Danger in Paradise

Today I'm sitting on the floor of the living room cutting out Marilyn Monroe paper dolls. Some people might think I'm too old for paper dolls. But I'm only ten. Mama played with paper dolls 'til she was sixteen. She'd probably play with them now if she had time. Mama's in the yard hanging a wash on the clothesline. Except for an occasional groan from Othermama in the back bedroom, the house is quiet. Othermama (my maternal grandmother) is having one of her spells-this time it's pains around her heart. Mama says it's probably gas from the white beans she ate the night before. I'm worried.

Whenever Othermama gets a spell, I stay home to pray for her and to be around in case something's needed. I'm afraid to leave for fear Othermama might die. Just thinking about the possibility of Othermama's death leaves me with a weightless, dizzy feeling--the same feeling that comes over me when I lie on my back counting stars on a summer night. Othermama has a name for a real dizzy feeling. She calls it "the swimmy head." One time the swimmy head came on her at Uncle Harold's funeral and she fell near the open gravesite. It took three people to get her up.

The sound of Othermama's bare feet smacking the hardwood floor brings my attention back to the dull pair of sewing scissors I'm guiding around Marilyn Monroe's fancy evening gown. I stop cutting to watch Othermama walk past on her way to the kitchen. The house seems to shake whenever she walks through it. She's wearing a slip. The straps have fallen over her shoulders. I think she has a body like the Pillsbury Doughboy. As she passes by, I notice that the slip is sticking in the crack of her butt and I feel embarrassed. Her fine white hair stands in wisps around her head and her eyes gaze from sunken sockets. I know why Othermama's having a dying spell today; I feel like dying too.

"Lovinia!" Othermama calls. Although the house is stifling, I feel a chill. Othermama's "sick" voice is higher and quivers more than usual. I want to scream at Othermama and tell her to stop acting like a scary zombie and to pull the slip out of the crack of her butt but to show such disrespect for Othermama might kill her. I keep my mouth shut and keep cutting.

Sometimes I daydream about killing Othermama, but I'm afraid to daydream about it when she's sick. If Othermama were to die, we might starve to death. Mama can't cook. Most of the time she only goes to the stove to light a cigarette from the gas jet when she can't find a book of matches. Once in a while Mama will make a pot of fudge. My big brother Jake loves Mama's homemade fudge but the doctor has warned him not to eat it. Chocolate makes his eyelids swell.

I keep hoping the rumor about my brother joining the Air force isn't true. Maybe it's a joke. Jake's a great tease. But this isn't funny. If Jake leaves, life will never be the same. Just the thought of life without Jake gives me "the swimmy head." Who will protect us when Daddy gets mean drunk? Jake's tall and strong--he's taller and stronger than Daddy. Othermama says Jake could knock Daddy out with a good right hook but Jake just laughs at her. He'll say, "Fats" (that's his nickname for Othermama) "boxing matches are for television." Jake has always brought me presents. I didn't much care for the police car with a siren. I really wanted a water gun but I never let on. I just loved Jake's surprises. The authentic Indian drum with feathers and the pigskin-covered drumsticks that he brought from his trip to Myrtle Beach was interesting but I had secretly hoped for an Indian doll. Mama said he meant well. With Jake gone, there wouldn't be anybody to bring me presents. Daddy never thinks to bring me anything. Mama says he has a hard job and too much on his mind to think about much else.

The screen door bangs shut. Mama and Othermama's voices drift to the living room.

"Lord have mercy," Othermama says.

"My hands are full of clothes. I didn't mean to slam it," Mama insists. Mama and Othermama argue every minute of the day. I usually tune them out but today I listen carefully. I know they will talk about Jake. Othermama might be right. Jake could've sneaked off to the Air Force without saying goodbye. But his clothes are still in the closet. I've already checked-twice. Mama claims he'll be back later in the afternoon after he signs all the necessary papers.

"I just hope you're right," Othermama says. I hope Mama's right too. I hope she's telling the truth. Mama's been known to tell white lies. My big sister Rosebud used to stay home from school and when the truant officer came looking for her, Mama would say Rosebud was "bad off sick with a head cold." Truth was, Rosebud didn't want to go because she had nothing new to wear. Mama didn't blame her. Rosebud got sick of wearing the same two blouses and the same two skirts day in and day out.

If Jake has joined the Air Force, why does he have to spend his last day signing papers? And, I wonder, what could be taking him so long? The day seems endless. Jake dashes up the front porch steps around five o'clock. Othermama's so glad to see him she experiences a miraculous cure. She hops out of bed, throws on a dress, combs her hair and offers to help him pack.

I complain to Mama that there's no time for me to take a bath and after Jake bathes, there won't be enough hot water.

"You look fine," mama says, "Nobody dresses up to go to the air port. Wash your face and hands and put on a clean pair of shorts." Although it makes no sound, I can feel my heart breaking. It's true. Jake really is joining the Air Force. I feel as if I might explode. There must be some way to stop him-to let Jake know how I feel-some way to ask him not to go. I can't find a clean pair of shorts so I put on a pale yellow cotton dress. It's another hand-me-down from one of my cousins. I stare at my reflection in the mirror. The dress fits fine through the shoulders but I wish I weren't so skinny. I brush my bangs out of my eyes and tighten the rubber band around my ponytail. I can hear Jake. He does his best singing in the bathtub. He's crooning Eddie Fisher's big hit, "Stranger in Paradise." Like mama, Rosebud and Aunt Sissy, Jake has perfect pitch. The song is almost over. He'll be out soon. I have to hurry. Jake's black leather wallet, his watch, his high school ring along with his newest treasure-a sterling silver I.D. bracelet-are lying on the vanity in the back bedroom where he left them. Rosebud presented him with the gold watch and the bracelet for his high school graduation. My hands shake as I open the I.D. bracelet. It's empty. Suddenly, I know what to do. I take a sheet of paper and a ballpoint pen from Othermama's stationery box on the dresser. No one is allowed to touch Othermama's things. Her possessions are as sacred as the family Bible, but tonight I don't care if God does strike me dead.

"If I stand starry-eyed," Jake warbles, "That's the danger in paradise-" I know have to work fast. I draw a tiny stick figure with a ponytail just like mine.

"Somewhere in space, I hang suspended, until I know, there's a chance that you care." Jake's voice seems much louder now. He's probably out of the tub and reaching for a towel. Above the stick figure's head, like a cartoon, I draw a balloon. Inside the balloon I print neatly, "Don't go. I love you." I fold the paper into a small square and cram it inside the I.D. bracelet. I can't let Jake find me here in the bedroom but there's one last thing that must be done. From an array of cosmetics on the vanity I grab Rosebud's bottle of Blue Grass Cologne and spray it all over my head, my neck and under each armpit like I see Rosebud do every day. Her Blue Grass Cologne reminds me of rich people living in faraway places-they own stables full of horses and eat steak every night. As I tiptoe quickly from the bedroom and past the bathroom door I can hear Jake singing softly, "And tell him that he need be a stranger no more."

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