Eating the Cheshire Cat

by Helen Ellis

  Sarina did not know how long she could teach lessons. Today’s was: You Can’t Find Me, See How It Feels. But Joe never called back. He didn’t hound her like her mother. One message, all night long. One message, that’s all he wrote.

  Nevertheless, she kept trying to mold him into shape. Don’t lie to me. Don’t cheat on me. Call me when you say you will. Tell me I’m the only one.

  The problem was he told her that, but she knew it wasn’t true. There were items in his bathroom. Late arrivals. Sudden gifts. For a while she took advantage. He was conscience-stricken, so she asked for more. The Cypress Inn. Large popcorn, forget the small. Maybe a sweater or a new compact disc. How about local theater, Joe? How about two tickets, first-class, to the moon? When totals were tallied, she did not offer to contribute. She just looked at him like an innocent girl, easily impressed by a wallet flipped open.

  Mrs. Summers agreed that she was handling him correctly. She said, “Treat him like a dog. When he strays, slap his nose with a wet rolled-up newspaper.”

  In human terms that meant act like a rag. Don’t sleep with him, don’t flatter him, make him wait, be late. Make sure he understands there are girls for a good time and girls you marry. There should be no question that Sarina was the marrying kind.

  The following spring, Mrs. Summers was not as gung-ho about her daughter’s pursuits. The funeral reception had been such a success, Tuscaloosa society had welcomed her back. When Sarina called her mother, she was often cut short by a five-card-draw game beckoning from the blue wicker table. On Saturday mornings, she went to aqua aerobics. There were potlucks and Birmingham trips and teas and movie Mondays. Mrs. Summers was involved. Dressed in gusto. Self-improved. At the Steptoe reception, she had discovered other wives with children grown and hours to fill.

  “So what am I, chopped liver?” Sarina huffed and she puffed. “Am I a hole in the head? Am I your sorry sloppy seconds? I’m just your daughter. You know, your own flesh-and-blood. Is it too much to make time for me? Is it too much of a strain on your busy social schedule?”

  Mrs. Summers said, “Of course not,” and made good on her words. Every Sunday they beat the church crowds to lunch. In every restaurant, Mrs. Summers spread marmalade on toast. She listened to her daughter’s predicaments as if Joe were misbehaving for the very first time. She gave her dog theory, her bug theory, pep talks that started, “When I was your age . . .”

  “But how did you stand it? Was my father this bad?”

  “Your father was tolerable and you were born right away. I was too busy to be bothered. I was too tired to care.”

  “But how did you stand it?”

  “Sarina,” said her mother, “you are a beautiful girl.”

  “And your point is?”

  “You expect a lot. And you should. You should expect to be treated like a princess. But there are times when you have to consider the payoff. When you marry Joe you can live like a queen.”

  One Sunday Sarina showed her mother the razor.

  Since she’d found it in Joe’s bathroom, she had kept it in her purse, in the side zippered pocket, in a plastic sandwich bag. Rickety, pink nothing. Always knocking against her hip. Always blocking the way to her one Chanel lipstick. It made her sick, that skanky razor. Every time she touched it, it made her want to puke. To know that Joe was gallivanting. Keeping a spot warm in his medicine cabinet.

  “So what?” said Mrs. Summers.

  “So how do I get rid of her?”

  Mrs. Summers tossed the package back to Sarina. “Sweetheart, pink razors are exactly like mice. Where there’s one, pussy follows. There’s no changing Joe now.”

  Sarina decided to try a less traditional approach. She found Willamina pushing the Dumpster up the driveway.

  “Go on,” said Willamina at Sarina’s Lady Bic in a bag. “Bin’s empty. Drop it in.”

  “It’s not that,” said Sarina.

  “What, you want more?”

  As Willamina parked the Dumpster outside the garage, Sarina fiddled with the razor. She waited for Willamina to figure out what she wanted. She always had an opinion about what she thought was best.

  “What?” said Willamina. “You want it for supper?”

  “Meena, be serious.”

  “Well, what then?”

  “I need your help. I wanna get Joe.”

  “Get Joe,” Willamina repeated. She kicked down the brake and crossed her arms atop the Dumpster. She leaned forward. “How you think we gonna do that?”

  “You’re from New Orleans.”

  “So?”

  “You know how to do things.”

  “What things?” Willamina grinned and confused Sarina with the way that she smiled.

  “Things like,” Sarina stammered,“you know, voodoo.”

  “Voodoo.” Willamina laughed. “Voooodoooo!” She wagged her arms like a ghost. “What you think, child? I’m gonna take that little thing and make a soup, stick pins in it? You think I got the power?” She scratched dried bird crap of the lid off the Dumpster. She flicked at it. She blew the spot clean. “You the one with the power. Dump his ass.”

  “I don’t want to dump him. I want to stop him from screwing around.”

  “Well, I can’t help you there.”

  “ ’Cause you don’t know voodoo?”

  “ ’Cause, obviously, I don’t know you. I can’t believe you want to live like your mother. Same old housewife, same old shit.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Willamina smirked. “I’m sure I don’t.”

  “You don’t know how hard it is.”

  Softer now. “I’m sure I don’t.”

  “What am I supposed to do?” Sarina opened her arms as when she was six, stepping out of Mr. Bubbles, anxious for Willamina to towel her off before the cold set in. “Huh?” She wrapped her arms around Willamina’s neck. She snuggled into the soft places even though Willamina’s arms remained at her side.

  “You’re too old for this.”

  “Why?” Sarina said and wiped her eyes on the strap of Willamina’s apron. The mascara left a smudge. Again, she said, “Why?”

  “Because you are.” Willamina sighed, pushing Sarina back with her breath. “You are.”

  Sarina kept her hands clasped as Willamina tried to pry them apart.

  “Let go,” Willamina said and pushed at her shoulders. “You think you gonna hold on forever? I’m not your mama. Your mama’s inside. She’s layin’ down on her bed. Go cling onto her.”

  “But, Meena, why? What’d I do? You’ve always been like a mother to me.”

  “Get off me, girl.”

  Sarina stepped back. She noticed bags beneath Willamina’s eyes.

  “Like a mother,” said Willamina. “Like a mother, what’s that mean? That I cook for you? That I clean your dirty clothes? What, ’cause I’m nice? ’Cause I used to give a damn?”

  “But what about biscuits? What about my Mammy doll?”

  “It’s a job, girl.” Willamina opened the door to the kitchen. She didn’t look back, but Sarina heard her just the same. “For sixteen years, it’s just been a job.”

  By the end of her junior year, Sarina had fallen short in her Tri Delta responsibilities. In her attempts to discipline Joe, then woo him back, then keep him to herself, Sarina had missed several house meetings. She’d shown up late to the Kids Carnival for Cervical Cancer. She was distracted and failing to set an example. Secretly she had been told that she was on probation.

  She called home, crying to her mother. “You’ve gotta help me. I’ve got to do something or I’m gonna get kicked out.”

  Mrs. Summers assured her that she would not lose her membership. If the Tri Delts tried anything, she had an ace up her sleeve.

  “What?” Sarina sniffed.

  “Never mind,” said her mother.

  “But if it has to do with me . . .”

  Mrs. Summers cut her off. She suggested that Sarina organize a mother-daughter luncheon f
or the active Tri Delts. “We can have it at the Cotton Patch. Burn our letters into the tables.”

  The Cotton Patch was a restaurant, forty minutes away in Eutaw, Alabama, where the dog track used to be. There was a gas station nearby, but besides some stray greyhounds, that was about it. The Cotton Patch was a real log cabin with only one room for dining but the restaurateurs turned it into one of Tuscaloosa’s finest establishments.

  Everything at the Cotton Patch was fried and smothered in white gravy. Pickled watermelon rinds set out as the appetizer. A stack of Sunbeam bread. Plastic bibs. To drink: Coke or cold beer. The waitress uniform resembled Aunt Jemima’s and, like Aunt Jemima, the all-black wait staff was encouraged to say little more than Yes, ma’am and No, sah and dole out specials like sugar on the table.

  It was tradition to leave your name on the premises. People came with Swiss Army knives. Some used their dinner forks. The gas station sold disposable lighters. Little girls pulled barrettes from their hair. The walls and the windowsills, the tables and benches, the floor and the ceiling were wood and more wood. An untarnished spot was like heaven to touch. To squeeze in two initials guaranteed your immortality.

  Sarina had reserved ten tables for the Deltas. Most sisters attending were newly inducted. They were chatty and giddy and showing off for their moms. Mrs. Summers had bought a skirt and blouse, especially for the occasion. The skirt was long and pleated. The blouse came with a vest sewn to the shoulders. All the officers were required to attend, except for the treasurer, whose mother had eaten roach repellent and hung herself in the yard. The lunch fit perfectly into Greek Week. Everyone was undeniably impressed. It showed visitors a little culture. Down-home cooking. The smell of skin.

  Sarina thought it couldn’t get any better until the fried pies were served and Joe and another woman took a table in the corner.

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “I know,” said Mrs. Summers. “They still use real butter!”

  Sarina pinched her mother. “By the kitchen. I can’t believe it.”

  Joe was holding the woman’s hand across the table. They were playing finger games. Leaning forward. Tête-à-tête. Joe brushed a lash off her cheek and told one of his dead-baby jokes, which sent her reeling. He always made that face when he told a dead-baby joke. The woman snorted and everyone turned.

  “Sah-ree!” she cheeped. “It’s my laugh. I’m so embarrassed.”

  Joe tugged her hands away from her face. She was blushing and he liked this. Sarina knew. He’d told her the same thing. He cradled both her hands now. He thanked the waitress for the rinds.

  Sarina roasted her nail file over a Playboy lighter she had picked up at the gas station. She held it firmly, the white profiled bunny ears sticking out within her fist. The nail file turned black. The odor masked the scent of her fried peach pie topped with cherry Breyers. She imagined singeing a lover’s cross on Joe’s forehead. JD + ss should send a clear signal. A message like that should keep the bitches at bay.

  Some of the Tri Delts had caught on by this point. They had seen Sarina’s boyfriend. They had heard her refer to him as marriage material. Sarina could guess what girls were whispering to their mothers. She could imagine the rumors let loose after lunch.

  Mrs. Summers leaned close enough to cut Sarina’s meat. She took the nail file by the handle and tucked it under her plate. “This is it,” she whispered. “This is how you’ll get your ring.”

  When Sarina stood up, she was filled with her mother’s venom. She had been instructed to walk past him, barely notice, then stop and chat. Make him squirm. Greet them both with salutations torn out of Charlotte’s Web. Charmed, charmed. She should treat him like her husband. It’s so nice to finally meet you. Shake her hand until it breaks. Take a good look, Joe, she should say inside her mind. This is class. It’s Jackie O. You’ve been bad, so make it better. Sit up, you lousy mongrel. Beg. Play dead. Trade your shame in for two carats. I want a platinum band for this damn stunt.

  When she tried this, Sarina was met with reserve. Joe’s nerves were unshakable. His face a field of unreadable marks. Before him, she felt like an ornery gal. Nothing to get upset about. Where was his chicken-fried chicken?

  “Who’s this?” Sarina broke.

  “Mary Druthers,” said Joe.

  “What’s this?” Sarina said.

  “Pickled rinds,” said Joe.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, don’t bullshit me!”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “Tell her that she’s meaningless. It’s over. Good-bye.”

  Joe kept his mouth shut. The Tri Deltas were silent. Mrs. Summers had chosen this time to leave the table to powder her nose. Mary Druthers looked at Sarina like she was a retard lost from her short yellow bus. She took Joe’s hand as easily as she had done throughout the hors d’oeuvres.

  “Fine,” said Sarina. “That’s fine. That’s just fine.” She tried to hold Joe’s gaze, but she couldn’t. She was frantic. “You’re meaningless,” she said hoarsely. “It’s over. Goodbye.”

  From the gas station, Sarina called the only person who might still care. She knew the number by heart. She had made this call when things weren’t right in the past. Desperate times called for desperate men. Stewart said she could come right over.

  Pulling into his driveway, Sarina thought back to when they were kids. She had never been to his house as a girl. He had always come and gotten her. Always shown up right on time. It was later when she’d visited Tootsie’s prescreen Delta parties. Then the yard was full of promise, the house packed with kick-up-your-heels. Turning off the ignition, Sarina wondered if this was what she had missed: a quiet place where the roses stayed open, the metal flag on the mailbox as bright as the day.

  Stewart had lost weight since the last time she’d seen him. It was only twenty pounds, but Sarina could see the potential for more. Grieving had agreed with him. The dark circles under his eyes made him seem older, wiser, reliable at all costs.

  He led her to the living room where, on the overstuffed floral sofa, he appeared out of place. This was no bachelor pad. Surrounded by antique furniture, framed paintings, and throw pillows, Sarina appreciated the years of work made-to-order.

  She said, “So, you’re doing okay.”

  “Let’s not talk about how I’m doing.”

  “Sorry,” she said.

  “Don’t be sorry. Just talk. Tell me what happened with your big, dumbass boyfriend. Let me feel bad for someone else for a change.”

  So Sarina let the stories fly. She started from the beginning: the boat show, the family dinner. She called herself a fool and an idiot and Stewart said, “No.” She said she should have known better. In hindsight, she tried to set the scenes a little differently. But at every misreport, Stewart interrupted. “Are you sure that’s what he said . . . You mean it didn’t seem weird when he . . . Jesus, Ree, you’ve got to be kidding!”

  By the time Sarina got around to the Cotton Patch, it was dark outside and dark in Stewart’s house. The grandfather clock chimed eight in the hallway. Dust was more visible beneath the moonlit skylights.

  Sarina said, “Aren’t you lonely living here?”

  Stewart said, “No.”

  “Aren’t you scared sometimes?”

  “Scared of what?” And then, “You?”

  Sarina liked the second alternative. She hadn’t been fierce in a very long time. She scooted closer to Stewart, one cushion beside him. “Of me?”

  He nodded slightly.

  “Of me?” She pushed her body into the warmth of his side. She settled into his groove. She felt the rhythm of his breath drawn deeper with the years.

  Stewart kept inhaling, exhaling, inhaling. At the moment it seemed it was all he could master. Sarina pulled his arm from the back of the couch. She snuggled under and stroked it like a heavy old wrap.

  She climbed on top of him. Her knees on his thighs, his knees beneath her shins. She could not straddle him. Her cheerleading days behind her,
she was even less limber. On top of his legs, she felt tall and in charge. She could see out the back windows. She could see the possibilities. Moving in on Stewart would require little work. He’d inherited a lifestyle. Lots of money. Two-and-a-half baths. Tootsie’s taste was her taste. No struggling years required.

  And despite what he’d become, there was chemistry when she kissed him.

  Maybe it was repeating what they had first tried together. Maybe it was puppy love barking closely at her heels. But, to be certain, there was something. Something wicked. Something sweet. Sarina closed her eyes and forgot her plans and schemes.

  Stewart grabbed her hands as she fiddled with his zipper. “Don’t.”

  “Don’t why?”

  “I’m with someone.”

  “Just once.” Sarina pushed her shins against his sweaty shirt. Her ass was on his thighs. Her toes around his belt. She gripped the sofa back, locking the two of them in place. She said again, “Just once.”

  And Stewart kept his mouth shut. He did not argue. He did not dare.

  When the phone woke them up, Sarina knew it was his girlfriend. Where are you? she must be saying. Didn’t we say such and such a time? Stewart had reached up and taken the phone from the side table. He now sat naked, cross-legged on the carpet, a sofa seat cushion balanced modestly on his lap. He wound the phone cord around one finger. He apologized profusely. “I just fell asleep.”

  Sarina stood up and stretched right in front of him. Meow, she mouthed and reached her fists to skylight night. Stewart was listening to that Chickasaw freak, but he watched Sarina, parading slowly, strutting her stuff.

  See what a woman is supposed to look like. No pock marks, no freckles, no deceiving underwear. I’m covered in curves and I glow after sex. Can you see me glow, baby? I am extraordinary. I could be yours.

  Sarina strolled around the sofa, making sure his eyes went with her. Out of sight, she pulled an orange juice carton from the side shelf of the fridge. She drank some, but let most of it miss her lips and hit her body.

  I glisten, she thought. I glimmer. I’m gold.

  Taking long strides as if she’d kept her heels on, Sarina returned to her first and future love. She smiled at Stewart, naked on his knees, fishing for his boxers somewhere beneath the sofa.