Here's Your Hat What's Your Hurry

by Elizabeth McCracken

  Aunt Helen Beck walked straight up to them, one arm extended, without any doubt. In the other hand she carried a suitcase as if it weighed nothing at all.

  “Ford,” said Aunt Helen Beck. They both jumped. “And Chris.” She bent down a bit to allow Chris a kiss on the cheek, but made it clear she did not want another kiss anytime in the near future. Ford took her suitcase instead.

  She saw them take her in, her navy blue suit, clean shirt, none of the usual old lady fripperies: no perfume, makeup, or glasses. Her gray hair was short and close to her head. She looked like a nun who had decided, after much thought, that as a matter of fact she’d always preferred cleanliness over godliness.

  “You have a beard,” Aunt Helen Beck said to Ford.

  “Glory be,” he said, touching his chin. “Actually, yes. I do.”

  “Your cousin Edward was fond of his beard, too. I always thought that bearded men were hiding something, but I have been assured that that’s not true.”

  “I hope not,” said Chris. She was a copper-headed, freckled woman dressed just like her husband, in blue jeans and a dark long-sleeved T-shirt.

  “Just parked over here,” Ford said.

  Chris climbed in the bed of the truck. Ford tried to help Aunt Helen Beck up into the cab, but she wouldn’t allow it. He walked around and got in.

  “So.” Ford tapped the steering wheel, then turned the key in the ignition. “How long do you think you’ll be with us?”

  Aunt Helen Beck looked at him. “Here’s your hat what’s your hurry, is that how it is?”

  “No,” he said. “No. I was just wondering—”

  “Well, I don’t know whether or not I like you. It would be premature for me to make a prediction. I might want to turn around soon as we get to your house.”

  “I hope,” said Ford, a little sincerity forced into his voice, “that you’ll give us more of a chance than that.”

  “Done,” said Aunt Helen Beck.

  She looked at his profile, at the sun coming through his beard. In fact, he was hiding things. There were acne scars on the parts of his cheeks that were out in the open; and it was clear that if you poked your finger straight into his beard, it would be a while before you hit any semblance of a chin.

  “Here.” Aunt Helen Beck reached into her pocket and pulled out a small framed photograph of a mustached man standing in front of a painted arbor. “For you,” she said. “Your great-grandfather. My uncle Patrick Corrigan. Not my blood uncle, of course, but I was very fond of him always.” She held it up. “You do look like him.”

  Ford looked at it out of the corner of his eye. “Nice-looking man,” he said. “Thank you. Sure you want to give that up?”

  “I always bring a present to my hosts,” said Aunt Helen Beck.

  They pulled up a rocky drive that jostled Aunt Helen Beck’s bones, still sore from traveling. An old trailer flashed by, the round sort that had always looked to her like a thermos bottle, as if the people inside needed protection against rot. Then a house showed itself around a bend, halfway up the big hill. It looked like a good house, solid and small. Aunt Helen Beck had stayed in better, perhaps, but she had certainly stayed in much worse.

  “This must be the place,” said Ford, pulling on the brake.

  She heard a child say to Chris, “You’re ridin’ in back like a dog.”

  Chris barked a response, then came around to the door to help Aunt Helen Beck out. The child, who had white-blond hair halfway down its back, ran around with her.

  “Who’s that?” the child asked, pointing.

  “Who are you?” Aunt Helen Beck replied, and then, because she couldn’t tell, “Are you a little boy or a little girl?” They dressed them alike, these days.

  “I’m a boy,” he said.

  “Your hair’s too long,” she told him.

  “I like my hair. My mother cuts it for me.”

  “Your mother is falling down on the job,” said Aunt Helen Beck. “Come to me and I’ll do better.” She grabbed her suitcase, which Ford took from her. “I’m your Aunt Helen Beck,” she told the boy.

  “He’s not ours,” said Ford, swinging the suitcase over his shoulder. “He lives in that trailer we just passed.”

  “Good,” she said.

  They went around back and walked into a bright kitchen, full of the sorts of long skinny plants Aunt Helen Beck had always distrusted: they looked like they wanted to ruffle your hair or sample your cooking. The boy followed them into the house. He flopped down on the couch; Aunt Helen Beck couldn’t blame him. A child who lived in a trailer surely thought that furniture was a luxury.

  “So,” she said. “What’s your name?”

  “Mercury,” he said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Ford shrugged. “His mother likes planets.”

  “I like vegetables,” said Aunt Helen Beck, “but I wouldn’t name my child Rutabaga. But”—she squinted at Ford,—“I suppose that someone named after a car isn’t shocked.”

  “The theater, actually,” said Ford.

  “Huh,” said Aunt Helen Beck. She turned to her niece. “Christopher Columbus, I presume?”

  Chris just blushed.

  “In my day,” said Aunt Helen Beck, “we settled on a dead uncle and were done with it.”

  Mercury took off one of his shoes. “When you have children,” he recited, “you can name them anything you want.”

  The house was a small prefab; Aunt Helen Beck had never heard of such a thing. The guest room down the hall was decorated with a number of faded bedspreads: on the narrow cot, as drapes, suspended from the ceiling like something in a harem. The furniture was otherwise sparse and functional; Ford explained that he had made some of it himself and was thinking of taking up caning. There was a picture window in the living room with a view of both Puget Sound and the silver trailer. According to Ford, Mercury’s mother, Gaia, had casual attitudes toward marriage and having children. So far she’d had Mercury, Jupiter, Venus, and Saturn, and seemed bent on assembling her own galaxy, though God help the child named Pluto or Uranus. The kids were all as blond and airy as Gaia, and constantly orbited Chris and Ford’s flower patch, dirty and nosy as trowels.

  “Ford’s cooking dinner tonight,” Chris said. “What do you like to eat?”

  “Nothing, really,” said Aunt Helen Beck. “But I’ll eat anything anyhow.”

  In the kitchen, Ford was pulling pots and boxes out of cupboards. “I’d thought I’d make some quinoa,” he said. “The grain of the ancient Aztecs.”

  “Of who?” Aunt Helen Beck asked. She and Chris sat down at the kitchen table.

  “Aztecs,” said Ford. “Or. Incas? Ancient somebodies. The guy at the store told me. I think you’ll like it.”

  “Because I’m ancient, no doubt.”

  “No, no,” said Ford. But Chris laughed and touched Aunt Helen Beck’s forearm lightly.

  “No, really,” Ford said. “Somebody ancient really did eat this stuff.”

  “But did they like it?” asked Chris, giggling.

  “Not you, too,” said Ford. “Okay. Rice? It’s tricky, Aunt Helen Beck: we’re vegetarians.”

  “As am I,” said Aunt Helen Beck. “I knew you seemed sensible.”

  “Beans and rice it is,” said Ford. He set out his things carefully: first garlic, then spices; he poured the rice into a glass measuring cup and then into a strainer. “No time to soak beans,” he said under his breath, “so we’ll just use canned,” and Aunt Helen Beck could tell that he was a convert to careful diet: once upon a time he went through this sort of ritual with substances that were not so good for him. She had seen that sort of thing in plenty of houses.

  “So where were you taking the bus from?” Chris asked her.

  “From Vallejo.” Aunt Helen Beck got up and opened a drawer, looking for silverware. When she found it, she started setting the table.

  “Leave that,” Ford said. “We’ll do it.”

  Aunt Helen Beck ignored him. She sa
id to Chris, “Usually I travel by car, but my car broke down about a month ago and I had to leave it behind.”

  “That’s terrible,” said Chris. “Are you going to get another one?”

  “I can’t tell. This car was a gift, so I suppose if someone wants to give me another I’ll take it.”

  Chris tried to take a fork from Aunt Helen Beck’s hand, but failed. “You’re making me feel guilty,” she said.

  “Your guilt I can do nothing about,” said Aunt Helen Beck. “The table I can.”

  “You’re from Vallejo?” asked Ford.

  “Heavens, no,” said Aunt Helen Beck. “My niece Marlene lives there. I was just visiting her. And before that I was with Abbie, and before that I was with my dear cousin Audrey, who passed away.”

  “Oh dear,” said Chris. “While you were visiting?”

  “Yes, I’m sorry to say.” Aunt Helen Beck straightened one of the placemats that was already on the table. “She gave me the car—she left it to me; she left everything to me. I think perhaps Audrey was my closest friend, though I didn’t meet her until we were both grown women. In fact, I read her husband’s obituary and realized this was a cousin and called her to offer my condolences, that’s how we met. I visited Audrey often.”

  “How long had you been there when she died?” Chris asked.

  “Five years. When you’re seventy-four, the people you know are dying or dead. One gets used to it.”

  Ford rummaged in a kitchen drawer for a spoon. “Where do you call home now?”

  Aunt Helen Beck picked up a fork and set it back down decisively. “All set here,” she said. “Ready when you are.”

  After Aunt Helen Beck had cleared the table, washed the dishes, and wiped down the table, the three of them sat around the kitchen table. Aunt Helen Beck rattled her little purse.

  “There must be a story behind that,” Chris said.

  “My brother made it for me.” Aunt Helen Beck stopped shaking it but didn’t open her palm to let them see.

  “Another relative!” said Ford. “Where’s he now?”

  “He died very young. My brother,” said Aunt Helen Beck, “was a child preacher. He toured the South with my father. Beautiful child, Georgie. Famous, too. Before he died, he made me this purse for my birthday and put two pennies in it. I’ve kept it with me ever since.”

  “Nice to know there’s spirituality in the family,” said Ford.

  Aunt Helen Beck waved her hand. “My father made him preach, and Georgie was smart and pretty. Children are not spiritual, in my opinion.”

  But the voice she used when she wanted to shut people up had no effect on him. “Why, Aunt Helen Beck,” he said. “Children are spiritual creatures. It’s why they’re unpredictable.”

  “No,” she said. “There’s a difference between being spiritual and just being willful. Some people never learn that.” She looked at him deliberately.

  Chris laughed. “Don’t get him started, Aunt Helen Beck. He’s full of theories.”

  “So’s Aunt Helen Beck, I have a feeling,” said Ford.

  She smiled back. “I’m sure we have a lot to talk about.” She could tell he was flattered by that: he was the type of man who wanted to be invited to join every club there was. Even hers.

  Aunt Helen Beck worked hard at all the things that convinced people to let her stay. She got up early to bake bread, examined the books that were on the shelves and referred to them in conversation. She did dishes immediately; cooked for herself; went to bed early and pretended to sleep soundly.

  She charmed Mercury, at least. He adored her, and started playing in the yard less and in the house more. She instructed Mercury to behave, she threatened him with poems about goblins that stole nasty children, and he seemed eager to be taken, and asked her if she were the head goblin.

  “He’s a good kid,” Chris told her. “Just restless.”

  “Perhaps,” said Aunt Helen Beck, but she smiled. She was fond of Mercury, though the brother and sister old enough to walk struck her as colorless and dull. Children did not interest her until they were six: Aunt Helen Beck liked conversation.

  She got that in abundance from Ford. He was a glib young man, too free and easy. Aunt Helen Beck had expected him to be reserved, since when she’d stayed with his sister he left a message on the answering machine: “Oh hell, Ab,” he said. “You got a machine? Well. Hate these things. Guess I’ll just write.” Aunt Helen Beck had assumed that meant he wouldn’t brook any nonsense, when really he just preferred his own special stock. He admired Indians—both sorts—and wrote poetry that he tacked to the doorjambs of the house, frequently addressed to “The Earth,” or, “The Goddess.” It took Aunt Helen Beck some time to discover that this second wasn’t a pet name for his wife.

  She was the reason Aunt Helen Beck wanted to stay. Chris stayed home all day to make her necklaces, which she sold through some of the shops and galleries in town. Sometimes, Ford helped with the beading, but Aunt Helen Beck noticed his impatience: he threw all the good beads together, and ended up with chunky clashed messes. His wife knew how to spell the dazzle with tiny beads and knots. Aunt Helen Beck noted with approval that Chris was quiet and perennially embarrassed: an attractive quality in a woman, and something, she knew, that had always been lacking in herself.

  After a week, she let Chris catch her making a phone call in the kitchen.

  “I thought I might come to visit,” said Aunt Helen Beck into the phone. “Oh. Well, no, of course you’re busy. Might I help? No, you’re welcome, I just thought I might be useful. Some other time, perhaps. In a month or so.” She hung up the phone.

  “Aunt Helen Beck,” said Chris. “You don’t have anywhere to stay, do you?”

  “I’m sure I’ll find some place—”

  “Stay here. We like having you, there’s plenty of room—”

  “Can’t stay forever,” said Aunt Helen Beck.

  “Well,” said Chris. She thought it over. “For a while, at least. For as long as you like. Why not?”

  “Dear me,” said Aunt Helen Beck. “You’re sure to think of a reason eventually.”

  After dinner each night, Chris and Ford went in the living room and watched the sun set over the Sound and tried to get her to join them. They sat with arms around each other, and though Aunt Helen Beck did not strictly approve of that sort of public display, she did not object. She liked people in love: they were slow-witted and cheerful. They never asked her again how long she planned to stay.

  Sometimes, she stood in the door of the living room, and the three of them looked at the trailer standing between them and the Sound. Ford liked to pretend he knew what was going on in there, and made up stories.

  “About now,” he said, “Gaia has fed them and bathed them—”

  “Bathed them?” asked Aunt Helen Beck. “There’s a tub in that tiny thing?”

  “A little shower,” he said. “Or she’s taken them to the lake to swim. And one of them—probably Venus, since she’s stubborn and a flirt—is refusing to get dressed and is bouncing off the walls, stark naked.”

  “And so Gaia is singing a getting-dressed song,” said Chris.

  “And Jupiter’s crying,” said Ford. “Because it’s not a very good song.”

  Aunt Helen Beck shook her head. “All those people in one little house. I’m not sure I approve.”

  “What’s to approve?” asked Ford. “She leads her life and she’s happy. And they’re good kids, so she must be doing something right.”

  “How does she make her way in the world?”

  “Oh, the way anybody does around here. Part-time work, barter. She works a couple of days a week at the Healing Arts Center.”

  “Healing?” asked Aunt Helen Beck. “Physical healing?”

  “Reiki. Rolfing. That sort of thing. Laying on of hands, really. Perhaps not so different from what your brother did, Aunt Helen Beck.”

  “My brother,” she said, “was a child of God.”

  “Well, everybody�
�s got their own idea of God,” said Ford. “Anyhow, Gaia’s good at what she does. She fixes things. Maybe”—he looked at her with teasing eyes,—“you should go to her sometime.”

  Aunt Helen Beck said, “I was not under the impression I needed fixing.”

  “Eat this.”

  Mercury closed his mouth around the spoon of molasses.

  “Mmmmm.” He licked the spoon all over, including the handle.

  “You think that’s good?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said. Chris and Ford were in town, shopping, and Mercury had elected to follow Aunt Helen Beck through the house as she cleaned and straightened. His brother and sister had been outside, throwing dirt at the window, until she had dispatched him to tell them to stop.

  “If you think that tastes good,” she said, “I’m afraid something’s wrong with you. You must be part dog, to think everything’s good to eat.”

  “Maybe I am a dog,” he said; he lay down on the living room floor, his hair fanning out behind him.

  “How old are you, Mercury?”

  “Seven.”

  “Do you know how to write?”

  “Yes,” he said peevishly.

  “Well then.” She looked around for a piece of paper. “Would you like to write a letter for me?”

  “Who to?”

  “Kneel down here,” she said, pointing to the coffee table, “and I’ll tell you what to say.” She found a pencil and some lined paper in a drawer and gave them to him, then tried to stretch out on the sofa, a tiny loveseat. She bent her knees over the arm and let her feet dangle. “All right. Put down just what I tell you. Here we go. ‘Dear Mac. Of course, we haven’t spoken for a while. That is understandable.’ Do you have that?”

  “Yes.” His head was bent over the paper and he was holding the pencil like a needle, very delicately. His hair, that ridiculous hair, hid his face. She imagined he was concentrating.