“Ruth, I wish you could have seen that big ox, down at the river for three days, drunk as a dog, crying like a baby, ’cause Joe, that old colored man that raised him, died. I swear, I don’t know what people are using for brains anymore. Imagine those boys: They’re terrified to sit next to a nigger and have a meal, but they’ll eat eggs that came right out of a chicken’s ass.”
“Oh, Idgie!”
Idgie laughed. “I’m sorry, but it just makes me mad sometimes.”
“I know, honey, but you shouldn’t get yourself so upset. That’s just the way people are and there’s not a thing in the world you can do to change them. That’s just how it is.”
Idgie smiled at her and wondered what would happen if she didn’t have Ruth to let off steam with. Ruth smiled back.
They both knew they had to make a decision about what to do. And they did. After that day, the only thing that changed was on the menu that hung on the back door; everything was a nickel or a dime cheaper. They figured fair was fair …
APRIL 6, 1933
Change of Menu at Cafe
Patrons of the cafe got quite a surprise when they read the menu last week that featured, among other things: Fillet of Possom … Prime Rib of Polecat … Goat’s Liver and Onions … Bull Frog Pudding and Turkey Buzzard Pie Ala Mode.
An unsuspecting couple, who had come all the way from Gate City for dinner, read the menu and were halfway down the block when Idgie opened the door and yelled April Fool’s at them.
The couple from Gate City then ordered from the regular menu and got some free coconut cream pie.
By the way, my other half let one of his old hunting dogs in the house the other day, and he brought his bone with him, and wouldn’t you know it, I tripped on it and broke my toe. Doctor Hadley wrapped it up for me, but I’m having to wear house shoes to work and can’t get out and gather news, like I want to. So if you have any news, just bring it on over to me at the post office.
… Dot Weems …
JANUARY 19, 1986
It was Sunday again. Evelyn and Ed Couch were getting ready to leave for the nursing home. She turned off the coffeepot and wished that she didn’t have to go, but Ed was so sensitive where his mother was concerned that she dare not refuse to go and at least say hello to her whiny, demanding mother-in-law. Going out there was like torture to her; she hated the smell of sickness and Lysol and death. It reminded her of her mother, of doctors and hospitals.
Evelyn had been forty when her mother died, and after that, the fear started. Now, when she read the morning paper, she turned immediately to the obituary column, even before she read her horoscope. She was always pleased when the person who had died had been in their seventies or eighties, and she loved it when the dear departed had been over ninety; it made her feel safe somehow. But when she read that they had died in their forties or fifties, it disturbed her all day, especially if, at the end of the obituary, the family had requested that a donation be sent to the cancer society. But what disturbed her the most was when the cause of death was not listed.
A short illness of what?
Died suddenly of what?
What kind of accident?
She wanted all the details in black and white. No guessing. And she loathed it when the family asked that a donation be made to the humane society. What did that mean? Rabies … dog bite … cat fever?
But lately, it had been mostly donations to the cancer society. She wondered why she had to live in a body that would get old and break down and feel pain. Why couldn’t she have been living inside a desk, a big sturdy desk? Or a stove? Or a washing machine? She would much rather have an ordinary repairman, like an electrician or a plumber, than a doctor work on her. While she had been in the throes of labor pains, Dr. Clyde, her obstetrician, had stood there and lied to her face. “Mrs. Couch, you’re going to forget these pains as soon as you see that baby of yours. So push a little harder. You won’t even remember this, trust me.”
WRONG! She remembered every pain, right down the line, and would not have had the second child if Ed had not insisted on trying for a boy.… Another lie exposed: The second one hurt as much as the first, maybe even more, because this time she knew what to expect. She was mad at Ed the whole nine months, and thank God she had Tommy, because this was it, as far as she was concerned.
Her whole life she’d been afraid of doctors. Then, wary, but now she hated, loathed, and despised them. Ever since that doctor had come swaggering into her mother’s hospital room with his chart that day …
This little tin God in the polyester suit and the three-pound shoes. So smug, so self-important, with the nurses fluttering around him like geisha girls. He had not even been her mother’s doctor; he was only making some other doctor’s rounds that morning. Evelyn had been standing there, holding her mother’s hand. When he came in, he did not bother to introduce himself.
She said, “Hello, Doctor. I’m her daughter, Evelyn Couch,”
Without taking his eyes off the chart, he said in a loud voice, “Your mother has a rapidly progressing cancer of the lung that has metastasized itself in the liver, pancreas, and spleen, with some indication of invasion into the bone marrow.”
Up until that very moment, her mother had not even known that she had cancer. Evelyn had not wanted her to know because her mother had been so scared. She would remember the look of sheer terror on her mother’s face as long as she lived, and that doctor, who continued on down the hall with his entourage.
Two days later, her mother went into a coma.
She could also never forget that gray, sterile, concrete-walled intensive care waiting room where she had spent all those weeks, frightened and confused, just like the rest of the ones waiting there; knowing that their loved one was lying just down the hall in a cold, sunless room, waiting to die.
Here they were, perfect strangers, in this small space, sharing what was probably the most intimate and painful moment of their lives, not knowing how to act or what to say. There were no rules of etiquette. Nobody had prepared them for this ordeal. Poor people, terrified like herself, trying to be brave, chatting on about their everyday lives, completely in shock, pretending everything was all right.
One family had been so frightened that they couldn’t bring themselves to accept the fact that the woman down the hall, dying, was their mother. They would always refer to her as “their patient,” and ask Evelyn how “her patient” was doing: to put the truth as far away from them as possible and try to ease the pain.
Every day they waited together, knowing the moment would come, that awful moment when they would be called upon to make “the decision” whether or not to turn the machines off …
“It’s for the best.”
“They’ll be much better off.”
“It’s what they would want.”
“The doctor says they’re already gone.”
“This is only a technicality.”
A technicality?
All those calm, adult discussions. When all she really wanted to do was scream for her momma, her sweet momma, the one person in the world who loved her better than anyone ever would or ever could.
That Saturday the doctor came to the waiting room and looked in. All eyes were on him and the conversation stopped. He glanced around the room.
“Mrs. Couch, may I see you in my office for a moment, please?”
As she gathered her purse with shaky hands and pounding heart, the others looked at her in sympathy, and one woman touched her arm; but they were secretly relieved that it had not been them.