Author's Note: Hmm... okay, so apparently chapter 13 was not the most popular of chapters? That kind of blows. But it wasn't the last chapter, if that's what y'all were thinking. I like to wrap things up more than that. And I always put "The End" at the end so people know I'm done. Hee. That said, this is the final chapter. (And I have more to say, but I'll write a final author's note and tag it on as chapter 15, 'cause it'll be long and I don't want to have it cluttering up the end of my story.)
Happiness is singing together when day is through
And happiness is those who sing with you
Happiness is morning and evening
Daytime and nighttime too
For happiness is anyone and anything at all
That's loved by you
-- You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown, "Happiness"
Epilogue: HAPPINESS
Beatrice Joan Snow was born July 24th and spent the first two weeks of her life in the NICU, going home on her predicted due date. A number of factors might have contributed to her low birth weight, said the doctor, but, yes, in all likelihood it was connected to the trauma during early pregnancy. "Donnie's parting shot," Ruthie summed-up, putting into words what everyone else was thinking. So seldom did she mention his name anymore, it had sounded peculiar, as if it were being mispronounced.
But the good news. Beatrice was as resilient outside the womb as she had been in it. While Ruthie quickly shed the twenty-five pounds she had little by little gained, her maximum weight of 117 making her feel like a "herd of buffalo," a comparison she never repeated after the looks Joan and Helen gave her, Beatrice's growth flourished. On one of many first month visits, the pediatrician marveled at the infant's progress. Joan, who hadn't missed a single check-up or any other event through the entire pregnancy and beyond, later commented, her voice a singsong, "BJ must have her mama's will and God's amazing grace," quoting her favorite Reba McEntire song. "Brava," Ruthie replied, this time not rubbing it in that she had triumphed over Joan's aversion to country music. But her grin was smug.
On top of appointing BJ her own theme song, Joan was also responsible for the baby's name. After nearly eight months of referring to Bee, Little Bee, Honeybee, and so forth, when Ruthie announced from the hospital bed, just hours following a long and arduous labor, that her newborn daughter was to be christened by Joan, it took only seconds for a first, middle and nickname to be conjured up:
"Beatrice," said Joan.
"Beatrice," Ruthie enunciated slowly, getting a feel for it on her tongue, tasting its sweetness. "Beatrice Joan... I like it!"
And then together, both anticipating what would come from each other's mouths, they proclaimed, "BJ!"
"Y'all call her what you want," Deedee said, yawning, the loss of a night's rest hitting her especially hard since her days were full of unpacking boxes, decorating empty rooms, snazzing up, as she dubbed it with her usual flare, her new Arcadia residence, "but she's gonna be Trixie to Mamaw Dee."
"Trixie the Pixie," Helen cooed whenever she held the baby, fondling every scrawny red finger and every Thumbelina-sized toe that extended, wavering, flapping at the air as if they actually were infused with traces of pixie or honeybee, flight an option.
Helen's description suited BJ in other ways too. With her tuft of white-blonde hair and emerald green eyes, fully alert to the slightest activity that went on around her, whether it was June peering over the bassinet in wonderment or Charlie doing his celebratory "I'm a Big Brother" dance, there was something faintly ethereal to her appearance. As she grew she lost her resemblance to a wizened sprite and turned into a plump and rosy one, her rolls of fat known to inspire fits of laughter from Ruthie and Joan during bath time or diaper changings. Also inspired was Will, his role as adopted uncle-grandpa played to the hilt. "Who'zza baby girl? Who'zza baby girl?" he liked to jabber, blowing raspberries on BJ's tummy till she shrieked with delight and tried to uproot fistfuls of his hair.
Beatrice Joan Snow was a cheerful baby. A lucky baby. She had her mama's will and God's amazing grace. She had Mamaw Dee's boisterous personality, as predicted. She had Aunt Helen and Aunt Joanie who would gladly walk to the ends of the earth if she sat up in her crib one day and requested it. She had Will and the other "uncles," Luke and Kevin, to provide endless laughs and games of peek-a-boo. She had Charlie for all the rowdy fun and June for the pampering that was needed after too much of him. Beatrice, BJ, Trixie, Bee... she had more love and more joy than she had nicknames.
But none of that compared to the happiness she brought Ruthie.
That November, when BJ was almost four months old, big sister June made her stage debut with the rest of Arcadia Elementary's first grade class. The play was about Thanksgiving dinner, and each child represented a food item, utensil, or table decoration. June had been cast as the tablecloth, which worked nicely because her best friend, Dakota, was a plate, and most of the girls' interaction would be with each other.
Moments before joining the rest of her antsy classmates behind the vast red curtain that would open to an auditorium filled with grinning moms and dads, whiny younger siblings (except Charlie, who sat on Helen's lap and tapped perfect strangers on the shoulder, inquiring, "Did you come to see Junie?"), and one very keyed up Deedee, June was the picture of calm. Ruthie and Joan, however, were not.
"This isn't too itchy, is it?" Ruthie asked, plucking lightly at the shawl of lace and sheer white fabric she had crafted for her daughter to wear. She went on without an answer, fussing at the hem of the costume, lifting it away from June's feet. "I still think it's too long. I knew I should've taken it up."
"I hope she doesn't trip," Joan fretted, watching Ruthie and June through the LCD screen of the camcorder, forgetting to lower it so her voice wouldn't be detected by the microphone.
"Joan Agnes Girardi!" Ruthie bunched the names together into one as she straightened to her full height, hands on her hips. "Now is a fine time to bring that up."
"Me? You're the one who didn't fix it."
"I'll fix you in about two shakes, missy."
"You'll have to catch me first. And with those things..." Joan aimed the camera lens at Ruthie's lower extremities, filming the abbreviated legs of her cargo pants, the size five and a half pink and silver Skechers on her feet. "Sorry, Short Round, it ain't gonna happen."
June raised both hands, like a tiny maestro about to conduct an orchestra, palms facing outwards, a slight gap between her pinkies and the rest of her fingers. Her expression was of the utmost seriousness. "Mama," she said, "Aunt Joanie. Please keep your voices down, I have to go to school with these people." She slanted her eyes in the direction of the boys and girls that were filing through a doorway at the end of the hall, their teacher ushering them forward with instructions on where to go and how quiet they must be. "I like my costume long because tablecloths are long. And I won't trip because I've practiced walking in it. But I have to get on stage now, so you better find your seats."
After blowing her mother and Joan kisses, June twirled around, her long ponytail swishing as she hurried to catch Dakota. The girls paused to smile and wave at the camcorder, giggling, then continued on behind their peers.
"Well," Ruthie said.
"Our little girl is growing up," Joan replied.
Fifteen minutes into the production, two children, the chunky red-haired boy dressed as a squash and the angular girl whose bony elbows and sharp nose made her more recognizable as a knife than her costume, developed stage fright and collided with each other trying to flee - "Sakes alive, it's practically a massacre," Deedee said, receiving appreciative chuckles from the row in front of her - and three others forgot their lines, which turned into a lot of "umms" and "uhhs" until teacher's frantic signals brought forth the next dumbstruck speaker.
When the turkey took center stage, Ruthie clapped her hands noiselessly, balanced on the edge of her seat, and whispered, "Get ready."
"What is this kid wearing?" Joan asked, shirking her duty as cameraman while she gaped at the boy in stuffed brown pants, which rustled as he walked, leaking a trail of foam packing peanuts after every step. She was even more fascinated when he began to crow and squawk and do everything but gobble.
"Joan!"
Snapping into reality, Joan scanned the throng of first graders that waited behind the turkey boy. Most either looked bored or frozen in place, just their eyes drifting towards the audience. She found June and zoomed in. "Check her out, she's not even nervous."
"She's a star," Ruthie said.
"Cutest one up there," Helen said.
"Amen, Sister Helen," Deedee said.
Charlie shushed them. He pointed to the stage, where his sister had been given her cue and was linking arms with Dakota, the two girls leaving their rank in the front with all the other shortest children, and strutting their way over to the turkey. One of the paper plates attached to Dakota's clothes by safety pin came loose and scudded across the floor. She hesitated, unsure of herself, but June encouraged her along. When they passed by the turkey, his attempt to whistle produced only a hiss of air and a mist of saliva. And then the music began.
"Chantilly lace and a pretty face
And a ponytail hanging down..."
Out of habit, the four women seated side by side in the third row bopped along to the tune they had heard countless times in the past month. Ruthie snapped her fingers and wiggled her shoulders to the peppy beat; Joan had to hold the camera steady, so she just mouthed the lyrics and nodded her head; Helen bounced Charlie on her knees and patted his hands together, then rowed his arms, making him do the Swim; and Deedee shimmied until the charms on her hoop earrings jingled. Each of them had helped June prepare for this moment, contributing their own special dance tips.
"That wiggle in the walk and giggle in the talk
Makes the world go round..."
Now the turkey gyrated his body and motioned wildly, littering the tops of his sneakers with more foam. He squawked.
"There ain't nothing in the world like a big eyed girl
That makes me act so funny, make me spend my money..."
June kept her nose upturned: the snooty tablecloth unimpressed with the amorous bird. It was the plate's job to convince her otherwise, and Dakota prodded and snickered and prodded some more, urging June to watch the dance.
"Make me feel real loose like a long necked goose
Like a girl, oh baby that's what I like..."
The boy kicked into high gear, what little rhythm he'd had completely gone as he jerked and twitched to the Big Bopper's crestfallen, "But, but, but oh honey..."
"Oh baby, you kno-o-ow what I like," Charlie crooned in a loud voice. Helen clamped a hand over his mouth and smiled sheepishly at the people who turned to look.
As the chorus repeated, June's part called for her to give up being aloof and join the turkey in his whacky jig. She did so in a style like none other, combining the brief tap routine she had learned from Ruthie with a wide sweeping gesture suited for the ballroom, a move Helen lifted from many a Fred & Ginger waltz. And here came Deedee's influence -- a bit of hip and shoulder action that would have been risqué, if not performed by a six-year-old. The audience roared, especially when Joan's brand of hip hop and moonwalking followed.
After June reached the end of the first, she started another tap-waltz-jiggle-jive, improvising a number of steps. They were solely hers. All four instructors gaped at her and then each other. "Oh, my God!" "Did you teach her that?" "She's on fire!" "Joan, are you getting this? Make sure you're getting this!"
Joan got it. Every minute. Every whim of those fast little patent leather shoes, every bob of June's ponytail and its single fat ringlet, every cheer from the audience, and every bemused look on the faces of twenty or so first graders. For years to come, the Snows and the Girardis would be able to gather around the television and partake in the Thanksgiving tradition of watching their Junie bring down the house with her fancy footwork.
When she finished, June held out the sides of her lacy cloak, as if she wore an elegant gown, and curtsied majestically. She beamed as her family gave a standing ovation, hooting and hollering far more than was appropriate, Joan and Ruthie competing for the longest, loudest, "Woo!"
Ruthie won. Her voice soared to the stratosphere.
"Did you see me, Mama? Did you see?" June asked later, charging into her mother's open arms.
Ruthie smothered the girl with kisses. "You bet I did, darlin'."
"Was I good?"
"Junie Bear, there's no word big enough for how good you were."
"Thanks!" June said, throwing her arms around Ruthie's neck, squeezing. "And you know what, Mama? I wasn't ascared. Not even a little bit!"
Thanksgiving dinner was hosted at Ruthie's house, sans the dancing turkey and tablecloth. It was a task just convincing Deedee and Helen that cooking for two families wouldn't be burdensome, let alone actually doing so, but Ruthie didn't regret it. She wanted to stay busy; she needed to. And yet, no matter how many dishes she prepared or how deeply she immersed herself in sprucing up the house, caring for the children, work, friends, and anything else that presented itself, she couldn't keep the memories at bay. Despite his shortcomings, Donovan was always good about keeping anniversaries. And on this, the one year mark of his death, he made no exceptions.
Charlie didn't ask after his father much these days. Sometimes Ruthie caught him gazing at the family portrait on the mantelpiece, his smooth almost-four-year-old brow crinkling as though he were forty and had mislaid his keys. His face remained earnest as he studied those of his smiling parents, one's large hand on the other's small shoulder, toddler June in Mama's lap and infant Charlie cradled by Daddy. Occasionally he wondered, phrasing it like a statement, "Daddy's not at work."
"No, Boo. He's not."
"Okay." And then he would go back to his toys, satisfied. He seemed to have forgotten the teddy bear that masqueraded as a policeman, no longer his sole stuffed animal but the one he had insisted upon sleeping with every night for months. When he finally quit retrieving it from under the bed each evening, Ruthie left it there.
June's nightmares weren't quite as simple to be rid of. She didn't cling for hours anymore, didn't stir and cry if Ruthie tucked her back in and turned to leave, but now and then she still tiptoed from her room to the end of the hall, braving the darkness to reach her mother's side and whisper, "Mama, are you lonely? I'll sleep with you." Though the family psychologist had advised against it, Ruthie inevitably welcomed June under the covers. The little girl was courageous enough without being forced to sleep alone. And Ruthie felt guilty thinking so, but it was nice, for once, to be the protector rather than the protected.
Still... there were moments. Moments when she woke with a start, convinced Donovan was standing over her with that look or peeling back the edge of the blanket, alcohol and meanness on his breath. Deedee, Helen, Joan -- probably none of them had an inkling how many times they almost received a phone call at two, three, four in the morning. Just to talk. Helen would have been first choice. Last year, after a reunion full of tears, apologies, and hugs, it was Helen whom Ruthie found she confided in most. Some things she just could not bring herself to tell her mother or Joan. Some things they just didn't need to know.
But Joanie, God love her, she was Ruthie's saving grace. The world was anything but bleak with her in it. Like an eighteen-year-old possessed, she had thrown a party for every reason conceivable: In early December there was the "Welcome Back, Ruthie" surprise bash at school, followed by a private "Torching of the Sling" ceremony, more symbolic than literal, not long after Christmas. January brought a "We Won the Choir Competition" party, during which Joan, Dorothy and Jennifer pleaded for Ruthie's solo rendition of "You'll Never Walk Alone," got it, and bawled from start to finish.
There wasn't much to celebrate in February, or so Ruthie thought until the surprise baby showers, both doused in enough pink to, as Deedee said of the first, choke a horse, while the boys at school covered their eyes, pretending to be blinded by the music room when they mistakenly wandered in on the second. "I talk to God, Ruthie. He told me you're having a girl," Joan said, when asked what was to be done with all the feminine gifts, should the baby come out boy. "Laugh, but you were there. You talked to him too." The girl's smile turned mysterious then, and after that Ruthie gravitated towards the racks of frilly clothes whenever she went shopping.
Charlie's birthday in March saw the house overrun by a dozen screaming preschoolers, kids Joan swore she would provide entertainment for if Ruthie dared invite so many. By entertainment Joan meant Grace, who was in the wrong place (her front yard), wrong time (noon, Saturday) and got recruited to help. Poor Grace didn't look too thrilled by her popularity with the youngsters or by the grins Joan and Ruthie turned their faces away to hide, but she treated Charlie extra special, as she had since he took a shine to her one day in early winter when she and her family stopped in for a visit. His "'cross the street girlfriend," he called her.
With April came Ruthie's birthday and Joan's most elaborate function yet; a sleepover, to be exact, complete with chick flicks, enough junk food to satisfy the cravings of ten pregnant women, and Deedee's bra in the freezer by morning. The culprit was never identified, but all clues pointed at Helen. She denied it adamantly.
Joan's graduation in May gave Ruthie a chance to turn the tables a bit. After the commencement, which she wept through right along with Helen, and the Girardis' get-together, she stole Joan away for a few hours, took her to the swankiest restaurant in town, and slid a pair of freakishly hard to come by White Stripes tickets across the table. "Well, duh, you're going with me," Joan said, when Ruthie told her to take whomever she wanted to the concert.
The festivities tapered down in June. That's when Joan announced it was time to redecorate Ruthie's house, something planned on since that long, depressing day they had spent cleaning blood off the kitchen linoleum and glass off the living room floorboards, Joan working on hands and knees to get shards of angel wings from between the cracks. Recuperating, Ruthie had only been able to watch that last part. And, being very pregnant, she mostly watched the redecorating too, her feet propped up, a country station on the radio, Joan singing along when she wasn't asking, "You want this here, Ruthie? Does that look okay? Where should I put these?"
Summer slipped by from there, notable for its arrival of BJ, and June's birthday. Ruthie was the least surprised of anyone when, in September, Joan began her first college semester and declared herself a music major. They had discussed it at length and Joan had been full of questions and doubts, but a little encouragement was all she needed. As they worked together on polishing the girl's vocals and music reading, Ruthie discovered Joan's bashful side, something she never would have guessed existed. She couldn't help feeling a sort of motherly pride as the insecurity waned, Joan's fingers less hesitant on the keyboard, her voice steadier, more heartfelt. And when Helen fretted that perhaps music wasn't the right major for her daughter, that it might require too much discipline and patience, Ruthie said with certainty, "She'll do fine." So far she was being proven right.
Ruthie looked at Joan now, seated next to her at the dinner table, just shy of nineteen, the same age she had been when she met Donovan. And instead of the sadness and hurt she feared would overwhelm her today, a year later, she was suddenly filled with hope. Maybe she couldn't undo the pain of the past, maybe she would never regain all of what Donovan took from her: innocence, security, a lot of love, so much happiness. But God had seen fit to bless her with a friend like Joan and another like Helen, three beautiful children, Deedee for a mother -- each of them giving back tenfold those things she'd lost.
You were wrong, Don, she thought, gazing at his chair, the one Deedee sat in at the opposite end of the table. She tried not to think about them often, but she remembered his last words to her, his claim that God didn't care. And again she told him, wherever he was, You were so very wrong.
Late that evening, when the house was quiet, Tupperware bowls and Ziploc baggies of leftovers stacked neatly in the fridge, and everyone but Joan gone home for the night, Ruthie drifted into the living room, expecting to find her children in a zombie-like state, their bellies full, eyes glued to a cartoon program. Instead she leaned over the back of the couch and gazed down on four sleeping faces. Joan lay with a throw pillow between her head and the armrest, and scrunched against her chest lay BJ, snug as a bug in her yellow sleeper with the bumblebee print. Only June's upper body could be seen, the rest of her wedged between Joan and the couch, half-swallowed by the cushions. And Charlie slept sitting up, his mouth partially open, legs draped over his older sister's and Joan's.
What a sight they were.
Ruthie almost fetched her camera then decided not to disturb their peace with a flashbulb. She settled for watching from above, sometimes reaching to smooth out a dark head of hair or BJ's fair one. When she touched Joan, the girl sighed, nuzzling into the pillow, her left cheek illuminated by the hyperactive colors of SpongeBob Squarepants spilling from the television. In the mottled glow, Ruthie could just make out Joan's scar. It had healed into a faint pinkish indentation that, if Joan flushed or grinned widely, resembled teeth marks. Our old war wounds, she called it and the silvery pucker of skin that licked the curve of Ruthie's chin. They added character, she insisted.
And to that Ruthie always replied, "Darlin', we surely are a pair of characters, you and I."
Rounding the couch, she eased the remote from the tangle of bodies and switched off the TV. Before she straightened, she neared Joan's cheek and kissed that scar, the one that was there for her, because of her. It didn't matter how common having the girl as an overnight or weekend guest had become in the past year, Ruthie knew Joan stayed tonight as a guardian, driving the ghosts away, wanting to be there incase she was needed. And perhaps needing a little comfort of her own.
"Love ya, kiddo," Ruthie whispered, then reached for BJ, who had raised her head and blinked like a tiny Sleeping Beauty awaiting that special someone to wake her. Instead of fussing or whining, she smiled and kicked her feet at the air as she was lifted. She always had a smile for Mama.
Grinning back, Ruthie patted BJ's bottom and cuddled her. She inhaled deeply, breathing in the clean baby smell... how divine. As she strolled towards the antique rocking chair, a birthday gift from Deedee, she swayed BJ to and fro, dancing without music. Or so it seemed. When they were seated, Ruthie began to hum the tune she heard in her head, though she couldn't identify it until the words were already coming from her mouth:
"Why should I feel discouraged, why should the shadows come
Why should my heart be lonely and long for Heaven and home
When Jesus is my portion, my constant friend is He
His eye is on the sparrow and I know He watches me
His eye is on the sparrow and I know He watches me..."
On the couch Joan stirred, certain she had woken in the middle of a dream about Heaven, choirs of angels singing. But, no -- there was just one voice, pure and precise, a sound like truth being spoken while all the rest were lies. And as Ruthie continued with her song, eyes closed, accompanied by the light squeak of the rocking chair and BJ's melodic "ahhs" and "oohs," Joan knew beyond a doubt that the words were true. If she ever desired proof, she need only look at Ruthie. That's what she did now. She looked and she listened.
"I sing because I'm happy, I sing because I'm free
His eye is on the sparrow and I know He watches me..."
-
THE END