Chapter 16 #2
No doubt, Ruth’s father, Dr. Bell, had been on the phone with Dr. Bill Griffin.
Or maybe Calvin Thielman had. The minister and psychiatrist were close friends, often taking long hikes together.
Calvin had grown up poor in Texas, and had plenty of range marks on his hide, he used to tell me.
He didn’t judge people suffering from depression and other mental disorders.
Mom would be well taken care of at Appalachian Hall, but my brothers and I didn’t understand that as we drove away, leaving her behind.
I felt my world had ended as I stared out at the lighted hospital disappearing behind trees.
We headed back along Caledonia Road, and Lenore informed us that we’d be moving in with them.
They had room now that their two oldest children were away at college, the youngest son my age and still living at home.
While she explained this, Jim and John were as mute as statues.
I could feel their fear in the dark, and now that Mom wasn’t in the car, I wanted the truth. What was wrong with her?
“Your mother isn’t well,” Lenore repeated. “She’s very tired and worried. So, she’s going to have to rest for a while.”
“How long?” I felt my insides tighten.
“I don’t know.”
Why would she burn our clothes? Why was she crying and acting strange? I kept on with my questions and was given no answers. When I asked how long she would be staying in the hospital, Lenore swiveled her head around from the front seat, nailing me with her snake eyes.
“You must never ask that!” she hissed. “She might be home in a few months. Or she may never come home again.”
“What do you mean?” I was appalled.
“What did I just tell you? You’re not to ask!”
Feeling desperate, I suggested that maybe we should stay with the Grahams. They had Mr. Rickman and a big house. We’d promise to be no trouble, and it would be easier for the Saunders.
“They don’t want you!” Lenore declared.
I felt my brothers and I must have done something bad to deserve such punishment. Or more likely, it was my fault we’d been kicked out of Paradise like Lucifer before he turned into the Devil. Memories of Ruth’s gentleness and warmth were replaced by my belief that she must have found us unworthy.
We’d been given an audition and hadn’t been picked, failing some sort of divine test. I don’t recall what I’d said while sitting inside the Grahams’ family room.
But chances are it was something. Knowing me, I asked a lot of questions and made comments nonstop.
Ruth probably decided I was disruptive and annoying like my first-grade teacher Mrs. Gordon had.
I stared numbly out the window as Manford drove along Tunnel Road, the chains on the tires cutting into the snowplowed pavement.
Most restaurants and motels were open, but there weren’t many people out.
Bright lights were interspersed with darkness before the hulking black backdrop of Beaucatcher Mountain.
I should have been excited when we pulled off at Buck’s Restaurant, the neon sign in front lit up, a yellow arrow pointing at the redbrick building.
Wrapped around the huge back parking lot, the curbside service could accommodate dozens of cars.
When I was growing up, Buck’s was considered the top place to dine in the Carolinas, attracting celebrities like boxing legend Joe Louis and movie stars Mary Pickford and Grace Kelly.
Eating out was a rarity in my family. When we did, typically it was at Hardee’s or McDonald’s for fast food.
On special occasions we might go to Shoney’s or Howard Johnson’s.
Now here we were at the legendary Buck’s, and Mom wasn’t with us to enjoy a steak or anything else.
Realizing that made me feel only worse about leaving her in a foreboding hospital where she might be locked up forever.
My brothers and I climbed out of the car, quiet as we headed inside.
Manford spoke to the ma?tre d’ as we hung up our coats.
A waiter carrying menus in fancy covers led us into the famous Red Carpet dining room.
We were seated in leather chairs at a cloth-covered table, someone playing the electric organ.
I wasn’t sure how to act in a place this nice.
I stared at my menu, overwhelmed by anxiety and not the least bit hungry despite having had very little to eat all day.
My stomach felt twisted like a wrung-out washcloth as Manford ordered steak sandwiches, french fries, and salads.
When the food arrived, he bowed his head and closed his eyes while I peeked.
He thanked God for all we’d been given when there were so many in the world who were hungry and had nothing.
“Please, dear Lord, take care of Mrs. Daniels. Please heal her,” he added, and I was glad he kept the blessing short.
My brothers and I looked like ragamuffins among well-dressed people who probably ate here whenever they pleased without being overdrawn at the bank.
Some of them were staring, and I worried they assumed my brothers and I were orphans.
I don’t think we ate much, unnerved and mindful of our manners, such as they were. Truth is, we didn’t have any.
Mom was fussy but picked her battles, some things more important than others.
She didn’t care what utensil we used or if we licked our fingers.
She was tolerant unless we were rude or made a mess for her to clean up.
When she was well, she knew how to act without being formal or pretentious.
She was nothing like Lenore Saunders with her severe disposition and Victorian etiquette.
My brothers and I were at Buck’s having our first meal with our new foster parents and already the corrections had begun.
If we held our silverware wrong or picked up something we shouldn’t, Lenore’s glare reminded me of the Bible story about Lot’s wife turning into a pillar of salt.
I couldn’t move. It was like being caught in a tractor beam. I barely breathed.
If we chewed with our mouths open, talked with a mouthful, God forbid, Lenore’s voice would ring like iron, coldly with a South Carolina lilt.
Manford stayed out of it as if weary of an endless battle he’d never win.
Good-natured and easygoing, he’d get quiet until she’d finished her latest salvo.
I sensed the tension between them. They didn’t seem to enjoy each other.