Unexpected Guest Pt.1

Author: Aaron Collins

Today I went over to my Mamaw's house. I had called her out of the blue the other day to see how she was doing; that and I felt guilty having not really spoken with her more than once since December. I was driving down the Norwood lateral when I decided to give her a call. Her phone rang and she answered with a tired,

“Hi, Bubby,” to which I responded,

“Hi, Mamaw.”

            It was probably more than fifteen years ago that I asked her to call me Aaron, most likely when I was twelve or thirteen and felt I had outgrown the nickname. But it was so difficult for her to call me by my name. Many times she would call my name,

“Hey Bubby—I mean, Aaron! Sorry honey I keep calling you Bubby. I’ll try to remember next time.”

I’ve always reassured her that it’s no big deal, she can call me Bubby if she wants. But she’s never forgotten this bratty request of mine and I’m now almost thirty. I wish I had never told her to call me Aaron. She’s still struggling after all these years to call me Aaron, forgetting that I’ve told her it’s okay to call me Bubby.

She said over the phone that today was a difficult day.

“I have my days,” she said.

Only six months ago her husband, Raymond, my Papaw, had passed away after his lungs stopped working. She said that some days were good and that other days she couldn’t get out of bed. Today was one of those days.

“Melissa and I would like to come by and see you this Thursday,” I encouraged.

“Okay babe, what time?”

“How does three o’ clock sound?”

“That’s fine with me honey. I’ll be home all day. Don’t forget now. I know how forgetful you are,” Mamaw reminded. She’d also never forgotten the times that I’d flaked on her.

“Okay, I promise I won’t,” I reassured her.

We pulled up to the house which is next to some kind of factory near I-75; they are literally her neighbors. I had brought over a small charcoal grill that she’d let me borrow like two years ago. I assumed she’d given me the grill, but she refreshed my memory, telling me she’d loaned it to me until I got my own and would like her little grill back.

“Mamaw likes charcoal,” she referred to herself in the third person, “I don’t like those gas grills.”

Raymond and Rachel had been married for over fifty years and lived in the same house for over thirty.

“That’s why it’s so hard to move on, Bubby. I been with him almost my whole life.”

            Mamaw spoke with a little bit of a twang. Some remnant of her Appalachian roots. Where she came from, everyone was Bubby, Sissy, Mamaw, and Papaw. All the boys are Bubby, all the girls are Sissy, and grandparents are Mamaw and Papaw.

            We sat at her kitchen table which still had the same lazy susan which held keys, lighters, vapour refills (which would have been cigarettes back in the day), loose change, pens, a pocket knife and a deck of cards. While the lazy susan was the same, I noticed that the table and chairs were different. She told me she gave the old table and chairs to Ashley my cousin, but that she misses it now and wants them back. She told us about her new male friend, Jim. She said he meets her at Frish’s once a week for dinner and at the VFW hall once a week for country music and drinks.

            “I just tell him everything about Raymond and I cry, but he just listens—Bubby, he’s such a good listener. Then I tell ‘I’m sorry for crying, sorry for talking about Raymond so much’ and he says ‘that’s okay, Rachel, I was just like you when Luanne died.’ Luanne’s his wife, she died thirteen years ago. Your Aunt Missy and your Dad make fun of me, say that I have a boyfriend, but he’s eighty years old for christsake! He’s just good company, that’s all. He’s my friend. Sometimes I’ll talk for a whole hour and he won’t say a word. Then he’ll pat my shoulder and say ‘it’ll get better, Rachel’.”