I freeze. Should I know who Ansel Adams is?
“He’s that nature photographer,” Kristal explains, glancing at me with a slight frown. “He did all those black-and-white pictures of places like Yosemite.”
I can only shrug stupidly.
Kristal sighs and shakes her head. “Jesus, I sound like my mother.” She takes my hand and lifts it. “Slap me really hard, Cat.”
Laughing, we turn the corner to the next display. This one’s bigger. It’s got a TV monitor running a grainy black-and-white video that shows row upon row of women soldiers marching down an almost empty street. The women are wearing uniforms of long, double-breasted winter coats with hats that look like inverted canoes, tilted slightly to the side. Their arms and legs move in synchronized precision, heads held high.
The view changes and now the parade of women passes what looks like an English policeman. This new angle allows for a close-up of the women soldiers. Many of them are African American. My eyes move to the display’s title: “The 6888th Central Postal Directory Battalion.”
“This is my favorite one,” Kristal says, holding up her hands in surrender. “I promise I’m not gonna say anything else except that these ladies truly rocked.”
“What did they do?” I ask, my eyes veering back to the video.
Kristal says, “The Six Triple Eight”—she points to the blown-up black-and-white photos—“was the first totally black female unit to go over to Europe during World War Two.” She looks at me. “They didn’t fight. What they did was to totally revamp the mail system. It was a mess when they got to England. None of the soldiers were getting their letters. They were like a year behind in delivery. These letters were the only contact from home. And this unit just kicked ass. They—” Kristal stops abruptly.
I smell Kristal’s mom before I see her. A floral-citrus scent wafts around me. Up close she’s even more beautiful. Her clothes, perfectly tailored to her tiny frame, scream class. Large brown eyes, a flawless complexion and a full mouth covered with just the right color lipstick—it’s almost hard to take in. She smiles at me and extends her hand. “Hello, Catherine. I’m Kristal’s mom, Beverly Walker.”
“Hi.” I jut my hand out a little too hard and shake. My mind drains of anything else to say. I feel like the words “Property of St. Anne’s” are branded on my forehead.
“Please call me Bev,” she says. “And thank you so much for coming. You’re the only reason my daughter has decided to grace us with her presence today.”
Kristal rolls her eyes.
“Uh…thanks for having me,” I manage. “I’ve never been here before. It’s great.”
Bev cocks her head at me. “Let me know what you think about the new exhibit,” she says. “Now, I’m serious about this. If you think something works well, great, but I’m more interested in something that’s not working. Like if a label has too much text. Or if something in the text is unclear. Or we need a bench somewhere. Or better lighting. Kristal is great at this kind of stuff, but she doesn’t like working with her mother anymore.”
“I’ve spent every single summer here since I was seven,” Kristal says to me, her arms folded tight across her chest. “I’m a little museumed out.”
“Well, you’re smarter than most of my grad students,” Bev says, and then turns back to me. “I just love getting a pair of fresh eyes on this. Any feedback would be great.”
There’s a definite tension between Kristal and her mother, and the lull in conversation threatens to become awkward, so I turn to the 6888th exhibit. “This is really amazing,” I say. “What these women did.”
“They just give me the chills,” Bev says with reverence. “You think about what these ladies were facing. It was a double whammy of prejudice—they were women and they were black. I always ask myself, would I have done that? Would I have enlisted? Given everything that was going—”
A young guy wearing an apron taps Bev’s shoulder. “We’ve got a problem in the kitchen,” he says. “There’s coffee leaking all over the floor.”
Bev looks at Kristal and the tension breaks. They both smile. “You were right, baby,” Bev says to Kristal. “Time for a new one. You see why I need you here?” Bev turns to me. “We’ve got this one coffeepot that only behaves for Kristal. Would you excuse us for a minute?”
“I’ll be right back,” Kristal says. “And then we’ll hit froyo, okay?”
They leave and I return to the video. It’s looped around to that close-up again. These women can’t be much older than me. Next to the video screen stands a mannequin dressed in a dark gray double-breasted winter coat that matches the coats the soldiers in the video wear. The small card on the floor says it belonged to PFC Jane Talmadge.
I move closer to the wall to read the labels there. They say that there were two women from Connecticut who joined the 6888th. Encased in a plastic box is a yellowed handwritten letter covered with a faded spidery script. The small card says it was written by the same Jane Talmadge who owned the coat. She was from New Haven.
February 17, 1944
Dear Mama,
I don’t know how much more I can take. Things are bad here. They give me looks and say nasty things when I walk by. I hurt so much. It doesn’t matter what I do. How hard I try. I’ll never be good enough. And there’s nothing I can do about it. I can’t change the way I was born.
The letter goes on, but I freeze. Then read these lines again. I could’ve written this. I don’t know how much more I can take. I hurt so much. Jane Talmadge’s words are déjà vu familiar. These are my words. I can’t help the way I was born. I stare at her coat.
“Powerful stuff, huh?” Bev has returned to my side.
I struggle to focus. “Yeah. I…I wish I could do my project on her,” I spout uncensored, then point to the mannequin. “I have to do a biography on a soldier from Connecticut who served in World War Two.”
Bev seems confused. “Jane Talmadge did serve in the war.”
“The soldier has to be buried at the American Cemetery in Normandy,” I explain.
Bev takes a deep breath. “That’s where Jane is.”
“Uh…wait,” Michael says. “Who is she?”
“A soldier from New Haven,” I tell him as I boot up the laptop at my kitchen table. “Her name is Jane Talmadge.”
It’s Sunday night. I actually called Michael to tell him of the change in plans for the project. That it’s now going to be on Private First Class Jane Talmadge of the 6888th Central Postal Directory Battalion. But Michael is uncharacteristically resistant.
Mom is lurking in the kitchen, eavesdropping as she makes our meals for the upcoming week. Smells like something Mexican, maybe meat for tacos, and lentil soup.
“She was in the Six Triple Eight,” I explain again, stepping into the living room. “That unit served overseas in England and France. And she died over there. She’s buried at the American Cemetery.”
“How’d she die?” Michael asks.
“In a jeep accident.” I had felt a stab of sadness learning this. After Kristal and I returned to the museum following our froyo break, I glued myself to the exhibit and read everything that there was. I must’ve reread the sentence on the accident five, ten times. Bev must’ve noticed because she came over again.
“Cat decided to do her history project on Jane Talmadge,” Kristal told her mom. “Do you have any other stuff on her?”
“This is music to my ears,” Bev had said with a huge smile, one hand on the silk knit of her turtlenecked chest. She then flew into executive director mode and retrieved two books as well as her business card and the museum curator’s card for me. I was to reach out to the curator and see if the museum had anything else I could use. And Bev demanded a copy of the bio when I finished it.
I’m pretty sure that Cat Pulaski, an official St. Anne’s IOP girl, made a good first impression on Bev.
Michael’s talking and I zone back in. “But she didn’t actually fight or anything,” he’s saying. “I think Oleck wants us to
do a bio on somebody who died in battle. Like storming the beach at Normandy. He called this project the D-day Project, right? Did she have anything to do with D-day?”
This is the response I expected. And I’m prepared for it. “I’m pretty sure the only requirement is that the soldier is buried in Normandy. Oleck probably didn’t even consider a woman being there. There’s, like, only five women total buried there.”
“I don’t know,” Michael says stubbornly. “I mean, this Jean lady only delivered mail, right? I’m not sure this is what he was looking for.”
“Look, it’s okay if you’re not into it, but I really want to do the project on her,” I say, growing irritated. “She was from New Haven and the museum is really close, like fifteen or twenty minutes away. Your Kasia soldier is from Waterbury. That’s a major hike from here. And for Jane, most of the research is already done. I’ve got a couple of books and the museum’s got her coat, some letters, a couple of photographs.” This last bit about the photos is a white lie, but I’m sure I’ll be able to dig something up. “Oleck will understand,” I add. “You can still do your project on Jonathan Kasia, if you want. We’ll just explain to Oleck before class, and I’ll take the blame about your summary on Kasia not being ready.”
“We’re not splitting up,” Michael says with some heat. And this gives me a little rush of happy. “We’re a team. It’s just…I don’t know,” he continues. “Why do you want to do it on her so badly?”
“Because…because…”
Because I feel like I know her somehow. She’s somebody I think I would’ve been friends with if there weren’t seventy or eighty years between us. But I can’t say that. Cuckoo, cuckoo.
Kristal’s and Bev’s comments come back to me and fill in the gap. “Because these women rocked. They faced all kinds of prejudice and still wanted to serve.”
Man, that sounded good. Mom emerges from the kitchen and gives me a thumbs-up. I can’t keep down a smile.
“Okay,” Michael says. “History’s first period tomorrow. Can you get there a little earlier so we can talk to Oleck? I just want to make sure it’s not going to affect our grade.”
“I’ll ask my mom,” I say, but Mom is already nodding from the kitchen door, not even knowing the question.
Michael’s not the type to hold a grudge, and for the next twenty minutes, I hear every minute detail about the Model Congress conference in D.C. As he chatters, I scroll the Internet for photos of the 6888th and find a good number of websites. I copy and paste the URLs onto the bibliography I’ve created. When Michael and I say good-night, he seems on board with Jane as long as we don’t get penalized grade-wise for the switch.
Sunday-night dinner is scrambled eggs with onions and peppers, toasted Italian bread from Mom’s Saturday shift at Dominic’s, and finished with two double-chocolate doughnut survivors from this morning. While Mom cleans up, I pull the laptop back in front of me and continue my online search.
In only an hour, I’ve compiled a decent bibliography to show Oleck tomorrow; it lists the websites, the two books from Bev (To Serve My Country, to Serve My Race and an autobiography of Major Charity Adams, the 6888th’s commander), the coat and letter at the museum. I print it out on the printer in the living room.
Mom joins me at the table. “Sounds like a great project.”
I look up from the screen. “It is,” I say.
“And they have a coat of this woman’s? At the museum?” Mom asks.
I nod.
She tilts her head and her eyebrows cinch together. “You know, I’d bet anything we still have Uncle Jack’s uniform somewhere in Grandma’s room.”
My shoe box radar goes berserk as Mom rises to her feet. I know exactly where that jacket is. My small battalion is hiding inside it in the plaid suitcase under Grandma’s bed. Per Catherine protocol, I moved them Friday night from under my bed (after jamming the Girl, Interrupted note inside the shoe box) to their current weekend location in Grandma’s room. “We don’t have the uniform anymore!” I say, and stand. “I saw Grandma give it to Goodwill.” My heart races.
Mom looks at me skeptically. “Grandma would never donate anything to Goodwill,” she says. “You know that. That’s why our basement looked the way it did. She could’ve been on one of those hoarder shows.”
Mom’s got that look on her face when she wants to prove me wrong. Oh shit. She takes a step toward Grandma’s door.
“I didn’t mean Goodwill,” I say. “It was some veterans’ place. They were asking for uniforms or something. For a museum.” I shrug. I’m sweating now. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and I pull the Grandma death card. “It was right before…you know.”
A combo of compassion and sadness washes over Mom’s face. For the final piece of faux evidence, I add, “I think she was nervous to tell you, that you’d want to keep it or something.”
“Huh,” Mom says, and sits back down. “Who knew?” She laughs a little. “Figures. The one thing we could’ve used, she gives away.”
Later on, after the Lamictal rash inspection, Mom and I head upstairs. From behind me on the staircase, she says, “Oh, I meant to tell you. I won’t be working anymore on Saturdays at Dominic’s. And I’m scaling back on Friday nights too. Probably working every other weekend.”
I stop and turn around. “Why?”
“Well, first off, it’s a pretty brutal schedule,” Mom says, running her hand through hair that she still hasn’t colored.
“And?” I ask, prompting her to finish. Because I have an inkling as to the second reason, and it’s pissing me off.
“I want to spend more time with you,” Mom says. “We see each other what? An hour on Friday? Half of Saturday? It’s not enough.”
I can’t help myself. “Or is it that you don’t want to impose on Aunt Darlene anymore? And you’ve run out of Friday-night babysitters and Lamictal monitors?”
Mom squeezes past me and heads to her room. She spins around at the door to face me, her face red. “Actually, Catherine, I’m exhausted. What part of that don’t you get? I cook, I clean, I do laundry, I fold clothes, I shop, I don’t ask you for any help. Not one thing!” She’s yelling now. “I’m working full time and then a second job for most of the weekend. You know why, right? Because it’s just me, Catherine! It’s just me supporting us! I don’t want to blow through everything Grandma left us in the next five years. I’ll start the Friday shift up again. It’s just right now, I need to take a little break. I want to leave the office on a Friday and just come home. Have two whole days to myself. Is that so hard for you to understand? Is it possible for you to ever”—her voice cracks on that word—“cut me some slack?”
She’s right. Sometimes I stun myself. All I ever see is how her working makes me feel. Jesus Christ. Who knew how many facets guilt has? I ache that she works double-duty to pay for all my extra bipolar expenses, that she’s stuck in a shitty job because it gives her the flexibility to shuttle me everywhere, that she agonizes over time spent away from me because of work, and now let’s add this one, the physical toll of working so much. Sure, I’ve noticed, but not once have I done a fucking thing to lighten her load.
Mom hurries into her bedroom and I follow her. Her bed is unmade and I can’t take my eyes off it. It is always half made, only one side ever occupied. Because of me. It’s wrong that I absorb her so much, there’s no room for anyone else.
There should be. She should have room for Bill, at least, but I ruined that, too. It happened maybe three weeks after I came home from the hospital, on one of those brilliant early-autumn evenings with the sky an impossibly deep sapphire blue streaked with pink.
I was camped out on the sofa, and Mom was her usual two feet away from me. We were sloppy in sweats and T-shirts, a congealing pizza that neither of us could swallow on the coffee table. A strong rapping on the front door punctured the canned laugh track of whatever lame sitcom we weren’t watching. Mom jumped up, almost like she was expecting it.
Peering through th
e picture window, I spotted Bill’s black F-150 at the curb in front of our house. Mom and Bill had been dating for ten months. He was a contractor, divorced with twins he got on alternating weekends. Despite the fog of Zero, I liked Bill. I liked his strong, steady presence, his quick smile and his black curly hair with gray at the temples. He was in a different league from Mom’s past boyfriends, who had never lasted longer than a couple of months.
Bill genuinely cared for Mom. I saw it in his nightly call to make sure all was well (or what could pass for well in the Pulaski household at the time). And in the way that he listened to Mom, head cocked, a slight smile on his face. The tender way he watched her when she wasn’t looking.
Mom greeted him on the stoop and pulled the front door almost shut. Almost. That inch of space allowed their voices to flow back into the living room and over to me. Bill’s voice was raised in a pitch I had never heard before—stressed. Asking, “Why, Jody? I don’t understand.”
Then Mom’s gentle murmurs. “Catherine…I just can’t…all my time has to be…needs me now…so sorry.” She was crying. I crept closer and peered through the crack and saw they were holding each other. Saying good-bye.
And Mom has never, not once, thrown that back in my face. She’s never mentioned his name again, never talked about his adorable kids, or sailing on his little boat. She’s never even brought up that trip to the Florida Keys that never happened.
She’s better off without you, Zero whispers in my ear.
“You’re right, you should have your weekends off,” I say to Mom, and move toward her bed. I straighten the sheet and then grab the crumpled comforter.
“What are you doing?” Mom snaps.
“Just fixing your bed,” I say.
“I’m going to sleep in fifteen minutes, Catherine. Don’t bother.”
I return to my room, seeking refuge in my own bed. I just need Mom to fall asleep and then I can creep downstairs and get the troops of bottles. I need to hold them tonight.
But twenty minutes go by and Mom still hasn’t clicked off her light. And then she’s beside my bed, extending a glass of water like a peace offering.
The Weight of Zero Page 11
