The Crestview Cemetery was in plain view. It was way too spooky, too dark, and too unkempt for me to linger any longer than I already had. It never had any visitors. Not even the hoodlums bothered to vandalize it. I glanced over at the tombstones and picked up my pace. In another quarter-mile, I would be at my great-Grandmother Ida Conley’s duplex at 332 Union Street where the oddly cheerful blue AstroTurf steps would welcome me.
Conley was my great-Grandmother, but she was so much more than that. She was my savior and my best friend. I called her only by her last name, a special nickname that originated when I was very young and I had to keep track of too many grandparents, great-grandparents and even one great-great grandparent.
Conley’s tiny, sclerosis-hunched frame produced 13 children and she outlived three of them. My Gran, Wanda, was third in line and the first girl. Conley was in her late eighties and spent most of her time in her king-size bed, studying the bible and watching Perry Mason reruns. Her hard-drinking, fast-swinging husband, Clyde, was long dead, gone for almost as long as he was alive.
I jogged up the front steps and started fishing around in my jeans pockets for my key. However, I didn’t have it. In my haste to leave our tossed and tumbled apartment, I’d forgotten it. I was hoping to avoid talking to Aunt Bill, my great aunt who lived with Conley, but without my key that was impossible. I sighed and knocked on the heavy glass of the front door and waited for it to open it. Aunt Bill’s real name was Glenna June, but even her late-husband and her mom called her Bill. She was partially deaf and always had the TV blaring. She also suffered from epilepsy, known within the family as her “spells.” I knocked again, louder. She heard me that time and came to the door. I was greeted by her perpetual no-nonsense frown but then she surprised me by giving me a knowing hug. She had expected me.
The first thing she said was, “Wanda called and talked to Mom. I listened on the extension. I’m sorry. It’ll all get worked out. How ‘bout I order us some pizza for dinner?”
My mouth was so dry that the thank you came out like dust. Aunt Bill awkwardly patted me on the shoulder. I was relieved that she didn’t want to talk about what was going on any more than I did.
I dropped my Jansport by the front door. I had crammed my Boys II Men and The Bodyguard CDs in my backpack and when I was sure no one was watching, I fished out my contraband – mixed tapes of Black Sheep, Salt ‘n Pepa and Ice Cube.
I lowered the trash bag that I had hastily filled with my worn copies of “The Outsiders” and “To Kill a Mockingbird”, clothes, blow-dryer, and a large can of Aussie mousse but kept my hand around it and drug it down the skinny, cramped hall, almost knocking over a skinny phone table in the process.
The house was always stifling hot. Normally, this was the one thing that I didn’t like about being at my great-grandmother’s, but that night I welcomed the heat, let it wash over me and heat me from the inside out. Aunt Bill returned to her shiny blue recliner to watch The Ralph Emory Show. It was her favorite show and I was certain that she was the only person who ever watched it.
When I made it to the tiny bathroom, I sat down on the fuzzy lid of the toilet. Dry heaved. I grabbed hold of the cool sink and rested my head on it. I raised my head, stared in the mirror and despised the image staring back at me. I wanted it to go away. It took all my self-restraint to resist the overwhelming desire to smash my face into the mirror. I flipped off the light instead. Disgusted.
I ran some hot water and let the steam fill the cramped dark room. My face stung when I splashed the water on it, but I didn’t towel it off, just let it drip down onto my shirt. I began to fret that Conley was worried about me or worse than that that Aunt Bill would barge in and ask what I was doing. I didn’t really know what I was doing. I changed out of my sweat drenched clothes and put on shorts and a t-shirt to help combat the thick heat. I crossed over the hall to Conley’s bedroom. She scooted over her pile of books, rolled up a bag of her ever-present Cheetos and placed them on her nightstand and simply patted the bed. I didn’t say a word. I didn’t have to. I hopped in, stayed on top of the covers and fell asleep to the sounds of Jeopardy!.
I slept fitfully for a few hours and woke to a dark, quiet house. Conley was snoring gently. I crept out of bed and headed to the kitchen for a glass of water. I flipped on the small light over the sink and saw Aunt Bill’s note: Pizza in the fridge. Didn’t want to wake you. Love, Aunt Bill. I smiled. It felt foreign and made my cheeks crack and tingle.
Aunt Bill got a bad rap. She was stern and consistently grumpy but she had always been overshadowed by her loud, larger than life sisters and her charismatic, charming brothers. She married late, was widowed early and miscarried her only pregnancy. Therefore, be it by choice or by circumstance, she was the one that came to live with Conley when she finally needed some help. Like so many of her brothers, Aunt Bill was drawn to Jack Daniels but went with Jesus Christ instead.
My stomach reminded me that I hadn’t eaten anything but a Blow-Pop at lunch. I grabbed the Dominos’ box and tip-toed down to the crowded, mismatched, knick-knack filled living room. It was a little before 11:00pm, time for the news. I sat down on the floor and turned the TV on. It was so loud that it startled me and I got choked on my first bite of pizza. I tried to stifle my cough as I jumped up to silence it before it woke anyone up.
By the blue flickering light of the TV, I woofed down three pieces of pizza and prayed that Mom’s face wouldn’t be plastered on the TV screen. I flipped the dial to WVVA 6. I held my breath until the newscast turned to sports and weather, until the hard news was over.
There was nothing on the news. I allowed myself to think that maybe it didn’t happen. Maybe it was a big misunderstanding.
This article was written by a guest blogger. The opinions expressed here are those of the writer and do not reflect the opinions of Bob Lacey, Sheri Lynch or the Bob & Sheri show.
Soshally Awkward
Sosha Lewis is a writer whose work has been featured in The Washington Post, Huffington Post, MUTHA Magazine and The Charlotte Observer. She writes about her sometimes wild, sometimes hilarious, sometimes heartbreaking past filled with free-lunches, a grimy sports bar, a six foot tall Albino woman who tried to save her teenage soul, felonious, drug addicted parents, an imaginary friend named Blueberry and growing up nestled in the coal-dusted mountains of West Virginia.
