by Karen White
His doctor told her that when he threw his tantrums she should leave him in a safe place and let him do it and not, under any circumstances, pick him up and coddle him, in order to avoid rewarding bad behavior. But she loved her son, and remembered that terrible night they had shared. Sometimes, when his screaming and thumping became too much for her to stand, she’d go into his room and pick him up, worried that he was remembering that night, too, and she’d cup the back of his head, his hair sticky and damp with sweat and tears, and allow him to bang his head against her. She would be left with a small bruise, a fist-size smear of blue and green right under her collarbone, but Edith hardly noticed. It wasn’t because she was overly familiar with bruises; it was more that she’d had a say in it, and therefore it was all right.
“Mama! Where are you?” Nine-year-old C.J. shouted from somewhere in the house. His restless energy hadn’t dissipated at all, and Edith found it exhausting yet not worrying. He was a growing boy, and needed to run about and be loud and physical and make dents in walls. Even after they grow into men.
She brushed her hand through the air to erase the thought and the smoke and stood. “I’ll be right down,” she called, but not too loudly. Even though Calhoun had been dead for so long, there were still things she couldn’t bring herself to do. Like shouting. Or wearing anything too loud or too short. Cutting her hair even though it was past her waist and so very hot in the summertime. Or driving. She’d like to drive, but she’d have to buy a car, and she hadn’t the first idea how to do that by herself. Her friends’ husbands would surely help her out, but she was uncomfortable being alone with them, and couldn’t imagine sitting inside a closed car with one.
“Mama!”
Edith’s gaze strayed to her pack of cigarettes, wishing she had time for another, and then past it to her current project. It was, of all things, a back balcony in an apartment building involving a clothing line, a block of firewood, and a woman. She examined the doll’s face for a moment, wondering whether she’d made it just the right shade of blue, and whether the print on the blouse was accurate enough. She wanted to hurry and finish it so she could go back to her biggest project, the one that consumed most of her waking thoughts. She was so close now to an answer that it was hard for her to focus on anything else.
It would have to wait until the following day when C.J. was at school. He didn’t like her spending time in her workshop any more than Calhoun had. He wasn’t allowed up there, and she was careful to lock the door when she left, putting the key in its hiding place in her closet. To make a prohibited place less appealing, she’d told him it was hot and stuffy, that there were lots of spiders, and all she did was work on her sea-glass wind chimes. She hoped she’d made it sound boring enough to him that he wouldn’t be interested in finding the key.
She took her cardigan off the back of her chair and slid it over her shoulders before heading down the attic stairs, being careful not to trip in her high heels. After carefully locking the door and pocketing the key, she found C.J. in the upstairs hallway, bouncing a small rubber ball against the wall, which she’d told him not to do at least a dozen times.
“I’m here,” she said, reaching over and grabbing the ball in midbounce.
He looked annoyed. His shirt had a tear at the hem and the neck had some unidentified food stain. His dungarees had holes in the patches on his knees, and his high-top sneakers looked exhausted, with their tongues and laces dangling over the sides. But she didn’t say anything. Betsy had told her that the modern method of child rearing in that book by Dr. Spock was about choosing battles. C.J. played hard; that was all. Edith could accept that.
“Jimmy wants me to come over for dinner.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. But you know Tuesday is bridge night. Debbie Fuller is coming over to babysit, and I’ve got a Swanson TV dinner in the oven already.”
“No,” he groaned. “I don’t like Debbie Fuller, and I hate TV dinners.”
This was how he generally responded when things didn’t go his way. “I’m sorry that’s how you feel, C.J. But Debbie is responsible and reliable and I like her.” She’s also the only babysitter who will still come stay with you. “And I think you’ll like this TV dinner. It has a dessert—an apple cobbler.”
“I hate apple cobbler,” he shouted, rushing past her to the stairway and sliding down the banister. She’d told him too many times to count not to do that, that it was dangerous, but it didn’t seem to matter. He was like his father that way, a rushing, boisterous presence in a room. She’d loved that about Calhoun—once, a long time ago. She didn’t want to erase it completely from his son.
The doorbell rang and Edith answered it. Debbie Fuller was only four years older than C.J., but about a foot taller and years older in terms of maturity and poise. She wasn’t frivolous like those other girls who were suddenly no longer available to babysit when Edith called. Debbie was a serious girl, her hair always crimped back in a tight ponytail and heavy bangs over thick, dark glasses. She was the oldest of six and the only girl, which was probably the reason she wasn’t daunted by watching C.J. the few times Edith left him.
“Hello, Mrs. Heyward,” Debbie said, her expression serious. She looked like one of those girls who was born old, as if their life’s plan were already laid out in front of them and they followed those plans with the seriousness of a nun. Edith might even have envied that about her, the knowing what the future held. Maybe then she might have done things differently.
“Thanks so much for coming, Debbie. I’ve got two TV dinners in the oven for you and C.J. I hope you like meat loaf.” She closed the door behind her.
“Yes, ma’am,” Debbie said without smiling. “That will be fine.” She held a stack of heavy schoolbooks, and Edith admired her optimism. The only time she ever got anything done with C.J. around was when he was at school, watching Gunsmoke and Dennis the Menace on television, or sleeping.
She led Debbie toward the kitchen. “Why don’t you come put your books down on the kitchen table while I go find C.J. Mrs. Williams will be here any minute to pick me up. We’ll be at the Butlers’ house tonight, and I’ve written her phone number on the pad by the phone.”
She put her books down while Edith opened up the back door and called for C.J. When she turned back to Debbie, she was watching Edith closely. Edith ran her tongue over her teeth, making sure they weren’t smeared with lipstick. She was patting the back of her chignon to check for loose bobby pins when Debbie finally spoke.
“This might be the last time I can come babysit.”
“Oh, no, Debbie. Why? Am I not paying you enough?”
The teenager shook her head, her lank ponytail shaking, too. “No, ma’am. That’s not it. It’s just . . .” She fidgeted, turning her Keds-clad feet outward onto the sides of the soles.
“It’s okay, Debbie. You can tell me.”
She looked at Edith with pale blue eyes and she suddenly knew what Debbie was going to say. “Last time I was here, he hit me. On the arm. Hard enough to make a big bruise. Mama saw it and said I couldn’t come back here unless you promised that C.J. wouldn’t hit me anymore.”
It was as if Edith had turned to ice, as if one small tap anywhere on her would make her crack into a thousand little pieces. Sins of the father. She managed to hold on to her composure. “I’m so sorry, Debbie. So truly sorry. I’m sure he didn’t mean it. I’ll talk to him. Tonight—before I leave—and I’ll make him promise to never hit you again.”
With a tentative smile, she nodded. “Thank you. I know he didn’t mean it. We were playing cards and I was winning. . . .” She stopped, either because she knew what she was saying wasn’t making it any better, or because she suspected that Edith didn’t want to hear it.
Edith opened up the back door and called for C.J. again, her voice more strident. She pictured him hunkered down beneath the oak tree, digging in the dirt with the penknife he’d found in his father’s desk. Since he was a small boy, C.J. had always hidden in the garden when he
was upset, finding refuge beneath the heavy arms of the oak tree and within the fragrance of the gardenias and roses Edith tended with a mother’s care. She thought it was because as a baby she’d set up his playpen in the oak’s shadow while she tended her garden, and that must have brought warm memories to him. But sometimes, when he looked at her with his father’s eyes, she saw the dark sky exploding in fire all over again, as if he were remembering things he shouldn’t.
Edith eventually found C.J. on the ground by the garden wall, whittling on a stick. They had their talk, and he seemed penitent enough that Edith chose to believe him. He didn’t protest when she asked for the knife, or when she told him he shouldn’t use his fists when he got angry. He even allowed her to hug him and he hugged her back, his soft, “I’m sorry,” choked with tears. He was truly sorry; she knew this. Just as much as she knew that he was his father’s son.
When Edith finally pulled away from the house in Betsy’s Buick, she’d glanced up at the dormer windows, an orange glow coming from the light she’d left on. She probably wouldn’t be able to sleep again tonight and would spend most of it working on her special project in the attic. She needed it to be done with, for the answer to her question to be found. It was what kept her going, besides her son. She had to believe that there was an answer, a reason. An explanation more complicated than anything she’d come across before in her work. More than that, it was a labor of love, a show of solidarity with a woman she’d never met. It would be her crowning glory, a nod to her own past. A promise to a secret kept.
She slid a cigarette and her lighter out of her pocketbook, catching sight in the side-view mirror of the lit attic window one last time before Betsy turned the corner and the old house disappeared from view.
chapter 12
LORALEE
Loralee was standing in the kitchen wrapping the quartered watermelon slices in plastic wrap when the doors swung open. Owen’s feet were bare, and he wore a long-sleeved swim shirt with an SPF of fifty along with a bathing suit with characters from The LEGO Movie. He looked about as comfortable as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockers. “Dr. Heyward called and said he’s on his way.”
With a sidelong glance, Loralee took out a twenty-dollar bill from her apron pocket and slid it across the counter. She hated resorting to bribery, but she’d already tried going the honest route, and Gibbes had had no better luck in convincing Merritt what was best for her than Loralee had. “We went over this enough last night that you know what to do. Just don’t take no for an answer.”
Owen gazed down solemnly at the bill. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll save this toward my college education.”
Loralee sighed. His father’s side of the family hailed from New England, after all. “Or you could just blow it on LEGOs and candy. It’s up to you.”
Owen stared at her as if she’d stopped speaking English.
Without looking at Owen, she asked, “And Maris is coming, too?”
She imagined Owen’s shoulders slumping.
“Yes. Dr. Heyward said he’d be happy to bring her. I don’t know why you made me invite her.”
Loralee held back a sigh. “To begin with, she’s your first friend in Beaufort, and she’ll be able to introduce you to more children your age so you’ll know people at school. She’s a darling little girl. I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss.”
His fingertips tugged at the bottom of his swimsuit. It was too short, even though she’d bought it at the beginning of summer. She wasn’t ready for him to get taller, but she would swear on a stack of Bibles that she wasn’t making him wear too-small clothes on purpose. And it wasn’t because she’d loved his baby years, when it had been just her and Robert and Owen. They’d been so happy, the days full of wonderful memories. Would it be such a bad thing if she was holding on to them in any way she could?
“That’s the problem,” Owen said in a small voice she hadn’t heard in a long time.
“What do you mean?” she asked, opening the picnic basket and carefully placing the watermelon inside on top of ice packs. She’d read in Parenting magazine that sometimes the best way to have a conversation with your children was to be busy doing something else so you didn’t have to make eye contact. Her own mama had held her by the ponytail and spoken to her almost nose-to-nose to get her points across, and that had seemed to work pretty well. But this was a new era, and she figured Parenting knew best.
Still tugging at his bathing suit, he said, “It’s a problem because she’s pretty, and fun, and smart.” He paused, studying the plastic-wrapped plate of Loralee’s homemade chocolate-and-peanut-butter-chip cookies. “When she finds out how not cool I am, she won’t want to be my friend. I figure if I stay away from her all summer, by the time school starts she’ll think I’m an enigma, which is a lot better than her knowing I’m a loser.”
Loralee studied her son for a long moment, wondering how he knew the word enigma and if it was even a word a ten-year-old should be using. Or loser for that matter. Especially a ten-year-old boy who was painfully shy and desperate for friends. She threw the dish towel down on the counter. Screw Parenting. Getting down on her knees, she took Owen by the shoulders. “You are not a loser. Just because some other boys decided to call you that does not make it true. You are smart and funny and interesting. And I bet that once Maris gets to know you, all the other boys won’t seem half as cool. Besides, smart girls like smart boys.” He didn’t look completely convinced, but she thought she’d at least given him something to think about.
She stood slowly, keeping her hands on his shoulders as support.
“Why doesn’t Merritt want to come with us?”
Loralee took the glasses from his nose and cleaned them on the hem of her blouse before replacing them. “Because she’s afraid of the water.”
His eyes scrunched behind his glasses. “But I thought you said we should respect other people’s fears.”
She turned back to the counter and began slathering bread with mayonnaise, wrinkling her nose at the smell of it, at the turning of her empty stomach. “I did. And we should. It’s just that some people need a little push in the right direction. Some people use their fears as a wall, an excuse for not moving forward. It’s not on purpose—just human nature, I guess. Usually I let people figure this out on their own, but Merritt’s a little slower than most.”
Owen snorted and she sent him a stern glance. “I don’t mean that in a bad way. She’s been through a lot and thinks that moving to a new place means all the bad stuff gets left behind. But it doesn’t. We travel with the same packed bags we’ve always had, until we take the time to unpack them.”
She glanced to the small laminate table where her pink journal sat, recalling what she’d written in it just that morning. There are times when fear needs to be in the driver’s seat. The best learning and growing happens when wisdom is won from pain. And then she’d written, Brush your teeth every morning and every night before you go to bed. Clean teeth and fresh breath will give you a reason to smile. She figured practical advice should go in her Journal of Truths, too.
“Is that why we’re here? To help her?”
Loralee stared into those beautiful eyes and saw his father. “Mostly,” she said softly, turning her focus to slicing the tomatoes for the sandwiches.
The doorbell rang and Owen ran toward the kitchen door but stopped. “I forgot. Maris is with him.”
“Either way, you need to answer the door.”
He looked so panic-stricken that she wiped her hands on a paper towel. “Wash your hands and then put a handful of chips into five plastic bags. I’ll go get the door.”
Merritt had already opened the door, where Gibbes and Maris waited. She greeted the little girl with a warm smile, but looked oddly at the doctor. Ever since they’d gone up into the attic, there had been a strange undercurrent between them, like two fiddler crabs who’d decided that walking sideways didn’t suit them anymore, yet were unsure how to walk any other way.
Lor
alee stepped forward, trying to ease the awkwardness. “So glad you could join us today, Maris. And thank you, Dr. Heyward, for allowing Owen to bring a friend. Maris, I spoke to your mother and she assured me that you’re a great swimmer and a regular on a boat.”
“Yes, ma’am. We have a motorboat that we like to swim and waterski from—not at the same time, of course—and we usually go sailing with my uncle when the weather’s good. I also like to go shrimping and crabbing, and I always catch more than my brother even though he’s two years older. Mama says she thinks I was born with webbed feet, because I love the water so much, even though I love horses just as much.”
She apparently had used a single breath to get all the words out, her cheeks pink from the exertion.
“That’s good to know. Owen’s in the kitchen helping make lunches. Why don’t you go back and join him?”
The little girl’s eyes lit up, and Loralee noticed they were the same color as her sparkly blue bathing suit and cover-up and the sequined bows on her flip-flops. Her hair was braided again and held back with blue ribbons. She held a beach bag that was almost as big as Maris, with a horse emblazoned on its side.
“Yes, ma’am!” Without further prompting she ran toward the back of the house, where an unsuspecting Owen waited.
Before the kitchen door swung shut behind Maris, Loralee added, “And please tell him that Merritt is downstairs.”
Loralee closed the front door, wondering whether Merritt had taken the time to admire Gibbes in his Bermuda swim shorts that exposed his tanned and muscular legs. He wore a white T-shirt that fit him just fine, and if Merritt hadn’t noticed, then Loralee had more work ahead of her than she’d thought.
Turning to Gibbes, she said, “Our picnic is almost ready. Just give us about five minutes to get it all packed up.”
On cue, Owen came from the kitchen, closely trailed by Maris. After a quick glance at his mother, he turned to Merritt. “Where’s your bathing suit?”
