Calling Me Home

by Julie Kibler

  Nell had been sent to the kitchen for iced tea, and she emerged, carrying a tray heavy with a crystal pitcher and glasses of ice. My brother Patrick passed through the hallway as she headed toward the sitting room. He bumped up against her, causing her tray to tilt at a precarious angle, setting the iced tea to sloshing and the glasses clinking into each other. Patrick reached to steady the tray, and as he released it again, he brushed his hand against her aproned breast, leaving it there a moment as her eyes widened. His eyes dared her to react as he slowly squeezed. She flinched but didn’t make a sound.

  “Nell, is that you?” my mother called. “We’d like our tea now.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Nell said. “Coming, ma’am.” She pushed past Patrick, her eyes averted. He spied me on the staircase, my hands frozen, clutching the aces from three different decks, and he grinned, as though I’d be amused by what I’d witnessed. I felt nauseous. Mother worried their boys would sully ours? She hadn’t seen the combined effect of terror and resignation on Nell’s face. After hearing what she’d said to the neighbor, I guessed she’d view this differently, maybe even accuse Nell of enticing Patrick.

  My father would have harshly reprimanded him—except it seemed as if he’d given up trying to influence my brothers now that they were supposed to be men. As far back as I could remember, for reasons that were never quite clear to me, Jack and Patrick had emulated the other boys and men who surrounded them in our town instead of Daddy, and Mother’s lack of intervention hadn’t helped. I was the one who’d imitated my father’s behavior since I was a tiny girl, and he had always modeled respect for our household help and any colored folks with whom he interacted—for all the good it did with my brothers.

  Patrick lumbered up the stairs, thwacking me on the forehead with his fingers as he passed me and kicking the cards I’d already arranged, jumbling the decks again.

  But at that moment, the interest that had begun to possess me since the night Robert had walked me home became clear—an interest that might even confound my father. If my mother could read my thoughts, she’d believe an evil spirit had taken up residence in my heart—not unlike her vision of Negroes living in our small town, with all its implications.

  My thoughts, not entirely platonic, gave me shivers.

  * * *

  ONE LATE SPRING afternoon, I was reading in the backyard, propped up against a tree, when Robert ambled up the drive. He lifted his hand when he saw me but continued walking toward the back door. My eyes began tracking the same lines of text over and over as I wondered what had brought him to our house that day. Moments later, he came out of the house and went to the garage, where my father stored his prized 1936 Buick Special. Robert backed the crimson car into the driveway. He shut off the engine, then returned to the garage, eventually emerging again with a bucket and rags.

  He’d washed my father’s car plenty of times before. Daddy was proud of it and liked to keep it in top shape. He no longer trusted Jack or Patrick to do it—the few times he had, they’d done a sloppy job and damaged the immaculate surface by leaving soap spots in their hurry to move on to less menial preoccupations. Mother claimed their carelessness was only because Daddy wouldn’t allow them to drive his precious Buick, especially considering he rarely drove it himself. Shalerville was so tiny, he visited most of his patients on foot unless the weather prevented it or they lived out of town; only rarely did he take appointments in his office, which was a few blocks from home. He took turns chauffeuring my friends and me to our parties, and occasionally we’d drive across the Ohio for dinner in Cincy or take the car on a family holiday out of town, but mostly it stayed right there in the garage, shiny and awaiting its rare adventure. The boys made do driving Daddy’s old Model T, the first car he’d owned, which only ran part of the time—the reason he’d abandoned it.

  But I’d begged my father to teach me to drive the Buick, and he’d actually agreed to it, claiming he’d teach me in the summer, when I sometimes accompanied him on out-of-town calls. Mother intervened. “Now, John, don’t put ideas in Isabelle’s head,” she’d said. She wouldn’t dream of getting behind the wheel, and wouldn’t hear of my doing it, either. It was unladylike. Daddy shrugged his hands, an unspoken apology, and I stomped off to sulk. But even though I’d been thrilled that Daddy almost taught me, I’d felt troubled, too. He wouldn’t allow my brothers to drive his car, but he was willing to teach me to do it; Mother wouldn’t dream of letting me drive, yet she didn’t understand my father’s adamant refusal to let the boys near his car. It seemed, sometimes, we were pawns in an unacknowledged battle between our parents. Was Mother’s permissiveness with the boys a way to get back at my father in some way for a fault I couldn’t see? I found myself studying him after that, trying to discern what he might have done to disappoint my mother. He seemed perfect to me.

  Now I watched enviously while Robert walked to the outside spigot, jingling the keys in his pocket. I glanced at the back windows of the house, though I knew my mother rested every afternoon about that time. Satisfied nobody was watching, I carried my book to a lawn chair nearer the car, where I pretended to immerse myself in my story again. “Too shady over there,” I said. “I was getting a chill.”

  “Yes, ma’am, it’s a nice day out, but I can see how it might be cool in the shade.” Robert filled the bucket with suds and carried it to the car, then stopped short. I recognized his dilemma almost as soon as he set the bucket on the ground. I’d glimpsed him from inside the house in the past—he usually wore only his sleeveless undershirt when he washed the car.

  But usually I wasn’t there.

  I could have jumped up to go inside so he could follow his usual protocol, but something inside me rebelled. I buried my nose deeper in my book, shifting away slightly so my line of vision wasn’t so direct. But instead of removing his shirt, Robert rolled his long sleeves as high as they’d go and plunged his arms into the suds. He couldn’t avoid soaking the sun-bleached fabric in the process. He wrung out the sponge and dragged it over the hood of the car, grimacing at the water stains on his sleeves.

  I couldn’t help it. A giggle sneaked past my lips. I slapped my hand against my mouth.

  “You were me, you wouldn’t be laughing,” Robert said quietly, his back to me.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, but my giggles turned into uncontrolled laughter. “I hope you don’t have to wear that shirt anywhere else today.”

  Robert glanced at the house, then before I knew it, he dipped the sponge in the bucket and flung a stream of water my way. I gasped as it made perfect landfall, drenching my book and skirt, and my laughter increased to a shriek.

  “Oh, pardon me, Miss Isabelle. I didn’t realize you were so close behind me. Get you wet?” He made full eye contact with me. A grin split his face like a sunrise, and for a moment, we were simply young people enjoying a mutual prank, neither well-off nor poor, white nor Negro.

  Until the screen door slapped closed. I turned. My mother stood on the back stoop. She frowned and squinted, her hand shading her eyes from the sharp afternoon sun. “Isabelle? Is that you out there? I thought I heard a commotion. You’ve been in the sun too long, dear. Your skin has become unattractively dark. Come inside, now.”

  “Coming, Mother,” I called dutifully, but my singsong voice betrayed my impertinence.

  She waited while I shook out my skirt and scooped my book from the chair. I wiped at the cover, hoping she wouldn’t notice the dark spots on it or smell the telltale scent of soapsuds mixed with road dust on my clothing. When she was satisfied I was doing as she asked, she turned to go inside. I glanced at Robert, and then, though I knew it was childish, I stuck out my tongue at my mother’s receding backside, jammed my thumbs into my ears, and wagged my fingers. Now it was his turn to cover his mouth. He was more successful than I’d been in covering the chuckle that tried to escape. He shook a finger at me, then returned to his task.

  I took my time entering the house, but Mother was right inside the door, a look on her
face I could have sworn was sheer terror. But then she pursed her lips like she used to purse them at Aunt Bertie. “Isabelle, you’re too friendly with the Prewitts,” she said. “You must remember your place. And they must remember theirs.”

  “Mother—” I protested, but she’d already turned away.

  * * *

  SCHOOL LET OUT for the summer, and my days alternated between lethargy and tasks Mother assigned to keep me busy—learning to arrange peonies or daylilies from the garden, selecting ripe cucumbers or prickly okra for Cora to pickle, and any number of things that seemed pointless to me, as though we still lived in the nineteenth century. I’d much rather have read or wandered, but I was no longer allowed the freedom I’d had when I was younger. On rare occasions, though, Mother’s watchful eye relaxed.

  On an early afternoon in July, when the heat had given its most impressive performance of the season so far, bearing down on us like a steaming iron, she complained of a headache and retired early for her afternoon rest. She asked Cora to send Nell to my father for a powder to relieve her pain, but Nell was in the middle of laundering linens. Though I suspected Nell would have favored a break from her task, doubly oppressive in the heat and humidity, I jumped at the chance.

  “Oh, no, Miss Isabelle,” Cora said. “Nell can finish it up later. That laundry’s not going anywhere.”

  “I don’t mind. I’d like to say hello to Daddy, and besides, I can’t bear this stifling house a minute longer.” I clutched my hands over my heart. “Pretty please?”

  Cora laughed. “You win.” But then she shook her finger at me. “You hurry back with that powder, now, or your momma will be all over us.”

  I promised I’d rush both directions. I called the office first, and Daddy’s nurse assured me they’d have the medicine waiting even if Daddy was called away.

  My father sat at his desk, eating a cold lunch. He waved me into his consulting room. “Sit, honey. Visit for a minute; then you can take my lunch box back with you.” When I was younger, I’d often kept him company over his lunch in the summer. I think we both missed our chats. I suspected my mother’s plan to turn me into a ready-made bride wasn’t any easier on my father than it was on me.

  “I better hurry, sir. Mother will be upset if she doesn’t have her medicine right away—especially since she’s expecting Nell.”

  “Oh, well, go on, then. We don’t want Nell or Cora in trouble with the boss.”

  “No, sir. We don’t.” I tucked the medicine in my pocket. “Daddy?”

  He grinned. “Thought you were in a hurry.”

  “I am. But I was wondering…” I ran my fingers across the thin fabric of my dress, around the outline of the envelope, and swiveled my sandaled toe against a dark fleck in the linoleum. I shook my head. “Never mind.”

  “What is it, honey?” My father’s hand was halfway to his mouth, but he put down his sandwich and leaned back in his chair, his fingers clasped over his vest.

  I didn’t answer immediately. I’d suddenly been swept from the present to the past, in a memory I’d never revisited until this moment, probably six years gone. Robert and I sat in two straight chairs, which flanked my father’s desk, one on either side, instead of facing it as they did for patient consultations. My math book was in the middle of Daddy’s desk, where we could all view it, and Daddy was helping me with my assigned work—the first year I’d struggled with it—while Robert copied the same problems onto sheets of paper. It wasn’t our first session of this kind, and I hadn’t understood at first why Robert was doing the same work I’d been assigned—he was a year older than I was, after all. I was also puzzled because Robert hadn’t brought his own book. Why did he need to use mine? Daddy explained on our walk home that Robert’s school received cast-off textbooks from the white schools in the area, and those were so battered, they rarely left the classroom—they were too precious and few for the teachers to chance damage or loss. The school never had enough teachers, and so it was easy for even the smartest students to fall behind. Robert’s classmates were often doing work my class had mastered several years before, and Daddy helped him work ahead to ensure he’d be ready for college. I was ashamed to recall how I sometimes flung my schoolbooks across my bedroom in frustration, sick to death of all the busywork that rarely challenged my mind. I pictured the student who might use it next, cracked spine and all, and began handling my books with care, understanding it was a privilege to carry them back and forth from home to school each day. I fussed at the boys in my classes who carelessly dropped their books in the dirt after school when they formed spontaneous ball games, and they rolled their eyes and ignored me.

  That day, I fidgeted while Daddy dissected a problem with Robert. Robert generally caught on faster than I did, which annoyed me. But I noticed he was fidgety, too. Daddy was always patient with both of us, and he simply plodded through the work until Robert looked up at him with nervous eyes. “Sir?” he said.

  “Yes, Robert? What is it? Don’t you understand?”

  “Yes, sir, I understand fine. It’s just…” Robert glanced at the window. “It’s almost dark, sir.”

  My father’s head swung toward the window, and he seemed startled, as though he hadn’t noticed how quickly sunset arrived after school was dismissed now that it was late fall. Rare impatience flashed across his face—no, something stronger than impatience; it was anger—but he composed himself and gathered Robert’s papers together, quickly pointing out what he should complete before we met again. “You better run along now, Robert; we don’t want you in trouble with the boss.”

  I wasn’t sure whom he meant. It seemed he should be referring to Cora, as he often referred to my mother as “the boss” in our household, but I’d never heard him label Cora that way. Robert stuffed the papers into his worn knapsack, a hand-me-down from Patrick, and rushed from Daddy’s office. My father returned his attention to me, though he never appeared fully invested in the remainder of our lesson that day.

  “What is it?” Daddy’s voice echoed my memory now. “Honey?”

  I said, “Those signs…”

  “Signs?”

  “The ones when you go in and out of town—not the ones that say Shalerville and the population … but the other ones.”

  Daddy frowned. “What about them?”

  “Have they always been there?”

  “Always?” He lifted his fingers now, studying one nail, scratching as though something was caught at the crescent. “No, I don’t suppose they have.” He straightened. “You’d better get going now, Isabelle. Cora will wonder what kept you.”

  “Yes, sir.” I turned to leave, but his voice, unnaturally bright, stopped me again.

  “Why don’t you run that medicine home, then give yourself an afternoon off? Your mother has set you many tasks this summer, sweetheart, but if she’s not feeling well, having you underfoot will only make things worse, don’t you think?” He winked, and my spirits lifted. He hadn’t exactly answered my other question, and I still wanted to know—but a whole afternoon where I could do anything I desired? With my father’s blessing? It was an excellent distraction.

  “If your mother complains later, I’ll assure her it was my idea, but run along while you can. That powder might work faster if she knows you have permission to flee.”

  “Oh, yes, sir!” I almost slammed the door behind me, then reminded myself to slow down as long as it took to pass by Daddy’s nurse, who was busy straightening the supply cabinet in the examining room. She always smelled painfully sterile, as though she’d never actually touched one of Daddy’s patients. She and Mother collaborated regarding his tendency to give away medical care for less compensation than was strictly good business, even though times were especially hard for others compared to us, but Daddy tolerated her complicity because she was an excellent nurse. She’d report any of my infractions directly to Mother, as well.

  “Afternoon, Isabelle,” she called. I thanked her, but as soon as I was through the entry and beyond her
window view, I broke into a half jog, slowing only when I was going uphill or when I passed folks on Shalerville’s short Main Street—not many that day; the heat had made everyone lazy and inclined to stay anywhere they could catch a cool breeze.

  Back home, I found Nell pegging the last cumbersome tablecloth to the line. I held the corner tight while she slid a wooden pin over it. She dragged her fingers across her glistening forehead. “Would you ask your mother to give this to mine?” I said, withdrawing the medicine envelope from my pocket.

  She wiped her hand down her apron and took it. “What you up to now?” she asked. I struggled to keep a blank face. Though a fissure had remained between us since the night I’d hurt her feelings, she knew me. I knew we both regretted being too old now to escape into the hiding places of the garden and backyard as we had when we were younger. We’d hardly noticed the heat then, playing with my jacks or jump rope, dolls or tea set, giggling and whispering about important things, such as what we’d name our firstborn children. Occasionally, we’d allowed Robert into our exclusive club when we needed a heavy lifter or someone to play the male roles in imaginary scenarios we’d concocted.

  Mother hadn’t cared so much about my interaction with Cora’s family then. Jack was a year older than Patrick, and both were several years older than I. They kept each other busy or in trouble, and I’m sure she was simply relieved I had a convenient playmate, too—though in my case, Nell served to keep me occupied and deterred me from running all over town, whereas my brothers were given free rein as boys. Mother was always excessively concerned I might mingle with the wrong people, but at that time, Nell was exempt. Mother probably already considered her an employee of sorts at age six or eight. And at the right price—free.

  “Daddy’s given me permission to roam,” I said to Nell. “I believe I’ll take my book down to the creek.” A gentle stream ran near our property, half a mile or so from the house if you left through the back gate. Close enough to be considered a safe spot, but sufficiently distant to deliver a temporary sense of freedom. As children, we’d played there, too.