Lola's Tacit Tongue.

Lola's Tacit Tongue.

"I guess it's time," she grimaced, lifting her frail left hand over the weighty metal bar. Someone had screwed it to the bed to keep her from falling onto the floor. Her tenuous hand met his with detached emotion as she patted his rigid, rough fingers, all the while reassuring him that he could do this without her. "There, there now," she comforted and coaxed with the last cache of waning sparkle from her dutiful eyes, "this is not as bad as it all seems. Why, just look at you falling apart. I can't believe I have to comfort you like this, even now. You are such a egotistical bore!"

After transmitting vacillating messages of affection and disgust, Lola tenaciously held on the edge of her bed with her free right hand. Suddenly and automatically, she let her delicate hand escape from his gruff, tetchy claws. "There is no use in holding a numb hand anyway," Lola decided.

Holding that hand sent off a wave of distant memories. She started getting a little dizzy as cursory, uninvited thoughts engulfed her. She floundered to grasp why she, of all people, after such a horrendous life with him, now faced this unwarranted, unexpected, but imminent death. "One day you're frolicking in your garden and the next day you're lying immobile in a frigid hospital bed waiting for your turn to come. And you know it's your turn because everyone walks around on eggshells, holding their breath and feeling as if they have to whisper, tiptoe and sit still. It's as if they think that any sudden outburst or noise will startle you and push you over to other side."

"Sometimes they rub your forehead and massage your hand. A single tear trickles down their face, which wears that familiar look of agony and relief. They've already began to mourn your passing, but thank God, they mutter, that she's no longer going to suffer. Cynthia was like that yesterday. She can't handle this at all. I don't suppose she'll come around for the end. I don't know why people act so surprised at the sight of death. It should be something that is expected. My goodness, I've been prepared for death ever since I saw it in my mother's serene eyes. Well, I guess my little Cynthia doesn't want to be around for the end. I wasn't there for my mother's. I wasn't there when she made that awful decision. But I had no choice. Cynthia does. Oh well, she's just as self-centered as her father!"

After fading in and out for a few minutes, Lola became keenly aware of the state of her room. She was struck by the coldness and impersonal ambiance that surrounded her. She hadn't really noticed it before and only now did she become intensely observant of the room that she had been inhabiting for the last five weeks. She turned her stiff head slightly as she glanced around the room. She was going to absorb the scene with her eyes one last time.

She first caught sight of the walls, barren and painted a horrific dark blue and covered with shoddy reproductions of impressionistic art. She quickly shifted her sight to the lackluster floor covered with day-old dust balls and coffee stains left by anxious visitors searching for the right words, sipping and spilling.

"I would have been more comfortable at home," her eyes lamented. Her head shifted back and forth to the left and to the right to let her eyes take it all in. This final scene. This closing act.

She continued her mundane inspection. Next, she zeroed in on the sterile furniture, the limp, lifeless curtains, the wilted flowers he picked from the hospital garden, and the hard, gray plastic tray that still held her untouched, tasteless rations from about an hour ago. She glanced at the fancy iron rod chair with the magenta down cushions. Then finally, she cast her eyes on him.

He sat there in that chair like a rusty bronze figure, worn down from the harsh elements that were so much a part of his life. His glossy head was, aside from sparse patches of metallic fibers poking out, completely barren. His protruding forehead, more pronounced because of his baldness, would have easily landed him a role as one of those Star Trek aliens. His eyes were gray-gray, like the color of the sky after a third day with no sun. They continuously cast glacial, fleeting looks at anything they bumped into, refusing to land on anything or anyone for longer than a millisecond. His cylinder nose and bulging ears were stuffed to the rim with the hair follicles that should have preferred to be on his head. His kiss-worthy lips, a molten mesh, were so tightly pressed together it gave the impression that he was keeping something in and keeping something out all at the same time. All of this on that jug-bitten face! Oh, but his steely shoulders and strong arms were filled with stout sinew and attached to embittered hands and pinchpenny fingers. His sunken chest and swollen belly made him look deformed. Then those stubborn legs that were always determined to be anywhere but home were connected to his leaden feet, pounding and stomping his whole life, destroying the quiet and the serenity that surrounded him. He was like the chair he occupied, stiff and lifeless. Lola was both drawn and repulsed by him. She resented his icy presence in her personal breathing space.

As she glared at him, chilled flashes of faintly sketched recollections of life with him passed through her mind. They were not vivid memories, but seemed more like snippets of dreams she starred in. She could not focus on any one thought, with the exception of one nagging question that kept reverberating in her head: "Why on earth did I marry him?"

She was not forced to marry him, but he was the first man who seemed not to mind that Lola was mute from birth. Ernie, unlike Lola's mother, at least talked to her. Lola was not drop dead gorgeous, but she could compete with any of the local girls in terms of looks, which isn't saying a lot. It was just that mute thing that most guys couldn't handle. Well, all but Ernie Wabash, a decent fellow who took a dare from his high school cronies that he could never score with Lola. Partly to fit in and partly to prove it to himself, he made advances towards Lola repeatedly after school one week just before summer break.

Lola was buttered-up and sweet-talked for five days. Mistaking his randy interests for love, she freely gave herself to him late one balmy night in Quarry's Meadow just behind the Stop n' Go gas station on Third and Main. It wasn't how she always dreamed it would be, but it was some one, some arms, some lips, some voice, and some other thing to hold on to.

How quickly things changed. Living in that hamlet in southern Georgia, being three months pregnant, and having a preacher for a father was enough pressure to make Lola jump at his crackpot wedding proposal. There he was, half-afraid of marrying a mute, and half-afraid of Lola's father's retaliation. On a whim he rushed over to her home, grabbed her hand and said, "Let's get married!" He knew full that Lola could not say no. What choice did she have? Her discontented mother had done one thing right - Lola was resolute not have a legitimate child. Her only regret was that it was his.

When Lola's mother heard that she was pregnant, she nearly rejoiced. Lola knew that her mother felt relieved to not have to be around her anymore. It was as if her lifetime prison sentence had been overturned. When Lola's doting mother first received the bad news of her daughter's handicap, she was left speechless, a horrifying kind of speechlessness quite different from that of her baby Lola. From that day forward she became disconnected and distant, never really showing any maternal affection for Lola. Soon the increasing absence of her daughter's voice tossed her into alternations of depression and self-destruction, and finding no comfort from her wayward husband, she sought comfort in her daily dose of valerian root and sleeping pills. Most of Lola's childhood life was spent watching her mother weeping or sleeping from dawn until dusk.

Every now and then she would have a quick mother-daughter session with Lola. She felt deep down that this was her duty. The only thing was that these discussions took place at the oddest of times - whenever her mother got the bug in her to do it. Once she woke Lola up in the middle of the night and warned Lola about boys and how to be careful to stay chaste until marriage. She was adamant that a child should never grow up without a father. "And a mother?" Lola wondered to herself. "And a mother, mother?"

Lola's racing thoughts shifted back to him.

"I should have known what kind of man you'd turn out to be when you showed up late for the wedding with Betsy Chandler in one arm and Jack Daniels in the other. There you were, two sheets to the wind. It's a good thing that no one else showed up but my dad and a handful of relatives. You made a fool of me. I was restrained, but not out of fear of loosing you. I kept silent for my unborn baby, my precious child that I loved even more than you."

Lola was momentarily taken away from her thoughts. "Ma'am, would you like something to drink?" interrupted the nurse. "What in the world is she babbling on about? Do I want something to drink? Landsakes, why on earth are you asking me?" Lola chided, "You should be asking him if he needs anything."

It wasn't completely discernable to the nurse what the old woman was miming with her age-spotted hands and her flamboyant grimaces, so she just looked away and slowly backed out of the room. "Maybe I'll come back in a few minutes to ask her again," the nurse concluded.

Lola was twenty-three when they had the second child. Soon came the third, and quickly thereafter, the fourth. Lola had wanted two children, a girl and a boy, but Ernie said that they would have four. That was that. And Lola again kept her peace. There they were: Cynthia, Paul, Kevin, and John. Lola lived with them in the cursory role of mother, but deep down she felt like a stranger to three of them. The exception was her Paul, her light and her joy.

Sometimes Lola couldn't remember what she was doing in the hospital. Were it not for the nurse giving her the medicine every three hours, she would have no clue why she was there stuck in her hospital bed. She actually hadn't gotten out of bed in two days since her last brush with the hard metal frame that held up her bed. Two days ago she had attempted to get up and go to the bathroom by herself. Her nimble legs couldn't quite remember what they were supposed to do and her left foot ran into the back leg of the right side of her bed. Thank goodness the bed caught her fall. The pain was excruciating and the swelling had still yet to go away. No. Lola decided to remain in bed. She felt safer there. It was almost as if she no longer had the right to walk on the ground anymore. It seemed as if the earth was off limits for her. So, she preferred to stay in bed. Suspended in air. Perched between life and death. Somewhere between heaven and earth.

"Goodness, won't somebody fix these loose sheets. They're making me so uncomfortable. When I first came here, I had nice clean white sheets everyday. Now, I only get them once or twice a week. I get the message. Why waste your time on someone on her way out? Well, I really could surprise you all and never leave. How would you like them apples? I should . . . . what's that noise? Are you coughing Ernie? There is a tissue box there on the table by the window. You'll have to get up and get it yourself. I can't. Come on now, Ern. Get up off your lazy bones and get a tissue. I'm telling you that you are going to have to get used to doing things for yourself. The sooner, the better.

"Remember the time after I gave birth to Cynthia? Remember how beautiful she was? Cynthia. You gave her that name. I wondered where on God's green earth you got it from until I came home early one afternoon and found you with a Cynthia. That was cruel of you to give the name of your lover to our daughter. I remember staring at that Cynthia and the look on her face when she discovered for the first time that you were married. You had been having an affair for eight months without her knowing you were married. How in the world did you ever pull that one off? On her way out the door she looked back at me with contrite eyes, and at that very moment I forgave her. Why? She was another one of your victims. You, on the other hand, never asked me for forgiveness. You never came to me with a crack in your voice, silently begging me to overlook your juvenile antics. I longed for you to want me to forgive you. I'm still waiting."

Ernie could see his wife's face twitch slightly, but could not decipher what she was saying. In fact, he hadn't been able to understand her for the last two weeks. Her hands were too feeble to write anymore and it was even harder to figure out what she was saying. And so, he sat there. Motionless and emotionless. Trying to spend the final moments with his wife of thirty-two years.

"Why are you staring at me like that? Do I look that bad. Go and ask the nurse to give me some water, please. Go. Go. You make me angry the way you look at me with those dreadful, loving eyes. Why use them like that now? To look at me with pity? I needed them when I felt overweight, when I ruined dinner, or forgot to deposit your check. I needed them when your parents came to dinner, when the children went to sleep, and when the morning sun came crashing into our minuscule bedroom window. I needed them when mother took her life and left me all alone with mine."

It took Ernie every ounce of strength he had to rise up out of the chair and fetch the nurse. He had been sitting there so long that the pattern the chair had left an imprint on his rear end.

"Ma'am, you wanted something to drink?"

"Say, where are my children? They should all be here, shouldn't they?

"Why are you looking at me like that? Do you know something that you have no business knowing? Who told you that Cynthia hated me? You've got some nerve sticking your ugly nose into our family business. How did you know that Paul died of a drug overdose, because Ernie couldn't tolerate his alternative lifestyle and cut off all contact with him and forced me to do the same? How did you find out that John just recently got out of jail for domestic violence and that Kevin has practically disowned the family and moved to Sarasota? Ernie, have this busybody nurse take a hike. She knows way too much about our family."

The nurse, sensing the malevolent vibes from Lola, deposited a small cup of cranberry juice on the table, disgustedly took away the tray, and dashed out of the room. "What a pain!" she murmured.

"Kevin called and said he wasn't coming. John is most likely doped up somewhere. Cynthia is on her way, she says. I can't wait to talk to my little girl to tell her it was my fault. I didn't know how to raise a girl. On top of that every time I called her name, the very sound of it pierced my heart. Every time I saw her face, I was reminded I was not your only one. Ern, help John not to turn out like you, bitter and alone. I tried to make him more sensitive, but you beat it right out of him. Once, I walked in his room and caught him crying. He had just finished reading To Build A Fire. He told me that the idea of dying alone in the middle of a frozen white desert was the saddest way to die. He was thirteen. I never saw him cry again. From that day on he was hellbent on making sure everyone else around him did, though. Ya, and make sure that Kevin knows that I understand why he cut us off. He saw too much, heard too much, suffered too much, and he was way too young."

Ernie was paralyzed at the thought of losing her. He knew that his constant late night wanderings tortured his wife beyond belief. It was guilt and shame that made him go home almost every night. He knew that despite all of his actions, he loved Lola like he had no other woman. He sat and thought about all the times he cheated on her. Sometimes she would be waiting up for him. She would shake her fists and stomp her feet. For months she threatened to leave or kill herself. Thank God for the birth of Paul. He was the one that brought us both so much joy. Paul meant the world to Lola and from day one he became the center of her life. Ernie recalled how much he loved Paul until the day he found out that his eighteen-year old son had a lover named Tom. Ernie, completely losing his temper, punched Tom in the nose, and threw Paul out of the house. That was the last time that they spoke to one another. It was heartbreaking for Lola to know that Paul preferred to take an overdose of drugs and end his life, than to live without the love of his father.

His death devastated everyone, including Ernie's closest friend. Barry Peterson was a local musician and had become Ernie's companion and confident. Barry was also the only friend that Lola approved of from the sorted drinking pals that Ernie hung out with. It was uncanny, but after Ernie threw Paul out of the house, Barry turned against him completely. He said that Ernie's actions were not the actions of a father, but a beast. Ernie never heard from Barry again.

Lola's eyes began to water and her breathing became sporadic. Her final scene appeared in front of her eyes as she babbled her way home.

"If Paul were here he would be dancing with his mommy. He always danced with me when no one was around. It was our little secret. Even though you forbade any music or dancing, that never stopped Paul and me. We had a little routine that we did every day when he came home from school. I would be in the kitchen in my white-bleached apron preparing dinner. Paul would come home from school, and we would put on his favorite record and dance. I can see him now, flapping his arms in the air like an eagle."

Lola looked at Ernie one last time with sadness in her eyes as if she were confessing a crime, "There was my darling Paul and our precious secret and there was my secret, only mine. I never told Paul about Barry. We were going to tell him together, but that day he. . . ."

Lola motioned with her hands, "I'm getting cold. Please. Cover my arms with the sheet."

"Paul, are you there? Come my sweet little angel. Come and dance with mommy. One more time. Do you remember the steps? Sure you do! That's right. It's time. Dance, my little prince. That's it. Spin. Now, hold mommy's hand while she dances around you. How very good you are! Dance, dance my precious one! Dance before Ernie comes home. We make such a great team! Dance.... dance.... dance....

EDITOR'S NOTE: Todd
can be reached by E-mail at
toddm@mail.uca.edu