Blue Willow

by Deborah Smith

  He gently pushed her away and stood, but held one of her hands. She bit her lip and looked up at him tenaciously. “You will come back. You will Christ almighty goddamn.”

  “Lily!” Mrs. MacKenzie said. Pulling her aside, she swatted her on the rump. “Where did you learn talk like that?”

  “From him, the big shit.”

  Mrs. MacKenzie gasped. “I’ll deal with you later, miss.”

  “I love you all,” Artemas said gruffly. His voice cracked. He turned and stomped out of the house. Lily ran behind him and stood on the porch’s edge, gripping the rail as he went to the truck. “You will come back!” she called. “I’m the Old Brook Princess, and I say so!”

  He turned and bowed to her. Mrs. MacKenzie came out and took her by the shoulders, holding her shaking, furious little body against her legs. “Take care, Artie,” Mrs. MacKenzie called, crying now herself.

  He sat straight-backed on the truck’s passenger side and stared at nothing, his jaw clenched, as Mr. MacKenzie drove out of the yard.

  “I don’t need your help, I don’t need your help,” Lily muttered brokenly, her voice trailing off to a defeated whimper. “Come back.”

  The neat brown box arrived in the mail a month later. Lily stared with avid excitement as Mama put it on the scarred old kitchen table. Daddy sat down and pulled Lily onto his lap. She curled her fingers around his metal hook, playing absently with the wire tendons. Mama stood over the box, clipping its tape with her sewing shears. “It’s from Artemas.”

  She pulled a bulky object wrapped in thick white paper out of the box, set it on the table, and unfolded the paper slowly. She covered her mouth and stared at a small, perfect teapot. “Oh, Artie.” She drew a trembling finger over the rich blue design on creamy white. “See this, Lily? It’s the Blue Willow pattern. The pattern came all the way from China. See the willow and the bridge, and the little sparrows kissing each other? See how clean and pretty the blue color is, and all the little details in the pictures? Nobody made Blue Willow china as pretty as the Colebrooks. That’s how they became famous.” Picking up the delicate lid, she saw a piece of paper inside. She laid the lid down reverently and unfolded it.

  Clearing her throat, she read, “This is old. It’s worth a lot of money. I took it for you when I went home for a weekend. Grandmother knows. You can sell it.’ ”

  Mama sank into a chair and put her head in her hands. Daddy sighed. “The boy means well.”

  Lily scowled at the teapot, a horrible realization growing inside her. “He thinks we’re poor? He thinks we’re trashy?”

  “No, no, hush,” Mama said sternly.

  Mortified, Lily was still stunned. Mama and Daddy looked upset, but they didn’t seem angry. “MacKenzies don’t take welfare,” she chirped, mouthing the terrible word she’d heard her parents use often, with so much loathing.

  “It’s not welfare, because we’re never going to sell it,” Daddy said. Mama nodded. But she pulled the teapot against her breasts and hugged it. “It’s a gift of friendship. Artie was only trying to show us how much we mean to him.”

  That night, after Daddy had gone to bed and Grandma was snoring in her room, Mama took a pen and piece of notebook paper and called Lily into the parlor. They sat on the couch, Mama balancing the paper on one of the old encyclopedias that were stored in a glass-doored bookcase by the window. “What do you want to say to Artie?” she asked.

  “That we’re not poor.”

  “Don’t you want to write to him—nice things, not things that will only confuse him?”

  Lily sighed, confused herself. “Say, ‘I’ll take care of the teapot for you. Come back.’ ”

  Mama wrote diligently for several minutes, then placed the encyclopedia and its paper on Lily’s lap and handed her the pen. “Put your name at the bottom.”

  Lily bit her lip in concentration and wrote it in large, blocky letters, as big as her pride, as filled with emotion as a scratchy pen on rough paper could make it.

  Artemas lay on his bunk in a bare little room with nothing but khaki-green walls and hard furniture, a place of such unremitting ugliness that every day he realized more of his own emptiness. He opened the plain little envelope reverently, touching it with fingers made callused from the chores and duties of a cadet. Mrs. Mackenzie’s neat, looping handwriting was so pretty, in contrast to his surroundings.

  There will always be a place for you here. When you are feeling bad and don’t know that anyone loves you, don’t forget that we do. You will be fine if you remember that you can make yourself whatever you want to be, no matter what people do to you. Your gift will always be part of our family, and so will you.

  Lily’s childishly exuberant name was scrawled at the bottom.

  From then on he wrote to her, short, simple notes on the school’s stationery or his own notepaper, a nice card when he had a chance to buy one. Mrs. MacKenzie wrote back, telling him about ordinary, funny things that happened on the farm, always with Lily’s signature at the bottom, and never hinted that their life was anything but the fantasy he wanted it to be.

  Four

  The Schulhorns had made their money in newspapers, but the fortune was so old that the last Schulhorn who’d actually worked in the business was a forgotten twig in the family tree. Now, the Schulhorns lived off their investments. Never touch your principal, Mr. Schulhorn said to Father. Artemas doubted Mr. Schulhorn had been near a principle in years.

  He and Mother had been in college together, though Mother had been kicked out for some mysterious dishonor no one discussed. The Schulhorns lived on one of their family estates outside Philadelphia. Artemas detested spending part of his summer vacation with them, but it was better than staying at home, where Uncle Charles found ways to badger him and humiliate the younger ones. Uncle had nosed around at school and learned about Artemas running away last year. You’ll never be anything but a loser, he told Artemas smugly. Just like your father.

  The walls of the Schulhorns’ downstairs gallery were full of animal heads and stuffed birds. Father and Mr. Schulhorn were both hunters; Hemingway’s bastard clones, Mother called them. Mother liked to hunt, too, but she preferred to do it on horseback, chasing rabbits and foxes with her hounds. Shooting things was no challenge, she said. She enjoyed a good fight.

  Across the garden terrace, Mrs. Schulhorn shrieked with laughter. Artemas forgot his brooding thoughts in a rush of confusion and loathing. She was Mr. Schulhorn’s third wife, and he probably hadn’t picked her for her personality. Father and Mother were always putting their hands on her, rubbing her shoulders, patting her lower back.

  Once, in a hallway with no one else around, she’d cornered Artemas. “You’re uptight to be such a good-looking kid,” she said. “Always so righteous and quiet, always judging people behind those gray eyes, aren’t you? I’m twenty-three, but you look at me as if I’m some snotty brat.”

  Slit-eyed with amusement, she grasped him between the legs. Her breath, sweet with mint and liquor, had warmed his mouth, though she never kissed him. He stood there quivering in disgust and blinding arousal while she rubbed him with the palm of her hand. His knees buckled a little, his lungs strained for air, and it only took a few seconds for him to realize that he was going to come right there, in his tailored shorts. The rush of heat and moisture was humiliating but irresistible, and he felt trapped. He opened his mouth to say something—“Stop” and “Please,” with garbled meaning—but it was over before he could sort the two thoughts out.

  “You aren’t a saint, kid,” she said with a laugh, and walked away.

  Out on the long veranda at the back of the house, the servants had set up a buffet for dinner. Mother, Father, and the Schulhorns had been playing tennis and bridge all day, and now they lounged on heavy teak Adirondack chairs with cigarettes and the first of their evening drinks in hand. Mr. Schulhorn’s children by his first two marriages were away at riding camp.

  Artemas had spent the day watching over his brothers and sisters. He’
d taken them on a picnic at the Japanese teahouse in the woods beyond the rolling, manicured lawn, supervised them while they played in the Schulhorns’ giant pool, bullied them all into taking an afternoon nap, broken up fights, and cleaned Michael’s face when the squabbles made him vomit.

  Father and Mother had dismissed the governess months ago. Whenever servants were let go, one of Father’s gambling debts must be due, or another of his careless investments had failed, or he’d simply spent too much money on someone or something that had temporarily caught his fancy.

  Artemas was tired of playing parent to his siblings. James, twelve, was old enough to help, but James’s temper made him unpredictable. Besides, James always hung back and waited for Artemas to tell him what to do. James had wet the bed until he was eight, and all those years of Father’s scorn and Mother’s embarrassment had taken a toll on his confidence.

  The long, full day had worn the younger ones out, finally, and they were eating quietly at a special table set aside from the adults. Artemas cut Julia’s roast beef, coaxed Elizabeth to put down the doll that seemed constantly welded under one arm, wiped mashed potatoes off of Michael’s T-shirt, and kept a watchful eye on Cassandra’s mean-spirited game of stealing food from James’s plate. James chewed his fruit salad in contented ignorance.

  Artemas didn’t want to upset the temporary peace by reprimanding Cass, who suffered enough scolding from Mother. Cass was probably the fattest ten-year-old in America, and she wore her fat like an armor. Her bright, wary hazel eyes were beacons of misery above chipmunk cheeks. The more Mother, who was reed-thin and obsessive about image, humiliated her, the more she ate.

  Elizabeth, on the other hand, was slender and lanky, like Michael, her fraternal twin. Now, she edged closer to the side of her chair nearest Artemas, and when he looked down at her, she leaned against him and sighed like a weary old woman, not a pampered eight-year-old. She lived in a secretive little world, peopled by invisible friends who would never threaten her timid nature.

  “You okay, bug?” he asked.

  She blushed and turned her head against his arm. He patted her head awkwardly. Artemas didn’t understand her shyness. She was Father’s favorite, with hair the color of sunshine and deep-set, thickly lashed eyes, a ringer for Mother’s Hughs relatives. Artemas and Cassandra had black hair, like their Spanish grandmother; James’s was dark brown, like Father’s; Michael’s was sandy. Julia’s hair was yellow-white and stringy. Like cheap butter, Mother said.

  Father openly doted on Elizabeth, always cuddling her and stroking her hair. He never subjected her to careless taunts or, almost as bad, his nonchalant apathy.

  But in the past year she’d begun sneaking into Artemas’s bed at night, crying, shivering, clinging to him wordlessly. At first he’d been alarmed—he was too old to have his kid sister climb into his bed when she had nightmares.

  No matter what calming things he said or how often he carried her back to her own room, she continued to come. Desperate, he’d told the governess, who’d questioned Elizabeth rigorously about her nightmares. But she’d only say that monsters were after her, and that Artemas kept the monsters away. The governess had locked her in her room at night. But now, with the governess gone, she was showing up in Artemas’s bed regularly. Defeated, he simply turned his back and let her huddle against it.

  Michael watched everything with merry distraction. Pale and thin, he was always suffering from an allergy or with his asthma. But he had an elfin smile and a vivid imagination that made them all laugh. Already he had a way with words. Grandmother Colebrook’s oft-repeated phrase, Noblesse oblige, became No less, oh, please when Michael said it. He might not know the meaning, Mother said with one of her elegant snorts, but he had the right idea.

  Julia kicked an unceasing tattoo on her chair legs and rocked from side to side as she ate. The nannies said they’d never seen a four-year-old with more nervous energy. Julia’s favorite pastime was running in small circles until she careened into the nearest piece of furniture and fell down.

  “A deer,” Mrs. Schulhorn squealed, leaping up and going to the stone balustrade along the terrace. “Come look! It’s grazing on the far end of the lawn!”

  “We haven’t seen a deer in months,” Mr. Schulhorn added.

  “Bring me a gun,” Father yelled to the butler.

  Everyone hurried to the balustrade. Artemas led Michael and Elizabeth by the hands. His mouth tasted brassy with anxiety. He knew Father’s bloodlust. Father had taken him hunting and fishing many times. When he was younger, he’d wanted to please Father and had been in awe of his big, brawny, fearless attack on life—and on living things.

  Now, watching Father yell for the butler, Artemas recoiled. Father’s face looked fleshy and evil in the setting sun. Though his forearms, showing under the rolled-up sleeves of a safari shirt, were hard and sinewy, a fleshy paunch hung over his belt. He caught Artemas looking at him, and sarcasm flashed across his expression. “Come here, Art. See if you can kill it cleanly from this distance.”

  Julia began butting her head against the balustrade. Elizabeth whimpered and hugged her doll. Michael chirped worriedly, “I like the deer, Daddy. Don’t hurt it.” James stuck his fists in his shorts pockets and glowered at the floor. Cassandra headed for a plate of cookies on the buffet. “Don’t you dare, you fat little toad,” Mother ordered, rolling her eyes. Cassandra slunk back to Artemas’s side.

  The butler arrived with a powerful rifle cradled in his hands. “Give it to my boy,” Father told him.

  Artemas shook his head. “Why kill the deer? It’s not worth anything as a trophy, and we’re not going to eat it.”

  “Don’t question me. Get over here.”

  Artemas linked Michael’s and Elizabeth’s hands to Julia’s. “Stay together, you three. Go inside with James and Cass.”

  “No, no,” Mother countered, pulling the younger ones close and ruffling their hair. “It won’t harm them to watch. The huntmaster gave me bloody foxtails to play with when I was no older than they.”

  Artemas took the rifle and stood beside his father. The deer, a small doe, grazed at the edge of the lawn, a hundred yards away. He aimed at a spot in the grass behind it and fired. “Goddamn!” Father yelled, as the doe sprang toward the woods. He snatched the rifle from Artemas and threw it against his shoulder, then pounded out several quick shots. Blood exploded from several places on the doe’s side, and she fell. But she struggled to her feet again and staggered into the woods before Father could finish her.

  “Artie, how could you?” Mother snapped. “What poor sportsmanship.”

  Artemas shrugged, so angry he couldn’t speak without risking a fight. Father’s temper was nasty and could result in a hard slap with little provocation. Father was cursing now, as he shoved the rifle back at the butler. The Schulhorns were laughing. “It’s only a deer, Creighton,” Mrs. Schulhorn said. “Who cares if your kid’s got a soft streak?”

  “He’s going to be queer, if I’m not careful,” Father answered.

  “Oh, he won’t be a fag,” she assured everyone. “He’s his father’s son, no doubt about it.”

  Artemas clenched his fists. “We can’t just let the doe bleed to death.”

  “Don’t be a fucking sissy,” Father retorted. Jabbing a fresh cigar into his mouth, he stalked back to his chair.

  Artemas turned toward the butler and took the rifle. “I’m going to find it.”

  Mother sighed. “Go on, if you want to be silly. But take the others with you. They need to see what life’s all about.”

  “They’re too young, Mother.”

  “I was only five when I went on my first fox hunt. Either you take your brothers and sisters, or you don’t go.”

  Artemas flipped the safety catch on the rifle and handed it to James. “Come on.” Carrying Julia on his back, leading Michael, who led Elizabeth, with Cass waddling along behind, they left the terrace via a flight of marble stairs, went through a formal garden, then followed the lawn’s
edge under the long shadows of the trees.

  When they reached the edge of the lawn and turned toward the woods, where they were out of sight of their parents and the Schulhorns, Artemas put Julia down and gathered the others around him. “Stay here.”

  “Shit, no,” Cassandra blurted. He turned to her sternly, scowling, all big brother, his nerves frayed. One look like that and she was reduced to tears. “Don’t kill the deer, Artie. Don’t be like Father and Mother.”

  “I’m not like them.” He squatted down and looked at her apologetically. “It’s hurt and probably dying. It would be wrong to let it suffer.”

  She sobbed. Julia jumped from one foot to another in a manic little dance. Michael and Elizabeth started to cry too. James stood by, the gun weighing him down, his mouth set in a hard line but his chin quivering. “Kill it,” he said. “It’s us against them.” Artemas took the rifle. “You make sure the others stay right here.”

  “I will.” James turned toward the others and spit, “Shut up, you stupid crybabies.”

  His throat burning, Artemas walked into the woods. He found the trail of blood easily. A hundred yards into the forest he discovered the doe, collapsed in the underbrush, blood bubbling from her mouth and nose. He knelt beside her, then carefully stroked her hot, delicate neck. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, and tears slid down his face.

  He stood abruptly, knowing that sentiment wouldn’t get the job done. He put the rifle’s muzzle in the soft hollow behind her trembling ear. His hands shook. I’m better than this. My family’s better than this. The trigger was slick and smooth against his sweating finger. Bitterness soured his stomach. He pulled the trigger.

  When he returned to the others, he tried to be calm for their sake. Every muscle in his face strained to hold back his tears. But Michael shrieked when he saw the gore spattered on Artemas’s bare legs beneath his walking snorts. “You killed Bambi’s mother!”

  “Shut up, you little turd,” James growled. “Father made him do it.”