“I’ve already called Mrs. Whitlock. Genevieve is doing fine. We’ll run over there soon,” he said, pricking through my silent worries. “You sure you don’t feel up to seeing Pastor, for a few minutes? Maybe try an’ eat something?”
“No, thanks, I need to sleep.”
“All right, then, Muddy. . . . Oh, by the way, a boy named Bobby called. Is this one of your school friends?”
“Huh? When did he call?” I straightened up.
“Fifteen minutes ago. Told him you were resting and he said he’d try back tomorrow. You get some rest.” He shut the door.
I hope he will call back.
I took an old gown of Mama’s from my dresser drawer and managed to slip into her thread-worn flannel and climb into bed, pressing the folds of the nightgown close.
When I was five years old and feeling scared, Mama’d let me choose from her many gowns to chase away the nightmares. I’d always reach for the one with the hyacinth blooms, trimmed with cotton lace. It was so huge on my body way back then that Mama would have me sweep up the bottom and knot it so I wouldn’t trip when walking. Once in bed, it had felt like I was wrapped in Mama’s soft hug, sheltered and safe. When she left us for Tommy, she’d left the flannel gown in Daddy’s dresser.
I lay in bed watching the silhouettes of branches flicker across my walls, their shadows growing larger as the sun set. I closed my eyes and drifted off. Soon, images of lemons filled my dreams. I found myself surrounded by them. Smothering. I kept knocking them off onto the floor, but they kept piling back on, only to have me knock them off again, and again. The thumps of fruit echoed and grew louder.
I awoke with a start, thinking about Mama fixing my birthday dinner, yesterday. She’d accidentally knocked a bowl of lemons off the counter and the fruit had scattered everywhere. I’d jumped up to help her gather them, but she’d shooed me away and pointed to my ice pack.
I put the ice pack back to my forehead. The smell of stale yeast from the bread bag assaulted my nostrils. I winced. The bump that McGee had given me was starting to swell. “You knew about the birthday pony, didn’t you, Mama?” I tried to smile.
Mama placed the last fallen lemon back into the bowl and set it down on the table. “Uh-huh, Adam told me about it as soon as he bought it. You got yourself a powerful pony there. Just be careful not to let it get away from you. And always wear your lap belt, sugar.” She lit the pilot light on the stove. “Hey, Mudas, do you remember the day you helped with the red cabbage casserole?”
I did indeed, and answered with a giggle. The last time I tried to make the dish, we’d waited hours for the casserole to cook only to pull it out and find raw cabbage. I’d forgotten to put in the apples and to turn on the oven.
“Well, how ’bout today you just watch me cook and then I’ll write the recipe down for you after?”
Red cabbage casserole really was my favorite dish. Daddy’s too.
“And, oh my,” Mama chatted on, “remember the Thanksgiving dinner when I asked you to wash the turkey before I stuffed it? I stepped out for a minute, only to come back and find the sink overflowing with bubbles! Joy dishwashing soap bubbled up from that turkey’s cavity like The Lawrence Welk Show!” She chuckled, wiping away a happy tear.
Caught up in Mama’s mood, I leaned in close. “Without a doubt, that year the Summers had the cleanest and most joyous Thanksgiving in all of Peckinpaw!”
Mama laughed, but her eyes took on a distance.
I studied my sneakers.
I’m sure she was remembering, just like me, that it was the Summers’ last Thanksgiving dinner. The last one before Daddy cheated, the last one before she hooked up with Tommy. And the last one before she started sporting Tommy’s bruises.
“Listen, Mudas, I don’t want you to tell your daddy, or anyone, about what happened today, okay? It’s complicated. And there’s no sense in riling up Adam’s temper with this, do you understand? My hands are full enough with my job and taking care of Tommy and the baby. I don’t need to be worrying about Adam going off half-cocked. Okay, sugar? Promise me?”
“But—”
“I know you’re worried, but I’ll handle it. I am handling it, Mudas. I promise. Your mama’s not all out of tricks just yet. You’ll see. Now, let’s have that promise.” She raised two fingers.
Reluctantly, I brought two fingers up to my mouth, kissed, then raised them in the air, like she’d taught me long ago, knowing she wouldn’t be pleased and the promise wouldn’t be sealed until I did. “Promise.”
Mama kissed her fingers, pressed them to mine, and nodded. “Now, wait till I show you what I found!”
“What?”
“Go get the box that’s sitting on my bed.”
I found a medium cardboard box on her sagging mattress and lugged it to the kitchen table. Mama plucked off the blue tissue paper that had been stuffed inside and pulled out my toddler blanket (or, the shreds that were left of it), a dog-eared copy of Heidi, and my junior chemistry set.
I laughed. “I haven’t seen this stuff in ages.”
“I found these in your memory trunk last week and thought it would be a good time to show you. It’s not every day you turn seventeen, sugar. This age is special. It’s the twilight between youth and adulthood. Sometimes a bit gray, sometimes a prism full of colors. You’ll want to savor it.”
I pocketed her words.
“Look here, Mudas,” she said, holding up the wad of faded yarn that was the remains of my baby blanket. “Nothing but strings left here! Lawd, you sucked on that blanket so much when you were falling asleep, I feared you’d end up with a ball of yarn in your belly big enough to knit a new one.”
I picked up the old chemistry set and unfolded the metal accordion-style box. “I remember how bad I wanted this thing and how excited I was when I got it.” I ran my fingers over the test tubes.
“Yes, and you drove us all crazy with your experiments! Especially that invisible ink—marking up everything you could get your mitts on!”
“Uh-huh.” I chuckled. “And do you remember me mixing up those smoke bombs? I still remember how: Take sulfur, charcoal, and potassium nitrate, and voilà!”
“I’m not likely to forget your famous stink bombs, Mudas. I do believe a couple of them found their way onto Jingles’s porch, and that a certain young lady”—she sly-eyed me—“ended up doing time with a month of prayer study over at the pastor’s house.”
I snorted with laughter at the memory.
“Your granddaddy Tilley gave me a chemistry set a lot like this when I was your age. Oh, I wished you had met your grandparents. You would’ve loved your granddaddy Tilley.”
“We hardly ever talk about your mama and daddy. Or any of the Tilleys. I do wish I could’ve met them.”
“Me too, sugar. God, that was so long ago, but to me it feels like yesterday. It was more than I could bear, losing them to that crash. And then losing Adam so soon after that . . .” She placed her hands in her lap and folded them prayer-like.
Unsure of what to say, I looked down at my own.
“You know,” she said, clearing her throat and plastering on a stiff smile. “Your granddaddy Tilley used codes and invisible ink in World War I, just like you did with your chemistry set. He sure did love showing me all of his old war stuff. And, before you came along, Adam and I had our own secret notes we’d pass back and forth. I taught him what my daddy taught me.” She smiled wistfully. “Your daddy even wrote me a poem once, and it was the sweetest thing.”
“He did? What did it say?”
“I can’t remember now. It was silly,” Mama said, a spot of red heating her cheeks. She turned abruptly. “I think I hear Genevieve squirming around. Why don’t you go get her up and put a change of clothes on her?”
We spent the afternoon playing with Genevieve and eating. Inviting scents of simmering red cabbage, onions, and apples filled the room, helping our happy chatter along.
Mama sang “Happy Birthday” to me, and the baby cooed and cl
apped. Afterward, we went outside to the car. I wanted to show off Peggy, but instead I nervously chewed on a fingernail, worrying it was too much, me getting this cool car and all. I would be riding in style while she drove a fifteen-year-old rusted pickup truck, trailed by streams of blue smoke as it coughed and sputtered around Town Square. Snooty townsfolk would wrinkle their noses, and some even shouted out rude remarks. But Mama was never curt to those folks, forgiving to a fault. She’d always feign indifference or offer an explanation for their insults: “Mrs. Kern’s been having tough family problems,” she’d say, or “Who cares what Doris thinks?” or “James lost his job last month.”
“Really sharp ride, Mudas,” Mama said sincerely.
I stammered, “Mama . . . I’ve been thinking. I can drive Peggy over here in the mornings and walk to school, so you can use her during the day.”
“Thanks, sugar, but the truck runs just fine,” she responded, tamping the offer.
I nodded even though I knew ol’ Blue had stranded her twice last week.
She let me drive her and baby Genevieve down the road, first to Harper’s Filling Station, the only gasoline pump in town, for my first official fill-up. Old man Harper took his time filling up the Mustang, wiping off the windows, shooting wolfish glances at me when he thought Mama wasn’t looking, and letting his sweaty hand linger on mine when he gave me back my change. His three little boys played over by the air pump, spraying each other with bursts of air, giggling. Mr. Harper cut them a look; then he leaned in close to my ear, his breath soured with beer, and whispered, “Now that you’re old ’nough to drive, maybe you’re old enough for some other grown-up things, hmm?”
I expected Mama to ream him out with a good tongue-lashing, but when I looked over for help, I saw that she had turned her attention to the baby, trying to calm her fussing. I tucked my chin under, wondering how to best blunt Mr. Harper’s advances. Harper followed my gaze and shot Mama a nasty smirk before running his tongue over brown teeth. Then Roy McGee pulled into the lot. Harper gave two raps to my roof, before strutting over to McGee’s car. I breathed a sigh of relief. Harper leaned into McGee’s window, with his elbows resting on the door, and turned back once to eye me. He set to wiping down McGee’s windows.
“Time to go,” Mama said when she saw McGee’s car, waggling her hand at the windshield urgently.
We decided to head to town to share an ice cream. I pulled in front of the Top Hat Café, showing off my parallel-parking skills by squeezing the Mustang perfectly in between two other parked cars.
I waited beside Liar’s Bench with Genevieve hitched to my hip while Mama went inside the diner and bought us a strawberry cone. Genevieve grinned up at me. Her sweetness was irresistible. I kissed her soft cheek and blew raspberries on her chubby arms and neck. She squeezed her eyes in joy and beamed up at me. I couldn’t help but worry about the kind of life she was going to have with Tommy. I hugged her close. A good-natured baby, she hugged me back real tight, lapping up all the attention.
When Mama returned, we sat down on the bench, tucking Genevieve in between us. We laughed as we watched her lick the cone, then clap her sticky hands and grace us with strawberry-kissed smiles.
Afterward, Mama sat Genevieve on the patch of grass below Liar’s Bench and gave her the house keys to play with. Rummaging inside her pocketbook, Mama pulled out a pen and an index card containing her cabbage casserole recipe. Using the plank of wood between us, she wrote: RED CABBAGE—HEAT. Don’t forget the oven. She tapped the words and laughed. “And be sure to share this with your daddy. I bet it’s been a while since he’s had this dish. Oh, and make sure you use the River Wolf apples, not those Granny Smiths.”
She swept up Genevieve, who was rolling Osage balls toward the street, and placed her on her lap. “And don’t forget your promise. Our promise.” She raised two fingers.
More like our lie, I wanted to say, a lie riding on the back of another’s truth. But I stopped myself when I caught the woe in her eyes. Instead, I raised two fingers and pressed them to hers, then returned my hand to its rightful place on Liar’s Bench.
She looked across the road to the town clock. Mama said, “I better get back. Be sure and let me know how the casserole turns out.”
“I will,” I said, fanning the recipe in the air. The paper smelled lemony, like her. I folded the card and tucked it carefully inside my jean pocket.
When I pulled into the driveway, Mama reached into her pocket and pulled out a ten-dollar bill. “Happy Early Birthday! I thought maybe you could use some money for gasoline an’ ice cream. And here, take this, too, just in case.” She pressed a Band-Aid into my hand.
I didn’t want to take her money, knowing she couldn’t afford it, and knowing it would take from Genevieve’s milk and diaper money. But I didn’t want to insult her either. I murmured my thanks, and said, “You know, I’m getting too old to be carrying around Snoopy Band-Aids, Mama.” I couldn’t remember the last time we’d parted ways without Mama giving me a Band-Aid. “Just in case,” she’d always say. I knew it was her small way of showing her love and mothering me from a distance. It had become tradition since she’d married Tommy.
“Thanks again, Mama, it was a great day.” I looked up at the house and frowned. Normally, if I saw him, I’d go inside. Make it seem like it was all my doing to see her about some urgent school business.
“I can come in . . . maybe help you put down Genevieve?” I offered halfheartedly, when the last thing I wanted was to lock horns with Tommy. Always scary. Once, he broke my wrist, and he said that if I told, he’d break both of hers. So, I had to tell Daddy I’d tripped over a log while running laps around our backfield. What I really wanted right now was to cruise a little, pick up ThommaLyn, and see if I could find Bobby before I went home.
Mama twisted around to follow my stare. “Well, I s’pose it wouldn’t be a bad idea. . . .” She turned back, and I knew she’d caught the fret in my eyes.
“Nah, sugar. You go ahead. Don’t forget our call on Sunday,” she reminded. Relieved, I didn’t push it this time. She kissed my forehead, hoisted Genevieve onto her hip, and headed across the lawn, leaving her citrusy scent lingering behind.
Tommy leaned over the porch railing, plastered and pouting.
I came fully awake to Daddy knocking on the door once again. “ThommaLyn’s here.” He cracked open the door. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes.
My friend poked her head in, her lake-blue eyes filled with grief, robbed of their usual sunshine. She sniffled. “I ran across the field as soon as I heard about Ella. Oh, Muddy . . .”
I wanted to run to her, but my grieving head weighed me down and I couldn’t lift myself from the forgiving warmth of my bed. ThommaLyn set down her overnight bag and knelt beside me, gently cupping my face in her hands. I closed my eyes, grateful.
The door clicked gently behind us and my words trickled out. I let the day’s tragedy spill forth, repeating some of the horrors I’d read in the officials’ report, and the words I’d heard at the crime scene, carefully leaving the ribbons out. I didn’t think I could ever bring myself to utter that . . . not even to ThommaLyn.
ThommaLyn rubbed my back and did her best to comfort, but I could see her lip quivering and her head shaking. Each shake waggled the quilting thread that dangled from her puffy red earlobes. I’d pierced her ears myself just last week with an ice cube and one of Grammy Essie’s darning needles. It had turned out to be messier and more dramatic than either of us had imagined. I’d won the coin toss, leaving ThommaLyn to go first. This weekend was supposed to be my turn.
After a bit, ThommaLyn asked quietly, “Have you heard from Bobby Marshall?”
“No, well, yes . . . he called, but Daddy answered and told him I was resting.”
“What’d your Daddy say about you seeing him?”
“I haven’t told him yet. And, as far as I know, he’s only seen us once on Liar’s Bench, and he thought it was just another guy hanging ’round for a ride out to Ruby’s.
. . . I was waiting to tell him about Bobby on my birthday, figuring that’d be a good time.... But now, all this . . .” I trailed.
“I bet he lets you date him,” ThommaLyn predicted. “He won’t care about color. Everyone knows your daddy doesn’t have an ounce of prejudice in his bones.”
He didn’t. Still, I worried about it more and more. Bobby had a different heritage of sort, something that reached into other lands, in a different time, maybe. I wasn’t quite sure what. Bobby didn’t talk about it. And I hadn’t been too concerned at first. But this past month that we’d been hanging out more, I’d started to notice the occasional whispered slurs from elders huddled on Town Square sidewalks, whose words trailed just a hairbreadth behind us when we’d pass by. Just loud enough for us to hear. “Mutt,” they’d call him, telling him to “stick to his own kind.” “T’aint right,” they’d mutter, or “Nigger Injun ain’t got no business with a white girl.” The very worst kind of ugliness. Bobby would talk over them and we’d hurry past, both moon-eyed over around-the-corner possibilities like cuddling, kissing—us.
“I’ll worry about this later, ThommaLyn. My mind’s stretched as is.”
“ ’Course, hon. I just want what you want . . . Just want you to be safe, too.”
I nodded, understanding. We rested our heads together a bit, and ThommaLyn sighed heavily, stitching her worries into mine.
After we’d talked everything out, and our pauses fattened with silt, ThommaLyn changed into her pajamas and crawled into bed beside me. Most times, I would make her a fluffy pallet atop the rug beside the bed, to save her from my long, restless legs. But tonight, the idea of a pallet so far away frightened both of us.
Reluctantly, I turned off the bedside lamp. About an hour later, panic clawed at me in the dark and I cried out for Mama. ThommaLyn rolled over and reached her shadowy hand toward mine like we used to when we were little and scared of closet monsters. I grabbed hold and tucked it tight between my pillow and my cheek, locking my fingers with hers.
Liar's Bench Page 5
