Apron Strings (3 page)

The smell of mothballs, and the presence of rounded top steamer trunks and hanging bags gave the attic the feeling of a world far removed from the rest of the house. I was grateful for the haven it provided. As Ethel folded clothing and sorted through hanging bags, I plied her with questions about my family. When my mother was out of the house, Ethel seemed to relish my questions, as if the mere asking of them validated her. I counted on her to fill me in on the history of my parents’ lives before I was born, or, as she would say, “When ya’ll was down da river count’n sand.” I took her accounts of my parents’ history as gospel. My father’s past was shrouded in mystery; my mother’s in a kind of confused awe. Her brothers—my uncles—were disagreeable individuals, I thought, but people always seemed to defer to them. They comported themselves as though oblivious to their social shortcomings—secure in the confidence of their good breeding. Likewise, my maternal grandparents were presumed to be infallible—paragons of southern culture whose legacy we should strive to uphold. It was understood that my father’s family lacked the standing of my mother’s, though neither my siblings nor I quite understood why. We adored our father with a reverence that was intensified by how rarely we saw him. It only made sense to us that, if our mother was descended from southern royalty, our father must be descended from nothing short of the gods. The fact that the scales apparently tipped the other way confounded me. Asking my parents about it was rarely fruitful—”bad blood” between relatives made for raw nerves, and so they had to be in a really good mood to tolerate my questions. Fortunately, Ethel seemed to know more than anyone else. She didn’t mind sharing what she knew and making up the rest.

“Mista Joe’s daddy was one good lookin’ man. He coulda been in da picture shows.” She stopped folding clothes, shook her head side to side, and smiled like she was remembering something fine.

“Did you know him? Did he ever come here?” I asked as I plowed through a pile of last summer’s shorts.

“No, he lived in New York. I ain’t never seen him in person…did see a pitchur of ‘im, though. He died just after yo’ daddy got back from the war, ‘bout a year or so later.”

“How’d he die?”

“Was a big fire that killed ‘im. He weren’t no real doctor, I don’t believe; his lab blowed up.”

I shuddered at such a dramatic demise. “Why wasn’t he a real one? Did he just pretend to be a doctor?”

“He was one of them PhD doctors, not the kind ya go to when you’s sick—a scientist.”

“He must have been mad,” I deduced from my Saturday morning television shows.

“I ‘spect he was. Ya mama tried to git Mista Joe to go to da funeral, but he wouldn’t do it. He never said another word ‘bout his daddy. The two of ‘em had a fallin’ out, and after that, Mista Joe didn’t pay him no mind; even when the man died. Ain’t right if you ask me.”

I was trying on my Easter bonnet from last year, which was too small. “Whadda they fall out about?” I asked. Then I spied one of Stuart’s bonnets. I took it over to an old mirror leaning up against the wall and placed it on my head. I spun every which way, hoping I looked as beautiful as I remembered Stuart did when she wore it. “Think I can wear this one?”

“Is too big. I ‘spect Stuart gonna be fighting with ya mama ‘bout wearing it again dis here Easter.”

“What were you sayin’ about why Daddy fell out with his daddy?”

“The fallin’ out mighta had somethin’ to do wit’ Mista Joe decidin’ that lawyerin’ wasn’t for him no mo’. I don’ rightly know all of it…I just know he got this big shoppin’ center idea after he come back from the war.” She sighed and heaved open another trunk. “He been working on it for a good while and he asked his daddy for money to help him along with it. I ‘spect the old man said no. Mista Joe came back from that trip fit to be tied.”

When I asked such questions of my mother, she would snap, “Mind your own business, Sallee!” Often she’d say I was rude or even
impudent
, though she never told me what that meant. Given her tone, I was pretty sure it wasn’t good. With Ethel it was different. She let me push and prod about the past and told me endless stories; which always seemed to leave me with more questions.

“What exactly is a shopping center, anyway?”

All I knew about shopping was our twice-yearly drives with my mother to the big Thalhimers and Miller and Rhodes department stores in Richmond. I couldn’t imagine buying anything here in Charlottesville except shoes or groceries.

“Honey, I wish I knowed, much trouble as it’s caused in dis here family.” She shook her head and bent over to pick up a bundle of clothes. “Pick up that stack an’ let’s get on downstairs. Yo’ mama’ll be back ‘fore long, and I gotta get lunch started.”

I gathered the stack of clothes and followed her down the steps, “Oh,” I said, “I almost forgot to tell you. There’s broken glass all over the basement floor and a rock, too.”

“Huh,” Ethel said. When Gordy came into the kitchen for lunch, she put her hands on her hips and asked, “You ain’t been throwin’ rocks at de house, has ya?”

Gordy looked at her like she’d hit him in the head with one. “I know better than that,” he muttered. He continued to munch on his peanut butter sandwich.

“Hum, I hope so,” she said.

One morning shortly after school had let out for the summer, my mother swept into the kitchen. “Ethel!” she called. “Miss Dorothy, Miss Della, and Miss Emily are coming over this afternoon. Make sure the children are presentable. It’s just a small tea. A few sandwiches and some of those marmalade tarts will be all we need.” She checked her new diamond watch. “Oh, and Ethel, put out some sherry glasses. You know how Miss Emily likes her sherry,” she laughed. “I’m on my way to the car, Stuart. Your tennis lesson starts in ten minutes. Let’s go.”

“Can I go?” I asked.

“I suppose so. We’ll be back in time for you to get cleaned up,” she said. Stuart, who was always late, had to run back to her room to get her racket. “Come on, come on,” my mother grumbled while we waited in the car. I sat in the back seat. “Oh Lord, there’s that dreadful man again,” she groaned. “Come on, Stuart.”

“What dreadful man?” I asked. I glanced about seeing no one but Mr. Dabney sitting on his back porch. He waved and I waved back. “Mr. Dabney? He’s OK. ‘Sides, his wife is really nice. She makes…”

“Sallee, you stay away from those people. Do you hear me?” She glared at me over the back of her seat. Stuart jumped in the car and we roared out of the drive.

“For once I’m glad I’ve got a stupid lesson this afternoon,” Stuart said. As soon as the words tumbled out of her mouth, I knew she was in for it. My forehead was pressed against the window. I looked up to watch my mother’s reaction in the rearview mirror.

“Why on earth would you say such a thing, Stuart Mackey?”

Stuart shifted a little in her seat. “Cuz I hate those parties. I don’t get why we have to go. They’re not our friends.”

“Darling,” my mother’s voice took on a sugary tone, but her eyes narrowed. “How are you going to learn how to behave in polite society if you don’t practice? It’s important.”

“Important? To you maybe.”

“Not just to me. If you know how to entertain, you will be a tremendous asset to your husband.” She reached over and pinched Stuart’s arm playfully. Stuart writhed away. “Why, a wife who is comfortable in any social situation...”

“What if I don’t want to get married? What if I don’t want to be anybody’s wife? Then I don’t need to know all that stuff.” Stuart glowered at my mother and rubbed her arm. She fished a kerchief from her pocket and tied it around her head. “Who’s coming anyway?” she asked.

My mother sighed, casting a sharp look at my sister. “Mrs. Mason, Miss Eades, and Miss James.” She glanced at the kerchief. “I wish you would let your hair grow. You are so much prettier with your hair longer.”

“Just what I want to be—a miniature you,” Stuart muttered. “Maybe I should wear it up just so and wear sapphires too,” she added. I noticed Stuart had moved a bit closer to the car door.

When Stuart talked to our mother that way, I always battled the feeling of being in class and having to pee, but the teacher won’t let me go. It made me feel fidgety and downright uncomfortable.
Did she always have to be looking for a fight?
I wondered. “Don’t you like how it makes your eyes look?” I asked Stuart, hoping to avert the coming storm. When I saw she was about to direct a sneer at me I quickly added, “I think it makes you look pretty—longer hair, I mean.”

Stuart rolled her eyes. “And it’s so important to look pretty. Right, Sallee?” Then she turned on my mother. “You seem to be getting what you want from Sallee. Congratulations, another convert to the Happy Homemakers’ Club.”

Again my mother sighed. I couldn’t quite tell if Stuart had just said something bad about me.

My mother was silent, but the storm was still brewing. I tried to change the subject. “Hey,” I piped up, “why does Miz Mason always wear gloves and long sleeves even when it’s hot outside?”

“Hay is for horses, Sallee,” my mother said crossly. My diversion had worked. I was so relieved I barely listened to her answer.

“I can’t remember what it’s called, but she has some type of pigmentation problem—sun damage or something,” my mother said. She glanced from the red stoplight to her wristwatch. “Her doctor warned her never to go outside without being covered up. She is very sensitive about it. Apparently nothing can be done, and it is only going to get worse, poor dear.”

“A pig?” I said. “Miz Mason?”

“What? Sallee, hush! I can’t even think.” Gravel crunched under the tires as we pulled up by the tennis courts. “Stuart,” she said, “You’re coming home with Kathy.” Stuart leaped from the car. “If my guests are still there when you get home I would appreciate it if you would come in and speak to them,” my mother called as Stuart’s back disappeared behind the fence. “Good luck, make me proud and don’t forget your manners!”

Ethel had laid out my pink and white party dress on my bed. It had a stiff crinoline that made it stick out. After she buttoned me up, she started pulling my hair back into a ponytail. “Chile, wouldcha hol’ still?” She squeezed my head in both her hands like she was testing a melon, then gave it a yank to make me face straight forward.

“Owww, don’t pull so hard. It hurts.”

“Stop jumpin’ round.”

“I can’t help it. This dress itches, right here.” I pointed to my waist. She pulled the skirt up to inspect the waistband.

“Ain’t nothin’ but yo’ petticoat and I ain’t got time to fix it now. The way you dancin’ and wigglin’, you ain’t gonna be in it that long, no way.” Ethel knew as well as I did that my squirming would be a sure invitation for dismissal from the party.

After she was finished with my hair, she sent me into the parlor. I flopped on the sofa with Gordy while my mother greeted her guests in the front hall. Gordy had already stuffed two of Ethel’s famous marmalade tarts in his mouth.

“You better not eat all those,” I warned as I rubbed my back against the sofa cushions.

“Why don’t you save your scratching ‘til the party starts?” he asked while spitting crumbs from his mouth. “Then we can get out quick and take a look at Mr. Dabney’s slingshot. I don’t think he’s home.”

“What’s he doing with a slingshot?”

Gordy screwed up his face and shrugged. “That’s what I’d like to know,” he said. “I saw it on his porch the other day. It’s a really neat one, fits over your wrist to hold…”

My mother thought her children talking with each other when she entertained was impolite and strictly forbidden. Miss James’s entrance into the room ended our conversation. Gordy sprang from his seat. “Why hello, Miz James,” he said. “It’s so nice to see you again.” He extended his hand taking the lady’s and shaking it like a pro. “How have you been?”

Tall and wiry for his age, Gordy sounded like a fifty-year-old man who’d been entertaining ladies all his life, though he was barely two years older than me. I envied him his ability to do so easily just what he was told. Unlike me, he almost never argued with anything my mother
told him to do. At just one of these afternoon parties, Gordy would garner more approving smiles from our mother than I would in a whole month.

Even little Helen, expertly guided from one old lady to another older one by my mother, was more successful than me. She smiled just so while delicately holding on to her carrot stick. She had just the right amount of shyness. “Darling,” tripped off every set of crimson lips in the room.

“She is
precious
, Ginny. You must be so proud,” Miss James gushed in her raspy cigarette voice. She patted Helen’s head with a gnarled, ring-decked hand, her cigarette ash poised overtop my sister’s curls while she balanced her sherry, napkin, and tart in the other. When she smiled, the skin on her cheeks stretched and the skin around her mouth dissolved into a series of cracks and lines. Her perfume crawled into the back of my throat so I could almost taste it, thick and sweet—and I was clear across the room. Her blue hair was just visible under a little black hat shaped like a mushroom with netting sticking up all around. Small diamond shapes festooned the netting, which came down just below her eyes. The netting and diamonds bobbed up and down like a swarm of flies whenever Miss James moved her head, something she did every time she spoke or took a drag off her cigarette. She was a tiny woman, not much bigger than me, in a gray suit with turquoise and orange bumps all over. Draped around her shoulders were three dead minks that looked like they were biting each other’s tails just as they were run over by a car.

Helen was having a hard time maintaining her precious smile with the cigarette waving around her head, cutting invisible lines through the cloud of perfume. Smoke hung around my sister’s head like words in a cartoon. “I just think this shopping center idea that Joe has is so exciting,” Miss James was saying. “I hear they are the rage in Connecticut. My great-niece says that everybody in New Canaan shops in shopping centers now. It is just so
exciting
.”

Helen pulled on my mother’s dress and looked up at her, pleading without a word. “Excuse me, Emily,” my mother said. “Helen, honey, would you mind passing the sandwiches?” My mother smiled at Helen
as she guided her toward the tea table. “That’s a good girl. Emily, could I get you some more sherry?” she asked as she refilled her own glass.