Rose & Thorn Journal - Winter 2011
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This is Demery Bader-Saye’s first published work. She is currently seeking representation for her first novel, Friday, Saturday, Someday; her second novel is underway. Substitute teacher, wife and mother of three, Demery resides in Austin, TX. She is also the author/ photographer of a photo writing prompt blog.
Demery Bader-Saye
Lovey flattened the fur over Buster’s eyes with her thumbs and traced the slope of his nose with her finger. She landed a kiss atop his soft head. “Stay now, darlin’.” His tail slowed to a putter as he jumped to the back seat, whimpering and squinting in the early morning sun.
The twenty-gallon tank of her ’77 Ford Grenada took intemperate gulps of regular unleaded. “Sakes alive!” she said, “What folks could afford premium, anyhow?” She sank her dentures into the last bite of an Almond Joy and brought them clicking back out again as the dollars and cents on the gas tank multiplied. Every third word or so of “Amazing Grace” escaped her lips between chews. At last the pump hiccupped, dribbling fuel onto her worn ‘Granny shoes,’ as her great-granddaughter called them. “Patience, Lord,” she muttered.
Buster licked the stray chocolate off her chin as she buckled up. The key stuck in the ignition, and for a moment Lovey faltered. She closed her eyes and tried again. At the sound of the engine turning over, she smiled at Jesus, whose tiny head, encased in a magnetic medallion, clung faithfully to the cracks in the dash. She pulled out of the station to the entrance ramp for 95 North. “It’s just you and me, honey.”
The entrance ramp coiled in one endless loop. She turned the steering wheel and held steady. When the road straightened, she craned her neck to look over her sloped shoulder; her car drifted from the on-ramp into the lane, barely missing the back end of an eighteen-wheeler and the hood ornament of a Chrysler minivan. Horns declared battle. Tires sang off key. “Help me, Lord!” Lovey hollered.
It took her a moment to realize all was well, that her car was, in fact, still rambling north on the interstate. Jesus gazed at her reassuringly. Buster reclaimed his place in the passenger seat.
Lovey decided it was best not to hold up the minivan driver, who, from what she could see in her rearview mirror, appeared mighty angry. So she braced herself, peered over her bony shoulder, and scooted the car left again. Once settled in the fast lane she took several deep breaths and ignored the gestures and honks of drivers now bolting by on her right.
She intended to stay put in that far left lane until the gas tank hit empty or she reached Boston, whichever came first. She wasn’t sure exactly how far one could go on a tank of gas, but the head deacon of the church had said it was roughly seven hundred miles from Durham to Boston.
As they’d sat together in the church parlor after the funeral, Deacon Thomas tried one last time to convince her to stay. “Forty-eight years Abraham served as our pastor, Lovey,” he’d said. “You belong with us. You’ve never even been out of the state, have you? Boston is so far away.”
“Thank you kindly, Thomas,” she’d said, fixing her eyes on the wall behind him. “But I’ve not done one thing on my own. Not ever.” She met his gaze again. “There’s not much time left to try. Do you know?” Though he’d nodded and smiled kindly, she could see his eyes were still riddled with concern. “I won’t be alone, hear?” she said, patting his hand. “My cousin Hazel’s there.” He’d seemed comforted by her reassurances, so she continued. “And besides, ever since I read ‘bout the ride of Paul Revere as a girl, I’ve never forgot it. How I’ve longed to walk those cobble streets and see the lamplighters at work in the evening.”
Maybe she’d overdone it now because his brow wrinkled up again. “But Lovey,” he’d said, “why not just visit for a time and then come on home to us?”
She’d started shaking her head the moment he said the word visit. “Thomas, don’t you see? The memories here . . . .” She swallowed hard. The roses on the wallpaper melted into a pink puddle the size of the pitiful moon outside. “I promise t’ call when I’m safely there,” she said. “You’ll see.” She’d risen from the couch then, and Thomas rose too and kissed her forehead. He’d escorted her to the car and murmured a blessing over her before saying a tearful goodbye.
When her eyelids refused to finish a blink and her chin bounced on her chest, she knew it was time to stop for the night. Just outside of Washington, D.C., she noticed a sign for the Holiday Inn and pulled off the interstate.
Buster barreled past her as soon as she opened the door to the lobby. He hit the end of his leash with a yank and brought Lovey skidding onto the gleaming marble floor inside. “Oh my,” she said, taking in the soft glow of stained glass lamps alight on polished end tables flanking a handsome plaid couch. Her eyes went next to a vase full of daisies and yellow roses on the coffee table, along with half a dozen glossy magazines, which were fanned out with exactly the same space between each one. She wondered if the magazines were just for decoration or if she might sit down and read one during her stay.
“Excuse me, ma’am.”
Lovey turned to find the night manager coming at her. Buster growled.
“Pets are absolutely not allowed in this building.” The phone on the front desk gave two short rings. An older couple, standing at the desk, looked over. The man cleared his throat.
Turning back to the couple, the manager said, “Did you notify your travel agent that you would be traveling with a pet?”
At first Lovey felt better—less embarrassed—thinking that the couple also had a pet with them. When neither of them answered, however, she looked up to see the manager glaring directly at her.
“Agent? I . . .” said Lovey, “Well, heavens, I didn’t realize. Maybe Buster, my dog—he’ll just stay in the car. If you’ve got a bed for me, that is. I’d be so grateful. I’d liked t’ almost passed out back there on the road.”
The manager turned her tidy, couch-matching vest away again and strode toward the desk. “So no reservations. I’m not at all sure that we can fit you in on the spur of the moment like this, ma’am. Why don’t you take your animal outside while I check.”
Buster stopped just shy of the door. “Come on, Bussy Boy,” Lovey said, pulling on his leash. He sat down. “Land, Buster, come on. Don’t make a spectacle, now. Please.” Lovey gave another tug and Buster, still sitting, slid forward about two inches. “Tarnation. Y’ dadgummed porcelain statue!” Lovey grunted, leaning over to heave all thirty pounds of him up and out the door to the car.
“I don’t want this anymore’n you do, darlin’.” She rolled the window down a few inches. “But I got to get some rest. It’d be the end of us both if I tried to drive any more tonight. I’ll be right back out to get my satchel and say goodnight.”
She could still hear him baying as the lobby door closed behind her.
“I have one room left, lucky for you,” said the manager, back at her desk now. The couple was nowhere in sight.
“Yes!” Lovey smiled sweetly, digging in her purse. “Aha! Lifesaver?” she said, holding out half a roll of Butter-Rum with the foil curling down over her hand. She silently recited the memory verse she’d learned three quarters of a century ago in Sunday School: Therefore if thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink: for in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head.
“No,” said the manager, clacking her computer keyboard.
“Thank you,” said Lovey, imagining little bits of coal bouncing off the marble desk and the floor.
Outside, Buster grinned through the open window when he saw her. Lovey pulled her satchel out of the trunk, along with a small bag of Dog Chow, Buster’s bowl, and a plastic milk carton full of water. She sat sideways in the back seat with the door open while he ate his supper. Her feet dangled over the pavement, which was still warm from the day. A smattering of stars toiled through the pollution of the capital city and a breeze cooled her face, bringing with it the scent of cherry blossoms.
“Lucky me!” she murmured, when she saw that the night manager was preoccupied with scolding a maintenance man on the far side of the lobby. Making her way to the elevators, Lovey used her right leg to help the satchel along.
The elevator opened with an arrogant ding and Lovey shuffled in. Setting the bag down first, she straightened and pushed the button for the seventh floor. As the doors were closing, the older couple she’d seen before hurried over. “Hold the elevator, please,” the man said. Lovey made a half-hearted gesture toward the button panel, hoping the doors would close, but the man stuck his cane in at the last moment causing the doors to retract. The couple made their way inside, both nodding prim greetings to Lovey.
“Evenin’,” she said.
As the elevator started up, a long, low whine sounded faintly from the corner where Lovey was standing. The couple turned their heads toward her. Lovey thought how if the woman’s eyebrows were raised any higher, they’d just disappear right into her hairline.
“Ah . . . excuse me,” Lovey said, patting her stomach.
The elevator stopped at the fourth floor and the couple got off. The doors closed and Lovey laughed aloud as she unzipped the bag a few inches to see Buster’s nose poke out, sniffing in all directions. The lights glowed softly, illumining the mirrored walls. Neil Diamond’s voice drizzled out of the speakers like warm rain. She hummed along.
At the threshold of room 702 she stood motionless. The bed alone was bigger than her bathroom back home and spread with a polyester paisley quilt in shades of blue and burgundy. And there were “. . . three, four, five lamps. In one room,” she said, stepping in and closing the door.
Buster's first act of freedom: jumping on the bed to roll around. “You get right down, you hooligan. If little miss couch vest sees even one stray dog hair, who knows what might become of us?”
Lovey closed the curtains and took a seat on the desk chair near the window. The thought of eating something was appealing, but she’d left her sack dinner on the back seat of the car with the rest of the overnight belongings she’d dumped out to make room for Buster.
“Buster, can you mind your manners whiles I go back to the car?” He pointed his nose at the ceiling fan and braced himself for a proper howl. Lovey held his mouth closed with her hand. “Oop. Never mind.” On the table lay a room service menu. $12.95 for a grilled cheese sandwich with applesauce. “Sinful.” Perhaps she wasn’t all that hungry, anyhow. She pulled off her shoes and knee-highs and lay down, flipping on the television.
A few hours later, she stretched, turning onto her side. “Tonight, our top story takes us to the Middle East, where the death toll continues to rise . . .,” a newscaster droned.
“Honey, we fell asleep,” she murmured.
Buster, on the floor beside the bed, lifted his head and looked at her.
“Turn off the light, will you, angel?”
She opened her eyes. Paisley everywhere. She wept.
Buster jumped up on the bed and, keeping his belly low, inched toward her. He found her hand and nudged it with his nose. “Sweet Jesus, take me away,” Lovey whispered.
It dawned on her that she sounded like the Calgon lady. Abraham would have a good hoot if he could hear her. She closed her eyes again and a sigh shuddered through her. She had always hated those commercials.
But he was laughing when he came to her. His eyes, framed with wrinkles, were the color of fudge, and his skin smelled of the Smoky Mountains. The white stubble on his face was like sandpaper on the palm of her hand. They kissed under a magnolia tree. She brought him coffee while he studied for his final exams in seminary. She knelt beside him as he rocked their baby son to sleep. She nagged him about the dirty socks he left at the foot of the bed under the sheets. She marched with him on the steps of the state capitol building in Raleigh. They ate green bean casserole at church potlucks and cried at the funerals of children, including their own son, killed in the Korean War. They played hula hoops with their granddaughter on the front lawn of the parsonage. Lovey found him on his knees in the sanctuary on the day of Dr. King’s death. They bought groceries at the Piggly Wiggly, and she soaked the ring around the collar out of his shirts. She felt his tears on her bare feet as he begged forgiveness for a moment of weakness with another woman. They yelled. They prayed. They reconciled. They held hands at their granddaughter’s college graduation. His warm thigh stuck to hers while they sat on the porch swing watching fireflies play as evening fell around them. She tasted the lemonade they drank on a break when they patched a hole in the roof after Hurricane Fran. She watched the smoke rise off of Abraham’s birthday cake, and his smiling face behind eight candles, one for every decade of his life. She felt the cold weight of his arms around her, the same as she had every morning since she woken up and found him dead.
Crying out, she sat up. Her teeth chattered as she pulled the spread more tightly around her. Shadows dawdled in the corner of the room near the window. Birds were rehearsing the song of first light. She would not sleep anymore tonight.
Song of First Light
Lovey flattened the fur over Buster’s eyes with her thumbs and traced the slope of his nose with her finger. She landed a kiss atop his soft head. “Stay now, darlin’.” His tail slowed to a putter as he jumped to the back seat, whimpering and squinting in the early morning sun.
The twenty-gallon tank of her ’77 Ford Grenada took intemperate gulps of regular unleaded. “Sakes alive!” she said, “What folks could afford premium, anyhow?” She sank her dentures into the last bite of an Almond Joy and brought them clicking back out again as the dollars and cents on the gas tank multiplied. Every third word or so of “Amazing Grace” escaped her lips between chews. At last the pump hiccupped, dribbling fuel onto her worn ‘Granny shoes,’ as her great-granddaughter called them. “Patience, Lord,” she muttered.
Buster licked the stray chocolate off her chin as she buckled up. The key stuck in the ignition, and for a moment Lovey faltered. She closed her eyes and tried again. At the sound of the engine turning over, she smiled at Jesus, whose tiny head, encased in a magnetic medallion, clung faithfully to the cracks in the dash. She pulled out of the station to the entrance ramp for 95 North. “It’s just you and me, honey.”
The entrance ramp coiled in one endless loop. She turned the steering wheel and held steady. When the road straightened, she craned her neck to look over her sloped shoulder; her car drifted from the on-ramp into the lane, barely missing the back end of an eighteen-wheeler and the hood ornament of a Chrysler minivan. Horns declared battle. Tires sang off key. “Help me, Lord!” Lovey hollered.
It took her a moment to realize all was well, that her car was, in fact, still rambling north on the interstate. Jesus gazed at her reassuringly. Buster reclaimed his place in the passenger seat.
Lovey decided it was best not to hold up the minivan driver, who, from what she could see in her rearview mirror, appeared mighty angry. So she braced herself, peered over her bony shoulder, and scooted the car left again. Once settled in the fast lane she took several deep breaths and ignored the gestures and honks of drivers now bolting by on her right.
She intended to stay put in that far left lane until the gas tank hit empty or she reached Boston, whichever came first. She wasn’t sure exactly how far one could go on a tank of gas, but the head deacon of the church had said it was roughly seven hundred miles from Durham to Boston.
As they’d sat together in the church parlor after the funeral, Deacon Thomas tried one last time to convince her to stay. “Forty-eight years Abraham served as our pastor, Lovey,” he’d said. “You belong with us. You’ve never even been out of the state, have you? Boston is so far away.”
“Thank you kindly, Thomas,” she’d said, fixing her eyes on the wall behind him. “But I’ve not done one thing on my own. Not ever.” She met his gaze again. “There’s not much time left to try. Do you know?” Though he’d nodded and smiled kindly, she could see his eyes were still riddled with concern. “I won’t be alone, hear?” she said, patting his hand. “My cousin Hazel’s there.” He’d seemed comforted by her reassurances, so she continued. “And besides, ever since I read ‘bout the ride of Paul Revere as a girl, I’ve never forgot it. How I’ve longed to walk those cobble streets and see the lamplighters at work in the evening.”
Maybe she’d overdone it now because his brow wrinkled up again. “But Lovey,” he’d said, “why not just visit for a time and then come on home to us?”
She’d started shaking her head the moment he said the word visit. “Thomas, don’t you see? The memories here . . . .” She swallowed hard. The roses on the wallpaper melted into a pink puddle the size of the pitiful moon outside. “I promise t’ call when I’m safely there,” she said. “You’ll see.” She’d risen from the couch then, and Thomas rose too and kissed her forehead. He’d escorted her to the car and murmured a blessing over her before saying a tearful goodbye.
When her eyelids refused to finish a blink and her chin bounced on her chest, she knew it was time to stop for the night. Just outside of Washington, D.C., she noticed a sign for the Holiday Inn and pulled off the interstate.
Buster barreled past her as soon as she opened the door to the lobby. He hit the end of his leash with a yank and brought Lovey skidding onto the gleaming marble floor inside. “Oh my,” she said, taking in the soft glow of stained glass lamps alight on polished end tables flanking a handsome plaid couch. Her eyes went next to a vase full of daisies and yellow roses on the coffee table, along with half a dozen glossy magazines, which were fanned out with exactly the same space between each one. She wondered if the magazines were just for decoration or if she might sit down and read one during her stay.
“Excuse me, ma’am.”
Lovey turned to find the night manager coming at her. Buster growled.
“Pets are absolutely not allowed in this building.” The phone on the front desk gave two short rings. An older couple, standing at the desk, looked over. The man cleared his throat.
Turning back to the couple, the manager said, “Did you notify your travel agent that you would be traveling with a pet?”
At first Lovey felt better—less embarrassed—thinking that the couple also had a pet with them. When neither of them answered, however, she looked up to see the manager glaring directly at her.
“Agent? I . . .” said Lovey, “Well, heavens, I didn’t realize. Maybe Buster, my dog—he’ll just stay in the car. If you’ve got a bed for me, that is. I’d be so grateful. I’d liked t’ almost passed out back there on the road.”
The manager turned her tidy, couch-matching vest away again and strode toward the desk. “So no reservations. I’m not at all sure that we can fit you in on the spur of the moment like this, ma’am. Why don’t you take your animal outside while I check.”
Buster stopped just shy of the door. “Come on, Bussy Boy,” Lovey said, pulling on his leash. He sat down. “Land, Buster, come on. Don’t make a spectacle, now. Please.” Lovey gave another tug and Buster, still sitting, slid forward about two inches. “Tarnation. Y’ dadgummed porcelain statue!” Lovey grunted, leaning over to heave all thirty pounds of him up and out the door to the car.
“I don’t want this anymore’n you do, darlin’.” She rolled the window down a few inches. “But I got to get some rest. It’d be the end of us both if I tried to drive any more tonight. I’ll be right back out to get my satchel and say goodnight.”
She could still hear him baying as the lobby door closed behind her.
“I have one room left, lucky for you,” said the manager, back at her desk now. The couple was nowhere in sight.
“Yes!” Lovey smiled sweetly, digging in her purse. “Aha! Lifesaver?” she said, holding out half a roll of Butter-Rum with the foil curling down over her hand. She silently recited the memory verse she’d learned three quarters of a century ago in Sunday School: Therefore if thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink: for in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head.
“No,” said the manager, clacking her computer keyboard.
“Thank you,” said Lovey, imagining little bits of coal bouncing off the marble desk and the floor.
Outside, Buster grinned through the open window when he saw her. Lovey pulled her satchel out of the trunk, along with a small bag of Dog Chow, Buster’s bowl, and a plastic milk carton full of water. She sat sideways in the back seat with the door open while he ate his supper. Her feet dangled over the pavement, which was still warm from the day. A smattering of stars toiled through the pollution of the capital city and a breeze cooled her face, bringing with it the scent of cherry blossoms.
“Lucky me!” she murmured, when she saw that the night manager was preoccupied with scolding a maintenance man on the far side of the lobby. Making her way to the elevators, Lovey used her right leg to help the satchel along.
The elevator opened with an arrogant ding and Lovey shuffled in. Setting the bag down first, she straightened and pushed the button for the seventh floor. As the doors were closing, the older couple she’d seen before hurried over. “Hold the elevator, please,” the man said. Lovey made a half-hearted gesture toward the button panel, hoping the doors would close, but the man stuck his cane in at the last moment causing the doors to retract. The couple made their way inside, both nodding prim greetings to Lovey.
“Evenin’,” she said.
As the elevator started up, a long, low whine sounded faintly from the corner where Lovey was standing. The couple turned their heads toward her. Lovey thought how if the woman’s eyebrows were raised any higher, they’d just disappear right into her hairline.
“Ah . . . excuse me,” Lovey said, patting her stomach.
The elevator stopped at the fourth floor and the couple got off. The doors closed and Lovey laughed aloud as she unzipped the bag a few inches to see Buster’s nose poke out, sniffing in all directions. The lights glowed softly, illumining the mirrored walls. Neil Diamond’s voice drizzled out of the speakers like warm rain. She hummed along.
At the threshold of room 702 she stood motionless. The bed alone was bigger than her bathroom back home and spread with a polyester paisley quilt in shades of blue and burgundy. And there were “. . . three, four, five lamps. In one room,” she said, stepping in and closing the door.
Buster's first act of freedom: jumping on the bed to roll around. “You get right down, you hooligan. If little miss couch vest sees even one stray dog hair, who knows what might become of us?”
Lovey closed the curtains and took a seat on the desk chair near the window. The thought of eating something was appealing, but she’d left her sack dinner on the back seat of the car with the rest of the overnight belongings she’d dumped out to make room for Buster.
“Buster, can you mind your manners whiles I go back to the car?” He pointed his nose at the ceiling fan and braced himself for a proper howl. Lovey held his mouth closed with her hand. “Oop. Never mind.” On the table lay a room service menu. $12.95 for a grilled cheese sandwich with applesauce. “Sinful.” Perhaps she wasn’t all that hungry, anyhow. She pulled off her shoes and knee-highs and lay down, flipping on the television.
A few hours later, she stretched, turning onto her side. “Tonight, our top story takes us to the Middle East, where the death toll continues to rise . . .,” a newscaster droned.
“Honey, we fell asleep,” she murmured.
Buster, on the floor beside the bed, lifted his head and looked at her.
“Turn off the light, will you, angel?”
She opened her eyes. Paisley everywhere. She wept.
Buster jumped up on the bed and, keeping his belly low, inched toward her. He found her hand and nudged it with his nose. “Sweet Jesus, take me away,” Lovey whispered.
It dawned on her that she sounded like the Calgon lady. Abraham would have a good hoot if he could hear her. She closed her eyes again and a sigh shuddered through her. She had always hated those commercials.
But he was laughing when he came to her. His eyes, framed with wrinkles, were the color of fudge, and his skin smelled of the Smoky Mountains. The white stubble on his face was like sandpaper on the palm of her hand. They kissed under a magnolia tree. She brought him coffee while he studied for his final exams in seminary. She knelt beside him as he rocked their baby son to sleep. She nagged him about the dirty socks he left at the foot of the bed under the sheets. She marched with him on the steps of the state capitol building in Raleigh. They ate green bean casserole at church potlucks and cried at the funerals of children, including their own son, killed in the Korean War. They played hula hoops with their granddaughter on the front lawn of the parsonage. Lovey found him on his knees in the sanctuary on the day of Dr. King’s death. They bought groceries at the Piggly Wiggly, and she soaked the ring around the collar out of his shirts. She felt his tears on her bare feet as he begged forgiveness for a moment of weakness with another woman. They yelled. They prayed. They reconciled. They held hands at their granddaughter’s college graduation. His warm thigh stuck to hers while they sat on the porch swing watching fireflies play as evening fell around them. She tasted the lemonade they drank on a break when they patched a hole in the roof after Hurricane Fran. She watched the smoke rise off of Abraham’s birthday cake, and his smiling face behind eight candles, one for every decade of his life. She felt the cold weight of his arms around her, the same as she had every morning since she woken up and found him dead.
Crying out, she sat up. Her teeth chattered as she pulled the spread more tightly around her. Shadows dawdled in the corner of the room near the window. Birds were rehearsing the song of first light. She would not sleep anymore tonight.
