Call Your Daughter Home

by Deb Spera

  There is a dread in and around me all the time now. In the leisure part of the day, after supper while the girls tend to their evening chores, is when Alvin comes to me in all his force. I smell him—hear him. I still see his last moments before I pull the trigger over and over. I should have waited ’til he saw me there, saw his fate, every human needs to reconcile their life, but I shot him in the back of the head like an animal and now I cannot shake him. The girls feel it, too, for they are like cats in the house. I’ve changed the rules since Lily’s been gone and the illness took hold. Until danger is past, they must stay where I can see them. Mary and Alma sleep with me now while Edna hangs out her bedroom window looking for something or somebody to see or talk to. She’s calls out to every person that’s passes in the lane.

  “You know me?” she asks anybody who will listen. “I lived in this town when I was little?”

  She’s only fifteen and already wants to be remembered. Still wants the outside world though there is no solace to be gained. It’s a terrible thing to have your children afraid, but they must be if they mean to survive. Unseen things are all around us, best for them to know that now.

  I got to get to Marie and Berns. I’ve heard no news since yesterday and they likely need my help. Edna knows to take care of her sisters. They got the gun if they need. Though it’s only got one shell, the sight of it alone will be enough to stop a person with wrong intentions. I wrap up two jars of green beans and some grits and corn bread in a parcel, and go to my bedroom closet to fetch a bag to put them in when there is a knock at the kitchen door. Ain’t nobody got cause to come up in here. Mary runs from one end of the house to the other and flings open the kitchen door before I can stop her.

  “Mama,” she hollers.

  I hear her and Retta whispering before I come through the parlor, and I have to bite back my own rage. This woman needs to step back and learn her place.

  “What is it?” I ask Retta.

  Alma and Edna are at my heels. They don’t care who is at the door or what they’re bringing with them. They want a story.

  “I got need for a kitchen girl starting Monday. Can your eldest cook and clean?”

  Edna speaks first, though it ain’t her place to do so.

  “Yes’m, I can. Mama taught me.” She looks at me and knows she done wrong.

  “What you want her for?” I ask.

  “I just told you why.”

  Edna is bouncing up and down like she’s a child instead of a grown woman.

  “You want your girl to make money?” she asks.

  “What kind of money?”

  “Dollar a day plus meals.”

  Before I can say anything, before any of us can, an automobile drives right off the lane and pulls up on the grass in the front yard. A sheriff steps out from behind the wheel and puts on his hat. He’s all I see until Otto comes around from the other side and slams his car door shut. Both men look around before walking toward us women. All of us go quiet. We got trouble. I step out on the porch past Retta to greet them. I can’t know what she’ll say, but she best stay behind me if she knows what’s good. The girls come out and line up at my back. They got no love for their grandfather, nor he for them. Like their father, he never once gave them a kind word.

  After the sheriff shows me his badge, he asks after Alvin and when was the last time I seen him.

  I tell him and he asks, “Why didn’t you report him missing?”

  “’Cause I don’t care if he’s missing.”

  “Where’d you get that mark on your face?” he asks.

  “My husband.”

  “Do you own a weapon, Mrs. Pardee?”

  This is it. This is Alvin bearing down on me. I grit my teeth so hard I could break my own jaw. I never took out that second shotgun shell. He’ll see one missing if he looks.

  “I do.”

  “Do you know where your husband is?”

  “No, sir, I don’t. But I bet he does,” and I point to Alvin’s daddy. “Do you know where my husband is, Otto? You’s the last that seen him.”

  Otto looks like he bit down on a pickle. He didn’t count on me talking back.

  “Last I seen he left to go home to his wife and kids,” he says to the sheriff.

  “That what you told this officer?” I ask Otto. “That he comes home to his wife and kids like a decent man?”

  He spits at the ground, and for the first time since I known him he looks me in the eye and says, “That’s what he did every day after work, went home to his wife and kids.”

  That sheriff says to me, “Can you tell us where you were on Friday, August fifteenth?”

  “’Scuse me, sir, she was here in Branchville,” Retta says. “She had a meeting with Mrs. Annie Coles about a job.”

  “He didn’t ask you, nigger,” Otto says.

  Retta don’t look at him, just the sheriff. “No, sir, I’m sorry, sir, but Mrs. Coles will tell you if’n you ask her. I know. I was there when Gertrude came calling.”

  “That’s right,” I say, “and I was at my brother’s house ’fore that.”

  Alma shouts from behind me, “We all was.”

  The sheriff stands up straight, and I can see he’s mad. Now he’s got to deal with the Coles family. Don’t nobody like that.

  “I’ll see that I speak to Mrs. Coles this evening,” the sheriff says.

  He turns to go and gives Otto a look as he walks back from where he came, but Otto don’t move. He calls to the sheriff, “That’s it? My son is gone and that’s all you’re gonna do? This woman knows where he is.”

  That sheriff turns around and looks at me, but I only got eyes for the father of my husband. I’m off the porch and they all come up behind me. Otto jumps when he sees me coming, but holds his ground.

  “What did you do to your boy, huh, Otto?”

  “Shut your mouth, girl.”

  The sheriff stands by the open door of the automobile waiting on Otto; he whistles for him to come, but Otto don’t move.

  “He was your son and you never showed him nothing but scorn. You never did a kind thing toward him.”

  “I give him a job.”

  “You give him that job so you’d look good. So nobody would talk about how you let your son and his family starve to death. He drank that money and you knew it.”

  “I take care of my own,” he yells.

  “Ain’t nothing you ever give Alvin but hate. He was your burden. I didn’t see one bit of love between you. Where was you on August fifteenth, Otto? Where was you after the mill closed? Was you home with your child bride who’s carrying that bastard baby or was you with the son you wish you never had?”

  Otto turns purple and steps up to me, and when he does, I rise to meet him. He’s got the same itchy hands as his boy. I see the slap before it comes, and I turn my face into it. I feel Alvin in his father, but he don’t have the same force. Otto is an old man looking for his youth, and I am a woman finished with mine.

  “Goddammit,” the sheriff says as he comes back up the yard.

  “Shut your mouth, you good for nothin’ trash,” Otto says and raises his hand to hit me again.

  “Stop it,” Alma cries and runs at him with her fists raised. “Leave our mama alone!”

  Otto flings her to the ground and then I am up and on him. I kick and scratch and pull like the animal I am. If Otto was dinner he would be torn apart, but Edna grabs hold of me and pulls me back, crying and yelling, “Stop, Mama, stop.”

  The sheriff pulls Otto backward toward the car, and Otto yells the whole way, “You see that? You see what kind of mother this woman is? Not fit! And she’s got daughters!”

  I yell as they go, loud enough for the sheriff to hear, “Where is your second wife, huh, Otto? How come you got two missing people in your life now? Sheriff, how come nobody ever looked for her?”

&nbs
p; The men get in their automobile and slam the door, each glad to be away from me for their own reason, this screaming woman, this creature. They drive away quick as they came and don’t look back. The girls clamor around, crying. They’re in a state. Retta leaves us and walks back to the lane.

  “I’m all right,” I tell them.

  I stand in the yard long after they are gone. He’ll be back. This ain’t never going to be over.

  * * *

  My eye is pounding as I walk the last light of the wooded path to Berns’s house. Otto has opened a closed wound, so now there is only the blur of the natural world, but I know the way. Bullfrogs bellow in fervor and multitude. Around the bend and before the meadow, a dogwood tree stands in full bloom, though it ain’t dogwood season. I got to touch the blossoms to make sure what I see is real. A dogwood blooming in September makes no sense. Something is in the wind. I catch the scent in patches of dead air around me. Sickly sweet, the kind you don’t smell in September.

  There is a stinging on my ankles and up my legs that feels like I’ve walked through a patch of briars. When I pull my skirts up to see what ails me, I find an army of fire ants marching up my legs stinging and biting as they go. I push them off with my skirt and look to see where they come from. All around me are rust colored mounds of dirt and sand. Ant houses bigger than I ever seen that reach tall as my calf. There must be upward of fifty. They weren’t here two days ago. I take a half circle around the path to avoid stepping on the mounds that cover the way. My feet crunch against the pine needles thick on the ground and the bone beneath my eye pulses so hard my face feels like it will explode right off my head. There’s pressure in the air. Like these animals, I feel it, too. I’ll see to my brother and get back home. Whatever is coming, we got to get ready.

  There is no light in Marie and Berns’s kitchen so I knock before I open the door and call out. My ear catches what my eyes cannot see in the fading light. The rattle in Berns’s chest is down low in his cough.

  “I’m here, I got food,” I holler.

  “Leave it on the table and go, Gert,” Marie calls out and then coughs the same deep cough as Berns.

  She’s got it, too.

  23

  Annie

  When Monday morning comes it casts a deep red-and-orange glow with its arrival, like a sunset in the morning. We’re upside down. I’ve slept and slept well. I stretch like a young woman from the sheer luxury of it, but the pops and shifts in this old body remind me I am not. All the noises of the house leap to my ears so quickly I wonder if I’m not hearing things. There’s the chatter in the kitchen, the tick, tick, tick of my clock on the chest of drawers, and a new sound, two impatient raps against the front door. I tie my dressing gown at the waist and step into the hallway to listen for the clip of Retta’s shoes across the downstairs floor. The doors between the kitchen and dining room swing and creak in her wake. She turns the front doorknob, and I settle in to listen for who or what has come.

  “Telegram for Mrs. Coles.”

  My first thought is my daughters. They are determined to reach me. That notion is quickly followed by the dread that something terrible has happened. I’m not sure why I even differentiate the two. They are, after all, inextricably tied together. The hallway sways, and I hold the door frame to right myself before descending the stairs. There is a mere boy at the door. No more than fourteen if I am to judge by the lack of facial hair. I relax but Retta is frightened. She doesn’t realize they would have sent a man if the news was dire. I give the boy a tip, and Retta closes the door before he has turned to go and waits for me to read the news inside.

  “Retta, you should have offered that boy a drink of water.”

  “Miss Annie, please tell me if anything has happened to my Odell.”

  I open the telegram and read.

  “Edwin is letting me know he and the men are delayed in coming home by another week.”

  It’s already been two weeks, and I can only imagine Edwin’s bad temper at being unable to reach me.

  “That’s all it says?” she asks.

  “See for yourself.”

  She scans the letter and looks into my eyes for what it means.

  “No news is good news, Retta. If anything happened to any one of Edwin’s wagons, he would tell me. Whatever has delayed them is just business, no more.”

  I can feel the fear in her.

  “If there was trouble, he’d say.”

  How can I tell her that I am relieved at the delay? We are removed from the expectation of men and I’m glad for it.

  “Let’s make good use of our husbands’ absences and ready for Camp. Imagine what we will accomplish without them being underfoot.”

  * * *

  Fruit sits ripe in baskets all along the kitchen counter, each separated by identity: grapes, apples, peaches, figs and plums. The hues are rich and deep: red, purple, orange; it’s as if I’ve walked into a Cézanne painting. The new kitchen girl stands beside Retta coring and slicing red and green apples. She is the source of the chatter I heard from my bedroom this morning. The girl is quick with her knife. For every apple sliced a bite finds its way to her mouth. Retta introduces the girl, and I recognize features in her face—she’s Gertrude’s daughter, only without her mother’s manner. This girl is a spinning top of energy. In an odd non sequitur, she compliments the electricity in the house as if I were the inventor, then with utmost delight, leans and flips the light switch up and down for good measure.

  “Stop that, child,” Retta scolds.

  Poor Retta likes a quiet kitchen. While I don my driving gloves I tell her we can’t afford to wait for Edwin to do the hog butchering if we mean to have the pudding finished in time for Camp.

  “Send word to the Norris brothers that I want to hire them this week to butcher two hogs.”

  Pudding is Edwin’s favorite breakfast dish, a delicacy earned after a full year of hard work. We always make it fresh for Camp. Edwin’s mother made it before me, and her mother before her. I never learned the recipe, but Retta knows. I was appalled when I first learned what it was made of. The innards of a hog as delicacy was something I never imagined seeing, let alone grow accustomed to eating. After the pig’s lungs are ground into a paste, Retta makes a large batch of white rice and mixes it with some garden herbs, rosemary and such, then cooks it in a steel kettle drum over an open hearth in the backyard. The intestinal sack is thoroughly cleaned and soaked in vinegar, then stuffed with the pudding and tied off. She uses the length of her hands for measure, and hangs it in the smokehouse for days. Despite the ingredients, it’s delicious.

  Edna sneaks another bite of apple. Anyone with eyes can see what she is doing. “Edna,” I tell the girl, “have the entire apple, there’s more than enough.”

  Retta is reprimanding her before I’m through the back door.

  Being alone at the Circle is an oddity. Though I miss the whir of machines and chatter of women, I am able to box stacks of seed bags for shipping and seventy-five shirts all before noon. I run my fingers along one of the collars and admire the contrast of the black stitching against blue cloth. Every shirt bears the individualistic expression of different-color thread, as if each was made uniquely for a gentleman instead of on a factory line for the masses. To think we started with ten local women from Branchville and now have three neighboring counties represented for each coveted position. It’s remarkable what one can grow on the heels of tragedy. This became my focus when Buck died, what I could see to do when I couldn’t do anything else. The fed plant always grows.

  It’s 12:30 p.m. when Jackie, our mailman, arrives to take what I’ve readied. We were ahead of schedule before the illness spread. Shipping what we have to Berlin’s before the deadline will buy goodwill for the rest. Jackie is a squat man, shorter than me, and has tufts of silver-gray hair poking out from his cap. He’s strong as can be. Strength like his is wasted on a mail rout
e, and I’ve told him as much, but he claims farming aggravates his sinuses so badly his eyes swell shut every spring.

  I hold one of the yellow shirts up and say, “What do you think, Jack? Would you wear this?”

  “Too snazzy for a country boy like me,” he says. “Those are big-city duds.”

  He hefts the first box up, his head barely glancing the top, and pushes the door open with one foot, but a gust of wind blows the door shut, knocking him backward onto his behind. He curses, apologizes and jumps to his feet to try again, this time backing his way out the door.

  The wind picks up on the way home. At a stop sign on Main Street, Dr. Southard crosses by foot, his black bag by his side. I lightly press the horn, and he walks over to my window and leans in when he sees I mean to speak with him.

  “Am I free to reopen Wednesday?” I ask.

  “Could be a few days longer. I’m sorry, Ann,” he tells me. “More likely by the end of the week, but I’m optimistic.”

  He looks utterly exhausted, poor man. I’ve not considered the toll this has taken on him.

  “You look like you could use a good meal. Won’t you come for supper tonight?”

  He hesitates.

  “Do you already have plans?”

  “I don’t,” he says. “I am at the beck and call of the afflicted.”

  “Say yes, then. Edwin has still not returned from market, and I am starved for intellectual stimulation.” He agrees.

  By the time I am home and through the kitchen door, I am drenched in sweat. The afternoon has grown thick with humidity. Retta and Edna have cleared some counter space, and two large pots of apple pie filling bubble on the stove that will be canned and used throughout the year. The brew has made the kitchen a wall of heat.