Free We Are All Welcome Here by Elizabeth Berg Page B

Measured
as a title. But I soon became embarrassed about it; the prevailing wisdom seemed to be that it was a silly title, incomprehensible, in fact, as evidenced by reactions like Brooks Robbins’s. “What the hell does
that
mean?” he asked. The librarian said nothing, only smiled a deadly smile. Old Mrs. Beasley said, “The night can be…what’s that?
Measured?
Huh. Y’all sure about that?” The manager at the grocery store said, “What is this, a science play? Or math or something?” As for Debby Black, she said she was “going out for a Coke” when she saw us headed for the dress shop. She hung the BACK IN FIVE ! sign up and came out to lock the door. I noted with satisfaction that she had a run starting in the back of her left nylon. When we asked if we could wait for her return and then post our flyer, she fiddled with her pearls and then said, “Well, you know, I don’t really do that, put flyers on my window. I think it’s tacky.” She whispered this last. When Suralee reminded her that she had a flyer for the Presbyterian church pancake breakfast only last week, she put her hand on her hip and said, “Well now, come
on.
That’s different.” She looked at her watch. “I’ve got to run. Say hi to your moms. Tell ’em there’s a sale coming on those pillbox hats that are exactly like Jackie’s but way cheaper.” I imagined my mother in her wheelchair, wearing one of those hats. Then I imagined Noreen wearing one. My mother looked better.
    “I guess it’s too late to change the title,” I said, looking down at the flyers I held. The good news—and the bad—was that I had only three flyers left of the twenty Suralee had made.
    “It’s a beautiful title,” Suralee said. “This is just what artists have to contend with all the time, is a bunch of morons who don’t get anything. Especially if it’s the least bit poetic. They are absolutely allergic to poetry.”
    “We could cross it out and put in something new,” I said. “We’ll just backtrack and put in something new.”
    “I’m not changing a thing,” Suralee said. “I’m going home to rest up. I can’t give a good performance without a nap. I need a nap and then I need to suck on a lemon for my voice.” She stuck one of the flyers in the dress-shop door and started walking rapidly toward home. I followed, more slowly.
    “But maybe people won’t come if it’s a bad title,” I called mournfully after her.
    Suralee turned around to look at me. “Like they were going to come anyway,” she said.
    “True.” I felt better, though I knew I should have felt worse.
    When we passed the baseball field, a game was in progress. Suralee stopped to watch, then pointed to two blond boys sitting beside each other on the bench. “That’s them,” she said. “Wade and Randy Michaels. Oh la la. Randy’s mine; you can have Wade—he’s the younger one. I’m going to invite them to my house some Saturday night when my mother’s gone.”
    “Okay,” I said, squinting to try to see them better. Lately I’d been thinking I needed glasses, but I didn’t want to tell. One, glasses were ugly; two, they were expensive.
    “Can you see them?”
    “…Yeah.”
    “Can you?” Suralee turned to look at me.
    “
Pretty
good.”
    “Well.” She turned back toward the game. “Just trust me.” The boys leapt up to run outfield, and Suralee tried to catch their attention by waving, but they didn’t see her. “Can you kiss good?” she asked me, starting to walk again.
    “What?”
    “Can you
kiss
good.”
    “Oh,” I said.
    We walked a bit more and then she said, “Well, can you?”
    “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, if you don’t kiss, your lips will rust.” I smiled at her.
    She stopped walking. “Diana. Have you or haven’t you?”
    I said nothing.
    “Oh, no. You
haven’t
?”
    “I haven’t exactly had the opportunity!” I was getting mad. For one thing, I was pretty. Susan had said so.
    “I’ll have to teach you. You