Ray raised his voice. “Ma, it’s me. Ray.”
It took her a few seconds to process the information. Her confusion cleared and she put her gnarled hands up to her mouth. She began to work the locks — deadbolt, thumb lock, and burglar chain — ending in an old-fashioned skeleton key that took some maneuvering before it yielded. The door flew open and she flung herself into his arms. “Oh, Ray,” she said tremulously. “Oh, my Ray.”
Ray laughed, hugging her close while she made wordless mewing sounds of joy and relief. Though plump, she was probably half his size. She had on a white pinafore-style apron over a housedress that looked hand sewn: pink cotton with an imprint of white buttons in diagonal rows, the sleeves trimmed in pink rickrack. She pulled away from him, her glasses sitting crookedly on the bridge of her nose. Her gaze shifted to Laura, who stood behind him on the walk. It was clear she had trouble distinguishing faces in the cloudy world of impaired vision. “Who’s this?” she said.
“It’s me, Gramma. Laura. And this is Kinsey. She hitched a ride with us from Dallas. How are you?”
“Oh, my stars, Laura! Dear love. I can’t believe it. This is wonderful. I’m so happy to see you. Looka here, what a mess I’m in. Didn’t nobody tell me you were coming and now you’ve caught me in this old thing.” Laura gave her a hug and kiss, holding herself sideways to conceal the solid bulge of her belly harness.
Ray’s mother didn’t seem to notice one way or the other. “Let me take a look at you.” She put a hand on either side of Laura’s face, searching earnestly. “I wish I could see you better, child, but I believe you favor your grandfather Rawson. God love your heart. How long has it been?” Tears trickled down her cheeks, and she finally pulled her apron up over her face to hide her embarrassment. She fanned herself then, shaking off her emotions. “What’s the matter with me? Get on in here, all of you. Son, I’ll never forgive you for not calling first. I’m a mess. House is a mess.”
We trooped into the hallway, Laura first, then Ray, with me bringing up the rear. We paused while the old woman locked the doors again. I realized no one had ever mentioned her first name. To the right was the narrow stairway leading up to the second-floor bedroom, blanketed in darkness even at this time of day. To the left was the kitchen, which seemed to be the only room with lights on. Because the houses were so close to one another, little daylight crept into this section. There was only one kitchen window, on the far left-hand wall above a porcelain-and-cast-iron sink. A big oak table with four mismatched wooden chairs took up the center of the room, a bare bulb hanging over it. The bulb itself must have been 250 watts because the light it threw off was not only dazzling, but had elevated the room temperature a good twenty degrees.
The ancient stove was green enamel, trimmed in black, with four gas burners and a lift-up stove top. To the left of the door was an Eastlake cabinet with a retractable tin counter and a built-in flour bin and sifter. I could feel a wave of memory pushing at me. Somewhere I’d seen a room like this, maybe Grand’s house in Lompoc when I was four. In my mind’s eye, I could still picture the goods on the shelves: the Cut-Rite waxed paper box, the cylindrical dark blue Morton salt box with the girl under her umbrella (“When It Rains, It Pours”), Sanka coffee in a short orange can, Cream of Wheat, the tin of Hershey’s cocoa. Mrs. Raw-son’s larder was stocked with most of the same items, right down to the opaque mint-green glass jar with SUGAR printed across the front. The oversize matching screw-top salt and pepper shakers rested nearby.
Ray’s mother was already busy clearing piles of newspapers from the kitchen chairs despite Ray’s protests. “Now, Ma, come on. You don’t have to do that. Give me that.”
She smacked at his hand. “You quit. I can do this myself. If you’d told me you were coming, I’d have had the place picked up. Laura’s going to think I don’t know how to keep house.”
He took a stack of papers from her and stuck them in a haphazard pile against the wall. Laura murmured something and excused herself, moving into the back room. I was hoping there was a bathroom close by that I could visit in due course. I pulled out a chair and sat down, doing some visual snooping while Ray and his mother tidied up.
From where I sat, I could see part of the dining room with its built-in china cupboards. The room was crammed with junk, furniture and cardboard boxes making passage difficult. I caught sight of an old brown wood radio, a Zenith with a round dial set into a round-shouldered console the size of a chest of drawers. I could see the round shape of the underlying speaker where the worn fabric was stretched over it. The wallpaper pattern was a marvel of swirling brown leaves.
The room beyond the dining room was probably the parlor with its two windows onto the street and a proper front door. The kitchen smelled like a combination of moth balls and strong coffee sitting on the stove too long. I heard the shriek of plumbing, the flush mechanism suggestive of a waterfall thundering from a great height. When Laura emerged from the back room sometime later, she’d shed her belly harness. She was probably uncomfortable with the idea of having to explain her “condition” if her grandmother took notice.
I tuned in to the old woman, who was still grumbling good-naturedly about the unexpected visit. “I don’t know how you expect me to cook up any kind of supper without the fixings on hand.”
“Well, I’m telling you how,” Ray said patiently. “You put together a list of what you need and we’ll whip over to the market and be back in two shakes.”
“I have a list working if I can find it,” she said, poking through loose papers in the center of the table. “Freida Green, my neighbor two doors down, she’s been carrying me to the market once a week when she goes. Here now. What’s that say?”
Ray took the list and read aloud in a faky tone, “Says pork chops with milk gravy, yams, fried apples and onions, corn bread …”
She reached for the paper, but he held it out of reach. “I never. It does not. Let me see that. Is that what you want, son?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He handed her the paper.
“Well, I can do that. I have yams out yonder, and I believe I still have some of them pole beans and stewed tomatoes I put up last summer. I just baked a batch of peanut-butter cookies. We can have them for dessert if you’ll pick up a quart of vanilla ice cream. I want real. I don’t want iced milk.” She was writing as she spoke, large, angular letters drifting across the page.
“Sounds good to me. What do you think, Kinsey?” he asked.
“Sounds great.”
“Oh, forevermore. Kinsey. Shame on me for my bad manners. I forgot all about you, honey. What can I get you? I might have a can of soda pop here somewhere. Take a look in the pantry and don’t mind the state it’s in. I been meaning to clean that out, but hadn’t got to it.”
“Actually, I’d love to borrow your phone, and a pen and scratch paper, if you don’t mind.”
“You go and help yourself as long as you don’t call Paris, France. I’m on fixed income and that telephone costs too much as it is. Here’s you a piece of paper. Laura, why don’t you show her where the telephone is. Right in there beside the bed. I’ll get busy with this list.”
Ray said, “I also promised she could throw some clothes in the washing machine. You have detergent?”
“In the utility room,” she said, pointing toward the door.
I took the proffered pen and paper and moved into the bedroom, which was as stuffy as a coat closet. The only light emanated from a small bathroom that opened on the left. Heavy drapes were pinned together over windows with the shades drawn. The double-bed mattress sagged in an iron bedstead piled with hand-tied quilts. The room would have been perfect in a 1940s home furnishings diorama at the state fair. All the surfaces were coated with a fine layer of dust. In fact, nothing in the house had seemed terribly clean, probably the by-product of the old woman’s poor eyesight.
The old black dial telephone sat beside a crook-neck lamp on the bed table, amid large-print books, pill bottles, lotions, and ointments. I flipped the light on and dialed Information, picking up the numbers for both United and American Airlines. I called United first, listening to the usual reassurances until my “call could be answered in the order it was received.” Out of deference to Ray’s mom, I refrained from searching her bed table drawer while I waited for the agent to pick up on his end. I did scan the room, looking for the belly harness. Had to be around here somewhere.