Sixty-eight-year-old Della Ballad has a bad heart, but she still has a healthy outlook on life. She's been suffering with heart disease for the last seven years; she has no intention of letting it beat her. Della plans to fight has hard as she can. But heart disease isn't the only battle taking place. Since childhood, Della's daughter, Margaret, and Della's niece, Darlene Winston, have been fighting for Della's love. The illness has only made the situation worse. Their rivalry has permeated the Ballad family, and Della's greatest fear is that it will destroy them when she dies. Both Margaret and Darlene will have to abide by the directives in Della's last will and testament, a will the women believe will finally confirm whom Della loved more. Della's Deed examines the complex relationships found in a family structure and shows how resentment and jealousy can break a family apart, only to find common threads in reuniting for the better.

Della's Deed

By Denis Gray

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2012 Denis Gray
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4759-0158-0

Chapter One

Della Ballad had beautiful hair.

But today her hair was braided in two long, tightly knotted pigtails that ended at the beginning of each shoulder blade. Ordinarily, Della Ballad's beautiful gray hair would be the talk of most strangers, what would be on the tips of their tongues. But it was best her hair was fixed in a tightly coiled pigtail. It had stayed this way for the past five days of her eight-day stay at St. Bartholomew Hospital because it made for easy maintenance. But Della Ballad's smile still sweetened your day no matter the look of her hair. She was a sixty-eight-year-old woman, a big-bodied, generous black woman who had a bad heart but still had a healthy outlook on living, who was going to fight her heart disease tooth and nail to her grave. She was going to fight as hard as any battle she'd ever fought before, certainly, for as long as there was still fight left in her. And if you asked her, she'd say she had plenty of that.

Della Ballad was looking at ten bottles of pills on a rolling table out of reach to her. Those pills were under the strict supervision of Nurse Susie Myers, her daytime nurse, the only person who could dispense them to her. There was a bottle of pills for this ailment and a bottle of pills for that ailment—the lyric went on and on—and they all looked so significant and proud the way they lined up on the right side of the rolling table, much like a squadron of small plastic soldiers ready to do battle, as if they would save her, would shield her from death no matter the odds stacked against her, as if their reliability, efficacy capabilities should never be challenged or called into question. Della Ballad laughed at their seeming brazenness, but she respected those pills since they were a part of her fight, her daily battle to live.

She'd been afflicted by heart disease for the past seven years of her life. Heart disease was on her mother's side of the family, not her father's. Her mother had died from heart disease, and several aunts and uncles had too. There was a precise pattern here, clear and obvious: her heart disease was hereditary. She'd never considered diet. She loved cooking and cooking in quantity like so many black women of her age and time. She'd never thought about medical science, not any of that stuff—what was there to think about when you have a lifestyle, culturally, that, if changed, wouldn't really be living at all? And she had lived and been productive. Della Ballad had lived a full, active life. There were family and friends and a lot of good times. Of course there were bad times too and things that were more middle-of-the-road.

She survived Frank Ballad. She was a widow. He died five years ago. If he were alive, he'd nurse her back to good health—that she was sure of. She had only loving memories of him. He was the most loving man. The man of her dreams, as they say, and she "nailed him" as she'd often tell others. For with Frank Ballad's name came a medallion with much reputation. In his heyday, he'd broken many a young lady's heart in Myles Day City before courting Della Ballad.

He was a tall, handsome man. Being a barber, a lot of folk in Myles Day City said they never saw a hair on Frank Ballad's head out of place—at least it's what folk in Myles Day City were rumored to say. But it's how he was thought of—straight-backed, decent, kind, dignified, a man who meant a lot to a lot of people who knew him over the years.

Today, in ten minutes' time, Dr. Joseph Ives, Della's doctor, was going to visit her hospital room to talk to her. They were to have a bedside chat—and Dr. Ives was always on time. He was white and tall and handsome but not as tall and handsome as Frank Ballad, although just as good and decent and kind. He'd been Frank Ballad's physician. Dr. Ives meant a lot to the Ballad family. He was a part of the Ballad family's most intimate and personal history. Della Ballad wanted out of St. Bartholomew Hospital in the worst sort of way, and she was hoping today would be the day that Dr. Ives would hand her that wish, her walking papers, free her from St. Bart's.

Della Ballad did not like hospitals, had no liking at all for them.

Well, the news from Dr. Ives was not the news Della Ballad had hoped for: she was doing well, quite well, Dr. Ives said, but not well enough for her to be released from St. Bartholomew, for him to give her a ticket out. In a way, in her heart, she knew this before this morning's consultation. For she was well aware of her physical capacities, and she wasn't there yet. It wasn't there yet. She just hadn't convinced herself enough, for even at her age she could be impatient, impetuous, ambitious—but in her heart, she knew.

She and Dr. Ives had a good lively talk, and they had a lot of laughs (something Della Ballad loved doing). He looked at his watch, being a man married to time, and said, "By the way, Mrs. Ballad, I have a new pill for you this morning to take." And with it came explanation and the pill's function and how often the pill must be taken. And then he left, and she was left with yet another pill to take. Pill number eleven. So Nurse Susie Myers lined the new plastic bottle up with the old bottles on the rolling table for future dispensation.

She'd laughed to herself after Dr. Ives and Nurse Myers left the room, for the new bottle already looked important, had assumed the same proud rigid posture as had all the others. And all Della could do at the time was laugh at the sight of the eleven bottles on top the table and then remind herself that Frank was up to seven bottles of pills before he died.

Della felt her pigtail with her fingers and pulled down on it like a bell ringer and then, with her right hand, did the same with the other knotted pigtail. This made her feel joyful, think of her mother, Blanche Dawson, who'd warn her not to come home from school with one pigtail unbraided, a mess, or else ...

Della was thinking a lot of her mother today, a lot about things they did together when she was young. Her mind had been traveling back through a maze of time, way back like it'd memorized every second of it with sharper, heightened recall—could tell you all about it like it'd happened just yesterday. But to ask her what happened two weeks ago would pose her great difficulty. Her mind just couldn't do that. But fifty-five years ago, now that was a horse of a different color—much, much easier for her.

It was near noon, and suddenly, she felt tired. This was how her days went. Every morning she woke at six o'clock, and then she was tired at noon. Her pill-taking had a time schedule to it, of course. Everything was calculated, mapped out. She could doze off now and then during the course of the day, but between eating and pill-taking, she really couldn't tie on a real good nap, so she didn't really try. She'd just close her eyes now and then try to catch herself before her head and her shoulders slumped too much and she swore she heard herself snore, much to her regret and embarrassment.

It wasn't pill-popping time yet. Ummm ... she felt relaxed. As idle as the sun, Della thought. Her eyes were shut, and she could count stars if there was a census report due on God's desk, she further thought. But don't doze off now, Della. Don't doze off. Don't you dare go and embarrass yourself, Della Ballad. You don't want anyone in St. Bartholomew to think you're old! That you fall asleep at the drop of a hat, before the day has had a chance to warm up good.

Ummm ... but I do feel ... and I am getting a bit, a little drowsy ... I can feel my head swimming ... Am I drifting off? It's beginning to feel like I'm drifting off, and I can't do anything, nothing, not anything a-about ...

"Aunt Della! Aunt Della! Don't you dare, Aunt Della! Don't you dare!"

"Darlene!"

Darlene Winston charged across the hospital floor as her fingers attacked the leather buttons on her beautifully tailored woolen overcoat.

"Oh, oh no you don't, Aunt Della. No, you don't!" Darlene tossed the coat over an available chair.

"Oh, it's so good to see you, Darlene!"

Now Darlene had literally thrown herself at Della, but ever mindful of Della's delicate condition.

"Like every day, Aunt Della! Like every day I'm here, Aunt Della!"

"Yes, Darlene! Yes. Yes!"

Darlene squeezed Della as tightly as Della's delicate condition allowed, Darlene knowing well her boundaries.

"You feel cold, honey."

"Yes, Aunt Della. It's turning cold outside."

"Your cheeks."

Darlene's hands touched her cheeks. "My cheeks are cold, Aunt Della."

Darlene Winston was a Dawson and, like all Dawson women, was quite attractive. She was tall but slight of frame. Her skin was a cherry brown, not red. If you didn't know how young she was, you'd quickly surmise she was old by her dress standard. She was as neat as a store floor mannequin.

Della's head lay back on the pillow.

"Oh, I was about to cheat, Darlene. Must admit. Doze off. Was. Ain't gonna lie to you about that."

"You were, Aunt Della?"

"Uh-huh. Oh, was I! Had that drowsy feeling. You know. That settle-in- good-get-comfortable feeling. About to get down to business. Tie one on. Was gonna try to catch myself—"

"But if you didn't, Aunt Della ..."

"Fine by me, Darlene. Wasn't gonna get in the way of nothing. Ha. Progress."

Darlene sat at the side of the bed, just a foot or two from Della's shoulders. "Aunt Della, Aunt Della, did ... did ..."

"Yes, honey, Dr. Ives was by. We had that talk of ours. What I told you a—"

"And? And—"

"It's still a no."

"No?"

"Just ain't the time yet, Darlene ... Dr. Ives said. Not, it seems I'm not where I should be. Oughta be for now."

"But ... but you look so much better, Aunt Della. Now. Then when you got here. First—"

"I do, I do. I know I do, Darlene. But I've got to go on what Dr. Ives tells me. Uh, says I—now don't pout. Push your lips out like that. Ha. Make me ... ha ... think you're eight, nine years old again. Now."

"I didn't pout when I was ten though."

"Can't remember. But I do remember you pouting at nine. Don't know when you stopped. Was just glad when—"

"But I am disappointed, Aunt Della. I thought you were doing so well."

"Now, now, it doesn't mean I'm not doing well. Dr. Ives didn't say that. Nothing like that—and I certainly don't feel like I'm not. And there's been no setbacks or anything like that. So thank God for those blessings."

"But I ... I just knew he was going to say yes. Tell you, you could go home, Aunt Della. I just knew it. I just knew it!"

"Oh, Darlene, Darlene—you're such a good cheerleader, Darlene. Aren't you? Oh ... you cheer so hard for me. Same as you did for your uncle Frank when—"

"Uncle Frank wasn't supposed to die, Aunt Della!"

"But we all die, Darlene. All of us, honey."

When Darlene got up out the chair, she walked over to the far edge of Della's bed. Her back was to Della.

"Now, Darlene, it's been five years. Five years. Your uncle Frank." Della's eyes are staring at Darlene's back. "Turn around. Come on, Darlene, now turn around so your aunt Della can see your pretty face." Pause. "And smile."

Darlene does turn around to Della. "I don't want to smile. I don't want to smile, Aunt Della. I don't want to, r-right now."

"No, you don't have to, Darlene. `Cause I was disappointed too. I was hoping Dr. Ives would say I could go home. Ha. Pack my bags and get the devil out of—"

"Aunt Della, Aunt Della, I—"

Darlene's eyes are looking at the table off by the bed.

"You don't miss anything, do you, honey?"

Darlene's at the rolling table. She's holding the new bottle of pills. "What, what are these for? Are you taking these new pills for, Aunt Della? What's—"

"I don't know anymore, Darlene. Honest, honest, I don't," Della said, shaking her head. "I don't know anymore. Swear to you ... I just listen like I do know. Know, but ... And just take them, honey. My pills. Do as I'm told. What Dr. Ives prescribes. Goes in one ear and out the other. Take them like a good—"

"No! No! You should know, Aunt Della. You should know. Be aware of ... t-this is unacceptable. Not under any circumstance, Aunt Della. I'm ... I'm going to—I'll be right back. I'm going to the front desk to page Dr.—"

"No, uh-uh, you stay put, Darlene. Now. Stay right where you are. Now. Don't go anywhere, honey. Whatever it is Dr. Ives's prescribed for me, it's gonna do some, me some good. Make things better for me. For my heart."

Darlene's reading the bottle's label. "I want to know, Aunt Della. I want ... but I ... I want to know. C-can't I, Aunt Della? Know? Can't I?"

"Of ... of course you can, Darlene. May ... may. You ... you go ahead then, go ahead then. Go outside to the front desk. Out there, uh, page him. D-Dr. Ives. But if you see Susie, Susie Myers—"

"No, I want to talk to Dr. Ives. Deal directly with him, not your nurse, Aunt Della. But directly with Dr. Ives."

"But Susie knows as much as—"

"So you know where I am—either at the front desk waiting for him or I've gone to his office. Either one, Aunt Della. Either condition. But either way, I'll be back, back as soon as we're through talking, Dr. Ives and I, Aunt Della."

"Yes, Darlene. Of course, honey. Of course."

Darlene was feeding Della soup (not that Della couldn't feed herself).

"Lee said he'll call later, Aunt Della."

"He'd better not miss a day!"

"I'm glad I talked to Dr. Ives," Darlene said reflectively. "I told him from now on he must consult with me too as a matter of protocol. W-when it comes to things like this. Changing your regimen, e-et cetera."

Della's eyebrows arched upon hearing Darlene's remarks but said nothing.

"It surprised me, that's all. His disregard for family. He wasn't like that with Uncle Frank ... I ... I ..."

"I ..."

"I can't remember."

"Me, me neither, Darlene. Me neither."

"But that's it. It won't happen again—he assured me."

"He did?"

"Yes," Darlene said, picking the spoon back up, Della blowing on the hot soup, having opened her mouth wide for Darlene and the spoon.

"Do I baby you, Aunt Della?"

"No. No, not at all, Darlene. Not at all."

"I ... I just feel it's my time to do all the things you did for me, Aunt Della. Now that I have the opportunity to."

"And there's no complaint from me. Coming out my mouth. Not a peep. No not from me, honey."

"I love you, Aunt Della."

"How many times do you tell me that a day, Darlene?"

"A lot, a lot, Aunt Della." Darlene laughed.

Darlene glanced at her watch. "Lee said he would call about now. He knows I'm here at the hospital. With you, Aunt Della."

"Now hold your horses," Della said calmly. "Lee's on his job. Ha. Working hard."

"But he should be taking lunch now. R-right now."

"And what kind of sandwich did you fix—pack for Lee today for lunch?"

"Tuna fish."

"Something I know Lee loves. Just loves. 'Cause he loves my tuna fish salad when I make it at the house for him."

"Lee loves everything you make, Aunt Della."

"So ...," Della said with a twinkle in her eye, "maybe Lee's enjoying that tuna fish sandwich you made him so much he forgot about his aunt Della. Calling me."

"Aunt Della ..." Darlene burst out laughing.

"No telling now, honey."

"Let me ring them. Get an orderly in here to get rid of these things for you, Aunt Della," Darlene said, looking at the bowl, plate, glass, tray, and utensils.

"No. No, they'll come, Darlene. Be along. In due time. They won't forget about me."

"No, Aunt Della, you don't have to be surrounded by this mess. In your room."

"Why, why, it's no mess. No mess at all. At home, you know the dishes in the sink aren't always washed as soon as I—"

"But this isn't home, Aunt Della. This is a hospital. And everyone has a responsibility in a hospital. And besides—"

"Then ... then you're right. Call them in. Page, uh, get them in here then, Darlene. The orderly in here. Her name is, I—"

Darlene's thumb was pressing the button on the small gadget.

"Now let's see how long it takes them to get here. To clear this mess out your room, Aunt Della."

There's a stretch of silence as Darlene's eyes look intently at the room door. Della sees tenseness in Darlene's neck and a redness.

"I should time them. I should ... Really, really should, Aunt Della. See just how efficient they are. Prompt, I mean. I really should time them, Aunt Della."

Darlene's stroking Della's hand, and the orderly has removed the tray and its contents from the room.

"Oh, that feels good, Darlene. So good. Soothing. All right. Puts me right at ease. Right at ease, honey."

"You shouldn't be bothered, aggravated by anything. Worry about anything."

"Especially at my age."

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Della's Deedby Denis Gray Copyright © 2012 by Denis Gray. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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