I remembered Sheba’s and Jimmy’s faces one night when we sat in the car and sang Godspell songs. They both knew all the words to every song. Jimmy was so into it, he lifted his foot and stubbed out the joint into the tread of his sandal. And I could tell by the way Sheba shut her eyes at certain lines that she respected the church.
My father entered the room. He folded his newspaper in half, set it on the table beside his plate, and sat. As always, he surveyed the food before putting his hands in the prayer position. My mother and I put our hands in the prayer position too. I shut my eyes.
My father said, “Thank you, Jesus, for this food on our table and for my wonderful wife and obedient child. God bless this family, God bless our relatives in Idaho, God bless President Ford and his family, and God bless the United States of America.”
“And God bless everyone in the Cone household and may all their illnesses be”—I paused as I tried to come up with the best word—“eradicated.”
My father glanced at me for just a second. And then, as if my voice weren’t strong enough to reach God’s ears, he abridged my prayer with, “Health to the Cones. Amen.”
“Amen,” my mother and I both said.
My mother stood and served my father while he removed his tie. “Is someone else in the house sick? I don’t want you going over there if everyone is sick.”
“I just want to make sure we cover everyone under that roof.”
“If you make the pork roast tomorrow, be sure it’s cooked all the way through. Her body likely can’t handle undercooked meat.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll come up and check the roast before you serve it.”
“They have a meat thermometer. She really doesn’t like visitors.”
“Peanut farmer,” my father mumbled to the paper.
“Is she losing her hair?” my mother asked.
“She has been wearing wigs.”
“Are they tasteful?”
“Yes.”
“I would wear a wig that looked just like my hair so that no one would know it was a wig.” My mother’s blond hair was shoulder-length, thick, and stiff. It was like a cap. Or, really, like a wig.
“She’s been wearing a long blond wig mostly.”
My mother shook her head in disapproval.
On Monday I ran to the Cones’， my flip-flops making a slapping sound. When I got to their house, I stood on the porch a minute and caught my breath. I didn’t want anyone to know I’d run all the way; it was embarrassing to think of how badly I wanted to be there.
When I finally opened the front door, I found Izzy and Jimmy sitting at the banquette in the kitchen. Jimmy had a guitar in his hands and was making up a song about Izzy. Izzy was bouncing her head around like she was at a concert.
“Izzy! Izzy!” Jimmy sang. “She makes me dizzyyyyyy with LOVE!”
“MARY JANE!” Izzy jumped off the banquette and climbed up into my arms. “Jimmy’s singing a song about me!”
“I heard.” I kissed Izzy’s curls. Her head smelled loamy and dank. Her last bath must have been Friday, before we went out to dinner.
“Now sing about Mary Jane!” Izzy monkeyed out of my arms and returned to the banquette. I went to the refrigerator and took out the eggs. Jimmy plucked out a tune on his guitar. He was humming.
“Oh!” I turned to Jimmy. “Thank you for coming to church.”
“I hate church.” Jimmy kept plucking. “But Sheba loves it. And I have to admit, it was worth it just to hear you sing. You were motherfuckin’ beautiful, Mary Jane. I could pick out your voice above the others. Totally gorgeous.”
I swallowed hard and blushed, then mumbled a thank-you and turned to the cupboards to busy myself. When I opened the upper cupboards, I found new dishes—white with a painted blue pattern of onions and leaves—and new glasses. The lower cupboards where I had put mixing bowls and roasting pans were still pretty empty, though a set of metal mixing bowls and some metal roasting pans had survived the purge.
Jimmy started singing. “Mary Jane, she ain’t so plain, my dear sweet Mary Jane.”
My heart banged. When I felt steadier, I turned to look at Jimmy. He smiled and did some picking, his fingers moving fast on the strings. Then he continued, “That down-home girl, Mary Jane, makin’ eggs, on her two strong legs.”
“BIRDS IN A NESSSST!” Izzy sang, and I laughed.
“MARY JANE!” Jimmy belted it out like he was singing to a stadium. “She feeeeds us, but she ain’t never, ever, ever, ever, ever tried to bleeeeeeed us.”