The trees in the distance were bending, the sky getting darker. For a week we had had those afternoon rains like clockwork. I imagined Merle running towards the trailer park, hurdling tombstones as he had done that rainy day so long ago when I had sat on the sleeping porch and watched him; my mother was over at Mrs. Poole’s tea and Mo Rhodes was showing off her purple shag carpet.
“I’ve got to be going, I guess,” Angela said, her hand barely touching my hair. “Keep in touch. You know if you need to talk to somebody, I’m there.” I nodded, listened as she stepped out into the hall and closed my door. I imagined my mother waiting at the bottom of the stairs, large hand clutching the railing. I couldn’t stand the thought of facing her.
I rested my face on the windowsill, where the mist was slowly blowing in. The phone was ringing but I ignored it; I knew my mother would tell Misty that I’d call her back later. But what if the Landells had returned and were looking for Merle? Maybe he had stayed and waited for them as planned; maybe he had sat on the velvet chaise as if nothing had ever happened. Maybe now he was in the trailer, lifting cluttered pasteboard boxes from his mother’s arms as his little sister hugged her knees and stared into the small TV set. Maybe he was on the phone, calling for me or calling to apologize to my mother, to make her understand. Understand? I could hear her asking. How can I understand? No wonder Angela left home; I envied her that freedom, the time she had run away and gotten married, the time she had said that the world could go to hell, she was doing as she pleased.
Now she was down in the driveway, her hair drenched and stringy as she loaded some of the clothes boxes into the trunk of the Impala. “Greg is just about the same size as Fred,” she had said that very morning at breakfast. She waved her hand toward the porch and then stood there with the car door open and looked up at my window. It was then that I knew I couldn’t sit in that house another second; I opened the window and screamed out for her to please wait for me. “Please don’t leave yet.” I waited until she closed the door and headed back towards the porch, and then I grabbed one of my new suitcases and started wadding clothes and stuffing them inside. It was as easy as walking out.
It was quiet when I went downstairs. The two of them were standing in the dark foyer. The front door was open and there was a cool breeze, the fresh scent of rain as the pavement out front steamed. “There you are.” Mama’s eyes were red and puffy, more so even than they had been at the funeral. She stared at me and shook her head slowly; when she saw my suitcase, she turned away. “Where are you going?”
I ignored her and turned to Angela. “You’re always inviting me to come see you,” I said, and she, too, turned away, car keys clutched in her hand.
“Yes, but maybe this isn’t the best—” Before she could finish, my mother began talking, fast and forcefully.
“Why not?” she asked. “This is the perfect time. You two can have a wonderful time comparing notes.”
“Cleva,” Angela said, and sighed. “I don’t think it’s a good time.”
“So you don’t want her to go, is that it?” Mama asked. “All talk and no action as always?” She thrust her hands in the pockets of her linen jacket; she was still all dressed up from the visit to the lawyer. “So tell her.” She pointed to me. “Tell Kate that you don’t want her to come. Tell her what a fair-weather friend you are.”
“That’s not fair” Angela said.
“What is?” my mother asked. “What I saw today wasn’t fair. Losing Fred is not fair. You running away from home was not fair.” She held her hands up to her face briefly and then turned back straight as ever. “Why not go for broke?”
“I didn’t run away from home” Angela spat the word as she narrowed her eyes. “That was never my home.”
“So maybe that’s how Kate feels, too,” she said, and looked down at her beige pumps. “Maybe this isn’t her home.”
“Mother.” I felt my voice crack and I focused on the lights in Misty’s living room, on Sally Jean moving in front of the window with the vacuum cleaner.
“What, Mary Katherine?” she asked. “What can you say that will change anything?”
“Nothing,” I said, once again feeling a hard wave of resentment; I was not going to feel guilty. Mr. Rhodes was coming in from work and surprised Sally Jean as he crept up behind her; they laughed as he hugged her close, as she held up the nozzle of the vacuum and shook it at him.
“That’s what I thought,” she said. “I guess I could say something to make it easier. I could say that I wish you weren’t my daughter, that I’m ashamed of you, that I wish you had never been born?” She paced the foyer, hands clasped, wringing. “Or better.” She turned quickly, hand to her chest. “I could say that I wish I had died in childbirth so that you could have taken your chances elsewhere.” She waved a hand towards Angela. “That would make things easier.”
“You can say anything,” I told her, and picked up my suitcase, looked at Angela. “Are you going to let me come or not?”
“I knew I failed with Angela,” Mama was saying. “But I had no idea that I had failed with you.” She was crying then, face twisting as she tried to turn so we couldn’t see. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, and the late afternoon sun came from behind a cloud like a bad joke, illuminating, highlighting the most horrible of moments before receding once again. “I loved your father, and when I look at you, both of you, I see our whole life together.” Her voice shook as she leaned against the doorframe of his office, forehead pressed against the closed door. “What do you expect from me? What do either of you expect?” She turned and ran down the hall to her room. I stood with my hand gripping the handle on the suitcase as I prepared for the slamming of her door, but instead she closed it quietly, making barely a sound.
“Well, I guess IVe got myself a roommate,” Angela finally said, and breathed out, jingled her keys. She looked anything but pleased as she walked onto the porch and let the screen door slam shut. Oliver was wet and huddled up under the swing; I wanted to stop and scoop him up in my arms, but Angela was already standing with the trunk open. Slowly I walked out and put my suitcase in, the gates of Whispering Pines to my back; I had the odd sensation that I was being watched, but when I looked over at my mother’s window, the drapes were hanging perfectly still.
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Angela asked, and turned the ignition; it took three tries before she got the car cranked. I nodded and stared over at the gates of Whispering Pines, where rain was still dripping from the trees.
“You said you understood,” I told her, and she nodded, lit a cigarette and then backed down the long drive. I was relieved that Misty was not outside to see me; I’d tell her the whole story later, when I had had time to think through it in my own way. When we got to the street that led to the trailer park, I asked Angela to turn and she did, driving slowly until I spotted Merle’s father’s truck, the back already loaded with boxes and lamps, an overstuffed armchair.
“So what are you going to do now?” she asked, and put the car in park, the loud engine idling. She turned on the radio and twisted the knob. I hadn’t thought that far, yet. Somehow I had expected him to be there waiting by the side of the road. My hand was on the doorhandle as she fiddled, faint stations coming and going. His father came outside with an armload of clothes on hangers, and I was about to tell her to keep driving, but then there he was; he backed out the door, no shirt, and then turned with a big box clutched to his chest. He was down the one metal step and onto the concrete slab when he spotted Angela’s Impala and set the box down.
“Go on,” Angela said, finally stopping on a song by the Doobie Brothers. “Go talk to him.”
His father was standing there staring at us, his white T-shirt damp and clinging to his broad chest. The mother was in the doorway with Maybelline. I rolled down the window as he walked over and bent down, forehead pressed against the top of the car. He eyed Angela and then looked at me, mouthed a “Hi.”
“Go on,” Angela said. “What
am I supposed to do, sit here and act like I’m not listening?” Merle opened the door, and I followed him several yards from the car; we just stood there in the middle of the road, yellow mud caking our shoes. He caught hold of my hand, barely touching my fingertips.
“I’m sorry,” he finally said, stared over at his father, who still had not moved from his spot. “I really am so sorry.”
“It’s okay.” I shook my head. “You didn’t do anything.” I shrugged. “I mean you did but ...” I felt my face flush and, instinctively, my hand went to my cheek. “It’s okay.” I avoided looking over at their trailer, ignored the gunning engine of the Impala. “I’m sorry we didn’t get to do all the things we had planned.”
“So we did something else.” He gave a weak smile and then looked down, his toe rubbing a line through the mud. “Guess your mother really hates me now.”
“Yeah, well, she hates a lot.” I tilted my head toward Angela’s car as she gunned the motor. “I’m going home with Angela for awhile.” I shrugged. “I just can’t stay there with my mother right now.”
“I know what you mean.” He glanced over at the trailer and then looked back at me, his eyes a deep emerald green. “Look, it’s not like we’ll never see each other. I mean, we don’t have to say good-bye, right?”
“Right.”
“You can drive over anytime; it’s only thirty miles.” He held my hands tighter now, stepped closer as Angela gunned the engine again. “And I can come visit anytime. The Landells have invited me.”
“Hey, we don’t have all day.” Merle’s father was standing there with his hands on his hips. “We gotta get this stuff covered in case it rains again.”
Merle didn’t even flinch, just leaned forward and kissed me quickly on the cheek. “I meant everything I said,” he whispered, and I nodded. “I’m just sorry it had to happen that way.”
“Hey, Merle, save it for after dark, okay? I mean it.” His father was stacking the drawers of a chest on the tailgate. “You can carry on some other time.” I avoided looking at his father as we walked back to the car. Angela put the car in drive, her foot on the brake, before I even closed the door.
“I’ll call you,” Merle said as we started moving. “I’ll see you soon.” He jogged beside us until Angela gave him a quick wave and turned onto the main road. I turned around in my seat and watched him there, his hand still lifted in a wave.
We rode silendy until we were out of the city limits and on the long barren stretch of road that led to the beach. Paul McCartney’s “Band on the Run” was coming and going in little bursts of static, and finally Angela gave up and turned it off. “Don’t be so glum,” she said, and patted the seat between us. “I mean, it’s not like you’re going to die without him. There will be another one to take his place in no time.” She fiddled with her right hand, pulling a cigarette from her pack and holding it between her lips as she fumbled for a match. “And Cleva will simmer down. Give her a little time.” She finally got the cigarette lit and took a deep drag.
“I don’t want anyone to take his place,” I said. “You make it sound like it didn’t mean anything and it did.”
“This is some serious deja vu.” She stared ahead at the straight flat road. “Yeah, I know it meant something. I remember when I was saying those exact same words.” She inhaled deeply and then blew the smoke out her opened window. “I mean, I do understand what you’re going through. Cleva and I went this same circle.” She laughed, tossed her cigarette out the window. “Boy, did we ever. That’s why / got married that time, so please, God, don’t go and do that.” I opened my mouth to speak but she continued. “Now, I know you think you’re in love.” Just the word in her mouth sounded like a disease; she tried the radio again, but all she got was the news so she turned it off. “But you’ll live through it. Look at me.”
I smelled the salty sea air before we ever crested the old drawbridge. It was almost dark, but I could still see the water, dark and shimmering under the lights of the fishing pier, bright white bulbs strung on a wire. Angela turned on her headlights as we rode down the main road, small pastel cottages along the way, rope lines where towels and bathing suits whipped back and forth with the breeze.
“Does your apartment face the ocean?” I asked, breaking the long silence, and Angela laughed, patted me on the leg.
“It ain’t the Waldorf,” she said. “But there’s a view.” She laughed again. “I guarantee that you’ll have a view.” She turned off the main road and rode inland along the waterway where there were fishing boats lined up, huge nets thrown over their sides. She turned on a dirt road near the marina and parked in front of a blue cinderblock building. “I live upstairs,” she said. “Some friends of mine live in the ground apartment.” As I watched her bend in front of the side-view mirror and brush a fingertip over her eyelashes, it all came back to me: my mother’s look of shock, the sick gnawing emptiness I felt.
I followed her up the metal staircase and waited on the landing as she fumbled with the lock. There was a laundromat across the street, a big CLOSED sign in the window. Angela switched on the yellow porch light. “Home, sweet home,” she said, and pushed the swollen door forward, clicked on a dim overhead light. There were dishes in her sink, sparse furnishings with sandy, threadbare upholstery, a floor-to-ceiling lamp with adjustable lights like some kind of insect; a square of lime green shag carpet covered the center of the floor.
“Now you’ll sleep here in the guest boudoir,” she said, and pointed to the cot in the corner, a bird dog print sheet dragging the gritty linoleum. She swung back the loud orange drapes just behind the cot. “And here’s the view.” She waved her hand and there I could see a streetlight, the laundromat, and the bait shop. “It’s not great, but I’d say it beats the hell out of a cemetery.”
She went into the bedroom and turned on the lamp. Her bed was unmade and clothes were piled over a straight-back chair. “Is this Greg?” I asked, and pointed to a snapshot wedged up in the corner of her mirror. She nodded. He was standing in front of the gates of Graceland. “What happened to y’all?”
“Nothing happened.” She opened her suitcase and pulled out her thin nightgown, draped it over the foot of the bed. “He’s still around. His job requires that he travel, is all.” She stopped unpacking and stared at me. “We have not split up if that’s what Cleva has been saying. Just wait, he’ll be here tomorrow night.” I stepped back into my room, not wanting to imagine tomorrow when the man in the photo would be there. The telephone was beside her bed, but I still wasn’t ready to call Misty; by now she had probably been over to my house and my mother had told her everything that happened.
There was a small TV up on the kitchen counter, the antennae bound in aluminum foil. I was about to turn it on when Angela came out in her thin robe and went and stared into her empty refrigerator. “Do you mind eating eggs?” she asked, and I shook my head. “TV is broken,” she continued.
“This wasn’t your first time, was it?” she asked, and set a plate of scrambled eggs on the table. “Cleva wants to believe this was it, the great loss of virginity, but I told her not to get her hopes up.” Angela held her cigarette in the corner of her mouth, blinked against the smoke as she reached for the loaf of bread on the counter. “What Cleva really wants to believe is that she got there in time. Virginity intact.” She was waiting, eyebrows raised as she blew a stream of smoke, and I knew she was expecting an answer. “Well?” she asked, and I looked away from her, scooped some of the eggs onto my plate. “Look, I know you don’t want to talk,” Angela said, and sat down. “But just tell me that you do know something about birth control.”
I didn’t answer, just moved my food around, but she continued. “I asked Cleva if she had ever talked to you about whether or not you needed to be on the pill.”
“What?” I stared at her. Neither she nor my mother deserved anything from me.
“Well?” she asked. “You do know something about birth control, don’t you?”
“
Do you?” I asked suddenly, and looked at her, her face frozen with a look of surprise. “You’ve been with enough people. Do you know what to do?”
“Well,” she said, face flushed as she tossed her hair over her shoulder, “I believe someone is a little defensive. Look.” She sat forward, elbows on the table. “The worst that happens is you weren’t careful and you have to do something about it. It’s not that hard; mistakes can be corrected.” She pushed away her plate of eggs and lit a cigarette. “You just don’t want to keep making them.”
“Like you? How many mistakes have you made?” I asked, my voice shaking. “You are always so ready to talk about Mo Rhodes and her mistake, to say all those awful things about her, so how about you”
“Mo? We’re gonna dig that poor woman up again?” She stood, swung back the orange drapes and stared out at the empty laundromat. “I told you about Mo. Mo did not practice birth control.” She laughed. “Baby number three proved that.”
“She was a good person.”
“Believe what you want.” She strolled around the room, one hand on her hip, the other with her cigarette held up near her mouth.
“She was,” I said, suddenly determined. I wanted to make her take back everything she’d said about Mo. I wanted to twist her arm behind her back until she gave in and told me what I wanted to hear.
“Mo was a good person. Gene was a good person. They just couldn’t stay out of each other’s pants.” She stopped and stared at me, tears in her eyes. “He was screwing Mo Rhodes for years, years, and everybody in a fifty-mile radius knew it, and all the while I thought—” She stopped suddenly, breath rapid, and there was no need for her to complete the thought. It fit into place as easily as a puzzle piece, a bit of information I could use. Her bitterness towards Mo crystalized, and though it didn’t make what Mo did right, it somehow lightened the load of words Angela had handed me that other night when she talked about how pitiful Misty was with her orange hair.
Ferris Beach Page 33
