Remembrance Read online

  “You’ve been acting real preoccupied lately. Especially today. And why do you have dark circles around your eyes? You look like a panda bear.”

  “I have dark circles because I haven’t been getting enough sleep lately.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know,” I mumbled.

  Mama shook her head and gave me a hopeless look. “Baby, I wasn’t born yesterday, and neither were you. If you’re not getting enough sleep, you must know the reason why. Now you know there is nothing so bad that you can’t talk to me about it.”

  “Did you invite me to go shopping so you could grill me? If so, you could have done it over the telephone.”

  “I am not grilling you, girl. And don’t sass me,” she griped.

  My chest tightened and my blood pressure rose. “I’m sorry, Mama. Let’s stop talking about me and try and have a pleasant lunch.”

  “I am having a pleasant lunch. I just thought I’d mention a few things to you before it was too late. . . .”

  I made it through lunch without losing my mind, and only because I had two glasses of wine. When Mama dropped me off at my house, I breathed a sigh of relief when she told me she didn’t have time to come in because she had a doctor’s appointment.

  * * *

  I had other things to do myself before I went to the soup kitchen. I had started making plans the week before Thanksgiving for the Christmas/my birthday celebration I planned to host. Out of the thirteen friends I had invited, only six had responded, so I had calls to make. I began with Natalee Calhoun, one of my closest friends. She hadn’t been the same since her husband died suddenly of a heart attack four years ago at the age of forty-two. She didn’t get along with her son and his wife, and the rest of her family lived in San Diego.

  Natalee had not had a steady boyfriend since the last one dumped her a year ago. Since then, I’d gone out of my way to include her in as many of my activities as possible. She was the only person I knew who had no interest in social media activity. The only way to communicate with her, other than in person, was by telephone.

  She answered on the first ring. “Yeah, Beatrice,” she mumbled. Then her tone got snappy. “I have to get to my next class in a few minutes, so can you make this a quick call?”

  I wasn’t going to comment on her lackluster greeting and sudden dark mood. A woman who spent so much time alone, and taught math in an inner-city high school with some very unruly students, probably felt bad enough already. “I understand, and I won’t keep you long. I just called to see if you’re planning to come to my party this month?” I said in the most cheerful tone I could manage.

  “No, I’m not. I was very uncomfortable at your Thanksgiving dinner last month with all those couples. I was depressed for days. I felt the same way at your Labor Day party, and a few of your other parties before that. . . .”

  “W-what? I had no idea!” I stammered. “I wish you had told me that before now. If that’s the only reason, Eric and I can scrounge up somebody to escort you to my next get-together. What about his friend George Gibbons, the veterinarian? George is real sweet. His wife filed for divorce a couple of months ago and he’s been bugging Eric to hook him up with somebody. You two would make a nice couple.”

  “Why? Do you think I can’t find a man on my own?”

  “Natalee, that’s not the reason,” I said emphatically.

  A long moment of silence followed. I was about to speak again, but she beat me to it. “I don’t need you and Eric to find a man for me. And I was going to let you know in time that I wasn’t coming to your next party.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. We’ll miss you. What about New Year’s Day? I’ll be serving black-eyed peas, collard greens, and ham, the meal that’s supposed to bring good luck the rest of the year.”

  “Um . . . I’m going to do something for that day myself. I’ve already hired a caterer. I’m on a budget so I’m only inviting my closest friends, though.”

  I was so taken aback, I gasped. I thought I was one of her “closest friends.” If this was not a slight, nothing was. “Natalee, did I, or Eric, say or do something to offend you?”

  “Look, Bea.” She paused and cleared her throat. “You’re a good person and you’ve been a good friend to me. But I think we’ve outgrown one another. You . . . Well, I didn’t want to tell you this over the telephone, but sometimes you’re bossy and overbearing. That can be very intimidating to a shy, insecure woman like me. The more I’m around you, the more my self-esteem plummets. I need to surround myself with friends closer to my level.”

  “I see.” I swallowed hard and listened in stunned disbelief as she continued.

  “I don’t expect you to reinvent yourself, and I’m not going to either. It’s best for us to take a break from each other. I have no hard feelings toward you, and I wish you well.”

  Other than my kids, nobody else had ever told me anything close to what I’d just heard. I was so dumbfounded, I could barely sit still. The last thing I wanted to do was intimidate somebody! I wasn’t loud, aggressive, and opinionated like the women who intimidated me, so Natalee’s assessment was not only baffling, it was disturbing. I’d always thought that I was the kind of wholesome, spunky woman anybody would be proud to have as a friend. Now I wasn’t so sure. For more than twenty years, I’d been known for my elaborate theme parties. As far as I could tell, everybody loved them.

  “I’m going to miss you and your parties, Bea,” Natalee admitted. I was surprised when she added, “We can still be friends, though.”

  “I see. Well, I’m going to miss you too. Good-bye and have a nice Christmas.” I hung up abruptly because Natalee had hurt my feelings.

  CHAPTER 5

  Despite the way Natalee had made me feel, I felt guilty about ending our conversation so abruptly. She was one of the sweetest people I knew. I didn’t want our friendship to be put on hold on such a sour note. I dialed her number again and my call went straight to voice mail. I decided not to leave a message because I didn’t think she’d call me back. I made a mental note to give her another call after the holidays to see if she still felt the same way.

  I didn’t want to dwell on the situation with Natalee too much. There was something else on my mind that needed my attention more: the comments my children had made while I was hiding outside the kitchen. It had been a few hours since I’d overheard what they’d said. And it still saddened me. I didn’t care what they said or thought about me, because in the end, I was still their mother. I was determined to lure them back into the nest—not to live, but at least to visit more often. There were times when the loneliness almost overwhelmed me. Sometimes even when Eric was in the house, I still felt lonely. When I spent too much time on my own, I got slightly depressed, and the house that used to be as hectic as a carnival felt like a tomb.

  I looked around to see if there was anything I needed to take care of before I left for work. Since the kids had moved out, I didn’t have much housecleaning to do anymore, and I missed that. I fussed at Eric about being a slob, but I looked forward to picking up after him. It made me still feel useful in the “empty nest” I’d come to resent.

  When I was home alone, I couldn’t stop myself from wandering into the kids’ rooms to “grieve” and dust off things that I’d already dusted the day before. And then I would go to the living room to torture myself even more. A large table and the entire mantel over the fireplace were covered with trophies and awards they’d won. I was just as proud of the spelling bee certificate Lisa had won in fifth grade as I was the swimming trophy Mark had won in his junior year of high school. Being a wife was one thing, but being a wife and a mother was a double blessing that carried a lot of responsibility that I’d always enjoyed because it made me feel needed. Nowadays, other than for intimate encounters, cooking, and housekeeping, it was hard to tell what else Eric needed me for. In the past few months, he had begun to spend more of his free time on his own or with his friends. I no longer felt like an equal partner in our
relationship. I felt more like a sidekick. I’d never tell him that, though.

  After my third cup of coffee, I felt better. I decided not to dwell on things I didn’t like and couldn’t change. Things could have been much worse for me. I could have died twenty-five years ago today. And I would have, if that mysterious young man hadn’t come along and saved my life.

  I rarely talked about the accident, but it was on my mind almost every day. Today being the anniversary, it had been the first thing on my mind when I opened my eyes this morning, and would probably be the last thing on my mind before I went to sleep tonight. It was easier to deal with when I focused on other things at the same time. One was my volunteer work at Sister Cecile’s. It was in a rough part of town, but that didn’t even faze me, especially since I had once considered going to do missionary work in some of the most dangerous countries in the world. I was making a difference now, and that was all that mattered.

  Almost everybody I knew did a lot to help less fortunate people. Each year, Eric and his business partner donated thousands of dollars to several charities. My parents and most of my friends donated money, food, clothing, and various other items. I admired my family and friends for being so generous. I couldn’t do enough, though. I was willing to go as many extra miles as I could. That was why working at a soup kitchen was so important to me. I wondered if other people who had come close to dying, like I had, felt the same way.

  I appreciated the fact that my family and friends admired how dedicated I was. But it bothered me when somebody made an unflattering comment about my choices. “Bea, if you want to do volunteer work, go help out at one of the hospitals or a nursing home. At least you’d be safer,” one of my friends told me.

  “I’m not in danger at the soup kitchen. The majority of homeless people are just regular people down on their luck. And whenever people with problems come in, we have mental-health professionals available to help them. We know the community. They appreciate what we do for them,” I added. I had a reasonable response every time somebody tried to talk me into looking for a “safer” way to spread goodwill.

  Despite some mild concerns about my safety, my mother was proud of what I did. “Baby, as long as you’re happy doing what you do, keep doing it.” Daddy felt pretty much the same way.

  My kids knew how important working at the soup kitchen and other charity activities were to me. But their position was somewhat neutral. It was one of their least favorite subjects, so they rarely discussed it in my presence.

  Some people thought that all a soup kitchen served was soup, and only once or twice a day. That may have been true of some, but Sister Cecile’s kitchen served some of the very same things that more fortunate people ate. This kitchen had been opened in the late 1970s by a nun, who had passed away ten years ago. It had originally been funded by the nun’s wealthy father, but now received support from other sources too. Because it was a charity organization, we obtained free food from food banks, as well as financial support from numerous philanthropic organizations set up to help the poor. Sister Cecile’s had a relationship with a few shelters and rescue missions, so sometimes they even helped people find a place to sleep for a few days. Last year, a local celebrity anonymously donated five thousand dollars’ worth of vouchers for food, clothing, and toys. I helped pass them out to the people who ate with us the week before Christmas. I thought that was such a wonderful gesture, and it made so many people happy; the next day, I donated a thousand dollars of my own money for more vouchers.

  Most of the staff I worked with were volunteers and a few had once been homeless themselves. We all helped prepare and serve the meals cafeteria style, and we all pitched in to help clean up. Unlike some of the local kitchens, we served breakfast, lunch, and dinner, Monday through Friday—and on all major holidays, no matter what day of the week they fell on.

  Despite how well we treated the people we fed, there were a few bumps in the road that could not be ignored. Some of our visitors had been confined to mental institutions; others had done time in prison. The woman who supervised the kitchen constantly reminded us to be on the alert at all times, even though the people we fed were always well-mannered. But last July, during breakfast one morning, a man, who had always been quiet and friendly, finished his meal and suddenly flung his empty tray to the floor. And then things got wild. “Y’all getting stingier and stingier with the food! That wasn’t enough to fill a gnat’s belly! I’m still hungry!” he blasted.

  He kicked over the bench at one of the long four picnic-style tables in the dining area, and then he started flailing his arms in a threatening manner. A husky male staff member wrestled him to the floor and subdued him until he calmed down. When he returned a few days later, the other servers gave him the same size portions that had set him off. However, I piled as much food onto his tray as it could hold. And I told him to get back in line for seconds if he was still hungry when he finished. He didn’t get back in line. But on his way out, he came up to me and called me his “angel.” From that day on, he was as meek as a baby lamb. And I continued to give him generous portions.

  I never told Eric or anybody else when we had a disturbance. They were already overly concerned about me working in such an unpredictable environment. And even though I’d never admit it to them, sometimes I was nervous too. But all the feelings of nervousness went away when I saw the relief on people’s faces when they received their meals.

  CHAPTER 6

  Quite a few of the people I helped feed were regulars. Some came at least once a week. Certain ones would show up almost every day for a month, and then we might not see them again until several months later. Last year, one of our reformed alcoholic regulars came in one day and announced that he had found Jesus, a job, and a new home. Two months later, he backslid. He started drinking again, lost his job and his new place. He’d been eating with us almost every day since.

  Today had been busy from the minute I’d walked in the door, five minutes after one p.m. We had to prepare for Monday when we’d start celebrating Christmas by serving turkey dinners with all the trimmings every day until the end of the month. I had helped baste and store the dozens of turkeys we’d received. And I had helped cook and store all the other food that we’d keep in the freezer until Monday. Even with all the work I had to do, I still spent a lot of time thinking about the conversation I’d had with Eric this morning.

  When I left to go on my mid-afternoon break, my plan was to visit a thrift store six blocks away that sold nearly new books. A thrift store was a godsend to avid readers on my level. I was a regular customer at the one I was on my way to now. The owner always set aside releases by authors he knew I liked, as well as other books I’d put in requests for. Last week, he’d saved me an almost-new Bible. The one my grandmother had given me on my sixteenth birthday had become so shabby from my reading Scripture several times a week, I wanted to put it away with other family heirlooms, so it wouldn’t fall apart, and start reading a newer one.

  I was so preoccupied, I didn’t notice that a strange man had followed me to the parking lot. Just as I reached my car, I heard an unfamiliar voice say, “Sister, can I talk to you for a minute?”

  I whirled around so fast, I almost fell. “What about?” A very thin black man in shabby wrinkled clothing stood a few feet from me; he had a grin on his face like the Cheshire cat’s. His salt-and-pepper, shoulder-length dreadlocks appeared as though they’d been starched. He didn’t look much older than my age, but deep lines crisscrossed his face from side to side, and top to bottom. From his disheveled appearance and musty odor, it was obvious that he was homeless. And if he had ever eaten at Sister Cecile’s, I didn’t recognize him. He looked scary, though. But I’d read so many Stephen King novels, a man who looked like a human scarecrow didn’t frighten me as much as it would have other women. Unlike Mama, Camille, and almost every other female I knew, I didn’t even carry pepper spray. From what I knew about that stuff, it could cause some serious discomfort. The last thing I ever
wanted to do was harm another human being. I was convinced that if I ever encountered trouble, I’d be able to talk my way out of it, summon help, or run away in time.

  The man snorted and swiped his chin with the back of his hand. “About us.”

  My breath caught in my throat; I was dumbfounded. You could have knocked me over with a feather! “I don’t think so,” I said, forcing a tight smile.

  The look that appeared on the man’s face was so profoundly sad, I immediately regretted my blunt response. What he said next made me feel even worse. “We used to be close friends back in the day. Real close friends . . .”

  I narrowed my eyes and looked at the man more closely. I was horrified when I realized he was one of my ex-boyfriends! “Clifford Hanks!” I boomed. A month before my accident, Cliff had asked me to marry him. I’d told him I wanted to remain single for at least a couple more years, but that we could continue seeing each other. He ended our relationship anyway. I hadn’t seen or heard from him since.

  “Yeah, it’s me.”

  “I’m s-sorry. I d-didn’t recognize you,” I stammered.

  “I’ve changed a little bit, but you sure haven’t.” He pursed his lips and scanned my body before he fixed his eyes on my face. “You look just as good as you did when we were together.”

  “Thanks. I’m glad you think so.” I didn’t want to comment on Cliff’s appearance, so I said the first thing that came to my mind next. “The last time I saw you, you were working part-time for that construction company, and studying journalism at Berkeley.”

  “Correction. The ‘last time’ you saw me was a couple of hours ago.”

  “Huh? Where?”

  “Right up in that soup kitchen you just left out of. I’ve wanted to talk to you for a long time. The main reason I didn’t approach you was because I was too ashamed to let you see how I’d ended up.”