by Joan Chase
At school this vagueness caused the teachers to give her nearly failing grades. It shamed Celia that they called her frivolous, using her red hair against her. Miss Warren, who had once taught Aunt Libby too, kept Celia after school day after day—she would teach her to name the oceans and the continents. Celia gave it up and let them think what they would. “By God, honey, don’t let it go,” Uncle Dan would plead if he came in while she was idling away at the piano, working out by ear and feel some melody line with rhythmic variations, useless though it was to urge on her an ambition she couldn’t feel. Perhaps in another time she would have gone off to nurse the wounded on the fields of battle, founded an orphanage. Now she comforted those she saw in need. Those she could help. And they approached her almost reverently, as if simply to be in her presence were a healing thing; and she made it so, boys so uncomplicated, their needs so apparent and her hand so easily gentling. For a while she responded to them all with the same exquisite sensitivity, no favorites, although that changed when she was sixteen and started going out with Corley, pouring her whole self out, or so Aunt Libby feared.
Though Celia stayed alone in her room, we were no less conscious of her, heard her phonograph playing, the strident riffs of Stan Kenton’s saxophones and horns reaching us. We imagined Celia in there upon her bed while around her and within her everything was in motion, mounting, going toward the time of fulfillment. She had only to make herself ready. It was as though she were primed by that music and by the surrounding aromatic dark-needled trees with their depths and peaks, and then the fields and woods that slid off to become transparent at the horizon, all making for the unfolding and accomplishment of what was growing unwaveringly within her and would have her yet. Aunt Libby stitched away on tulle gowns draped with net and flounces, finely bordered with sequins, each whirl arranged to dramatize the gown’s colors of limed yellow or pale melon—all of it to enhance the evanescent dangerous glory of her first daughter. Her lips pursed under her squinted eyes, intent on the meticulous needlework, and with each yank of the thread she pulled from herself knowledge of the most intimate kind.
“Don’t give it away,” she told us. Did she want us to be misers? She might never have heard of love, sacrifice. We said nothing, afraid to hear. But bound to stay. Aunt Libby never spoke of sin, as though she knew nothing of that and didn’t need to. She warned of impulse and consequence. Flattery and humiliation. “You’ll learn fast enough; once he’s gotten what he wants you’re finished. He’ll be gone. Or worse, you’ll have him for good, and something else you didn’t plan on and can’t get rid of.”
We were fourteen and then fifteen, sixteen. Aunt Libby was still sewing and instructing us, her younger daughter, Jenny, her two nieces, Anne and Katie, the daughters of her dead sister, Grace, while Celia stayed shut away in her room, carving and buffing her nails, rearranging her snapshots to frame the mercury-splotched looking glass, laying out on the tatted runner covering the bureau the different lucky charms, menus and dance favors. As though from a faraway tower, we heard June Christie singing “Something Cool.”
“Don’t be a man’s plaything. Make him pay a good price— that way he’ll value you more.” Did Celia hear?
But if you love each other? We dared only think it, but she answered as though she’d heard. “Love”—two pins held in her lips while we listened to a trombone slide in the pause—“love is what they say. What they mean is an entirely separate thing.” She smiled, the pins like bared fangs, like Gram when she talked about money. Her money. Then Aunt Libby’s smile failed, went slipping away as if she had unpredictably lost the grip on her own bitterness.
We asked about Uncle Dan. “You love him.” We made it sound like an accusation.
“Shit,” she yelped, the machine jamming. “Look at this!” She despaired over the pucker in the blue silk and for a time she strained over the mass of thread caught in the feed plate, digging with a darning needle. When it was dislodged, she went on sewing for a while, then said, “Loving isn’t anything easy.”
It was beginning to storm; the oak trees up by the road tossed to silver foam, fell back green again. There had been a lover once. An Italian boy with ardent glowing eyes. We imagined him for ourselves. The purple clouds were plowing in on the wind from the darker distance, weaving into garlands that hung over us like terraces as though we dwelt in Babylon. All at once, moving as one spirit, we did what we had not done for years: we dropped our clothes on the floor, on the stairs, as we ran down, and then on the porch, so that we were fully naked by the time we leapt onto the grass. The rain chilled, stung against our skin, turned to hail. Then Celia came out too, with us again after long years, flying over the grass, prancing, flowing with rain, her golden-red hair streaked dark with rain, streaming out. She was like a separate force quickening us, urging us further by her possibilities. Over the grass we ran and slid until it churned, spattered and oozed with mud; we painted ourselves, each other, immersed in the driveway ditch of foaming brown for a rinsing, before we took the mud slide again. We formed a whip, flung ourselves over the grass. Until Celia stopped and looked up the drive, sideways, hiding herself. A car passed on the highway, silent and distant as though driven by a phantom. Celia stood covered with her crossed arms and like that, suddenly, we all ran onto the porch and grabbed for towels or rags from the shelf, shivering goose-flesh like a disease.
Celia had him in the parlor. We stayed in the living room across the hall and were quiet, listening for any sounds they might make. We never heard any talking. This night Aunt Libby and Uncle Dan had gone out and Corley had come later, so we were the only ones who saw him go into the parlor with Celia and close the door.
The hall light was out. Across the darkness we could see the slight border of light under the double panel doors and between them where they pulled together. There was no hurry. We waited.
Going out of the room, Celia left the door open so we could see Corley waiting there while she was in the kitchen. She didn’t even glance at us. Corley was her new boyfriend and already she was different with him. The other boys didn’t come to the house now and she saw him every night Aunt Libby would allow it, Celia arguing nonstop all afternoon, then over supper. Corley wore his wavy hair in a slick ducktail, which he was constantly combing; we watched the muscles in his arms quivering even from that little bit of movement. When he smiled, his full lips barely lifted and there was no change in the expression of his thick-lidded eyes. Aunt Libby said he was lazy as the day is long, you could tell that by looking at him, and he wouldn’t ever get out of bed once he’d got Celia into one. She said he dripped sex. To us that seemed to go along with his wet-looking hair.
Still we thought he was cute and Celia was lucky. He grinned now, combing his hair. “How you all doing?” His family had come up from Kentucky and he still talked that way, with a voice mushy and thick like his lips.
“Fine.” We shrugged.
“Here’s some money,” he said. “You want to get some ice cream?” He must have thought we were still kids. There was a Dairy Delight now on the far lot beside the gas station; Gram spoke of her fields and meadows as lots now.
Sure, we said, knowing he wanted to get rid of us, knowing too what we’d do when we got back. We took our time walking there because there were a lot of cars driving in and out of the parking lot on a Saturday night and we knew some of the guys. Walking back, we felt the connection with the rest of the world sever as we left the high lamps and passed beyond the cedar hedge onto the dark gravel, the house shadowy too now, with only one small glow of light in the front hall.
We needed no words. We moved to the grass to quiet our walking. Through the gap in the honeysuckle we sneaked and climbed over the railing and stood to one side of the window, where we could see at an angle past the half-drawn drapes. At first we could scarcely make them out where they were on the floor, bound in one shape. We licked our ice cream and carefully, silently dissolved the cones, tasting nothing as it melted away down inside us. Tast
ing instead Corley’s mouth on ours, its burning wild lathering sweetness. In the shaft of light we saw them pressed together, rolling in each other’s arms, Celia’s flowery skirt pulled up around her thighs. His hand moving there. Then she pushed him away, very tenderly, went to sit back on the couch while Corley turned his back and combed his hair. He turned and started toward her, tucking his shirt in. We stared at the unsearchable smile that lifted from Celia’s face like a veil and revealed another self, as she began to unbutton her blouse, undressing herself until she sat there in the half-dark, bare to the waist, bare to the moon which had come up over the trees behind us. She drew Corley to her, his face after he’d turned around never losing its calm, kissed him forever, it seemed, as long as she wanted to. Then she guided his mouth to press into first one and then the other cone-crested breast, her own face lake-calm under the moon. Then she dressed again. Our hearts plunged and thudded. At that moment we were freed from Aunt Libby. We didn’t care what it was called or the price to be paid; someday we would have it.
Terrible battles began between Aunt Libby and Celia. Breaking out anywhere—in the kitchen, the hall—night or day, their screaming and slamming rocked the entire house, made Uncle Dan say he had a headache all the time just waiting for them to get started. Something had alerted Aunt Libby; she wouldn’t leave the house at night in case Corley came over, and she made Celia leave the parlor doors ajar. They fussed over how wide a crack it should be, the dimensions of privacy. When Aunt Libby sniffed that she didn’t hear much talking going on, Celia snapped back that they couldn’t talk when they were under surveillance like prisoners by an old busybody. Old! Aunt Libby’s eyes sealed, impenetrable.
Celia came into the living room one night, leaving Corley behind in the parlor. “Mom, we’re driving to Abnerville.” Corley’s married sister lived there.
Aunt Libby wanted to say no, never. We watched her struggle. She fastened her attention on Celia’s legs, long and tanned below her white shorts. “You’re not going like that,” she said, her voice, once found, taking the bull by the horns.
“Mother.” Celia ground her teeth. The clock ticked as firmly as Aunt Libby’s mind was made up. Celia went upstairs and put on a skirt. Then they fought over the time she was to be home. “Eleven,” Aunt Libby insisted. “Twelve,” Celia said, and banged out the door.
“Goddamn little rip,” Aunt Libby said to us.
At eleven-thirty Aunt Libby was drinking hot milk in the kitchen. She kept her eyes on the table. Now and then we looked up at the clock, high over the painted wainscoting; never washed, its face was fuzzy with soot and grease. It was past midnight when the lights at last came down the drive. They lighted up the orchard as the car made the wide circle and left again. Celia came in. Aunt Libby looked pasty sick. Celia glanced at her and said, “What’s the matter with you, old sourpuss?” but smiling. Her face was pale and tired, her mouth blurred at the edges from all the kisses we imagined there.
Aunt Libby got up, deliberately, and went over and slapped Celia’s face. “Bitch,” she hissed at her, and slapped her again, harder. “Tramp.”
The slaps rushed the blood to Celia’s face. It fell as fast, leaving her gray as ash dust save for her smeared orange mouth, tangled hair. “I could have, you know,” she screamed, crying at the same time. “I wanted to, but I didn’t. Now I wish I had. I will for that,” and she ran up the stairs.
Aunt Libby was after her, her aqua cotton dress pulling up and showing her brown thighs which slapped together as she went, her face horrible in dismay, in fear of the worst, of what she’d done herself. “Well, I’ll kill you first myself, if it comes to that.” We could hear her, although what she said came in a low guttural moaning from the hall. “Throw yourself away, will you! Open this door, I tell you. Open it!”
We were left in the kitchen with the black sea of night awash at the screens. Fireflies like flying phosphorescent fishes sailed through the orchard. Apples fell to their ruin. We could smell them softening in their own brine.
Later Celia and Aunt Libby made up. Uncle Dan had roused himself and declared through his door, “I don’t ask for a whole hell of a lot around here,” and Aunt Libby quit screaming and pounding and Celia opened her door and they went in together. Once again, it was over. They seemed to us like lovers who quarrel for the sake of reconciliation.
We sat on in the kitchen until another car came creeping down the drive. We listened for the slight scratching sound of Gram coming up on the granite stoop, her step silent on the carpet, slow and halting.
“There was a fight,” we told her, wanting to say more.
She snorted once, didn’t ask a thing. “I’m tired. You kids turn out them lights.” She’d seen a million fights.
“Did you win?” We always asked her that, although from her evasive answers there was no real telling; sly and secretive, apt to lie, we thought, to protect her little bit of magic. “Maybe,” she said. “Well, I’m going up to roost. Night now.” She hung her light woolen coat in the closet and treaded her way up the long curved stair toward the darkness of her room; with everybody home, we felt the fields and sky fold inward to wrap up the house for bed. Gram had survived more battles than we had dreamed of, a regular old war-horse, Uncle Dan called her. Gluey-eyed, longing for sleep, we followed her.
After Corley there was Mike. Then Bud, Roger, Hal— strange boys whose last names we never knew, only the names of the towns they came from: Oakfield, Madison, Peru. Later, for a long time, there was Jimmy, for such a long time we thought Celia would marry him—forsaking all others, finally letting Aunt Libby settle down. Aunt Libby had started to have stomach trouble; she burped so regularly that she didn’t try to hide it or excuse herself, allowing the burning gas to erupt from her, the signal of her own wretchedness. She dosed herself with chalky liquids and chewed on saltines. She was already thin as a girl and grew thinner. When we went places out of town, people thought she was our older sister. But they saw her high-heeled, made up, brown eyes aglow. They didn’t know the source of that fire; didn’t watch her trembling over the kitchen sink, her body heaving dry and empty.
It was as though that first open battle with Celia had broken some reserve and refinement in Aunt Libby; we never knew after that when another fight would rage. The waiting for them and preparing for them preoccupied Aunt Libby, further sapping her strength. She left off talking to the rest of us about love and sex. She stopped fighting with Uncle Dan and he seemed to spend the late hours of every night getting in and out of bed by himself, trying to get things to quiet down so he could sleep a little before he had to open up the store in the morning. Out many nights ourselves by then, although never as regularly or extravagantly entertained as Celia, we were content to go around in groups and to get home on time.
Ordinarily we came home about the time Aunt Libby got out of bed to wait up for Celia and sometimes to fight. Our hearts would draw into silence until some exhausted tension or battered anxiety would give way and there would be peace again—Celia and Aunt Libby talking far into the night, an intimacy feeding off secrets and mysteries. To the rest of us Aunt Libby vowed she would protect her daughter. Die trying. We went our own ways —denied now her confidences and cautions. It was the fiery and reckless Celia whom she braced for, boasting of it too. Had any other daughter in the whole world ever been such a handful, so wondrously alluring? We went riding with Aunt Rachel and when we cantered the horses along the north pasture, sometimes caught by dark and the rising moon, still letting them have their heads as we raced toward the shed we used as a barn, calling back and forth through the urgent dusk, our blood would sing, unvoiced: “Oh, Johnny is my darling, my darling, a Union volunteer”—just then we felt we had everything that Celia had, through her.
Still we hated Celia, hated what she was doing to her mother. Once when Aunt Libby knocked the skillet to the floor and then drove off in the car, screaming and sobbing—drove the way Grandad used to careen past when he’d been drinking what Gram called fir
ewater—we thought she would kill herself. We envisioned her lurching over hill and dale until she sailed off the cliff of the ravine. Frightened, divided in loyalty, we fumed at Celia through the door of the bathroom where she’d shut herself. Told her she was cruel and selfish, was killing her mother. When she came out, pale and cold-eyed, she continued to prepare for the forbidden dance, refused to answer.
“You spoil her,” we accused Aunt Libby. “If we ever so much as thought . . .” But we couldn’t get Aunt Libby to pay attention to us, other than a vague distracted smile of gratefulness for our goodness, for sparing her.
She lived through her wild ride, lived to call and calmly tell us she was with Aunt Rachel, who now lived in a small house on the edge of the farm with her son Rossie and her new husband, Tom Buck. Had we found anything to eat? It was Uncle Dan’s late night at the store, something he now had to do to compete with the supermarkets in outlying shopping centers.
When we were home nights with Uncle Dan, it was like old times. He popped corn by the bowlful, brought home chips and cheese spread, fixed icy Cokes and made his remarks, generally reflecting on the level of confusion around the place, which made him feel that at last, years after the war, his ship had left the port of San Francisco. He’d bought a television set just as soon as the price came down, just like a kid, Aunt Libby said, and we watched together in the dark living room with Uncle Dan serving us, doing his best to entertain us. Aunt Libby, passing by, would pause a moment in the doorway, half amused in spite of herself, and would then go on shaking her head as Uncle Dan called after her, “Honey, all of us can’t continually ponder the darker side.” When she didn’t answer he would shrug and be thoughtful for a while—until Broadway Open House came on and he could watch Dagmar, whose tits he said always put things in perspective.
