Motherless Child

by Glen Hirshberg

  Whoever was out there didn’t respond. That annoyed Wanda. A simple Sorry to disturb you or No problem would have made her feel less pressured, less aware of how long it now took her to get centered over her hips and navigate the eight long steps to the door. That was the thing other people never seemed to understand: the real problem with getting old was actually everyone else. When you were on your own—or with someone like Jess, who didn’t ask for anything, didn’t chatter, just stayed—you were still just you.

  “Almost there,” she called again, and opened the door.

  Her surprise showed, and she knew it, and it embarrassed her. At least the evening shadows probably hid her blush.

  “That’s…” she said, almost fast enough to cover her confusion, while the woman out there just stood with one high-heeled sandal on the trailer’s bottom step, eyes high, curly black and gray hair perfect under her green bonnet, skin dark and shining and clean as cola. “That’s a beautiful dress.”

  And it was. Strange, maybe, but a lovely, glittering green, with overlapping leaves that caught the new moonlight and flowed down the woman’s substantial body like Spanish moss. Or scales. Wanda’s mother might have called it a Visiting Dress. Not that her mother had ever owned such a thing or had any places she could Visit, except to clean them. But she liked using phrases like that, anyway.

  One thing was certain: her mother would never have worn a Visiting Dress to a trailer park. Wanda edged forward into her doorway to get a closer look at the newcomer.

  She was older than Wanda had first thought. That is, she might have been older. With her face in shadow, Wanda found it hard to tell. She half-wondered if she were still dreaming. Around them, the trailer park had gone uncharacteristically still. Mostly, Wanda heard cicadas. Mutterings and canned laughter from a few TVs.

  “Evening, ma’am,” the woman said, with a politeness that erased the ferocity of that last knock from Wanda’s mind.

  No, not politeness, Wanda thought. Caution. The politeness of a lifelong southern woman. Southern black woman. The realization made Wanda sad. And also, though she hated to admit it, put her at ease.

  “Well. Good evening to you.”

  “Another hot one.” The woman took a neatly folded handkerchief from her shiny green handbag and patted her brow with it, the way actors did. From what Wanda could see, there was no sweat on this woman’s forehead or dust, either. In truth, she looked as though she’d never been outside at all, was in fact standing onstage right this minute.

  There was a glamour to her, no question. Wanda felt herself straighten, smooth her handmade knit pullover, as though smoothing it would restore its shape or hide the dangles of loose thread. “It is, at that.” She wasn’t sure why she was smiling. The smile felt good, though. “Can I help you?”

  The woman met Wanda’s eyes only briefly. “Well, you just might. I’d sure appreciate it. I saw an ad about a double-wide. Vacant and furnished. I was just wondering…” And she glanced—carefully, furtively—toward Jess’s trailer.

  Wanda liked this woman. She liked her glamour and also the way she played her part, almost overplayed. It couldn’t have been a part she’d chosen, if she’d wound up here. But her disappointments weren’t stopping her from doing what was necessary. Jess would have liked her, too. For the first time since Wanda had woken up—a good ten minutes longer than usual, in other words—she thought of her daughter, a lawyer in Connecticut a thousand miles away. The last time Jennie had come, with her new boyfriend, she’d stayed in a hotel over by Southpark Mall. She’d insisted Wanda come stay with them, had even gotten her a suite. Wanda had felt so ashamed that she’d made Jess come stay in the suite with her. Almost three years ago, now. Somehow, when Jess had been here, Connecticut hadn’t seemed so very far away. Or the weeks between phone calls quite so long. Or so hurtful.

  And now, this woman had come. To buy Jess’s trailer. Which would make it not Jess’, anymore. Which would mean Jess really wasn’t coming back. Jess hadn’t called, either, Wanda realized. The realization surprised her. And it stung.

  And so she squared her shoulders, the way Jess had taught her. Fixed her smile right where it was. “Well,” she said. “Would you like a Coca-Cola? Or a beer?”

  The woman smiled back.

  Five minutes later, Wanda was fumbling with the keys at Jess’ lock while the woman waited silently behind her. From three berths down, a stereo blared suddenly. The new family, the stringy mom and the dad in the cap and the two teenagers with dirt bikes and skin that looked too hairy, too dirty even for boys’ skin, collectively, they reminded Wanda of possums, skulking and dirty and dead eyed. The music they played was mostly roaring, like the buzzing thunder from a race-car track.

  “Sorry,” Wanda said over her shoulder, pushing open Jess’ door. “They’re new. We’ve talked to the manager, but…” She’d turned as she spoke, only to find the woman right on top of her. Before Wanda could even grunt her surprise, the woman was past, bumping her out of the way with her hip.

  But once inside, she just stood. Right in the middle of the trailer. Like an animal, Wanda thought. Like some stalking cat.

  Or, she reproached herself, like a proud woman who’d landed hard and had nowhere else to go. And was trying to come to terms with it.

  And suddenly Wanda realized how much she wanted this woman here. Or someone, anyway. She stepped into the trailer and pulled the door closed, shutting out the early-evening moonlight and at least a little of the racket. In the gloom, the woman seemed to swell, gathering the shadows like a rising ocean and then rolling across the little space, from countertop to bed-berth to the walls, where the whiter spaces marked the places Jess’s pictures of Natalie had hung.

  “Don’t you want some light?” Wanda snapped the switch.

  The woman was pulling open drawers, peering into the cabinets over the sink, but now she stopped. Or, she’d already stopped, her head cocked and her wide, proud face expressionless. “Clean as a hotel,” the woman said. “You’d never know someone had actually lived here.”

  “Well, Jess is like that. She lives light. Fights hard, lives light.”

  “No fool she,” the woman said, with a wistfulness that surprised Wanda.

  “She was my best friend.” The tears welled in Wanda’s eyes and made her feel even more pathetic than she usually did. Best friend. Who hadn’t called. And wasn’t coming back. Ever. Ever. Ever. “Some nights,” she said, mostly to herself, letting the bitterness come, “I still come in here and turn on the radio. To the baseball. I don’t even understand baseball; I never know who’s playing. But Jess loved it, and I got so used to that sound, you know? If it weren’t for her stupid daughter…”

  The woman twitched in place, then somehow went even more still. As though she’d turned to stone. As if she weren’t even breathing.

  “Her daughter turned out even stupider than my daughter.”

  “But probably not quite as stupid as my boy,” the woman said, her voice so low it could have been purring or growling. She turned around, and the smile on her face was kind, sad, but private, too. Perfect. A loneliness shared, like a wave across a backyard fence. She’d be the ideal neighbor, Wanda decided.

  “So do you like it? The trailer? I could help you—”

  “There’s not a single picture.” The woman gazed around once more. “Not one thing to suggest where she’s gone. I wonder where she went.”

  “Me, too.”

  “That’s too bad. That’s…” And there it was again. That stillness, as though the woman had just winked out of her body for a moment, then back into it. “I’m just wondering … how will I know where to send the money, when I buy this place? She must have told you that.”

  “Not me. My son-in-law’s cousin. He’s a really big Realtor.”

  “Is he, now,” the woman said, and her face blossomed into an even more delightful grin. As if they’d just shared the naughtiest little secret. “Perhaps we should phone him.”

  “Ma’am,”
said Wanda, grinning right back, “perhaps we should.” And then, startling even herself, she took the woman’s chilly, dry arm with her own and led her back out into the night. She felt herself slow as the air slid, so soft, along the hairs of her skin. So much cooler, already, although the coolness seemed mostly to flow from the woman herself. Wanda felt a pride she knew was absurd about all this, about walking arm-in-arm back to her trailer with her new, black friend. She’d never had a black friend.

  “I do love it here,” she said, with no idea why she was crying, now.

  “I can see why,” said the woman, with no inflection whatsoever.

  The rest went quickly, too quickly. The woman refused a second beer, for the first time seemed a touch impatient as Wanda fumbled in the flaps of her address book for the scrap of paper with the Realtor’s number. But then, this woman might have nowhere else to go. Might want to get everything arranged so she had somewhere to stay. She could be living here by the end of the week.

  Moments later, the woman was out the door, starting down the path, glancing just once toward the new family’s trailer, which was positively shuddering on its axles as the drums and guitars and growling voices rumbled. Wanda watched as she stopped, just a few feet away, and went rigid once more. Moonlight caught in the scales of her dress but disappeared into her skin as though sinking in a silent black lake.

  One final time, the woman turned, glancing around her. But there was no one to see.

  “Ma’am,” she said, and stepped back toward the trailer. Slowly. Her eyes settling on Wanda’s, now. Locking in.

  “Yes?” said Wanda, swaying.

  “You’ve been such a help already. I hate to impose. But I wonder if I could trouble you for just one more thing.…”

  She’d reached the step again, was gazing up at Wanda.

  “Anything,” Wanda murmured.

  “It’s just…” said the woman. “Well, this is so embarrassing. But I’ve been out looking all day, every day, for weeks on end. I’d just about given up when I saw this place. And I really do hate to ask. But you’ve been so kind.” And there it was again. That delightful, vaguely wicked smile.

  “Just tell me what you need,” said Wanda.

  “Well. Ma’am. I just wondered if you had anything to eat.”

  16

  He’d seen the Caution tape, of course he had, taken note of the police cars blocking off either entrance to the gas station. But not until he heard the sweet snick of the dead bolt sliding back did it occur to him what might have happened. The realization alone almost staggered him, and then came a surprising burst of heat, of actual warmth racing up his arms and burrowing into his flannel shirt and up under the brim of his sombrero. I’m blushing, he thought, and nearly laughed as he began to tremble. He saw her feet, his Destiny’s beautiful pale, bare feet, and he started to look up and realized he couldn’t, not yet. He was downright overcome. And the heat bubbling up in him had brought images with it, a freckle-faced brunette in one sandal with magnolias on its straps disappearing into the boughs of a weeping willow, in sun so blinding …

  My God, he thought, was that memory? From before? He’d almost forgotten there was a before. Whatever it was, it brought with it a more familiar sadness, hollow and cavernous. All these wasted years with Mother. All the empty decades, really believing that the way it had become was the only way it could be. To his amazement, he felt himself smile, the smile like sun—like the memory of sun—burning the years away in a single, glorious blast. He started to lift his hand to his hat, his face to his Destiny’s, and froze.

  The heat wasn’t coming from inside him. Never had been. It was coming from her. He could see it, dancing like Saint Elmo’s fire along the fine, dark hairs of her arms.

  “But then, you haven’t…” He couldn’t even make himself complete the sentence. The disappointment hammered him, even as he slipped inside, noting how she scuttled back. He closed the door, held on to the knob to keep himself steady.

  Too soon. He’d come too soon. Gotten impatient. It was almost funny, after so many decades of waiting, of not even waiting, just drifting. He tried again to lift his gaze, found he couldn’t. At least the ache that seized him now was actually seizing him, twisting down his throat like a funnel cloud and whipping everything around in there. He could never use this feeling to Whistle. The Whistle came from the cavern where his soul had been. And it Whistled because it was empty.

  Which meant it wasn’t empty, now. Wasn’t empty. His mood turned again, and he wanted to throw his hands in the air or, better still, around his Destiny, even though she couldn’t be his yet. In fact, he thought he’d do precisely that and this time did raise his eyes, just in time to glimpse the stem of the floor lamp hurtling toward his head. He grabbed, twisted, hurled the lamp and the girl still clutching the other end across the room into the wall. The slam shook the whole room, should have shattered the girl to pieces. But she landed on her feet, fists up and poised, eyes dead on him.

  The Other One, the Whistler realized. His Destiny’s friend. And he knew, abruptly, that he wasn’t early after all. Whatever was rocketing around inside him erupted from his mouth in a whoop of what he really thought must be joy. It kept coming, too, swept him up completely, the anguish of moments before obliterated, the rush of it so ferociously fast, terrifying and marvelous, like a plunge over a falls, a childhood dream of a fairground ride. Like actual time passing.

  “I thought…” he said, when he felt he could speak. “When you opened the door … I actually thought you hadn’t Finished.”

  He registered the twitch in the Other One’s stare, the sudden dart of her eyes toward his Destiny’s. His Destiny, right behind him. Not three feet away. He would turn, soon. And there she would be. But not yet. He would hold this moment just a little longer. Savoring.

  “What?” the Other One hissed.

  She was beautiful, too, in her way. Not strong like his Destiny. But luminous, in a way he hadn’t realized. Round and vibrant. A morning sun to his Destiny’s full moon. Except for the eyes, which were hard, hard, now. Mother’s eyes. Almost. Whistler smiled at her anyway. Why wouldn’t he? She wouldn’t be with them long.

  “When I first saw you,” he explained, “I had this silly thought. Like maybe you’d decided not to.”

  This time, he not only registered the Other One’s blink but understood it. My God, he thought. She hadn’t known. Hadn’t realized. Still didn’t know. The realization thrilled him. Aroused him. He’d been sure Mother must have said something that night outside the Waffle House. The fact that she hadn’t … that she’d proven, once again, so much crueler than even he’d given her credit for …

  Again, he sensed the movement in the air, but for once—somehow—he moved too late. The first blow, to his temple, drove him to his knees. The second shattered his cheekbone and crumpled him backward over himself. And then both women were on him.

  It took one painful shake to clear his head, would have required barely a twitch to shuck himself of these clawing hands and clumsy, bumping knees, but he hesitated. The pain, first of all, was downright invigorating, the worst he’d felt in years. But more important, this was his Destiny astride him. Her thighs locked around his chest, her fingernails raking his already-battered face. Her wet, dirt-dark hair dangling down, right over his lips. If he wanted, he could slurp her in, like spaghetti. So savage in her fury, she was, and yet so marvelously silent. A force of nature. He’d chosen well. Even Mother had known it. Which was why she’d fled.

  As though sensing his thoughts, his Destiny stopped raking, balled her fist, and punched him right in the shattered place, so that his hips arched against the Other One, who had somehow managed to pin his legs, and he howled, twisted hard, and his Destiny leapt to her feet and out of his reach. For a long moment, he just lay there, legs pinned to the floor, hand to his face, a snarl in his throat and an agonizing smile on his lips. He let his gaze flick, just for a moment, away from his Destiny to the Other One, and she jumped away, too
, as though from an electrified fence, and stood beside her friend.

  “Get up,” the Other One commanded, as if she had anything to say about it whatsoever. She was undeniably intoxicating, too. In a more familiar, secretly fearful sort of way.

  “Stay down,” snapped his Destiny. Her voice full of doubt and infinitely stronger. Even un-Finished and desperately Hungry. Because she clearly was hungry. He’d been right all along. The Other One had Finished. But not this one. The power of her stunned him. Filled him with yearnings he’d whistled instead of truly feeling for so long that he’d forgotten living things actually felt them. God, but he wanted her.

  “How about we compromise?” he purred, and slithered to his knees. Hands out. A classic pose. Poet to his Beatrice. Painter to his muse. He’d forgotten the stabbing pain in his face, or else it was already fading. His Destiny took a step back. So wise. And yet her eyes did not so much as blink, let alone leave his face.

  “How’d you even find us?” the Other One whined.

  As always, the Whistler felt a certain pride at such questions, and even more in answering them. If not for the agony now spreading into his jaw, he would have grinned. “Tweetybirds,” he said.

  “Shit, Nat, you knocked him senseless.”

  It was the panic in the Other One’s voice, not her pathetic attempt at humor, that did indeed trigger the Whistler’s grin, and grinning drove delicious daggers of pain through his mouth. “Sorry. My Tweetybirds.” And then, when both women exchanged more baffled looks, “Where, even in the stupid stories, does anyone say someone like me wouldn’t be able to use a smartphone?” He rewarded himself with just a glimpse toward his Destiny. She didn’t seem to be paying attention. Was staring back and forth from her friend to the floor.

  “You mean you … Tweeted?” said the Other One. “You Tweet?”

  “I have over five thousand Followers,” said the Whistler. “All I have to do is … whistle. And they tell me what I want to know. You have been creating some small stir in your wake, you understand.”