Page 136 of Can't Get Enough

“Good.” She picks up her fork and stabs a piece of baked chicken, by order of Dr. Katz reducing her intake of fried foods. “My baby girl went and got her a rich man. Lucky Hendrix.”

“I’m the lucky one.” I glance up to smile and then resume eating.

“Hendrix hasn’t brought many boys home.” She snorts. “I know my daughter. I know it’s not because she didn’thaveany, but she didn’t see fit to bring many of them around. So you must be special.”

“I hope so. She’s certainly special to me.”

“Did she tell you ’bout me and her daddy?”

The smile freezes on my face at her words, and I weigh my response carefully. I know how rare it is for Mrs. Barry to discuss Hendrix’s father, and that often when she does, it’s in a fugue of confusion.

“Just that you met really young,” I say after a moment.

“Knew each other since we were kids.” Mrs. Barry chuckles. “I couldn’t stand his big head.”

“Why not?” An involuntary smile tugs at the corners of my mouth.

“He thought he was hot stuff.”

“Was he?”

“Oh, yeah, but he didn’t have to act like it.” We laugh together for a little bit before she continues. “He was good-looking and smart. Played football.”

“Ahhh. Had some swagger, did he?”

“Lots of it. He walked right up to me and said,Betty, it’s gon’ be you and me.”

“And what’d you do?”

“Kicked him in the shin.”

Our laughter mixes in the otherwise quiet kitchen again before we move on.

“How’d he win you over?” I ask.

“His mama had this beautiful garden. We had a contest every year for prize flowers. Her ranunculus won just about every time. They were famous around here. He would bring me one from her garden every Sunday.”

“Like to your house?”

“He’d leave it on my front porch. No note. Just the flower. Everybody knew his mama’s ranunculus. No mistaking them.”

“How long did he do that?”

“Two years.” She chuckles and it’s a little raspy, slightly hoarse with emotion. “One Sunday we were in tenth grade, he showed up with his flower, ready to leave it, and I was sitting on the front porch.”

“No way. And what did you say?”

“I saidThere’s a dance at school next week. Wanna go?”

I sputter out a laugh. “After two years, just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“What changed your mind?”

“I don’t know that my mind needed changing. I think I knew in eighth grade he was it for me, too, which I know sounds strange. We both had some growing up to do. You know girls are always more mature than boys. Sometimes things just need to be proved out. Even at that age, he showed me and he showed me till the day that he…”

Her words wither and sorrow clouds her eyes. I’ve seen this lookon my father’s face a hundred times. Are there words in the lexicography of human emotion for how it feels to lose the love of your life? It’s articulated in wails and tears, in the impenetrable loneliness that comes with losing such a vital part of who you are. Your person, closer than anyone to you, is now irretrievable, beyond reach. A mourning with no sunrise. You never know what to say when faced with that kind of devastation. I’ve learned to say nothing at all. No platitude or condolence could make it any better. All I can do is be human enough to listen and try to understand. After a moment, Mrs. Barry walks to the kitchen window, folding her arms and contemplating the chaos of foliage and weeds out back.

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