by Sonja Yoerg
• • •
That night she was feeling lower than a doodlebug, on account of the gun, the iced tea, and those lousy pills. The kids were in their rooms with their homework and their gadgets, and she could hear Tom sawing away in the barn. The dog wasn’t talking either, so she went hunting for Geneva. Should’ve stayed where she was, as it turned out, because that girl started asking questions about Paris again. Helen could see how she’d wonder about a long-lost sister, but this was yesterday’s news. Been thirty years, give or take. But Geneva was Geneva. Once she got an idea in her head, she was dug in like an Appalachian tick.
Not that Helen spilled any beans. Thirty years of stonewalling and deflecting had given her plenty of practice. The only unfortunate happenstance was that once she was in her room again, all she could think about was Eustace and Paris.
Paris turned sixteen in October of 1981. Eustace wanted to throw her a big party at the club, but she wasn’t keen on it. Truth was, the girl didn’t have any friends her age, only admirers, meaning they’d just as soon stab her in the back as say how do you do. She wasn’t the socializing type, and at a party in her honor she would’ve been obliged to shine her light on everyone. Instead, Helen arranged a special supper at home, with her best linens and silver, and the wedding china. Louisa made Paris’s favorites, ribs and banana cream pie, and even though Helen didn’t think ribs belonged on her wedding china, she held her tongue.
Everyone was in a fine mood that evening, once Dublin got over having his hair slicked down. Paris managed to be gracious about her gifts, right down to the hummingbird’s nest Geneva gave her. Using two fingers, Paris lifted it out of the box by the stick it was attached to. Helen thought it was some tiny dead thing and gasped. Paris was dumbstruck until Geneva, usually quiet as a church mouse, explained in elaborate detail where she’d found it, and how carefully the birds had constructed it—covering the outside with lichen for camouflage—and how many eggs fit into it and so on. She believed, God love her, she’d chosen her gift wisely and no one, not even Paris, had the heart to set her straight.
The last gift was from her father, a small blue box wrapped in white ribbon that Helen and the rest of the civilized world recognized as Tiffany.
“For my princess,” Eustace said, bowing as he handed Paris the box.
She pulled on the bow slowly, like she was teasing a kitten, then opened the lid and held up a gold necklace with an open heart pendant.
“Oh, Daddy!”
“May I?” He took the necklace from her and placed it around her neck from behind.
When Paris lifted her hair off her neck so he could do up the clasp, Helen turned away.
After Florence and Geneva helped Helen tidy up from dinner, the girls went to find their brother for a board game, and she went to lock the back door. Halfway down the hall she heard laughter emanating from Paris’s room. The door was closed, but she went right in.
Paris sat up against the pillows, the covers over her legs. Her nightgown was open at the neck, the heart necklace on display. Eustace sat on the bed facing her. Paris let go another giggle, then covered her mouth with her hand. Her cheeks were red, and her breath came quick.
Eustace turned his head like an eagle. He smiled, but his eyes were black ice. “What is it, Helen?”
“I heard laughing. Why on earth was the door closed?”
“Wind must have blown it.”
Paris broke out in a fit of giggles. Eustace laughed, too.
“Daddy was tickling me.”
He made a grab for her waist and she shrieked and fell sideways.
Helen could see she had nothing but a camisole under her nightgown. “Paris is too old for tickling, Eustace.”
“Oh, no, she isn’t.” He lunged at her again and wriggled his fingers into her armpit.
“Eustace!”
He leaned over his daughter, one hand on either side of her, his face inches from her lips, full and parted, releasing small gasps. Then he sat up and ran both hands over his hair. Paris righted herself and caught her breath. She gave her mother an appraising look.
“There’s only one of us that’s too old for tickling, Mama.”
Eustace smiled, his gaze locked on his daughter.
Helen felt blood rush to her face. She turned on her heels, leaving the door open and forgetting entirely to lock the back door.
• • •
Over the next few days, she endeavored to sort out her feelings about what she had witnessed. They never did settle out. She was angry, that was certain, at Eustace in particular, but Paris, too, for making her feel like yesterday’s news—or last year’s. She was hurt, because she couldn’t think of anything she’d done to either Eustace or Paris to deserve it, except maybe being as vain and self-centered as the both of them. And she was scared. Boy, was she scared. Because sure as eggs is eggs Paris had not the foggiest idea what she was getting herself into. And worse—much worse—Eustace most certainly did.
Naturally, it was her duty to warn her daughter, to educate her on the desires of men. She’d had a talk with Paris two years before, when she’d started her monthlies, and had laid out—pretty clearly, she thought—what the whole mess was about. Paris had sat with her hands in her lap, like she was in church, and let her mother talk her way through it.
“That all, Mama?”
“I believe it is. In a nutshell.”
“Can I go now?”
“Sure you can. Unless you want to ask me a question.”
“Not really. I learned all that in school, and from general talk.”
Helen’s eyes widened. “General talk?”
“It’s 1979, Mama.”
“Yes, but . . .” She stopped, suddenly embarrassed. “Well, why’d you let me go on about it then?”
A sly smile played on her daughter’s lips. “I wanted to hear you tell it.”
Young girls were mouthy back then, same as now, but she wasn’t fooled. Naive as she had been, even sixteen-year-old Helen had knowledge of the facts of life, and had nevertheless been swept off her feet by a man’s charms. She didn’t know exactly what Eustace was up to, or how far he meant to go, but she did know that, whatever it was, Paris wasn’t prepared for it.
So a few weeks after Paris’s birthday, Helen sat her down for another talk. Not about her father in particular, but about men generally, and made sure to impress upon the girl that men were more alike than not when it came to their base natures. It was a woman’s responsibility to stop advances before things got out of hand because, after a certain point, a man had to wrestle with the devil to stay in control. The devil almost always won, so a smart girl didn’t allow herself to be led down the garden path. Paris put on her church face, and when Helen asked if she understood, she said she did, and got up and left.
Helen had been careful with her words, but Paris must’ve reported back to her father. He came into bed that night, his skin burning through his pajamas with rage, and forced himself on her like he aimed to kill her with it. When she cried afterward, he slapped her cheek and told her to shut up.
“And if you ever insinuate again that my daughter is a whore, you can expect far worse.”
• • •
Helen began to keep a closer eye on Paris and, without getting caught at it, tried to interfere with the time she spent with her father. But as Eustace did and went as he pleased, and Paris wanted to be with him, her efforts amounted mostly to worry with no reward. She stood at the window, waiting for Paris to come up the walk, smiling and unharmed, while her other children went short of attention. That’s the way it had to be. If Dublin broke his arm falling out of a tree, it could be fixed. You couldn’t put a splint on what might happen to Paris. As far as Helen could tell, there had been no more tickling sessions. She agonized day and night what might be going on elsewhere, but in their house, she hoped her watchful eye was keeping E
ustace’s mischief at bay.
Louisa still worked for the family, though she was getting on in years and didn’t come but once a week. Helen had a young girl come in to do the heavy cleaning, so all that was left for Louisa was a bit of dusting, linen-changing, and cooking. Helen couldn’t do without Louisa’s cooking. Everything she made tasted better than what Helen could produce, even using Louisa’s recipes. Louisa teased her and said it was because Helen always added lazy to everything, and it soured the taste. That made them both laugh.
Louisa came three days in a row in the second week of December to get ready for the Christmas party Eustace had decided to throw. He had invited all the local mucky-mucks, his buddies from the club, and his entire family. It was enough to make Helen a nervous wreck. But Louisa took it all in hand and together they checked off each item on a list running four pages. Luckily, Eustace wasn’t bothered about the expense, so Helen hired folks to string the lights, decorate the house, set up the tables and chairs, and run the bar. She and Louisa did most of the cooking, and at the end of the three days the refrigerator would not have accommodated another meatball.
The evening before the party, Helen came downstairs to find Louisa rushing for the door, her coat and bag in hand. When she saw Louisa’s face, she put her hand on the woman’s arm.
“What ever is the matter?”
“I’ve got to leave.”
“What for? We’ve still got things to do.”
Louisa looked at her feet. “Mr. Riley has let me go.”
“Let you go! That can’t be right.”
Louisa put her hand on the doorknob. “I need to be going, Helen.”
She stood in front of her. “What’s the hurry? Come in the kitchen a minute and talk to me. I’ll sort it out with Eustace. You know I will.”
“There’s nothing to sort out. Not after . . .” Louisa’s voice trailed off. She glanced across the room, toward the hall leading to the back door.
“What? You’ve got to tell me.”
Louisa’s face was a hodgepodge of fear and sympathy. “I can’t tell you anything.”
“Paris?” It was more of a plea than a question.
Louisa’s eyes brimmed with tears. Her jaw was set, like she was acting against her nature but about to do it all the same. Whatever Eustace said to her had made an impression, because Louisa opened the door and ran down the steps, not bothering to put on her coat against the cold. Helen called after her, yelling her name and not caring who heard, but Louisa put her head down and hurried around the corner as if someone was chasing her.
• • •
Neither Eustace nor Paris seemed any different from usual at supper that night. Paris talked about her new dress for the party and offered to help Florence with her hair. Dublin lobbied his father for special dispensation to stay up late the next night on account of the party. Everything was so normal, in fact, that Helen felt disoriented. So she pleaded exhaustion, asked Florence and Paris to take care of the supper dishes, and excused herself. She went upstairs to her bedroom and sat by the window, considering what to say to Eustace. Of course she wished she knew the particulars of what Louisa had seen. Was it a kiss? Or something more? A wave of nausea reached up her throat at the thought. She fought it off—she shouldn’t let her imagination run off with her sense—and resolved to call Louisa the next day. After a night’s reflection, she might be more amenable to talk. And Helen wanted to talk to her because Louisa was the nearest thing to a friend she had.
When Eustace came upstairs, she told him flat-out he had no right to fire Louisa.
“No right? I am her employer.”
“But she’s been with us for so long!”
“Too long. You don’t pay any attention, but she’s been snooping around where she doesn’t belong.”
“Snooping? Snooping where?”
In two steps he crossed the room and loomed over her. “Who are you to question me? You’d be wise to check the silver and your jewelry.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but closed it right quick. Eustace didn’t need a reason to fire Louisa. He could pull one out of thin air. No one would ever take the word of a black housekeeper over that of the mayor. It might have been 1981 other places, but in Aliceville it was pretty near 1951.
Helen took a deep breath. “Eustace, if you believe Louisa saw something and got the wrong impression . . .”
He set his jaw. “Wrong impression? Of what, exactly?”
“Well, I only thought she might be mistaken.”
“About what, Helen?”
She turned from him and stared out the window. Three illuminated reindeer with red bows around their necks stood in the front yard.
“Never mind.”
• • •
The next day she called Louisa but she didn’t answer. She tried again the next day, and the next. Just before Christmas, she drove across town to Louisa’s house and knocked on the door. A dog barked inside. Helen stood shivering on the porch for a long time. Finally, she put the poinsettia and the wrapped present on the doormat and drove home.
She saw Louisa at a distance from time to time, and ran into her once at the grocery store. Louisa said, “I’m sorry,” spun around, and wheeled her cart down the aisle.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
GENEVA
Geneva’s cab drove past the La Brea Tar Pits and deposited her in front of the Page Museum. At the edge of the main pit, a pair of fiberglass mastodons faced a fiberglass mammoth sinking into the bubbling tar. The mammoth’s trunk was curled up against its forehead, and its mouth lay open in mid-scream. Geneva paid the driver and entered the museum.
She had met Dublin here before. It was his son Jack’s favorite place. Jack could be entertained for an hour or two by the fishbowl—a glass-walled paleontology lab where he could watch scientists clean and prepare Ice Age fossils. He was less interested in the reconstructed skeletons on display than in the process of unearthing bones and teeth from the hardened asphalt. The tedium of the work fascinated him. Jack also loved the display of thousands of dire wolf skulls along one wall of the museum. This was Geneva’s favorite exhibit, as well, and where they had arranged to meet.
Dublin stood in front of the skulls, shoulder to shoulder with his older son, Whit. Jack crouched next to Whit, his face almost touching the glass. The amber backlighting from the display shone on all three faces. Geneva admired them for a moment and savored the realization that these were members of her family with whom she felt no conflict.
She touched Dublin on the shoulder. “Studying the dire situation?”
He grinned and gave her a hug. She waved hello to her nephews, knowing one was at the awkward age for hugs and the other had always been.
“This one,” Jack said, pointing at the skull in front of him, “has smaller canines than average.”
Geneva bent down next to him. “Show me.”
Dublin said, “You’ve probably noticed Paris isn’t here yet.”
“She doesn’t exist,” Whit said.
“There’s no proof,” Jack added.
“You’re right about the tooth, Jack.” She stood up. “Haven’t you boys seen pictures of Paris?”
“Dad totally Photoshopped those,” Whit said.
“Using whose face?”
He thought about this. “Nana’s. When she was young.”
“That would probably work.” She turned to her brother. “Is there money riding on this?”
“You have to ask? If she doesn’t show, I’m out big bucks.”
Over his shoulder, Geneva watched a woman cross the room toward them. The woman caught her eye and lifted a hand, then dropped it, as if she had had a question, then decided not to ask.
“You boys better get ready to pay up,” Geneva said.
Paris, now forty-six, still resembled Helen but could never have been mistaken for
her. Her hair was no longer blond, but light brown and graying, and cut bluntly at chin length. She wore a navy T-shirt, a couple of sizes too large, tan cargo pants, and running shoes stained with red African clay. Her hands were stuffed into her pockets, with her elbows turned in, a posture both defiant and awkward. Last night Geneva had examined photos of her sister’s youthful face. The face before her was lined and dull, the lips no longer full, the cheeks without a trace of pink. The transformation was unsettling. Nevertheless, Helen’s blue eyes stared out at her.
“Hello, everyone,” Paris said.
Dublin stepped forward and put his arms around her. She patted his shoulder. Geneva placed her hand on her sister’s arm and quickly kissed her cheek. She smelled of hotel soap. As she stepped back, Geneva noticed Paris’s only jewelry—the Tiffany heart necklace their father had given her for her sixteenth birthday. Had she always worn it?
Dublin made a sweeping gesture with his arm. “Whit, Jack, may I present to you, Ms. Paris Riley!”
Whit stood with his mouth open. Dublin kicked him lightly in the shin. Whit stuck out his hand and said, “Nice to meet you.”
Jack glanced at Paris, then resumed studying the wolves.
She frowned.
“Jack,” Dublin said, “let’s check out the fishbowl. You can watch the scientists.”
“I’m not very good with kids,” Paris said. “Especially not American ones.”
