There are only two things in the world that I hate.
The first is puking. Boy, do I hate that.
The other is moving.
Given the choice, I would rather puke than move. It’s over faster, and the sounds I make when moving are even more horrifying than when projectile vomiting.
That’s why, when I moved to Nashville, it had to be over as quickly as possible. I didn’t shop around, check neighborhoods or anything. I just grabbed the newspaper, found an apartment I could afford on a street I could find, took my resume’, a copy of my credit report, some cash, and rented it on the spot.
It was small, drafty, and noisy; I stayed there for twelve years.
I really, really hate moving.
The apartment was the upper floor of a 1920’s bungalow-style house in east Nashville. The downstairs had been split into two apartments, in and out of which moved a never-ending procession of neighbors -- some of them I liked a lot; others not so much.
Next door, however, was a colossal Frankenstein of a house, a virtual labyrinth of additions (and subtractions), layered with siding, vinyl and otherwise, adorned with loads of plastic flowers and other ornamental lawn decor. I was fascinated.
I considered paying a visit with the traditional Welcome Wagon fare -- a six-pack of Pepsi and a 5-lb bag of flour -- but decided that it might look suspicious since I was the one moving into the neighborhood. It was best to just be patient. Surely someone would eventually need to hose off the plastic flowers. Until then, I could just peek through the mini-blinds.
One day, leaving for work, a woman approached from next door. She was 40-ish, gaunt; pallid, but looking very “New England” in what I think of as L.L. Bean clothes. She walked toward me with deliberate purpose.
I smiled.
She didn’t, but came straight toward me.
I said “Hey,” which is Southern for “Aloha.”
She said, in a voice too loud, “Got a cigarette?”
I did…and gave her one.
“My name’s Mike,” I offered.
She looked at me and said, “Got one for John?”
I blinked.
“He won’t come out of his room,” she said, as if that should explain everything.
“Oh,” I said, as if it had, and I handed her the pack of smokes.
“Take these. I’ve got more.”
She then smiled… a somber smile, thin-lipped and desolate…a tired smile, the hard smile of a hard life. She looked at the ground, then at my hand, and took the cigarettes.
“I’m Beryl.”
And with that, she turned and walked across the yard. She climbed the porch and knocked on the front door. “But…she just came out of there,” I thought to myself. In a moment, an unseen person opened the door and she disappeared inside.
That was my introduction to the people next door.
I asked my downstairs neighbor about them.
“That’s the crazy house,” she answered, and then in response to my puzzled look, “they are all mental patients.”
It was a group home for people from the mental health co-op. They weren’t totally crazy, my neighbor explained, and were able to come and go as they please during the day, but had to be in by a certain time at night.
“They’ll pester the shit out of you if you let them,” she’d added, “just shoo them away.”
Shoo them away…
I didn’t need to shoo them away.
The world had already done that.
There were indeed a dozen or more people living in the house, and whether Beryl had given me a thumbs-up, or, more likely, simply told them all that I had given her a pack of smokes, they instantly considered me a friend.
I’ve always felt a kinship with the outsiders, I suppose, and although I hadn’t previously known many mental patients, only some people who should have been but weren’t, I found myself drawn to the people in the house next door.
Mrs. Poole, a beautiful old African-American woman, would wheel herself out on the porch and spend the day watching the traffic go by. She didn’t seem particularly crazy to me, although every now and then she would wave to someone passing in a car as if she knew them. I never saw anyone wave to her though. I figured she was just being friendly.
My designated parking spot was close to the edge of the porch next door where Mrs. Poole would sit, and whenever she’d see me, she’d wave and speak, but always in a voice a little too low to understand. I’d walk over so I could hear her better, and she’d have me snared. I was constantly late because of her, but only because I didn’t want to leave once she started on one of her amazing tales.
I fell in love with Mrs. Poole. Her skin was beautiful, like glazed stoneware, an ancient and ageless statuette in her wheelchair there on the porch, tattered but still regal. She held court, and I became a loyal subject, basking in her wisdom and bowed with respect. She loved to talk, and at nearly 90, she had lots of stories to tell. The thing she didn’t have, and hadn’t had in a very long time, was someone to listen.
She’d spent most of her rough life in a segregated world, married at 14, and by the 1960’s, when White patrons stubbed out their cigarettes on the backs on African-Americans sitting at the soda counter in the Nashville Woolworth’s, she’d already had grandchildren. She had buried two husbands, and lost a son in the war. Her son was the only part of the story that she couldn’t tell with a smile.
Amazingly, in light of all this, in regard to everything else she had a wonderful sense of humor. She had been the first woman deacon in her church, but she had a devilish streak too, and would get a mischievous look in her eyes whenever she said something that a proper lady shouldn’t. She’d draw me into a long serious tale, and then dead-pan a sudden wisecrack that would make my mouth drop open. She’d laugh and laugh at my expression, and I would laugh that she’d reeled me in again. When she smiled, I thought I saw the plastic flowers lean toward her just a little.
During the winter months, I wouldn’t see her at all, but if I saw someone else from the house meandering down the street, I’d ask about Mrs. Poole, and ask them to say hello for me. When Mrs. Poole made her way back out onto the porch each year, I knew it was spring. After I’d known her a while, I would climb up on the porch and give her a hug the first time I’d see her.
“We made it through another winter, Michael,” she’d say.
“Yes ma’m, we sure did.”
“The Bradford Pears will bloom before long.”
“Yes m’am. I love those.”
“I do too, Michael.” Then a pause…“my niece is going to visit soon.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” I answered, “When will she be here?”
“Well…now that the weather’s nice, I’m sure she’ll come as soon as she can. She’s very busy, but I just have a feeling that this year she’ll come.”
Of course, she never did, but Mrs. Poole never stopped expecting her.
At first I found this terribly sad, but after a while, I realized that Mrs. Poole was never disappointed. She seemed oblivious to that fact that her niece never came. Eventually, I understood that this wasn’t about the visit at all.
It was about hope.
I suppose Mrs. Poole didn’t have a lot to hope for as she neared the end her long life, other than the peace of heaven, but it was her nature to be hopeful, to attribute good to those who didn’t warrant it, to expect the best from a world that had seldom, if ever, delivered. She didn’t have expectations, just hope. It was Mrs. Poole’s beatific delusion, and eventually I came to share her excitement over the invisible niece.
One day, as I left for work, she was on the porch in her church clothes. She would sometimes sit outside in her church clothes on Sunday, even if she didn’t have a way to get to church. She did it to pay her respects to the lord, she told me, but this day was not Sunday.
“Michael, I’m going to be moving,” she said.
I was shocked.
“You are?”
“Yes…my niece called and said she wants me to live with her. Isn’t that nice?”
I didn’t believe it for a moment.
“That’s great, Mrs. Poole. When will that be?”
“They are coming to get me today,” she answered.
I had known all along that a spring would eventually arrive when there would be no Mrs. Poole among the plastic flowers on the porch next door, and I had readied myself, as we do with the elderly, for the inevitable. I never expected to have the chance to say goodbye.
“I am sure going to miss you, Mrs. Poole,” I said, truthfully.
“Oh, you’ll still see me, Michael,” she said softly, “I’ll come back and visit sometimes when I’m out shopping with my niece.”
I reached up and took her scrawny black hand, which even on that sunny day held a chill.
I told her that I was lucky to have gotten to know her, and was honored to be her neighbor. She squeezed my hand and straightened up in her chair, as she would sometimes when proudly remembering her son. She started to say something, and her eyes got a little wet. She stopped, and put her other hand, long years crooked, on top of mine.
“You’re a good neighbor, Michael.”
She turned to me and smiled that smile – like being rocked in the arms of God -- and that was the last time I saw her.
I found out later that Mrs. Poole had been moved to another group home because she insisted on burning a candle in her room at night, which was against the rules. I thought about trying to visit, but didn’t want to embarrass her about the niece. A few months went by, and I decided to call her case-worker and find out how she was doing.
After several phone calls, I was able to find the case-worker assigned to Mrs. Poole. I explained that I was a former neighbor and was just wondering how she was doing.
“She’s gone,” the case worker said, all business.
“What?”
I prepared myself to hear the sad news.
“She’s gone from the group home," the case worker added, "She’s now living with her niece.”
Next: Mr. Teeter Dances with Mamie Eisenhower.
