It All Comes Back to You Read online

  That was the thing about Violet: she entered any room like a queen and inspired train-carrying impulses. “You should always walk like you have a crown on your head, Ronni. You are beautiful when you radiate confidence. Remember that.”

  So, where would I begin to write the story of a woman who inspired me so? I picked up the many scribbles I’d made about conversations with her, trying to write a decent opening sentence:

  “Violet Glenn was born in 1930, during the Great Depression, as God’s gift to cheer the world.” No. Sappy and stupid.

  “Violet Glenn rode her bicycle down the sidewalk to the home of her first love, Johnny Perkins. She was ten years old and lived in the perfect place at the perfect time. Her parents doted on her and so did Johnny, even before he realized it.” No, too boring.

  “Everybody loved Violet. Let me tell you why.” Who would turn that page? No.

  I glanced at my phone, surprised to find I’d passed two hours navigating a sea of confusing notes. The day was sunny and I’d had enough reading. In two minutes I had my faded tank suit on, covered by a huge white Birmingham Barons t-shirt. I fixed a sloppy peanut butter and banana sandwich, barbecue potato chip and Diet Coke feast to enjoy poolside. Halle stared after me at the living room window, no doubt cursing my freedom and food. The pool area was usually deserted this time of day. I was banking on complete privacy. No one wants to see the pale chubby girl basking in a lounge chair with banana and peanut butter smudged on her chin. I’d start my diet tomorrow.

  As I licked my fingers clean—it occurred to me I was turning into my fat, lazy cat’s white twin—I heard a door close and approaching footsteps. Jake Hodges came into view, strutting in A&F swim trunks and no shirt to cover his perfect pecs. Jake ran the complex’s gym and worked as a personal trainer to the few who could afford it. Suddenly I was on an episode of The Biggest Loser, longing to melt into oblivion, a humiliated peanut butter and banana puddle left to sizzle on the cement.

  “Hi, Ronni,” he grinned. Haven’t seen you in the gym lately.”

  I squinted up at him. “No, I’ve been working most of the time. I’ll be back soon.” I gathered my used napkin and Diet Coke can, hoping the napkin conveyed freshly consumed celery and carrot sticks. As I tugged my shirt into place I found the inevitable Jif mark where I’d dripped. It could have passed as baby poop, which I’d consider less embarrassing.

  “I’ll come by for a workout soon, Jake.” I stood awkwardly and headed to the safety of my apartment for a nap.

  “Good.” He caught his reflection in the pool and our conversation was complete. I wondered if he’d drown retrieving a mirror tossed in the deep end.

  I trudged home and inspected myself in the bathroom for signs of sun exposure. There were none, not even my usual brilliant pink hue. My reflection revealed a large, very white girl, likely descended from Irish mole people who would never tan. I took my hair out of its ponytail and shook it loose to fall in a series of droopy blond curls down my back. My eyes were dark blue and slightly red from the sun. I blinked several times and tried to imagine myself with a smooth, sleek bob with bangs like Kait’s. My face would look like a vanilla Moon Pie.

  I heard Violet’s voice in my head: “Ronni, you are so pretty. You should see yourself the way I see you.” I never believed her, mainly because any boy who’d ever gotten close enough to see the real me had disappeared. I responded every time by growing a protective layer of fat. It was very effective.

  I went and plopped on the bed, swept my writing paraphernalia aside, and wiggled my toes for Halle to attack. She obliged and I rested my head on the pillow, where I must have fallen deep into a sleep abyss. I woke to find her paws gripping the side of the mattress, staring me awake at six a.m. The clock screamed at me to hurry. Halle obliged by running to the kitchen and prying open the louvered doors concealing cat food and Pop Tarts.

  I arrived at work five minutes late wearing one Reebok and one Nike, wondering if I should be allowed to dress old people when I rarely managed to do the job properly for myself. At least both shoes were white. I took a little consolation in that.

  “Ronni,” Donna waved me into her office, “a Mr. Sobel’s office in Birmingham called this morning, looking for you. I told them you’d return their call on your break. Is this about Herb Andrews’ lawsuit?”

  “Um, I don’t know, Donna. I don’t think so.”

  She looked deeply concerned. Donna was always deeply concerned when litigation loomed, and it often did at nursing homes. Attorneys practically perched like vultures in the oaks by the driveway, though Fairfield had never been found guilty of negligence.

  “How did she get in that room, Ronni? You’re going to be deposed, you know, and I need to hear the truth. We have to take this very seriously.”

  I opted for semi-honesty. “She got there all by herself, Donna.”

  Donna offered her most skeptical look but relented into a nod. “Okay, then. Call this number and let me know what Mr. Sobel wants if it’s work-related.”

  “I will, Donna.” I put the scrap of paper in my pocket and went to pull charts. Kait caught my eye and waved as she adjusted Mrs. Nealy’s glasses for the first of a thousand times for the day. A minute later she joined me.

  “Nothing much going on,” she informed me, “other than Aronson’s office moved Mrs. Ledbetter’s exam up to eight fifteen this morning.”

  “Well, at least that will shut her up.”

  “Not if she needs pruning,” Kait said.

  “I think she’s pruning quite well on her own.”

  “That she is, Ronni.” Kait grinned and handed me a tray of meds. “Let’s hand out goodies and offer cheerful encourage-ment.”

  “You’re chipper this morning, Kait.” I eyed her up and down, looking for clues. “Did you see Kyle last night?”

  “Saw him, did him, said bye this morning.”

  “You’re such a delicate flower.”

  “Freshly pollinated, too,” she smirked. “We need to find you a boyfriend.”

  “No we don’t. My heart belongs to Mr. Woodson.” I nodded at him, gnarled hands in pockets and leering as usual.

  “Well, don’t let him touch anything else.”

  We worked side by side handling the usual calls for assistance with everything from bored penises (ignored) to drinks of water. A bit after eight Kait was summoned to help Dr. Aronson.

  “This should be good,” she rolled her eyes. “At least I can count on having no appetite for lunch. Or possibly ever again.”

  I glanced up from a chart. “Give me a full report free of imagery as soon as you’re done.”

  Ten minutes later she rushed up to the station, sparks practically flying from her heels. “You’re not going to believe this,” Kait gushed, “She had a potato in there. She told Dr. Aronson she put it in because it would make her “feel better.” He says she has a prolapsed uterus. She really did have vines!”

  I tried valiantly to wrap my head around this information. “Jeez Louise! Where the hell did she get a potato in the first place?”

  “From one of the World Travelers.”

  That was our term for the assisted living residents in the adjacent wing who boarded a mini-bus each Tuesday morning for their grocery store outing. The bus was white and painted in Fairfield’s Caribbean blues and greens, sporting cheery little heliotrope daisies between each window. The windows were unfortunately positioned, so passing motorists saw a load of drooping shoulders and white hair. Kait said it looked like a hotel shuttle for a wizened wizard convention. Smart shoppers vacated the store when our bus rolled up and began dislodging its passengers. If caught mid-aisle, they hurried to check out before the inevitable coupon files emerged and single-penny-counting payments commenced.

  “She had someone buy her a single potato? To treat abdominal pain?”

  “Yes,” Kait responded. “She doesn’t remember who or when. She’d forgotten the potato, actually. Dr. Aronson was only slightly more surprised than Mrs. Ledbetter.�
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  “I take it he’s not encountered tuber therapy before.”

  “Nope,” Kait grinned. “God, I love this place.” She began her incident report. “At least we caught it before a blight occurred.”

  “That’s nasty.” I laughed, though.

  “Nasty? You should have been in the room. I’ve seen things, Ronni. Things no one should see. Or smell. As a matter of fact, I’ve definitely eaten my last french fry, chip or hash brown.”

  “How about a loaded baked potato for lunch?” I asked.

  “You’re gross.”

  “Oh, yeah...I’m gross.”

  Kait clutched her stomach and headed to the staff ladies’ room. I decided to avoid the topic until she was less green. There was enough to clean up already.

  When Kait returned—still woozy but pinker in the face—we began dispensing meds, tandem-pulling the huge cart up and down the halls. This was followed by calls for more water and Mrs. Delaney’s usual request for a candy bar. Mrs. Delaney’s blood sugar level never allowed for a Three Musketeers, but she tried valiantly anyway.

  After that it was time to round our wards up for the dining room. It was a symphony of cream, taupe, gold, and chandeliers, used by all residents regardless of their level of care. I’d spent much of my time with Violet here, listening and jotting notes as she regaled me with her experiences.

  My eyes landed on The Cool Kids’ Table. It had been decimated over the past year. Now a fresh group of octogenarians had colonized it like cocky high school jocks, walkers and canes notwithstanding.

  I shot Kait an evil grin. “I smell mashed potatoes and gravy.”

  She turned without a word and began rolling our charges up to tables, shaking napkins and dropping them onto laps as though we were in a Parisian brasserie. The serving crew delivered salads and ice water.

  “Girl! Girl!” Mrs. Ledbetter had gotten her wheelchair stuck, and was employing her tender pet name for me. “Girl! I need help!”

  I crossed to her side. “Yes, Mrs. Ledbetter?”

  “I need a push. Put me over there with Mr. Willis.”

  “Certainly.” I began propelling her. “I heard you saw the doctor.”

  “Yes. I’m not pregnant.”

  “Well, that’s a relief.” I positioned her next to the unfortunate Mr. Willis, whose eyes begged me silently to join the table and save him from Audrey and her terrorizing flirtation. Mr. Willis had a lovely wife who visited regularly, sometimes finding Audrey Marie Haynes Ledbetter attempting to climb into her husband’s lap. I dutifully sat down next to him and attempted to make conversation. Audrey rolled a cherry tomato toward Mr. Willis.

  “I know you like these, darling,” she cooed.

  “No, I don’t,” he grunted.

  “You two be nice, now. I have to see about some other folks.” I excused myself and rounded the room opposite Kait, looking for spilled food and signs of choking. Lunch passed blissfully uneventfully, and we headed back for an afternoon of disgusting bodily fluids and solids.

  I called Mr. Sobel’s office on my break.

  “Please hold one moment,” his secretary said. “He’s been expecting your call.”

  Melvin Sobel sounded like a Southern Baptist preacher on the phone, drawling friendliness and comfort. “Hello, Miz Johnson. I know you were real close with Violet, and I’m sorry for your loss. She was a great lady. I’ll miss her, too.” He paused. “Anyway, there are some things we need to discuss and I’m wondering if you could come to my office soon. We’re in downtown Birmingham.”

  “I could come tomorrow afternoon,” I offered. It was my day off and I couldn’t wait to hear what he had to tell me.

  “Tomorrow at three o’clock, if that works for you?”

  “I’ll be there.” I hung up and went to find Kait, wondering what Violet might have considered a “nice sum.”

  two

  VIOLET

  Anniston, Alabama 1947

  Johnny pulled his daddy’s shiny black DeSoto to the curb in front of Violet’s house. After a quick scan for neighbors and, most importantly, Violet’s mother, he leaned over and dug his fingers into her soft blonde curls, pulling her face to his and brushing her lips tentatively. She responded with the kind of kiss she usually reserved for the Ritz Theater’s back row. Johnny heard himself groan.

  Violet pulled his hands from her hair and laced her fingers palm-to-palm with his, gently pushing him away. She knew she’d gone too far for three o’clock in the afternoon in broad daylight, but Johnny smelled like peppermints and movie star cologne. She wanted to try out the back seat and finally do the things Darlene Coffey talked about at slumber parties. She wanted to follow Johnny to The University of Alabama and leave Anniston behind. She could clean and cook while he attended class. Surely Dr. Perkins could afford an apartment for the two of them instead of a stinky dorm room.

  “I love you,” she told him. “I’ll see you tonight.”

  “I can’t wait, doll. Tonight is going to be special.” He smoothed his black hair in the rear view mirror. “We’re going to show this car things it’s never dreamed of.” Dr. Perkins had bought a new Cadillac three weeks ago and given Johnny full-time use of the DeSoto as long as he kept his grades up and ran the occasional errand for his parents.

  Violet giggled. She was on top of the world, seventeen and beautiful, with the most wonderful boy in love with her. Life could not get any better. She knew the Hourglass would have a page dedicated to her as homecoming queen, and expected she and Johnny would be named Best Looking or Most Popular. She smoothed the skirt of her cherry print dress and adjusted the cap sleeves. Johnny came around to help her out and hand her books over.

  “Don’t walk me to the door. She knows we’re out here by now, and I’d just want to kiss you goodbye again.” She touched a fingertip to Johnny’s lips. “Tonight.” Violet offered him her most alluring smile and turned to sashay up the walk, noticing he didn’t even start the car until she’d closed the front door.

  She dropped her books on the kitchen table and heard Mama calling. “Honey? Betty needs you to babysit tonight. She said you should be there by six.”

  “Can’t she get someone else?” Violet wailed up the stairs. “I have plans.”

  “You’re not running off with some boy, Violet,” she answered as she brushed by with a load of towels for the kitchen. “Your father and I think you’re spending too much time with That Johnny.”

  “That Johnny is a nice guy, Mama. He’s going to college this fall. I want to be with him as often as I can.”

  “Violet, I’ve been knowing Johnny since he started bringing his frog collections over here at the age of seven. I know he’s nice. Give me a hand with this laundry, please.” She handed over the stack of dishcloths and headed back up to her room. “You can see him tomorrow night. Betty really needs you.”

  Violet sighed in defeat. Mama ruled the Glenn household with raised eyebrows and exasperated sighs, controlling her husband and daughter with field marshal precision. There was no arguing with her. She’d be stuck with Chet and his snot-nosed sister CeeCee for hours tonight instead of exploring mysteries with Johnny on the plush leather back seat. Violet put the towels away and trudged to the telephone in the hall.

  “Number, please?” she recognized Mabel Tilley’s soft voice. Violet grew up thinking Mabel connected every phone call in the world until she and Mama visited New York City when she was nine. She’d picked up the telephone in the hotel and heard a nasal, clipped “Operator” that shook her so hard she’d hung up.

  “375,” she responded, hoping Johnny’s mother didn’t answer. Mrs. Perkins didn’t think her precious son should be talking to Violet or any other girl in Anniston, Alabama, preferring to imagine him selecting from the wealthy and cultured coed crop at the university in September.

  “Hello?” Johnny sounded out of breath.

  “Hi, it’s me. I have to cancel tonight. I’m sorry. Babysitting duty.”

  “Again?”

 
She could feel and share his disappointment from head to toe.

  “I’m so sorry, Johnny. I have tomorrow night free.”

  “I don’t, Violet. I have practice all day and then I’m supposed to take Kimmie back to Tuscaloosa.”

  Kimmie was Johnny’s older sister, who was studying Home Economics and stationed at the University of Alabama to steer her brother toward marriage prospects Mrs. Perkins might approve. Violet remembered the shiny black DeSoto had been offered partly in exchange for Johnny’s transportation services.

  “Maybe we can see each other Sunday,” she offered.

  “Maybe.” Feigned indifference.

  Violet rolled her eyes and twirled the phone cord. “I’ll call you after church.”

  “Okay. I think I’ll see what Jennie Holcomb’s doing tonight.”

  “Go right ahead, Johnny.” She chuckled at the thought. “Jennie would be thrilled to ride in your daddy’s car. Maybe she’ll,” she checked to see if Mama was lurking and eavesdropping, “stuff her bra for you.”

  “Very funny, Violet. I’m miserable and you know it. I’m going to call Red and take him over to the gym to shoot some baskets for a while.” Red was Johnny’s best friend and point guard, also known as Sam Davidson or “the Jewish boy.” They’d all been introduced to the wonders of bar mitzvah through Sam, and she and most of her friends had wanted to convert to his much-more-fun religion at twelve. His hair was a darker version of Alabama clay, and he was the most hilarious person she’d ever met.

  “Good,” she replied. “That will cheer you up.”

  A long pause. “Not like my original plan for tonight. I love you.”

  “I love you, too, with all my heart. Bye.”

  At six o’clock sharp Violet raised her hand to knock on the Wilsons’ weathered door, but Chet swung it open before she made knuckle contact.

  “Hi, Violet!” he yelled. “Mom, Violet’s here!” Chet smoothed his long dark hair back with one hand and pulled her inside with the other. His huge brown eyes sparkled with excitement, and Violet noticed he was standing ramrod straight to maximize his ten-year-old height. “Mom will be ready in a minute, Violet. Would you like a Coke?”