Mrs. Kimble

by Jennifer Haigh

  “I’m worried about that poplar,” he said. “One good storm and it’s going to come crashing down on your roof. When are you going to get someone out here to cut it down?”

  “Soon,” she said. “Just as soon as I get around to it.”

  The kitchen was bright and slightly malodorous, like food gone bad. The sink towered with dirty dishes; trash overflowed in a corner. On the small table were empty jelly jars, stacks of magazines, a portable television playing a morning talk show. There was a small clearing at one end, just large enough for a single plate.

  “Surprise!” she cried.

  Charlie looked around, confused.

  “I’ve been baking for you all morning.” She watched him expectantly. Her front teeth were smeared with lipstick; her eyes danced. She pointed to a metal tin on top of the stove. “Go on. Have a look.”

  Charlie opened the tin. Inside was a fruitcake, about eight inches across. It looked slightly burnt. He glanced around the room. It seemed impossible that one small, burnt cake had dirtied every pot and pan in the kitchen.

  “Don’t I at least get a kiss? After all that baking?”

  Again he kissed her cheek.

  JODY ARRIVED that afternoon, loaded down with bags from the Food Lion. Charlie helped her carry them from the car. She’d bought bread and milk and coffee, eggs and sausages, a premade frozen lasagna for Christmas dinner. That and all the Christmas trappings the store had to offer: two poinsettias, cookies shaped like Santas, paper plates and napkins printed with reindeer.

  “Hi, Ma,” said Jody. She looked around for a place to deposit the groceries. Finally she put the bags on the floor.

  “Hello yourself.” Birdie eyed the grocery bags. “What’s all this?”

  “I stopped for a few things. In case you didn’t make it to the store.”

  Birdie laughed. “Who has time for the store? I’ve been baking all morning.” She allowed Jody to hug her. “Girls your age don’t understand. Baking from scratch takes time.”

  She stepped back and looked Jody up and down. “What’s this you’re wearing? A jogging suit?”

  Jody smiled sheepishly. “It’s comfortable.”

  “So is a bathrobe,” said Birdie. “But this is Christmas Eve! If you’re a young Grace Kelly, you can get away with traipsing around in a bathrobe, but the rest of us need to make an effort.”

  Charlie left them in the kitchen. He walked down the dirt road to the pond, frozen around the edges but still soft in the middle. One winter when it froze completely, he and Terence Mabry had walked clear out to the center and taken turns with an old pair of hockey skates.

  The road stopped abruptly and Charlie hiked into the woods, grateful for his work boots, their deep treads gripping the frozen earth. He found the path easily, still worn and smooth after all these years. He and Terence had made it going back and forth to each other’s houses. Now there were no children at either house, no one left to play in the woods. He wondered why it hadn’t grown over like everything else.

  He followed the path to the clearing, brushy now, that Pappy had used as a shooting range. “Not another house for ten miles,” he used to brag. “Nothing out there but deer and squirrel and niggers, and if a stray bullet hits one of them, so much the better.” The memory shamed him, a part of his grandfather he’d never understood. Pappy had loved Ella Mabry like family, and never came back from town without three chocolate bars, for Jody, Charlie, and Terence. It was only Terence’s father he’d objected to. Pappy called him ignorant and lazy, though Curt worked harder than any man Charlie had ever known, year-round at the sawmill in Gretna and farming his own land besides.

  Charlie peered through the trees. Lights glowed in the distance. The Mabrys’ old bungalow had burned down years before; Curt had replaced it with a double-wide trailer. He’d added on a large front porch, planted the perimeter with rhododendrons and juniper bushes, so that from a distance it looked as permanent as a regular house. Since Maple’s death he’d lived there alone, over the objections of Terence and his wife, who had a big new house near the army base in Richmond. In his quiet way, Charlie thought, Curt was as stubborn as Birdie: attached to the house decomposing around her, the floors buckling under the weight of her own dirt and clutter.

  He crossed the clearing. Curt’s dogs skulked out from behind the trailer, dragging their chains. “Hey, Rex,” said Charlie. “Hey, Blondie.” They were old yellow dogs, brother and sister, dead ringers for their mother, the original Blondie. Charlie climbed the steps to the porch and knocked at the door.

  “Curt? You home? It’s Charlie Bell.” He’d always been Charlie Bell in Montford; his mother, too, was known by her maiden name. Nobody there had ever called them Kimble.

  He heard movement inside the trailer. The door opened with a thin, metallic sound.

  “Charlie Bell.” Curt was just as Charlie remembered him, small and strong and wiry. They shook hands. Curt’s palm was heavy and callused, thirty years of sawmill in that hand.

  “I’m down visiting my mother. I was out for a walk and I thought I’d wish you a Merry Christmas.”

  “Been a long time.” Curt glanced at the dogs. “I’m surprised they remember you.”

  “They got old.”

  Curt laughed, a deep bubbling sound. “Like all of us,” he said. “Come on in. I just made coffee.”

  He limped slightly as he led Charlie through the neat living room. The trailer had a wonderful smell, fried potatoes and cherry pipe tobacco.

  “What happened to your leg?” said Charlie.

  “Arth-a-ritis in my knee,” said Curt, giving it an extra syllable. “Guess I got old too.”

  He took the drip pot from the stove and poured two cups of coffee, dosed each one with sugar and cream.

  “How come you’re not up in Richmond for the holidays?” said Charlie.

  Curt brought the cups to the table. “Terence and Yvonne took the baby to Chicago. Give the other grandparents a chance, I suppose.” He sipped his coffee. “What about you, Charlie Bell? How old are you now?”

  “Thirty-two,” said Charlie. “Same as Terence.”

  “When are you going to settle down? What are you waiting on?”

  Charlie smiled. “I’m not waiting. I like being single.”

  Curt dismissed this with a wave of his hand. “That’s no life for a man. No kind of life at all.”

  “Some people shouldn’t get married,” said Charlie, thinking of his father. “I’m afraid I’m one of them.”

  “That’s no way to talk,” said Curt. “You’ll be alone your whole life, you keep thinking like that. Pretty soon you’ll be as old as me. Then what’ll you have?”

  “I try not to think about it.” Charlie laughed. “What about you? Don’t you get lonely out here all by yourself?”

  Curt shrugged. “You get used to it. In the beginning I felt sorry for myself, losing Maple so young. But I had her twenty-three years. That’s more than some folks get.”

  Charlie nodded. “I worry about my mama. She’s getting older now. I wish she had someone to look after her.”

  Curt got up abruptly and refilled his cup. “Your mama is still a young woman. I’d say she can look after herself.”

  Outside, one of the dogs barked sharply.

  “I don’t know what’s got into her,” said Curt. “Excuse me for a moment.” He disappeared into the living room. Charlie heard the screen door open, Curt talking to the dog in a low voice.

  He took his cup to the sink. Curt’s kitchen was immaculate. A clean frypan lay drying on a towel. Beside it were two glasses, two plates, two forks. A gold ring sat in a saucer next to the sink, as if someone had taken it off to wash dishes. Charlie picked up the ring and examined it. Two stones, garnet and topaz. He put the ring back in the saucer and went to the door.

  “I should be going,” he told Curt. “They’ll have dinner waiting.” He reached down and patted Blondie’s head. “Good to see you, Mr. Curt.”

  “Give my regards to your
mother,” said Curt. “Tell her I said Merry Christmas.”

  Charlie crossed the clearing and followed the path to the dirt road. It was nearly dark, the blue dusk of early winter. The porch light was on. Jody sat on the steps in an old barn jacket.

  “Where have you been?” she asked. “Shame on you, leaving me alone with her.”

  “Sorry.” Charlie fumbled in his jacket pocket. “I went for a walk.”

  Jody eyed his pack of cigarettes. “I thought you quit.”

  “I did.” He sat beside her on the step. “Where is she?”

  “Taking a bath. I talked her into it. I don’t think she’s had one in a week.”

  An owl moaned in the distance.

  “I worry about her,” said Jody. “She doesn’t take care of herself.”

  Charlie exhaled: two, three perfect rings of smoke. “Is she drinking?”

  “I don’t think so. But still. Half the time she doesn’t answer the phone. I don’t know where she could be.” She took a cigarette from Charlie’s pack. “How are you doing? Since Anne-Sophie left.”

  “The house feels pretty empty.” He stared into the woods and thought of Curt on the other side of it, feeding his dogs.

  “I don’t get it,” said Jody. “Why not do what she wants? Why not get married?”

  “Why not? Go ask Mama. She’ll tell you why not.”

  Jody chuckled. “No thanks. That’s one conversation I can do without.”

  “I’m serious,” he said. “Think of the misery she could have saved herself if she’d never married him.”

  “People get divorced,” said Jody. “You can’t blame him for everything.”

  “Sure I can blame him.”

  “Oh, please.” Jody inhaled deeply. “Nobody could live with Mama. She’s a disaster.”

  “How do you think she got that way?”

  Jody shrugged. “What could he do? He fell in love with someone else.” She stared into the distance. Charlie knew she was thinking of Russell.

  “Well, isn’t that the whole point of marriage?” he said. “You’re not supposed to fall in love with someone else.”

  Jody exhaled loudly. “Do you think that’s realistic?”

  “No,” said Charlie. “That’s why I’ll never get married.”

  Jody smiled. “I’d marry Russell in a minute, if he asked me.”

  No danger of that, Charlie thought. Russell would never leave his wife; Jody would grow old waiting.

  The door opened behind them. Birdie stood wrapped in a flowered housecoat.

  “Charlie Bell,” she said. “Wherever have you been?”

  THEY ATE breakfast for supper, sausage and eggs, the only meal Jody knew how to cook. Charlie cleared the table. He stowed the jars and magazines in the parlor, then placed the television on top of the refrigerator.

  “Eat your eggs,” Jody told Birdie. “You’ve barely touched them.”

  “I’m too excited to eat.” She beamed at Charlie. “Having my children on Christmas Eve! It’s just marvelous.” She’d kept her red hair but needed a touch-up: under the bright kitchen lights, the roots were yellow-gray. Charlie looked at her hands, spotted like a ripe banana.

  “Mama,” he said. “Where’s your ring?”

  They’d bought it for her two Christmases ago. A mother’s ring, Jody called it, set with their two birthstones, January and November.

  Birdie looked down at her hand. “The jeweler’s,” she said. “One of the stones was loose. I took it to get fixed.” She sprang up from her chair. “Time for dessert. Homemade fruitcake! Charlie’s favorite.”

  Charlie and Jody exchanged looks. Fruitcake was not his favorite—nor, he believed, anyone else’s. He dreaded the lacquered sweetness, the candied orange bits that stuck in his molars; but he accepted a slice. He stuck in a fork and encountered resistance, something stiff and unyielding at the bottom. He turned over his slice of cake. The bottom was lined with printed waxed paper.

  THANK YOU, it read. FOOD LION IN-STORE BAKERY.

  Charlie left Montford the day after Christmas. He tossed his duffel bag into the trunk and went inside to say good-bye. Jody stood at the sink, washing dishes. Birdie sat at the cluttered table, watching television.

  “I guess that’s it,” he said.

  Birdie rose. “Charlie Bell.” She took his face in her hands and kissed him tenderly on the cheek. He felt the imprint of her mouth, the waxy stain of lipstick. He studied her eyes, a murky green flecked with gold.

  “I forgot to tell you,” he said. “Curt said to wish you a Merry Christmas.”

  Her eyes widened momentarily, or maybe he imagined it.

  “You ought to go visit him once in a while,” said Charlie. “Him all alone in that house.”

  “I’m sure he’s fine.” Birdie turned away to adjust the antenna, sending a shower of static across the small screen. “It’s not as if he’s an old man. He’s my age, for goodness’ sake.”

  “Still.” Charlie studied her back, the bow of her neck. From the rear she looked like a girl. Only the front of her had changed, sunk slightly, like a sackful of soft things. She was fifty-one that June.

  “You drive carefully now,” she said.

  Jody turned off the faucet. “Let me walk you outside.”

  The afternoon was warm for December, smelling of moist earth, an early spring. Their boots dug into the muddy ground. Birdie’s lawn was neatly trimmed. That fall someone had given it a good mowing.

  “When are you leaving?” Charlie asked.

  “I’m right behind you,” said Jody. “I’ve got to get out of here. She’s making me nuts.”

  His stomach lurched in the familiar way as he backed onto the dirt road. He punched the horn and waved to Jody and Birdie, who’d emerged from the house in her slippers. They stood on the porch an arm’s length apart, their curly hair the same shade of red. It pained him to leave; at the same time he was grateful. The house felt crowded with the two women, the agitated air humming between them. It was something he’d never understood, why their mother pushed Jody away, why Jody kept trying. She called Birdie daily, averaged three visits to Charlie’s one; yet the tension between them never abated. Stop trying so hard, he wanted to tell her. She wants to be left alone.

  He turned onto the paved road, thinking of the mother’s ring, left in a saucer next to Curt’s sink. Birdie had grown up with Curt; he’d heard a hundred times how they’d built forts in the woods, colored Easter eggs, sat at the kitchen table making figures out of flour dough while Miss Ella fixed supper. Yet he couldn’t recall seeing them speak to each other as adults. Occasionally, in town visiting over a holiday, he’d drive Birdie to the store; twice they’d bumped into Maple Mabry in the parking lot. Both times Maple had greeted him warmly. Birdie had responded with a stiff hello, averting her eyes.

  He thought of the path through the forest, still worn bare after all these years. Well, why not? he thought. His mother must get lonely, and Curt was alone now too. No reason they shouldn’t keep each other company. What he couldn’t understand was why she’d keep the friendship a secret. When he’d mentioned Curt’s name, she’d been visibly uncomfortable. Then again, his mother was a relic. She might not understand that times had changed, that a white woman could be friends with a black man. He felt better knowing that Curt was near, that his mother had someone to look after her. He thought of his own silent house, the empty spaces left by Anne-Sophie’s things, not yet filled in by his own clutter. He imagined Birdie in her old barn jacket, plodding through the dark forest toward the lights of Curt’s trailer.

  Good for you, Mama, he thought. Good for you.

  BIRDIE WATCHED her son drive away. That’s it, she thought. The last I’ll see of him for months. Her birthday was in June; if she wheedled enough, he might come and visit then. She heard clanging in the kitchen, Jody attacking the dishes. She was a clumsy girl; Birdie was just waiting for the family china to end up in pieces on the floor.

  She went into the house. “Careful,” s
he said. “Those are your grandmother’s dishes.”

  “Don’t worry.” Jody rinsed a plate and set it in the drainer.

  “They’re irreplaceable.”

  Jody shut off the faucet. “Then maybe you should take over. I have to make a phone call.” She wiped her hands on a tea towel and took the phone into the parlor, stretching the cord as far as it would go.

  Birdie stared at the television. In ten minutes her soap opera would come on; she wished Jody would take a nap, a walk, anything so she could have a little peace. She thought of the bottle of wine she had stashed in the linen closet. She had not drunk in days.

  She’d been good lately. It was, she thought, Curtis’s influence: he never made her feel bad about drinking, would even have a glass with her before bed.

  Jody reappeared and hung up the phone.

  “Who did you call?” Birdie asked, adjusting the antenna.

  “Russell.”

  Birdie had been hearing about this beau for years but had never seen any trace of him. She was starting to wonder if Jody had made him up.

  “Are you sure you ought to call him?” she said. “Shouldn’t he be the one calling you?”

  “Says who?” Jody laughed. “Emily Post?”

  “That was how we did it in my day.”

  “No advice, please. My relationship with Russell is going just fine.”

  “If you say so.” Birdie adjusted the TV antenna; static sprayed across the screen. Of course the child was fooling herself. She’d dated this Russell for three years; if an engagement was forthcoming, Birdie hadn’t heard anything about it. She was tempted to point this out, but her daughter took offense so easily. She’d learned to keep her mouth shut.

  “Jesus,” said Jody, scraping at a dirty plate. “How long have these been sitting here?”

  Birdie flushed. She was sick to death of being lectured about her housekeeping; if Jody didn’t like the accommodations, she could drive to Gretna and stay in the hotel. Then a thought came to her: If she’s going to take over my house, I’m going to speak my mind.

  “I guess I’m old-fashioned,” said Birdie. “It would bother me terribly, dating a fellow for so long, and him never even meeting my family.”