There's a Picture on the Wall of Jesus in the Garden

There's a Picture on the Wall of Jesus in the Garden That song was playing on the radio in Brenda Kaye's living room. You know, the one about the couple getting married, buying a house, and becoming an American Family. "Shu-u," warned Mrs. Davenport, Brenda Kaye's mother, placing a square chapped finger over lips that looked more penciled than real. "Listen to that!" she whispered and put her arm around my shoulder to show no hard feelings. I stood silently while she patted her corduroy foot and rubbed the back of my neck and shoulders. When the song trailed into the local and state news from WKIS, Mrs. Davenport clasped her hands, did a little Art Carney shuffle in her Deerfoams, and in a normal speaking voice said, "Brenda Kaye, Irving's here." That was the only time I have ever heard anyone call someone in an adjoining room without actually calling. "It's Erin," I corrected Mrs. Davenport , pronouncing my name slowly. "A-a-rin." "From the Bible," Mrs. Davenport concluded. "Aaron. Different. For a girl, that is, but I like it." Brenda Kaye came in the living room carrying Samantha, the egg. It was my weekend to babysit. We had painted a face on Sam and Brenda Kaye's mother had made her a bassinet from a grocery store carton that came with tomatoes. I 45 noticed Brenda Kaye had added a bonnet . "Cute," I said, fluffing the floppy brim. "She ready to go?" Brenda Kaye pushed the tomato carton towards me. "Take her. She's yours! For the whole weekend." She delivered our child to my outstretched hands. "And good riddance, I might add!" Brenda Kaye said, brushing her palms against her miniskirt. Mrs. Davenport sat in a burlap-cushioned chair and spread her elbows on the wagon-wheel armrests. "Don't talk about your baby thataway, Brenda Kaye," she said. "What if I was to treat you like that?" Besides," she cooed, "that's the only gran'young'n I've got." "And it's the only one you're going to get, Momma," Brenda Kaye spewed. "If it weren't for that Human Relations Seminar that's required for graduation, you wouldn't have gotten Samantha." She retied the knot at the edge of her tee shirt and twisted her miniskirt so that the back slit was exact. "I guess the project served its purpose, though. I—for one— am not ready for this kind of—" "—I don't know how you could be tired of her already," Mrs. Davenport interrupted, fumbling among the jars of cold cream and bottles of hand lotion on the reading table beside her chair, '"cause I kept her two nights while you went out gallivanting. Ain't that right, Aaron?" I nodded, more interested in the paraphernalia on the table than in Mrs. Davenport's babysitting. In addition to half a dozen bottles and jars, there appeared to be an entire collection of toiletry and cosmetic products. Brenda Kaye saw me looking at the display. "Momma's a nut for Mary Kaye cosmetics ," she said matter-of-factly. "I told her she ought to be pounding on doors herself and driving a brand new pink Cadillac instead of sitting here watching reruns of Bewitched and shelling out Daddy's insurance money." "Now, wouldn't I be a sight riding around in a Cata'lac," Mrs. Davenport offered. "The blind leading the blind! I wouldn't make a good saleslady, anyhow . I'm just an old homebody." She laughed and added, "Contented to babysit a hard-boiled egg!" Brenda Kaye pushed a strand of auburn hair behind her silver and turquoise loop earring. "Well, we won't have to worry about it much longer. One more weekend." "One more long weekend," I admitted. "And then it's over. Then we eat Samantha !" Mrs. Davenport pumped the spout protruding beneath the cellophanecovered lampshade. Light filtered through the canvas. "I want you to see my picture of Jesus in the Garden before you go," she said, motioning towards the corner. Stand back aways. You can see it shimmer. See?" I saw something, but I think it was just...