Martha Calhoun

by Richard Babcock

  Reverend Vaughn and the councilman came back in ten minutes. We walked to the door, and the two men exchanged cool goodbyes.

  “What an idiot,” said Reverend Vaughn, when we were back on Jefferson Street, heading home.

  “He couldn’t help?”

  “Oh, he could have helped all right. He just didn’t want to. He was scared to get involved. He kept saying it wouldn’t do any good, that we shouldn’t make the company mad.” The minister threw up his arms in frustration. “He’s too dumb to recognize his own self-interest.”

  “What are you going to do now?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe nothing. If no one cares, why should I?” He thought a bit, then added, “I think I’ll give a sermon on it. Maybe I can stir something up in the church.”

  “Oh, I almost forgot. I think we’re going to come this Sunday—Bunny and me.” I’d suggested it to Bunny the day before. She hadn’t been enthusiastic, but I knew she’d go along.

  “Great, terrific,” he said. “That’ll double the size of the congregation.”

  We turned down Fourth Street. The day had been hazy and hot, but now some puffy gray clouds nosed into the sky. A breeze flipped the tree leaves to their silvery undersides, usually a sign of rain.

  “Can I ask you something?” I said after a while.

  “Of course, anything.” He’d been staring at the ground, but now he looked at me kindly.

  “Do you think it’s possible to make one mistake—just one, simple mistake, when everything else is basically all right—and then have that mistake ruin your life?”

  He tilted his head slightly, getting a different angle on me. “Did you make a mistake? We haven’t talked much about it.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. I didn’t necessarily mean that.”

  He thought for a few seconds and then shrugged. “Well, I suppose it is possible. I suppose it happens.”

  “Yes. I suppose so.” I felt leaden all of a sudden. I guess I’d been expecting some reassurance.

  He stopped on the sidewalk. With his face just inches from mine, he pushed some willowy strands of hair off his forehead. “But, look,” he said, “a mistake has nothing to do with it. The world is full of people who haven’t done a thing wrong, and their lives are ruined anyway. There’s no cause and effect. It happens all the time.”

  “Oh.”

  “All the time.”

  A squat black dog, sulking on the stoop in front of the house where we’d stopped, picked up its head and sniffed at us. Suddenly it barked sharply, leaped up, and hurtled in our direction, its eyes and fangs flashing. The four powerful legs pounded on the lawn. Too late Reverend Vaughn reached out to pull me back. We’d never get away. The dog was almost on us when it uttered a terrible, choking roar, and its legs flew up in the air. For a second, the animal hung upside-down a few feet off the ground, and then it dropped and landed with a thud on its back. The thin chain fastened to its collar and tied to the house had abruptly run out. Undaunted, the dog bounced back up and strained against the chain, making ugly, hoarse, rasping sounds trying to breathe and bark through the too-tight collar. You’d never see a dog like that on, say, Oak Street. New Town is just far enough away that things are a little wilder.

  “Shut up!” said Reverend Vaughn, glaring at the animal.

  A woman with her hair in curlers pushed open a screen door and stood on the stoop. “Carla! Hush. Hey, Carla!” she yelled. The dog ignored her and kept snarling at us. The woman cupped her hand to the side of her mouth. “It’s all right, Reverend,” she called. “She’s friendly.”

  Taking me by the elbow, Reverend Vaughn guided me down the sidewalk. Carla followed us the length of the lawn, snarling and coughing the whole way. Over time, chasing pedestrians and pulling against the chain, the dog had trampled a quarter moon on the grass. The outer edge formed an arc so perfect it could have been drawn with a compass.

  “Are you all right?” Reverend Vaughn asked, as we moved safely away.

  “Yes, fine,” I said bravely. Actually, I was in shock. Entranced, but in shock. In the commotion of pushing me away, his shirt sleeve had flipped up, exposing for an instant the top of his arm. He had a tattoo—a tiny, blue, rippling design that might have been a wave at sea or a billowing pennant. “A tattoo,” I murmured, unable to hold it in.

  “Oh, no.” He grabbed his sleeve to pull it down, though the tattoo was already hidden again. “You weren’t supposed to see that—no one’s supposed to see that.”

  “I’m sorry.” He was frowning, and I was afraid he was mad at me. But after a few steps, he shook his head and started smiling.

  “Talk about a mistake,” he said. “I’d give anything to have that night to live over.” He patted his arm on top of the tattoo. “Now that, my friend, is a mistake.”

  FIFTEEN

  On Saturday, I was reading in the backyard, when Mrs. Vernon called me to the phone.

  “Martha?” said an excited voice. It was Mary Sue Zimmerman.

  “Hello,” I said wearily.

  “How are you? I mean, how are you?”

  “I’m okay. How are you?”

  “Well, Jimmy and I decided to take a little vacation from each other, I mean, just a little vacation. We aren’t going to see each other today or tomorrow.” Mary Sue had been mad for Jimmy Phillips since seventh grade. Last spring he finally returned her interest and asked her to go steady. “I mean, we still love each other and all,” she went on, “but absence makes the heart grow fonder, you know?”

  “I’m sure it’ll work out,” I said.

  “Oh, it is working out. I mean it is working out. Even married people need a vacation sometimes.” She paused. “But, gee, I haven’t seen you in a long time. It seems ages. So much has happened.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s it like at Sissy’s house? That must be weird.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “What does Bunny say? She must be really upset.”

  “She’s all right.”

  “Mmmm. I was thinking, I might come over to visit, you know, just pop over.”

  “I don’t know.” The thought of spending time with Mary Sue depressed me. Usually when we got together, we’d sit around and I’d listen as she filled me in on the latest news about people in our class. She was a sharp observer, full of opinions, and I didn’t hesitate to pump her, since it was really only through Mary Sue and her endless gossip that I had any relationship to anyone else in school. Still, I didn’t feel much like listening to gossip about the class now. “I’m not sure this is a great time for it,” I said.

  “Gee, they don’t let you have any visitors?” Mary Sue was always eager to assume the most shocking details.

  “Of course they do. Oh, all right, come on over.”

  Ten minutes later, Mary Sue and I were in the parlor, drinking Cokes. Mary Sue bounced from the sofa to the window to a chair. She leaned over and whispered, “It’s so creepy here—I can’t stop thinking of Sissy. How do you stand it?”

  “You should see her room. Nothing’s been changed.”

  “Yuck. She was creepy even when she was alive.”

  “Shhh.” I pointed silently toward the kitchen.

  “I remember,” said Mary Sue, putting her mouth close to my ear. “The holy mother.”

  “Don’t!” I stifled a laugh and pushed her away. She bounced up and went to the window, looking out across the backyard as if she half expected a party to materialize at any second. She was wearing yellow pedal pushers, and her hair was teased up, a style she’d adopted last spring, just before winning over Jimmy. There was something comforting about her, I realized.

  She turned and sat against the windowsill, creating a wide, yellow lap. She had, as Bunny used to say, a “permanent fat bottom.” She’d had it since she was little. “You’ve missed all the excitement this summer,” Mary Sue said. “It’s not your fault, I know, but so much has gone on.” She twiddled with a thin silver chain around her neck. “Let’s see. El
lie had a party last week, and her father came home and found Betty and Wayne down in the basement. Nothing was going on—it’s filthy down there—but, still.” She paused to let the word “still” echo suggestively. “And Mary Figaro moved away. Her father’s store went bankrupt or something. And, let’s see. Linda Matthews has got real fat. She’s working at the fountain at the drugstore, and she must be sneaking ice cream, though she says she’s not, because she’s turned into a blimp, I mean, a real blimp.” She took a breath. “And, oh, there’s this great new song, only it’s not that new really, it came out last winter but only made it to number twenty or something. Jimmy has it. ‘Tutti-Frutti.’ Did you ever hear it?”

  “No.”

  “I gotta play it for you. You should hear the words. They’re crazy. I mean, sexy but just crazy.”

  “Who’s it by?”

  “Little Richard.”

  “Who?”

  “His name’s Little Richard. He’s really weird. He’s a Negro but he looks just like a girl.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Yeah. And what else?” Mary Sue looked off into space. “Oh, Andy and Sue broke up because he’s not a Catholic, even though she never goes to church. And you heard about Tammy Mirkov, didn’t you?”

  “No, what? I ran into her once at the pool.”

  “At the pool?”

  “I was there once.”

  “Did you see that cute lifeguard? He’s from Fogarty or someplace. He’s real cute.”

  “No. What about Tammy?” I sensed Mary Sue had something here that I’d like. I still carried an image of Tammy flouncing out of the locker room, her arrogant little ponytail poking at me.

  Mary Sue got off the sill and sat beside me on the sofa. She lowered her eyelids, trying to look furtive. “She and Arthur were out parking last week at the Ledges. He did something with his finger, and she bled all over his car.”

  “Really?” I thought of the moment last Sunday when the siren screamed into the evening, as an ambulance headed uselessly to Michael Cooper’s crash. Cars and blood.

  “Really,” said Mary Sue. “That’s it for Tammy.” She sat back and dipped her chin, opening her eyes wide as a sign of knowing. “Pop!” she said.

  Mrs. Vernon bustled in with a plate of raisin-oatmeal cookies. The cookies had been coated with a sugar glaze so thick it looked as if someone had poured heavy cream all over the plate.

  “I’ll just have one,” said Mary Sue.

  “How’s your mother?” asked Mrs. Vernon. “I used to see her all the time at Ward’s. Every Friday morning. Our shopping schedules were the same.”

  “She goes out to the new Ward’s now,” said Mary Sue. “It’s open later so she can go there any time. Sometimes she shops at night.”

  “That must be why I don’t see her.” Mrs. Vernon’s hands churned in the apron at her waist. It seemed as if a little animal were burrowing in her stomach.

  “I guess.” Mary Sue took a second cookie.

  “Well, give her my best.” Mrs. Vernon backed toward the door.

  “Thanks for the cookies,” I said.

  When Mrs. Vernon was out the door and down the hall, Mary Sue whispered, “She looks so old. I mean, she looks like an old woman.”

  “She’s probably less than fifty. Way less. Forty-five maybe.”

  “All that gray hair, and those wrinkles. Her skin’s like an old towel. I bet it was Sissy that did it to her.”

  “She always seemed old to me. I remember, even in first grade, when the parents came around, it was like everyone else had a mother, and Sissy had a grandmother.”

  Mary Sue put her hand on my forearm. She’d painted her nails shiny red. “What’s it been like? I mean, I can’t imagine. What’s it really been like?”

  “You mean here?”

  “Here.” She waved her hand, making streaks of red in the air. “The whole thing.”

  “Not so bad,” I said. “Everyone’s been pretty nice.”

  She grabbed my arm again. “But what happened? I mean, I can’t figure it out. You were always so … nice.”

  I shook her hand off. “Nothing happened. That’s the point. Everyone thinks something happened, but nothing happened.”

  Mary Sue sat back quickly. “Oh, I didn’t mean that. I’d never think that. It’s just—”

  “Everybody’s talking.”

  She fiddled with a tuft of hair on the top of her head. The tuft had been teased straight up and then over, into a semicurl, making a sort of half palm tree. “Not really,” she said. “I mean, yes and no. Some people are, but it’s not like Betty and Wayne in the basement. Everybody was talking about that. You could practically have written a book.” She came close again and lowered her voice. “See, I have an idea. I think I figured it all out.” Her eyes gave off spiky flashes. “That Butcher Benedict. I’ve noticed him before. He’s a little sex maniac.”

  “You think so?”

  “I’ve watched him. He really is. I’ve seen him down at the News Depot. He stands in front of the magazine rack and looks at the magazines that have pictures of girls. He’s so little he thinks nobody notices. But once Mr. McClain caught him and chased him out.”

  “Gee.” I’d hardly thought about Butcher since it happened, I’d been so preoccupied with myself.

  “Am I right?” Mary Sue pushed her head forward. She really could be very perceptive sometimes. Underneath it all, she probably understood people better than I did. I guess that’s why I was always drawn to her, even when we were very young. Still, I could see she was getting too excited about this. Standing up abruptly, I went to the window.

  “The whole thing is too confusing,” I said. “I just want it to end.” I spun and faced her. “I hope you’re not gossiping about me, Mary Sue. Too many people are talking as it is, and I’d hate to get that from you.”

  “Oh, no,” she said. “I wouldn’t ever do that.” To avoid my stare, she picked up another cookie and studied its underside. “Hey! I’ve got an idea,” she said, dropping the cookie. “Let’s go down to Wally’s. I’ll play ‘Tutti-Frutti’ for you. He’s got it on demonstration down there.”

  “I don’t know.” Wally’s Record Emporium is on North Emerson, just off the square. “Too many people might be hanging around. Besides, I don’t want to get close to the square. All those hoods.”

  “No one will see you. We’ll go the back way. And once we’re there, we’ll stay in the sound booth.”

  I considered for a moment. The idea of getting out for a while was tempting. And I realized I wanted to spend more time with Mary Sue—it was a relief to talk to her. I checked with Mrs. Vernon, and she thought a visit to Wally’s was a fine idea. She seemed pleased to get the two of us out of the house. So after I’d washed up and put on a fresh blouse and shorts, we headed downtown, walking along Prosperity, past the KTD. Mary Sue’s father has worked at the factory for years, and I asked if he’d talked about what would happen if it closed. She said he hadn’t mentioned it.

  Crossing the railroad tracks, I bent down and laid my palm flat on the rail.

  “Why’d you do that?” Mary Sue asked.

  “To feel if there was a train coming.”

  “Yeah, but we used to do that years ago. You haven’t done that in years.”

  “I just felt like it,” I said.

  A few steps later, Mary Sue asked, “Well, was one coming?”

  “No.”

  She stared at me. “What do you do in there all day? I mean, it’s summer. It seems so boring.”

  “It’s not bad. Bunny comes almost every day.” I stopped myself from mentioning Mrs. O’Brien. Too hard to explain a social worker. “And I’ve made friends with a minister. He’s wonderful. He comes a lot.”

  “A minister?” Mary Sue scrunched her nose. This might be hard to explain, too.

  “From the Congregational Church. Reverend Vaughn. He’s not like, you know, a minister. He doesn’t talk about God or anything. He’s young.”

  “Is he cute? What
do you do with him?”

  “We take walks and talk. He’s incredibly smart.” I let my enthusiasm bubble over. “He’s kinda cute, and he’s so tall, Mary Sue. He towers over me.”

  She turned and looked up at the top of my head, then just above it, as if trying to imagine what it would take to tower over me. “Hmmm,” she said.

  “Oh, here’s something weird,” I said. “Guess who came one night and threw a stone at my window.”

  “Who?”

  “Elro Judy.”

  “Elro?”

  “And guess what else. He and Sissy used to date.”

  “Elro and Sissy?” She shook her head. “No, never.”

  “That’s what her mother says, and I believe her. They went to movies together.”

  “I don’t believe it. Anyway, what’d he want with you?”

  “I’m not really sure. He was drunk and yelling about stuff. I guess he wanted me to come out with him.”

  “Did you?”

  “Are you kidding?”

  She frowned. “I never liked Elro. He’s a creep.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Remember those magazines he brought to school in fifth grade? He’s a sex maniac.”

  “Yeah.” Practically every boy Mary Sue knows is a sex maniac. I wondered about her relationship with Jimmy.

  We stayed on the east side of Center Street to avoid passing right in front of the News Depot. Even from across the street, I could see people sitting at the fountain, their dark silhouettes lined up in perfect order, like bowling pins. Behind them, the magazine rack filled an entire wall. It was funny to think of Butcher standing there, waist high to the older boys. When I was younger, I used to hang out at the magazine rack, too. Butcher and I had that in common. The movie magazines were what attracted me. I felt so guilty about it, Bunny was always saying that they only printed lies and trivia; she wouldn’t let me bring them in the house. But I loved those magazines. Not so much for the stories—I only leafed through, glancing at the pictures—but for the way they looked and the way they felt, their shiny, gaudy covers, their thin, pulpy paper. The paper had a special smell, sweet and fresh and nutty. It smelled like excitement, and I always had the urge to rip out a page and chew on it, as if excitement were a kind of food you could actually eat.