She seems embarrassed by his show of affection. Why, I don’t know. He sees her every day of his life, and he still kisses her hello and good-bye.
“Stewed chicken and dumplings?” she asks.
“Of course.” He comes back to the table and pulls out the closest chair. Birdie’s chair.
He’s really upset the chair hierarchy if Birdie decides to join us. His chair is across the table, to my father’s right and one seat down. Mom Brodie sat to my father’s right my whole life. This weekend will be full of never agains. . . .
“Heard anything from Blondie?” he asks.
He calls our sister Blondie. Has since she dyed her brown hair blond when she was in the eighth grade. Birdie came unhinged. There was some sin wrapped in dyeing your hair, though exactly which one I can’t remember. Celeste has been a bleached blonde ever since.
I meet his handsome gaze, my lips pulled tight with amusement. “She’s supposed to be here anytime.”
His blue eyes twinkle. My little brother is a handsome man by anyone’s standard. His eyes are as blue as a summer sky on a clear day. His skin is the color of the coffee my Drum makes for me in the morning: strong with a big splash of soy creamer. Joseph has a cap of dark, curly hair that he keeps short under his Husqvarna ball cap. Joseph is biracial. He’s the love child of my father and a laborer who worked in our cannery here on the island. I never knew Aisha, who everyone called Esha, just of her. I have a vague memory of Daddy and me running into her in town one day before Joseph was born. Me with an ice cream cone, him sipping a Coke as we strolled down the sidewalk talking about baseball scores and the Orioles, probably. Over the years, I’ve wracked my brain, trying to recall if there had been an exchange between them suggesting the relationship they had, but I can’t. And I was around thirteen, so maybe I wouldn’t have seen it even if it had been there. I was pretty innocent in those days, even for a thirteen-year-old. I like to think Brodie Island kept us innocent. At least most of us.
Esha died giving Joseph life thirty-two years ago. And so my father did what farmers have been doing on the Eastern Shore for the last three hundred years. He brought his illegitimate son home on the seat of his pickup and handed him to his wife. And Birdie did what farmwomen have been doing on the Eastern Shore for the last three hundred years. She took the baby, called him her own, and to my knowledge, never questioned her husband, the unequivocal head of the household.
Drum says that’s crazy. Just because we kids never heard our parents discuss Esha, or my father’s infidelity, doesn’t mean they never did. Drum says we can never know what goes on in a husband and wife’s bedroom. I suppose he’s right. I think I understand my parents’ relationship, but I probably don’t.
Joseph looks into my eyes, and his mouth starts to twitch, too. He knows the joke. He knows Birdie will fret and fuss over Celeste’s impending arrival. Possibly for days, until our dear sister graces us with her presence.
“Mom, how’s Mom Brodie?” Joseph asks our mother, over his shoulder.
I wonder if Birdie has ever seen the irony in the fact that Joseph is the only one of us who calls her Mom.
“Same.” Birdie stands in front of the microwave, watching the bowl of dumplings go around in a circle.
Joseph turns back to me and takes my hand in his. He doesn’t say anything; he just looks at me. He knows how important Mom Brodie is to me. He knows my heart is breaking. Joseph is one of the nicest guys you would ever want to meet. He’s right up there with Drum MacLean, the best husband ever. Which makes me insanely curious as to why Joseph’s wife Marly is filing for divorce. I have a hunch it’s over infidelity. Joseph’s got the charm my grandfather Big Joe had. Everyone says so.
I figure I’ll get the dirt this week. Joseph and I don’t talk that often on the phone. I haven’t heard any details of the breakup except through the Birdie lens. I don’t feel like it’s a reflection of the relationship between my brother and me. He just doesn’t like talking on the phone. When we get together, it’s as if no time has passed since the last time we were sitting on the back porch, feet propped on the porch rail, watching the sun set over our beach, over Brodie Island. The world.
“She looks so small,” I say quietly. “She’s lost so much weight.” I stare at the chicken salt and pepper shakers. “I always thought of her as a big woman. Not fat, but . . . you know, substantial, strong. At least in my mind.”
He squeezes my hand.
The microwave beeps, and Birdie brings Joseph his chicken and dumplings in the bowl I just used. She uses the edge of her apron as hot mitts. He gets the spoon I used. She goes to the counter and brings him a paper towel she’s ripped off the roll.
He reaches for the pepper rooster. “I could eat chicken and dumplings every day of my life,” he declares.
“She didn’t like dumplings,” Birdie says. “Marly. Hard-pressed to trust a woman that doesn’t like a dumpling.”
“We’re not divorcing over dumplings.” Joseph adds a bunch of pepper and shovels a big spoonful of dumplings into his mouth.
They smell good, and I think about having another helping. I’m entering the mourning process. I have a right to comfort food, don’t I? But I wonder, if I ask for another helping, what Birdie will do about the bowl situation. Will I have to wait for Joseph to finish so she can wash it and give it back to me?
Sarah walks into the kitchen from the porch, her phone in her hand rather than to her ear, where I sometimes fear it’s permanently attached.
“Speak to your uncle,” Birdie orders.
“Already did.”
Joseph winks at my daughter.
Sarah sweeps through the kitchen. “Going upstairs, Mom. Text me when Aunt Celeste gets here.”
Sarah likes Celeste; she thinks she’s exciting and unpredictable. “Or I could call up the stairs,” I suggest to her back.
Her gazelle legs carry her through the room and out the other door.
I meet my brother’s gaze. “This is what you have to look forward to,” I tell him. He has a little girl. Ainslie. She’s four.
“I can hardly wait,” he says through a mouthful of dumplings. “Where’s Dad?”
“Home soon. He had to do something.” Birdie.
“Ah,” Joseph says. “That’s right. He’s tracking down Loopy. One of the corn combines is belching smoke again.”
I eye our mother, waiting for her reaction. Loopy is our mechanic. Has been since I was a kid. He fixes whatever needs to be fixed on the farm: machinery, the washing machine, a leaky faucet. He’s also the town drunk. Or at least the best one . . . worst one. Which means Daddy is probably at The Gull. Which means our mother is going to be ticked come ten o’clock when she’s ready to go to bed and Daddy isn’t here. I’ve never seen Daddy drunk in my life, but he likes a beer at The Gull. He likes several if he’s there with Loopy.
Joseph is scooping up the last bit of broth from his bowl. He’s inhaled the chicken and dumplings. “I can call him, Mom. Tell him Abby’s here.”
I see a flicker of pain in my mother’s eyes, and I feel like such a jerk for picking on her. Even in my own head. Daddy’s mom is dying. He should be here with her. Birdie shouldn’t be the one to bear the burden, especially considering the tenuous relationship she and Mom Brodie have shared over the years.
Birdie turns her back to us and flips on the water faucet. “He’ll come home when he’s good and ready, I expect.”
Joseph, always the peacemaker, lifts his bowl from the table. “Are there more dumplings, Mom?”
4
Birdie
I leave the water running and lean over the bathroom sink. I stare at the reflection in the mirror. A wrinkled, pudgy-faced woman stares back at me. An ugly woman. I lean closer, wondering if someone is playing a trick on me. When did I get so old?
I slowly push on the faucet handle to turn off the water and drop my toothbrush into the cup on the counter. Mrs. Brodie’s toothbrush catches my eye. It’s red, not a proper color for a toothbrush. She
always wanted a red one when I went to the five-and-dime. The five-and-dime has long been closed downtown, but I still remember trudging in, telling the boy behind the counter that I needed a red toothbrush. Had to be red for Mrs. Brodie. I stare at her toothbrush and wonder if I should throw it away. She still has a full set of teeth, Mrs. Brodie. Not me. I got an upper plate years ago.
The brush really should go in the trash. She won’t be needing it. I reach out, but I can’t bring myself to take it from the cup. Not yet.
But when I do, it will just be my toothbrush and Joe’s. Two toothbrushes. And I’ll be the lady of the house. The dame. The mistress. The queen of everything, as my Celeste says. Finally. Fifty-seven years. That’s how long I’ve lived in this house. Fifty-seven long, hard years I’ve dreamed of sitting to Joe’s right instead of his left at the kitchen table. Fifty-seven years I’ve waited for him to ask me what’s for supper instead of asking his mother. Even after I took over the cooking, thirty years ago, he still asked her.
I take the hand towel from the rack and wipe my mouth. I go to the door, open it, and flip the light switch. In the dark hallway, I see the light on under Abby’s door. I don’t hear voices. She and Sarah must be reading, or one’s asleep and the other’s reading. I want to go down the hall and knock on the door, say good night, maybe “God bless.”
There’s a lump in my throat, and I’m tearing up again, and I don’t know why. I’m not a crier. I can count the number of times I’ve cried in my life. I stare at the door. Seeing Abby and Sarah’s faces would make me feel better. But what would they think if I just showed up at their bedroom door at ten o’clock at night?
It’s not what I do.
But I still stand there and stare at the line of yellow-white light. I smell the wood polish on the wainscoting and the faint scent of my minty toothpaste on my breath. Sarah’s gotten tall since I last saw her, and thin and so pretty. How did I have such pretty daughters, such a gorgeous granddaughter when I’m such an ugly toad? Brodie blood, I suppose. Mrs. Brodie was a beautiful woman, even when she got old.
I turn away from the light and shuffle in my old slippers down the hall to my bedroom. Little Joe’s still not home. Not home to see his daughter and granddaughter. Not home to tuck his mother in and say good night. He hasn’t been around much since we brought her home earlier in the week. He’s scared, I think. I don’t hold it against him, though. Coming into life and going out, it’s not men’s business. It seems fitting to me that because women bring life into the world, it’s our place to see it go out.
In my bedroom doorway I stop. I consider going down to check on Mrs. Brodie one more time, but I don’t want to. My knees are sore. Stiff. One more time down and up these stairs might be my undoing. Joseph set up a baby monitor he brought from his house. I’ll hear Mrs. Brodie if she stirs.
Still, I have to force myself to walk into the bedroom and not turn and go back down the stairs again.
In my room, in the dark, I lay my robe over the footboard. I sit on the edge of the bed and drop my slippers to the floor. I hate it when Joe doesn’t come home. I hate lying down to sleep without him.
But I hate having him in my bed at the same time.
I think about the first time I ever got into this bed with Joe. Eighteen years old. I was so scared. And really, there was no reason to be. Joe was kind to me and quick, and it was over in no time. Really nothing for what the fuss is all about. But the thing is . . . I didn’t want to be in this bed with him. I didn’t want to be his wife. I didn’t want to live my whole life here on Brodie Island, barely ever catching a glimpse of the world beyond the bay. I didn’t want to mostly because Mrs. Brodie wanted me to. Of course I couldn’t say no. I couldn’t have refused to marry Joe. No one ever told Mrs. Brodie no.
I get up, pull back the chenille coverlet, and lie down on my side of the bed. Moonlight filters from around the edges of the drapes. I stare up at the tin ceiling panel I’ve been staring at for forty-eight years. I wonder where Celeste is. I know she’ll come along in her own good time. She always does. But it’s important that she be here, that she comes in time to say good-bye. Good-byes are important.
I close my eyes, feeling hot tears brim in them. Mrs. Brodie’s breath was so shallow when I went to tuck her in and say good night that I held her hand mirror to her mouth to see if she was still alive. I was so afraid the mirror wouldn’t cloud. I was afraid it would.
Against my will, a sob escapes from my throat. I can’t believe she’s dying. Which is stupid, of course. Stupid Birdie. Stupid, ugly Birdie.
All these years I’ve known she would die before me. There were times I wished it would come faster. But now that the day, the hour is almost upon me, I’m scared. Who will I be when she’s gone? As long as I can remember, beyond a few shadowy recollections of the orphanage, Mrs. Brodie has defined my identity. What I am is what she’s made me.
And I’ve hated her my whole life for it.
5
Abby
After stopping to check on Mom Brodie, who doesn’t look like she’s moved since I said good night last night, I walk barefoot into the kitchen. I’m wearing a pair of Drum’s boxer shorts with four-leaf clovers all over them and one of Sarah’s oversized T-shirts. The smell of coffee has lured me from my bed. Ordinarily, I’m not an early riser. It’s one of the privileges of having survived my children’s formative years, and being self-employed. But when I come home to Brodie Island, I feel guilty lying in bed, even past seven, knowing my mother has already been up for hours, made breakfast, planned the day’s meals, and probably scrubbed a floor or two. The energy the woman has continually amazes me . . . and makes me feel inadequate on so many levels.
I’m surprised to not find Birdie in the kitchen . . . but my sister pouring coffee from the old-fashioned percolator on the back of the stove. I never heard from her last night. She’s dressed in black leggings and some kind of swishy, patterned kimono-looking thing, thinning hair in a chic chignon and makeup on her face. At seven-twenty in the morning.
“Coming in or going out?” I ask. Then I laugh because the joke never gets old with her. Luckily, she laughs, too. She doesn’t look like she’s slept in days; the heavy makeup doesn’t cover the black circles beneath her eyes. I’m the big sister, but she easily looks ten years older than me, and that thought makes me sad because what she looks like matters a lot more to her than to me. I’m one of those forty-something women who wears jean shorts, flip-flops, and my long red hair in a ponytail. Makeup is for church and meetings with the high school principal.
“What’s with this thing?” Celeste asks, pouring black coffee into her mug from the ancient percolator. “Didn’t we get Birdie a coffeemaker last Christmas?”
“And the Christmas before. I think there’s at least three, still in the boxes, in the pantry.” I reach up into the cabinet to get a mug. My choice is between a black lab with a mallard duck in its mouth or an advertisement for a commercial fertilizer. I go with the fertilizer.
Celeste leans in to me, and I give her a peck on her cheek. For all my grumbling, it’s good to see my sister. She smells heavenly of expensive perfume. Samples she pilfers from work; she always gives them to me for Christmas. Of course I rarely remember to use them. “I’m glad you’re here,” I tell her. “She wanted to call out the state troopers last night when you didn’t show before bedtime.”
“I ran into Daddy. We had a drink.”
“You ran into him? The Gull’s not exactly on your way here.” I wonder how she got here; I didn’t see a car I don’t recognize in the driveway, but I don’t ask.
“Sure it is.” She takes her mug to the table; it’s one of those old white ones, spider-cracked with age, that looks like it’s probably been in the house since the Great Depression. Which is entirely possible. “I came on the bus. Stops right across the street.”
I don’t say anything about that, either. I pour my coffee that will take a quarter of a cup of sugar and the same amount of whole milk to make it dr
inkable. Celeste’s financial circumstances must be even worse than usual. Sometimes she takes the bus to Salisbury, but never over the bridge. Never to Brodie Island. She always arrives in style.
“Daddy already gone?” I go the fridge, take out the gallon of milk, and watch it glug into my coffee cup.
She beats me to Daddy’s chair. “Yup.”
“Birdie?”
“Someone died. Or is sick, or something. She took a coffee cake from the freezer. She should be back soon.”
I nod and grab a spoon and my coffee to take to the table. I slide into Birdie’s chair and reach for the white sugar bowl that’s right next to the hen and rooster salt and pepper shakers. “Seriously,” I say. “Are you already up and dressed or did you just get here? And if so, where have you been all night? The Gull closes at one.”
She blows across the surface of her black coffee that I know will be so hot coming off the stove that it will take the skin off your tongue if you’re not careful. Birdie likes her coffee hot. “Have you seen her?”
“Her” and “she” usually refers to our mother, but I know that in this case, Celeste is talking about Mom Brodie. The secret language of sisters. I dump a heaping spoon of white sugar into my cup. No white sugar in my house; Drum prefers raw sugar, or better yet clover honey. I hate honey in my coffee; it ruins the taste. If I wanted clover in my coffee, I’d pick some from the yard and throw it in. “I just looked in on her. She’s still holding her own.”
“But she’s definitely going to die this time?” Celeste asks.
I add another spoonful of sugar, not caring for Celeste’s tone, but understanding where she’s coming from. “She’s going to die.” I stir slowly. For years Birdie has been blackmailing us into coming home more often than we like, holding our grandmother’s impending death over us. Based on age, not illness. It’s been going on since I was in undergrad. “I don’t know how she’s hung on this long,” I say. “She’s skin and bones. Waiting for us to get here, maybe,” I add.
What Makes a Family Page 4
