Question for the week
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Each day a different chapter from The Square Root of Someone is featured. Readers often ask if the essays are true. Every single one is.
Cousin Helen
I hear the clopping of her shoes in the brittle cold before I see her. From the front seat of our new Lexus, I turn to watch Cousin Helen’s stick-thin figure maneuver toward us, a black shortie coat wrapped around black pants. I also notice the offending shoes, which are black and made more for summer strolling than winter sidestepping.
This morning, Tennessee is knee-deep in sub-freezing temperatures. It is the talk on the morning radio and the headlines in the Knoxville paper. As I watch Cousin Helen, I don’t see any ice on the sidewalk, but she slowly, meticulously she picks her way to the street.
Finally, she reaches the car where Earl opens the door to the back seat. Before climbing in, she hugs at him; and her pleasure at being together is visible. After words of greeting, Cousin Helen shifts and positions herself inside the car. Earl closes the door. She swipes at invisible dust on her coat and remembers I’m in the front seat. We’ve only met once, and that was at a family funeral; but she greets me with a generous portion of Southern warmth sprinkled with comments about the weather. An observer would think we’d been friends for years.
“Sure is nice to see you. I’m glad you came with Earl this time,” she says, swiping the same invisible dust from my shoulder with a gloved hand. “I can’t believe how cold it is. It’s just so hard to keep warm.”
From where Earl and I come from, snow and cold are seasonal staples. As are the lined boots and heavy coats we’re wearing. Once the car is in gear, Earl goes so far as to tell her this, but it is beyond her comprehension. She cannot understand how people possibly live in these temperatures, day after day, all winter long.
Earl and I have driven almost six hundred miles to see his mother, Velma Misch, in Rockwood, Tennessee. It's something he does several times a year. Each time, he picks up Cousin Helen for a visit with Velma. He has tried encouraging her to visit on her own; instead, she talks about shortness of breath and chest pains and not having a ride and not being able to walk that far. When Earl suggests taking a cab, the idea doesn’t register.
Earl is her cab.
He will take her to breakfast and then to see his mother, Velma.
We drive the half-mile into downtown Rockwood and park across the street from Junior’s Café, the local restaurant that still lets guests sit anywhere and smoke anywhere they wish. From previous visits, I know the food is barely tolerable for Yankee yuppie tastes; but the coffee is fresh and full.
The storefront windows are covered with an awning that keeps sunlight at bay. The entrance is nondescript and simple. Once inside, you can’t help but notice the threadbare carpet where waitresses have run back and forth to the kitchen uncountable times. It will be another fifty years before the term “server” is still no longer a foreign concept.
There is no equivalent to hostess, so I walk along one side of the restaurant and claim a booth for us halfway back. Cousin Helen follows and stands by the chosen table trying to decide whether to sit with me or across from me on the other side. You can tell it’s a difficult decision. Finally she turns to Earl who has followed her.
“Where you sittin?” she asks.
“Next to you,” and she relaxes as the decision is taken out of her hands.
It gives me a chance to look at them, side by side.
They are first cousins. Earl’s mother and Helen’s father were sister and brother; so it’s not surprising that their offspring share the more common features of the family tree. Both are medium height but slight of build, with slender faces and angular limbs. I’d guess Cousin Helen has the same graying hair underneath her bottle black. Both are old enough to draw social security now; but, the harsh Chicago winters notwithstanding, appearances suggest the years have been kinder to Earl.
We remove coats and scarves, settle in, and study the laminated menus that are dropped at the booth by a passing waitress. I search for something healthy, like grapefruit or oatmeal, although I know bacon and biscuits are the standard fare. Cousin Helen studies the menu as if she’s looking for something exotic.
The waitress brings three brown mugs, a full coffeepot, and a pad to take our order.
Earl doesn’t waver. He wants the greasiest breakfast money can buy. I give up on health food and order scrambled eggs and a fried pork tenderloin, well done please. Cousin Helen continues to study the menu. Finally, she looks up.
“Do you have Egg Beaters?” she asks.
“No ma’am, we don’t have ‘em.”
Cousin Helen studies the choices again, while the waitress shifts from foot to foot.
“Then I’ll have the stuffed corned beef hash.”
“We don’t have that no more either, though it’s on the menu."
There’s more shifting from foot to foot and more study of the menu.
“I’ll just settle for biscuits and gravy,” Cousin Helen says, disappointment flattening her voice, “and water with a lemon.”
The waitress removes Helen's mug of coffee and heads for the kitchen. Left to ourselves, it is my job to keep the conversation flowing because I’m the newcomer and can ask questions Earl and Helen already know the answers to.
“Do you come here often?” I assume Cousin Helen comes all the time since this restaurant is only a few blocks from her apartment.
“Huh?”
I repeat the question.
“No, just been here three times, twice with Earl. Once I come with my own family, but it was a long time ago.”
“Where do you like to eat,” I ask as Earl excuses himself and heads for the men’s.
“Huh?”
I wonder if she is hard of hearing or if this is a personal habit, like Earl’s quirk of chewing on the inside of his cheeks.
I repeat the question.
“I love Cracker Barrel,” Cousin Helen says. “They sure do have good food. Egg Beaters too. The doctor says I shouldn’t eat yolks.”
As if Cracker Barrel is a magic word, she opens up. Begins to talk and bob her head with descriptions. Tells me not only about the new Cracker Barrel just up the road apiece but also the virtues of her doctor. Says how it replaced the old Cracker Barrel and how everyone loves it. Says she likes her doctor too, especially since he’s recommended Egg Beaters.
As if he had timed it, Earl returns just as the food arrives. Fried eggs and slick bacon and triple pancakes and buttered toast are placed in front of him, while two plain biscuits and a cup of gravy are set in front of Cousin Helen. He looks at breakfast with eagerness, she with acceptance. My own order comes next, and conversation ceases altogether.
As young adults Velma and Truman moved north to Chicago from Tennessee. It was during the Great Depression. Work was easier to find in the City of Big Shoulders, and they needed it to survive.
But their hearts stayed behind in the Tennessee hills where life was sweet and close to the bone. Within ten years everyone -- except Velma –migrated back home. She fell in love with Ray, a Chicago boy, and stayed behind to marry him in 1932. Earl, their only child, was born in 1935.
In Tennessee, Truman also married and began raising a family. He and his wife had four children, but the prettiest child of all was Helen.
Then the war came. Ray was shipped to Germany and Velma went to work. Perhaps she and her son could have left Chicago and gone back to family in Tennessee, but they didn’t. Instead the call went out for someone in Tennessee to come to Chicago and care for Earl, who was only seven. Cousin Helen, a high school dropout at fifteen, arrived on the doorstep as the babysitter.
She picks at her biscuit while Earl cleans his plate and signals to the waitress for more coffee. He has an air of command about him. I pass the rest of my tenderloin to his side of the table.
“Don’t you drink coffee?” I ask Cousin Helen. By now, I’ve become accustomed to the requisite “Huh?” before she answers.
“Well, yes, but it has to be decaf and water based. Do you know about water based?”
I shake my head “No,” although it seems to me that logically all coffee should be classified as water based.
“I have heart palpitations,” she says. “I can’t drink regular coffee. A while back, my daughter and I went through the drive-in at McDonald’s, and I think I got her coffee instead of mine, because my heart went to jumpin’ and a flutterin’. I don’t order coffee out no more.
“I did find a place that delivers it to my home. It’s water based, you know. But it’s seventeen dollars a pound. That’s a lot of money. You ever hear of Gevalia?
She shares other stories about the effects of coffee, as if to underscore the seriousness of her heart problems, which became more acute after her husband died unexpectedly. He was mowing the lawn one minute and dying the next. It was too much for Cousin Helen to accept.
“He would be 72,” she says wistfully. “I went to Chicago for a week right after he passed.”
She puts one hand to her face, covering her mouth mostly, and looks down at her lap as if the strength not to cry will be found there. It’s a long minute while Earl looks in her lap too and then places his hand over hers, pulls it from her mouth, squeezes it. The child offering comfort to the babysitter. Oblivious, the waitress jars the moment as she stops by the table and removes our plates. But Cousin Helen has control of herself. Earl gets up to pay the bill.
During the war they went to the Chicago Theatre on weekends, Velma and Helen and Earl. That was long before movies were made for TV. Going to the show meant seeing a live, stage performance as well as something on a big screen. There was the comfort of family during those Saturday afternoons.
Velma’s room is at the end of West One at Rockwood Healthcare Center. As the three of us walk the main hall and then turn right onto a secondary one, Cousin Helen’s shoes announce our arrival. A doctor turns and looks; two aides stare. Helen moves in along the wall behind Earl and in front of me, as if trying to hide in his shadow. She steps carefully, but her heels still want to flop.
Velma’s bed is the one near the door. Earl enters her room first and approaches the small mound of covers that will eventually reveal his mother. We make no effort to be quiet, but she doesn’t stir. The rails on the bed are in a permanent up position, so he leans over and says, “Mother, it’s Earl. I’ve brought Cousin Helen to see you.”
Slowly from under the mound, there’s movement; and two tiny hands push the blankets back. Velma opens her eyes and, after a moment, you can see the light of recognition in them. Yes, this is her son. And her niece.
Helen went home when Earl’s dad returned from the war. After he worked enough years at the Continental Bank to receive a pension, he and Velma retired to Tennessee. Family connections that had endured thirty years of separation were refitted to the present. Ray and Velma built a house and planted an incredible garden and got together with family, year after year. There was nothing complicated about it.
“Why, darlin’, it’s nice to see you," she says.
Velma calls everyone “Darlin.”
Cousin Helen moves closer as Earl steps back. She flutters like a bird around her aunt and finally settles into the straight-backed chair at the bedside. Her eyes never leave Velma’s face, but Velma has already dozed off. Cousin Helen pats the blankets and continues to stare. I stand in the corner, knowing Earl will want to roam the hospital and leave us, the three women, alone.
Ray died a couple years ago. Earl kept his mother in their home as long as it was physically possible.
But gall bladder surgery on the heels of losing her husband blew out what little spark was left in Velma. When she came to Rockwood, she could still walk and feed herself. Now she doesn’t leave her bed. Most of the time she sleeps beneath half a dozen blankets and wakens only at mealtime to be fed by an aide. Or to tell whoever will listen that she is cold and needs another cover.
Cousin Helen stares hard. Every so often the intensity of it must pierce Velma’s sleep, for she wakes up. Helen takes this as a signal to do something, so she stands and tucks the covers around Velma’s shoulders.
“Are you cold?”
Velma nods.
“It’s so cold out, you just wouldn’t believe it," Cousin Helen says. "I had a terrible time stayin’ warm last night.” She pats Velma's shoulders.
I watch the tenderness between them and marvel. They have little except their memories of the past. They don't expect a lot in the future, just a blanket and the touch of a human hand. But it is enough.
Earl returns from time to time to check on us and then wanders off again to talk with staff members about his mother. He wants to make sure she doesn’t hurt or that they know she is a Jehovah’s Witness or that they can call him any time of the day or night.
We stay almost an hour with Velma dozing and Helen staring and me watching. I think we make some connection.
When it's time to leave, we kiss Velma goodbye. Cousin Helen wraps her shortie coat tight around her body, as if gathering enough grit to brave the cold.
If you like this essay and want to read more by Anne Brandt,
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