School
at twenty-six, first in her class, youngest, brightest,
shortest.
"You've got a spot on your right lung, Edna," she said,
getting right to the point. "Your pulmonary capacity is
roughly that of a tubercular ninety-year-old coal miner.
All your symptoms point to the early signs of emphysema."
Edna winced and squeezed my hand. "You want me to quit
smoking."
Jeanne shrugged. She could be merciless if circumstances
merited it. "Only if you want to stick around for another
few years to spend your kids' inheritance."
Edna tried to laugh, but the chuckle disintegrated into a
spasm of coughing.
"There's a woman your age in a room two doors down here,"
Jeanne continued. "She's being discharged tomorrow, same
as you. But she's going home with a portable oxygen tank.
Going to be hooked up to a breathing mask and a canister
of oxygen twenty-four hours a day. That's the best we can
do for her."
She looked sternly down at Edna. "Is that what you want?"
Edna sighed. "No. No oxygen tank. I'll try. Okay?"
Jeanne crossed her arms over her chest, hugging the
clipboard with Edna's chart. "Trying's not going to make
it this time, Edna," she said, her attitude softening just
a smidge. "The pneumonia has weakened your heart muscles.
We're going to release you tomorrow, but I want you back
in my office next week. You're a good candidate for those
new nicotine patches, and I've also got the names of some
smoking cessation programs I can give you. Later on, when
you're stronger, we want to run some more tests on that
heart of yours."
"I can go home?" Edna leaned her head back on her pillow
and closed her eyes. For the first time I noticed the blue
veins in her lids, the tiny network of wrinkles radiating
out from the corners of her eyes. When had she gotten so
old?
"Tomorrow," Jeanne said. "You've been here a week with no
cigarettes. So you've got a head start on quitting.
Right?"
"I never liked you," Edna said, not bothering to open her
eyes. "Go away and let me sleep."
I followed Jeanne out into the hallway.
"She's really sick, huh?"
"She's a lot better than she was," Jeanne said. "But I
meant what I said about the smoking. You live with her.
Can't you get her to quit?"
"How long have you known us?" I asked.
Jeanne pursed her lips and thought about it. "Second
grade, right? More than thirty years." She
grinned. "You're right. Nobody makes Edna Mae Garrity do
anything."
"She's scared this time," I pointed out. "You notice she
didn't say she wouldn't quit. That's a first."
That had been on Friday. Now it was Saturday. My sister
Maureen and her no-account husband had volunteered to
bring Edna home from the hospital. My brother Kevin had
been transferred to San Diego in September. And Baby and
Sister had arrived with all the makings for dinner.
Maureen had installed Edna on the living room sofa,
swathed her with quilts, and was now lining up her array
of medicine bottles on the coffee table.
"Can't we put those somewhere else?" I asked, irritated
that Maureen had once again taken over my house.
"She needs to see her medicine so she can remember to take
them all," Maureen snapped, plumping a pillow behind
Edna's head.
Steve, Maureen's husband, who had ensconced himself in my
favorite overstuffed chintz armchair, nodded rapidly in
agreement, holding the remote control out at the
television, flipping rapidly through the channels.
"I'm not helpless," Edna snapped. "Put the damn pill
bottles in my room, Maureen. We're not setting up a clinic
in here."
"I'm just trying to help," Maureen said, tears rising in
her eyes.
Home fifteen minutes and we were already in round two of
Family Feud. I walked quickly into the kitchen.
Baby stood at the kitchen counter on a footstool, whacking
away at the chickens with a giant meat cleaver, while
Sister was at the stove, dumping some evil-looking piece
of meat into her bubbling pot of greens. The sugary smell
of baking apples and yams mingled with the sharp vinegar
smell of the collards and I suddenly felt myself relax for
the first time in days.
"Can I help?" I asked timidly.
Sister rolled her eyes at Baby. "You the cleanup crew,
Callahan," Sister said, wiping her hands on one of Edna's
aprons. "Go on and stay out the way now."
It amuses all the girls, which is what I call the House
Mouse employees, to think that I'm helpless in the
kitchen. Like all the women in my family, I'm actually a
pretty damned good cook. My macaroni and cheese makes you
want to smack your mama, it's so fine. But when Edna sold
her house in the suburbs and moved in with me here in
Candler Park, part of our agreement was that I'd stay out
of the kitchen and let her do the cooking. It didn't take
much arm-twisting to get me to let her have her way.
Edna's playing cards sat in a neat but dog-eared stack in
a corner of the worn oak kitchen table, near her empty
ashtray. I slid open the drawer in the table and stashed
the ashtray inside. Out of sight, out of mind. Then I
dealt myself a hand of solitaire. Like cooking, and
putting our noses in other people's business, solitaire is
a Garrity family habit. We play it when we're tired or
worried. To calm down, or take our minds off whatever
troubles nibble at the corners of our subconscious.