Grace fanned herself with the church bulletin as the ceiling fans twirled lethargic and helpless against Little Rock's August heat. An insufferable concoction of perfumes, after shaves, lemon furniture wax and dust collided with the smell of too many over-heated bodies and their failed deodorants all packed into a confined space. It hurt to breathe. She focused on her loving husband's tall, commanding presence at the pulpit, tried to concentrate on the sermon she must have heard a dozen times. The cadence of his voice flowed through her head like blackstrap molasses, dulling her ability to pay attention. "God will supply every need," she heard him say. Then why ain't we praying for an air conditioning unit?
She cast her gaze across the pews of familiar faces, an ethnic stewpot that spoke well of the reverend's popularity. Stella, her copper penny complexion complimented by an animal print and beadwork cloche hat, sat next to her latest beau, a scandalous fifteen years her junior. Roberta and Stanley looked frazzled around the edges, their five sandy-haired children in tow, all dressed in homemade coordinating pastel cottons. The youngest, dear six-year-old Anna, had Down syndrome. Will and his Japanese-American wife, Mei, the newest members of the church, their two beautiful, light brown babies both still in diapers, sat near the back in case they needed to hustle out with a fussy one. The widow Boucher, vibrant in a crimson church suit and matching hat with a brim so wide it nearly sliced the side of poor Mr. Stuart's neck every time she turned her head. Mr. Stuart, a quiet, tolerant man, arrived pallid and alone that morning, his fool wife home recovering from a toe she broke while gardening. How on earth the woman managed to break her toe was anybody's guess.
Ed's younger sister, Arleeta, stunning in her powder blue suit and matching sinamay derby with feather bouquet and over-sized bow, also sat spouseless, her husband, Harold, no doubt at home glued to the TV. Grace had little tolerance for the man, but he was a good provider, and he put up with his wife's constant chirping better than most.
Grace knew each parishioner like family, yet this morning she felt isolated. She didn't talk about her gambling days in church. How could she expect any of these people to understand her heartbreak over some ol' casino she forgot? To her knowing, not a one of them believed she be losing her mind. Don't trouble yourself, sister. Everybody forgets things from time to time. You're makin' a fuss over nothing.
In spite of the heat and her shantung jacket with its three-quarter sleeves, a chill shivered over her shoulders and down her arms. If only she could breathe.
The congregation rose to their feet in a cacophony of thumps and rustling and throat clearing as they prepared to sing. The flower-petal hem of Grace's knee-length skirt clung to the back of her sweaty thighs. She gave a discrete tug, then fixed her eyes on the massive wooden cross on the wall behind the pulpit.
"'I am weak but Thou art strong,'" she sang in a loud, clear voice. Her papa had loved to hear her sing. Even after he lost interest in living, she could make him smile with "The Man I Love" and "Summertime."
"'Jesus, keep me from all wrong,'" she continued. Right or wrong, Papa drank in life like a man dying of thirst — big, impatient gulps. The day he took his daughter through the front entrance of the Stardust casino and sat at a gaming table with white folk for the first time, head high and shoulders back, he said his how-do-you-do's, anteed up and won enough in that single day to feed them for a month. Amen.
"'I'll be satisfied as long...'"
Tears welled in her eyes and her voice faded. She ached to relive that moment, to stroll through the Stardust and see her papa sitting proud and playing the game he loved. In a few days it would all be nothing but a pile of forgotten rubble.
I'd like to see it one last time.
She dug a tissue from the side pocket of her purse. Her hand trembled as she wiped at her eyes and damp forehead. "'Who with me my burden shares?'" the rest of the congregation sang, already on the second verse. "'None but Thee, my dear Lord, none but Thee.'"
Grace doubted even the Lord shared the burden she struggled under. She felt disconnected, her life fraying.
Pull yourself together. Everybody's starin' at you.
She drew her back straight and picked up the hymn mid-sentence. "'...closer walk with Thee! Jesus, grant — '" Her mind went blank. Grant what?
The congregation sang on but their words didn't make any sense, an unintelligible drone in her ringing ears. Fear iced through her. She tried to draw in a breath but her lungs constricted against the assault of smells. Darkness narrowed her vision.
Lord Jesus, I'm going to faint.
Air. I need air.
"Excuse me," she mouthed to Mrs. Turner sitting on her left. Gladys Turner gave her a tart-lemon look but squeezed back against the pew to let Grace by.
Mr. Turner was a big man with feet to match. Grace managed to plant the heel of her white pump square on the top of his size thirteen wingtip. She knew he wore a size thirteen because his wife never missed an opportunity to remind members of the Ladies' Social Club what a time she had finding clothes to fit her "mountain of a man."
Grace muttered "sorry" to the mountain and reached the aisle at the far left of the sanctuary. Darting through the side exit as though headed for the restroom, she hugged her purse to her bosom and did a green-apple-quick-step down the narrow, beige hall, past classrooms, the choir room and the pastor's office. She passed the restroom without slowing and reached for the exit.
Heat robbed her breath as the solid metal door clicked shut behind her. Sun-baked blacktop replaced the smell of perspiring bodies. Grace paused on the concrete landing, gripped the railing to keep from pitching over the edge, and squinted against the glare of chrome and windshields. I want to go home. She located their yellow-cream Lincoln in the parking lot, and began to dig in her purse for the keys as she made her way down the short flight of steps. Ed can get a ride home from his sister, she thought, as she passed Arleeta's sporty steel-blue Honda. Harold bought it from Bob's Best Deals six months ago so his wife could drive to church in style. Grace rode in the car many times, even drove it once when Arleeta over-indulged at a church potluck and feared throwing up on the steering wheel. It fit Grace perfect. And it had air conditioning.
The keys dangled from the ignition, the driver's-side door unlocked. "Leeta, Leeta," Grace scolded, "how many times have I warned you?"
She dug deeper in her purse for the keys to the Lincoln. Sweat snaked down her back and her hands shook as she tore through pockets, hoping she put the ring in the wrong place. The longer she stood in the hot sun, the more urgent her need to flee before she passed out. She pulled her house keys from her purse, hoping they had tangled with the car keys. She'd read somewhere that it was best to keep the two rings separate but couldn't recall why. If the keys were on the same ring, she'd be halfway home by now. What good did it do her to be able to get into the house if she couldn't get to the house? Her chest tightened.
What's wrong with me? Am I having a heart attack?
The forgotten lyrics came to her. Jesus, grant my humble plea. She felt her eyes drawn to Arleeta's car sitting unlocked, key in the ignition.
Not one to question fate nor Jesus, Grace hustled over and got in.
~~~
Somewhere on the drive from church to home, Grace made up her mind to go to Las Vegas and see the Stardust before there was no Stardust to see. Before she could forget it ever existed. Before she ran out of time. She threw clothes into a dusty suitcase she dragged from the closet and grabbed her rainy-day stash from the heart-shaped Valentine's box at the back of her lingerie drawer. She didn't need to count it, knew there was exactly $374. Enough to get her to Vegas.
Was it enough to get her back home?
The Lord will provide. Go!
Grace jerked as if goosed, hooked her purse over her arm, grabbed the suitcase and headed for the door. Once outside, she tossed the suitcase in the Honda's trunk and reached to close the lid.
You can't take sister's car.
A cab. I'll call a cab.
Grace yanked the suitcase from the trunk and lumbered back up the porch, went to open the door before remembering she had locked it. The pointed end of a nail file stabbed her little finger as she dug through her purse for the keys. A dirt-encrusted lemon lozenge stuck to the side of her hand. She found a tube of Cranberry Glaze lipstick with a white hair caught in the cap, but no keys. Her skin prickled with cold sweat and it crossed her mind that she hadn't packed any toiletries.
"Jesus, help me," Grace groaned. She grabbed the doorknob and gave it a violent twist, but the door didn't budge. The kitchen phone began to ring. A dark fog clouded her brain.
I'm running out of time.
She stumbled down the porch steps in her rush back to Arleeta's car, threw her suitcase into the trunk and slammed the lid. Climbing behind the wheel, she drove.
~~~
Traffic demands helped focus Grace's jumbled thoughts as she left Little Rock, headed west on I-40. The Honda's AC cooled her sweat-dampened skin and eased the tightness in her chest. "I've got money," she reasoned aloud. "I can buy deodorant, hair products, a toothbrush. I'll get a nice hotel room in Vegas and use their little soaps. I'll be fine."
I'll be fine as long as my money holds out. I've never spent the night in a Vegas hotel. What does a room cost? For that matter, what does a bus ticket cost?
She'd know soon enough. The bus depot in Conway was about a half hour from Little Rock. Once she bought her ticket, she would call home and let Ed know where to pick up his sister's car.
What will I say to him?
"Sorry I stole Leeta's car, but I'm on my way to Vegas and losing my mind."
The tightness in her chest returned. Have mercy upon me, O God.
Conway came into view. I need more distance. Punching on the radio, Grace accelerated and shot past the exit, accompanied by Dinah Washington singing a familiar tune about change. Grace sang along as the car ate highway. The louder she sang, the easier it got to block out the voice telling her to turn around.
A tractor-trailer rig passed in the left lane. Grace stopped singing and waited for the truck to merge in front of her. When it did, she heard a sharp whap from the front of the car and flinched. Thinking one of the truck's tires might have pitched road debris at her, she glanced at the hood of the car, then checked the highway in the rearview mirror, but didn't see anything out of the ordinary.
The smell of hot rubber curled in her nostrils. She shut off the radio, as though that would make it easier to identify the smell's source. As the truck became a dot on the horizon, the smell grew stronger. Grace drove on, praying it was nothing, her palms sweaty on the steering wheel in spite of the AC. She had the fleeting thought she should have let daughter Luella buy her that cell phone. Smoke began rolling from under the hood.
"Lord have mercy!" Grace quickly pulled to the side of the Interstate, stopped and reached for the key. The engine gave a sonic BANG. Grace screamed; the car shuddered and died.
A white cloud engulfed the front of the car. She stared at it dumbfounded for a few seconds, her heart pounding against her chest wall.
Fire, you fool! Get out!