The Beans of Egypt, Maine

by Carolyn Chute

  “What’s that?” asks Dale, pointing to the bag Bonny Loo grasps to her Cheerios T-shirt.

  Bonny Loo says, “Shut up, QUEER-HEAD!”

  Dale sneers, “Shut up, banana-head.”

  Bonny Loo swipes at Dale.

  Jamie Lombard puts both arms around Bonny Loo . . . They kiss.

  Rubie pounds with a wrench, trying to loosen something—clang! clang! clang! clang!

  I says, “Well . . . come in . . . I’ll make us all a sandwich.” I walk ahead of them. My hair swings in a hard yellow braid across my back.

  I catch Jamie glancing back at his tractor, as if his father may have warned him: If you take your eyes off that piece of equipment, boy, it’ll be dismantled when you look again; I wouldn’t trust them Beans no farther than I could throw one.

  Pinkie gets out of the sewing basket and butts his head into Jamie’s pant legs. Jamie’s eyes only snatch at my face as they snatch on each other object in the room.

  Somethin’ slams against the house. Prob’ly a wrench: Rubie’s mad at the truck.

  Bonny Loo pulls a box from the bag. “Wee Gee!” she rejoices.

  Dale wrinkles his nose. “What’s Wee Gee?”

  “It’s the work of the Devil,” I say, takin’ bread from the drawer.

  Bonny Loo gives me a red look.

  Dale pats the box.

  Bonny Loo pulls it away. “Hands off, shrimp,” she says.

  I says, “I do not want that Ouija in my house . . . Take it outta here.”

  “What’s the matter now, Ma?!” Bonny Loo says in a strangled voice.

  Dale pats the box again.

  “If you ask a Ouija ‘Who are you?’ it will tell you it is Satan speaking,” I say softly.

  Bonny Loo giggles. “That’s a crock.”

  Through the plastic window, Rubie’s snarls seem only inches away. Then a thump. I guess he’s kicking the truck. Thump thump thump thwanggggg.

  Jamie’s eyes drift over the pails of water by the stove, the snowshoe harnesses scattered on the workbench, a Ball jar of tomato juice still sealed.

  I step forward. “What did you say, Bonny?”

  “I said that’s a CROCK!” She bares her teeth at me . . . the swollen gums.

  “It’s the first step to black magic,” I says. “It starts out innocent, of course, but next thing you know, there’s no turnin’ back.”

  “MA!” Bonny Loo slaps the Ouija box onto the table. Dale pats it again.

  I can hear through the plastic of one window, Rubie shouting at his truck, “Goddam cocksuckin’ son of a howuh!”

  Jamie’s green eyes slide over me, then slide away.

  Bonny Loo presses her large breasts into Jamie’s side . . . “Did I tell you my mother is a religious FREAK?”

  A small smile flexes the corners of Jamie’s perfect mouth.

  The funeral parlor man said he could not work miracles with Beal’s bullet-riddled head and hands, those parts that would show. “I advise a closed casket, Mrs. Bean . . . and we have a selection of economy-priced caskets that are tasteful and—I might add—quite nice.”

  I said, “Burn him.”

  He said, “You will want a casket for the service.”

  I said, “Burn him in a plastic bag . . . an old sheet.” BURN BEAL.

  He was reluctant, raised his hands like a kindly pastor . . .

  I cut him off. “What time will you burn him?” BURN BEAL.

  He said he didn’t have a schedule for cremation. He couldn’t tell me when.

  I said, “I’m stayin’ with my husband’s cousin, Rosie Gallant, for a few days . . . Here’s her phone.” I wrote the number on the back of one of his little calling cards. I said, “Call me when you do it.”

  She clings to Jamie in the way of men and women. They are only kids. This is ridiculous. I look into Jamie’s green eyes and I simper.

  Bonny Loo pulls away from him, circles me, her glasses catching the light of the window each time she passes. “Whaddya think, Jamie? Ain’t my mother the kind of woman you see with a little kerchief on her head and a rag in her hand . . . on her hands and knees . . . PREGNANT . . . pregnant every year because that’s what the church tells her to do?”

  Jamie just smiles. I hate his green eyes.

  Bonny Loo circles me slowly.

  Dale’s chin is dimpling . . . about to cry. His eyes spill over.

  Bonny Loo pauses behind me. “But here’s the sad part.” Bonny Loo imitates violins through her teeth. “Early widowhood . . . Yep . . . Alone in her bed.”

  “Stop makin’ Ma sad!” Dale says. He wipes his eyes.

  “This is where the God part comes in.” Bonny Loo whispers at my back. “Ma lays in there in bed and reads them Scriptures . . . and it’s spooky . . . very spooky. She don’t use ’em against you, like them other church guys do . . . No . . . She keeps it to herself. But Ma . . . she goes to church every single Sunday since Beal died . . . an’ drags us kids along . . . and there we sit and there she sits . . . There’s Earlene Bean all sweet and little, and the pastor, he tells us all we are going to have everlasting life. And he says poor Earlene Bean the widow, she will have everlasting life! And sweet Earlene Bean’s just as happy as a pig in shit.”

  I think of all the winters to come . . . of all the snows as one snow . . . deadly deep. HE BURNED AT 10:23 P.M. On Rosie’s sofa bed I lay on my side, seeing the broad architecture of my husband’s back CURL UP, DRIZZLE OFF THE BONE, GURGLE INTO A POOL THE COLOR AND TEXTURE OF HOT CHICKEN FAT WHICH WILL BE COLD CHICKEN FAT . . . in time. I see HIS BEARD pulled ruler straight by the upright fire. I see his scowling face explode.

  Bonny Loo steps around and faces me. She’s grinning at me no more than an inch from my mouth and nose. She smells like cigarettes. “Practice what you preach, Ma . . . all that rantin’ and ravin’ . . . givin’ us the WORD on this Wee Gee game . . . Meanwhile, you’re such an interestin’ type lady. Sweet holy righteous widow lady is in a very peculiar situation with a warden-basher. A warden-basher. What do you think God thinks about that, Ma? And the people at church? Huh? You think they approve of all this hot ’n’ bothered stuff that’s about to happen with the warden-basher? What if the church says throw him out? You gonna do that? You oughta check inta that, Ma, before you fuss over us playin’ with this little game!”

  She sets square on a wooden chair. “Come on, Jamie. Let’s play WEE GEE!”

  8

  RUBIE LOOKS at my face as he pulls the rubber from the jar of warm tomato juice and raises it to his mouth.

  Bonny Loo and Jamie work the plastic movable piece with their fingertips. Dale watches the board open-mouthed.

  I can easily see that Rubie’s been punchin’ his truck. His knuckles are bleedin’. They look like red rags.

  They have asked Ouija a question about the weather.

  Rubie watches my face.

  Bonny Loo and Dale cheer loudly. “No more snow this week!” Bonny Loo giggles.

  “Let me ask it somethin’!” Dale whines.

  “NO!” Bonny Loo screams. “Not yet.” She turns and looks me in the eye.

  Rubie is staring at me. He sets the empty cannin’ jar on the workbench. “What the fuck’s the matter?” he says in his gritty dark voice. He hunches himself up in a way that looks protective. I know Jamie’s presence is making him tense.

  I pick up my food stamps from the counter and start to count them in a whisper.

  Rubie grins, pokes me. “Huh? What’s up?”

  Bonny Loo says, “I thought of one. A good one.” She and Jamie reposition the board on their knees.

  Rubie looks at the kids. There’s tomato juice dripping from his mustache. His eyes come back to me. “I said, what’s goin’ on?” He wipes his mustache, thank God.

  I write RAISINS on my grocery list. I count out all my food-stamp ones . . . One of them seesaws to the floor.

  Rubie draws a deep breath as if to smell my fear.

  Through smiling, parted teeth, Bonny Loo says, “My que
stion is”—she looks me in the eye—”How many little chickens we gonna get from the old hen now that we got another great big cock in the house?”

  Rubie wipes his mustache again on his sleeve. On his face there’s almost boyish confusion.

  Dale pats the Ouija board and murmurs, “When’s it my turn, you guys?”

  Rubie’s lookin’ hard at the Ouija board, as if unable to focus.

  Bonny Loo says, “Ma! Ain’t that a good question?”

  I say, “Bonny, why you tryin’ ta torture me?”

  Bonny Loo looks into Jamie’s eyes and giggles. But Jamie’s eyes are on his fingers, his beautiful narrow body stiff with discomfort.

  Bonny Loo gives the plastic Ouija piece a shove. “Wee Gee says Ma is dyin’ ta get started!” Her eyes brush Rubie’s crotch.

  I scream, “No I AIN’T dyin’ ta get started . . . You are WRONG! I AIN’T . . . I AIN’T . . . He ain’t NEVER gonna TOUCH ME!!” All I can see of Rubie’s face through these tears is a blur of skin . . . and the black mustache. Rubie pivots, moves toward the table. He says deeply, “Put the goddam game away or you’ll be shittin’ it out in pieces.” He cracks his knuckles luxuriously. “Now.”

  9

  I FINISH SAYIN’ GRACE with a husky “Amen!” Then Rubie opens his eyes and grunts. He eats canned clams, potatoes, string beans, butter danglin’ from his mustache, chewed-up biscuit fallin’ back to his plate. He raises his drinkin’ jar of milk and sucks. He says, “Gimme the buttah!” Bonny Loo pushes the butter at him. He hacks off a piece with his hunting knife. Dale’s mouth opens just a little for a forkful of potato, shuttin’ quick.

  Rubie snarls, “Where’s my fork? Who took my fork?”

  I get up, get him a new fork. I spy the other fork down by his boot.

  Dale says, “Ma! I can’t eat.”

  “Well, don’t eat, then,” I says.

  Bonny Loo eats. Her glasses are settled low on her sprawling Bean nose. She looks only at her plate, the job of jabbing green beans.

  Pinkie jumps on the table, his hind foot in the clam platter, lookin’ surprised, like somebody tossed him there.

  “Get the hell outta here!” Rubie bellows. He stands. His chair almost drops behind him.

  Pinkie leaps away.

  Rubie straddles his chair like he’s ridin’ a horse, one of his scabbed-over hands hoverin’ over the salt before snatchin’ it up. I picture his heart in its weakened state. I wonder how a bad heart looks different from a good heart.

  He sees me staring at the center of his chest. “Whatchoo lookin’ at?” he says huskily.

  “I ain’t lookin’ at nuthin’,” I says.

  10

  AFTER SUPPER, Rubie gets hammers from the shed and red rolls of caps from a trunk in the closet. He and Dale set at the table and hit the caps. Rubie laughs, shakes his head. Bang! Bang! Dale is cautious. The hammer balances lightly in his hand. Dale watches Rubie’s face and Rubie is grinning at him.

  11

  IN THE NIGHT, I wake up to use my toilet pail in the corner of my room. I try not to make much of a trickling noise ’cause I know he’s out there just on the other side of the swan curtain. When I get done, I go over and lift the curtain. He’s in the red rocker . . . by the light of the lamp . . . grippin’ the rocker arms. His eyes look right at me. He smiles.

  12

  AFTER TWO MORE DAYS of heavy snow, Rubie’s oldest son, Steve, comes into the dooryard in a brand-new Chevy truck to plow us. There’s a tea-color moon but not many stars. Rubie says, “Earlene, get your coat, we’re gonna ride the back roads tonight! And talk about the old days!”

  I says, “I’d love to, Beal!”

  He opens his long and short fingers over my shoulder and drives the cakey yellow claw into the bone. “My name ain’t Beal. It’s Reuben. REUBEN. Don’t you never call me nuthin’ but that!”

  I says, “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

  He takes his plaid jacket down from behind the door.

  When I tell Bonny Loo I’m goin’, her glasses catch the queer flood of light from her batt’ry lamp, and I see the cold, genius amusement in her smile. She licks her lips. “Have a good time,” she says. She returns to her readin’. I step over Dale, who is sleepin’ in a ball, the blankets coverin’ even his head.

  Rubie is at the wheel, his eyes glittering. I sit in the middle, pixie-sized between them. Rubie drives with both hands, kinda hunched over. Steve don’t wear a jacket, just a green T-shirt and overalls, gloves. He has blue eyes. He smells like the woods and chain-saw oil.

  He offers Rubie a job runnin’ a chipper.

  Rubie snarls, “Piss piddlin’ poor work to give your old man!”

  “That’s all we got for ya now, Dad . . . You’re gonna need money quick.” He grins.

  Rubie snorts. He rolls the new truck out onto the main road slow and easy. “I’ll take your damn chipper job. And with some good luck I’ll fall in.”

  Steve plays with the radio. On his twisting, massive arm he’s got a tattoo of a rose.

  He offers me a cigarette. I say, “I got my own, thank you.”

  He waves the pack in front of his father.

  “I give ’em up,” Rubie says.

  Steve chuckles. “I don’t believe it, Dad. By God, the law took and pussyfied you.”

  We ride along for a few miles, with Steve movin’ the radio stations. I see the tea-color moon riding with us, sailin’ through the pines and electricity wires.

  Now they’re talkin’ woods. Steve turns off the radio and Rubie asks about the price of pulp, the price of logs, chips, insurances, and equipment. Woods. Woods. Woods.

  Now they been talkin’ woods for what seems like a good hour. Me, I just watch the moon keepin’ up with us along the roads.

  Then Rubie says, “Thought I’d go up an’ see my little girls.”

  Steve groans. “I knew it, a friggin’ fight.” Steve picks at the black mole alongside his mouth. He’s clean-shaven . . . no whiskers atall. He says, “Dad . . . if you get in trouble, ain’t it curtains for ya?”

  Rubie says, “Jesus! I’m only gonna see my babies . . . No fightin’ ’bout it. Besides, nobody’s drinkin’. We’re like the Boy Scouts here. Pure goodness.”

  Steve says, “I ain’t never seen you be able to walk away from a fight. I bet ya fifty you kick in somebody’s face tonight.”

  Rubie’s arm lunges across me to his boy. “SHAKE, smartass!”

  They shake.

  We ride with the tea-color moon. Steve looks at me, laughs low. “Dad . . . she your woman now?” He blows smoke through his teeth. “Huh, Dad? Earlene your new woman? You cat!”

  Silence.

  Steve looks at me. “Earlene . . . my ol’ man here . . . he’s pretty good, huh?” Steve laughs a high laugh like a wicked witch.

  Silence.

  Steve looks at his father, looks his father up and down. “Earlene . . . my ol’ man here . . . he’s old enough to be your ol’ man, too, ya know.” He laughs through his nose.

  Silence. I don’t say nuthin’. Rubie don’t say nuthin’.

  Steve throws his shoulders back. He snickers and smoke pours from his face. “You’re a good sport, Earlene . . . Shit,” he says, and he pats my knee.

  I see Rubie’s hands high on the wheel, the long and short fingers—the claw. He swings the new truck up onto the highway, headed for East Egypt.

  Now they’re talkin’ some more about woods. Steve’s got five kids—all of ’em got his startled-lookin’ blue eyes—but Rubie, he don’t ask how the grandkids are.

  We turn into Madeline’s yard.

  Madeline lives in the village in a white Colonial with black shutters. Eight blue spruce trees almost hide it from the road. It’s so queer to know she lives here now in this place that’s ablaze with electric lights. The yard is full of new cars. Kaiser trots up to the truck and peers in at Rubie with his huge yellow face. With both hands, Rubie hammers the truck door into Kaiser’s body. Kaiser yips. He smells Rubie’s pant legs.
“FUCK OFF!” Rubie screams.

  Kaiser growls.

  The moon stands on one of the two broad chimneys.

  Rubie pounds on the side door to the house, not the lighted back door everyone else apparently uses. He don’t use the light-up door buzzer. A light comes on over this door now. Kaiser barks hard as Rubie keeps pounding.

  Steve and I stand just within the light. Kaiser takes a whiff of Steve. He’s almost tall enough to smell at Steve’s rose tattoo.

  Virginia opens the door, her black hair braided tight and ironlike around her head. She squints at Rubie’s face.

  “Which one are you?” Rubie marvels.

  She grips his forearm. “You’re my father.” This is not a question.

  Rubie muckles onto her long body, her painted fingernails meeting at the center of his back. She strokes the black-and-red plaid wool. He pushes his mustache up and down her throat. “MMMMMMMM!” he growls, kissin’ and kissin’.

  Kaiser sneaks quick sniffs at Rubie’s legs and barks.

  Steve drops a cigarette in the snow. He murmurs, “First comes the lovin’, then comes the fightin’.”

  Madeline don’t come to the door. Warren does. He’s wearin’ a pair of them polyester pants, the color of a smoked picnic ham, his pale shirt open at the throat. On the outside of the house, level with Warren’s face, is a bronze sign: THE OLSENS.

  I guess he expects someone to say somethin’ to him. He clasps his hands before him as if to lead a large group in prayer.

  He looks on as Virginia slides her body up and down Rubie’s wool jacket. She is crying . . . laughing . . . crying. “I love you, Daddy! I knew you’d be here. I been gettin’ your cards . . . I says to myself . . . Daddy will be here today! When he gets home, the first thing he’ll do is find us! I could squeeze you to pieces!”

  I don’t remember Virginia to talk this much. When we all lived together she was just there, arrogant and sullen.

  This brand-new excited Virginia does not convince me.

  Kaiser smells at the legs of my jeans. His tail slides back and forth in vague recognition. I pat his head.