Beaming Sonny Home (8 page)

“Come on, Mama,” Gracie panted. “Come work out to these old songs.”

“Are you crazy?” asked Mattie. “I got underwear older than them songs. Besides, that boy gives me the creeps.”

“Richard?” Gracie asked. She seemed astonished. Mattie turned the volume down on the VHS tape. Her teeth were beginning to rattle. “I thought everyone
loved
Richard.” Gracie did a little dance, what looked to Mattie like a drunken version of the Charleston.

“I'd take a poll in a lumber camp, if I were you,” Mattie advised.

“Well,” Gracie puffed, arms and legs flailing, her words now jumping up and down with her. “I for one would be thrilled if Richard was to turn up at my house, in that cute little blue convertible of his.”

“And that's another thing,” said Mattie. “What kind of life is there to tracking down fat people and snooping in their refrigerator?”

“Oh, Richard don't look in anyone's refrigerator,” said Marlene, who had appeared in the living room doorway. She had a towel wrapped about her head and was wearing a bathrobe. More hot water money down the drain, that's what Marlene represented to Mattie. “All he does is sit on a fat person's sofa and cry with them. He's saved thousands of lives. Where do you get the notions you get, Mama? That's what I'd like to know.”

“She watches too many of them so-called news shows,” said Gracie. “This Diamond Ring” had come on, a song Mattie remembered from her daughters' high school days, and now Gracie seemed to be prancing, a Clydesdale with silver fetlocks. Mattie decided to ignore them both. If Richard Simmons wanted to wade through the old magazines and loaded ashtrays and dirty dishes at Gracie's house, so be it. Just wait until he opened the refrigerator door over
there
. That'd teach him to keep his little poodle nose out of other people's business. Besides, it was Charlie's dumping her for Sally Fennelson that inspired Gracie to lose those fifty pounds that had sneaked up about her buttocks and thighs over the years of her marriage. And it was sheer despair that had tossed her toward women's studies courses at the university. Richard Simmons had little to do with it.

Mattie went into the kitchen, caught up the teakettle on her way to the sink, and filled it with water. She didn't want tea, but her geraniums needed a drink and a teakettle's spout was long and perfect for watering plants.

“Besides,” Mattie heard Gracie saying to Marlene, “Richard only visits real
fat
women. I just got this ten to lose.”

“Wait until ‘Wipe Out' starts playing,” Marlene warned. “It'll make that ten pounds feel like forty.”

Mattie let the geraniums drink until water appeared above the soil, as well as in the little catch dish that sat beneath the pot.

“Good heavens,” said Mattie. “I'm gonna drown you poor things if I don't start concentrating on what I'm doing.” But she could still hear Sonny's voice, that soft curl in every word he chose, the whisper of a large laugh just lying between the lines. What was gonna happen to her son?

At six o'clock, Donna, the reporter, opened the
Channel
4 News
with a teaser promising that even newer developments were ahead with Sonny Gifford, who was still holed up in his estranged wife's house trailer. Mattie noticed that there were more cameras than ever milling about the street in front of the trailer, more people trying to look important.

“What does
estranged
mean?” Mattie asked any of her daughters.

“It means she can't wait to get legally divorced,” Gracie explained. “Believe me, I been there.”

“Separated, Mama,” said Marlene. “It means they're separated but ain't divorced yet.” Mattie nodded. It was all so
strange
these days, anyway. Marriages weren't taken any more seriously than signing up for a night class, or putting a winter coat on layaway. It wasn't long term, like the old days. In the old days, marriages were like wars. You were in for the duration. But what could Mattie say against the new way? She knew damn well that if someone had waved a divorce in her face back when she first caught Lester Gifford in bed with another woman, a Mattagash woman at that, she'd have snapped that paper up in a minute. But no one got a divorce back then. A few people chose not to live together, but they stayed married. What was a Mattagash woman going to do with a bevy of little children, little ducks, tagging along behind her and no way to feed them? There weren't any jobs in Mattagash back then for women. There weren't any
now
. Now Gracie was taking all those courses at the college in order to construct a new life for herself, and Charlie was paying her alimony. Mattie wondered what Lester would've said about alimony. If she hadn't had that falling-out with Martha, she could go on over some afternoon and ask Lester that very question through the miracles of the Ouija board. WOULD YOU HAVE GIVEN ME ALIMONY MONEY IF I'D DIVORCED YOU? YOO-HOO, LESTER GIFFORD? YOU THERE, OR DO YOU HAVE SOME LITTLE ANGEL PRESSED TO HER BACK ON A SOFT CLOUD SOMEWHERE, HER LITTLE WINGS PRIED WIDE OPEN?

After the commercial, Donna was back, her eyes bright with excitement as she recounted the events of the past twenty-seven hours: John Lennon's appearance on Sonny's TV, the wine cooler commercial, the line of people at the bank, the controversy over whether Sonny carried a real gun, the dog, the whole shebang.

“And now, Dan,” Donna said, staring the camera straight in its eye, “there have been more developments in this very unusual story.” Mattie kept her attention on the trailer, which sat above Donna's right shoulder. A dozen or so policemen stood guard along a yellow plastic ribbon, which was now encircling the trailer's front lawn, and that's where the newspeople had been herded, like obedient cattle. “According to Police Chief Melon,” Donna continued, “Mr. Gifford has demanded that he speak directly to the press.” Dan's voice flooded the picture now, as though he were a kindly god.

“And is Chief Melon willing to go along with this, Donna?” he asked. Donna's face scrunched up with deep concern.

“Dan, we believe that the chief of police is willing to do just about anything to see this unfortunate incident resolved peacefully, with both women safely out of the trailer and Mr. Gifford taken into custody and then perhaps held for psychiatric observation.”

“It's about time,” said Rita.

“Why are the police letting him talk to newspeople, anyway?” Marlene wanted to know. Mattie smiled. She'd bet a million dollars if she had it that Sonny had refused to talk privately over the phone and had insisted on some attention being paid to him. How else could he let Sheila Bumphrey Gifford know his heart was breaking? How else could he let her see his handsome face again, let her remember just what she was giving up?

Now a policeman was lifting the ribbon so that Donna and what appeared to be a few other reporters could duck under. Donna began a brisk walk across the lawn, headed toward the trailer, her cameraman trailing behind like a well-trained dog. Mattie could see that four of the policemen had positioned themselves about the tiny front porch. Another seemed to be talking to the window of the trailer's door. His hands were motioning, his head occasionally nodding. He turned to face the crowd.

“Don't go up on the porch,” Mattie could hear the policeman warning the press.

“No one but press is allowed in the yard,” a booming voice declared from offscreen. Donna was saying something about family members having come by to ask about their loved ones. Now, with a gesture of importance, she pushed her way into the group of other reporters. The cameraman followed as the camera noted the three small steps leading up to the front porch. Then the eye of the camera zoomed in and waited on the screened window of the door. The policeman made a gesture.

“It looks as if we're ready to begin, Dan,” Donna said. Microphones surged upward in the air. Mattie counted seven. And then she saw Sonny's perfect silhouette on the other side of his estranged wife's screen door. He looked taller than she remembered him, but that might have been the netting of the screen working up a trick, or a shadow that changed the outlook of things. All that really mattered was that he seemed okay, talking above the pain of his broken heart.

“I'm gonna lift this screen,” Sonny was saying, “but you cops make sure you don't try something you saw on TV last week. Remember I got a gun in here and it's pointed at two innocent females.” The screen slid up out of sight, like an eyelid disappearing, and then there was Sonny's handsome face as he squinted out into the eye of the camera. He was prettier than any movie star Mattie had ever seen, and that included Gary Cooper, whose picture she had kept over her teenaged bed until she married Lester.

“He's got himself a nice tan,” said Mattie. “Funny how you girls always burned but Sonny could get himself a tan while standing on his head.”

“He's stupid enough to stand on his head to get a tan,” said Rita. “I'll give him that much.”

“He probably worked on his pickup one afternoon when the sun was out,” Gracie said. “I doubt he's been working in construction, or a real job.”

“Mr. Gifford,” Donna's voice said from offscreen. Her hand was still in the picture, holding her microphone. Mattie could see other microphones appearing near Donna's own. “Can you give us a statement as to why you've taken these two women hostage?” Sonny thought a bit about this. Donna waited.

“The way I see it,” Sonny said, and then paused. Rita and Gracie sighed in chorus, but Mattie smiled. Even as a child, Sonny had had a flair about him, a penchant for a little drama. He knew how to work an audience, and that's why he'd always had so many girlfriends. And now the whole state of Maine was waiting to hear his answer. Maybe even other parts of America, too, judging from the number of microphones. Sonny cleared his throat again and then spat a little jet of spittle out through his teeth, spat it down toward his feet. It disappeared like a tiny comet trailing foam.

“Gross,” said Rita.

“Billy Plunkett taught him how to do that,” Gracie said. “One day on the school bus. There was spit all over the floor of the bus. Patty Fennelson slipped and fell.”

“Clam up!” said Mattie.

“The way I see it,” Sonny was saying now. A thick silence engulfed Mattie and the girls. They bent forward, perching birds, and waited. “The way I see it,” Sonny said again, “this is one small step for Sonny Gifford, but one giant leap for welfare recipients everywhere.”

“What is it that you expect the city of Bangor to do for welfare recipients, Mr. Gifford?” Donna asked. “Or is this a statement which you're directing all the way toward Washington, to President Clinton, perhaps?” Sonny seemed to like the notion of that. He smiled broadly.

“I can't believe they're interviewing him like he's important,” said Rita, “instead of the petty criminal he in fact is.” Mattie kicked the toe of Rita's sneaker, a command to silence.

“I ain't quite had the opportunity to figure out what Mr. Lennon was trying to tell me,” Sonny answered truthfully. This was another fine point which Mattie had always appreciated in her boy. There might be a side to Sonny that would eat the Lord's Last Supper, thinking it was cooked for
him
, and then ask Jesus for a doggie bag. But, regardless of what his sisters declared, the boy hardly ever lied. “When I figure it all out, I'll let you know. In the meantime, I'll be needing some supplies sent in, not to mention a few cans of dog food. And this may be a bit delicate for some of your listeners,” Sonny added, “but one of my guests—and I won't say which one so as not to embarrass her publicly—will need a box of them little tampon things.” Someone tittered loudly behind Donna's shoulder, and Mattie realized it must have been the cameraman. Donna turned and looked sharply beyond the camera, a quick warning.

“Mr. Gifford, do you have any intention at this time of releasing your hostages?” a man standing next to Donna asked. He had the air about him of a big-city television reporter. Bigger-city-than-Bangor television. Sonny ignored the man's question. But that was Sonny. He'd never bow to social pressure.

“Mr. Gifford?” another reporter called out. This was a woman with a long, narrow face and curly brown hair. “Mr. Gifford, if you had to describe yourself in one sentence, what would it be?” Sonny cocked his head, his profile tipping on its side just a bit.

“You might say that I'm Mattagash, Maine's biggest underachiever,” Sonny announced.

“He said a mouthful there,” said Marlene. Sometimes Mattie wished Sonny wouldn't be so darn friendly with strangers, especially if they had microphones in their hands.

“I was born on the Ides of March,” Sonny continued. “You ever heard of them?”

“I thought he was born March fifteenth,” said Rita.

More questions were thrown at Sonny, words all welded together in the excitement of competition. He finally held up his hand, silencing them.

“Now,” said Sonny, “if you'll excuse me for interrupting your questions, someone wants to say hello.” He disappeared from the window. Reporters scrambled about near the porch. Microphones bounced around in the air. Photographers pushed into the picture suddenly and onto Mattie's television screen.

“He's gonna let one of the hostages say hello,” Gracie whispered. Mattie could almost feel the waves of tension washing all the way up from Bangor, drowning everyone who sat watching in Mattagash, Maine. She imagined her neighbors, up and down the twisty Mattagash road that followed the twisty Mattagash River, could hear their intakes of breath being sucked up into their chests, could imagine their eyes burning holes into a few dozen television screens. Sonny was back at the window with the poodle in his arms.

“Oh God!” shouted Rita. “We'll be the laughingstock of town!” Sonny looked into the camera and smiled his Sonny smile.