It All Comes Down to This

by Karen English

  “My mother arranged the whole thing. She said he was from a good family.”

  “What does that even mean?” Lydia asked. “Probably money. Oh, and his father is a doctor.”

  “Surgeon,” Lily said. “There’s a difference.” Apparently a surgeon was of a higher status than a doctor. People looked up to doctors, but they looked up to surgeons more.

  They were quiet for a bit. I waited.

  Finally, Lily said, “What? Did she think she was picking out a future husband for me?” I heard her take a long, angry drag on the cigarette—​and that drag was full of defiance and bravado. When I got old enough, I planned to smoke my cigarettes in just that way. They both sat quietly, as if they were thinking this over.

  “Bet his dad would buy you guys a house.”

  “I don’t want a house,” Lily said. “I’m not even in college yet. I just wanted to choose my own escort. He couldn’t even dance.”

  “Not even the waltz?” Lydia asked.

  “I’m not talking about cotillion dances. I’m talking about real dancing. He doesn’t even have rhythm.”

  “How can he be colored and not have rhythm?”

  “Believe me—​I now know it’s possible.”

  I heard Lily flick the cigarette butt across the yard in expert fashion. She’d probably been practicing. But I knew she’d be out there later, looking for that butt before our mother could come across it. Then I heard her light up another, and all they had for me after that was the sound of them passing the cigarette back and forth.

  “Good family,” Lily said after a while with disgust.

  Now she was looking for her necklace—​the blue topaz one set in a gold heart on a gold chain. The necklace Daddy had given her for her sixteenth birthday.

  “Did you take it?” she asked me.

  I was searching in the closet for something to wear. Something that wouldn’t make me look like a baby. “No, I didn’t take it. I don’t even like necklaces.” I sighed. I had such a limited wardrobe.

  Lily turned her jewelry box over on the top of her dresser and ran her fingers through the pile. “I know I put it in here,” she muttered to herself. “I wore it to my birthday dinner at the Coconut Grove. Remember? I put it here—​right in this jewelry box. I remember clearly.”

  “Maybe it fell behind the dresser.”

  “Oh? So it just walked out of my jewelry box and hurled itself off the dresser. Is that what you’re saying?”

  I didn’t like it when Lily said things like that to me. When she accused me of being ridiculous. Now she was irritated. The drawer-opening-and-slamming-shut phase was just starting up.

  “Are you sure you didn’t borrow it?” she said over her shoulder, squinting at me suspiciously.

  “I didn’t borrow it. I haven’t seen it.”

  She began to pull out dresser drawers and dump the contents on the floor.

  “Why do you want to find it so much when you don’t even really like Dale?”

  “It’s not that I don’t like him. He’s just not my type.” She squatted and started going through all the stuff on the floor, then stopped and frowned. “I just want my necklace, the one Daddy gave me on my birthday! It’s my necklace. I want it.”

  I didn’t get it. She was always saying snide things about our father. Like the other day when she told me our mother should sing that song to him, “Guess Who I Saw Today,” which was about a woman running across her husband and another woman in a small, dimly lit café.

  Lily hinted all the time that our father was untrue. That he was arrogant—​her word—​and thought he was above it all. She said our mother should spend all his money or at least buy everything she wants because he’s such a jerk. And that every man has the capacity to be a jerk.

  I didn’t believe this. I didn’t believe that all men could be jerks.

  Now she was on the floor looking for the necklace she once said he probably had his secretary buy.

  Suddenly she stopped, sat back, and placed both hands on her thighs. “I bet you Mrs. Baylor took it,” she said.

  “Mrs. Baylor?”

  “Yeah. She probably took it to give to her daughter, the one who’s still in Jamaica. I feel it. Anyway, she doesn’t like me and it would be just like her to take something of mine.”

  “I don’t think so, Lily.”

  “Come on. It makes sense. She wants me to suffer.”

  “Why would she think that would make you suffer?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t climb into her brain. But you must know she hates us.” Lily wiped her tears away with the fingertips of both hands. “Help me check her room.”

  “We can’t go in there.”

  “Oh yeah, we can, too. She’s gone home for the weekend. Maybe she left it hidden someplace.”

  “Wouldn’t she take it with her?”

  “Maybe. But let’s look anyway.”

  It felt funny sneaking into the room that had once belonged to our beloved Shirley. Shirley, who made us tacos. And who let me read my stories to her and let me start from the beginning whenever I added a new part so she could get the full flavor.

  As Shirley stood at the stove, stirring a pot of stew or whatever, she’d squint with real concentration when I read to her. And make comments when I finished. Such as: “That’s real good, but I don’t think you can write about little white girls.”

  She was referring to my Fleur and Lizeth story.

  “Why not?”

  “ ’Cause you’re not white.”

  “But it’s just make-believe.”

  “Can’t you come up with something about colored girls? Don’t they have a story?”

  That was before I’d discovered little Minerva.

  We knew this room well—​and just the thought that it was now Mrs. Baylor’s room made it seem strange. It even had a different smell—​a tired sweetness, like cologne over sweat. I looked around. She’d placed a folded brown afghan at the foot of her narrow bed and a doily on the nightstand. The nightstand held her Bible and a framed photo of all her children. There was her Mason jar of water on the floor beside the bed. I picked it up and looked at it. I smelled it to see if it was alcohol.

  “Just water,” I said. Lily glanced over her shoulder at me, but her mind was on her necklace. I envisioned Mrs. Baylor taking a long swig from that jar in the middle of the night. Lily crossed the room and picked up Mrs. Baylor’s Bible from the nightstand. For some strange reason, she flipped through the pages.

  “You should put that back.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s her Bible.”

  My sister looked at me and slowly shook her head. She replaced the Bible. I picked up the framed photo. “These are her sons. This one is in the Marines,” I said, placing my finger on the guy in the military uniform. “He’s in Vietnam. I heard her tell Mom.” I pointed to the other young man in the picture. “And this is the one she’s always bragging about.”

  “Mr. Nigel Nigel Nigel—​the shining star?” Lily said.

  “I saw him in person.”

  She took the picture from me, stared at it for a few moments. “When?” She gave it back.

  “Saturday. Before you came back from your interview.”

  She opened her mouth as if she wanted to ask something about him, but then she just drew in her lips.

  Mrs. Baylor’s son was at the University of California Berkeley and she was quite proud to tell us and then repeat it at every opportunity.

  “He was valedictorian of his graduating class,” I said.

  “Yes,” she said. “We’re reminded of that every time we turn around.”

  Lily took the picture out of my hand again and stared at it some more. She seemed to drift off. But then she shook herself out of it, put the picture back on the nightstand, and started in on the dresser drawers—​carefully pulling each one open, then gently sliding her hands between and beneath the folded clothing.

  I picked up the Mason jar lid, which was also on th
e nightstand.

  “This is what she uses for an ashtray.”

  My sister wasn’t listening. She was checking the bottom drawer when I suddenly thought of something disturbing. “What if she put a hair on each drawer?” I said.

  “What?”

  “You know, to see if someone’s opened it to go into her things. She could have put a hair on each drawer, and if the hair is gone, she knows that means the drawer’s been opened.”

  Lily shook her head. “Honestly, Sophie, how do you think of stuff like that? I swear.”

  I swallowed hard. I was getting nervous.

  Next, Lily lifted a corner of the mattress and raked her arm along the box springs, reaching in between all the way up to her armpit. She stood and straightened the bedspread, then stepped back and examined it. “It looks the same, doesn’t it?” she asked, before dropping to her knees and peering under the bed.

  “Check the nightstand drawers,” she told me.

  I didn’t want to check the nightstand drawers. I opened the top one. It was a mess in there.

  Lily looked over, watching me. “Move stuff around, look under stuff. You search like a man.”

  “A man?”

  “Yeah, you know how Mom complains about the way Daddy looks for stuff? Like in the kitchen cabinet—​he never moves anything, never looks behind the cans and jars and boxes of pasta.”

  I really didn’t want to put my hand in there among the scraps of paper and pens and pencils and stray peppermints and gum wrappers. There was a metal container of thick-looking hair grease and lipstick the color of wine.

  I held up the lipstick. “She wears this when she gets dressed up.”

  Lily rolled her eyes. “I don’t need to know that.”

  There was another photograph of Nigel on the dresser. But in this one he was wearing a cap and gown. I stepped over for a closer look and said, “That must be his high school graduation picture.”

  Lily closed the bottom dresser drawer and reached out for it. “Let me see that.” She raised her chin, and I knew that look. It was her I don’t really care look. All a pretense, I bet.

  I handed it over. She glanced at it, then stood up. She took it to the bed and sat down. She stared at it, then put her forefinger on her mouth, and I could see her chest rise and fall in shallow breaths. I moved over next to her to see what she was seeing. He had laughing eyes—​like Smoky Robinson’s and as if there was a joke going on inside his head. He was dark—​as dark as an African—​and had a lovely smile, white, white teeth against his dark skin. I reached for the picture to return it to the dresser, but Lily held on to it for an extra second.

  “Just kidding,” she said, standing up. “Not my type.”

  “Then give it to me,” I said.

  “Yeah, yeah. Here.”

  We heard the toilet flush then—​in Mrs. Baylor’s bathroom at the end of the hall.

  We froze. That couldn’t be Mrs. Baylor in the bathroom because she was supposed to be gone—​on her weekend! I quickly returned the picture to the dresser.

  We heard water running and then the bathroom door was opening. We stood side by side, facing the doorway as if it was about to admit a firing squad into the room. But maybe she’d turn right and head down the three steps to the kitchen. Or maybe she’d turn left and head for the steps leading to the foyer.

  But no, she was coming. We could hear her approach, and any second Mrs. Baylor was going to come through the door. What could we say that would explain why we were in there? I glanced at Lily. She was standing ramrod straight, barely breathing. She was afraid. I could feel it. I could feel her mind racing as she tried to come up with something.

  Mrs. Baylor came through the door and stopped short. She stood there looking at us, her head slowly tilting to the side, her eyebrows sinking into a deep furrow. “What are you doing in here? In this place. You tell me that.”

  I looked to Lily, waiting for her to speak. She appeared to have no plans to do anything of the sort.

  “Perhaps you didn’t hear me. I said, ‘What the hell are you doing in my room?’”

  Lily looked down and said quietly, “I was looking for something.”

  “And what was that, might I ask?” Mrs. Baylor put her hands on her hips. “You thought I was gone, didn’t you? You thought I was already on my way home. Well, Miss Lily, your mama asked me to stay to cook for her company. So I am here to cook for the company.” She looked triumphant. “Surprise!”

  I jumped in. “We weren’t looking for anything, Mrs. Baylor. Lily’s just saying that. We were curious. We just wanted to see what your room looked like.” I glanced over at my sister. She appeared surly and defiant under Mrs. Baylor’s glare. Mrs. Baylor glanced at me as if I was of no importance. She was directing everything she said at Lily.

  “I plan to tell your mama that you all were snoopin’ around in my business. Puttin’ your nose where it don’t belong.”

  I kept my eyes fixed on a spot on the rug.

  “You can go now, and don’t you let me catch you doing this again. As long as I’m working in this house, this room is off-limits. You got that?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Baylor,” I said. “We’re very, very sorry.”

  Mrs. Baylor stared at Lily, waiting for her apology.

  “Sorry,” Lily said.

  “You don’t sound sorry. I don’t hear no sorrow in your voice.” She stepped aside from the door so we could leave. “You sound like you think you got a right to be just anywhere you please, Miss Queen of England. Well, you got no right to be in here.”

  “I am sorry. We won’t ever do this again,” Lily said in a flat-sounding voice, as if she was just saying words from a script.

  As soon as we were back in the bedroom, she sat down hard on her bed. “I know she has my necklace.”

  “You don’t know—”

  “Yeah, I do,” she said, cutting me off.

  But when I moved the dresser away from the wall, we saw it there on the floor. Mrs. Baylor didn’t have the necklace.

  Lily glossed over her surprise and shame. “I moved the dresser and didn’t see anything,” she said.

  “You didn’t move it far enough.” I dropped it in her hand. “Here’s your precious necklace. You get to wear it, after all.”

  “I’m not wearing it. I’ve changed my mind.”

  CHAPTER 7

  The Mansfields

  * * *

  LILY WORE the tiny gold posts that Lydia had used when she’d pierced Lily’s ears in her bathroom in the spring. After Lily told me how easy it was, I wanted to get mine pierced, too.

  “You weren’t scared?” I asked.

  “Maybe a little.”

  “You think Mom will give me permission to get mine done?”

  “Don’t be silly, Sophie. You don’t ask permission for something like that. You just do it. You’ll get put on punishment. Something short, most likely. But you’ll have pierced ears.”

  I finished dressing first and was on my way to the living room when Lily said, “Hold up.”

  I stopped with my hand on the door.

  “I’m going to signal you every time Dovie Mansfield brags about something.” She winked. “It’ll be fun.”

  “How are you going to signal me?”

  “Watch what I do with my fingers. You’ll see.”

  I started to leave, then stopped again. “Why do we have to have them to dinner anyway?” I was thinking of Robin.

  “So they’ll invite us to their grand end-of-the-summer barbecue.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “This dinner will be fresh in Dovie Mansfield’s mind when she makes up her guest list.”

  “That seems like so much trouble.”

  “I agree.”

  Our mother, dressed in green silk flowing pants and a gold boat-neck blouse, assessed Lily coolly when she made her appearance in white capris and a brown sleeveless knit top. But the Mansfields were already there, so she had to put on her hostess face and ignore L
ily’s casual clothes for the time being.

  I checked Robin. She’d shot up past me and now had breasts. Not fair—​she looked more like a teenager than I did. I was only a month and a half away from thirteen. But then I remembered that she was six months older, so there.

  She’d gotten her hair cut into a thick, blunt flip that swung easily when she moved her head. She’d be swinging her hair around all night, I predicted.

  She looked me up and down and gathered her lips together against a giggle.

  “You remember Robin, Sophie,” my mother said. “I guess it’s been a while since you two have seen each other.” Robin had been away at Los Olivares Academy up in Ojai. I was sure Mrs. Mansfield was all the time giving my mother an earful about the boarding school: the cost, the exclusivity, the wilderness excursions designed to build self-confidence (Robin seemed to have gotten a big dose of that), the three international trips. Robin wouldn’t begin to experience those until her junior year, so we were saved from having to hear about them, at least.

  “Where’s Bob?” Dr. Mansfield asked. He was a heavy man with plump fingers and a double chin. His stomach fell over his belt and he kept trying to discreetly hike up his pants.

  Mom was taking Dovie Mansfield’s coat and I caught her checking the label before hanging it in the hall closet. “Oh, he’s back there in his home office,” she said, indicating the closed door down the upper hall. “On an important call. He’ll be out in a minute.” She held out her hands palms up, and nodded toward our living room.

  Lily looked down the hall at the closed door and her expression hardened.

  Mom led the way and indicated that the Mansfields should take the couch in front of the hors d’oeuvres on the coffee table. Robin squeezed in. Dale, who’d been hanging back near the front door, now followed behind. Robin gazed at the food without interest. Not once had she really, really looked at me since the snide once-over. It was as if she was trying to let me know that I was irrelevant. I was determined not to look at her and her swinging flip either, since she thought she was so superior. I looked everywhere but at her.