Homecoming (36 page)

One larger tree grew right up in front of the house, hiding the front door, shading
the lawn. This tree looked like an umbrella, held overhead by four trunks that spread
out from their common source. Its broad leaves made a green canopy against the sunlight.
It wouldn’t be a good climbing tree, Dicey thought, walking up to it and past it,
but you could make a platform tree house to rest on the four trunks and build steps
out of pieces of wood to go up one trunk. Then, you would have a house like a boat,
almost floating on air, and the long, leafy branches stretching above like sails.

Dicey pushed her way through the long grasses to the steps leading to the porch. The
grass tickled her knees. Grasshoppers leaped aside to let her pass.

The steps were rotting away. The screen door hung from
broken hinges. The sun couldn’t penetrate the honeysuckle leaves, so the motionless
air on the porch was as dark as twilight.

Dicey knocked on the door. It was a wooden door, once painted white. A rusted nail
stuck out from its center, over Dicey’s head.

Nobody answered. She knocked again and listened. She heard faint noises, like some
night creature scurrying. But the noises did not come toward the door.

Somebody was in there, of that Dicey was sure. She knocked again, three loud raps.
No voice called out. Dicey turned the knob and pushed against the door. It was locked.

She went back across the porch and down the steps. She walked around to the side of
the house.

The side looked just like the front, except that it had no steps or door. There were
two windows on the second floor and four on the first, which were barely visible through
honeysuckle. The honeysuckle here had not grown as fast as that on the front of the
house. The porch, she noticed, continued around the back. The whole house was surrounded
by a broad porch.

All the second story windows had their shades down. Nobody could be seen inside, nor
any light. Dicey went on, around to the back.

She saw the woman the moment the woman saw her. The woman sat on the bottom of some
steps facing out, over more fields (only these had crops growing in them) and the
distant dull green of marsh grass. She wore a shapeless blouse over a long, shapeless
skirt. Her feet were bare.

Her dark eyes looked at Dicey angrily. Her skin was tanned. Her hair had been hacked
short, so its iron gray curls burst helter-skelter all over her narrow head.

Dicey stood where she was. She swallowed, twice. Her throat was suddenly dry.

“Mrs. Tillerman?” she finally asked. Her voice squeaked.

“You’re trespassing,” the woman said. She had a thin, stiff voice, not like Momma’s
at all.

“I thought I heard—when I knocked—I didn’t know if—” Dicey stepped forward. “The fact
is, I wonder if you would hire me to work for you.” She stood right in front of the
woman now. Her grandmother.

Her grandmother’s eyes seemed big for her face as she stared at Dicey. But maybe that
was just because her face was small, the skin stretched tight over its bones. Her
eyes, now that Dicey was closer, were not brown but dark hazel, browns and greens
without any yellow to give them sparkle. Fine lines sprayed out from around her eyes.

These were the eyes of the girl in Cousin Eunice’s photograph album. The rest of her
was all different, but the eyes were the same.

“The fact is you’re trespassing,” her grandmother said. “Who told you to come here?”

“Nobody. I heard you were alone—so I thought I’d try.”

“I don’t know you, do I?”

Dicey shook her head. “We’re new here.”

“Why aren’t you in school?”

“It’s summer.”

“Not for long.”

Her grandmother stood up. She walked up the steps and through the screen door, without
looking back. The back door stood open, and she went straight into a kitchen.

Dicey followed her.

Her grandmother opened a glass-fronted cupboard and pulled down a can of spaghetti.
She took a can opener out of a drawer and opened the can. A saucepan waited on the
stove. She opened another drawer, took out a big spoon and scooped
the stiff red and yellow contents of the can into the saucepan. With a match, she
lit a fire under the burner. She dropped the match into an ashtray and turned to take
a bowl out from the cupboard.

Dicey might just as well not have been there.

Her grandmother waited by the stove, stirring in the pan.

“I didn’t say come in,” she said.

“You never said if you want me to work,” Dicey answered.

Hazel eyes studied Dicey. Dicey studied the barefooted woman. Her feet were caked
with earthy dirt.

“How do I know you’re not going to rob me?” her grandmother said.

How could she know? Dicey thought. The people in the houses were in just as much danger
as the people outside the houses. “I’m not,” Dicey said. “It doesn’t look like you
have much to steal anyway.”

“You have family?”

“Yes,” Dicey said.

“Where do you live?”

“In town. I can work hard. Your barn needs painting, and the screens and the steps,
and the lawn. I could take off the honeysuckle.”

“I’m not too old to do that.”

“I can pick and weed.”

“So can I. So can anybody. You better get down a bowl, since you’ve invited yourself
for lunch.”

Dicey did as she was told.

They sat down at a long table, big enough for ten people. It was made of wood and
had been scrubbed to a pale, smooth finish. Dicey sat across from her grandmother.
She spooned the canned spaghetti into her mouth. After the first bite, she ate quickly,
trying to fill up her stomach without tasting anything.

“You like my spaghetti?” her grandmother asked.

“No,” Dicey said. “But I’m hungry. Do you like it?”

“It’s easy to fix. You know what I sometimes think?” Her grandmother looked straight
at her, her mouth chewing. “I sometimes think people might be good to eat. Cows and
chickens eat corn and grass and turn it into good meat. People eat cows and chickens.
In people, it might turn into something even better. Do you ever think that?”

Dicey shook her head.

“Especially babies,” her grandmother said. She swallowed thoughtfully. “Or children.
Do you have brothers and sisters?”

“Yes.”

“Who told you I was alone?”

“A lady in the grocery store.”

“Millie. She’s the butcher. Can you imagine that? A lady butcher.”

“Why not?” Dicey asked.

“I guess you might say so. Millie is one, and that’s a fact. Facts are facts. What
did she say about me?”

“Nothing much.”

“Did she tell you I was crazy?” Her grandmother wasn’t looking at her.

Dicey didn’t answer.

“Maybe I am. You know? When you die all the gases build up in your body for weeks,
like yeast in dough. And you swell and swell. Then, things start exploding. That’s
where the stink comes from. After that, you’re fresh as a daisy and the worms and
maggots have you. What do you think?”

Dicey put her spoon down. She was through eating.

Her grandmother’s mouth twisted. “What do you think about death? Don’t be smart with
me, girl.”

Dicey was puzzled.

“Or don’t you think?”

“I saw a tombstone.
Home is the hunter, home from the hill and the sailor home from the sea:
that was what it said. As if”—Dicey tried to explain her thoughts—“that was the quiet
place at the end of things.”

“It’s not quiet,” her grandmother said. “Not for the worms.”

“I wouldn’t care about that if I was dead,” Dicey said.

“Maybe I am crazy,” her grandmother said. “You know?”

Dicey was beginning to think she might be.

“Maybe not. Do you feel sorry for me?”

“Why should I?” Dicey asked.

“Old, alone, crazy—the farm falling down around me. My husband dead these four years
and more.”

“I’m sorry,” Dicey said.

“I’m not. I’m happy since he died.”

“Why?” Dicey asked.

“He kept wanting his shoes polished. He never did polish them himself. First thing
I did, I bought myself a washing machine. Do you play the piano?”

“No.”

“Too bad,” the woman said. “I’ve got one. Haven’t played it myself, I never had time.
My children did. They all died too, and that was a relief.”

Dicey stood up. She didn’t even feel bad. She didn’t feel anything, except maybe glad
she had come out here by herself.

“You’re going,” her grandmother said.

Dicey nodded.

“You didn’t offer to help with the dishes. No, don’t bother. I know what children
are like.”

“Okay,” Dicey said. It didn’t matter. She’d go back and get her family, and they’d
call Will.

“Don’t you want to know if I want you to work for me?” her
grandmother said. She was still sitting in her chair, but she had turned around to
watch Dicey leave. “Well, I don’t. I couldn’t pay you anyway.”

Dicey nodded and turned her back to the room.

The woman’s voice spoke from behind her: “I know who you are. You hear me? I know
who you are, and you can’t stay here.”

S
lowly, Dicey turned. She looked all around the room before she answered. She didn’t
know what she should say. Why should she say anything? She’d been told to go away.

Sunlight poured into the kitchen through the door and windows. (So, her grandmother
had kept the honeysuckle down on this side of the house.) It was a long bright plain
room, the kitchen. Everything in it looked old and scrubbed, like the top of the table.
Wooden counters, wooden cupboards, wooden chairs, wooden floor; only the refrigerator,
sink and stove were porcelain. A single light hung down over the table. It had a pale
yellow glass hood over it.

Her grandmother sat without moving, staring at Dicey.

“Then who am I?” Dicey asked.

“I knew the minute you knocked on the door. That’s why I came outside. A polite person
would have gone away.” Her grandmother waited to see what Dicey would say.

Dicey didn’t say anything.

“Oh, I know who you are; you’re the oldest one, I can’t remember your name. There’s
a foolish letter here, somewhere. It has all your names in it.”

This wasn’t good enough. “You don’t know who I am,” Dicey said.

“You’re Liza’s daughter. Some ungodly name she gave you, her and that Francis. I liked
him, I did.”

“Who’s the letter from?” Dicey asked.

“Connecticut,” her grandmother answered. “Where are the rest of you? One’s retarded,
the letter said. Maudlin, simpering fool. Can’t blame her though. Her mother simpered,
simpered and looked in mirrors, all her life. She’s dead now. My sister Cilla—she’s
dead too. Is she retarded?”

“No,” Dicey said. “Not that it concerns you.”

“You’re right. It doesn’t concern me one whit. Did you ditch them somewhere?”

Dicey could follow her grandmother’s thoughts easily now, now that she knew what the
woman was talking about.

“They’re waiting for me in town. We’ve got a place to go.”

“Back to that one?”

“Maybe,” Dicey said. She was angry now. This—grandmother. Dicey wouldn’t give two
pins to satisfy her curiosity. If this grandmother had known all along.

“A polite person wouldn’t have pretended not to know me,” Dicey said.

“Never said I had good manners. Never had any manners to say anything about.” Her
grandmother seemed pleased.

“My name’s Dicey,” Dicey said.

“That’s right,” her grandmother said. “I remember now. It was in the letter. I’m not
crazy.”

“I know,” Dicey said. “I’m going now.”

“Suit yourself. Where you all sleeping?”

“We’re moving on. We don’t need a place to stay.”

“Don’t you lie to me, girl. If you didn’t need a place to sleep you wouldn’t have
traipsed out here this morning. You wouldn’t have come around back to find me. You
wouldn’t have asked Millie—did you tell her who you were?”

“No,” Dicey said. Her anger flamed up again. “No, why should I? We can’t stay here,
you said so. So there’s no point
in hanging around. I’ve got my family to get back to.”

“I said sleep. There’s no reason not to sleep here, is there?”

“Yes,” Dicey said. “I think there is.” Why should James and Maybeth and Sammy have
to be disappointed.

“I’m family too,” her grandmother said. She took the bowls from the table and walked
over to the sink. “And I can hear what you’re thinking, girl.”

Dicey hoped she couldn’t.

“So you’ll sleep here. All of you. Because you have no place else to go.”

“We do too,” Dicey said.

“Then why did you come here? Can you answer me that?”

Dicey’s lips were tight. Her grandmother’s lips were tight. They glared at one another
across the kitchen. Neither one of them faltered.

Then her grandmother’s lips twitched and spilled out laughter. She cut the laughter
off quickly, dried her hands on her skirt and said to Dicey: “Two of a kind we are.
Poor Liza. Two of a kind.”

It was the laughter that undid Dicey. How could you be angry at someone who was laughing.
“Okay,” she said. “But—”

“But what? Be nice to them? Nicer than I was to you?”

“Yeah,” Dicey said.

“I’m not promising anything,” her grandmother said. “Let’s get going.”

She led the way out to the back. Dicey turned toward the dilapidated barn, where the
truck must be. But her grandmother headed straight off to the fields. Her feet must
have leather soles, Dicey thought as they crossed through the vegetable gardens on
a dirt path.

“I don’t have a car,” her grandmother said over her shoulder. She moved like a young
woman, long, strong strides, her arms
hanging easy at her sides. “Not since he died. I always hated them. I never learned
to drive.”

The path crossed between two long, well-kept fields (mostly tomatoes and corn, but
other crops too, squashes and beans) and entered the marsh grass. Dicey followed her
grandmother. However bad the rest of the farm, the barn and the house looked, her
grandmother had worked on these fields. A steady wind blew, causing the grasses to
bow and whisper among themselves.