Freedom's Just Another Word Page 14

  And while it was clear that Marsha was horrorstruck by Janis’s language, and appalled by her alcoholism and drug abuse, I could tell that she was completely taken off guard when Janis said that she admired her. Partly because she hadn’t expected the singer to be the least bit interested in religion, but mostly because Marsha didn’t think anyone admired her.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I could tell by the way Janis shoved my address into her bag carelessly and without folding it first that she would never call me at the end of September. And why should she? I’d had my chance, and I’d blown it. She offered me the opportunity of a lifetime, an opportunity that would never show itself again, and instead of running with it, I allowed the idealist in me to ruin everything. And why was I being so self-righteous? You’d think I was Martin Luther King Jr., the way I acted. I only had my big stupid self to blame for losing out.

  And Thelma. I blamed her, too. I blamed her for bringing my dream down to its knees.

  And now I was heading back to Saskatoon with nothing more than my pride and a bottomless cup of regrets.

  Even though Marsha and I had planned on taking a more direct route back to the Sisters of Charity convent, since we weren’t going through Amarillo this time, it was still going to be a ten-hour drive. So after we’d left Threadgill’s, we drove first to Notre Dame, a Catholic school outside the city, to spend the night in the nun’s residence. I’d decided that hitchhiking to the airport was a dumb idea; it wasn’t that I minded dying so much, I just didn’t want to be murdered. So I chose to ride with Marsha the following day to Albuquerque, say good-bye to Mother Grace, and from there, take a flight home.

  Notre Dame was not a cheery bless-this-house kind of place, it was as cold as a crypt—not an easy thing to accomplish in the heart of Texas, where the sun baked the moisture out of even the shadiest place. The walls were cement, the furniture was old, and the lodgings felt more like the Bastille than a place for nuns to live. I thought about how in the novel Dracula, Jonathan Harker took refuge with nuns after jumping out the window of the vampire’s castle. If he had wound up at this place, he’d have wondered if he’d made the right choice.

  Except for the prayers before and after eating, there was little conversation at dinner; everyone just sat there, chewing, swallowing, and watching each other grow. They led such dull lives that ordinarily, I would have felt like it was my duty to liven things up, but I was too depressed myself. I was seated next to a woman with a tiny head like a shriveled coconut, and a nasal voice. When she finally asked if I was joining the organization—I assumed she meant the sisterhood and not the mob—I shrugged and took another bite of watery creamed corn. If she’d asked me a few hours earlier, I would have thrown back my shoulders and declared that I was going to be a blues singer. Now, I figured the sisterhood might not be a bad idea. Or the mob.

  However bleak the events of that day had been, and however dreadful they made me feel, they had the exact opposite effect on Marsha. Normally one of those rare individuals who could stop after eating one potato chip, she was consuming her food (even the creamed corn) with more gusto than I’d seen from her. And even though she’d never admit to finding Janis more tolerable than she’d anticipated, and even though she’d never own up to the fact that meeting the singer was the most exciting thing that had ever happened in her monotonous life, I noticed that her usual pallor had turned to an almost healthy shade of pink. Ever since Janis had said that she admired her, Marsha had held her head higher and extended her arms farther; she even looked a tad fatter. It was like someone had stuffed a rag doll.

  After dinner, I was assigned a dismal little room at the end of an unlit corridor. About an hour after we’d all turned in for the night, and I ventured out into the hall to get my accordion and frottoir, the nun with the shriveled head materialized out of the darkness to tell me it wasn’t allowed. I insisted on taking my purse, though, and set it on the bed beside me. That was when I found the postcard I’d written in Tucumcari.

  The postcard got me thinking about Clarence, and, in turn, about Thelma.

  I wished she had just stayed out of my head until after my performance. That’s the trouble with good people. They make you feel that you have to be good too, and if you’re not, the guilt pounds away at your brain and makes whatever bad thing you decide to do not worth it in the end.

  Just because Austin was home to a lot of racists, it didn’t mean the entire state was. Couldn’t Thelma have let it go, just this once? For me?

  God knows, she forgave Clarence the worst sin of all and without a single repercussion. She never used the affair with Wendy Wood against him. Not even once.

  On the wall, over a dusty chest-of-drawers, I spotted a framed print. It said Judge not, Lest Ye be Judged and had small blue flowers and green vines around it.

  That one should be hanging in Marsha’s room, not mine, I told myself. She judges everyone she meets. Everyone.

  Thelma never did. Just look at how she forgave my father.

  Why did she forgive Clarence?

  All of this played through my mind as I tried to get to sleep on an old hard bed with a metal crucifix hanging on the wall, two inches from the back of my head, like I was dead. I might as well have been—lying there in that gloomy room I decided that happiness was nothing but an illusion. I closed my eyes, but couldn’t sleep.

  Something was bothering me. Brewing inside me. With all the excitement of meeting Janis, and the horrible disappointment that followed, it wasn’t until I was alone in that dreary residence that I had the time to think things through.

  Why did Agnes act so weird when I arrived at her store?

  Why did she keep that picture of Wendy Wood?

  Despite my best efforts to put the pieces together I couldn’t, and exhaustion set in. Before I knew it, I was back in the yellow submarine with Marsha, sailing at a good clip down the highway. What had started out as an exciting excursion to Austin, turned into a miserable return trip to the Sisters of Charity convent. I didn’t feel like talking about anything—nothing—and Marsha was deep in thought, a place in which I was happy to leave her. She champed on her seeds while she ruminated over something, grinding up conceptions inside her head to the rhythm of the molars in her cheeks. I think she was trying to figure out why such a wicked and sinful woman like Janis admired her, and whether it was wicked and sinful to appreciate being admired by a wicked and sinful woman.

  Because we’d left Notre Dame so early in the morning, we made good time on the road. And since neither one of us had much to say, and didn’t bother with sightseeing or even taking time to eat (she had her seeds, and I had no appetite), we made it back to Albuquerque by five o’clock that afternoon.

  Mother Grace and Sister Beatrice were making supper when we arrived, and were serving up what appeared to be chili. I reached for a cold drink, but quickly threw it back into the cooler when Mother Grace spotted us. She made no attempt to hide her anger, and made a beeline to where we stood. She confronted Marsha and hollered at her about leaving Roy behind. She held nothing back.

  “What happened?” she asked her. “And your excuse had better be good.” Her gaze was so intense, I think she was trying to see right through Marsha’s skull to find the answer.

  “I searched around for him, but—” Marsha looked like a puppy who’d just chewed up a shoe.

  “I don’t believe you,” said Mother Grace.

  “Well, uh…”

  “He’s gone, you know,” said Sister Beatrice.

  “Gone?” I asked.

  “He followed you; he’s probably still trying to find Yasgur’s Farm,” said Mother Grace. It would have been funny, had Roy not been in such bad shape. “Was it really too much to ask of you? Really, Marsha? What kind of human being are you? You don’t care about anyone other than yourself. You’re just so—just so high and mighty.”

  High and Mighty. That’s
Marsha in a nutshell.

  Sister Beatrice looked shocked at Mother Superior’s candor, but didn’t argue the point.

  Marsha’s face was bright red and tears were beginning to stream down her face.

  “When did he disappear?” I asked.

  “About an hour after you left.” She looked at Marsha and then, not realizing the profound effect her words were having on the postulant, declared, “I don’t understand why you wouldn’t help him. You had no right. No right at all.”

  I chimed in at that point. Maybe because I wasn’t thinking of what it would do to Marsha, or maybe because misery loves company, and after what happened to me I wanted her to suffer, but for some reason I said, “Yeah, especially since Janis took one of the bracelets off her arm for him to have. You know how Roy is about arms.”

  Sister Beatrice sighed heavily, but said nothing.

  Mother Grace sighed too. “That would have made all the difference. But you destroyed it for him. Now, I’m not sure we’ll ever see him again. And if he doesn’t come back—” She stopped herself, but we all knew what was in her mind. “Roy has had a miserable life. He’s endured things you couldn’t even hope to understand. How could you do this to him?”

  By that time, because she couldn’t control the sobbing, Marsha’s breathing was labored, and I thought she was going to throw up. She looked at Sister Beatrice, then Mother Grace, then me, then Mother Grace again.

  “You’re right. Everything you say about me is right. It’s my fault,” she cried. “If he kills himself, it will be because of me. I am good for nothing. I am not worthy to be a nun.” She tore off her veil and threw it to the floor. Then she dashed out of the room. Through the window we could see her running into the grassy area behind the convent.

  Sister Beatrice picked up her veil and was about to chase after her, but Mother Grace stopped her.

  “Let her go,” she said.

  “But, I—”

  “Let her go.”

  At that point, Mother Grace turned her attention to me. I think she knew that it wasn’t my idea to ditch Roy, because she didn’t seem angry with me, and asked me about what happened in Austin.

  “Oh, that’s terrible,” she exclaimed when I explained about Threadgill’s being a racist place, and my great big conscience not letting me sing there. I waited for her to put a positive spin on the whole thing. I waited for her to tell me that it was the right thing to do. That I would go nowhere in life if I didn’t have respect for my black culture. That I should never allow myself to be taken in by an egocentric dream like becoming a blues singer when working in a garage was a good and decent job, and I should be happy with it because it was where God wanted me to be. That God doesn’t intend everyone to be a superstar like Janis Joplin and anyway, look what it’s done to her.

  She didn’t.

  She railed at Threadgill’s instead.

  “You don’t need that place,” she said. “You’ll become a blues singer without Threadgill’s.”

  “God works in mysterious ways,” said Sister Beatrice. Then she added, “You’re a good singer, Easy. You’ll find your way.” It was nice of her to care, but I could tell by the look on her face that Marsha was dominating her thoughts. And while it was comforting to hear that they believed in my singing career, I knew it was over. I knew Janis would never call me. I knew I would never become a blues singer. I knew.

  I felt pretty rotten about my life, and downhearted about Roy too. I wished he was still there at the mission. He would have loved to have had Janis Joplin’s bracelet.

  Does nothing in this life ever work out?

  Mother Grace, usually a bubbly person who seemed to have been born from the pages of one of those “I Love Life” books, wore a frown on her face. And despite the fact that she blamed Marsha, and not me, I was aware of the role I played in Roy’s disappearance. I was in such a big rush to get to Austin that I didn’t insist on finding him. I could have overridden Marsha. I could have forced her to let Roy come with us. Then Roy would have had the bracelet, and would still have been at the convent getting the help he needed.

  God, I wish there was something I could do. Some way of making up for what I did.

  Then I remembered the bus!

  “I’ll be leaving for Saskatoon early tomorrow,” I told the Reverend Mother, “but I have time right now, so I’d like to repair the school bus for you. Did you get those parts?”

  Mother Grace pointed to a shed. “We had some things come in this morning as donations. I hope they’re okay. I hope they’ll fit.”

  “I’ll make them fit.” I headed for the door, then stopped and turned around. “I truly am sorry about Roy. If I’d known it was going to end up this way, I wouldn’t have left without him.”

  Sister Beatrice and Mother Grace both nodded as I ventured outside and over to the school bus. It was a hunk of junk, to be sure, but I made it my mission to get it to work.

  The used parts included spark plugs and an ignition coil that fit the bill, and I was able to drain the crank case and change the oil. That was enough to keep the bus running temporarily, but it needed a radiator, and that would be expensive and hard to find. I located a jug of coolant in the shed, so I flushed out the old rad as best I could and hoped it would keep things going for a while. At least until baseball season was over.

  While I worked on the engine, I thought about Janis and wondered why with such amazing talent, she’d let herself be controlled by drugs and alcohol. I wasn’t judging her the way Marsha did—just mulling over the reasons for it. Was it her meteoric rise to the top? Or was she influenced by being around so many people in Los Angeles who lived that kind of a life? Bessie Smith and Billie Holiday had the same issues. Maybe it was all part and parcel of being a blues singer.

  Maybe it was better not to be a blues singer.

  At least I’d live a longer life. Sad, boring, miserable—but long.

  Oh well, I told myself. I have my work in the garage. I like classic cars, and I can still find one to fix up for myself. Something like Johnny Foster’s.

  I thought about asking Agnes if she’d let me buy it from her, but imagined she’d rather keep it close by.

  I wonder why she has that photo of Wendy Wood?

  Johnny must have liked her.

  But why would he? I asked myself. She was pregnant with me at the time—pregnant with a married man’s child. I guess Johnny thought a lot of Clarence. Clarence certainly thought a lot of him—Johnny saved his life. He owed him everything.

  He’d do anything for Johnny. Anything.

  That’s Clarence, all right. He’ll do anything for people he loves. That’s why he took the blame for me at The Beehive.

  That’s why he took the blame…

  I was working on the last plug when everything fell into place. Everyone and everything. I don’t know why I’d repressed the questions I had about my life for so long, but my thoughts, like a car skidding toward the railing of a bridge, veered inescapably to Clarence and Wendy and Johnny. And my whole life flashed before my eyes.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  I didn’t wait until the next day. I left for the airport immediately, grabbing my belongings and counting on a last-minute flight to Saskatoon. There was no time for niceties and no time for good-byes; I called a cab and headed out the door.

  I passed Marsha on my way to the road; she was still crying, but I didn’t give a damn. I had my own life to contend with, and wasn’t about to try and console her.

  “I’m leaving,” I told her.

  She didn’t even look at me.

  I was glad she was ashamed of herself, and told her so. “Your problem, Marsha, is that you judge people. Everyone you meet. Even people you haven’t met.” I glanced at the road to see if the cab was there. It wasn’t, so I had time for another jab. “Remember what the Bible says, Marsha,” I added. “Judge not, le
st ye be judged.”

  She buried her face in her hands and bawled like a baby.

  “I know what I’ve done,” she mumbled, barely able to get out the words. She threw out bits of sentences, in between great big gulps of air. “I know…what I’ve…Now, it’s…He’s going to die. I did it….You don’t know…what my life’s…No one cares. So why—”

  Half of her words were slurred. She was worse than Janis. I couldn’t decipher all of what she was trying to say to me, but gathered that she’d had some kind of realization, some kind of epiphany.

  I guess you could say that we’d both seen the light.

  

  It was after midnight when I crashed through the door. Clarence was sitting on the porch, trying to escape the heat of the apartment. He stirred when he heard me come in, but said nothing.

  He knew what was about to come down.

  When Clarence turned around and his eyes caught mine, I realized that everything I’d suspected—it was all true.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I did it for Thelma, Easy.”

  I banged my fist into the middle of the kitchen table. “Why didn’t you tell me, damn it?”

  “Thelma wanted a child more than anything in the world. She loved you so much. Don’t you understand that you were everything to that woman? Absolutely everything.”

  “How could you have done this to me?” I banged my fist again. “Let me live with a lie all these years?”

  Clarence stood up and came inside. The screen door creaked when he closed it behind him. He tried to put his hand on my shoulder, but I pulled away.

  “You’re half white, Easy. No way anybody was going to let Thelma and me adopt a white child.”

  “So you said that you were my father. So Thelma could keep me.”

  “I had no choice.”

  “I can see why Wendy Wood wouldn’t give a damn. You could have drowned me at birth, she wouldn’t care.”