Beaming Sonny Home Page 12

  “The problem is how to tell Gracie,” said Roberta.

  “Let me think about it,” said Mattie. “We gotta handle this with kid gloves.” Roberta swayed a bit on her big clunker shoes, then caught her balance.

  “She ain’t gonna understand,” said Roberta. “Not like you, Grandma. She’s headset on me going to college. And all I want to do is get married and have myself a family.” Mattie kicked at a clump of soddy ground, probably where she’d tossed a pile of weeds while gardening last summer.

  “Understanding and approving are two different things, Robbie. Don’t mix them up.” Mattie thought she heard a cupboard door slam in the kitchen. It would look suspicious to be seen out at the garden at ten o’clock in the morning with Roberta, especially when there wasn’t any garden.

  “I just want to be happy,” said Roberta, as though that weren’t asking for much in a big wide world of such unhappiness.

  “I can tell you the secret to a happy marriage and a successful life in just a few words,” Mattie told Roberta. “It’s a secret my own grannie told me, but it didn’t do me a whit of good because I had nothing but wind between my ears in them days. Now I’m passing that advice on to you, just like it’s a piece of china for your trousseau. You do with it what you think is best. You gotta marry your best friend. That’s the most important part. And you gotta love your job, no matter what it is. If you want to be a housewife or a schoolteacher, then you go on ahead and be the best damn housewife or schoolteacher you can ever imagine. But if you want to be something else, I’d suggest you take your best friend and hightail it out of Mattagash, Maine.”

  10

  It had seemed as if one day Mattie was living a quiet life in Mattagash, Maine, discussing the ravages of time with her dear old friend Elmer Fennelson and tending to a yearly garden. Then, for no reason, she had decided not to plant a garden for the first time in thirty-four years. Next, Elmer and his dog, Skunk, had disappeared, as if into one of those black holes scientists talked about on television, thanks to that big Hubble telescope, an apparatus Lola Monihan would dearly love to own. And then Sonny Gifford, her only boy, had turned up on Channel 4. Now it seemed Sonny was everywhere. Theresa had called to say that she’d seen a news clip on CNN, way down there in Connecticut. And now Mattie could almost feel the air around Mattagash growing tense, the way it does before a storm, or a big woods fire, or a flood. Something was breaking, like the ice in the spring river. Something was on the wing. And it all had to do with Sonny Gifford barricading himself in a trailer with two women and a dog. No, it was more than just that. It was Sonny the actor, the best-looking man in Mattagash since his father, Lester Gifford, had made his exit. It was Sonny courting those damn news teams, as though the eyes of those cameras were the dark, loving eyes of women. Sonny’s own charm was now creating quite a stir, and Mattie was forced to sit back and watch it all unfold on television.

  Rita and Gracie had driven up to Lola’s to see what kind of news that big satellite dish was bringing to Mattagash, Maine, now that Theresa Something-Polish had let them know that CNN was carrying the story. Mattie preferred to stay at home and listen to what Channel 4 had to say, which was plenty for her. A special report at two o’clock had carried the story again, with a promise of live coverage just ahead. Marlene and Mattie had waited patiently in front of the television as the hands of the kitchen clock moved closer and closer to three thirty, when Sonny would make his second appearance. Mattie was glad the other two girls were gone. Marlene was a better person without them, softer, less judgmental. But she was still Marlene.

  The special report would carry another live interview with Sonny Gifford, or so Donna told her Channel 4 listeners. She was back, with her little chihuahua face, giving another rundown on what had happened: Sonny, John Lennon, the bank, the mystery of the gun, the women, the dog, the house trailer. Was there anyone left in Maine who didn’t know the particulars of the event? Mattie guessed that maybe there was. Or that Channel 4 had to believe that there was. She personally wanted something new to chew on, something that might move them all to a conclusion, once and for all. But it seemed that while the police were sorting out how to get Sonny to give up the hostages without any lives being taken, the news media was suddenly interested in Sonny Gifford, the man. Sonny had informed the chief of police, however, that he would now conduct all interviews with the press from behind the screened window of the trailer.

  “Sonny Gifford has told Chief Melon that he’s concerned for his safety, Dan,” Donna explained to the camera. “From now on, he’ll not be lifting the window screen, as he did yesterday.”

  “Why is he suddenly concerned, Donna?” Dan asked. The picture on the screen flicked to Dan, tapping a pencil upon the surface of his news desk and looking most concerned himself. Then it flashed back to Donna, at Marigold Drive Trailer Park.

  “Well, Dan,” said Donna. Why did news reporters keep repeating each other’s names? “The general consensus among reporters here is that Mr. Gifford isn’t armed, at least not with a real weapon. During the excitement, it’s very possible that the women went with Mr. Gifford without getting a good look at the gun.” Donna waited. Dan’s face was back.

  “Then why is the chief of police waiting, Donna, if he believes Mr. Gifford is unarmed?” Now Dan waited, although it seemed to Mattie that he already knew the answer. Who wouldn’t know?

  “It’s just too dangerous, Dan,” said Donna. “And, of course, there’s no way of knowing if there might have been a weapon already inside the trailer.”

  “Nonsense,” said Mattie. “Sonny hates guns.” It was his love of animals that held him back, even as a child, while other boys were shooting sparrows out of trees, and ambushing rabbits and squirrels.

  Donna had turned to the swelling crowd behind her, for the live interview was beginning, and she obviously had questions of her own to ask Sonny Gifford.

  “Sonny only wanted to get his face on TV,” said Marlene. “You know it, Mama, and I know it. We both know it.” Mattie ignored her. Instead, she watched as the reporters scrambled for positions near the trailer’s porch.

  “No one is allowed on the porch itself!” a policeman shouted at a man who had started up the steps of the trailer with a microphone in his hand. Now Donna pushed her way through the crowd, toward the window of the trailer, her cameraman trailing behind her with a jerky picture. Then Mattie heard Sonny’s voice, and she was instantly swept into the wake of her son’s newest adventure. She felt as if she were lingering there in Bangor, in the summer sunshine, at Donna’s spindly side.

  “One of these fine hostage women is standing right here beside me,” Sonny’s voice announced. “So don’t anyone do anything foolish.” As far as Mattie could tell, there was only one silhouette, and it appeared to be Sonny’s, tall and nice-shouldered. And it certainly had Sonny’s voice.

  “Sonny?” one reporter asked from behind a microphone thrust toward the window. “Have you ever been in trouble with the law before?” Sonny’s silhouette moved slowly behind the screen. He seemed to be giving the question particular concern.

  “This ought to be good,” Marlene declared.

  “Only once,” said Sonny. “Not stopping for a light.” Mattie heard Marlene snort.

  “Not stopping for a red light?” the reporter asked. He frantically scrawled words onto a tablet he carried in his hand. Sonny cleared his throat. His shadowy face moved closer to the window.

  “Actually,” said Sonny, “it was a blue light, and it was attached to the top of Sheriff Dan Wicker’s patrol car.” Mattie imagined that Sonny’s face had probably produced that famous grin—she could almost see it through the mesh of the screen—because a mass of grins now exploded among the gathered reporters. How many times had Mattie seen him able to do that, able to entertain the multitude with his charm, entertain them as surely as if he had divided bread and fish to feed their starving souls? That was Sonny Gifford. That
was her baby.

  “Sonny?” Donna now asked the window. Mattie noticed that Donna’s attitude had changed from just the day before. She’d gone from Mr. Gifford to Sonny, wrapping that Sonny in a bunch of sugar. And she had her hair done up in a sweet bun. If it weren’t for her little dog face, she’d have gone and made herself pretty, and Mattie wondered if it was for Sonny. She’d seen a million women do just that. And it wasn’t as if Sonny wasn’t working his own kind of magic. Mattie could see him lingering there in the window, as if it was some balcony in a play or something, running his hand up through his hair. His silhouette was even more effective, mysterious. Sonny was doing okay in his being holed up. He was still wooing the girls. Bless him. That’s why his sisters hated him so. He represented every good-looking, good-talking, good-loving man who’d ever broken their hearts. And the girls would be the first to say that there’d been a slew of such men to walk through their lives.

  “Can we talk to the hostages?” Donna wanted to know, her little pooch face all scrunched up in thought. “And do you have any plans to release them?” Sonny cleared his throat again, the way he always did as a youngster when he didn’t want to deal with a pressing issue. Mattie could read her child, her boy Sonny, as if he were a set of traffic signs. Sonny was going to ignore this question, no doubt about it in Mattie’s mind.

  “I appreciate everyone’s interest and all,” Sonny was now saying to the reporters. “And I enjoy talking to you fine folks. But from now on I won’t be available between the hours of four and five p.m., except on weekends.” A chorus of whys? rang out from reporters as more microphones were readied and cameramen fought for positions around the trailer’s porch.

  “Because Star Trek reruns are on,” Sonny explained. “Sorry if that causes you any inconvenience. Other than that, I’m yours.” A silhouette of Sonny’s arm rose into the air, the hand canted back toward his face. Mattie assumed Sonny was looking at his watch. “Almost time for Captain Kirk,” he told his audience, “so ask your questions now.”

  “Ain’t this just about the most embarrassing thing that’s happened to us yet?” Marlene insisted.

  “Not really,” said Mattie. It might’ve been the most public thing that had ever happened, but it was far from the most embarrassing. Rita camping out on that Watertown basketball player’s front lawn, in her prom dress and long white gloves, was a dead ringer for first place. Rita had somehow, somewhere along the way, made a miscalculation about life and love. It had appeared in Rita’s mind that if she gave some man her virginity—as though it were like one of those gifts you give to men, a necktie, or cuff links, or a subscription to Sports Illustrated—then he was obligated to marry her. The basketball player had seen it all in a different light. He had taken his necktie, his cuff links, and his subscription to Sports Illustrated, and he had run like hell for the road. It was his mother who phoned the police to have Rita removed from around the zinnias and box elders. Years later, Rita would misremember the whole event, as was Rita’s greatest talent. The basketball player had loved her dearly, pined to marry her, and been kept away by his family. Romeo and Juliet in Mattagash and Watertown.

  “No,” Mattie said again, “I’d say this hostage incident is way down on the list of embarrassing family milestones.” And Lester Gifford, eating up his social hours with everyone and anyone other than his wife and children should at least place.

  “Try to imagine Lola Craft Monihan and Dorrie Fennelson and all of Mattagash watching this,” Marlene was now saying. “I bet satellite dishes are spinning all over town.”

  “Let them spin,” Mattie said. “Nobody ever said Sonny was boring.”

  “I’ve been told by a childhood friend of yours up in Mattagash,” the same reporter continued, “a Mr. Donnie Henderson, that you’ve been keeping a Great Americans list for years now.” Microphones again appeared from all angles of the screen, microphones that seemed to exist without people. Mattie heard Sonny laugh a short laugh, saw his silhouette nod from behind the screen.

  “You tell Donnie Henderson to get himself down to Bangor more often,” Sonny scolded.

  “Can you tell us the names on your list, Sonny?” someone else wondered.

  “Are there any women on the list?” Donna wanted to know. Sonny nodded again.

  “Jackie Kennedy,” he said, “because there ain’t a lot of folks I know, men or women, who wouldn’t duck down in the car if a bullet was fired in their general direction. But Jackie climbed right out onto the trunk. I tell you, that girl had spunk.”

  “As if Jackie Kennedy would’ve given Sonny the time of day,” said Marlene. She bit anxiously at a fingernail.

  “She might’ve,” Mattie said. “After all, she married that short-legged little Greek.”

  “And then there’s Sheila Bumphrey Gifford,” Sonny continued, “my soon-to-be ex from right here in Bangor, Maine. And that pretty well rounds out the women on my Great Americans list. But I’m willing to expand.” Mattie twitched on the sofa and leaned nearer to the television. Marlene’s stomach had started to growl and it was annoying Mattie greatly.

  “Who else is on the list?” a faceless voice asked.

  “You remind them Bangor cops that I got me a gun held on these innocent women,” Sonny suddenly announced. “I’d hate for anyone to take a shot at me while I’m standing here conversing with you nice folks.”

  “He ain’t got no gun,” said Mattie. “I can tell by his voice that he’s lying. I could always tell, you know.”

  “Well,” said Marlene. “With Sonny you had plenty of opportunity to practice.”

  “Who else is on the Great Americans list?” the voice repeated. Sonny’s hand moved up behind the screen to scratch his head. There were a few seconds of silence.

  “Scottie on Star Trek, for one,” Sonny finally answered.

  “And why is that?” a thin-faced, thin-haired man wanted to know.

  “Because he’s always beaming everybody up and never complaining about it,” said Sonny. “That’s the mark of a true gentleman. And now, speaking of Scottie.” He tapped at his watch again.

  “Ronny,” said a newswoman Mattie hadn’t seen before. She seemed to have just arrived on the scene. She looked far more important than the other reporters, who fell back to let her move in closer to the window. Mattie wondered if Barbara Walters might show up. She had always liked Barbara, even thought she took after her, lookswise. “Can you tell us why you’ve taken these hostages?” this new woman asked. “What were the exact words you believe John Lennon spoke to you, Ronny?” She was good, all right, with little time for questions about Great Americans lists. She seemed intent to get to the heart of the hostage matter, which Mattie thought was a healthy idea.

  “Don’t she look like a constipated rabbit?” Marlene asked as she rounded up a fistful of chips.

  “It’s Sonny, ma’am,” the voice behind the screen kindly corrected her. “I was named after the legendary country musician Sonny James, a great American and one hell of a tearful singer. He’s also on my list.”

  “See?” said Marlene. “He’s still the liar he always was. You of all people, Mama, know darn well he wasn’t named after Sonny James, or Sonny Bono, or any other Sonny. Now can you admit he’s a liar?” Mattie tried not to think of Sonny’s comment to the newswoman. He hadn’t been named after Sonny James. He had not. But what did it hurt if he wanted folks to think he had? The truth was that she and Lester had argued so long and so hard over what to name their son that they never got around to agreeing on anything. Lester had been all in favor of Lester Junior, but Mattie felt that if she named her son after his father, he would inherit all that was bad about Lester. Sonny would go through life a tagged child, and then a marked man. As it turned out, it had probably hurt him worse that they just let the issue ride. “Son Gifford” is all it ever said on his birth certificate. Son Gifford. And it seemed that, as the years passed, Sonny had come to fee
l that he’d been cheated out of a name, a birthright of sorts. One time Mattie had found him sitting on the front steps, staring at the harvest moon, a big boy by this time. “What about Thomas?” Sonny had asked her. “Wouldn’t Thomas be a nice name for me, Mama?”

  “Will you be stating your demands soon, Mr. Gifford?” the thin-faced, thin-haired man asked. Mattie smiled. They were calling her son mister. And it seemed as though the important-acting woman had steered them all toward some important-sounding questions. That’s probably why that important-acting woman got to be so important in the first place. Her presence had changed the atmosphere of the live press conference. A buzzing rose up from the journalists, everyone wanting to ask their own important question, it seemed to Mattie. Voices cried out about demands not met, hostage conditions, background traumas. Someone representing animal rights inquired about the poodle’s well-being.

  “All I’ve got to say at this point, just for the record,” Mattie heard Sonny finally say, “is that if I don’t walk out of this house trailer alive, I want Preston Gifford, another great American, to have my pickup truck, which is parked right there in the driveway.” A hand motioned from behind the screen. “And which I notice is being leaned up against by you news folk, and if you don’t mind, I’d appreciate it if you could lean on trees and such instead. Them cameras can cut a mean swath across a paint job.” Donna was shunted aside suddenly by a burly newsman. She was losing Sonny, Mattie could tell, and she had had him first, before this other woman even knew about him. Before anyone else cared about him.

  “If your demands aren’t met, Sonny,” the man wanted to know, “what do you plan to do with your hostages?” More microphones were thrust in for the answer.