by Mary Robison
A French Army officer talked huskily to Brigitte Bardot. A dubbed-in voice answered for her. The picture flipped twice and died, and then a banner of white letters crossed the screen. Cleveland leaned forward to read them. But he could not make them out. A voice announced, “This is a weather bulletin from Channel Five meteorologist Stan Manley and the Weather Bureau. Stand by, please.”
“I can’t stand by,” Cleveland said. “I’m going to sit by.”
“There is a tornado watch in effect until three this afternoon, for Ventig, Rahway, and Miggs counties. The National Weather Service reports sightings of funnel clouds in northern Miggs County. Residents are advised . . .”
Violet strolled into the bedroom in fresh clothes and dived onto the bed, accidentally kicking Cleveland.
“I’m listening,” Cleveland said.
“To what?”
The TV voice repeated, “The National Weather Service has issued a tornado watch for Ventig . . .”
“Weather,” Cleveland said. “This is bad weather, but it’s far away. I wanted to hear if it’s coming. But I didn’t hear. It’s your fault.”
Violet said, “Mom told me to tell you Birginia’s here.”
“Say Vurr,” Cleveland said.
“Burr.”
Cleveland rocked on his bottom, building momentum for an attempt to stand. He pushed up. “What’s your name?” he said. He walked a straight line to the TV and tapped the on-off knob.
“Violet.”
“Good. Now, who’s coming to visit? And don’t be cute.” He yanked the drawers on the chest, rummaged in one of them, found a paisley scarf, and stuffed it around his neck. “Old man’s got to wear a sweat rag these days,” he said. “Say Vurr, vurr, vurr.”
“Virginia,” Violet said.
“That’s right. Home of Robert E. Lee and Smithfield hams. You know who you look like, Violet? You look like Brigitte Bardot.”
“Did I hear something about a hurricane?” Maureen said at the bedroom door.
“Did I hear something about Virginia being here?” Cleveland said.
“Yeah, a minute ago. Dad, it’s freezing in this house, or haven’t you noticed?”
“You’re cold because you’re wet and naked. I’m hot, so the air conditioner stays on. Aren’t you ever going to get dressed?”
“When you tell me if we’re going to have a storm or not,” Maureen said.
“There’re some bad clouds,” Cleveland said, “but they’re south of us.” He bared his teeth in an ugly grimace. “Ouch,” he said. “My God!” he said, and rubbed his stomach.
“I knew this was coming,” Maureen said. “You’ll be in bed for a week from that gin.”
“Vodka. Violet, tell Virginia I’ll be right down. Tell her to make herself a drink.”
“I’ll get your antacid,” Maureen said. “Do what he says, Vi.”
“And get dressed,” Cleveland said, trying to focus on his daughter’s face.
12
Earlier in the morning, after his breakfast of screwdrivers and a sweet roll, Cleveland had met his gardener, Jack, who was already pissed to the gills. Jack had a post-hole digger on the bed of his pickup. The digger had a top-mounted engine the size of an outboard motor. There were opposing handles on the engine, and the two men had gripped the handles and, standing on the ridge of the ravine, worked to bore a hole into dirt that was baked stone-hard. The digger had fought them, had bucked and danced, wrenching them right and left. Its screw blades, after going only inches deep, had slammed into rock and made the big engine jerk, spin, throw the two men down.
From this position, Cleveland had said, “I’m too looped for this.” He had pulled off his orange work gloves. “Let’s hose down these holes, soak them all night with water, and hang it up for today.”
That was when he had closed off the house, switched on the air conditioning, and set the thermostat at fifty degrees.
13
The cooling system made a noise. Maureen listened, sitting alone on Violet’s bed, her long arms around one of Violet’s stuffed dogs. She tried rubbing the gooseflesh off her thighs. She opened Violet’s window for some of the warmth of the day, and noticed a commotion in the still and windless yard. Birds were crying. Sparrows were hectoring a jay, diving at it, chattering threats. There was a strange tan cast to the visible southern sky.
She experienced a sudden, restless sort of depression. She found herself examining her hands, which were bulky with painted square fingernails and prominent mannish veins. She took a fingernail between her teeth and bit off too much. She stuck the finger in her mouth, caressed the sore place with the end of her tongue. She studied a tack hole in the wall. She called sharply for Violet.
The child came, nibbling a frozen Milky Way. Maureen put her on the bed and told her, “I want you to come up and keep me company while I get dressed. I’m going to wear the new dress that I was saving. Then, when I’m dressed, we’re going to go out there and I’m going to talk to whoever will listen to me and talk back.”
“Why, Mom? What’s wrong?” Violet said. “Why do I have to sit with you?”
Something awful was closing down on Maureen. Her stomach had dropped as if it had someplace lower to go. She stood waiting, holding her breath. She exhaled with a whimper. “I’m not giving in to this,” she said. “I’m proceeding on. Come help me change.” She took Violet’s hand and marched her down the hall and up the wide staircase to the second floor.
“What do I do with this candy wrapper?” Violet said.
In her bedroom, Maureen took the candy wrapper and put it under her pillow. She felt better—until she glimpsed her reflection in the mirror. Her pupils were dilated and she thought she saw a rash on her face.
“Violet? Does my face look funny?”
Violet didn’t answer.
“Tell me,” Maureen said. “It’s okay if you tell me.”
“It’s red,” Violet said.
“What’s red about it?” Maureen said, and moved closer to the mirror. She saw the spider web of broken blood vessels spun across her nose and cheekbones.
“I think it’s sunburn,” Violet said.
“What about my eyes?” Maureen kneeled in front of Violet. “No, hold it. Maybe I just got moisturizer in them.”
“They’re fine,” Violet said.
Maureen stood up. She put on sunglasses and started a record on her stereo. “Wanna dance?” she said to Violet.
“No, I really don’t.”
“I have to turn it off, anyway,” Maureen said. “As much as it helps me, Uncle Howdy always says it’s a bad idea to get dressed to music. You’re likely to jump out of your clothes.” Maureen had removed her bikini and was trying on underwear. She put a strapless bra on, inhaled deeply, and the bra fell off. “Oh, damn. There go the eyehooks, and that’s the only bra I have for under a sundress.”
“You can fix it,” Violet said.
“No,” Maureen said. “Not so it’ll ever look right. Let me see. I’ll just go without.”
She stepped into a dress with a pattern of red and green confetti. “One thing would be deadly,” she said, “and that’s for me to lie down. If I did that, I’d lie there and I’d be lost. I must go outside myself. It’s a trick, but I’ve done it before.”
“I know,” Violet said.
“Let’s go get Virginia talking. I have things to tell her that’ll stop me from thinking about myself.”
“Aren’t you going to wear shoes?” Violet said.
Maureen looked at her feet awhile. She said, “Goddamn you, Vi. Now I can’t decide. What am I supposed to do? Wear shoes or not?”
Violet shrugged. “You look pretty.”
“You think I do?” Maureen said, amazed. “You’ve never said anything like that before. Why would you say that, Violet? It’s so nice!” She crouched in front of her daughter, but the attention went out of Violet’s eyes. Maureen said, “Violet, where are you? Can you hear me?”
“Of course I hear you,” Violet
said. “I’m just looking at myself in your glasses.”
Maureen sighed and got comfortable on her knees. She said, “You know what’s funny? I used to think my mother was pretty, too. It was a pleasure to be seen with her. Except for Howdy, I was the happiest child I’ve ever known. I was so proud! I knew all Mom’s dresses, and had particular favorites—her black and white polka dot, that was the best.” She held Violet close, but Violet said, “Stop,” and ran away.
Lola banged past on some errand, talking to herself.
14
Virginia was decked out in a golfish wraparound skirt, immaculate sneakers, and a polo top. She gestured and laughed from one end of the sofa, and capped the point of her crossed knee with her white canvas hat. She pushed the telling of her anecdote as Violet sprinted at her. “So there I was, with a thimble on my finger, sewing on this mysterious jacket—all for the little dog I used to have—Dante.
“Hello, dear,” she said to Violet.
Maureen slouched a little, sabotaging the effect of entering in a new dress. She crossed the living room and said, “Hey, girl,” to Stephanie, who had been listening to Virginia from the brick ledge that jutted from the fireplace. Stephanie got up and, along with Virginia, made a fuss about Maureen’s dress and even about the old, open-toed shoes Maureen had chosen. Maureen sat, embarrassed, with her leg hooked over the arm of a stuffed chair. She did and undid a button at the throat of her dress.
“Howdy’s got to talk to you,” Stephanie said. She reached down and tugged some burrs from the cuff of her pants.
“Is that Maureen?” Howdy’s voice said from the kitchen. “I need to talk to you!”
“All right, I got the message!” Maureen yelled. “Howdy? Could you bring me a beer or something?”
“And a Coke!” Violet yelled.
“Get it yourself, Violet,” Maureen said. “You’re a big girl.”
“Right!” Howdy yelled. “A Coke and a Scotch sour! A Scotch sour, Maureen? I’m making a blenderful!”
Virginia said, “You folks need an intercom, like I have at my place.”
Stephanie said, “How about walkie-talkies?”
“Yeah!” Violet said.
Maureen said, “Violet, in the bathroom cabinet in your bathroom is a pouch with Mommy’s nail stuff. Would you be a big girl and run get it for me? Also, I left my cigarettes and lighter in your room.”
“No,” Violet said.
“Mercy, it’s chilly in here,” Virginia said. “When Violet let me in, she told me her grandad is feeling ill and wants it this cold. Is that correct? Is he ill?”
“He’s okay,” Maureen said. “He’ll be joining us any minute.”
“He hasn’t been drinking, has he?” Virginia said.
“Not so you’d notice,” Maureen said. “Except maybe you would. But, hell, Virginia, who am I to tell you about Dad’s stamina?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Virginia said.
“You know how it is once men start to go. Dad can work a garden, sure,” Maureen said. “Fix lights and plumbing sometimes. But the cumulative effects show when he’s trying to do something like recall a phone number. And his good-time days are over. For the most part, he’s a broken-down man who only gets things done because he has to. But if he’s up late on Monday, then Tuesday he’ll go to sleep right after the seven o’clock news. And that doesn’t include his after-lunch naps and the naps he falls into all day long right in the middle of sentences. Violet, do your grandpa imitation.”
Violet got up from the sofa. “Okay,” she said, “here’s how Grandpa goes. He goes—” Violet let her head roll slowly sideways and her eyes slide shut. She snapped up to straight-spined attention and said, “I’m awake, I’m awake,” then sagged and repeated the head roll.
“Hey, that’s great!” Stephanie said and applauded.
Virginia touched Violet’s arm. “Your grandfather could teach many a younger man a world of things. About manners, about decency, about kindness to your neighbor. And never to go where you’re not welcome—forcing your way in. And about being gentle and wise, and having good, strong spiritual roots. People need roots, Violet, like trees need roots, or they get dry and dead and blow around in the wind like tumble-weeds. Would you excuse me, all of you? I want to see how he’s doing.” Virginia raised herself from the sofa and left them, eddies of Shalimar stirring in her passage.
“So there, Maureen!” Maureen said.
“What?” Stephanie said. “Was Virginia mad?”
Maureen said, “Are you really planning to marry my half-wit brother?”
Stephanie giggled and spoke to some freckles on her fore-arm. “Oh, Howdy loves to talk. He likes to tell people things.”
“Violet, go get my nail polish and cigarettes right now or you’ll be grounded, and I’m serious.” Violet dragged herself away. Maureen went over to Stephanie and sat beside her on the hearth. Out in the kitchen, the blender sang.
“I’m really cold,” Stephanie said. “Look at my blue fingernails.”
“Never mind,” Maureen said. “I was saying, when it comes to Howdy, you know, it’s a slow week if he doesn’t propose marriage to at least two imbeciles of any gender.”
“Really?” Stephanie said, and giggled some more.
“No, not really,” Maureen said. “If nothing else, Howdy’s sincere. And I can tell that you’re not going to marry him. The poor, luckless dope. I wonder, did you ever sleep together?”
“Oh, sure, sure.” Stephanie giggled and nodded.
“You really have?”
“Yeah. How come you asked?”
“Just dumb,” Maureen said, and went back to her chair.
Violet returned and dropped off the nail-kit bag and cigarettes. “Can I go outside and play in the wind?”
Maureen tapped a cigarette from the fat blue pack and dragged on it discontentedly. She looked out the glass doors where, beyond the veranda, the landscape was being rushed at by dark, irritable clouds. She could not hear the wind, but saw it twisting tree branches, turning leaves over onto their light side. She said, “Yes, I guess you can go out. But stay close to the house and stay out from under trees and come back the second it starts to rain. And don’t go around the power tools.” She snapped on the table lamp beside her chair.
When Violet went out through the sliding glass doors, Maureen noticed the wind, loud enough to hear over the air conditioner.
Howdy carried in a tray loaded with drinks on coasters. He was shivering a little in a snap-tab shirt. He served Stephanie and Maureen where they sat, and put the tray down on the coffee table. He said, “This whole family drinks too much in the summer. You’d better get used to it, Steph, seeing as how you’re already one of the family.”
“My dad drinks more,” Stephanie said.
“And he can handle them,” Howdy said. “What are you staring at me for, Mo? Is my hair on backwards?”
“Just thinking,” Maureen said.
“Well, tell us about what, because then I have to talk to you,” Howdy said. He looked out the sliding doors. “Jesus, is it blowing! Poor anybody who’s out there and not in this cold house.”
“I love this house,” Maureen said. “Except for that little bit with Chris, I’ve never lived anyplace else. I couldn’t be comfortable or feel safe anywhere else, could you?”
“Hurry up,” Howdy said.
“Yet I don’t want to be stuck here the rest of my life,” Maureen said. “Except I’m scared of going anywhere else. Of living out my days being poor. Probably with Chris around.”
Howdy looked at Stephanie. He said, “Maureen, why would Chris be around?”
“I don’t know,” Maureen said. “But from now on, wherever I go, I know he’ll be there.”
“But what’s so bad about that? He seems all right to me,” Howdy said.
“I think Chris is cute,” Stephanie said.
“Now, now,” Maureen said, and dropped back into her chair. She pulled one last time on her cigarette, then punched it
out in the ashtray. “Those are good drinks. I mean really good.”
“Aren’t they?” Howdy said. He went around the room, tripped a wall switch that put on a track of lights over the fireplace and a spotlight recessed into the ceiling and trained on the sofa. He turned on the television. He said, “I like this—everybody praising my drinks. Let’s get the word on the storm. Steph, will you watch for a bulletin while I talk privately to my sister?”
15
Violet had gone from the veranda into the yard at the side of the house. The southern horizon just over the trees that lined Charity Way was jet shading to khaki. There were low, dirty clouds with monstrous furrowed bottoms. The child made a dash for the toolshed, where she found her roller skates—white ankle-highs—on the seat of a small tractor. She took the skates outside to tie them on, afraid of the wolf spiders that lived in the shed. When she had laced and knotted one skate, she lay on her back. The clouds streamed overhead, their bulky bellies lined with black ditches, some tearing apart, pieces coming loose and spinning away.
With both skates in place, Violet clomped up the lawn, crossed back over the veranda, and came out by a plot of flower garden—wands of periwinkles, waving sweet williams, and expiring phlox—behind the new garage.
“Hey, champ!” Lola called, leaning out an upstairs window. Her head was turbaned in red. She folded her arms on the sill.
“Lola, it’s night over there,” Violet said, and pointed south.
“Radio says we’re going to have a twister,” Lola said. “So don’t go anywhere.”
“Twister?” Violet’s hair whipped her face.
“Like Dorothy had in The Wizard of Oz.”
Violet hobbled on, balancing as she rolled past a pile of oil cans and fuming rags, metal shears, a calendar, a moldy box of books topped by Zane Grey and Forever Amber. She built up speed and zoomed out onto the Cleveland drive. She passed the bronze nymph in the arbor, rounded the corner there nicely, and came onto the lane proper. She had stopped pumping and was coasting just before she hit a pothole, flew into the air, and skidded down on her stomach, her chin cracking the pavement.
