Jory peered inside the large brown bag. A small gray kitten with huge yellow eyes peered back at her. “Oh!” Jory said. “Grace, look!” She reached into the bag. “It’s a kitten!” She pulled the little thing out and cradled it against her chest.
Grace and Mrs. Kleinfelter looked on. “I’m going to take care of it when you’re at school,” Grace said.
“It doesn’t know how to pull its claws back in yet,” Mrs. Kleinfelter said, reaching out and unhooking one of the kitten’s paws from Jory’s dress. “My old housecat, Birdie, surprised me with this batch. I thought she was long done with that kind of thing, but no.” Mrs. Kleinfelter made a sort of snortling noise. “Oh, well, they pretty much take care of themselves—unlike human babies.” Mrs. Kleinfelter’s face suddenly flushed a bright pink. She fiddled quickly with her topknot. “I’d probably better be going,” she said. “Your folks will be showing up and everything.”
“Thank you so much.” Jory tore her eyes away from her kitten. “I love her. Him?” Jory held her cat up above her head and peered beneath. “He doesn’t have a tail!”
“It’s a Manx,” said Mrs. Kleinfelter. “I saw this old tailless tom skulking about a while ago, and sure enough.” She shook her head.
Jory ran over and hugged Mrs. Kleinfelter, who looked more than a little surprised. “Goodness,” Mrs. Kleinfelter said, stiffly returning Jory’s embrace and patting Jory lightly on the back. “Let’s not squish the cat, now.”
A car door slammed, and then another. Grace leaned forward and peered out the front window. “It’s them,” Grace said. She turned and gave Jory a look of fear and happiness.
“Oh, my—I’d really better be going.” Mrs. Kleinfelter opened the front door. Jory peeked around her shoulder at the sight of her father and mother and little sister walking up the driveway to Henry’s house. Jory felt strangely light-headed at the thought of meeting her mother’s eyes for the first time in two months.
“Come on,” said Grace. She pulled at Jory’s hand. Jory followed Grace out the front door, the kitten still clenched tightly to her chest.
The two groups of Quanbecks met at the bottom of the porch steps.
“Well, hello hello,” said Jory’s father, smiling and reaching out to shake Mrs. Kleinfelter’s hand. “It’s nice to see you again . . . Mrs. . . . um—mm—”
“Hilda.”
“Mrs. Hilda.”
Grace touched her father’s shirtsleeve. “Hilda’s her first name, Dad.”
“Oh, right, of course.” Her father ran his hand through his hair. “Hilda, um, this is my wife, Esther, and our youngest daughter, Frances.”
Mrs. Kleinfelter stepped forward and shook Jory’s mother’s hand. “You have two very wonderful girls here,” Mrs. Kleinfelter said.
Jory’s mother smiled a very small smile and then trained her eyes on the ground near her feet.
“They really are,” said Mrs. Kleinfelter. “Wonderful, that is.” She nodded, as if to further convince everyone of Grace’s and Jory’s wonderfulness.
For a moment no one said anything.
“Hey, Franny,” said Jory, bending down.
Frances was partially hidden behind the fullness of their mother’s Sunday skirt.
“Look what I have,” said Jory, holding the kitten out in Frances’s direction.
Frances peeped shyly at Jory, while still holding tight to some lace beneath their mother’s skirt. “What is it?” she said in a small, croaky voice.
“Don’t be silly, Frances.” Their mother pulled Frances firmly out from behind her and gave her a push in Jory’s direction.
Frances smiled in a dazed fashion, and plucked at her own skirt.
“It doesn’t have any tail,” said Jory, turning the cat around to verify this information. “See?” The kitten clawed the air and began to mew with urgency.
Frances gazed at the kitten’s backside. “Why not? Who cut it off?”
“It was born like that. Look, you can feel just a teeny tiny little bone where its tail should be.” Jory took Frances’s hand and rubbed it over the kitten’s rump.
Frances pulled back her hand and made a funny face. The grown-ups laughed a little more than necessary.
“Well,” said Mrs. Kleinfelter, “you folks enjoy your day. I’m off to weed my tomatoes.” She waved one hand and walked quickly in the direction of her house.
Jory’s father turned back around and clapped his hands together. “What do you say? Shall we all go inside?” Jory’s father appealed to one pair of females and then the other. “I believe we have a couple of presents to open, and some cake to eat, right?” He put his arm around Jory’s mother. “This is a pretty important day for all of us.” He gave his wife’s arm a squeeze. “We certainly remember fourteen years ago today, don’t we?” Jory’s mother said nothing. “And it was even on a Sunday, just like today.” He steered his wife ahead of him, up the front steps, and through the open door. Once inside, Jory’s mother shook his arm off and walked over to the dead cat couch, where she stood.
“Do you want to sit down?” Grace pointed vaguely at the kitchen. “We can eat in there, or in here—it doesn’t really matter.”
“Where on earth did you get that dress?” It was the first time Jory’s mother had spoken to them.
Grace held out the hem of the long brown paisley dress she was wearing. “Hilda gave it to me. It’s an old one of hers that she altered . . . at the waist.”
Their mother sat down on the arm of the couch as if the air had suddenly been let out of her.
“She gave me the kitten, too.” Jory tried to smile. “The Manx kitten.” She glanced at her father, who was running his hand through his hair again. “For my birthday,” she finished weakly.
“Well, I’m afraid we didn’t bring anything half that interesting.” Jory’s mother sat up a little straighter and stared directly at Jory. “Not a single dog or puppy or Shetland pony.”
“Afro Cat died,” said Frances. “Mr. Garmendia put him in a cupboard out in his lawn mower shed. I got to see him. He’s going to get stuffed.”
“Stuffed?” Jory made a face.
“Frances, get up off the floor.” Their mother frowned. “Oren, why don’t you get the things out of the trunk?”
“Good idea, good idea.” Jory’s father sprang out of the chair he was sitting in. “Come on, Frances, you can help me carry the presents.”
“I’ll get the cake ready,” said Grace, and disappeared into the kitchen.
Jory and her mother were left alone together in the living room. Her mother sat on the edge of the couch, gazing down and rearranging the folds in her skirt. Jory felt herself breathe in and out. Once. Twice. Three times.
Her mother stood up. “Where’s the bathroom?” she asked.
“Oh,” said Jory, quickly standing up too. “It’s down the hall on the left-hand side.” She pointed.
Her mother swept past her. Caron’s Fleurs de Rocaille, Aqua Net hair spray, and talcum powder: the most powerful scents of Jory’s childhood. She’d almost forgotten.
Her father and Frances banged back in through the front door, carrying several small, brightly wrapped packages. Frances laid her package on the coffee table; she was still holding the kitten in her other arm. “I picked out the cowboy paper,” she said.
“I love it,” said Jory.
Grace came through the kitchen door carrying the cake. It was now lit by fourteen yellow and white candles.
“Ooh,” said Frances. The kitten squirmed wildly in her arms.
“Shall we sing?” said Grace. She glanced around the room. “Where’s Mom?”
“In the bathroom,” said Jory.
“I’m sure she’ll be out in a minute,” their father said. “Here, I’ll hold the cake.” He took the cake from Grace and held it out toward Jory with a certain amount of ceremony. “Do you ha
ve a good wish ready?”
Jory gave him a look. “I can think of one or two.”
The candles flickered and burned. The four of them stood together in a small circle.
“I guess we could blow them out and relight them if they get down too far.” Grace knit her brows together. “I’ll go get the matches.”
“No,” said Frances, hopping up and down. “That’s not how it works—the wish won’t count then!”
Their father leaned his head hallward. “Esther!” He raised his voice further. “We have the cake in here!” He smiled apologetically. “She hasn’t been feeling very well.”
“It’s okay,” said Jory. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Well, of course it does.” Her father stared at the cake and the rapidly melting candles. He gave a quick glance down the hall. Jory could tell he wanted to run his hand through his hair. “Well, okay, all right,” he said, and smiled a crooked smile. “Let’s go ahead and sing.”
They sat around the kitchen table and ate the cake and the Neapolitan ice cream, which (Grace told Jory) someone had anonymously provided. Frances had the kitten in her lap and was surreptitiously allowing it generous licks off her spoon. Their father had two bowls “in honor of the day” and their mother had none. “It’s just a little stomach thing,” she said, and scooted her chair a ways back from the table.
“So,” said their father. He handed Jory a small, flat package covered in bronco-busting, cow-lassoing cowboys.
Inside was a new red leather Bible with her name embossed in gold across the bottom right corner. Jory held the Bible in her lap. “Thank you,” she said, still looking at its cover. She ran her finger slowly across her name.
“It’s the newest version,” her father said. “The Good News for Modern Man. Evidently the young people think its language is more accessible.” He frowned at this. “It was gone over by a lot of genuinely excellent Bible scholars, though, so even if it doesn’t have the beauty of the King James language, it still retains the meaning of the original.” He crossed one leg over the other. “I feel pretty good about it.”
“I’m sure Jory will get lots of use out of it.” Grace smiled at their father. And then at Jory.
Jory tried to nod.
“Okay.” Her father handed her a slightly larger package.
“This is from me,” said Frances.
“Oh, really,” said Jory. “Should I be afraid to open it?”
Frances held her spoon in midair. “I can’t remember.” Frances squinted at their mother. “I can’t remember. Should she?”
Their mother sighed and rolled her eyes. “Really, Frances, I don’t know why you’re acting like this.”
Jory tore the paper wrapping off and put it on the table.
“Now I remember,” said Frances, standing up on her chair and letting the sleeping kitten slide scratchily to the floor. “It’s a bug house!”
Jory turned the box over. “How wonderful, Fran. Tell me what I do with it.”
“It has baby butterflies in there that hatch out when they’re ready. And you get to watch them.”
“A friend of mine in the biology lab got it for me,” her father said. “It has a dozen monarch butterfly chrysali in stasis that will hatch out in a few weeks, if you follow the instructions.”
“How cool,” said Jory, busily reading about the four stages of the butterfly’s life: egg, larva, pupa, adult. “Thank you very much, Frances.”
“You’re very welcome,” said Frances.
“One more,” said her father. “This one’s from your mother.”
“Oren.” Her mother clucked her tongue.
Jory unwrapped the largest box and lifted the lid. Inside, underneath a layer of white tissue paper, were three pairs of corduroy bell-bottoms. In her size. One pair was sky blue and another was a beautiful deep rust red. The third was a golden sand shade that matched her moccasins exactly. She turned to look at her mother.
Her mother was busily winding her watch. “Grace mentioned that you didn’t have any appropriate school clothes.” She quit her winding and gazed out the window.
“Thank you,” whispered Jory. Her mother was a riddle that she could never quite solve. Even if her mother was currently incensed or furious or deeply depressed, each Christmas and birthday was a magical event thanks to her ability and willingness to choose and wrap and present the most marvelous and unforeseen gifts. She somehow seemed to know and anticipate exactly what each of her daughters most longed for. Whether she might later retract these presents or even throw them in the trash was another matter entirely. Jory gazed down in wonder at her new and perfect clothes.
Grace held up the serving knife. “Who’d like more cake?”
“Oh, no,” said Frances.
They all turned to look as Frances ran over and squatted down next to the kitten. It was making several desperate noises and widening its mouth alarmingly. Suddenly it arched its tiny back and disgorged a large pool of pinky-brown ice cream next to a crumpled sheet of cowboy paper.
“Well,” said their father, “now it’s a party.”
They all stood outside in the dark next to the green Buick. Frances was sound asleep and slung over their father’s shoulder. She had had a very bad tantrum of sorts at the end of the night; why wasn’t entirely clear.
“Thank you both for coming,” Grace said.
“For Pete’s sake, Grace—you sound like you’re our dinner hostess.” Their mother pulled a sweater across her shoulders. “Will we be getting a thank-you card in the mail?”
Jory could see the look on Grace’s face.
“Esther,” their father said.
“Whatever you are angry about,” said Grace, “it probably isn’t because I’m acting like a dinner hostess.”
“Well, I for one had a wonderful time.” Their father smiled brightly in the semidarkness. “Wonderful cake, wonderful company.”
“Yes, we’re all just wonderful,” said their mother, buttoning the buttons on her sweater. “Oh—and, Jory, by the way, I got a call from Rhonda Russell’s mother the other day, and she was wondering why exactly you and Rhonda and your grandmother got evicted from Super Thrift Drug. And, well, frankly, I just didn’t know what to tell her. So maybe you’d like to explain to your father and me why it is that you and your grandmother got evicted from Super Thrift.” Her mother crossed her sweatered arms over her chest.
Grace stared at Jory.
“Esther,” her father said. “Do we need to talk about this right now?”
“Why not?” Jory’s mother turned to him. “What’s wrong with right now? I think right now is a perfectly good time to talk about this.”
“It was my fault.” Grace put her hands in the pockets of her dress.
“Oh, really?” Their mother shook her head at Grace.
Jory closed her eyes and took a breath. “It was my fault,” she said. “I lied. I lied to Dad about having my period so I could skip PE and Grace talked Mrs. Kleinfelter into taking me to get . . . sanitary stuff and Mrs. Kleinfelter automatically went to Super Thrift because that’s where she gets her prescriptions filled and so we had to go in and Rhonda was there and then when they saw me they made us leave because they think I stole the earrings but I didn’t—and it doesn’t matter what you think because I didn’t steal them. I didn’t steal them. I’ve done plenty of bad things, but that wasn’t one of them.”
A light winked on in Mrs. Kleinfelter’s house and a lone cricket suddenly ceased its scritching. The night breeze stirred and Jory hugged her own elbows tightly.
Jory’s father switched Frances to his other shoulder. “Well, I guess that pretty much answers that.” He reached out and patted Jory on the arm.
Jory’s mother stood in the dimness, the whites of her eyes glowing bright. “I just don’t see how everything we’ve done for you girls has resulted in this.”
No one said anything in response, although Jory knew that she or Grace was meant to. That this was the characteristic gambit to which they were expected to provide a soothing and chastened response.
“I think it’s the selfishness that hurts me the worst. All your father and I have ever asked is that you not shame us. Or yourselves. And look—” She waved her hand wildly at Jory and Grace. “Just look.”
Jory could feel her own sense of guilt weighing heavily in her body, although Grace seemed to be standing up straighter than ever, her abdomen standing out proudly in relief.
Their mother shook her head and walked around to the passenger side of the car and got in. She pulled the door shut after her and sat there staring straight ahead.
Their father took a few deliberate steps away from the car. He leaned forward and gave Grace and then Jory a kiss on the forehead. “Happy birthday, birthday girl,” he whispered as he held Jory tight with one of his arms.
Jory hugged him back, and she stroked Frances’s dangling foot. “Tell Frances she can come and play with the kitten anytime she wants.”
Her father let go of Jory. He ran his free hand through his hair. “You know, I’m not sure that would be such a good idea right now. Maybe she can come see the kitten sometime later, when everything has calmed down some.”
“Calmed down?” Jory’s voice rose perceptibly. “Why do you always say that, Dad? Seriously—do you think things are ever really going to calm down?”
“Frances can’t come see us again?” Grace said. “Is that what you’re saying?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said their father. “But let’s not get upset, all right? I think we’ve all had enough excitement here for one evening.” Their father walked over to the car, opened the back door, and laid Frances gently in the backseat. He said something to their mother and then shut the door and walked back toward them.
“That just isn’t right,” said Jory. “It’s not.”
Grace stepped closer to their father. “Do you really think it’s fair to punish Frances too?”
Their father gazed up at the sky. “This has been a very confusing time for everyone,” he said. “Maybe especially for Frances. She’s too young to understand what’s going on, and we’d like to try to shield her from any real . . .” Here their father’s voice trailed off. “Your mother and I don’t want to see her permanently hurt or damaged by any of this.”
The Girl Who Slept with God: A Novel Page 20
