The After Party

by Anton Disclafani

  “I liked what they did to me. Is that so hard to imagine? I wasn’t made to do anything I didn’t want to do.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Believe what you want. But I’m not like you, Cece. I never was.”

  “What I believe,” I said, “is that you convinced yourself you liked it. Because you were different that year. You came back from California and you were changed.”

  “Something happened the first time you went away. California was cruel to you, that was it, wasn’t it? Something happened to you there.”

  She watched me.

  “Hollywood didn’t treat you like Houston,” I said.

  “Pardon?” But she’d heard me. She was daring me to go on.

  “You weren’t a star there. You were just like everyone else. You thought you were going to make it. And you didn’t. And—”

  “Oh God,” Joan interrupted, her voice shrill. She turned and picked up a silver cigarette case from a small table—her back was shaking. I had made Joan cry. I tried to think—had I ever made her cry before? I felt ashamed; I’d gone too far. I moved to hug her, but she spun around to face me. She was laughing.

  “Why is Dorie back?” I asked.

  She jerked her head up.

  “Dorie,” I said. “I saw her in the kitchen. At Evergreen. What was she doing there, Joan?”

  Joan shook her head. “I have absolutely no idea.”

  “But you do!” I cried. “Tell me, Joan. Please tell me.”

  Joan looked from me to her cigarette, which she stubbed out on a silver coaster. There was an ashtray by the bed. Even in my state I’d noticed it. Because that’s what women like me did: noticed things. Kept the world in order. And women like Joan were always undoing our careful, hard work. Women like Joan were always creating messes for other people, unthinkingly, like children. But you couldn’t be mad at a child for being a child. How could you be mad at a woman like Joan, who was all action, no thought? It was like being mad at a horse for running, at Ray for wishing I would leave Joan alone. At me for being unable to comply.

  “Leave, Cece. Go back to Tommy. He needs you. I don’t.”

  I stood there helplessly, my hands by my sides. Our moment was over.

  “Go,” she said, her voice firm. I nodded. There was no sense in staying.

  “Cee,” Joan called out when I was opening the door. “What did he say? Tell me.”

  “‘Ma,’” I answered. “He said ‘Ma.’”

  I let myself out of the suite. Sid watched me leave, winking as I passed by him, and I was so confused. Sid was a horrible threat, or Sid was just a man with whom Joan was entertaining herself while she waited for the next man, or Sid meant more than I understood, or Sid meant nothing at all.

  Downstairs, I checked with the valet: Ray had already gone, but left the car. Neither of us was in any state to drive. I was too tired to care that Ray had abandoned me. I took a taxi home, let myself in with the spare key hidden beneath the back mat, and went straight to Tommy’s room. I put my hand on his warm back and he stirred; he would have no memory of this night, of his mother coming into his room so very late. But I would remember it always.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  1957

  Ray was gone when Tommy woke me the next day. I had passed out in his rocking chair. I decided to pretend it was a workday. That was probably where Ray had gone, anyway, even though his office was closed for the holiday. Where else would he go? I trusted him. That he did not trust me in the same way was a thought on which I tried not to linger.

  I called Maria’s cousin and waited for Maria to call me back, and then promised her double pay if she would come in. She hesitated, and I felt guilty—who knew what she had planned for today—but she wasn’t in a situation where she could refuse extra money, so she said yes. Maria bought her own food, the fabric for the clothes she made. She paid her own bus fare. She needed money not for fine dresses, or to eat at private clubs: she needed it to survive.

  When she arrived she smiled at me, and it seemed genuine enough. What choice did she have but to forgive me? My family was how she made a living.

  I knew where Idie was working now, because I had provided a reference. It was the second family she’d been with since she’d left ten years ago. She was a live-in at a house in West University, over by Rice, near Ray’s parents.

  It was all easier than I thought it would be. A maid answered the phone. I knew from the way she said “Hayes residence” that she was not a Hayes herself—and a few moments later, I heard Idie’s voice.

  “I’ll take the children to Hermann Park after lunch,” she said, after a moment. “You can meet me there.”

  Her tone was clear, unaccommodating. If I wanted to see her I would have to come to her.

  There hadn’t been any reason for Idie to stay, after my mother died. I had left, for Evergreen. But Idie wouldn’t have stayed with me even if I’d begged, even if my father had doubled her salary. She knew what Joan and I had done.

  The houses here were nice, but they weren’t River Oaks. They felt more a part of the outside world; River Oaks was its own world.

  Idie was still pretty. I noticed that first as I drove up, parked my car by the edge of the park. In another world—a world in which Idie was white—she would have been the wife of an oil executive instead of nanny to an oil executive’s wife. She was slender, with a high forehead and clear, alert eyes. I’d forgotten how young she and Dorie must have been when they’d been our nannies. Idie had never married. Dorie had—her husband had worked as a gardener in River Oaks. But Idie remained alone. Neither sister had children of her own. Nannies rarely did.

  She sat on a park bench, her hands folded in her lap, watching her charges—three straw-colored blondes—play on a swing set. Seeing her turned me into a child again, six years old and standing by her bed because a bad dream had woken me. Eleven years old and playing down the street, turning my head at the sound of Idie’s voice, calling me home. Fourteen years old and sitting at the kitchen table, avoiding Idie’s glare, in trouble because I smelled of cigarette smoke. I had thought Idie would remain with me forever, that she would be a nanny to my own children when I was an adult. And it might have happened as I’d imagined it, had my mother lived.

  Idie was like a mother, except that she had been paid to attend to me. Except that after I had disappointed her, she had removed her affection.

  When I was seven she had spent days at the sewing machine creating a miniature wedding dress, for no other reason than I’d asked for it. There was no beginning, with Idie—in my earliest memories, Idie is present. But there had been an end.

  Her attention was on her charges, completely. And then, when my car door slammed shut, she turned that focus to me. I remembered that focus. My mother always seemed half available, half here, half in another world. But Idie had always seemed completely present.

  I had chosen my outfit carefully. I wanted to appear modest for Idie, evidence of my life as a mother. And yet I wanted my clothes to carry me, as they always did. People said I had a knack for dressing but really I had a knack for wearing clothes that made me two or three notches superior to plain old Cece. So I’d worn a pale yellow skirt that came past my knees, tailored to make my waist look small. Then a simple white blouse that was so light it felt like wearing air. The blouse was silk, the skirt custom-made, and both had cost a fortune. But Idie would never guess that. She would, I hoped, take me in and decide I was dressed appropriately. Like the young mother of a young child. Like a good person, a person deserving of her love.

  I presented myself to Idie gracelessly, my hand in an awkward half wave; the sight of her turned me breathless with want. I waited for her to stand, to hug me, but she simply observed me, and I felt foolish.

  I saw, now that I was close to her, what I could not see from a distance: tiny wrinkles arou
nd her eyes, a missing tooth when she smiled. I saw that she had aged, and I was, for an instant, unspeakably sad. I turned to watch the children so Idie wouldn’t see the tears in my eyes.

  “They’re beautiful,” I said, and then immediately wished I hadn’t spoken. These weren’t Idie’s children, and perhaps hearing them complimented reminded Idie that she had no children of her own. In that other world, Idie would have been a mother as well as a wife. Motherhood suddenly seemed like an unfairly allotted privilege.

  But I had been mistaken. “Thank you,” she said, and there was pride in her voice. “I’ve been with them since the oldest—Lucinda there—was a baby.”

  “A long time,” I said, and Idie nodded.

  “I haven’t seen you in forever,” I said, as I tucked my skirt beneath me and sat next to Idie on the bench.

  Idie shook her head. “No.”

  “Ten years.”

  “Has it been that long? I suppose it has. Lucinda,” she called out, across the playground, her voice a warning. “Don’t.”

  I laughed. I couldn’t help it.

  “It’s just, I remember that voice,” I explained. “I remember it very well. It meant I should stop whatever I was doing immediately, or else.”

  “Or else,” Idie repeated. “You didn’t know what ‘or else’ was. But you were a good girl.”

  “Was I?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, and the fervor in her voice surprised me. “Very good. You wanted to please, Cecilia. You always wanted to please, and that’s all you can ask for in a child.” She pointed. “Ricky and Danny want to please. Lucinda doesn’t care. She’s a fireball.”

  I was jealous of Lucinda the fireball. It was ridiculous, but I wanted to have been a fireball, not the child who wanted to please. I wondered who I was now, as an adult. Surely I had changed.

  “Joan was a fireball,” I said. Idie stiffened next to me. “She still is.”

  The wind picked up and I caught Idie’s particular smell, a mix of the lotion she used to rub into my skin after bath time and something unidentifiable. The urge to lean into her was so strong it was nearly unbearable. I had felt a certain electricity between us since I’d sat down: we had once loved each other, after all. Idie had brought comfort to my life.

  I would do no such thing, of course. Idie was gone from me, had been for a long time. If I leaned into her she would scoot away as if burned; the moment would not be tender. It would be strange, intolerable.

  “Joan was a fireball because she had a mother who cared about her. You wanted to please because your mother didn’t notice you.” She turned to me. “Children are simple creatures, Cecilia. The simplest creatures in the world.”

  “My mother cared about me,” I said, and I wondered why I felt the urge to defend her. “She was a difficult woman.”

  Idie nodded. A colored woman in a white uniform pushed a stroller and waved in our direction. Idie nodded back. This was Idie’s domain; the woman was deferential, stayed at a respectful distance, did not stare at the nanny talking with a well-dressed white woman. This was Idie’s life, as I had once been.

  One of her charges—the younger boy—ran up and announced he was hungry.

  “You’re always hungry,” she said, but her voice was kinder with him than with me. “We’ll leave soon. Get a snack at home.”

  He pouted for a second, and then turned to me. “Who’s that?” he asked, pointing.

  “Don’t point,” Idie said. “This is Miss Cecilia.”

  “Where did she come from?”

  Idie laughed. “Cecilia, where did you come from?”

  “I came from nearby,” I said, grateful for the boy’s presence. He softened Idie. The boy eyed me warily; he hadn’t liked being the object of Idie’s laughter. “Idie used to watch me, when I was a little girl.”

  “It’s true,” Idie said. She leaned forward and dusted off the boy’s shorts, straightened his shirt. He looked from me to Idie, not so much confused as uninterested. That Idie, whom he clearly loved, had had a life before him, would have a life after him, was beyond his comprehension.

  And then he darted off, without warning, in the way of children.

  “I have a child,” I said. “Thomas. He’s three years old.”

  “I know.”

  “Dorie told you?”

  She was silent. “Why are you here, Cecilia?”

  I closed my eyes against the sun. We were sitting in the shade, but still, if I sat here too long I would burn.

  “I came to see why Dorie is back.” I had nothing to lose. I might as well be honest. Idie might appreciate my honesty.

  “I figured as much,” she said. “I haven’t heard from you in ten years.” Her voice tightened as she spoke. “I knew, the instant I heard your voice, you wanted to know something about Joan.”

  I thought about defending myself, but Idie wouldn’t believe the truth, which had been apparent to me as soon as I’d seen her: I’d wanted to see Idie for a long time. But I had known she did not want to see me.

  “You’ve always disapproved of Joan,” I said instead. “Since we were girls.”

  “Is that what you think?” She stood, and the children, as if tethered to her invisibly, spun around to face her. “One minute,” she called out, across the playground, and tapped her wrist, though she wasn’t wearing a watch. “One minute and then we go home.

  “I only cared about you, Cecilia. Joan made no difference to me. She was Dorie’s. You were mine.”

  “But why did Dorie leave? Where did she go?”

  Idie shook her head. “If you don’t know, I can’t tell you. It’s not my business.”

  “Please,” I said. “I need to know.”

  Idie raised her hand. “It’s not mine to tell.” She touched her neck, and I noticed her tiny gold cross was gone, lost to the years. “It’s not for men to interfere in matters of God.”

  A deep unease rose in my throat, and I felt like I might vomit into the grass.

  “Matters of God? What are you talking about, Idie? Please.” I clasped her hand. “Please tell me.”

  “The children will be here soon,” she said, taking back her hand. They walked toward us, timidly, as if they did not want to interrupt us. I wondered, briefly, what they made of us.

  “Please,” I said again, though I knew it was useless.

  “Ask Joan. It’s her story. And your own story, Cecilia? I often wonder if you regret.”

  “No,” I said. And it was true. I did not. “I don’t regret it. Joan did what I could not. I’m forever in her debt.” I paused. “It was what my mother wanted.”

  “She didn’t know what she wanted.”

  The children reached us; they no longer looked curiously at me. For a moment I had been interesting, but I had stayed too long.

  Idie straightened the children’s clothes, neatened Lucinda’s hair, then spoke again.

  “Go play,” she said to the children. “I’ll call you in another minute.” Then she sat back down beside me, and I was thrilled, though I knew I shouldn’t be. “I heard what your mother told you.”

  “What my mother told me?” My mother had told me so many things; at first I didn’t understand.

  “When she was dying. I listened sometimes, outside her door, to make sure she wasn’t being cruel.”

  “She wasn’t.”

  “I know.” She paused, brushed a speck of something from her lap. “She told you not to let Joan take you.”

  Ah. I remembered exactly. My mother had just swallowed her pill. I had blotted her chin with a napkin.

  “She was sick,” I said. “She was losing her mind.”

  “But she hadn’t lost it completely, had she?” She met my eye, in a way that meant I had to answer.

  “No,” I said. “No, she hadn’t.” Because it was the truth.

  �
�She told you to be careful with Joan.”

  “She told me Joan would rip me in two.” I remembered the heat of my mother’s room, the cloying smells. She was always cold, as she was dying, and I was always warm, as I was nursing her.

  “Yes. What would happen to you after she died was her great fear.”

  “No,” I said, reflexively. “It couldn’t have been.”

  “Why? Because she could be cruel? She wasn’t meant to be a mother. I grant you that. But she had a mother’s instincts, all the same.”

  “A mother’s instincts,” I repeated. I was close to tears. “What are those, I wonder? I couldn’t move through the house without her telling me I clomped like a horse. I still think of that, sometimes. I remember how much she hated the way I walked.”

  “Your mother loved you.”

  “I can’t remember her ever telling me so. You told me. You told me all the time. But never my mother.”

  “All the same.” Idie pressed her finger to her lips, as if to stop herself from speaking. But she went on. “I used to think it might be God’s providence, that she died just as you were becoming a woman. She couldn’t have mothered a young woman. She didn’t have it in her.”

  “Do you still think it was God’s providence?”

  “You know what I think.” She stood. “Children,” she called. “It’s time to go home.”

  Idie had been my home. I put my hand on my chest. I was a child again, waiting to be led somewhere safe.

  I imagined my life had Idie remained in it. She would have been at my wedding. She would have helped me when Tommy was an infant and I could not, for the life of me, please him. She would have helped me in all manner of ways. She would have left less room for Joan.

  “I was fifteen years old,” I said. “A child.”

  She pointed to her charges, who were running toward us.

  “They are children,” she said. “You stopped being a child the moment your mother got sick.”

  The children reached us; Idie patted Ricky’s shoulder, distractedly.