Samantha ripped off the paper, her face lighting up. A board game. Operation.
“Ah, it’s not Christmas yet, Aunt Cybil,” said Diana. She was back in the kitchen now. Shoestringing the beans.
Cybil pursed her lip, looking at Samantha. “I know, but she deserves it, and besides she’s so cute”—she reached out and pulled her cheek—“chipmunk cheeks, and … I think I missed her birthday.”
“You got me Malibu Barbie for my birthday,” said Samantha.
Cybil feigned ignorance. “Did I? Hmmm … I must have forgot.”
Underdog was floating down Madison Avenue, filling the screen. Confetti flying.
“Well, you should have waited until Christmas,” Diana now said to Cybil. “You’re going to spoil her.”
Cybil smirked. “Just think—I could have got her a Ouija board. Hah!”
“What’s a Ouija board?” Samantha asked.
“Hmmm,” said Cybil. “Well, it’s a just board, you know like a Monopoly board, but you use it to talk to people you care about but haven’t seen in a while.”
“Can you use it to talk to people you don’t care about?” Samantha asked.
Cybil lowered her chin. “Like who?”
“Like George Washington.”
Cybil smiled. “Absolutely. You can talk to him, too.”
Diana was watching them, Norman beside her—picking at some little spinach turnovers she had made as an appetizer. Diana sipped her wine. “Except in this house,” she said.
Cybil made a face. “I know, can you imagine? My sister Sheila said they used one in this place once when they were back in high school—she and a couple of her friends stayed over for the weekend—and she said the thing went wild. She said pictures started falling off the walls, and then they heard this banging upstairs like a foot was coming through the floor.
“They kept my great-aunt up all night.”
“Did you ever meet the aunt?” Norman asked Diana.
“No,” she said.
“She looked like a raisin,” Norman said. “Or like one of those apples you carve as a kid, and leave on the windowsill to dry. Just like that. They must have left her on the windowsill a little too long.”
“Stop it,” said Cybil, standing up, and smoothing her skirt. “She was very old. I’d love to live to be that old. And besides, she was a sweetheart. I miss her.” Cybil came over and took her wine. Diana heard movement upstairs, footsteps, and felt her heart sink a little. She was hoping he would sleep until at least three. Three would be better. Maybe make him less grouchy, confrontational, and give them time to be foolish, maybe gossip a little. Samantha had the doctors equipment spread out all over the floor. She banged the man’s nose with the reflex hammer. A bulbous, flashing red nose. The man was a drunk.
“Don’t tell her about Ouija boards,” Diana whispered. “You’ll give her nightmares.”
Cybil sipped. Took a cracker and pushed it through some crab dip. “I know. I was just kidding. I wouldn’t get one of those things if my life depended on it. Bad stuff happens.”
Diana heard the pipes turn on, water running, and then more footsteps. Slow, measured. Across the second floor and then down the stairs. Diana pulled out the turkey, and began to baste it some more. Ford walked in with bedhead, eyes at half-mast. A white tank top, and still wearing his postal pants. Everyone was quiet. Cybil gave him a quick hug, which Ford half received, half ignored. He went to the refrigerator, took out a carton of Tropicana orange juice, undid the cap and then took a long swig. After he did, he turned, orange juice still in hand, smiled, and extended his free hand to Norman.
“What’s up, pal?” he said.
He had gone upstairs to shower after that, come down a half hour later with his hair combed neat. A button-down Oxford and pleated baby-blue corduroy pants an inch too short on the ankle. Polo cologne. The turkey had been ready for some time and Diana was worrying that even out of the oven it would overcook with the foil still on it, and that wouldn’t be good. She needed it to be good—she needed it to be perfect. They sat in the dining room, the chandelier with curved glass bulbs above them. The room was long and narrow and fairly dark—just one window at the back of the room, long red drapes that had come with the house; Ford had insisted she leave them up—and the bricks on the hearth were covered in green enamel. There was a lot about the house that Diana would have changed, would have renovated, to make it hers, to make it new if it were just up to her. But much of the decor reminded Ford of the time he spent down here when he was young, he said, and it gave the house character. Antiques, he said. Nobody gets rid of antiques.
On one wall was an oval gilded mirror with a gilded candle holder on either side, and on the opposite was a framed reproduction of John Singer Sargent’s painting The Daughters of Edward Darly Boit. Four young Victorian girls, two—twins—chatting in the background, in the shadows, another in a red dress and white apron standing alone, and the fourth, the smallest, sitting splay-legged with a doll on the floor, staring at the artist. The mirror had come with the house, but Diana had brought the picture, had always loved it, making a point to go visit it each time she went into the Museum of Fine Arts since she had been in high school. She had taken art classes up until she was sixteen, and they made several trips to the museum. She had even thought about studying art in college, if even just as a minor, but then of course all that had all fallen through. She had read that the girls in the painting had gone mad upon reaching adulthood, which just made the piece a little more haunting. Ford didn’t like the picture, but she had won out on that one. A rare victory, but as a concession she had been forced to allow a poster of the Milky Way in their bedroom. Ford said he liked to look at it while falling asleep in the morning. He said it comforted him.
He stood at the head of the table, sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he carved the turkey, taking over the show. But Diana didn’t mind. At least he was socializing, being friendly. He had switched from champagne to whiskey, but she, Cybil, and Norman had stuck to the wine. Now Cybil’s cheeks and her nose had turned pink.
“Do you remember all the skunks down here when we were little?” she asked Ford.
“There was like an army of them,” Ford said, forking some mashed potatoes.
“Melanie used to call them ’kunks,” Cybil said. “She couldn’t say the skunks.”
“Who is Melanie?” Samantha asked.
Cybil patted her head. “Our little sister.”
Ford kept eating, appearing not to acknowledge the name.
“Didn’t they tree you once?” Cybil said. “You climbed up the oak tree.”
Ford stopped eating. “I had no choice. There was like three or four of them. I was playing wiffle ball in the backyard, and it was almost dark, and they were all coming out of the bushes, marching right at me. It was either climb the tree or get sprayed.” He looked at Samantha, rubbed her head and winked. “Little stinkers.”
“How old were you?” Diana asked.
“I don’t know. Eleven or twelve. Something like that. They were probably heading for the trash, but it seemed like they were just circling the tree for like forever.”
“You were so cute, trying to scramble higher and higher,” Cybil said. We were watching from the window, and then Auntie peeked out and saw you, and she disappeared into the pantry and then goes marching out into the backyard, blowing a whistle, and waving this umbrella around. It was hysterical. This little hunched, eighty-year-old lady, blowing a whistle to scare away skunks.”
“I know,” Ford said. “She saved me.” He winked at Samantha again, and then poured himself another half glass of whiskey.
When they finished eating, Diana served the pies and the torte and coffee—a glass of Coke for Samantha. Ford stared across the table, toward Diana, but he didn’t appear to be looking at her, rather past her. Looking into the mirror on the wall behind her. His face was flushed, his eyes taking on the empty glaze they reached when he had way too much to drink, and Diana was beginnin
g to get nervous. Samantha had been rambling, talking about a boy in her preschool class—Ronald Mooney, who was always sitting in the corner, always in trouble—and the bow atop her head was coming undone.
“He was crawling on the floor on Tuesday, barking like a dog,” she said. “He thinks he’s a dog.”
“Maybe he is,” said Cybil.
“No,” said Samantha. “His nose isn’t wet, and he doesn’t have a tail. Dogs have tails.”
“Not all of them,” said Cybil, “Sometimes they clip them off.”
“Well, I know he isn’t really a dog,” said Samantha, “because he doesn’t even have fleas. And if he was a dog, Mrs. Kearney wouldn’t make him sit in the corner, she’d make him go outside. He told me he’s going to shoot Mrs. Kearney someday when she isn’t looking.”
“Well, he sounds like a fine young man,” said Diana.
Norman laughed. “All little boys talk about that stuff, it’s completely normal.”
“It’s not normal,” Cybil said to him. “It’s wrong. These kids are exposed to it so much, they think nothing of it, and then look what happens. They grow up and walk into a mall and go on a shooting spree.”
“He doesn’t have a gun.” Samantha looked down and adjusted something on her lap. Diana hadn’t noticed her bringing anything in, and she wondered if she had some food down there, something she didn’t want to eat. But she had told her she didn’t have to eat anything she didn’t want to, so she didn’t understand why she would go and hide it. Diana had dimmed the chandelier when they started dessert, and now they had candles going. “He has a bow and arrow,” Samantha said.
“There you go,” said Norman. “He’s going to go on an archery spree.”
“You’re missing the point,” Cybil said to him.
“No, I’m not,” said Norman, “I know what you’re saying. I’m just saying kids are going to be kids, and you shouldn’t sound the alarm every time they say something that might be a little concerning if said by an adult.” He looked at Ford. “Now if somebody at your work said something like that, I’d think everyone’s ears would light up.” He laughed a little. “Am I right?”
Ford was still staring into the mirror, and for Diana, it was beginning to feel even more disquieting. Up until ten minutes before, things had felt to be going as well as could be hoped. He had been talking to Norman about football some more, and then politics, the past election. And he had even been laughing a little.
Now he turned and looked at Norman. “My work?”
“I mean because of all the postal rampages. It seems every time you open the paper you read about some postal carrier, Vietnam vet, shooting up all his co-workers. It’s like an epidemic.”
“Norman,” Cybil said, “stop.”
Ford sipped his whiskey. “That’s okay. We just had one of those last week. I’m lucky I work the night shift or I’d be dead right now.”
Norman hesitated. “I was just joking.”
Cybil put her hand over his. “Norman always carries a joke a little too far.”
“I didn’t mean anything by it,” said Norman. “Besides, Ford can take a joke, just because you can’t.”
“I can take lots of jokes,” Ford said. “I’ve been taking them my whole life.” He put the glass down and looked at Norman. “I’m taking one right now.”
The table was silent, and Diana struggled to think of something to change the subject. She had been prepared for anything uncomfortable that might come up, ready with other topics to switch to, but now she could think of nothing. Her mind a blank, her fingertips tight against the bottom of the table.
“Well, Ronald Mooney wouldn’t like mailmen, either,” said Samantha.
“Why not?” asked Cybil.
“Because,” said Samantha, “he’s a dog.” She lifted what she had on her lap now.
A doll.
One of the china dolls.
Black hair and blue velvet dress. Jewel.
She ran her hand back over the doll’s head, and Diana felt her heart begin to stutter. She tried to catch the little girl’s eyes, to send her a message before Ford looked her way, but Samantha wasn’t looking at Dianna.
Ford did look at her now, up and down, hesitation in his eyes. “Hey, Sam? Where did you get that doll?”
Samantha looked at him, a deer in the headlights. She put the doll back down on her lap.
“I asked you a question,” Ford said.
Samantha didn’t answer.
Diana started to speak, but Ford held his hand up in her face. “Sam,” he said again, “I asked you a question. Where did you get that doll?”
“In the back parlor,” she said quietly.
“And what’s the rule about the dolls?” Ford asked.
“I don’t get it,” said Cybil. “What’s the rule about the dolls?”
“Sam knows the rule, don’t you, Sam?” Ford asked.
Samantha was still staring at him, wide-eyed.
“Ford doesn’t like her playing with them because he says they’re antiques,” Diana said. “Sam, just put the doll back.”
Samantha nodded, and started to slide off her chair.
“No,” said Ford. “Sam still hasn’t answered me. What’s the rule, Sam?”
“Oh, Ford,” said Cybil, “give me a break. Those dolls are a thousand years old. We played with them all the time when we were kids. She’s only little. Leave her alone.”
“That was then, this is now,” Ford said. “This is my house now, and if I want your opinion, you’ll be the first one to know. Sam, I asked you a question.”
“Cassie said I could,” Samantha whispered.
“Cassie?” Ford asked, looking confused. “Who the hell is Cassie?”
“Ford, I told her she can play with it,” broke in Diana.
“Cassie upstairs,” said Samantha.
Ford scowled. “What are you talking about?”
“Cassie is her imaginary friend,” said Diana. “Jesus, Ford, I told you I told her she can play with it—it’s not her fault—let’s not make a big deal out of it. Samantha, just put the doll back.”
Ford turned to Diana, his eyes slightly more alive. “How can I expect her to listen to me when you won’t? She’s sees that you don’t listen to me, Diana, and what do you think she does?”
Diana took a breath. “Ford. Enough.” She turned to Sam. “Honey, just put the doll back.”
“Those dolls are well over a hundred years old, and worth a lot of money,” Ford said, “and once they’re broken, once she breaks them, do you know how much they’re going to be worth then?”
“Ford, you’re being ridiculous,” said Cybil.
Ford shook his head. “That’s me. Mr. Ridiculous. I have everyone laughing.”
“Sam,” Diana said again, and with that the little girl jumped from the chair and hurried out of the room.
“Ford, honestly,” Cybil said, “I don’t see what the big deal is either. She’s a little girl, they like to play with dolls. That’s what they’re there for. Besides there’s like ten of them, right? Why don’t you just let her have one, and you can keep the others safe so you can play with them yourself.”
Ford nodded. “And why don’t you just mind your own goddamn fucking business?”
“She’s my niece,” said Cybil, “it is my business.”
Ford looked into his whiskey. “You know the problem with you, Cybil? You don’t know what is your business, and what’s not. Ever since we were kids, you’ve always been sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong. It gets a little annoying. You’re kind of a cunt.”
Diana felt her heart seize.
“Hey!” snapped Norman. “Jesus Christ!”
“I’m not Jesus Christ,” said Ford, “and neither is she. Mary Magdalene maybe. She was a slut when we were young.”
“Enough.” Norman jumped up at the table, and as he did, Diana moved with him, standing between him and Ford.
“Okay,” Diana said, her voice beginning to shake. “L
et’s just end this now. This is ridiculous. It was just a doll. Ford, come on, we were having a nice time. It’s Thanksgiving.”
Ford hadn’t moved from his seat. “What are you going to do, Norman?” Ford asked. “Beat me up? Are you going to fight me in my own house?”
“I’m not going to let you talk to her that way,” Norman said.
Ford shrugged. “Then don’t.” He sipped his drink again. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Norman didn’t move. Ford locked with his eyes. Waited. After a moment, he sighed. “So much for the cavalry.” He stood up. “Now get the fuck out of my house.”
Norman still didn’t move.
Ford stepped forward quickly, and Norman flinched, drawing his head back. Ford stopped, still staring him down.
“Ford, calm down,” Diana said. “You’re being an ass.”
“I said get the fuck out of my house, Norman.”
Cybil started to cry. “You’re just like Daddy,” she said to Ford. “I swear to God. You don’t deserve these two. You’re a drunk.”
Ford nodded. “Yeah, that’s right. I’m a drunk. Me. I’m the only one drinking here.”
“You’re the only one acting like a asshole,” said Cybil.
“Out.” Ford looked at Cybil. “You, too. Don’t come back. Ever.”
Diana shook her head. “Why do you have to do this? We were having a nice time.”
Ford shrugged. “Because I’m a postal worker, right? Isn’t that what we do? Go psycho. That’s what Norman thinks. Right, Norman?”
Cybil took Norman’s arm, pulling him gently away, saying “Let’s just go.” Diana kept her ground between the two men, just in case Ford decided to lunge. She didn’t think he would, not unless Norman moved first, but she couldn’t be sure. He had only called Norman on because he had sensed fear in him, that was all; otherwise, he never would have pushed it so far.
Ford took his seat back at the head of the table. Diana looked around for Samantha, but the little girl was nowhere in sight. She figured she was upstairs. Afraid to come down. Ford was staring at Diana.
In the Midst of the Sea Page 11
