June 20, 2008 (revised July 9, 2008)
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Every Sunday afternoon, my wife and I visited him at his house not far from the open-air dope market that was the main employer on his street.
Our visits were predictable. First we�d urge him to move in with us, in our much safer neighborhood. He�d be no trouble at all, we would say. He would adamantly refuse our offer, saying he valued his independence and, anyway, he couldn�t abandon the town he�d lived in all his life, despite �the increasing amount of blacks,� not that he had anything against most black people, of course.
Then he would try converting us to hardcore Christianity, not the hardcore we liked, but we didn�t tell him that. Instead, we would nod and keep nodding as he went on with his pitch. �I wouldn�t have a good time in heaven,� he would say, �if I looked down and saw my darling Jessica and you weeping and gnashing your teeth in hell for all eternity. How could you ruin your happiness and mine by not being born again?�
He had always called her �my darling Jessica.� He was the only person she would allow to call her that. Even if I could have called her that, I wouldn�t have�too drippy.
Anyway, finally, we would ask him if he�d like to see a movie with us. My wife and I saw a movie almost every Sunday at the Deluxe 22 multiplex at the mall. He had never let her go to the movies herself during her childhood, so as an adult, she couldn�t get enough of them, even the loudest and most frenetic comic-book ones aimed at the teenage boys she taught in her art class. Anyway, he would never respond to our invitation, instead lowering his head and muttering something inaudible, probably some prayer he�d picked up from The Trumpet, that religioso paper he�d received weekly for the past few decades.
Then one week, during one of our visits, before we could even say hello, he said yes, he would see a movie with us at Deluxe 22.
My wife and I were surprised, to say the least. She asked him why he�d changed his mind after all these years. He replied �Christians need to undergo at least one trial before they pass.� He�d started talking more than usual lately about dying, or �passing,� but who could blame him? He was seventy and had grown increasingly frail, especially after his divorce.
Anyway, he said he�d called the theater before our visit to find out their movies, and that he knew what he wanted to see. My wife and I thought it would be the only G-rated movie playing, Molly Mae: Farmhouse Girl, based on that line of Farmhouse dolls that nerdy girl in my wife�s art class still collected. Instead, he chose Meet the Dung Beetles, another of those slick, computer-animated monstrosities filled with off-color jokes he wouldn�t like and pop-cultural references he wouldn�t understand. And let�s not forget the dung motif.
�Are you sure you�d like to see this?� I asked him.
�It really is the perfect trial,� he replied.
An hour later, the three of us were standing in line at the Deluxe 22 concession stand. My wife had insisted he experience everything. She loved everything about moviegoing�the long lines, the sticky floors, the ringing cell phones. She tended to love social activities in general, the sense of belonging with other people. I could take or leave other people, tuning them out if they got too annoying, a good talent to have considering the profusion of terminally-hip twentysomething interns in the ergonomics department.
He hadn�t said anything since arriving at the theater. The line inched forward.
Just as the line was inching forward again, he said �Carla!� in a loud voice to someone. The woman in question stood about five feet to our left, carrying a giant box of Jujyfruits. A pair of identical twin girls in identical peasant dresses surrounded her.
�Al!� she said to my father-in-law. They sounded glad to have run into each other.
He introduced her to us. Carla Fincher, works part-time at In the Beginning, that Christian bookstore at the mall. He�d met her a while ago when he�d ducked into the bookstore to catch his breath after some especially vigorous Seniors� Mallwalking.
She said she was here with the twins, her granddaughters Emily and Emma, both eight years old. The twins said �hi� at the same time. She said the three of them were going to see �the Farmhouse thing.�
�What a coincidence,� he said. �The three of us were going to see that movie ourselves.�
�That�s right,� my wife said with a smile. I almost laughed.
�Say�could we all sit together?� he asked Carla. �That would make a nice group, wouldn�t you say?�
So we all sat together to watch Molly Mae: Farmhouse Girl.
I thought Carla�s twin granddaughters were more interesting than the movie. They looked biracial, with the same foot-long braided ponytails, probably fake. The twins sat together and would move in sync, even coughing at the same time.
My father-in-law, meanwhile, apparently thought Carla was more interesting than the movie. He kept glancing at her. She glanced back a few times.
Afterwards, in the lobby, he said the movie was cute.
�It was very cute,� one of the twins said.
�I agree, but it should have had some modern music in it,� the other twin said.
�That�s right. Not everyone likes old-fashioned music.�
�They love the music on the Disney Channel,� Carla said.
I could tell from my father-in-law�s expression that he really, really wanted to say something he knew he would really, really regret.
A few minutes later, we all said goodbye to each other, promising to meet again, maybe for another movie.
As the three of us drove to my father-in-law�s house to drop him off, my wife behind the wheel, my father-in-law riding shotgun, she said �You�re a smooth operator, you know that, Dad?�
�What do you mean?� he asked.
�You wanted to see your first movie in decades because you knew she�d be there with her grandkids! Did you think they�d see the dung beetle movie?�
�I�d rather not talk about my private life,� he said. �It�s unseemly to talk about one�s private life.�
I started singing that song from the Eighties: �He�s a smooth operator�smooth operator�� The young interns at work liked Eighties music, but for campy reasons.
TO BE CONTINUED
Fiction, Fiction, Home, Home.
� 2008 David V. Matthews