CHAPTER THREE
Itchin’ and uh Scratchin’
“Does anybody give uh damn?! Is anyone even here? Tammy!”
“I’m right here, Ms. Robertson.”
“My vagina itchin’! Help me!” Ms. Robertson lay in her bed, the red, white, and blue sheets drawn up to her neck. A look of sheer torment rested in her cloudy blue eyes.
Tapestry was used to the old lady calling her Tammy; she paid it no mind anymore. Tossing her bag on the old woman’s bedroom chair, she made her way over to see what the fuss was about. The television played at a low volume and she could see that the woman had, at some point during the day, put on an LP on the old record player in the corner of the room. It wasn’t playing, but it looked to be possibly Fats Domino.
The room was stuffy and hot, like always, and the small fan in the window didn’t do much good. The air-conditioning in the big old house was always on the fritz, playing peek-a-boo with the much-needed cold air. Tapestry had just gotten off the phone with the heating and air conditioning company. Old folks, babies, and pets couldn’t take this sort of thing, and it needed to be addressed asap.
“Lord Jesus! It’s been itchin’ so bad, Tammy… started probably an hour ago. I’ve run outta powder.”
Ms. Robertson’s wild, silky white hair was sprawled in a million directions on the pillow as she lay there, her hand over the thick quilt and her nails moving in a frenzy along her nether regions.
Speaking in a soft tone, Tapestry took the lady by the wrist and stopped her from scratching further.
“Now you cut that out, Ms. Robertson. It’ll only make it worse, and the powder doesn’t help, either. You keep getting infections. I got something for your yeast infection. The doctor prescribed it and I picked it up on my way over, but first you need a bath and you need your lunch, too.”
“Wooooo! It’s burnin’ now, Tammy! My vagina is on fire!” The woman began to bounce about in bed, the sheets falling and rising while she twisted and turned as if she’d been doused with gasoline.
Tapestry shook her head, stifled a laugh, and helped the woman out of her bed. Ms. Robertson was on so much medication that it was causing the issue, and once she had two rounds of antibiotics, the poor old lady was doomed.
Ain’t no tellin’ how long she’s been lying here suffering. Where the hell are her daughters?!
She looked about and took note that once again, the lady’s freeloading twin daughters were nowhere to be found. She had to let herself in with the key—a common occurrence as of late. Off to the bathroom they went, slowly but surely. Poor Ms. Robertson’s back was slightly hunched and she moved at a snail’s pace. Her papery, pale skin was covered with knotted blue veins, the flesh loose and hanging in parts because of her inexplicable weight loss. Tapestry flipped the light switch and swallowed hard. Someone had left a bunch of unflushed shit in the john. The water was a soupy, brown mess and her nostrils flared at the stench.
“Wooo weeee! Stinks to high heaven in here!” Ms. Robertson cackled. “I assure you it wasn’t me that left that there shit in that toilet, Tammy… my Depends is full.”
She burst out laughing once again, and Tapestry couldn’t help but do the same.
“It’s all right. I’mma flush this and clean it up. I want you to rest right here, okay? Hold on to the sink.”
She positioned Ms. Robertson just so and saw to her chores. A few minutes later, the old feces had been flushed, the toilet cleaned, the soiled adult diaper cast away, and the old lady herself was soaking in a tub of warm water with a bit of peroxide in it. The sound of splashing was the only music to be heard as she worked her hands all over the woman’s frail body. Long, shriveled breasts with dark pink areolas and barely visible nipples hung low on her stomach. A thick thatch of gray pubic hair was running amok, too. Tapestry leaned Ms. Robertson back and took a razor to it.
“Now be still… just like last time. This’ll help with the itchin’.”
When it was all said and done, she had her patient out of the bath and dried off. She’d put cream on her vulva to cure that horrid itch, lotioned down her limbs, applied deodorant, brushed her teeth, and dressed her in a pair of loose gray yoga pants and a cute pink shirt with tiny strawberries all over it. Now the woman was sitting in her favorite chair in the vast living room, with a plate of food on a tray over her lap, while Tapestry combed her hair and arranged it in two long braids, just how she liked it.
She could see the old lady’s reflection in the mirror above the fireplace mantel, and for a moment, Ms. Robertson looked happy. She had a smile on her face, like that of a hopeful child, especially when she looked at her chicken sandwich and homemade potato wedges with plenty of black pepper, just like she liked it. Tapestry had fried them up fresh to order in that big old kitchen and paired them with a bowl full of seasoned green beans and a cup of canned peaches. Ms. Robertson was one of her favorite patients. She was dramatic and funny. Although she rarely remembered anything unless it had happened at least fifteen years ago, she had a wisdom that Tapestry had grown to love.
“Where’s your girls, Ms. Robertson?”
“Prolly out suckin’ some nasty, poor man’s ding dong for free. Dumb asses. They ain’t got enough sense to at least charge for it. Twins could make good money for such pleasures. They should have just—”
“Ms. Robertson!” Tapestry cut her short, only to have the woman burst out laughing before she picked up her sandwich with a shaky hand and took another bite.
“It’s true. My girls are loose and not too smart, Tammy. They’ve always been fast. I blame myself. I put them in that Catholic school… think it was too strict and once they got a whiff of freedom, they went crazy. I spoiled them though… I’m just as much to blame. You can’t talk to them; they don’t understand half of what you say… brains ’bout the size of walnuts. Got that from their father. Their good looks won’t last them forever.”
“How old are Agnes and Angelica?”
“Oh, I’d say they’re in their forties now. In a minute, no heads will be turnin’ their way. Tried to get ’em to go to college, but they wouldn’t do it. Tried to get them to get a trade… they wouldn’t do it. Just lazy! They’ve rarely worked jobs, either. They just want to keep living off of me, but what type of life is that to have? And what about my grandson? You know Agnes has a thirteen-year-old boy… what about him? He lives with his father in Georgia. They need to earn their keep. I told them that but they won’t listen.”
The old lady grimaced. She’d divorced her lazy ex-husband over thirty years prior, when the girls were in grade school. Said she’d caught him with another woman in their bed for the final fucking time—and he was blowing through her money like wind in a sail, too. It was well past time to cut him loose.
Ms. Robertson had money… old money. It was generational, and everyone knew her Daddy, a war veteran who’d ended up owning a lucrative textile business after the war. She was the youngest of five children. Ms. Robertson was college educated, something deemed unnecessary for a woman of her status, but she was also smart and though not the prettiest flower in the garden in her day—she was in fact a self-proclaimed Plain Jane—she’d had ten times the intelligence and skill of her male counterparts.
She’d written books on engineering and spoken at universities across the country. Now, dementia had come into her world and stole bits and pieces of her mind. Like vultures, her children, relatives, and so-called friends, who had all but forgotten about her, had come sneaking onto the scene waiting for her to drop dead and get their hands on her riches. Instead, as soon as she realized things were going astray with her mind slipping, she called her doctor to get some medical intervention, a new treadmill placed in her dining room, and hired a nurse.
As the months turned into years, she went through eight different nursing assistants and RNs. One was stealing, another barely showed up, yet another slept on the job, and one abused her, daring to punch the woman in the face. The rest, according to Ms. Robertson, were just plain incompetent. That all changed after they’d met, when Ms. Robertson declared ‘Tammy’ her favorite. Soon after, the old woman began to lose her balance, taking several falls. Simply walking became a chore. The treadmill collected dust and was replaced with a cane and walker, much to the once active old woman’s dismay. Ms. Robertson’s health was going down like a rock in the river.
“This is good, Tammy,” the woman said around a mouthful of food.
“I’m glad you like it. Do you want some more iced tea?” She took note of the empty glass on the coffee table. All that was left was a lemon wedge and a few pieces of half melted ice.
“Yes, I could use another cup. Hey, do you have a cigarette?” the woman asked shamefacedly.
“Now, Ms. Robertson, you know you aren’t supposed to be smokin’ anymore.” Tapestry put her hand on her hip and waved her finger in the woman’s direction. She suspected those good for nothing daughters of hers were supplying her cigarettes in exchange for money. A sick barter system. “The doctor said—”
“I don’t give a sheep’s pair of woolly ass balls what tha damn doctor said, Tammy! I’m old… I’m dyin’… please.” The woman laid it on nice and thick.
“We’re all dyin’, Ms. Robertson, and you ain’t dyin’ no faster or slower than me. Furthermore, I don’t even smoke, so no matter how you slice it, you are out of luck. I ain’t got any cigarettes.” She smiled at the woman and disappeared into the kitchen, not missing the grimace and angry expression on the lady’s face before she left the scene. “You want more ice and lemon in it?” she called out as she opened the refrigerator door.
“Just lemon is fine!”
“All right.”
Tapestry paused as she felt a buzz from her phone in her scrub shirt pocket. Sliding the phone from it, she looked down and took note of a missed call and a notification for a voicemail. She didn’t recognize the number, but decided she would check the voicemail in a bit. Minutes later, she was sitting on the couch with a bottle of water, her legs crossed, looking at the television with Ms. Robertson. An old western was on.
“How’s your husband, Tammy?” the lady asked, her face still tuned in on the channel.
“Oh, I’m not married, Ms. Robertson.” She told the woman this at least once a week.
“Not married? A pretty thing like you?” The lady chuckled. “Now, you’re a bit big boned, but from what I understand, Black men like that.” Tapestry could do nothing more but smile and shake her head. “You’re so pretty… I would’ve liked to have looked like you when I was a young lady…” The woman’s voice drifted as she seemed to float away in thought. “Maybe then my husband wouldn’t have cheated so much.”
Ms. Robertson was breaking her damn heart.
“I think he woulda done it all the same, Ms. Robertson. See, men like your husband are never satisfied. You could be the prettiest woman in the world and they’d still go on and do it.”
“I was just testin’ you…” The old woman shot her look from over her shoulder, a proud smile on her face. “It takes life experience and wisdom to understand what you just said, young lady. Looks don’t have a damn thing to do with it. But one thing I did say was true… you’re a very pretty girl…”
“Thank you, Ms. Robertson.” That was also something the old woman said to her at least once a week.
“You really should have a husband. How old are you again?”
“Thirty-three.”
“Mmmm hmmm, that’s an old maid. In this day ’nd age, I ’spose it’s not though. How does your mama feel about you not havin’ a husband?”
“Oh, she’s fine with it. Doesn’t make her any difference.” Tapestry shrugged. “She just wants me to be happy is all.”
“Ain’t nobody say nothin’ about happiness. Men don’t make you happy, sweetheart. I’m talkin’ about security.”
“Well, I’d like to think that I could take care of myself, you know? I don’t want to rely on a man to make my way in life. You didn’t either, Ms. Robertson. You have a college degree; it’s hanging right there on the wall in your dining room. You bought this house and did so much for the community.”
“Oh, honey, I’m not talkin’ about just finances, either.” Ms. Robertson picked up the remote and turned off the television. She placed the tray with the half-eaten food onto the coffee table and turned towards Tapestry, staring her in the eye with a serious expression etched across her face. “I’m talking about someone to invest in you emotionally… warm your bed… tell you all the things that you need to hear. Someone to stroke your hair… to love you… someone to have a lover’s quarrel with, baby. Someone who adores you. And money ain’t got nothin’ to do with it!”
“I think I follow you now, Ms. Robertson.” Tapestry played with her fingernails as her own feelings about the matter began to bubble to the surface. She kept so busy that she’d told herself she just didn’t have time for a relationship. But that wasn’t the truth. She was afraid. Broken hearts were something she wished to avoid. It had happened too many times to count, and she wasn’t a glutton for abuse. “You’re talkin’ about that soul churnin’ love.” She smiled as memories of the many men of her past returned.
“Soul churnin’… I like that.” A twinkle appeared in the woman’s eyes. “I had a love like that once. My daddy hated him. So…” Ms. Robertson shrugged. “He went away.”
“What happened to him?”
“My father told him he’d kill him if he showed his face ’round there again… and Daddy meant it.” The old woman lowered her head for a spell. “Obviously it wasn’t the man I eventually married. That son of uh bitch had daddy’s blessing till he turned coat. No… it was a man before him.” A strange light filled her eyes as her mind seemed to simmer with fond memories. “He worked on a shrimp boat. His family was dirt poor. He was handsome and brash, Tammy… strong as an ox! He drank too much sometimes, but he loved me. He was sincere down to his bones.” The old woman’s eyes sheened with unspent tears. “He was my one true love… his name was Thomas Adrieux.”
They sat for a while in silence, until Ms. Robertson turned the television back on. Tapestry slid her phone back out of her pocket and listened to the voicemail. It was that handsome guitar player from the bar, Cain. She played the hilarious voicemail twice and saved it, then slid the phone back in her pocket and made a promise to herself that she’d call him back as soon as her shift was over. A part of her had wanted the handsome, talented stranger to call, and another part of her didn’t. It appeared as if fate had decided for her.
A few minutes passed and Ms. Robertson broke the silence.
“I been sittin’ here thinking.” A tear streamed down the lady’s face as a look of worry danced in her eyes.
“Thinkin’ about what, Ms. Robertson?”
“I can’t… I can’t remember no more what my mama looked like… I can’t picture her face!”
The woman was screaming at the top of her lungs now, emotional pain consuming her, wracking her to death. Tapestry leapt up from the couch and wrapped her arms around her, shushing and holding her close. She kissed her on the crown of her freshly washed and braided head.
“It’ll be all right! I’m going to find some photo albums in your bedroom, the ones you showed me a looong time ago, and get ’em, okay? There’s a few photographs of your mother in there. Would you like that?”
She reached in her other pocket, pulled out a tissue, and wiped the woman’s eyes dry as she nodded in appreciation. Tapestry made way to go retrieve those old, heavy, leather-bound books with yellowed photos from yesteryear but was stopped short. Ms. Robertson reached out to her and pulled her close. Tapestry looked down at the lady to see the tears still streaming down her face. Those cloudy blue eyes that once held a smidgen of hope were now sullen and sad, murky blue.
“We aren’t promised tomorrow, young lady. Live your life! Write letters! Kiss your mama! Take pictures, pick roses with the thorns still attached so you can feel pain and see beauty all at one time! Eat chocolate cake until you’re almost sick, watch the sun rise and the moon disappear, drink Gin Fizz, and for God’s sake, fall in love!”