Mama’s wedding dress.
Chapter 12
“Oh, for pity’s sake, Jimmy, is something wrong with your girlfriend?” Mrs. Denton asked.
“No, no, she’s fine,” Jimmy said. “Right, Donna?”
I looked over at Jimmy…all the Jimmys…desperately staring across the table at me, nervously tugging his tie, wanting me to behave properly. So I shook my head to clear it, but that only made me dizzier. That…and the Dexamyl. I’d finally given in to the temptation of the pills that night, hoping they’d make me as alert and confident as Babs had promised.
Instead, on top of my dizziness, everything around me seemed distant and odd.
“Then why is she giggling and staring at me and not eating and—”
“Julia!” Mr. Denton’s voice was sharp, reprimanding.
I startled out of my giggles and dropped my fork, which made a ting as it hit my plate. Julia…the name of Mr. Cahill’s mystery woman, the woman I imagined as his long-lost love and the subject of his mysterious project, the woman I assumed I was a stand-in for, as I posed in tiring, awkward positions on the chaise longue…or used to.
I gave my head another little shake, picked up my fork, poked at my food. “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s just that that painting behind you…it—it’s very…” I stopped, not sure how to describe the dark blue swirls on black.
“Oh, that. A college friend of mine did that.” She spoke dismissively, as if she’d hung the painting up to cover a hole in the wall, but I heard emotion in her voice. A bit of sadness. Even wistfulness.
I looked up and our gazes locked. “Mr. Cahill?” I said, without thinking. Mrs. Denton stiffened, her fork frozen just above her plate, on its way to her lips. The bite of cordon bleu dropped off.
A memory tumbled forth, my subconscious trying to rescue me. “Mrs. Leis is a regular at my grandma’s diner, Dot’s Corner Café, and she asked me if I was in the new art class, and I said yes, and she said you’d met at the Groverton Women’s Club this summer, when you first came here, and that she’d said she thought there should be an art class, and you said you knew a college friend who would be perfect for the job….”
Finally—thankfully—my words trailed to a stop.
Mrs. Denton shuddered, like she was shaking herself back to life, and put her fork down on her plate with a purposeful tap. “Well, aren’t you just at the center of this cozy little town’s grapevine,” she said.
Mr. Denton coughed, warningly. Mrs. Denton ignored him and went on. “You are right, dear. The painting is by my”—she paused and gave Mr. Denton a sidelong glance—“by our old college friend, Nate Cahill. Well, he started out as my friend.” She paused. “I was an art major.”
My face involuntarily twitched with surprise. Mrs. Denton smiled ruefully while she peered at me. “That’s right. Art. Not teaching or nursing.” Her gaze shifted from me to Jimmy and then to her husband. “Not that I’ve done anything with it. Nate, of course, has exhibited in art shows and galleries in San Francisco, Chicago—”
“Now, Julia, I think you are being too modest. You’ve helped Nate make connections many times,” Mr. Denton said, bragging about his wife, proud of her, completely unaware of the revolted look she was giving him. He looked at me and smiled. “Mrs. Denton still dabbles in art. She’s even won a few club contests over the years.” He sliced off a bite of cordon bleu, held it on his fork in midair. “I’m guessing the women’s club here has a contest or show, and if not, of course Mrs. Denton could organize one.” He popped the bite into his mouth.
“So yes, I did recommend Mr. Cahill as an art teacher,” Mrs. Denton said. “Nate was looking for a place to settle, for a while, to work quietly on a special project, after a particularly nasty end to a relationship—”
“Julia!” Mr. Denton said in warning.
“Oh, sorry dear,” she said easily. “Have I said too much in front of the children?”
“I don’t think they need to hear about their art teacher’s private life,” Mr. Denton said.
“Or about his political views?” Mrs. Denton asked primly, then took a sip of her wine.
Mr. Denton’s smile was stiff, forced as he explained, “I—we—found Mr. Cahill’s letter to the editor to be…unfortunate. I’ve asked him to refrain from writing any more such letters, out of respect for the favor my wife did for him. And to preserve the quiet in which he wants to work.”
“Now, Donna, Mr. Cahill’s not filling everyone’s heads with commie ideas, is he?” Mrs. Denton studied me. I wondered what she was looking for. A hint that I might be sympathetic to his ideas? I studied her back as long as I dared, long enough to realize that she supported his ideas, that there was more between them than the ties of old college friends.
I squirmed under her gaze, looked past her at Mr. Cahill’s blue and black swirl painting. “No, no, he’s said nothing of his political views,” I said. “Just taught us…art. Shading. Shapes.”
“How very un-Nate-like. He’s usually so…vocal.” Mrs. Denton said. “Perhaps the town’s quietness is affecting him.” Mr. Denton coughed. “In any case, what do you think of his painting, Donna?”
I looked behind her again. Mr. Cahill’s painting was out of place in the Dentons’ dining room, with its overwrought, formal Victorian dining set that included a cabinet stuffed with fragile china, the china we were eating on, the china Jimmy had brought to our picnic when he’d asked me to be his girl.
“It’s…” wonderful, mesmerizing, enchanting, captivating “…interesting.”
Mrs. Denton sighed, disappointment shadowing her face. Interesting, I thought, was the safest and least interesting word ever invented.
I looked down at my plate. I’d barely eaten any of my meal, turning it into a mashed-up mess of ham and chicken and Swiss cheese. On Jimmy’s plate, the cordon bleu was still neat. He’d managed to slice off perfectly straight, even pieces, the spirals of meat and cheese intact.
Jimmy had brought me here to meet his parents, to make an impression, and I had, I was sure—but not the sort any of us had hoped for. Then again, the family home belied conflict that predated my arrival. The living room, where we’d first exchanged greetings, was filled with the newest style of furniture—all slick, clean lines, and square shapes, and bold turquoise and lime green colors—which didn’t fit this house, a mansion at the top of Watershed Avenue that had been built in 1914 by the then-president of Groverton Pulp & Paper. Mr. Denton said he’d been thrilled to buy the house of a predecessor and went on about his love of legacies and history. Mrs. Denton made remarks about keeping up with the times and that she’d heard at the women’s club that a new development of the most modern houses was going to be built at the old orchard.
“Would gravy help, dear?” Mrs. Denton asked.
“Pardon me?” I said, hoping I had misunderstood her intentions.
“I thought gravy might make the meal more similar to what your grandmother probably serves at her diner.” Her tiny smile caught me off guard. “Dot’s Corner Café…what a cute name. I haven’t eaten there, of course, but the neighbors tell me it’s good for homey cooking. If you like that sort of thing.”
An image of Grandma rose in my mind, but this time instead of seeing the lines etched in her face as hateful and angry, I saw them as weary. I saw the swollen tops of her feet spilling over her shoes, like yeast dough rising.
I mustered my wounded pride. “My grandmother has worked hard all her life to make a place beloved by people from Groverton. It wasn’t easy for her. She was an only child, used to fine things. Her dad was Dr. Winthrow and he treated many of the mill workers. My grandpa was a banker but he lost everything in the Depression and after he died”—driving his car into the Tangy River on purpose, some said—“after he died, she reared my dad all by herself and started baking pies and selling them to neighbors and from there she started the diner. Lots of people love to eat there. You might even like the meat loaf and beef gravy.”
My voice was shaki
ng, so I didn’t go on: Or the biscuits and sausage gravy, or a turkey hotshot with gravy; in fact you should go swimming in gravy because it might make you feel better, happier, nicer…. My hands were shaking, too. I couldn’t have forked up that cordon bleu even if I’d wanted it. There was a long silence.
Jimmy said, “I’ve been to Dot’s Corner Café. The pie is really good. The chocolate cream is the best I’ve ever had.”
Mrs. Denton sighed. “Oh, yes. Isn’t that where you met that awful crazy man?”
“He has a name, Mother,” Jimmy said. “Frederick McDonnell.” He looked at his father. “Have you looked into the safety issues I told you about?”
“Of course, son,” Mr. Denton said. Jimmy looked pleased. But I thought, He’s just being patronizing. Then he added, “We should go to Dot’s. It would be good for everyone to see us there.”
Mrs. Denton arched an eyebrow. “Mix with the townspeople, Roger? Such a sweet thought. Not a requirement at your last position, though.”
“This isn’t San Francisco, Julia.” Mr. Denton gestured for the maid, a black woman, to enter. She did so and began clearing our plates. I felt awkward, being served like this. I looked at the woman, but she avoided looking me—or any of us—in the eye.
“Do tell us more…about your parents.” Mrs. Denton asked as casually as if she were commenting on the weather.
“Julia, perhaps we should change the subject.”
“To what? Art?” Mrs. Denton snapped. “I want to learn more about the family of the girl with whom my son is suddenly smitten!”
She smiled at me again and I realized that she already knew about my family; of course she knew. She probably already knew the story I’d just told about Grandma. She’d asked people around town and learned that Daddy had once held a job of importance at the mill, that Mama had died, that Daddy had gone half-crazy and held on to his job at Ace Hardware as much because of the pity of his manager as anything.
I realized that I had wadded into my hands the skirt of the dress I’d made for this occasion, fusing two of Mama’s dresses—one a light gray, the other pale yellow, both of satin—into something new and stylish, something wonderful, mesmerizing, enchanting, captivating.
I tried to remember something, anything, about Mama, something that wasn’t sad, that wasn’t her singing along with the radio in her and Daddy’s bedroom while staring past her reflection to something only she could see in the dresser mirror, or her just staring, sitting on the couch, while I cut paper dolls from her fashion magazines or, later, tried to tend to baby Will. But all I could think of was Mama’s old clothing in the suitcases in our basement, dresses I’d been cutting into pieces and parts and remaking, and suddenly all I could see were those clothing pieces, all kinds of colors and textures and patterns from a life that didn’t seem to bear any connection to the Mama I recalled, swirling around my head, making a strange buzzing sound as if the fabrics themselves had a voice that was trying to come to life.
“She loved clothes….” That was my voice, so distant, so disconnected.
“Donna…Donna!”
Suddenly, Jimmy was kneeling beside me, one arm around me to keep me from sliding off the chair, holding my glass of water to my lips as I took long gulps. My vision cleared. I was still a little dizzy from both the evening’s tension and my earlier dose of Dexamyl, but not about to faint. Jimmy stood up and gave me a worried look. I smiled at him to let him know I was all right.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “I’ve just been a little…under the weather.” Mrs. Denton’s eyebrows went up. “Nothing catching,” I added hastily.
“Thank goodness,” she said. “Well, we do have dessert. That might tempt your appetite. It’s Baked Alaska, which is ice cream that’s been covered in meringue—”
“I’m sure our guest knows what that is,” Mr. Denton said.
Jimmy and I looked at each other and burst into laughter.
“Who knew of the amusing properties of Baked Alaska?” Mrs. Denton said. “Did you, Roger?”
Jimmy tried to look serious. “Donna’s little brother is really enthusiastic about Alaska. He’s collecting the box tops from the Marvel Puffs promotion to send in for his deed to one square inch of Alaskan territory.”
Mr. Denton lit up. “Ah yes, our mill makes the boxes for the Sunshine Bakery Company. That’s the company that makes Marvel Puffs cereal. It’s a great campaign. I’ve known Harvey Kincaid for years—”
“Donna surely knows this.” Mrs. Denton looked bored. “She’s lived here her whole life.”
Just as I’d defended Grandma, I felt a sudden urge to stick up for my dull little hometown. What was it about Jimmy’s mother that made me want to defend people and places I usually couldn’t wait to get away from?
I looked at Jimmy. His face was flushed with embarrassment. At school, everyone assumed he had a golden home life. I felt a tender surge of sympathy at knowing the truth. In some ways, our lives weren’t so different.
“Jimmy doesn’t know these things,” Mr. Denton said. “And he will need to, to work at the mill after college.” I frowned. Jimmy hadn’t talked about that. We hadn’t, I realized, talked about our futures at all.
Mr. Denton looked at Jimmy, who was staring down at the table. “Now, Harvey Kincaid is the president of Sunshine Bakery. We met at our first jobs and have stayed in touch ever since. It’s important to make connections like that. I made a deal to manufacture the boxes, knowing that the Sunshine Bakery would sell hundreds of thousands of boxes of cereal to boys like Donna’s little brother—what’s his name?”
“Will. And he thinks he’s going to go visit Alaska someday. See his land,” I blurted out.
Mr. Denton beamed, thinking I was lending support to his description of the brilliance of the campaign. “Exactly! This campaign appeals to boys just like Will, to their imagination, their sense of adventure—Alaska! The last frontier!”
Chapter 13
As we hurried out of the house, down the driveway to Jimmy’s car, I didn’t dare ask to drive.
He steered us to our spot by the Tangy River, and there we sat, not touching, not looking at each other, not looking at anything but the darkness and the even darker swaying silhouettes of trees. I wanted Jimmy to reach over, to pull me to him, to bridge the great gap the evening with his parents seemed to have driven between us, but he hunched in his seat in misery.
So we sat while a slow drizzle glazed the windshield and the cold crept into the car until I could no longer hold back shivers. Then, finally, Jimmy moved, his hand brushing my knee as he popped open the glove compartment. He pulled out a narrow silver flask—a replacement for the Sterry Oil Road Atlas—and took a long drink. When he held the flask out to me, I shook my head. Even though most of my Dexamyl dizziness had cleared, I wasn’t sure what alcohol might do mixed with the pills. I shrunk back in my seat, suddenly so weary that I pressed my eyes shut.
Jimmy said, “I’m not like him,” and at first I thought he meant that his drinking wasn’t like my daddy’s drinking, and then I realized that he meant he wasn’t like his own daddy.
“I don’t want to study business or come back and work for him in that damned paper mill.” His voice was rough with barely contained anger. Alarmed, I opened my eyes. Jimmy smacked his hand against the steering wheel, accidentally honking his horn. Even in the darkness, I could see that his face writhed with fury. He took another long drink from the flask. In the distance, I heard the startled, deep, hoarse call of a blue heron. Jimmy’s horn had disturbed her.
Suddenly, I opened the car door, grabbed my purse, and started walking up the spongy bank toward the road. My shivers turned violent in the freezing rain. Why hadn’t I worn a sweater with my dress? I thought, Because you’re a stupid, foolish girl…and you need to get home to Will…and stop thinking Jimmy is going to rescue you somehow…and focus on getting out of Groverton and—
“Donna, wait! What are you doing?”
I kept walking, ignoring Jimmy. The dizzines
s was back, the night swirling around me in blue and black, just like Mr. Cahill’s painting, but I ignored it and started running. I heard Jimmy behind me, quickly closing the space between us. I picked up my pace, but the heel of one of my shoes—gray T-strap spikes that I had thought looked so pretty with my yellow and gray dress—caught in a dip as I ran, and I fell flat, the wetness of the ground immediately oozing through my dress. I felt the left sleeve of my dress—of Mama’s dress—rip.
I’m sorry, Mama…. I struggled to get up, slipping on the muddy slope, my right ankle throbbing with abrupt, sharp pain. And then Jimmy was over me, pulling me up from the ground and to him, saying, “Hey, hey!” not unlike a birdcall of his own making, and then, “Donna, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
I let myself melt into him, into his warmth, and he helped me back to his car. He took off his jacket and wrapped it around me. “I’m an idiot. My mom was awful to you and all I can talk about is not wanting to do what my dad wants.”
“I di-didn’t make a ve-very good imp-impression.” Shivers and hiccups made me stutter.
“You were fine. Beautiful! Like always.” He pulled me closer. “Is your ankle OK?”
The throbbing had worsened. “Yes,” I said.
Jimmy gave me a disbelieving look.
“All right. It hurts like hell.”
“That’s what I thought.” He pulled his tie off. “Lift your foot up; put it on my knee.” I hesitated. “I’ve already got mud on my pants. A little more won’t matter.”
He carefully wrapped the tie around my ankle. I leaned my head back against the cold window, focused on feeling him tend to me. In spite of the throbbing pain, his touch on my leg made me moan. He pressed the flask into my hands.
“It will help with the pain,” he said. “Warm you up.”
My One Square Inch of Alaska (9781101602850) Page 10
