Tales of the City 07 - Michael Tolliver Lives

other.”
    Perversely, I found myself thinking of a home pregnancy test. Or one of those sticks you pee on for the Atkins diet. “So,” I said, losing patience with my sister-in-law’s theatrics. “I take it she’s a blue…whatever…now?”
    “Bloater,” she said. “Yes.”
    “And what does that mean exactly?”
    “It means that the arms and legs get all puffy and—”
    “Bloated,” I said.
    “Yes.” She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “And the skin gets sorta bluish.”
    “Right.”
    “Don’t worry,” Lenore said. “She keeps it covered up when she’s got company.”
    “With makeup, you mean?”
    She nodded ominously. “I’m afraid so.” She widened her eyes as if to suggest, ever so nicely, that I should brace myself for a major cosmetic atrocity. Then she climbed out of the Puppet Wagon and fussed briefly with her hair in the rearview mirror. “Don’t forget your pretty flowers,” she said, meaning the hydrangea in the backseat.
    Spotting that plant on a table at Kroger’s, I’d remembered how much Mama loved hydrangeas. There were half a dozen bushes blooming in our backyard every summer, some of them the size of pup tents. Mama would pull up a lawn chair when the sprinkler was on, just to smoke her Slims and watch those thirsty blue globes bobbing in the spray.
    To a boy of seven—Sumter’s age, come to think of it—Mama seemed nothing less than a sorceress when it came to hydrangeas. I remember watching in amazement as she knelt in her cotton sundress to crucify the ground with rusty nails—a trick that she assured me would turn blue blossoms into pink ones before the year was out.
    My love of gardening had come from this woman.
    Her and Anna Madrigal.

    The lobby of the Gospel Palms was tiny but efficient, presided over by a sweet-spirited portrait of a blue-eyed Christ delivering the Sermon on the Mount. There was an alcove for visitors and a mini–florist’s cooler—more like a vending machine, really—that dispensed carnation corsages in several unnatural colors. Behind the reception desk sat a balding Middle Eastern man who nodded at Lenore as we passed, though she didn’t even bother to slow down. I noticed the bumper stickers on his file cabinet— PROUD AMERICAN and SUPPORT OUR TROOPS —strategically positioned for the benefit of anxious visitors. Poor bastard, I thought. Guantánamo Bay must seem awfully close.
    Outside Mama’s room we held a brief powwow, where Ben, bless his heart, offered to take Lenore over to Starbucks so I could have some time with Mama before introductions were made. She was sitting up in a chair when I entered. Her face was made alien by a bulbous nebulizer mask, and her hair was a meticulous helmet of lavender blue, obviously done that morning. She’d been waiting for me, I realized.
    Seeing me in the doorway, she yanked off the mask in embarrassment. “Mikey,” she said, her voice more gravelly than I’d ever heard it. “Lenore was spose to warn me.”
    “It’s all right,” I said, smiling at her. “I’ve worn one o’ those myself.” I was relieved to see that her makeup, while a little on the goopy side, was not nearly as gruesome as Lenore had suggested. It seemed to cover the blue, at any rate.
    I set the hydrangea on the bedside table and knelt to hug her, entering the faint mist of her nebulizer. She was wearing an old polyester pantsuit, and her legs did seem to be swollen. She pulled my cheek against hers, then released me with a brisk pat.
    “When did you get to be so gray?” she asked.
    I smiled at her. “About the time you got to be heliotrope.”
    This was only meant to be affectionate, but a cloud passed over her face. “Did Lenore tell y’all…?” She stopped to suck air through pursed lips as if—God forbid—she were toking on a joint. “Did Lenore…ssss…tell y’all I was turning colors?”
    I was mortified. “Oh, no, Mama! I just meant your hair color.”
    “Oh.” She patted the side of her Easter-egg do, almost girlishly proud of it. When nothing else can be done, I thought, you can always do your hair .
    “I like it,” I told her. “It’s very becoming.”
    “Patreese did it. My new hairdresser…ssss…Black as the ace of spades…ssss…but very talented.”
    In the old days, I would have taken issue with her phraseology—and she would have accused me of overreacting—but it was way too late for all that now.
    Mama shot a nervous glance toward the door. “She