Life Story
The woman sat off by herself, because wherever she sat, an empty space formed around her. Not from spite or ostracism on the part of the other residents—to the extent they were aware of it at all, it was more a gesture of deference. They went about their business, such as it was, and gave the woman space to sing her epic. She sang all day without stopping, softly, continually, like flowing water.
She was odd, but hardly the oddest of the lot. There were other bards in the room, but were more like Yoko—in some cases a great deal like Yoko—their laments, or memories, never making it into what you’d call words, or out of shrieking. Nor, not being disruptive at all, was the woman the most disruptive. That would be Mrs. Garr, the queen of the Yokos, who would unpredictably begin to scream, in pulses whose suspenseful caesuras were more torturous than the howls they interrupted.
“Put a nickel in her,” Mr. Woodson would say.
And the nurses would come and try to make her stop. If all failed, they would roll her back to her room, where the now muffled screaming would continue for some time, with a deeper note of lonely desperation.
All through these and other such episodes the woman’s singing would continue unfazed, as she seemed to look ahead at a spot on the floor, her head at a birdlike angle and her face serene, bemused, oblivious. Clearly whatever was going on around her, from screeching women to muttering men, was less interesting than what she was describing.
She was given space, but not entirely ignored. Some of the residents gazed at her stupefied, and one man appeared to be actually listening to her. The grandson of one of the newer residents took all this in on his first visits—the various performers, the watchers, the listening man. At first the screaming woman had the same effect on the grandson as a toothache, and the woman delivering her endless spiel just struck him as funny, but, looking around, he found no one to share his laughter, including his grandmother, who just missed her garden. In time he began to find Mrs. Garr’s bloody screaming strangely compelling, and he sometimes sat equally tormented and amazed by it, until they wheeled her away. As for the self-absorbed bard, her song grew to have an even greater captivating effect on him, a hypnotic rhythm.
One afternoon as he sat entranced by that rhythm, barely hearing the words, the screamer commenced. At first the interruption felt like a visit from Vlad the Impaler, but about the time Mr. Woodson said “Put a nickel in her,” the keening took on its strange allure.
A voice said, “Do they ever think about why?”
The grandson turned his head and saw that the listening man, his eyes fixed on Mrs. Garr, was sitting two chairs away from him.
“No,” he answered himself, “they can’t hear what she’s saying.”
The grandson stared at him, then ventured to ask, “What is she saying?”
“It’s in her own language.”
Silence. Then, “Do you understand it?”
“Oh yes,” said the man. “I understand it completely. But they don’t.”
They took her to her room, and into the uneasy silence the patient, unending singing of the woman seeped back. The grandson listened.
I come into the house—
seen Mama in the kitchen—
went into my room—
Mama humming a song—
house smelled like supper—
fried chicken mashed potatoes turnip greens—
took off my shoes—
“What about her?” the grandson asked the man.
“What about her?” said the man.
“What is she saying?”
“You can hear it same as I can,” the man answered. “I’ve been listening to it every day for two years.”
The grandson studied his weathered face. “Really? Why?”
“I don’t want to miss anything.”
didn’t have any corn meal—
sent Bertie over to Merle’s to borrow some—
heated up the skillet—
made cornbread—
Jimmie come in from work—
smelled like grease—
heard the frogs across the road in the pond—
smelled the gardenias through the windows—
* * *
The months went by and the grandson kept making, even anticipating, his visits. The screaming woman came and went, but the bard and her one-man audience were never absent. The young man would visit with his grandmother, then sit and listen, mesmerized by the voluminous and mundane saga, which seemed to skip around in time. Remembering it all was impossible, but pieces of it stuck in his head.
Marshall was just setting out there in that truck—
not saying a word—
I wouldn’t let him in—
Janelle was running a fever—
Jimmie said his pork chop was cooked too much—
wasn’t juicy like his Mama’s—
I don’t even remember Daddy—
Mama died—
she’s at peace but I ain’t—
don’t know how I’m going to do—
The song had its own spirit, sometimes veering into the unearthly.
after Jimmie died he stayed around the house for a month—
I told him he needed to go on to wherever he was going—
he said he wanted to stay there—
I said what am I going to tell people when they walk in the door and you’re still here?—
people that went to the funeral are going to wonder—
how am I going to explain you?—
he said I don’t care I got enough problems as it is—
In a sea of terminality, the grandson knew the day would come—maybe soon, maybe years from now—when the point all stories are destined for would arrive—The End.
Yes, like everything her song would end, and, yes, like everything nobody would care.
And, no, that wasn’t the point.
February 17, 2022