All the Finest Girls

by Alexandra Styron

  “Foxeee!” shouted Cyril, until Floria put her hand over his to quiet him.

  Derek drew a deep breath and seemed about to say something, but swallowed instead and nodded. After an interminable minute without conversation, Floria wiped nervously at the corners of her mouth and turned to me.

  “Adelaide, have you ever been to the Caribbean before?”

  “Yes,” I answered, finding my voice strangled by my throat. “When I was small. But never to St. Clair.”

  “It’s quite lovely. Down by Errol and Patrice’s house is one of the nicest beaches around.” She leaned across me to bring Philip into the conversation. “We should take her down there.”

  “Yah, why don’t y’all do some sight-seeing?” Derek said, a faint smile on his lips. “Stop in on some of the local craftsmen. Or get yah hair braided nice.”

  Philip nodded earnestly.

  “Yah, we could. We could. If that Clifton man can fix the Caddy. You say he’s pretty good?”

  “Well,” said Derek, pausing to stretch and yawn, “he’s all we got up here in dah country.” Derek pronounced the last words with an island accent thick as syrup. “He works better than he looks.”

  “Good, good. Because Papa doesn’t know which end is up right now. He’ll never find his way here by himself.”

  Marva cut her eyes at Philip.

  “Here?” Derek asked.

  Philip looked guiltily at his aunt.

  “Here, yah. For the service.”

  Derek slowly put his fork down.

  “Who said?”

  “Me,” answered Marva. “It’s de proper ting.”

  The tension at the table had risen suddenly like mercury, and the room felt unbearably hot. When I reached for my glass of beer, I discovered I’d drained it to the bottom. Floria reached gracefully back to the fridge and handed me another.

  “Proper,” said Derek, shaking his head. “Please. Don’t get me laughing.”

  Marva sucked her tooth just the way Lou used to do when I irritated her. Down the table Cyril was tearing the center out of the slice of soft bread his father had given him. He spoke, mouth full of white sponge.

  “Yah really assified, Papa.”

  A second or two elapsed as, except for the old man, everyone at the table turned to look at Cyril. Inspecting me through a perimeter of bread crust, he didn’t notice his father raise his hand and reach toward him with an open palm. The impact, to the back of the boy’s head, wasn’t strong, but it came by surprise and knocked the bread out of his hand. Cyril’s mouth hung down, tears and drool rolling long before any sound came out. Philip slowly shook his head, but I’d seen the crinkled eyes before and knew his gesture belied a dumb amusement at other people’s foolishness. I remembered what I hadn’t liked about him in the first place.

  Derek glared at his son, who was bleating now like a lamb, then shoved his fork into his food. He paused before eating and fixed Cyril with a cold eye of outrage and embarrassment.

  “Dem limers Jossie usually be wit been learning him badways,” Marva said, reaching over to wipe her father’s chin.

  “I know that, Marva.” There was ice in Derek’s voice. “It’s why I’m trying to keep him up here wit me.”

  ”I know you’re tryin’, but dat girl is wicked.”

  ”Mmhmm,” interjected Philip, laughing now, “but sexy sexy.”

  Floria, busy wiping Cyril’s face and encouraging him to eat, made no sign of hearing her husband.

  “Listen, Derek,” Marva said, speaking rapidly, deftly changing the subject, “yah cyaant miss work tomorrow? Someone’s got to watch yah grandfather while me take a dress down to Roger’s parlor to be put on yah mumma and den get to market for my callaloo.”

  Derek shook his head.

  “I’m certain yah could, yah know, if yah just ask,” Marva continued, prodding him.

  “I can take care of him,” I said, finally seeing my moment to be helpful. Derek blinked and looked at his aunt.

  “Well, me don’t know,” replied Marva, watching her father. He was dozing, chin on his napkin.

  “It’s March, Auntie. Me not taking another day. I cyaant. Which dress?” said Derek.

  “What do yah mean?” Marva responded, nonplussed.

  “Which dress you giving Roger?”

  “De yellow one wit de lickle stripe that she sometimes wore to church.”

  “What about the blue one with the white in front?”

  “Dat one didn’t fit her so good, Derek.”

  Philip spoke up, his mouth half full.

  “The yellow one is nicer, I think.”

  Derek threw his napkin down on the table and stood up.

  “Come on, brother,” said Philip, conciliatory, “sit down and finish your food. Marva knows better. Let’s talk about the rest of the service.”

  “Me telling yah,” Marva said gently, “dat blue dress hasn’t been so good since yah mumma was sick. It’s too big. Hangs all over her.”

  “Gimme a break, Preacherman.” Derek spoke from across the room. “Anyway, seems like yah both got it figured out already.”

  The screen door banged, and the roosters in the next yard began to crow again. Mr. Alfred looked up, startled. Philip sighed and went back to his dinner.

  “Lawd,” said Marva.

  Philip apologized for bringing up the subject of Errol, but Marva shushed him.

  “What sorry,” she said, waving him off.

  For the first time since dinner had begun, Mr. Alfred spoke.

  “Where’s Lulu?”

  Marva pulled on the short hairs of her bun. An American pop song with an endless, whining chorus came on the radio.

  “Yah want something more to drink, Papa?” said Marva, slowly getting up with the old man’s plate. Philip began to describe to Floria the extent of the damage done to the Cadillac.

  “Yah musta get driving down ya mumma line,” Marva said, returning to her seat and refilling her father’s glass. “Before yah boys were born, Mackie Goodson tried to learn Lulu to drive. Lawd, something crazy in her head, for she cyaant learn it. Poor Mr. Benoit next door like to shoot her. She runned over tree of his chickens trying to get out of de driveway!”

  Marva began to laugh in earnest now, holding up her hand while she tried to compose herself. Her mirth spread about the table until everyone, including Cyril, was caught up in it. The old man looked from face to face, searching to discover what he was laughing about. In a circle of light outside the screen door, I could see Derek smoking a cigarette and listening.

  “Mackie, him a give it up. Him say, ‘Forget it, Lulu, you’ll nevah drive a car!’ But her a real rang-tang about it, yah know. Kept on trying till one day Mr. Benoit be crying, his fist full a feathers, ‘Please, Lulu!’ he say. ‘I done run outa dishes to be cooking de chicken, so I’m begging yah to stop!’ Ah, what a ruction she cause!”

  Marva grabbed a dish towel from her shoulder to wipe the tears from her cheeks as she continued to laugh.

  “Josephus, him a working den as a deputy down in town. Him a come home and tell me he don’t want to lock his sista-in-law up, but if she don’t quit driving, he gonna put her inna cell.”

  With laughter rippling around the table, Marva got up and went to the counter, leaning on it for support. The deep, chugging laugh that I’d heard from Marva earlier in the day seemed suddenly to take a detour. Her back quivered. She buried her face in the dish towel. Floria moved quickly to Marva’s side. Only Mr. Alfred, lost in another dimension, continued his wheezy chuckle.

  The table was cleared and routines continued without words. I snuck a glance at Philip and noticed that his eyes had become puffy and small, as though staying awake were suddenly a great challenge. Indeed, everyone at the table looked exhausted, spent by the weight of their grief. Pulling herself together, Marva began to help her father out of his chair. Taking a last swig from what appeared to be my third beer, I stood and moved to his other elbow. When I touched him, Mr. Alfred leaned away from me and
shrieked.

  “No, I say! Please! PLEASE!”

  I stumbled back, hands in the air.

  “Arright, it’s arright, Papa,” Marva said quietly, discharging me with a quick look. I turned, stunned, back toward the table and noticed that all the corners and edges in the warm room had softened and drooped. Gauguin meets Dalí, I thought, stifling a giggle. I was drunk. How charming.

  Derek came back inside and lifted Cyril from his chair. He nestled the boy’s head in the warmth of his neck and placed a long kiss on the top of his sleepy head. His eyes glittered in the dim light.

  “Sorry, man,” Philip said, trying to get his brother’s eye. “Just tell me where to find Clifton. I’ll go down and check on the car and we’ll clear out of here as soon as we can.”

  “Yah won’t find it,” Derek said wearily. “Let me put him down and I’ll go wit yah.”

  I went to Floria at the sink, took a towel, and began to dry, but she put out a hand to stop me.

  “You go on with them,” she said, glancing at the still-whimpering old man.

  I walked outside, the door shutting affirmatively behind me, and leaned unsteadily against a rusted flagpole. There I waited, exiled from the realm of sensical thought, for Lou’s sons to find me.

  13

  WHO SHOULD I make one for now?”

  “Have yah made a card for yah mumma?”

  “Mom, Daddy, Dilly, Mrs. Cullerton, Edith … I know, I know!”

  I do a little jig, try a headstand, somersault, and knock into Lou’s dresser.

  “Calm yahself,” Lou says. She’s picking the price tag off a flowered teacup. “Yah like to crack yah head open.”

  All around us on the floor, paper wrapping lies in shimmery reds and forest greens, gold and blue ribbon curling and streaming off the top of Lou’s bed. The room smells of oranges and fresh-baked brownies she’s brought in on a plate for my after-dinner snack. The radio is on, and a Christian station fills the room with choirs, harpsichords, “Silent Night.”

  “Philip and Derek,” I shout, lying by the dresser, punching out the names.

  I’m keyed up. I’m all in a pother, as Mom would say. Today is the beginning of winter vacation and now there is just one week left till Christmas. But that’s not all, not the only reason I’m so fluttery. This afternoon the fourth grade performed a holiday play, and I did not forget my lines.

  At two o’clock we put on our costumes and made a line behind the music room curtains. I hadn’t wanted to be a Christmas turkey, but the feathers that Mrs. Wishart pasted to my Dr. Dentons looked, I thought, sleek and pretty. I was glad after all not to be a big sweet potato, or wired shut inside of a papier-mâché ham.

  Taking my place (Abraham at the front), I peeked out into the audience. Just beyond the stage, the first and second graders sat on the floor. Brian Sherry was pulling at Maggie Mabee’s headband. Hayden Hurst, who licks his lips each winter until he chaps a broad doughnut of skin, worked his cracked mouth open over and over again. He looks like a scabby clown. The other kids were listening to Mrs. Labenski play our introductory music on the piano.

  Most of the folding chairs were filled with grown-ups. Heidi Ostrander’s parents had brought her baby sister, who was still in her snowsuit and giving in to a fit of crying. John Haberle’s father held a big camera and talked with fat Mrs. Fusco, Colleen’s mother. (Everyone calls Colleen’s mother that.) Ellen Pierce’s parents; Nat Marden’s mother, who made our costumes; somebody’s grandfather, I thought, to the side in a wheelchair. I stood on my tiptoes. Lili Arsenault pushed me A-duhh now and a clump of sticky feathers dropped to the floor. I grabbed the curtain and held on, peered over the first two rows. My heart began to gallop (I heard it in my ears, where it didn’t belong). Finally I saw them, almost all the way in the back.

  Lou was watching the stage, hands in her lap. She wore her best blue dress, sweater buttoned around her shoulders. Dilly, scratching his head, still had his coat on, though the windows were steamed with heat. (I think he’s losing his hair and want to ask Lou if she thinks so too.) I let the curtain go and tried to breathe slow and easy, the way Lou taught me.

  Pretend you’re talking to an imaginary friend. That’s what Mom said when she called last night. Oh, Snooks, just have fun with it. You’ll be great, I know. Are you mad at me? Hmm? Are you, baby? She said she was sorry she couldn’t be there. Sorry as the dickens. New Mexico, honey, you can’t imagine how beautiful it is here; the mountains are purple! A little Indian girl was on the set today; her father is consulting on the film. I invited her into my trailer for lunch. That’s where I am now. Did your father give you the number? Oh, she reminded me so much of you! I told her I had to go, had homework to do, but it wasn’t the truth. Her voice was tinny and small like a voice on the radio, and I could hardly picture her out there. In a purple world, in a trailer, with Indians. Besides, Lou and I were midway through a game of spit, and I was winning.

  Move it, mongoloid!

  Lili pushed into me again and before I could think, I was out from behind the curtain, the rest of fourth grade trooping behind me.

  Mrs. Fusco turned forward, arms resting across her bosoms as if she were leaning on a windowsill.

  The baby cried.

  Someone took a photograph.

  I kept my eye on Lou and Dilly, sweat beading on my forehead. Lou jutted out her chin and nodded, mouthing my line.

  “We are a traditional Christmas feast,” I said, following her lips. “I am a traditional Christmas beast. The turkey. Gobble, gobble, gobble.”

  When I flapped my wings, I hit Lili in the eye. But I’d made the audience laugh. Look how well I growed her up, Dilly Lou smiled at me as we drove home, the gold stripe between her teeth flashing in the rearview mirror. Maybe I’ll be an actress too.

  Night has come on purple over the Schroeders’ snow-covered barn. Lou and I are making our Christmas preparations. She sits on the floor near me, filling a cardboard box with presents. Through the window above her, fat flakes of snow drift down in the dark like angel’s tissues. I’ve been making one card after another, pleased with all the friends I have to draw for, pleased by success. There’s a fizzy sweetness in my head; I’m a jitterbug of excitement.

  “Philip and Derek, Philip and Derek!” I shout again, picturing the boys opening their presents. I leap up, pull at the corners of my eyes and kick a leg in the air as high as I can. “Everybody was kung fu fighting! Da-na, na, na, na, na, na.” Dropping down, I land on the ribbed edge of the tape dispenser.

  “Ow!”

  Lou reaches out and grabs my pant leg, giving it a rough tug.

  “I told you. Sit down now.”

  My foot doesn’t really hurt, but I grab hold of it anyway and hop over to the bookshelf in the corner. It’s here Lou keeps her special things. A bottle of perfume that smells like roses; a picture of a movie actor, his autograph written in neat script along the bottom; postcards from England with lots of stamps and scraggly writing; a plastic Jesus on a cross just the size of my thumb; pictures of the boys in metal frames; a neat row of ticket stubs from every movie we’ve seen.

  I kneel down before the pictures. Philip is older than I am. A year and three months older, which sounds like two years, since he is eleven and I am only nine. He plays with me anyway. But it is Derek who is my best friend. In the trip I’ve planned in my mind, the one I’ve drawn a hundred times, Derek and I are inseparable. Where we go is ever changing; what we do fills a drawing pad I keep on my desk.

  I take him to the deep end of the pool and show him how to press all the air out of his body so we sink together to the bottom, enjoying an underwater conversation no one else can hear. We ride horses into the forest, and Derek saves me from a wood demon disguised in the base of an oak tree. He sits across the dinner table from me and shares a plate of spaghetti. We count raindrops on the car’s back window, flash peace signs at passing cars. When night comes, Derek and I bundle under the covers and fear nothing.

  “Gwan,” Lou
says, holding out the round-tipped scissors to me. “Make dem nice and den I’ll be finished here. I’ve got to close dis box for Dilly to take me to de post office in de morning.”

  On Philip’s card, I draw a fire engine and a picture of me in my turkey costume. Alongside the truck I make a giant Christmas tree, festooned with glitter and twinkly lights. Lou says there are no pine trees on St. Clair. I’ll bring the boys a tree when I make my visit. For Derek, I draw only me in a dress, my skin a shade of brown darker than my own. I sit back and admire the turquoise ribbon on my smooth hair and the way my dress waves around my knees. But the nose is no good. It’s too long and where it ought to be straight, I’ve drawn an ugly bump that makes me look like a witch. The more I try to fix it, the worse it looks. I scribble and scribble, feeling the heat rising around my chest and neck. I break the point on the crayon, then crumple the card and throw it across the room, narrowly missing Lou’s face.

  “Why are you trowin’ dat away?”

  My drawing is terrible. “Because I hate him!” I shout, stomping my foot and screaming until my throat hurts. “It” is what I meant, not “him.” But that’s what I’ve said. Lou gets up and grabs me by the shoulders.

  “Yah stop it! Stop it right now!” Lou has never yelled at me before. When I look in her eyes, I see a terrible look. I fall instantly silent.

  “Yah trying me completely now. I’m sick of it! Yah hear me? Yah cyaant hate Derek, and yah cyaant love him neither. Yah don’t even know him! Arright?”

  Without wasting any time, she recovers the card and smooths it out on the bed, her back to me.

  “Now let’s have a look, hmm? Let’s look. Ooh, dat’s nice, Addy. Sweet and dandy. Look, yah made de dress so pretty. Please let me send it to Derek?”

  I can’t answer her, can’t speak. The snowflakes outside have gotten harder and smaller, and come down like spitballs.

  I’m sorry, Addy, sorry I snapped at yah. He’ll love dis. Please, Addy?

  My eye falls again on the photo of Derek. A sunny day. He’s standing in front of a fence, dressed in a starchy white shirt and olive shorts. With his hand, he’s shielding his eyes from the sun. I get down low sometimes, to see what’s hidden by the shadow, but I can never see beneath the swatch of darkness. I wonder if he’s looking at me.