What Makes a Family

by Colleen Faulkner

  I leave my heels and bag on the bottom step and continue along the hall toward the other end of the house. “Daddy?” I push the door open slowly. Duke looks up from his favorite spot on the rug, sees it’s me, and lowers his head again. I see Daddy right away, laid out on the couch. For a second, he scares me. His head is half off a crocheted pillow, and his mouth is open. Is he dead?

  Wouldn’t that be a hell of a thing if we were all sitting around waiting for the old lady to die and he beat her to it? But as I walk toward him, he lets out a big, long snore. I lay my hand on my chest, feeling my heart pounding. I don’t want to ever find anyone dead. Ever.

  I stand there for a minute looking at him. I wonder if I should wake him up and tell him to go to bed. I decide against it. He’s probably here for a good reason. Probably directly related to Birdie and the beer Daddy was knocking back this afternoon. When Joseph and I left so he could drop me off at The Gull, Daddy and Birdie were getting into it over his beer. Well, as getting into it as they ever do. She was collecting beer bottles and mumbling under her breath. He was quietly saying, “Let it go, Birdie. Let it go.”

  As I turn to head to bed, I spot a big pile of paperwork on his desk. It’s a white envelope on top that catches my attention. LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT it says in gold lettering. I walk over and pick it up, and when I do, I see a business-size envelope with my name written across it that was underneath. It’s written in Mom Brodie’s distinct, old-school cursive.

  My stomach lurches, and for a second I think I’m going to be sick. I knew I shouldn’t have had that last vodka and cranberry.

  I drop the will and pick up the envelope. It’s sealed. I stare at it in my hand for a long moment. There are no other envelopes here. Not one for Abby or Joseph. This is not good. Not good at all.

  I stare at the envelope in my hand. I look at Daddy. If he has it in here, that means I’m not supposed to have it. Not yet. Not until Mom Brodie dies.

  I ease open the envelope. Inside is a piece of paper.

  * * *

  My dear granddaughter Celeste . . .

  By the time you read this . . . blah, blah, blah.

  My eyes dart as I speed read.

  Given great thought . . . blah, blah, blah.

  Irresponsibly . . . Dishonesty . . . Poor judgment.

  Her diatribe goes on for a quarter of a page as she lists not just general bad qualities she sees in me, but includes specific details....

  The pyramid scheme when you lost the $5000 you borrowed from me, the arrest writing those bad checks, the unwanted pregnancies . . .

  Blah.

  Blah.

  Blah.

  It’s not until she gets to the very bottom of the page that she comes out with what she should have just said first off. With great sadness, I’ve made the decision not to leave you any money because frankly, you don’t deserve it, and you’ll only waste it.

  Know that I have always loved you and will continue to love you unto my death, she finishes off.

  “Bitch,” I say out loud.

  Duke lifts his head and stares at me. Daddy groans and rolls over, but he doesn’t wake.

  “Bitch,” I repeat. I throw the letter down. Then pick it up again. Against my will, tears fill my eyes. “Bitch.” I say it again, but with less enthusiasm. I wipe my nose, that’s starting to run, with the back of my hand.

  “I don’t know why you always thought you were better than us. Better than me,” I say aloud, not caring if anyone hears me. “I need that money. How am I supposed to get my hair plugs? How am I supposed to make myself beautiful again?”

  A sob escapes my lips.

  Without her inheritance, I’m sunk. It’s over. Not only can I not get my hair implants, I can’t get the face-lift. I can’t get the watch Daddy gave me for my fortieth out of hock. And I can’t pay my rent this month. Again. September one, I’m out. I’m evicted. Again.

  I slump into Daddy’s chair. Throw the letter on the desk. What am I going to do now? A shuddering sob bubbles up my throat and out of my mouth. What am I going to do?

  No one in this house will loan me any more money.

  My eyes are stinging. My mascara and eyeliner are running. I wipe at my eyes, not caring if I look like a raccoon.

  Another sob rises, and I try to push it down. What am I going to do?

  And then I know.

  I think about the bridge.

  The cool water of the bay.

  Of how easy it will be to just step off the rail.

  And a strange calmness comes over me.

  Because then it will be over. All of this will be over.

  And everyone who’s been mean to me? Everyone who’s tried to help me with what they see as good intentions? They’ll all feel so guilty. They’ll be wracked with remorse. Everyone is waiting for Mom Brodie to die, but they’re expecting it. People who are a hundred and two aren’t supposed to be alive.

  But no one will be expecting me to die.

  I rise out of Daddy’s leather chair. I’m not shaking anymore. I carefully return the letter to the envelope and press down to reseal it smoothly.

  Duke looks at me one last time, then closes his eyes. As if he’s resigned to it too.

  I’ll kill myself, and then everyone on Brodie Island will be talking about me. Everyone in this house will be sobbing. Wishing they had treated me better. Wishing they hadn’t said mean things behind my back all these years.

  It’s too bad Mom Brodie is in a coma. If she wasn’t, she’d feel guilty for cutting me out of her will and making me kill myself.

  Everyone will come to my funeral. Everyone likes a funeral for someone who committed suicide. I bet the church ladies will have to have two sittings for my funeral luncheon. And everyone will cry. And talk about how good I looked in the casket. How peaceful. How beautiful. I bet Bartholomew will postpone his trip to Paris to come to my funeral. And he’ll wear a blue jacket and maybe his ascot.

  It suddenly occurs to me that I might not have brought a dress suitable to be laid out in, in my casket. I packed and left New York quickly to avoid the landlady. I’ve had a green chiffon hanging in my closet for a couple of years, thinking it would be my funeral dress. But it would be a toss-up between it and a gorgeous navy Halston I got at a flea market last year.

  I have to have a decent dress. And maybe my wig. But I brought a wig. I just haven’t worn it because it’s so damned hot here.

  I grab the envelope and slip it back under the will, exactly the way I found it, slightly turned to the right. I’m good at putting things back the way I found them so no one notices. I’ve had a lifetime of practice. And an excellent teacher. Birdie knows a little bit about the art of snooping without getting caught.

  I do have the pink and green dress with the fluttery sleeves. That might look nice on me. Especially since I got a little sun yesterday. I walk out of Daddy’s office.

  I consider going now to the bridge. Maybe taking Abby’s car. Or Daddy’s truck. No . . . Mom Brodie’s Cadillac. Everyone on Brodie knows her 1992 white Caddy. It will add to the tragedy.

  I can hear them whispering, crammed into the pews.

  “They say she took her grandmother’s Caddy to the top of the bridge.”

  “Such a shame.”

  “Such a gorgeous woman.”

  “So tragic.”

  I decide against doing it tonight. I’m too tired. There are too many things to be done to stage the whole thing. I have to hang the dress that’s balled up in my suitcase to get the wrinkles out. And the wig will have to be spritzed and fluffed. And then there’s the matter of the suicide note. Do I write one to the whole family, or do I write individual ones? I’ve been writing and rewriting my suicide notes in my head for years. I know just what I want to say to everyone. But Mom Brodie’s might have to be revised, now that she’s unconscious.

  At the staircase, I pick up my shoes and bag and slowly climb the steps, thinking about everything I need to do tomorrow. And I’ll have to think through my b
ehavior. Do I act like everything is fine, thus shocking everyone even further? Do I tell them I found Mom Brodie’s letter and how devastated I am? That would really dial up the guilt when someone finds me floating the next morning.

  I smile to myself in the dark as I slowly make my way up the stairs. Come Monday morning everyone is going to be sorry for the way they’ve treated me. And I’m going to look so beautiful in my coffin.

  30

  Birdie

  I stand over Mrs. Brodie, in my nightie, watching her chest rise and fall. It’s almost three in the morning. Everyone else is asleep. Abby is here in the chair. Little Joe’s on his sofa in his office. Snoring. I can hear him all the way in here.

  He got cross with me tonight, but I don’t care. The doctor told him to cut back on his salt, which means Old Bay seasoning, and he certainly shouldn’t be drinking a six-pack. I don’t care if it is light beer. Too many people around here depending on him for him to up and have a heart attack and die on us the way his daddy did.

  Me fussing with him turned out to be a good thing though, because he ended up convincing his boy to stay. Because Brodie men have to stick together, Little Joe told him. So Joseph is upstairs in his old room, and his little Ainslie is sleeping with Sarah. Even Celeste is home and in bed. Home at a decent hour, for once. I like the feel of this old house in the middle of the night when I know that everyone I care about is here, safe and asleep. Not looking at me, so I can look at them.

  I glance down at Mrs. Brodie.

  She’s definitely breathing slower than she was earlier. It’s not just my imagination. I stand here for a minute, my scrapbook tucked under my arm. I was in bed upstairs reading, but then I got this feeling I needed to come down. Like she needed me. I knew Abby was here with Mrs. Brodie, but I just felt like I needed to be here, too.

  I look over my shoulder. Abby’s out. She had two glasses of wine while she played Monopoly with Sarah and Joseph and Little Joe last night. Wine makes her sleep hard. I wish I liked it. Wish I could sleep hard like that.

  I slowly walk over to the far side of the room. Lift an old ladder-back chair, one Mrs. Brodie and I bought at a yard sale over on Deal Island, and carry it to the bed. I settle down into the chair slowly. My feet hurt. My knees hurt, and the one hip is giving me a fit with the arthritis.

  I study the nightstand for a minute. I look at the picture of Mrs. Brodie and Big Joe and them smiling like they’ve got everything in the world. Because they do. I run my fingertips over the oyster shell and feel its bumpy solidness. I pick up one of the peppermints and smell it. Mrs. Brodie always smelled of peppermints. I bet she bought thousands of pounds of them over the years. It’s a wonder her teeth didn’t rot right out of her head. She carried them in her apron pockets, her coat pockets, even Big Joe’s pockets. And she kept them in the glove compartment of her Cadillac. I think about eating the peppermint, but it doesn’t seem right with her lying here dying, so I put it back. Then I pick up the little, curled-up piece of blue paper. I don’t have to squint to see the tiny writing because I’ve already read it a couple of times. Sniff‘um muffins, it says. I like it. This palindrome is way better than some of the ones Sarah’s always mumbling under her breath. She really likes that one about sluts in Tulsa.

  I sit back in my chair, set my scrapbook on my lap, and open it. I flip through a couple of pages until I get to the section on the Grand Canyon. For some reason, tonight I feel like gazing at the Grand Canyon. I smooth the postcards I’ve taped to the pages. Bought them on eBay. You can buy anything on eBay. Even old postcards. Funny that Little Joe has never asked me what I’m buying by mail order. Even when he carries an envelope in from the mailbox. Guess he thinks they’re more chicken tea towels.

  I clear my throat.

  “The Grand Canyon National Park,” I read quietly to Mrs. Brodie. “Unique combinations of geologic color and erosional forms decorate a canyon that is two hundred and seventy-seven miles long, up to eighteen miles wide, and a mile deep. The Grand Canyon overwhelms our senses through its immense size.”

  I look over at her. She once told me she’d seen the Grand Canyon. It was a long time ago, back when I actually thought I’d get to go someday. When I truly thought Joe would take me there. I wanted to ride the burros from the rim down, all the way to the bottom of the canyon. Maybe camp out down there. I’ve never been camping.

  Mrs. Brodie told me the north rim was the thing to see, not the south rim. I asked her when she’d been there. She told me in another lifetime. While I was considering what she might mean, she handed me a half-bushel basket of lima beans to shuck, and that was the end of that. She never brought it up again, and neither did I. For a long time, I told myself she was lying. That she really hadn’t ever seen the Grand Canyon. That she just wanted to tell me she had because she knew I wanted to see it and I never would.

  But that wasn’t true. Because Mrs. Brodie never lies. Even when the truth hurts you. A lot of her truths have hurt me over the years. She once told me the reason Little Joe strayed from my marriage was because I couldn’t make him happy. She didn’t have to say that. I already knew it. Just like I know I’m fat. And ugly. Truth still hurts.

  I turn the page.

  “Sitting atop the Kaibab Plateau,” I read, thinking she might want to hear this, since she’s been there, “eight thousand to nine thousand feet above sea level with lush green meadows surrounded by a mixed conifer forest sprinkled with white-barked aspen, the north rim is an oasis in the desert. Here you may observe deer feeding, or a coyote chasing mice in a meadow.” I look up at her again. “I’ve never seen a coyote. Seen pictures. Watched a YouTube video of one hunting on Little Joe’s computer. You know, you can see almost anything on YouTube. Sarah told me about it.” I look down at the scrapbook again.

  It’s late, and I’m tired, so the words are hard to see. I need my readers, but I didn’t bring them down with me. I think for a minute, then, glancing over my shoulder to see that Abby’s still asleep, I open the bedside drawer. I pull out Mrs. Brodie’s readers, and I feel like a naughty child. Ordinarily, I’d never do something like this. The glasses are fancy, with plastic jewels glued on them and a long, sparkly chain. They didn’t come from the five-and-dime like mine do. Mrs. Brodie bought them at some fancy department store when she went shopping with her friends in Salisbury.

  I loop the chain around my neck and settle the glasses on my nose. The words come into focus better. “Here you may observe deer feeding, or a coyote chasing mice in a meadow,” I read. “A mother turkey leading her young across the road, or a mountain lion slinking into the cover of the forest.”

  I look at Mrs. Brodie again. “Did you see a mountain lion when you were at the Grand Canyon? Bet you did. You’re lucky like that. Always were.” I think about how many times she won at Bingo at the fire hall. She won all kinds of things: Longaberger baskets, handbags, a set of dishes with strawberries on them. And money. She was always winning the 50/50 somewhere.

  Guess I know now where all that money went all these years.

  I turn the page to look at the pictures of all the wildlife you can see in the Grand Canyon. Pictures I’ve cut from magazines. I’ve got pages and pages of them. I’m looking for the one of the mountain lion I cut out of a Smithsonian Magazine at the doctor’s office when I hear Mrs. Brodie make a funny sound. Like a snort.

  I peer over the sparkly glasses. Her mouth is open, and her lips are moving. Just a little. Like quivering. I set the scrapbook under my chair and stand up, taking her hand, looking down. “Mrs. Brodie?” I whisper.

  Her whole body twitches . . . just a little. And it scares me. I’m just wondering if I should wake up Abby, or call the hospice number, or something, when I feel Mrs. Brodie’s hand move in mine. Almost like she’s trying to hold my hand. Trying to tell me it’s okay. That everything is going to be okay. Tears fill my eyes so suddenly that it startles me. I can’t remember the last time I cried.

  I squeeze her hand back. And watch her chest. It doesn�
�t seem to be moving up and down like it was. But just when I’m starting to get scared that she’s gone, really gone, I see it slowly rise.

  I exhale because I realize I was holding my breath when Mrs. Brodie was, and I sit down in the chair hard. I wipe away my tears with one hand, but I still hold her hand with the other. “It’s all right,” I whisper, not sure where the words are coming from inside me. I pull off the glasses and let them fall so they hang around my neck, against my nightie. “Don’t be afraid. You stay as long as you want.”

  My lower lip trembles, and I bite it. “You stay as long as you want, Mrs. Brodie. I’ll watch over you. I’ll change your diaper. I don’t mind. Not one bit. Because . . . you know why. Because you saved me from that orphanage. And you brought me here. You gave me a roof over my head and a fine man for a husband. And you . . .”

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to say “you loved me,” but it seems like too much. So I just say again, “You stay on this earth as long as you want, and I’ll stay right here with you. But . . . but you feel like the good Lord is calling you, and you’re ready to go. . . .” My voice catches in my throat, and my eyes fill with tears again. This time I don’t wipe them away. I just let them roll down my cheeks. “You go on. Because I’m sure Big Joe is waiting for you in that rowboat of his. Right out in the bay. And I bet he’ll have that big straw hat of yours you used to love to wear. The one with the blue ribbon. And I bet he’ll be happy to see you because I know he’s missed you. I know he’s missed you,” I repeat.

  And then I settle down in the chair, her hand in mine, to wait to see what she wants to do.

  31

  Sarah Agnes

  “Is he there?” I ask Bilis.

  I stand with my back against the shabby curtain, trying to peer out into the audience without anybody’s seeing me. I’m still stripped down to my drawers and pasties tassels from the last show because it’s so darned hot in Jersey in August. Whatever sense of decorum I once had is gone, though I’m always decently dressed when I leave this tent. It’s funny how quickly and easily I’ve fallen into the life of a hoochie-coochie dancer. I went from being a scared girl shaking in my shoes to a woman who can dance with the kind of confidence that brings the money in. Last month, I made more money than any of the other girls, and Jacko officially made me the lead act, meaning I go on last.