Martha Calhoun

by Richard Babcock

  “But don’t you think a mother is supposed to be different?” he asked. “She’s older than you. She raised you. The generations are always different.”

  “Yes, but Bunny never hid things from us—or at least she never seemed to. It was as if we were all kids together. And that’s what made her so unusual. I knew that all along. I mean, even before I went to school and saw what other mothers were like, I knew Bunny was special. It was wonderful, having a mother like that, but I always knew I had to be careful. It wasn’t the kind of thing you could go around talking about.”

  Reverend Vaughn nodded and stood up. It was time to head back to the Vernons’. “You were right to be careful,” he said, cracking a thin smile, so faint it hardly seemed meant to be noticed.

  TWELVE

  After Reverend Vaughn left, I mooned around the Vernons’ house. I couldn’t get him out of my mind. I knew it was silly to get carried away like that, but I decided it was good for me—thinking about him relaxed me for the first time in days. I reviewed our conversation. Trading confidences, we’d almost made a pact, I thought. Maybe I had gone too far, but he’d gone far too; at least, it seemed so. He was so open about examining himself. There was no boasting, no anger, no point to prove. He was so … honest. And those hands. I couldn’t stop thinking about his hands.

  That evening after dinner, Mrs. Vernon went off to a church meeting, and Mr. Vernon went out bowling. I thought I’d try to read, so I browsed through Sissy’s bookshelf. It held a strange collection that included mostly children’s books—Bible stories, picture books about talking animals, that kind of thing, as if Sissy had stopped reading long before she died. There were a couple of volumes of Reader’s Digest condensed books and, by itself at the end, a lone copy of Hard Times, by Charles Dickens. I’d liked Great Expectations, so I pulled out Hard Times and started to read. I saw right away why Sissy had collected the book: The main character was named Sissy. Still, Hard Times at first looked promising, perhaps even useful. “In this life, we want nothing but Facts, sir; nothing but Facts,” said one man early on. But the tone overall was so blustery and overblown that I couldn’t quite tell if Dickens was being humorous or realistic. Plus the adult characters all had funny names. Thomas Gradgrind. Mr. M’Choakumchild. My thoughts soon drifted.

  I put Hard Times down and wandered into the bathroom next door. Sissy had used this one; her parents had another at the far end of the hall. Two bathrooms in one house—three if you counted the half bathroom off the kitchen. Bunny and Tom and I had made do with one all those years. I wondered how much money Mr. Vernon made. A lot more than a waitress at the country club. Leaning over the bathroom sink, I stared at myself in the mirror. I felt kind of free, knowing I was alone in the house. I even felt a little wild. I made faces at myself, trying to find expressions that helped pull my features together. I tested my profile, straining to look out the corners of my eyes. With my chin held up, there was something almost dignified about my silhouette, something angular and flat, like modern art. Maybe Reverend Vaughn had noticed that. I wished I had some of my makeup—a bit of rouge to highlight my cheekbones, some lipstick to improve my mouth. Unadorned, my lips seemed so weak, so trembly. But makeup had been the farthest thing from my mind when I’d packed. I’d never thought to bring some. Now, everything was in the bathroom cabinet at home—that is, if Bunny hadn’t thrown it all away.

  I opened Sissy’s cabinet, behind the mirror. Empty. Just a flimsy, metal container of throat lozenges, rusted at the hinge. The narrow glass cabinet shelves glinted under the bright overhead light. How could anyone have an empty bathroom cabinet? It was depressing. The thought of Sissy irritated me, and I slammed the cabinet shut.

  Maybe Mrs. Vernon had some makeup. Every now and then I’d noticed a slight reddening on her cheeks and lips. I’d never use her lipstick, of course, but I might just investigate to see if she really had any. The door to the other bathroom was ajar. I pushed it open and turned on the light. The room sparkled with whiteness and tile. A can of Ajax sat on the back of the toilet. The shelf behind the sink was empty, except for a wrinkled tube of Colgate and a bouquet of old toothbrushes sitting in a cup. I looked in the cabinet: Band-Aids, Bayer aspirin, emery boards, Q-tips, Bactine, Noxema shaving creme, a razor, blades, Jergen’s hand lotion. And one small, green plastic bottle of pills from Conrad’s Drug Store. The prescription was from Dr. Baker for Mrs. Vernon: Take two daily, one in the morning, one at night. I picked up the bottle to study the contents: big, dangerous-looking orange capsules. I tipped the bottle and nothing moved. They’d fused together, obviously untouched for years. I put the medicine back and closed the cabinet. Even in their private places, these people were uninteresting.

  Leaving the bathroom, I paused in front of the door to the Vernons’ bedroom. I’d never been in there; in fact, I’d never even looked inside. Mrs. Vernon had a way of sliding in and out, ghostlike, with the door three-quarters closed. I got the impression she thought that a bedroom was somehow too personal to open up. I pushed the door open.

  The fading light of the sunset passed through the flimsy drawn curtains and gave the room a yellowy, historic aura, as if, once, something terribly important and tragic had happened there. A double bed jutted into the center of the room. Beside it, a small night table held a Bible and an empty glass. Two tall bureaus stood side by side. On one was a pincushion, a Chinese box, and a nativity statue; the other was topped by a school picture of Sissy and nothing else. A couple of mournful paintings of Jesus hung on the wall. The windows were closed, and a faint, syrupy smell, too sweet for perfume, clung to the air.

  I stood in the center of the room. Going through the bureau drawers looking for makeup was out of the question, but I felt a small excitement at being there—the kind of thrill I used to get from seeing how long I could hold my breath, testing how well my nerve stood up against my better judgment.

  Suddenly something banged downstairs. Someone was at the door. I felt awful, even before being caught. More noise downstairs, a thumping. I ran to the bedroom door and grabbed the knob. Hurrying out, I pulled too hard, and the door slammed. A crash echoed after me. I ran down the hall to Sissy’s room and closed the door. It had to be Mr. Vernon, home early. I lay on the bed, trying to imagine what had crashed in the bedroom. In the hall, below me, footsteps creaked. That didn’t sound like Mr. Vernon, or like Mrs. Vernon either. I went to the door and opened it a crack. Silence. I tiptoed down the hall to the top of the stairs. Someone was down there. My heart was pounding so fiercely that it was hard to listen, but I was sure someone was there. I came two steps down the stairs and tried to look along the front hall. Light from the parlor window cut across the darkness, but the far end of the hall disappeared in shadow.

  “Hello?” I said softly.

  “Whoosh!” Someone made a noise, like a cushion letting out air. Footsteps pounded down the hall, and the front door flew open. The screen door slammed. I ran downstairs and saw a thin, flailing figure dash across the lawn.

  Outside, I stood on the front step. Nothing moved on Oak Street. The houses were all lit from within. Someone was playing a phonograph: The wavery voice of a male singer drifted through the air. Dwayne’s bicycle was sprawled in the grass beside the sidewalk, and up the street Dwayne was peeking out from behind a tree.

  I waved to him to come over. He ducked back. I waved again, and he came slowly, watching all the time, as if he thought at any second I could reach out over the lawn and grab him.

  “What were you doing?” I demanded, when he was at the bottom of the steps.

  “Na, na, nuthin’,” he said. He stuttered sometimes when he was nervous.

  “Yes, you were. You were doing something.”

  He searched my face, and I could see the fear in his eyes. People are always saying he’s lucky to go through life being a child, but I could see then how hard it was for him, never trusting what he heard, always having to rely on signals he picked up from people’s expressions, from the sounds of their
voices, from the way they stood. Think of all the times he must have been betrayed.

  “I saw you,” I said, as gently as possible.

  His eyes dropped. “Lookin’,” he said.

  “For what?”

  “If-fa-fa-fa.”

  “Say it.”

  “You was there.” He scrunched his eyes, and his mouth went through a contortion, with his lips pressed out, like the front of a bugle. It almost seemed he was trying to kiss me, from four feet away.

  “Well, I’m still here, so you go home now, Dwayne. You understand?”

  “Yeah,” he said, backing and then turning to scamper away. He picked up his bike and climbed on it. “Bye-bye,” he called out, pedaling furiously down the sidewalk.

  I looked up and down Oak Street. No one was coming. There was still time to go back to the Vernons’ bedroom and see what had crashed. Whatever it was, maybe I could do something—fix it, hide it, think of an excuse. I hurried up the stairs and opened the door softly. That smell again—now it seemed thicker. Had I broken a bottle of something? I walked toward the bed. The drinking glass still stood safely on the night table, the nativity statue was intact, the pictures were all hanging securely. Then I saw it: The framed photograph of Sissy had fallen flat down on the second bureau. I picked it up. The frame was heavy. The glass was thick and, in the bottom left corner, a spidery crack angled from one edge to the other. Had the fall caused that crack? Maybe no one would notice. I stood the photograph upright again. Sissy must have been in about fifth grade when it was taken. She was wearing silly bangs that were a curtain across her forehead. A self-conscious smile tilted her face. Poor Sissy, maybe she knew.

  I went quietly to the door, then closed it slowly, keeping an eye on the photograph to make sure it didn’t fall again. Sissy and I stared at each other across her parents’ bedroom, then I pulled the door shut.

  THIRTEEN

  “Did you notice that it was particularly hot in the house last night?” Mrs. Vernon asked the next morning at breakfast. She was taking an intense interest in preparing for the session coming up with Mrs. O’Brien and had spread out the elements to make sandwiches.

  “Not particularly,” I said. “Not any hotter than normal.”

  “Well, that’s odd. A piece of glass cracked in our bedroom, and the heat’s the only thing I can think might have done it.”

  “How strange.”

  “Isn’t it,” she said, her voice lifting, leaving a wispy trace of suspicion in the air. Or perhaps it was only my imagination.

  Bunny arrived first that morning. I met her at the door, and she stood glumly on the stoop for a few seconds, reminding me that she still didn’t like the idea of stepping into the Vernons’ house. She’d been dreading this meeting, and, if anything, her mood had turned even sourer than it had been over the previous few days.

  “Well, here we are,” she said.

  “How come you’re wearing your uniform?” I asked. I’d put on my court outfit—the white blouse with a bow and my pleated summer skirt—and I’d been hoping that Bunny would dress up a little, wear something to demonstrate her seriousness. “You’ll have time to go home and change before going out to the country club,” I added.

  “I don’t want that social worker to forget she’s dealing with a working woman,” Bunny said. “I’m not the kind who sits around all day.”

  “Mrs. O’Brien knows that,” I whispered. We were on our way into the living room, and I didn’t want Mrs. Vernon, in the kitchen, to hear.

  “It’s good to remind her every now and then,” said Bunny loudly.

  Mrs. O’Brien came a few minutes later. Sitting on a sofa opposite ours, she rummaged in her pocketbook, a large, battered, patent-leather bag with a shoulder strap, and pulled out a stubby pencil and her notebook. The book was well used since the time I’d seen it last. The first half had a rumpled, thick look, as if it had been thumbed and worn. With me, just a few days ago, she’d started on practically the first page.

  She explained that she wanted to use this session to explore my relationship with Bunny—how we felt about each other, what our mutual interests were, how we got on at home. I could have talked for hours on the subject, but Bunny was immediately hostile. She answered questions in monosyllables or in short, sullen sentences, empty of information. I didn’t want to anger her by cooperating too much, so I wasn’t very forthcoming either. As a result, we didn’t get anywhere. The conversation was stiff, and I felt stupid. But Mrs. O’Brien kept pushing forward, asking questions and jotting things down, even though nothing we said was worth remembering. Worse, she seemed to be concerned about all the wrong things. She was fascinated by the fact that I called my mother Bunny instead of Mom or Mother, and she returned to the point over and over, as if it were the key to solving some lurking family mystery.

  “What about your teachers?” she asked. “Didn’t they encourage you to call her Mom, like all the other children?”

  “I don’t remember kindergarten,” I said, “but Mrs. Rogers, my first-grade teacher, told me not to say Bunny in front of the other kids. I could never remember, though. Bunny always came out, and, after a while, I guess everybody just got used to it.”

  “Weren’t there children who teased you about it?”

  “Why should they care?” interrupted Bunny.

  “Children care a great deal about things that are different,” said Mrs. O’Brien.

  “They all called her Bunny, too,” I said.

  “It’s contagious!” said Bunny, with a laugh.

  “Yes, well, contagious might be just the right word for it,” Mrs. O’Brien said.

  At last Mrs. Vernon brought in several plates of sandwiches and a pot of tea. The pot was covered with a quilted warmer in the shape of a cow. “Isn’t that darling,” said Mrs. O’Brien. There was a set of flowered teacups I hadn’t seen before. After pouring for each of us, Mrs. Vernon hovered awkwardly, unsure of her role.

  “Why don’t you sit down?” invited Mrs. O’Brien. “You’ve come to know Martha in this last week. I’m sure she and her mother would appreciate your contribution.”

  “Well, I …”

  “Sit, sit,” the social worker insisted.

  Mrs. Vernon quickly perched on the front edge of the sofa across from us. No one said anything for several long seconds. Mrs. O’Brien studied and ate two sandwiches. Bunny was curled up in a corner of our sofa. She hadn’t touched her tea.

  “Any news on the KTD?” I asked, to break the awkwardness.

  “Just that they’re talking,” said Mrs. Vernon. She turned to Bunny. “How’s your work coming?” she asked.

  “Hard,” said Bunny.

  “I’ve never eaten out at the country club,” Mrs. Vernon went on. “Mr. Vernon has, though. I don’t remember why. We’re not members.” She waited. Bunny made her nervous. “The cook’s an Indian man, isn’t he?” To Bunny’s silence, she added, “I’ve seen him around the square.”

  “An Indian?” said Mrs. O’Brien. “Does he use a lot of curry?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Walter never said.”

  “It’s just regular old food,” I volunteered. “No special spices or anything.”

  “That’s a shame,” said Mrs. O’Brien. “We should use more curry in this country. It aids digestion.”

  “Really?” said Mrs. Vernon.

  I turned to Bunny. “What’s happened to Shorty?”

  She shrugged.

  “Did they fire him?”

  “Not yet.”

  “He’s the greenskeeper,” I explained. “He got in a dispute out there the other night.”

  “He’s a deaf-mute,” said Mrs. Vernon. “Or only deaf. I can’t remember which.”

  “Has he recovered from the fight?” I asked Bunny.

  “He’s resentful,” she said. “He’s always been resentful. He’s a resentful person.”

  “That’s a shame,” said Mrs. Vernon.

  “Why?” said Bunny.

  Mrs. Vernon lo
oked blankly at Bunny for a moment and then glanced at Mrs. O’Brien, as if to establish that it was all right to continue with this line of talk. The social worker was concentrating on another sandwich. “It’s a shame anybody would feel that way,” Mrs. Vernon said cautiously. “When you think of all God has given us.”

  “But he’s deaf,” I said.

  “Ha!” said Bunny.

  Mrs. Vernon’s eyelids fluttered. She was hurt that I’d sided with Bunny against her. Now I wished I hadn’t said anything. “That he’s deaf shouldn’t make any difference,” she said softly. “God gave us life and faith, and they’re what count. He gave us His only begotten son.”

  “Well, whatever God gave Shorty,” said Bunny, “He didn’t give him enough. He can’t hear a thing.”

  Mrs. Vernon again glanced at the social worker without getting any help. “It’s a tragedy, then,” said Mrs. Vernon, her voice trailing off.

  Bunny sat up. “That’s not tragic,” she said. “Shorty never had a chance. What’s tragic is when you have something and then lose the chance. You do something, and it turns out to be the wrong thing, and everything after that is a little different and a little worse. That’s tragic, and there are tragedies happening every day, but they don’t have anything to do with this God and Jesus stuff.” Bunny paused and looked away. On the far wall was an oil painting of Sissy as a little girl. “And tragedies don’t have anything to do with dying, either,” Bunny added, “at least not always.”

  “Well, that seems inconsistent,” Mrs. O’Brien put in. “Under your theory, dying should always be tragic because it always involves a lost chance—the chance for more life.”

  “Some people just don’t get that much out of life,” Bunny said.

  Mrs. Vernon rocked gently, kneading the apron in her lap. Bunny had gone too far. She realized that and softened a bit. “That’s what I think, anyway,” she added.

  Using a cocktail napkin, Mrs. O’Brien removed a crumb from the corner of her mouth. “Maybe we should get back down to business,” she said.