* * * * *
“Where the hell is Mary?”
Mr. Christensen growled at the edge of the trailer’s hallway as Kay’s daughters assembled in the cramped living room for their customary inspection before Sunday morning church services.
“That girl of yours needs to show more respect towards this household.”
Kay gnawed at a fingernail thickly lacquered in a violet shade. “She’s probably only helping Darla. Darla’s too little. Darla doesn’t understand, and she just trembles when you get upset.”
Mr. Christensen shook his head. “Not when I get upset. When I correct. You must teach your girls discipline, Kay. It’s time they learn better manners.”
Five of Kay’s daughters stood in line across the living room, quiet as soldiers in the Sunday dresses Mr. Christensen had carefully chosen for each. The twins Lilly and Rose stood tallest at the start of a line that descended in height before arriving at four year old Kylie, who threatened to break into tears each time Mr. Christensen turned her direction. Kay’s daughters mastered their composure as best as each was able while staring at the dark glass of an unpowered television, distracting their unease as they imagined what flickering forms might manifest on a glass screen if given power.
Mr. Christensen returned to the line and considered Kay’s silent daughters.
“They’ll be out any second now,” Kay wished her hands held extra fingers to soothe her nibbling agitation.
“I don’t ask much out of Mary,” Mr. Christensen sighed as he slumped into an old recliner, careful to protect the tight crease of his well-ironed Sunday slacks. One of the girls shifted in line and caught Mr. Christensen’s attention. “Straighten up, Rose. I don’t ask so much from you girls for sleeping beneath my roof.”
Rasping laughter leaked down the hall, wheezed through the trailer’s thin walls to irritate Mr. Christensen’s sensitive ears.
“That’s right, Queenie!” Mr. Christensen shouted down the hall. “You might soon find yourself too frail for our care. Perhaps a convalescent home might give you better attention!”
Queenie laughed louder. Kay paced along the line of her daughters, her ragged nails doing their best to smooth dresses.
Mr. Christensen’s hand balled into fists. “Don’t push too hard, Queenie! Push just a little more and see how quickly you find yourself on the other side of my door!”
Queenie answered by filling the trailer with the thumping bass and squealing guitars of one of her tapes of hard rock and roll. The volume escalated. The trailer walls shook. Mr. Christensen seethed upon the chair and wished he did not need to so rely on the old crone’s deep accounts.
Kay sensed that frustration and searched for another nail to set her teeth upon. “She’s just an old woman, Roy. She’s almost a century old.”
Mr. Christensen rubbed his eyes. “I’m starting to think that a century holds plenty enough years for a lifetime.”
Laughing Mindy giggled as her nervous tension become too much for her control. Mr. Christensen snapped his gaze upon his daughter, and his frown stole much breath from the room.
“And what the hell is that jewelry about?”
Mr. Christensen leapt from his seat and stomped to the twins Lily and Rose. They trembled and blinked as Mr. Christensen drew close enough for the sisters to feel his breath. Yet the twins remained still. Lily and Rose possessed much of the courage that Queenie admired, and neither gasped as Mr. Christensen grabbed their necklaces with a tug upon their cord.
“It’s only costume jewelry, Mr. Christensen.”
Mary entered the trailer’s living room from its narrow hall. Darla clutched her oldest sister’s hand, her lips shaking as she felt the room’s tension.
Mr. Christensen released the twins’ necklaces. “It’s trashy. I’ll not be associated with trashy girls, and I will certainly not allow your girls, Kay, to dress as harlots when they attend my church. I do my best for all your girls, Kay. Regardless whether or not they are my daughters. And still, they would make me a fool.”
Kay turned away from Mr. Christensen’s glare, and so Mr. Christensen turned his angry eyes upon Mary.
“They didn’t know any better,” Mary wished her voice would not have cracked.
Mr. Christensen’s eyes narrowed. “Then where did they get it, Mary?”
“Queenie gave it to them.”
“Why would Queenie do that?”
Mary harbored no doubt as to Mary’s motivation. Belle loved glass beads and plastic pearls. The karats were unimportant to Belle as long as the jewelry, rich or cheap, sparkled. Belle would have loved to have seen the sisters dressed in bracelets and rings. Queenie remembered all of Belle’s favorite things, and Mary recognized how the old dame tried to pull Belle back to the trailer by flooding her sisters in cheap jewelry.
Nor would Belle notice only the jewelry’s sparkle upon those assembled sisters. Belle would see the tension that tightened each of those young girls’ faces. Belle would hear what Queenie wished to communicate, and she would arrive wailing as a banshee to demand a proper accounting for the troubles that suffocated those sisters’ smiles.
Mary would not dare try to communicate such to Mr. Christensen. Such honesty would create no ally out of him. Mr. Christensen would regard such as superstition, and he would consider superstition a dire blasphemy on a Sunday morning.
“She’s just old, Mr. Christensen,” Mary sighed. “She can hardly see a thing anymore. Maybe she thinks the jewelry would help her tell the girls apart a little easier.”
Mr. Christensen’s gaze drifted down the hall. “I see that you don’t wear any of it.”
“It seems foolish,” Mary replied.
Mr. Christensen nodded. “I’m happy to see you’re finally showing a little of the maturity that should come with your age. It pleases me that you did not wind any such jewelry around Darla. But you’re still late for inspection, and tardiness is a trait I’ll not suffer beneath my roof. All my girls must be prompt.”
“I’m sorry,” Mary passively stared at her feet, sensing how Mr. Carpenter’s ire started to fade. “I will be careful to get ready earlier next Sunday morning. I should’ve been more aware of how Darla needs me.”
“Yes, you should have,” Mr. Christensen grumbled.
Kay exhaled a long breath. “Listen to Mr. Christensen, Mary. You’re the oldest of my girls. You have to do so much more.”
“I am so sorry,” Mary tricked her sigh to sound like shame.
Mary took her position at the vanguard of the line with the rest of her sisters. She did not feel very tall, nor did she feel very brave.
Mary, in Need of Belle Page 3
