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AUNT MARTHA AND THE VERY SAME” By Mary Brunini McArdle
Nobody listens to ten-year-olds. Especially ten-year- old girls with vivid imaginations who tend to speak in exaggerated language. I kept telling Mama I thought Aunt Martha needed extra care. (Actually I wanted to say she was losing it, but even at ten, I wasn’t totally lacking in tact.) Aunt Martha had lived with us for as long as I could remember. She was really my great-aunt, being my late grandfather’s sister. Aunt Martha was a tiny woman with dyed, permed hair. She didn’t have much education, and she couldn’t work at the jobs available to her because her shoe size was a one and a half and her feet couldn’t support even her weight, which was negligible. As small as she was, Aunt Martha sang with gusto at church. She must have known all the hymns by heart; I always sat next to her, so I was able to observe she held her hymnbook upside down. I forgot to mention what happened last Sunday morning. “Joyful, joyful, we adore Thee,’’ trilled Aunt Martha, head nodding in time to the music. Something skinny and white wobbled with each note. I reached out quietly and removed the Q-tip that was sticking out of her left ear. She went right on singing. Aunt Martha and I rode home in the back seat. “I feel so much better this morning, Jennifer.’’ “I didn’t know you’d been sick.’’ “I had the flu for an hour yesterday.’’ “Huh?” “My skin hurt.” “Where?’’ “All over. My hair hurt too.’’ My father taught philosophy at the University. You are aware of what those people are like-—philosophy majors, I mean. He had a lofty view of life, not a very practical one. I ventured my concern about Aunt Martha to him-—at least I tried to. He patted my head and said with an amiable smile that I was not to worry-—she was an old lady and we were all going to be there someday. I was genuinely puzzled when Aunt Martha started sending me to the post office every week with letters addressed to “The Very Same; Little Rock, Arkansas; U.S.A.’’ The post office was so close to our house I was allowed to go unattended. Aunt Martha never got any answers from anyone named “The Very Same,” needless to say. She never got any mail. I found out eventually Mama retrieved the returned letters while I was at school, although she did not have the courtesy to enlighten me about this. Mama had her garden club over one last time before fall ended and winter began. Mama’s white trellis with the climbing red roses (still blooming in October) was her pride and joy. I never could figure why all those garden club ladies, who supposedly loved the outdoors, wanted to sit in the dining room drinking coffee and eating homemade brownies instead of taking advantage of the beautiful weather. Aunt Martha sure was. She was busy pulling the roses off the trellis. The ladies didn’t notice what was going on, but I did. The garden club met in the late afternoon, after school, so I was there. I watched from the kitchen window as Aunt Martha tore down those roses with a vengeance. She had a lot of energy for someone who didn’t have feet. The garden club ladies left by way of the front door. Mama came in the kitchen to clear up the dessert dishes and the coffee cups. I attempted to tell her about the roses, but she said she was busy and either I could help her with the dishes or I could be even more useful and set the table for dinner. She was bound to have discovered what happened to the trellis while I was at school the next day, but I was not invited to participate in a discussion of the event if such a discussion ever took place. I checked out a couple of library books on family problems and learned all about something called “denial.” Everything came to a head the following Sunday. We were having a big dinner, with relatives from out of town. Some of them had never been to Tuscaloosa before. Aunt Martha was decked out in a flower-print dress, patent-leather pumps, beaded earrings, a matching necklace and bracelet, and assorted hair ornaments. One of the visiting women, trying to engage everyone in polite but boring conversation, asked Aunt Martha how she liked living in Alabama. “Oh,” Aunt Martha said. “Is that where we are? In Alabama?” The female relative stammered and stuttered, while Mama asked brightly if anyone wanted another biscuit. Aunt Martha jumped up and announced she would see us all later. I stared at her in disbelief. Something thick and brown was pouring down the front of her dress. She had filled her pockets with the gravy from the pot roast! Mama hastily excused herself and escorted Aunt Martha to the staircase. I followed them. “What were you doing, Martha?’’ Mama hissed. “I thought The Very Same might want some of this gravy. Sometimes people get hungry when it’s not dinner time, dear.’’ Worse than the Q-tip in the ear, I thought. Mama made an appointment with a counselor the next day. I guess she saw no point to any further denial. How could she? There was a trail of gravy from the dining room table through the front hail and up the stairs. You know, with all those little incidents—some of them impossible to ignore—you’d think somebody else would have voiced concern. But, as I said, nobody seriously acknowledges ten-year-old girls. The accumulation of peculiar behaviors finally captured Mama and Daddy’s attention long enough for them to stop their denial and admit Aunt Martha was off the wall, so to speak. They got her a room at the Crabapple Corner Retirement Home. The move revealed so many hair ornaments in Aunt Martha’s drawers I figured she had been shoplifting at the local Wal-mart. She had to have had an accomplice, but then she was cute enough to talk anybody into anything. My first visit to Aunt Martha in her new digs brought forth a startling revelation. “Aunt Martha, I never knew you were married.’’ “Not for long. My darling died in my arms.’’ I gasped. “What did you do?” “Well, it was an hour or so before our maid’s daughter’s wedding. So I propped Harold up against a chair and went on.’’ “Went where?’’ “To the wedding, dear. I was already dressed. Naturally I stopped off at a department store on the way to get Harold a nice suit. And called the coroner when I got back home. It was in Nashville. That’s where we were then.’’ I’m not sure assisted living is sufficient, I thought. These ambulatory cases have way too much freedom. I was right. The retirement home wasn’t really equipped to handle someone like Aunt Martha, who despite her obvious dementia, was an extremely crafty old lady of an outstanding—should I say it—criminal nature. The exit doors at the ends of the halls were kept locked at Crabapple Corner for the safety of the residents. Only the head nurses had keys; the doors were there in case of fire. Unfortunately, Aunt Martha learned how to set off the fire alarm: the doors would swing open and off she would go, compelling the personnel to chase after her in hot pursuit. My parents were very upset the weekend she was out all night. She spent the time digging up the begonias. Personally I was sympathetic. She probably longed for the romantic presence of the Very Same, a pleasure she was consistently denied. (Because he wasn’t real.) Once I asked, “Aunt Martha, when was the last time you saw him? The Very Same, I mean.’’ “Oh, my dear, you know he isn’t in town all that often. When he is we have to meet by the camellia bushes. He’s a bit shy. He doesn’t really like this place that much.’’ “Is that why you two correspond?’’ I said innocently, playing along. (It was now my responsibility to dispose of the returned mail.) “Of course. The family doesn’t approve of him.’’ I started to request a description, but she shook her head and put a finger to her lips. Then she handed me the weekly bundle of envelopes to take to the post office. Since I was only eleven by this time, I still couldn’t drive. Mama dropped me off to visit Aunt Martha on Saturdays. But there was a shuttle bus that took the residents places during the week—-doctor appointments, shopping, even church. Many of these services were on the grounds themselves, but everybody likes an outing. Aunt Martha went to the eye doctor, the dentist, the nose and throat man—none of whom had her chart and none of whom had given her an appointment. She just sat in the waiting rooms until the shuttle came back. This practice was not detected for months, until one Tuesday Mama arrived to take her to the dentist and a well-meaning nurse inquired if Aunt Martha was holding up. “So much dental work lately,” the nurse clucked sympathetically. “Don’t you think it’s a little hard on older people to go three times a week?’’ Aunt Martha didn’t hop the shuttle to the mall at first because of her feet. Then she found out about those little motorized things. “Jennifer, they’re just wonderful!’’ she exclaimed enthusiastically as she licked stamps and sealed envelopes all addressed to “The Very Same.’’ “That’s good, Aunt Martha. Are they expensive?’’ “No, just a couple of dollars. And fast—oh, my! You can’t imagine how fast.’’ And so are you, I thought, remembering the roses. Aunt Martha had stripped the trellis in fifteen minutes. But even I did not foresee how far this was going to go. Later I was able to trace the details of the mall trip. First Aunt Martha got out of bed at three in the morning. She put some spools of thread in her pocket and crept into the room next to hers. A corner was turned afterwards, just out of sight of the nurses’ desk. By the time Aunt Martha was finished, all hell had broken loose. Residents in the entire wing rang bells and screamed for help. Puzzled nurses tried to comfort panicked residents, not understanding what in the world was wrong with them. You couldn’t see the thread under the bedclothes, reaching from each of the women’s big toes to the hall and on to Aunt Martha’s room, where she held her spools and gently tugged. Aunt Martha’s escapade caused so much confusion that the missing wallets containing credit cards and social security identification were overlooked. It took me weeks to realize that the lettering on the envelopes to The Very Same was quite varied. Aunt Martha evidently had been practicing her handwriting on each one. By the time she had her wing in an uproar the night of the toe threads, she had learned to forge every signature she had ever seen. Somehow she scooted away from the Crabapple group early in the mall excursion and made a beeline for the largest anchor store. Since the packages she returned with were no larger than anyone else’s—two or three large bags--who would have thought Aunt Martha ran up four thousand dollars worth of credit card bills that day? It wasn’t long before complaints about the missing wallets began coming in. In the interim, several large stands of flowers were delivered to the chapel, minus cards. The kitchen received one hundred plastic champagne cups and some fancy paper napkins, the help arguing with the delivery men to no avail. I suppose family members were looking into the thefts, but I couldn’t be everywhere at once. I had no access to any resident’s room other than Aunt Martha’s, so I didn’t hear the buzz of speculation that had to be going on. The following Friday I received a phone call. “Sure, Aunt Martha. I’ll ask Mama to bring me to see you at nine instead of ten. No problem.’’ The lobby was serene Saturday morning. Two ladies were watching TV; a few were sitting near the windows. A lone nurse manned the desk, her head bent over a stack of charts. I waved and started down the hall to Aunt Martha’s room, which was about halfway to the fire exit. The hall was as quiet as the lobby. Suddenly Aunt Martha’s door flew open. “I know it’s a second marriage, but I thought white would still be appropriate. The Very Same is so special.’’ I gaped at her. She stood framed in the doorway, a fluffy fingertip veil and crystal-beaded crown topping her frizzed hair. The scalloped hemline of her silk file gown waffled across the toes of her black patent leather shoes. Pearls and rhinestones dangled from her earlobes. The bright red lipstick on her mouth slashed down one corner. She held an enormous bouquet of gerber daisies, stargazer lilies, and carnations. A little crowd had gathered behind me. “The chapel looks like an arbor,’’ someone said in a stage whisper. “Expensive little dress,’’ murmured another of the bystanders. Meanwhile Aunt Martha slowly began picking off the daisy petals, one by one. They showered to the floor like rain. “Loves me, loves me not,’’ she giggled. The End
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