“But—”
“Come here.” Her mother reached out and hugged Cam. She squeezed hard. “There. Go grab some plates.”
Cam looked around. Decorations were the same. Colors. Backyard. Even the plates she pulled out of the hutch—cream with purple loops.
“This looks good to go,” her mother said. She spooned pasta and sauce on the plates and then served a side salad with radishes and carrots.
She hated radishes. Some snack.
“Mom?”
“You keep doing that.” Her laugh was loud and it pierced Cam’s ears.
“Mom. Where’s Dad?”
Her mother sat down and put her hands together. “I didn’t know if you would know.”
“Know what?”
“He would have wanted this.”
“What’s going on, Mom?”
“You know, sweetie. You did it.”
“What do you mean? Where’s Dad?”
“Honey, he …” She paused and looked down. “It’s just me and you, babe.”
Cam choked and spit out her pasta. “I never—!”
“I know. But, that’s how it worked.” Her mother shrugged. “It will be okay.” She patted Cam’s arm.
Cam felt a chill. Her body shivered, fully shaking out of her control.
They ate. The pasta needed salt. Her mother talked as if she had been there Cam’s whole life—without her dad. She knew that Cam had scraped her knee climbing the backyard tree, her major, the classes she took, which ones she got As in.
“And what about that young man? The one who helped you the other day. He was cute. Gave you his number, right?”
Cam raised her eyebrow. Her heart was beating so fast she almost couldn’t catch her breath. Dad wouldn’t have asked. She and her dad, they were just … in sync. Knew things without ever asking.
The water ran over Cam’s hands, suds forming as she scraped off sauce. Then she used her fingers to scrub the oil from the salad bowls. Cam let the water run hot, turning her hands red, almost burning them.
“What do you want to do now, honey? Watch a movie? Rom-com okay?”
“Yeah. Sure.” Did she ever sleep?
She sat down. Her mother’s body radiated warmth. The movie was funny. But Cam couldn’t get her mind off the changes. Well, the one change. Though there seemed to be different DVDs in their zippered case. Too many romances throughout the various sleeves. And how was her mom happy? Okay.
When credits rolled, Cam said, “So Dad knows this is what happened?”
“I think so, baby.”
“Why wouldn’t he fight to come back? You know, come through with you?”
“I don’t think he could any more than I could have.”
Her mother put the DVD back in its case. She fiddled with the zipper. “I’m going to heat up some hot cider. You in?”
Cam nodded. But she swallowed and felt bile move up her trachea.
The microwave beeped. Clanging ceramic and glass followed.
“Here.” Her mother handed her a mug.
The heat spread through her fingers and palms. Her face got warm, too. Cam blew, lifting the spoon and trying to cool the liquid she knew would burn.
“Shopping tomorrow?” her mother asked.
“I’m not much of a shopper.”
“Come on. We’ll get you some new clothes. Some things to go with your school year.” She rubbed Cam’s knee.
Cam had to hold her knee in place so it wouldn’t jump. “I miss him.” This is all wrong.
“I know. I can’t replace him. But now I get to be here.” She motioned for Cam to move closer.
Cam paused. She slid over, and they were elbow to elbow. Her mother’s appeared white and ashy. Her father’s skin was more olive, but her mother’s was the milky version of his, which made the ashiness harder to see. He was Seneca, her mother Mohawk. Two nations and two people connected long ago. But Cam couldn’t imagine that connection right then.
She touched her mother’s hand.
“See, it’s all right,” said her mother. She reached around Cam.
The two hugged.
“I love you, Mom. But I’m sorry.”
The luck stone warmed Cam’s pocket. The heat bit her side, and she knew there would be a mark left behind.
Phillip
On Sundays, Phillip would walk into church, scuffed knees, his shirt backwards or untucked at times, and smelling like the fields. I don’t know if it was due to slowness or shyness or sheer dumb luck. But Phillip was just full of ignorance. He would walk right up to the front pews and plop himself before the pulpit. The look in his eyes always moved into pure awe when the preacher spoke. You never saw Phillip fall asleep or lose interest. But those around him sat further away, noticing only the smell and the loud sounds emerging during hymns that one could only assume were notes somewhere on the scales of Heaven. Phillip never noticed the stares or nose pinching, and he never changed his seat.
I had known him since he was a child, nearly twenty years ago. He lived in a small, square hut made out of boards and old shingles at the edge of town. Phillip moved out there after his parents died right around his eighteenth birthday. They left him mostly debt. The shack had an old-fashioned burner and stove that kept him warm enough through winters. A line in the back held drying clothes washed in the river, even during freezes. His food came from his garden and trading work for supplies. Everyone else—a few with their new-fangled TVs (or at least new to our town) and the rest of us with radios and indoor electricity—couldn’t imagine such a simple life. Not even a telephone.
“Who’m I gonna call?” he would respond when a few years back my neighbor Erma asked Phillip why. He said, “I can just walk down the street if I need something.”
By “down the street,” he meant three miles to get to the main stores and general mass of people. Our town was small, small enough to fit in one church, those who came anyway. But I couldn’t imagine having no car with it all so sprawled.
After church, Phillip stayed and mingled, lunch after or not. He remembered to ask people about new babies, sick family members, and broken farm machinery. Those Blue Ridge Mountains surrounding our town, although at some distance, brought in breezy days and shadows that mixed and crossed all of our faces, except Phillip’s. Somehow he just stood on out, bright. Hard to explain, but even those young like him didn’t shine like that. And when he listened to answers and conversations, he leaned in, like you were the only one in the room or on that grassy hill next to the stained-glass windows. It was close to that same awe you saw during the preachings.
Phillip laughed with a hiccup and snort, like a donkey trying to cough up its morning breakfast. And he laughed often. Made other people laugh, too, with his talks about trying to rescue a cat up in some tree branches or the time he thought Maggie Smitch was on fire and he picked up her hose and let aim. Turned out she liked to dance in her saffron-and-orange scarf in the middle of the afternoon.
Now and again, a few young schoolboys would throw pebbles at him and make faces behind his back. He didn’t seem to notice. Us women shook our heads at the children and gave them the eye. They hushed up until the next Sunday.
On one particular Sunday, end of spring, we all turned to go after service when someone, two someones, made their way down the road toward the church. The two figures passed by the post office, the town hall, and the bake shop. Slowly they grew from points on the road to a woman and a child—figures moving among shadowy mountains behind and above them. They left a trail of dust clouded up. None of us moved much. This was something new, something to stick around for.
The woman tugged her child along and pulled them to a stop right by the church. I don’t think she meant to stop there. But everything else was closed. Population four hundred, mostly Christians, and everything stopped Saturday evenings. If she was looking for something, here was the place. She nodded at us. Her face showed tired and weary in lines from the sun and sweat touching her forehead.
E
rma went up to her and put out her hand. “How do ya do?”
“Fine, thank you.” The woman shook Erma’s hand, but without much gumption.
“Can we help you?” asked Erma.
“I’m looking for Mr. Toby. I stopped at his shop.”
“Ah, yes. Well, we’re all here,” said Erma. She held out her arm and swept it across the crowd and church steeple.
“Mrs. Robb? I’ve been expecting you.” Martin leaned forward and shook the woman’s hand. “I’m Martin Toby.”
The woman lowered her face and shuffled her feet. Light brown hair escaped a tight, dark bonnet. The child, a girl, remained silent. Actually she looked a little dark to be this woman’s child, but it was a bronzy dark, same with the hair, a deep, long chocolate. Maybe she had tanned from walking here. Nobody said anything.
“Well then, let me show you your room.” Mr. Toby led the two back the way they came.
So they were Mr. Toby’s new tenants. He owned the butcher shop over the hill. Since marrying Kearny Morris last year, the couple lived with Kearny’s mother to take care of her. Mrs. Morris could take down any grown man to withering bits with two words. Poor man. But it meant he never used the upstairs of the building anymore.
People broke up and headed on home after that. Some stayed, though, and talked about the two, wondering where they came from and why they came here. Erma promised she would take over her usual welcome batch of raisin muffins tomorrow. From the light in Erma’s eyes, those muffins would garner the real scoop.
A breeze waved my hair around and pulled out little tendrils. I tried to pat them back in place, but it was no use. Gray and white streaked through, well, more like ran over. And if anyone has hair turning, they know it isn’t so nice as the hair of our youth.
Phillip sat eating an oatmeal cookie from the after-sermon snack. His eyes fixed on the road. He was off in one of his dazes. I wondered what he thought about during them.
“Do you want anything to drink?” I asked. “There’s lots of iced tea left that needs drinking.”
“No thank you,” he said. “Seems like nice people.” His eyes never left the road.
“What?”
“Mr. Toby’s tenants.”
“Oh, yes. I suppose. Don’t know nothing about them.”
“Well, doesn’t take much to see good folks.”
“I guess,” I replied. Hmm.
He went home shortly after that. As I picked up the dirty glasses and pie plates, I watched him meander down the hill. He twirled a long stick in his hand and whistled a tune I didn’t recognize. I don’t think Phillip Dorsey ever thought badly about anyone. In fact, mean words got left out of his vocabulary. Not that I had anything mean to say about the woman and girl. But I thought it was odd for a woman to be moving here—no husband, no brother—so I had to assume.
Later that week, my husband got a bit of a cold, and I didn’t go out for a few days. It was odd not to hear from Erma. Bob kept me busy enough, though, carrying his meals up and down stairs and getting water and new sheets and clothes. No moment passed anyway where I cared about town goings-on. Then I took sick, and on his way home from work, I made Bob get soup in a can—the only thing he knew how to fix.
Finally the next Sunday, my husband and I stepped out into a full-blown sunny day. Summer had started to creep its way into the air. Pretty soon we’d be wishing for spring again as the heat would seep into our bones and skin and hold us down in our seats. For today, it was good to see a blue sky without a cloud. As much light as those mountains poked out along the horizon line, they reflected it back from the sun and all that clear blue.
At church, ladies waved their fans back and forth in a slow dance of paper. Our preacher started late. And Erma walked in just in time for the first hymn. Even she knew better than to talk during that. The new tenants at Mr. Toby’s entered around the third hymn. I sat by the aisle and saw them looking for a space. We were nearly always full up. Phillip spotted them and waved them to the space up front with him.
“What is she doing here?” Erma asked as soon as we stopped singing.
“What do you mean?” I whispered behind my fan.
“That girl is her daughter.”
“So?”
“Never mind, I’ll tell you later.”
The girl hung her head in Phillip’s pew. Her straw-straight, dark hair fell over her face. Her mother tapped her knee so the girl would stop fidgeting. The mother sat upright, her back like an ironing board against the pine. But her nose didn’t rise with any airs. She listened intently to the preacher. Where Phillip’s eyes lighted on people, hers darkened and steadied. Trailing color streams from the stained glass lifted over all three. The girl’s hand closed on her mother’s and broke a small smile from the woman. The girl didn’t notice the look. I’m thinking she knew, though.
After services, I stayed inside collecting hymnals and Bibles. Besides, it was cooler in there without all the other bodies and those trees hanging over the church. I heard commotion outside. Loud voices slid through a propped-open window. In our crowd, that wasn’t unusual. With the whole lot of churchgoers, decibels could get high. You would think there was a party every Sunday. These days, though, no one else was giving them, so I guess this was their outlet.
I picked up my pocketbook and slung it into the crook of my elbow and pinned my hat back into my bun. The wide brim covered just enough of my face to keep off the sun and heat. I didn’t like to look disheveled. “Always a lady,” my mama would say. Bob told me that often, either way, my face sat pretty. And each time he said it, heat moved into my cheeks.
“Well, you missed everything,” said Erma. She had waddled over to me as soon as she caught me on the front church stairs.
Behind her the backs of the new woman and girl disappeared over the hill.
“Those boys. I’m afraid they upset Mrs. Robb and her daughter.” Erma tsk-tsked. She whipped the day’s program across her face in an attempt to stop the sweat dripping.
“Why? Whatever did they have to pick on her for?”
“I imagine her daughter instigated it. They threw mud at that girl. A leaky hose created quite the mess over by the stand of willows. Must have beckoned to the boys to play in it. I’m sure she’s used to being in the mud, being that their people live in it.”
“That’s no call—”
“Shouldn’t have brought that girl here. That’s what.”
“What do you mean her ‘people live in it’?”
“You know, those tents they live in, right on the ground. And then they go round chanting half-naked and making ungodly body movements round fires.”
My eyes widened. But Susan Frank came over to us, and Erma switched easily into another bit on one of the school teachers. Susan and I passed knowing eyes. Sometimes we had to rescue each other.
“She means the girl’s Indian,” Susan whispered. “She’s so centered on that topic. All week long since she visited them.”
I raised my eyebrow. Well, who now cares? She still comes to church. I just snuck on away.
“Let’s go home, Bob.”
He nodded and took my arm. I could feel us sticking together. Driving away, I noticed Phillip’s absence from the minglers.
I shopped every Wednesday morning and mailed letters and bills. I liked fresh fruits, and they started to come into the store now with seasons changing. The walk there made my stockings itch with the hot. A bit of steam pulled itself off the pavement. The mountain ridges popped up out of the haze and floated there: peaks, haze, slopes, haze, razored trees, haze. Summer was here. I mopped my forehead with a handkerchief my gramma gave me. It was days like these where my hats did no good. A fan in the store became an instant relief after all that.
When that little girl ran by the store window, Sunday’s events moved back into my memory. I peered out the window, craning my neck. She had disappeared already. Several others ran down the street and stopped in at the town hall, where the fire department and police station kept th
emselves. Sirens screeched louder and closer. One of the mud-throwing boys, Landy, careened through the store’s door.
“A lady’s been hit. A lady’s been hit.” The boy rushed out again.
All of us in the store dropped our groceries and ran down the street toward the large crowd forming.
I raised up onto my tiptoes but couldn’t make out who it was or if they were hurt. A path opened for the doctor. Moisture trickled down his forehead. I felt it drip down my back as well. The high sun seared my head. I had to cover my eyes from it and wipe my face and chest with my already-soaked hankie. It became a constant gesture. At a clear point, I saw Mr. Toby’s tenant, the woman, lying on the road and a car with out-of-state license plates off to the side. I dropped my hand and stared.
The doctor stood up and shook his head. His arms hung by his sides and didn’t move. My God. The woman’s arms and legs sprawled out at all angles. The intersection had had many accidents, but none fatal like this. Our mayor had tried to get in a sign. But we lacked the funds.
The girl pushed back through the crowd and out, bumping people into each other. She ran with long legs that carried her away in swift kicks. Her direction seemed out of town.
The voice of a woman repeated, “I didn’t see her. I didn’t see her.”
It wasn’t until later that I thought again about the little girl. I hoped she had someplace to go. She seemed maybe ten, eleven. Bob and I had never had children of our own. So ages got clear past me.
Erma knocked on our door the next morning. Over tea, she chattered on about this woman and that man until I caught up on most everything our town had going on.
“Oh, yeah.” Erma paused for a breath. “Did you see that accident yesterday? Wasn’t that a pity?”
“Yes. I was in Thomson’s when it happened. I can’t believe she died. And just moving here and all, too. Do you know what happened to the little one?”
“Seems she vanished. She just ran. It’s strange.”
“They’re looking for her, aren’t they?”
“The sheriff sent some people out. But where would they look except the room they rented? Nothing there.” She leaned on in closer to me. “He said they had nothing but the small bags they carried on their shoulders. Can you believe that? He figures her a runaway. He left the case open, though.” Erma’s pause was brief and on she went again. This time she covered Pastor Dean’s sermon and how she had begun to take even more to heart his preachings on Jesus.
Living on the Borderlines Page 15
