A Little Fuzzy

It is so nice for Janice to get everybody come to her place for my birthday dinner. I like her new house. I know they all have better places to be and I have been a burden on my children for some years now. Getting old, needing rides to the doctor, weighing heavy on everybody’s bank accounts with my medical bills. So, I savor the rare times we’re all together. 

You’re not supposed to have favorites and I try not to. Sweet Janice has always went out of her way for her dear old mama, however. It’s too apparent for me not to notice. Frieda and Lorne love me, I know. Lorne is always traveling with Amy for their work and trying to keep up with my darling grandbabies. Frieda and I have never been able to see eye to eye.

Maybe I don’t word my questions in the best way for her to know that I only ask because I care. Janice gets her way of thinking from me so I know she tries to convince the other two that she’s not the favorite. She’s not, but she is the easiest to talk to and that’s neither of the three of them’s fault.

I don’t know what it is but I’ve always loved the Andy Griffith Show. Frieda does, too. That’s one of our very few common grounds. We’re also a little messy in the kitchen which drives Janice a bit crazy. So Frieda, Lorne, three of my grandchildren and I are in the living room watching the episode where Barney dresses like an old lady until Janice tells us to come and eat. 

I hear Janice mumbling on the phone before shouting “And mama, you wanted double chocolate for your birthday cake, right?” Some emphasis on the “and” for some reason.

“Ooooh yes! You know I love chocolate cake, Janice.”

Lately, all of my young ‘uns can’t meet my eyes without a look of pure pity in theirs. They just smile and blink really slow or look at the floor, smirk and “hhhmph.” Old ladies can have chocolate cake. I’m 80 years old for Christ’s sake. Life without chocolate cake isn’t life at all. By now, I’m pretty much used to all of them feeling sorry for me. 

“Janice, where is Chelsea? I thought she was supposed to be here.”

“Grandmama…,” the rest is hard for my old brain to decipher. I’ve been having these little spells lately. They all think I’m going deaf but that’s not it. I hear volume just fine. It’s the making out of the words that I struggle with. Sometimes when I try to listen, the words get a little fuzzy.

“I told you, it’s hard enough being old without my own babies calling me Grandmama, now, Janice,” I snicker, “I wish I looked like you when I was 54, baby. You don’t look no older than 35.” We always pick at each other about getting on up in our years. How she’s getting old and how much older I am and how she hates that I’m just dragging her along with me. 

She pats my shoulder and I hear her ask Lorne something about Granddaddy but I can’t make out the whole phrase. Something about hot sauce? I’m not sure. Probably hot sauce because I’ve asked them to fix me fried pork chops, mashed potatoes and cornbread for my birthday. It was one of Daddy’s favorite meals, too. 

I miss their father. You know, I don’t even know how long it’s been. Sometimes I’ll listen to those old jazz songs he liked so much. I could never love them as much as he did. Every now and then we would find one I really liked, but that was rare. 

We finally had Janice after trying for three years in my early thirties, his mid thirties. We tried for ten years after that to finally have the twins. Many a tear that man let me leak out onto his shoulder. Even after our bodies went to shit, he had held me everyday and slapped my butt when I walked by to make me feel young and desirable. And he always helped out so much with our kids, too. Both my girls were daddy’s girls. Lorne is just like his father, which sometimes makes it hard for me to look at my own son. I’m so proud of my children, though, and Daddy was, too. 

“Hey, you alright, Ma?”

“I’m fine, baby,” I tell Lorne. “Just zoning out. Thinking about your Daddy.” I smile and reminisce  to myself. Then I realize Lorne is waiting on me to answer a question I didn’t hear by the look on his face.

“Sorry, love, what’d you say?” I ask him.

“I said ‘what were you thinking about him?’”

“Oh,” I laugh, “I just miss him real bad.”

“Y’all are so cute, Grandmama,” chirps my 13 year old granddaughter,  “I hope I find someone to be like that with when I get older.”

“You’re too young to be worrying about that stuff right now, baby girl,” I tell her, “but you find somebody when the time comes.”

Somebody knocks on the door.

“Hey, one of yall let me in!” laughs a man’s voice. “My hands are full with these groceries.” It sounds friendly and warm.

“Well, who is that?” I look at Frieda. She mumbles something and she and Lorne go into the kitchen while the new voice and Janice start talking. Man, I love this episode of Andy Griffith. Barney really makes the show. I’m glad the grandkids have grown to like it, too.

I lean forward in the recliner a little bit to sneak a peek around the living room wall to look into the kitchen. The newcomer had to be a looker in his day. Tall, dark.. bearded. Very dapper for a man close to my age. 

I hear them talking about how some woman is doing today. I hear a few words but can’t put them into context: “worse,” “keeps,” “Janice,” “passed.” Maybe his wife or daughter is having medical problems. Is he one of Janice’s residents from her nursing job? Maybe he’s a well acquainted neighbor?

The new voice comes in. 

“Hey, pretty thang!” he says coming in for a hug. 

“Heyyyy,” I ask and take the hug, confused.

“Well what the hell is that look for?” the stranger asks me jokingly.

“I’m so sorry, but uhhhh,” I squint to get a better look at him and clear my throat, “So sorry, uhhhh.. am I supposed to know you? Are you Janice’s neighbor? I think I might’a met you maybe once and I’m sorry but you know, you get old and....” His eyes have quickly gone wide and he looks like he’s about to cry. “Oh no, please!” I beg, “I didn’t mean to offend you! What did you say your name was?”

 “No,” he puts his hand over his mouth. “No, no, no, no, no,” he whines as he kneels beside my chair. “Jenine?” he whispers and I see tears welling in his eyes. He holds my hands.

“Yes?” I sort of drag out, wondering what in the world I’ve done to upset this man.

“Jenine?!” he asks louder and grips my hands a little tighter.

I flinch. Now my own eyes go wide, my face is burning and the stranger is scaring me. 

“What’s wrong?! What’s wrong?!,” I gasp, “Janice, help!” The man’s shoulders begin to heave and he is sobbing uncontrollably.

Janice runs into the living room, “What’s the matter?!“ she yells looking from me to the man crying in my lap. I shrug my shoulders, eyebrows still raised in shock. I pat his back hurriedly when I look back at her.

The stranger lifts his head and wipes his face to look at Janice before turning to me again. 

“Jenine,” his voice breaks and he can’t hold in a small splutter of defeat, “Babe, you don’t know who I am?”

I shake my head in a tiny frenzy not knowing what to say, terror and shame like fire on my face. I start to feel my own tears hot and leaky behind my eyes. The fact that I can’t remember this supposed-to-be-very-familiar person is forcing me into the reality of my old age and my feeble mind.

 “I-I..” I shutter nearly unable to speak.

I turn to my daughter again, or is that my granddaughter, Chelsea? No, it’s Janice, right? That’s Janice.

“Janice?” I plead.

She’s hugging the man now and crying herself. She looks up and sniffles before answering, “Grandmama, I’m Chelsea. Mama passed away last year.”