"Ain't they somethin, though, my creations?
Made em, I did, with my own hands. Baked em in my huge class kiln. Gotta little one upstairs. I hold classes ever Saturday. Charge each student thirty dollars, an got thirty who come regular. None of my students is as good as I am, of course, an that's a good thin, keeps em comin back, hopin t'outmaster t'master.. Did ya notice all t'fancy decorations, t'fiower garlands I put on em? Ain't they somethin, ain't they?"
Still overwhelmed, I could only nod in
agreement. Oh, yes, I had to be impressed that Kitty could create such wonders as those carousel horses galloping around a white lamp base. I said again, my voice full of admiration, "So beautiful, all of them."
"Knew ya'd think so." Proudly she picked up and displayed what I might have overlooked,
"Teachin makes fer lots of cash; won't take no checks, then there's no taxes t'pay. Could teach ten times as many if I'd give up my beauty-salon business, but I jus can't see myself doin that when I earns so much when t'celebrities come t'town an wants their hair done. Do every-thin from bleach an tint jobs to perms and pedicures, my eight girls do. Save myself fer special customers, an in my shop I sell thousands of what ya see all around ya. Clients love em, jus love em."
She stood back and crossed her strong arms over her high-rise bosom and beamed at me. "Ya think ya could do as well, do ya, do ya?"
"No. I wouldn't know where to begin," I confessed.
Cal came in from a back door and stood back and looked at Kitty with a certain kind of disgust—as if he didn't admire her "creations" or didn't like all the hours she spent teaching.
"Would ya say I'm an artist, would ya?"
"Yes, Kitty, a real artist . . . did you go to school and study art?"
Kitty scowled. "There's some things ya jus know how t'do, born knowin, that's all. I'm just gifted that way—ain't I, honey?"
"Yes, Kitty, you are gifted that way." Cal strolled toward the stairs.
"Hey!" yelled Kitty. "Yer fergettin this kid has t'have new clothes. Kin't let her sleep in our new-painted house in those ole rags she's got on. She stinks, kin't ya smell her? Cal, ya get yerself back in that car an drive ta t'K mart that stays open all night, an get this chile some decent clothes specially nightgowns—an ya make sure they're all too large.
Don't want her growin out of stuff before they're worn out."
"It's almost eleven," he said in that cold, distant voice that I had heard before in the car, and was already beginning to recognize as his disapproving voice.
"I KNOW that! Ya think I kin't tell time? But no kid is sleepin in my clean house without a bath, without a shampoo, without a delousin, an, most specially, without new clothes—ya hear!"
Cal heard. He whirled about, grumbling under his breath, and disappeared. Pa would never let a woman tell him what to do and where to do it, much less when. What kind of leash did Kitty have about Cal's neck that he would obey, even grudgingly?
"Now, ya come along with me, an show ya everythin, just everythin, an yer gonna love it all, ya will, know ya will." She smiled and patted my cheek. "Knew yer pa. Guess ya know that by now.
Knew he couldn't do nothin fer ya, not like I'm gonna do. Gonna give ya all t'thins I wanted when I was a kid like ya. Advantages I neva had are gonna be yers.
It's yer good luck t'have picked me, an my Cal . . . an yer Pa's bad luck. Serves him right, too, to lose everythin . . every one of his kids." Again she smiled her strange smile. "Now, tell me what ya like t'do most."
"Oh . . I love to read!" I answered quickly. "My teacher, Miss Deale, used to give Tom and me lots of books to bring home, and for birthdays and such she'd give us our very own books—brand-new ones. I brought a few with me, my favorite ones—and they're not dirty, Kitty, really they're not. Tom and I taught Keith and Our Jane to love books and respect them as friends."
"Books . . ?" she asked, distaste on her face.
"Ya mean that's what ya'd rather have, more than anythin? Ya must be crazy." And with that she spun on her heel and seemed eager to lead me into the dining room, though my vision was smeary with fatigue, my impressions becoming vague from too many changes all at once.
Yet I had to view the dining room with its large oval glass-top table, sitting atop a fancy gold-colored pedestal formed by three golden dolphins that obligingly fanned their tails to support the thick, heavy glass. I was swaying on my feet, exhausted. I tried desperately to listen to Kitty, to see all the objects that Kitty kept pointing out.
Next we visited the spanking-white kitchen.
Even the white floor tiles shone. "Expensive vinyl,"
she explained, "t'best money kin buy." I nodded, not knowing the best from the worst. Through sleepy eyes I beheld the modern-day wonders I'd dreamed about all my life: the dishwasher, the double porcelain sinks, the gleaming chrome fixtures, the large kitchen range with two ovens, all the white cabinets, the long countertops, the round table and four chairs.
Everywhere possible, to keep all the white from being monotonous, were more of Kitty's works.
She'd taken animal forms and made them into different kinds of containers. Ceramic baskets were really flour, sugar, tea, and coffee canisters; a pink pig held utensils too large to fit inside a drawer; and a magenta horse was sitting down as a human would, holding pink paper napkins.
"Now what ya think, really think?" demanded Kitty. "It's pretty, so clean, colorful, and pretty," I whispered, my voice gone hoarse.
We returned to the front foyer, where Kitty again checked over the living room and then narrowed her eyes. "They done put em in t'wrong places!" she shrieked. "Would ya look where they put my elephant end tables? An I jus noticed! In t'corners—in t'dammed corners—where ya kin't even see em!
Heaven, right now we got t'put this place t'orda."
It took an hour to move everything to where Kitty wanted it to be. The large ceramic pieces were surprisingly heavy. I was tired enough to drop. Kitty stared at my face, seized hold of my hand, and pulled me toward the stairs. "Give ya a betta tour tomorra.
Yer gonna love it. Right now we gotta get ya ready fer bed."
All the way up the stairs Kitty rambled on about her famous movie-star clients, all stars who insisted only she could do their hair right. "They come t'perform in shows, an always they ask fer me. Why, I've seen things ya jus wouldn't believe—Lord, haven't I? Secrets, I've got 'em by t'million—won't tell a soul, not a single soul. Closemouthed, I am." Kitty paused, turned me around, and stared deep into my eyes. "What's wrong with ya? Kin't you hear? Aren't ya listenin?"
She was a blurred image. So exhausted I could sleep on my feet, I made an effort to be more enthusiastic about Kitty's rich clients, and also an honest excuse about it being a long day, and I wasn't hearing or seeing too well.
"Why ya talk like that?"
I winced. All my life I'd fought not to talk the way she did, as all hill folks talked, slurring their conjunctions so they ran into nouns, verbs, whatever, and she was criticizing me. "Miss Deale always insisted we should not slur our words and
contractions."
"Who then is Miss Deale?"
"My teacher."
Kitty snorted. "Neva had no use fer school or teachers. Nobody uses yer kind of Yankee talk. Ya'll make enemies, ya will, with that accent. Ya learn t'talk like t'rest of us, or suffer t'consequences."
What consequences?
"Yes, Kitty."
We'd reached the top of the stairs. Walls were wavering before my eyes. Suddenly Kitty turned to seize me by the shoulders; then she began to bang my head against the nearest wall. "WAKE UP!" yelled Kitty. "Ya wake up an hear this—I'm not Kitty t'ya!
Yer t'call me Mother! Not Momma, not Mommy, not Mom or Motha—and, least of all, not Ma! But Moth-her, understand?"
I was dizzy, my head hurt. She was amazingly strong. "Yes, Mother."
"Good, that's a nice girl, good girl—now let's take that bath."
Oh, I must never become too tired again, and risk the wra
th of a woman who could turn on me in a second, and for no apparent reason.
Down a short hall toward an open door that revealed shiny black wallpaper with gold designs Kitty led me. "Now, here's t'master bathroom,"
informed Kitty, stepping inside first and dragging me along by the arm. "That thing ova there is called a commode by fancy folks, but I'm not fancy—it's a toilet. Ya lift t'lid before ya sit down, an ya flush every time ya use it—an don't ya fill it with paper or it'll stop up an flood ova, an it'll be yer goddam job t'clean it up. In fact, this whole house is yers tkeep clean. I'll explain how t'keep my plants alive, watered an fed, dusted, my planters shiny, all my stuff dusted, clean, vacuumed, an ya'll do elaundry, but first t'bath."
Here I was, my most fervent wish come true, an indoor bathroom, with hot and cold running water, a bathtub, a basin, mirrors on two walls—now I was too tired to enjoy any of it.
"Are ya listenin, girl—are ya?" came Kitty's shrill voice through my ever-thicker fog of fatigue.
"All this paint, wallpaper, an carpet is brand-new, as ya kin plainly see. I want it t'stay that way. It's yer duty t'see it stays this way, brand-new—ya hear?"
Blindly I nodded.
"An ya might as well know from the beginnin, I expect ya t'work out t'expense of stayin here, an t'cost of what ya eat, by doin t'chores I assign. I'm sure ya don't know t'least thing about housework, an that's goin t'waste a good deal of my valuable time, but ya'll learn fast if ya hope t'live here." She paused again and stared deep into my eyes.
"Ya do like it here, don't ya?"
Why did she keep asking, when I hadn't had time to do more than glance around? And the way she talked was already putting me on guard, stealing my hope that this would be a home, rather than a jail.
"Yes," I said, trying to show more enthusiasm.
"Everything is beautiful."
"Yeah, ain't it?" Kitty smiled softly. "Got another bathroom on t'first level. Jus as pretty—save it fer guests. Like t'keep it spotless, shinin. That'll be yer job."
All the time Kitty was reaching for bottles and jars hidden behind mirrored doors that slid open, and soon she had quite a collection on the counter shelf that was pink marble, to match the oval bathtub. Black and pink and gold, everything in the "master bath."
More rainbowed fish swimming on the black and gold walls . . .
"Now," continued Kitty, all business, "t'first thing we gotta do is scrub all that filth from yer skin.
Wash that dirty, buggy hair. Kill t'lice yer bound t'have. Kill all t'nasty germs. That pa of yers has got t'have everythin, an ya've been wallowin in his filth since t'day ya were conceived. Why, t'tales they tell about Luke Casteel in Winnerrow would curl hair betta than perms. But he's payin t'price fer all that fun now . . . payin a heavy price." She seemed glad, smiling her scary secret smile.
How did she know about Pa's disease? I started to say he was well now, but I was too tired to speak.
"Oh, fergive me, honey. Yer feelins hurt? But ya gotta understand I jus don't like yer pa."
That confirmed my choice. Anyone who didn't like Pa had to have good judgment. I sighed, then smiled at Kitty.
"Grew up in Winnerrow, parents still live there," she continued; "in fact, they wouldn't live nowhere else. People get like that when theys neva go nowhere. Skerred livin, that's what I call it. Fraid if they leaves home no big city is gonna know they exist. In Atlanta, where I work, they'd be just nobody important. Don't know how t'do nothin like I do. Don't have no talents like mine. Now, we don't live in Atlanta, like we said before, but in this subdivision twenty miles away; both Cal an I work, an there we have'ta fight t'world. That's what it is, ya know, a daily battle out there, me an him against t'world. He's mine an I love him. I'd kill t'keep him." She paused, eyeing me thoughtfully with hard, narrowed eyes.
"My shop is in a big, fancy hotel that draws all t'rich folks. Kin't buy a house here in Candlewick unless ya make more than thirty thousand a year, an with both Cal and me working, we double that some years. Why, honey, yer gomia love it, just love it.
Ya'll go t'school in a three-storied building where they have an indoor swimming pool, an auditorium where they show movies, an of course ya'll be much happier there than in that fil old second-rate school . . . an jus think, yer right in time t'start t'new semester."
It made me hurt to think of my old school, and to remember Miss Deale. It was there I'd learned about the rest of the world, the better world, the different world that cared about education, books, paintings, architecture, science . . . not just existing from day to day. And I hadn't even been able to say good-bye to Miss Deale. I should have been nicer, more grateful for her caring. I should have thrown away my pride. I tried to stifle a sob. Then there was Logan, who might not have spoken because his parents were there that last time at church. Or some other reason. Now not only my beloved teacher but Logan too seemed unreal, like dreams I'd never have again. Even the cabin had gone fuzzy in my mind, and I'd left only hours ago.
Grandpa would be sound asleep by this time.
And here the stores were still open and people were still shopping. Like Cal, off somewhere buying me new clothes that would be too large. I sighed heavily; some things never changed.
With leaden legs, I waited for Kitty to finish filling the fancy pink tub with water.
Steamy vapor clouded all the mirrors, filled my lungs, misted the air so Kitty seemed miles and miles away, and into fantasy land Kitty and I had drifted, up in the clouds near the moon—black, foggy night full of golden fish drifting with us. I felt drunk from lack of energy, swaying on my feet, and heard, as if truly from the moon, Kitty ordering me to undress and drop everything into the trash can she'd lined with a plastic bag, and out into the garbage would go everything I had on, to be thrown in the city dump and eventually burned.
Clumsily I began to undress.
"Yer gonna have everything new. Spendin a fortune on ya, girl, so ya think of that whenever ya feel homesick fer that pigsty cabin ya called home.
NOW STRIP DOWN, INSTANTLY! Ya gotta learn t'move when I speak, not jus stand there like ya don't hear or understand—understand?"
With fingers made awkward from fear and
fatigue, I began to work on the buttons of my old dress. Why weren't my fingers working better, faster?
Somehow I managed to unfasten two, and even as I did this, Kitty pulled from a cabinet drawer a plastic apron. "Stand on this and drop yer clothes down around yer feet. Don't let anything ya wear touch my clean carpet or my marble countertops."
Naked, I stood on the plastic apron, with Kitty eyeing me up and down. "Why, bless my soul, yer not a little girl afta all. How old are ya anyway?"
"Fourteen," I answered. My tongue felt thick, my thoughts thicker, my eyes so sleepy they had grit in them, and even as I tried to obey Kitty, I blinked, yawned, and swayed.
"When will ya be fifteen?"
"February twenty-second."
"Ya had yer first monthly bloody time yet?"
"Yes, started when I was almost thirteen."
"Well, now, neva would have guessed. When I was yer age I had boobs, big ones. Made t'boys hot jus nook my way, but all of us kin't be that lucky, kin we?"
Nodding, I wished Kitty would leave me alone to take my first bath in a real porcelain tub.
Apparently Kitty had no intention of getting out, or giving me a moment to use the bathroom alone.
I sighed again and moved toward the pink toilet seat, realizing that she didn't intend to leave.
"NO! Firstya have t'cover t'seat with paper."
And even that body function had to wait for Kitty to spread tissues all over the seat, and then she turned her back. What good did that do when she could still hear, and there were mirrors everywhere to reflect everything even if they were cloudy from steam?
Then Kitty sprang into action. She squatted down near the tub and informed me as she tested the water temperature, "Hot water is what ya have'ta sit in. Gotta scrub ya with a brush, put
sulfur an tar soap on that hair of yers t'kill all those nits ya must have."
I tried to speak and tell Kitty I bathed more often than most hill people did, and once a week I washed my hair (only this morning), but I was without energy, without will to speak and defend myself. All kinds of confused emotions were churning within me, making me more tired and weak.
Funny how sick I felt. Silent screams stuck in my throat, tears froze behind my eyes, and, as Fanny often did, I wanted to yell and scream and throw some kind of tantrum, kick out and hurt somebody just so I wouldn't hurt so much inside; but I did nothing but wait for the tub to fill.
And fill it did. With scalding water.
All that was pink in the small room suddenly seemed red—and in that hellish misty red I saw Kitty taking off her pink knit top and pants. Underneath she wore a pink bikini bra and panties so small they hardly covered what they should.
Warily I edged away, watching Kitty move to pour something from a brown bottle into the tub. The stench of Lysol.
I knew the smell from school, when I'd stayed late to help Miss Deale, and the cleaning ladies and men had used Lysol in the rest rooms. I'd never heard of anyone taking a bath in Lysol.
Somehow a pink towel had found its way into my hand, a towel so large and thick I felt I could hide safely behind it. Not that anyone in the cabin had ever cared much about modesty, but I was ashamed to let Kitty see how thin I was.
"Put down the towel! Ya shouldn't touch my clean towel. All t'pink ones belong t'me, an only I use em, ya hear?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Yes, Mother," she corrected. "Neva call me anything but Moth-ther . . . say it like that."
I said it like that, still clutching the towel and dreading the feel of that hot water.
"Black velvet towels belong to Cal, not ya, rememba that. When my pink ones fade almost white, I'll turn em ova t'ya. Right now ya kin use some ole ones I brought home from my salon."
I nodded, my eyes riveted on the steam coming from the tubful of water.
Heaven (Casteel Series #1) Page 22
