The Supremes at Earl's All-You-Can-Eat

Chapter 35





I was on my feet hooting and howling and preparing to lie about feeling sorry for Veronica when the air around me turned to milky

water. Then I was sitting on the asphalt. Everyone except for Mama and Mrs. Roosevelt, who both popped up just as the air went to

liquid, began to move in slow motion and fade away. I told Mrs. Roosevelt to back off, but she cast sorrowful puppy eyes at me and

moved closer.

Then I was in the ICU. For six days I lay there, not exactly awake and not exactly asleep. I wasn’t in pain. I wasn’t

frightened. And Lord knows I wasn’t lonely, not with the constant stream of guests who came and went—James, my pastor, the other

Supremes and Richmond, my doctor, nurses, to mention a few. And that was just the living. Sometimes the room was packed to

bursting with Mama, Eleanor Roosevelt, Big Earl, Miss Thelma, and other friends from the spirit world.

Mostly, I felt tired and blazing hot, hotter than I had ever been when I’d had those bad night sweats at the start of my illness.

I had a powerful urge to shake off my tired body like it was a heavy, scratchy wool coat and walk away from it feeling light and

cool.

Sometimes the air around me would clear and I’d mumble a few words. Always James was there to respond. He’d grin down at me in

my bed and say, “Hey there. I knew you’d come back,” and then we’d exchange a few words. But the flood would come again and he

’d suddenly be unable to hear what I was saying to him even though I was shouting at the top of my lungs. Whenever that happened,

Eleanor Roosevelt would frown and cover her ears and Mama would say, “Stop all that yellin’. You’ll wake the dead.” Then, each

time she made that joke, she’d giggle like it was the first time she’d said it.

On my first day in the hospital, I learned from listening in as Dr. Alex Soo talked to James that, for the first time in months,

cancer wasn’t my most serious health problem. I was suffering from an infection. My heart and lungs were distributing sickness

throughout my body and the antibiotics weren’t halting it. I was, in Alex’s words, “gravely ill.”

The rooms in the Intensive Care Unit formed a square around a large nurses’ station. Every room was the same: one bed, one chair,

one window on the outside wall, three inner walls made of glass. Unless the curtains that lined the walls of each room were pulled

shut, I could see into every room in the ICU. I didn’t need to peek to know who lay in the other beds, though. My neighbors were

up and about every bit as much as they were in their beds. The lady confined to the bed next door to mine regularly left her

physical self behind and roamed the corridors performing elaborate dances with a fan of white ostrich plumes. The ancient man

across the way from me withered away as a ventilator breathed for him. But I also saw him as a broad-chested, yellow-haired

fisherman who politely tipped his lure-covered cap at his fan-dancing neighbor whenever he passed by her on the way to his secret

fishing hole. They stepped out of their diseased or broken bodies and had a good old time until they were drawn back to their

flesh by a rush of hormones or some medication that suddenly kicked in.

I only left my body behind when I slept. When I was truly asleep, not just incapacitated by sickness or floating in a fever dream,

I always traveled to the same place. I relaxed, alone, at the foot of my sycamore in Leaning Tree. Leaving that spot, with its

view of the silvery creek I’d played in as a child and the twisted trees that bordered Wall Road, and returning to ghosts and

grief in my hospital room was the hardest part of those six days.

I learned from those days in the hospital that if you really want to hear the secret details of people’s lives, all you need to

do is lapse into a coma. It’s like opening up a confessional booth and inviting all comers. People kept showing up and telling me

things that they couldn’t bring themselves to tell me when I was responsive.

Clarice started the confession ball rolling when she stopped by on my second day in the hospital. She walked into my room all full

of optimistic chitchat. She told James about people she’d known who had recovered after being in far worse condition than I was

in, and she went on about how she was sure I’d be up and about in time to accompany her and Barbara Jean to New York City when

she went to play for the record producer there. Then she took a good look at James, baggy-eyed and haggard, and ordered him to go

to the cafeteria for something to eat. As soon as he was gone, she sat on the edge of my bed and confided that she was sleeping

with Richmond again. Barbara Jean and I had long since figured that one out, but Clarice was having such a nice time with her

secret that we didn’t want to ruin it for her by letting on that we knew. Unfortunately, Clarice had made the mistake of talking

to her mother about it. Now Mrs. Jordan had Clarice worried that she was headed for hell. Her mother put it in her head that

having sex with her own husband while refusing to be his wife in any other way was the height of wantonness.

Clarice said, “Maybe I should just go back home. I love being on my own in Leaning Tree, but it can’t be that simple, can it—

just doing what you want because it feels good? Mother always says, ‘Happiness is the first sign you’re living wrong.’ ”

Mama, listening in, said, “I’ve always liked Clarice, but right now I wanna slap the shit outta her. Don’t she know how lucky

she is, havin’ that good-lookin’ man at her beck and call like she does? She needs to stop this damn whinin’ and get to work on

a how-to book. There’s about a billion women who’d pay good money to learn how they could be in her position. Your father was a

good man, but if I coulda had him when I wanted him and then sent him away when I’d had my fill, I’d have been too busy thankin

’ Jesus to worry whether I was committin’ a sin. Poor Clarice, that mother of hers did a real number on her.”

Considering the peculiarity of Mama’s legacy to me, that struck me as the pot calling the kettle black; but, out of respect, I

didn’t say so.

Clarice also confessed to trying to outdo my daughter Denise’s wedding when she planned her own daughter’s ceremony more than

ten years ago. She said the guilt had been preying on her mind ever since she’d started helping Veronica put together that mess

of a wedding for poor Sharon. If I could’ve, I’d have sat up and said, “Tell me something I don’t know, why don’t ya?” Then

I’d have said, “We’ve been together too long to worry over trivial shit like that, sister. Forget about it.”

Richmond came by later that same day and showed that side of him that made Clarice, and so many other women, melt in his presence.

He rattled off jokes and stories until he coaxed a genuine smile from James. Then, just the way Clarice had done, Richmond

practically tossed James out of the room, insisting that he go get some dinner.

Once we were alone, Richmond got to confessing. And, let me tell you, when Richmond Baker started listing the whos, whats, and

wheres of the wrongs he’d done, he drew quite a crowd. The dead, Mama and Mrs. Roosevelt, and the almost-dead, my colleagues from

other beds in the ICU, couldn’t get enough of him. They bellowed with laughter and giggled from embarrassment as Richmond

confided some of the carnal sins he’d committed. Mama was quieter than I could ever remember seeing her, uttering only the

occasional “Oh my.” Mrs. Roosevelt pulled a bag of popcorn out of her oversized black alligator pocketbook and munched away like

she was at a Saturday matinee. Every now and then someone grunted in disapproval, but they all stuck around to hear every single

word of it.

When Richmond was done telling a string of the dirtiest tales I’d ever heard, he stroked my hand and told me that he couldn’t

imagine the world without me, which touched my heart. Then one last confession. He told me that he’d been terrified of me for

years, which made me even happier.

He finished up by talking about Clarice. He went on about how he was so in love with her and how he didn’t think he could go on

living if she didn’t come back home. “I love her so much, Odette. I don’t know why I do the stuff I do. Maybe it’s an

addiction, like alcohol or cocaine.”

Mama thought the addiction theory sounded like an excuse. She’d never had patience for what she called “the navel-gazing of

philanderers.” Mama slapped the side of Richmond’s head with the bong she’d been sharing with Mrs. Roosevelt—he didn’t feel

it—and said, “Shut the hell up. You’re not addicted. You’re just a horndog, you stupid sonofabitch. Odette, tell him he’s a

dog and that he should just do the decent thing and carry a Victoria’s Secret catalog into the bathroom and take care of business

when that mood strikes, like every other God-fearing married man in America. Tell him, Odette.”

Of course, I wasn’t about to tell Richmond something like that, even if I could have. There are some things even I won’t say.

It turned out that even the dead still had things to confess. On my third day in the hospital, Lester Maxberry visited me. Or

rather, he came to watch Barbara Jean visiting me. He strolled into my room dressed in a spring walking suit that was the color of

orange sherbet. His short pants were cut mid-thigh and he wore knee socks and suede espadrilles that were the same shade of light

blue as his old Cadillac.

Barbara Jean sat in the visitor’s chair while James sat on my bed beside me. The ICU allowed two visitors at a time but, oddly,

provided just one chair per room. I did notice, though, when the fan dancer passed away surrounded by six family members, that

they relaxed the two-visitor rule when they figured you were about to die. James and Barbara Jean talked about my condition, the

weather, and the new volunteer job Barbara Jean had taken. She taught reading to poor kids from the tiny hill towns outside of

Plainview. “There are so many more hours to the day when you stop drinking,” she said.

While they talked, I took the opportunity to converse with Lester. I said, “Hey, Lester, you’re looking sharp.”

“Thanks, Odette. Clothes make the man, you know.”

“Nope, it’s the other way around, my friend. Have you been doing all right?”

Lester nodded, but he wasn’t really paying any attention to me. He watched Barbara Jean with the same affection and longing he’d

had for her when he was alive. “She’s still the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen some amazing sights over these

last eleven months.”

“Has it been that long, Lester? I swear it seems like yesterday the six of us were together at the All-You-Can-Eat.”

“Sneaks up on you, doesn’t it? It’s been almost a year.” He continued staring at Barbara Jean. “I should never have married

her.”

“Why would you say that?” I asked.

“It wasn’t right. She was practically a child and I was a grown man. I should’ve known better. Did know better. But when I saw

that she was desperate because of the baby, I couldn’t stop myself. I told myself it was okay because she’d come round to loving

me over time.”

“I’m pretty sure she did, Lester.”

“Maybe, but mostly she was grateful. And gratitude’s not a thing to build a marriage on. I was old enough to know that. She wasn

’t. Odette, I felt bad about that every day we were together, but it didn’t stop me from holding on to her.”

“Did you ever tell her that?”

He said, “No.” Then he grinned at me. “But you can. The next time you talk to Barbara Jean, you can tell her I’m sorry, that I

should have been stronger. Will you do that for me?”

Only someone as over-gentlemanly and overly moral as Lester Maxberry could let a thing like that eat away at him for decades. Any

other man would say, “All’s fair in love and war,” and spend the rest of eternity bragging about how he’d managed to get the

most beautiful girl in town to be his wife. I told Lester that I had it on good authority, both medical and ghostly, that I

probably wouldn’t be talking to Barbara Jean again in this life. But he kept at me until I promised I’d say something to her if

I got the chance. Then he thanked me and went back to silently watching Barbara Jean.

The next morning, Chick Carlson dropped by and caused an even bigger fuss in the ICU than Richmond had. The nurses at the station,

all full-grown women, fanned themselves and fell against each other in mock swooning after he walked by. When he came into my

room, Mama eyed him up and down and nodded her approval. Even Mrs. Roosevelt sat up straight and fluffed up her fox stole. Decades

had passed, but Ray Carlson was still the King of the Pretty White Boys.

Chick gave my hollow-eyed, gaunt husband the once-over, and then did what all my friends had done. He badgered James into

abandoning his vigil long enough to go get something to eat while Chick watched over me.

When James left, Chick sat in the visitor’s chair and began to chat with my silent body. He started talking about the All-You-

Can-Eat and Big Earl, all that stuff from the distant past. He’d been by my house several times over the months since he’d first

visited with me in the chemo room, and every time he sat down with me he’d wanted to relive or analyze the old days. He was just

as caged up in the past as Barbara Jean.

That day in the ICU, he also shared a tale with me that made me wish I could sit up right then and call Clarice on the phone. He

told me all about how his tower project at the university had successfully released two rehabbed peregrine falcons just that

previous Saturday. He described in beautiful detail how his birds had taken flight in front of news cameras and impressed donors.

The birds, he said, were majestic and awe-inspiring.

I thought about the two hawks who had swooped in on Sharon’s wedding that same Saturday and said to myself, “Majestic, awe-

inspiring, and hungry.”

Outside at the nurses’ station, I heard one of the nurses saying, “Hi there, Mrs. Maxberry.” The staff all knew Barbara Jean

from the many visits she had made to the ICU when Lester was in the hospital to have something removed, reattached, repaired, or

replaced. When Barbara Jean entered my room, Chick hopped up like the seat of his chair had been electrified. They exchanged

greetings and then stood there staring at each other. They were like teenagers at a school dance—both of them eager to say

something, neither of them knowing how to say it.

Chick claimed that he’d just been leaving, even though he’d told James he would stay until James returned. He said, “It’s nice

to see you, Barbara Jean.” Then, through my glass walls, I watched him walk past the giggling nurses on his way to the elevator.

Every fifth or sixth step, he looked back over his shoulder for another glimpse of the most beautiful woman in town.

Barbara Jean sat in the empty visitor’s chair and chewed her lip for a while, then she began to talk. The bedside confessional

was open for business again.

“My sponsor, Carlo, says I need to talk to Chick. He says I need to make amends; it’s one of the twelve steps. See, I did

something terrible that I never told you about.”

Then Barbara Jean told me a story about going to see Chick on the night of their son’s funeral and how what she’d put in motion

that night had eaten away at her soul for all the years since. When she got to the end of her story, she was crying hard. Her

tears caused her makeup to streak and rain down onto her powder-blue blouse in brown and black droplets that she never made a move

to clean up.

Just when you think the world can’t hold any more surprises for you, I thought. Unlike most of the people I knew, I had never

believed the rumor that it was Lester who’d shot Desmond Carlson. Even though Desmond had killed little Adam, Lester Maxberry

couldn’t have pulled that trigger. Former soldier or not, Lester was no killer. Truth was, I had always assumed it was Barbara

Jean who’d done it, probably because that’s what I would have done. Also, the way she’d fallen apart right after, with the

drinking and all, she’d seemed as much guilt-ridden as grief-stricken. I had just misjudged where the guilt was coming from.

James came back as Barbara Jean attempted to put her face back together, cleaning up trails of mascara with a handful of tissues.

Misreading the situation, my good James knelt on one knee beside my friend and patted her shoulder. He said, “Don’t you worry,

Barbara Jean. She’ll pull through.”

She stuffed the tissues back into her pocketbook and said, “I know she will. It all just gets to you sometimes.” She pecked

James on the cheek and left the room, making her way through the crowd of people, all invisible to her, who’d been eavesdropping

on her conversation.

Mama wept as she watched Barbara Jean go. “All that pain. That part of livin’ I surely don’t miss.”

I closed my eyes, though I can’t really say for certain that they’d actually been open, and fell asleep. I journeyed again to

Leaning Tree, the glistening creek, and my sycamore.

When I woke up, it was dark outside and James was snoring in the visitor’s chair. Mrs. Carmel Handy, the retired schoolteacher

who’d once set her husband on the path to righteousness with the aid of a cast-iron skillet, stood at the foot of my bed. I was

surprised to see her. I’d never had anything against Miss Carmel, but she hadn’t had much use for me when I was a student in her

classroom, and that hadn’t changed in the decades that passed afterwards. But there she was, all dressed up, visiting me in the

hospital. Then I saw her talking to Mama and knew that Miss Carmel had taken the boat across to the other side.

I said, “Hello, Miss Carmel. I didn’t know you’d passed. I would’ve sent a ham to your family, if I’d known.”

“Just happened today. And, let me tell you, it came as quite a surprise. I was in the middle of cleaning up after supper and I

came down with what I thought was a touch of indigestion. Next thing I knew I was getting up from the kitchen floor and my

arthritis was gone and my real teeth were back. Then, something drew me right here. And now I know why. Listen, I have a small

assignment for you.”

The Skillet Lady came closer and whispered a message that she wanted delivered to James. Just like I’d explained to Lester, I

told her that I probably wouldn’t be talking to any living people again. But she got me to promise I’d try.

I slept and dreamed through the fifth morning—I was doing more of that every day. But I was aware of my kids’ presence in my

room that afternoon. Denise, Jimmy, and Eric walked in, all full of hope and good cheer. They updated James on the grandkids,

their spouses, their lives. They did all the things I’d have wanted them to do to make their father feel better. I was so happy

and proud that I used every bit of strength I had to swim up through the water and fog in my mind so I could thank them. It worked

for a little while. I got out a few words—my only words to live people that whole day. But after I spoke each of their names

aloud, I faded away again. Then my children’s composure wilted like the straggly flowers of my garden. Eric’s lip began to

tremble. Jimmy started to sniffle. Denise’s eyes leaked tears. My big boys each laid their heads on one of their sister’s

shoulders and sobbed. The spectacle was made even more heartbreaking by the fact that Jimmy and Eric had, respectively, seven and

eight inches of height on Denise, so they had to crouch down to be comforted. This was the sight I had feared seeing. I was

relieved when they dissolved into gray as I fell asleep again.

When I woke up, my room was filled with the warm light of the afternoon sun. It was also packed with people. James held my hand.

He had such thick stubble on his face I wondered if maybe more than one day had passed while I slept. My three kids stood next to

their father with their hands linked like they used to do when they crossed a street together as youngsters. Barbara Jean and

Clarice were perched at the foot of my bed, both of them massaging my legs. Richmond and my brother, Rudy, stood behind Barbara

Jean and Clarice with bowed heads. My pastor stood on the opposite side of the bed from James, reading from the Bible in a voice

that sounded way too loud in the small space of my crowded hospital room. It was clear from the miserable expressions on everyone

’s faces and the fact that the nurses had suspended the two-visitor rule that all of these folks were there to say goodbye.

Beyond the ring of sniffling, praying people, my dead acquaintances gabbed without bothering to lower their voices. Among the

chatting ghosts stood my father, fit and hardy in his sawdust-sprinkled coveralls. When Daddy realized that I was aware of my

surroundings again, he made his way through the crowd to my bedside. He said, “Hey, sweetheart, I see you’re back. You had a

rough night, baby.”

Lester, looking dashing in a rust-colored three-piece suit and leaning on a gold walking stick, took his place next to Daddy then

and said, “I hate to bother you, Odette, but I think maybe this might be a good time to talk to Barbara Jean like you said you

would.”

Daddy snapped, “This is hardly the time for her to be thinkin’ about that, Lester.”

Carmel Handy disagreed. “She made promises and she needs to keep them. That was one of the most important lessons I taught my

students. Honor your word.”

Mama said, “If she’s going to talk to anybody, I think she should start with that cheater.” She pointed at Richmond. “I got my

request in first.”

They all started to argue. All those dead folks putting in their two cents about what I should or shouldn’t do with the end of my

life. Mrs. Roosevelt was the only one who kept out of it. She just sat cross-legged atop a steadily beeping machine to the side of

my bed and hummed to herself.

I tried to ignore them and concentrate on my own plans. During that last long nap, I’d been thinking about the way this endgame

should play out. If I could work it right, these needy ghosts might get some satisfaction, too.

I had to wake up, completely, just for a little while. But that was a tall order. My body didn’t want me anymore. The more I

tried to wake up, the more my flesh tried to push me out. I wrestled and wrestled, latching on to every reviving thought I could

muster. I reached way back and pictured Mama, young and brassy, shouting for me to get my ass out of bed for school. I smelled the

bad coffee James distilled on cold mornings. I splashed my face with the frigid water from the creek behind Mama’s garden. I

thought about the one thing I wanted to do more than anything else and I tried to draw strength from it.

In front of me, a tiny pinpoint of clear air appeared in the haze. In my mind, I ran for that open spot and pulled at it with my

fingers until I could stick my head through. Then I kicked and pushed back toward my old life while Lester, Miss Carmel, and Mama

shouted out encouragement.

The first thing I said was “Everybody, shut up.”

My pastor looked surprised and offended and stopped reading. I was actually talking to the dead people in the room, still fussing

and yakking, but I didn’t know how many words I had left in me, so I didn’t waste them on the reverend’s hurt feelings.

At the sound of my voice, creaky and hoarse, James shouted my name and started kissing my face.

Denise ran out and fetched Dr. Soo. A few seconds later, Alex squeezed into the room with a nurse at his side and probed me with a

cold stethoscope.

James said to the doctor, “See, I told you my girl wasn’t done yet.” But the frown on Alex’s face as he reviewed my vital

signs said that he didn’t believe there was any need to celebrate.

The bucktoothed, tipsy Angel of Death agreed with the doctor. When we made eye contact, Mrs. Roosevelt shook her head solemnly.

Then she whispered, “It will happen today.”

But she didn’t need to warn me. I could see that milky water, thicker and darker than before, forming again at the edges of my

vision. So I got down to business.

With a voice weak from not being used, I croaked out, “James, you look terrible and you smell bad. Alive or dead, I won’t have

you going to seed. And listen, Carmel Handy is here and she wants you to know that she died yesterday.”

“Day before,” she corrected.

“Sorry, day before yesterday. She’s on her kitchen floor. She wants you to talk to your cop friends and see to it that none of

them start the rumor that she died with a skillet in her hand. She refuses to leave this world with people making jokes about her.

”

Of course, I knew full well that the time for Carmel Handy to worry about people joking was in the seconds before her skillet met

the side of Mr. Handy’s head. But she seemed satisfied with what I’d said to James. She said, “Thank you, dear.”

Now that I’d completed her assignment, I waited for her to leave. I figured once you did a ghost a favor they would fade away or

maybe pop like a soap bubble that had been pricked with a pin. That was how it worked in the movies, at least. But Miss Carmel was

no Hollywood ghost. She stayed put, looking relieved but excited about what might happen next.

Worried expressions spread around the room like a virus. James was frightened. His concerned gaze went back and forth from me to

Alex Soo. “Sweetheart, did you say Carmel Handy is dead, and she’s here?”

“Yes,” I said. “I didn’t want to worry you with it, but I’ve been seeing dead folks for a year now. I know it’s probably not

what you want to hear, but I think we both knew it might happen sooner or later.”

From the back of the room, Mama hollered, “Hey, Odette. Tell Richmond what I said about taking care of those urges!”

“Richmond, Mama says …” I stopped to think about what to tell him. I was not about to utter the words “carry a Victoria’s

Secret catalog into the bathroom” to Richmond Baker. I said, “Mama says you need a new hobby. She suggests you take up reading.

“And, Clarice, Mama also says you should count your blessings for having Richmond around to do the thing he’s best at and not

having to deal with the bullshit that comes along with living with him. Right now she wants to slap you, but I think she’ll get

past it if you promise to forget about what your mother says and just use Richmond till you use him up.”

Clarice looked mortified, and it pleased me to see that I could still embarrass her after so many years. When she recovered enough

to speak, she said, under her breath, “Barbara Jean, I think she’s got brain damage.”

“Call it brain damage if you need to, Clarice. Just do what Mama says, or we’ll both haunt you.”

I spoke more carefully to Barbara Jean. “Lester’s here and he wants me to tell you something. He feels bad that he got you to

marry him when he knew you didn’t love him. He says it wasn’t right and he should’ve done better by you since he was so much

older. He’s asking you to forgive him.”

Barbara Jean didn’t look the least bit surprised or upset by what I’d said. I knew that she was worried about me, but I could

also see that she still wore the remnants of the despair I’d seen on her face two days earlier when she’d talked to me about

Chick and his brother Desmond. And I supposed that, after the haunting she’d gone through over the years, a message from her dead

husband was nothing.

Barbara Jean said, “Tell Lester he was good to me … to us. He’s got nothing to feel bad about. I’m glad I married him.”

Lester let out a sigh. He tipped his hat to me and then, like Miss Carmel, sat watching.

James said, “So, you say you’ve been seeing dead folks for a year?”

“Just about,” I answered.

Big Earl, Miss Thelma, and Daddy yelled out in unison, “Tell James we said hey.”

I relayed the message. “Daddy, Big Earl, and Miss Thelma all say hey.”

James twisted his mouth and rubbed at the scar on his face, the way he often did when he was deep in thought. No doubt he was

remembering Mama and her endless public conversations with dead folks. But my James is as adaptable as any of those bowing trees

along Wall Road. The frown melted from his face and he nodded his head. “Okay then.” Addressing the room, he called out, “Hey,

Pop Jackson. Hey, Big Earl and Miss Thelma.”

James never ceases to amaze me.

I felt like I was drifting away again and I forced myself to breathe deep and concentrate on staying in this world a little while

longer. When I got a second wind, I spoke again, my voice even fainter and hoarser than before. “Now I’d like to have a little

family time. Reverend, Alex, nurse, would you mind giving us some privacy?”

They didn’t look pleased about it, but they cleared out like I asked. After they left the room, I said, “The rest of y’all can

go, too,” talking to the ghosts. But only Lester and Miss Carmel complied. Lester performed a low, courtly bow and then offered

Miss Carmel his arm. She wrapped her hand around his elbow and walked toward the door with him. As they left the room, I heard her

say, “Lester, did I ever tell you that your wife was born on my davenport?”

I talked to Rudy and my children. “I need y’all to do something.” When they stepped forward, I said, “I need you to take my

husband home and make sure he’s fed and bathed.”

James shook his head no. “I’m not leaving you.”

I said, “James, I promise you won’t come back here and find me dead.” I could see that he was mulling it over, wanting to

believe me. For insurance, I issued commands to Rudy and my giant sons. “Carry him out if you have to, but take him home.”

Eric, Jimmy, and Rudy glanced at each other and then at James, wondering what to do. James let them off the hook, like I thought

he would. He said, “Okay, I’ll go home and get cleaned up. But I’m coming right back.” He said to the Supremes, “Call me if

anything happens.” Then he kissed my forehead and left with Denise, Jimmy, Eric, and Rudy.

“Clarice, I want you to pick up a couple things for me. I want you to get that violet housecoat you gave me last Christmas from

my bedroom chest of drawers. I’d have asked James, but Lord knows what he’d bring back. And I also would kill for a piece of

Little Earl’s peach cobbler. Would you run by the All-You-Can-Eat and get me a piece?”

Thrilled to think that my appetite had returned, she said, “Sure, I’ll go.” Then, to Barbara Jean, “I won’t be long.”

When Clarice was gone, I said to Barbara Jean, “I’ve got one thing to say to you, Barbara Jean, and it’s not coming from any

dead person. It’s coming straight from me. You need to go see Chick. And not just for the ‘making amends’ stuff.” Her mouth

dropped open then as she realized that I had heard and remembered the things she’d said to me a couple days earlier while I was

swimming around in that world between worlds.

She wrung her hands for a moment and then, recovering, said, “I’ll talk to him soon. I promise. I’ve just been waiting till I’

m strong enough.”

“Go now. And after you’ve settled the past, deal with the here and now. It’s time to see how this thing between you and Chick

is supposed to play out, once and for all.”

Barbara Jean said, “It’s too late for any of that, Odette. Years and years too late.”

The dead people in the room with us piped up, yelling that I should tell my friend she was wrong. It was never too late, not until

you’ve passed out of this life and maybe not even then.

I told Barbara Jean, “My mama and daddy and Big Earl and Miss Thelma all say you’re wrong.” I left out Eleanor Roosevelt

because I knew the mention of her would tilt the whole thing from eerie and otherworldly right over into crazy. Then, just like I

’d played the cancer card to send her off to AA, now I played the dying card. “Barbara Jean, you’ve got to talk to Chick and

set it all straight. Lay every bit of it out in the sunlight, the whole truth. I won’t rest in peace unless you do this one last

thing for me.” I was shameless.

Barbara Jean tugged and twisted the fabric of the loose skirt she was wearing as she sat thinking at the far end of my bed. For a

while, I wondered if she still might refuse. Then she walked over to me and kissed my forehead. “Okay, I’ll go.” She didn’t

sound eager, but she did at least seem resigned to doing what I’d asked. And that was enough. When she left, Mama, Daddy, and the

McIntyres accompanied her, pressed close to her sides like they were propping her up.

I was alone then with Richmond Baker and Mrs. Roosevelt.

Richmond rocked back and forth on his heels, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else on the face of the earth at that moment.

He said, “Listen, why don’t I go get the doctor for you.” Then he moved toward the door.

“No, Richmond. I need you to stay.”

Eleanor Roosevelt whipped out her popcorn bag again, preparing to hear more juicy stuff from Richmond.

He slumped back in my direction. “Odette, I don’t know how much of the stuff I said the other day you remember, but let me just

say that I know I’ve been a bad husband, and maybe I’ve been a bad friend, too. Can I just tell you I’m sorry for everything

and leave it at that? You don’t have to tell me what they say.” He looked around the room like he was expecting floating white

sheets to emerge from the walls and shout “Boo!”

With the little bit of voice I had left, I said, “Oh, for God’s sake, Richmond. I don’t want to talk to you. I just want your

muscles. I need you to close the door and all the curtains. And then, when I get these tubes out of me, I need you to grab that

wheelchair out in the hallway, bring it in here, and help me get in it. Then you can take me to your car. And if anybody tries to

stop you, I need you to be big, black, and scary.”

A loud sigh of relief escaped Richmond when he realized that I hadn’t kept him around so the two of us could have a heart-to-

heart. As he reached for the curtains that were clustered in one corner of the room, he said, “Thank God. I just about pissed my

pants wondering what you and your ghosts might come up with next.”