She chattered while I searched. Under the front seat, I found two clippies and a red rag.
“You should’ve seen Linda Kay when Cly kissed you.”
The blood rushed up my neck to my face. My first kiss, and the whole world witnessed it.
“What’s it to her? He was my date.”
“Said she’d make sure her father knew about the PDA.”
“What’s that?”
“Public display of affection. Commandment number five on Howdy Doody’s list.”
“I’m sure we weren’t the only ones. I thought I saw Mike nibbling your ear. That’s PDA if I ever saw it.”
“You were the only one she saw, bein’s how she’s so love struck with Cly.”
“Who doesn’t return the feeling, I assure you.” In the backseat, I ran my hands between the cushions, still hoping for a miracle. A pencil, two pennies, and a used tissue turned up. No pearls.
“Mr. Howard thinks I’m a delinquent in the making anyway, so I’m sure Linda Kay will give him a reason to keep his eyes on me.” I bugged out my eyes as I said it, which made Tuwana laugh.
“You’ll never believe what else.”
“Not more Linda Kay whining, I hope.”
“No. Something cool. Mike’s mom told Mother that the bank in town needs a receptionist. Well, it just so happens, Mother’s been hinting around to Daddy she needs a career. No sense wasting her steno school certificate, you know.” Tuwana’s eyes shimmered.
“Your mother? Going to work? Why?”
“For the money, what else? This isn’t the Dark Ages anymore. Mother says women today have real jobs, not just running the cash register down at the Piggly Wiggly. She interviews at the bank tomorrow.”
“Too bad Aunt Vadine can’t have the job. Give her something to do besides wear out the couch cushions all day.”
“Mother says she’s just waiting to make her move.”
“Who?”
“Your beloved aunt, that’s who.”
“How’s that?”
“Etiquette requires a certain period of mourning, which is what your aunt is doing, letting your daddy get over your mother. It’s a known fact men can’t manage without a wife, so think about it. She’s just waiting in the wings for him to need a woman, then, bingo, here I am. She’ll turn on the charm, and before you can say Robinson Crusoe, they’ll be tying the knot, giving you a new mother.”
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Not only that, it’s sick. Daddy doesn’t like her much better than I do. Not in a million years.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
* * *
On Monday, Mr. Borden, the science teacher, assigned a research paper for the third six weeks—a survey of a scientific career. I chose veterinary medicine since I was crazy about Scarlett. And Goldie’s parakeets. I was determined to make an A so Mr. Howard wouldn’t think I’d become a moron. Every time I saw him patrolling the halls, creepie-crawlies worked up the hair on my neck. Has Linda Kay tattled yet?
Brucellosis, trichinella roundworms, and canine rabies rolled off my tongue at the supper table just as easily as if I were discussing the latest fashions or what the lunchroom ladies served at school.
“Interesting,” Daddy said, and then excused himself to sit on the porch and smoke.
The minute he left, Aunt Vadine told me how disgusting it was to hear about worms at the supper table after her efforts to provide a pleasant family meal, and it was no wonder Daddy had to go outside and smoke. My behavior must be a great disappointment to him, blah, blah, blah.
In my opinion, her cooking could have been the cause of his quick exits. That or the Evening in Paris perfume she drenched herself in.
Daddy started keeping to himself more. No more thumps on the arm and “How’s it going, Sis?” Sometimes he’d be outside for two or three hours, way after dark, sitting on the porch or off walking somewhere. Aunt Vadine camped out on the couch, watched her Westerns on television. Gunsmoke. Maverick. That new show The Rifleman. She watched them all. I thought she must be homesick for West Texas. I hoped so, anyway.
Tuwana went on forever and a day with her crystal-ball predictions about Aunt Vadine becoming Daddy’s new wife and about her mother’s new job. “I don’t care if I am paid fifty cents an hour, babysitting every day is humiliating. And I get zip for fixing supper.” Or, “Mother says with her new job we can afford braces for my teeth. This time next year, I’ll be the girl with the Pepsodent smile!” Her fake grin revealed only the teeniest ripple of unevenness along the bottom.
Cly started staying after school for basketball practice and riding home with Doobie, who now had his license. When Doobie got his brother’s hand-me-down, rusted-out Mercury, he acted like it was a Rolls-Royce. Cly waved at me in the halls at school, but that was about it.
The only one who cared if I existed was Scarlett, who licked my face and loved me because I took her for long walks.
Not a day went by that I didn’t think about Mama’s hatbox. Who were the letters from? What did they say? A part of me was even more afraid of the letters than I had been of the garage. What if I found out Mama had a past she was ashamed of? Or that she was ashamed of me? Was it right to read someone’s confidential mail even though they were dead? Then fury would bubble up like a hissing teapot—a fury with Mama’s name on it. Nothing could erase the terrible fact that she killed herself. Leaving me. And Daddy. That wasn’t right either.
The week before Thanksgiving, I made up my mind. So what if they were personal? Maybe they held a clue about why Aunt Vadine acted like she did. With Scarlett at my side, I went to the garage. The door was cracked open. Daddy’s voice came from inside, but I couldn’t tell who he was talking to. I listened for a minute, but the talking had stopped. Should I go in? As I stood there trying to decide what to do, I heard a muffled sound, like the time when Daddy sat beside my bed and cried.
Daddy goes into the garage and cries about Mama? It shocked me. All this time I thought I was the only one who cried. Or cared.
[ TWENTY-NINE ]
THE KUYKENDALLS INVITED US for Thanksgiving dinner, and Goldie promised to make her famous blueberry cobbler. I went over early to help Goldie, who had me take care of the general aviary duties while she bustled around the kitchen, basting, chopping, whipping, and what all.
The birds chattered and ruffled their feathers at me while I scrubbed and refilled their water and food bowls, measuring out the different seeds and vitamin mixtures (tonics, Goldie called them). I knew the parakeets all by name and chattered bird talk back at them as I yanked dirty liners from their trays and put in new ones. When I got to the last row and shooed out the parakeets, a rush of wings and sassy twittering met me. I kept up the tempo of cleaning and watering even though the smell of turkey and sage dressing coming from Goldie’s kitchen made my stomach rumble in anticipation.
When I unlatched Lady Aster’s box, I stood back since she always came out like a streak of lightning, heading straight for the bird bath, splashing water every which way announcing this was her kingdom. She didn’t swoop. Didn’t come out at all. Nothing. I peered inside and saw her huddled in the far corner, a heap of blue and yellow feathers. Dull black eyes, like a pair of peppercorns, stared back.
A familiar knot formed in my throat. I couldn’t even tell if she was breathing.
Just like Mama.
I ran through the workroom into the kitchen. “Help! There’s something wrong with Lady Aster.”
Goldie dropped the pan in her hands, and a crash of metal echoed from the walls. She hurried past me. I followed and pointed to the open cage, hoping to see Lady Aster swoosh out and peck at us, like the joke was on us, but she didn’t. No cheeping. No flying out. Goldie reached deep inside and lifted the bird in her thick fingers, cradling her in the palm of her hand as she cooed, “What is it, baby? You can tell Goldie.” The confetti-sized yellow beak opened, but no peep. Then the downy head went limp in Goldie’s hand, Lady Aster’s bead-like ey
es opened in a frozen stare.
Goldie carried Lady Aster, her fragile treasure, into the front room and dropped to the couch like a sack of potatoes.
“Goldie, what is it?” George came from the bedroom, buttoning his shirt. “Your arm—you’ve burned it. Quick, Sammie, get the butter from the icebox.”
I ran to the kitchen, found a stick of butter, and brought it back. Goldie waved me away, still cradling Lady Aster against her blueberry-stained apron.
George lowered himself beside Goldie, wiping a tear from her cheek with his fingers. An ugly blister as wide as a Curad bandage had risen on her right wrist. I handed George the butter and remembered the mess in the kitchen.
Gas flames, blue and orange tongues, licked up from an empty burner, and a Dutch oven lay on its side on the countertop. Potatoes tumbled from the pot, into the sink, on the floor. I switched off the burner and started picking up the scattered potatoes. That’s when I heard Daddy and Aunt Vadine arrive.
Aunt Vadine marched right into the kitchen, carrying a dish in her hands.
“Samantha.” Extra syllable on the Sa-ma-an-tha. “I thought you’d come to help Goldie, and instead you’ve made the most horrendous mess. Where do you want the pea salad?”
Gravy bubbled on the stove, and I’d ground a potato into mush on the floor. Whiffs of Aunt Vadine’s Evening in Paris cologne and roast turkey swirled around in the tiny kitchen. I gritted my teeth and took the bowl from her hand just as a green and yellow parakeet flew past my face, flapping and screeching.
Oh no! I’d left the door to the aviary open.
I slipped on the smashed potato and leapt across the dining space to secure the door before a whole swarm came through. Aunt Vadine flailed her arms around her head when the poor thing tried to land in her hair.
“I’ve been attacked! Get that nasty thing away from me.” She stumbled into the front room as Daddy and George came to see what had caused all the excitement.
I looked around the kitchen, and for some reason the whole thing struck me as hilarious. Potatoes every which way. A parakeet—Charlie, I thought it was—on the loose, and Aunt Vadine, who came in without a clue about Lady Aster. It wasn’t Aunt Vadine’s fault, but every time I thought of her fighting off her attacker, I let out another giggle.
Pull yourself together, Sammie.
I cleaned the mess up and made one last check to see that everything was okay before I went to the front room and sat with Goldie, who was still holding the clump of feathers.
Her eyes, bleary and red, stared at a spot on the floor just past the tips of her lace-up black shoes, the same ones she wore every day of her life. Putting my head on Goldie’s shoulder, I told her how sorry I was and ran a finger over the lifeless blue and yellow feathers.
Aunt Vadine sat in an armchair wearing one of her starchy Sunday dresses and her face made up with cranberry rouge. She looked out of place, empty without a wad of crochet in her lap. Once she said, “Shouldn’t someone see about the turkey?” But no one did.
After Daddy and George returned the runaway parakeet to the aviary, they went outside to get some air. Every once in a while, a puff of smoke drifted by the open curtains.
A while later they came in, George carrying a small cardboard box. He lifted Lady Aster from Goldie’s cupped hands and laid her on a soft nest of cotton wadding.
“We’re gonna miss this one, Goldie. Your favorite.” When he started toward the door he whispered, “And mine.”
I snuggled closer to Goldie, my head resting on her bosom, its softness swallowing me. When she slipped her arm around me, the smell of her deodorant and kitcheny odors made me want to cry. Instead I closed my eyes and pretended it was Mama who held me.
Aunt Vadine let out a long sigh and refolded her hands in her lap. “Maybe we should go on home, Joe.”
Daddy hooked his thumbs in his pockets and said, “Goldie makes the best blueberry cobbler this side o’ the moon. I’m sticking around to get a taste.”
At the mention of the cobbler, Goldie jumped into action and whisked herself back into the kitchen, me on her heels. In no time we had Thanksgiving dinner. And Daddy was right—the blueberry cobbler was worth the wait.
The next day I wrote the avian section of my term paper, poring over the books Goldie had lent me. Together she and I decided Lady Aster must have had a respiratory infection, which meant the aviary had to be scrubbed from top to bottom.
“Work is good for the soul,” Goldie said, as she and I talked and laughed our way through scouring everything from top to bottom with soapy water laced with Clorox. We talked about Lady Aster and chanted back and forth to the other parakeets, cracker, cookie, pretty, trying to improve their vocabularies. By the end of the day, a fat yellow and lime green female with a long tail had risen to the top of the pecking order. Kiwi, Goldie called her. The feisty bird strutted about, saying, “Cuckoo, Kiwi.” Goldie’s face beamed, tiny parakeet-feet wrinkles fanning out from her eyes.
After church on Sunday, Daddy split the minute we cleared the dinner table. I went to my room to change clothes, and just as I was pulling on my jeans, the phone rang. Two long jangles. Through the crack in my bedroom door, I heard Aunt Vadine’s crisp “Tucker residence.”
Then a short pause.
“Bobby, I’ve told you not to bother calling.”
I stood up and moved closer to the door, cracking it open a sliver. Who was Bobby?
I could hear her heavy breathing. “Fine, thanks for asking.”
A long silence, while I guessed she listened.
“The answer is still no. My home is here now, and I don’t need your affection, mind you.”
She snorted after the next remark, then covered the phone with her hand, muffling her response. All I heard was, “… tell that sorry loser what he can do with his offer. What a pathetic worm.” She slammed the receiver down.
Curious, I squared my shoulders and marched into the front room.
“I thought I heard the phone. Was it for me?”
Aunt Vadine looked up, a surprised look on her face. She half-smiled, her eyebrows arching up.
“Some salesman. I swear you’d think people wouldn’t call on the Lord’s day of rest.” She rolled her eyes and popped her Juicy Fruit.
“Hmmm. I thought I heard you say Bobby something.”
“Samantha, your imagination is surpassed only by your impertinence. Eavesdropping on phone conversations is another example of the lack of training your mother supplied you with. Just this morning in church, I prayed for the wisdom to provide you with godly instruction and admonition.”
“I know what I heard.” I looked into her yellow-speckled eyes. “Is Bobby a friend of yours? Someone who misses you back in Midland? It sounded like you turned down a job offer.”
She drew up her shoulders and inhaled through her nose, like a bull getting ready to charge. Instead of pawing at the ground and coming at me, she spun around and went into the bathroom. Slam. Click. She locked the door.
What was that all about? Aunt Vadine had a boyfriend? It sounded gross even to me. Even so, a little flicker of hope went through me. Maybe she would go back to Bobby and leave us alone.
[ THIRTY ]
AUNT VADINE DIDN’T MENTION her mysterious telephone conversation to Daddy. I thought about bringing it up, but if I did, it might make her more determined than ever to stay at Graham Camp. I felt like my life was in limbo. I hardly ever cried or got furious about Mama anymore. Mostly I had these visions of her in hell, thanks to Aunt Vadine. Every time I thought about it, the hair on my arms stood up.
Brother Henry would know about things like that, so one Sunday after church I asked to talk to him. Privately. He took me into his tiny office and closed the door.
“What’s on your mind today, Sammie?”
I decided to get right to the point. “Do you think Mama went to hell because she killed herself?”
“Oh dear. That is a common notion nowadays.” Brother Henry pointed to a folding chair
for me to sit down. “One of the Ten Commandments is thou shalt not kill, and suicide is a form of killing.”
My heart raced, afraid of what he might say next.
“But the other side of the coin is we live under grace, and by rights, any one of us could break one of the Ten Commandments and get hit by a train, and no one would condemn that person to hell.”
“Mama definitely believed in grace. I have her New Testament….” I took it out of my purse and shoved it across to him. “She got it when she accepted Jesus and was baptized in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Right here it shows the date.” I pointed to the first page.
“I never doubted your mother’s faith. Although some would disagree, I believe God Almighty would not cast one of his own into hell purely based on a single act. If so, then God’s grace would only extend to those who are perfect, and heaven knows, none of us are that. I believe the Bible is clear that nothing can separate God from his followers.” He thumbed through Mama’s New Testament. “Here it is. Romans 8:38 and 39.” He read it to me.
I liked the part about how neither life nor death could separate us from God’s love.
Brother Henry handed me the New Testament, his eyes kind and sad. “How do you feel about that?”
I shrugged. “Okay, I guess.” I gnawed on a hangnail.
“You don’t sound okay.”
“She shouldn’t have left Daddy and me. If she loved me, she wouldn’t have.”
“You feel like she didn’t love you?”
“How would you feel?” My face got hot.
“Like you, I suppose. Remember, Sammie, your mother had an illness, and I’m willing to wager she would have preferred to stay here and be your mother. Some things only God knows. That’s his job. Our job is to trust him.”
“Trust him to make Aunt Vadine my mother? Ha! No thanks.”
“That’s not what I meant at all. Trust him to heal your heart. The pain may never go away, but someday you will be able to laugh and feel joy again. Trust him.”
Chasing Lilacs Page 17
