Kathryn Magendie (10 page)

“Sweetie’s my name.”

“No, I mean the name your parents gave you, not your nickname.” Mother spoke through her Barbie Doll smile.

“Just Sweetie.” She threw back her shoulders even more.

Mother patted her hair, let down to her shoulders (I thought she looked pretty with it down like that instead of pulled up tight). “What about the one your father gave to you when you were born.”

“Nope, just Sweetie.”

“Well, then, everyone has a birth last name,” Mother said. “Ours is Russo, the next door neighbor’s is Tanner.”

“Mother, when’s your d-d-delectable food g-going to be ready?”

She tore her attention from Sweetie. “Brunch will be ready in fifteen minutes. Go wash up.”

I swallowed, breathed in and out. “Yes, Ma’am.”

I was almost out of the kitchen when she said, “And where are your shoes, young lady? Is this some kind of statement?”

“They’re on the back steps.”

“Since when do we sit at the table without shoes?”

Sweetie rolled up on her toes. “My boots was muddy from walking here. Lissa said I could leave them off so’s not to track dirt in your nice house. She done the same to be polite, like you been teaching her to be.”

Mother’s cheeks turned pink. “Well, I suppose it won’t hurt this once.”

“That’s what my mama always says.” Sweetie showed her teeth, like a dog baring its fangs in first warning.

“I hope to meet your mother one day soon.”

“Mama’s got bad headaches most days here lately.”

“Oh, well, perhaps another time?”

Sweetie turned to me. “Show me that room you’re always carrying on over.” And she led the way out of the kitchen.

I shouldn’t have made her come. Sweetie’s face was wound so tight, I was afraid she’d run away before brunch was served. We went into my room and she stood like a rooted tree in the middle, moving nothing but her eyeballs from one side to the next.

I said, with more hope than I wanted her to think I felt, “Do you like it?”

She relaxed her shoulders, smiled, nodded her head, and walked around my room, touching things as gently as a butterfly lighting on them. She stood in front of the two pictures I’d painted while at Grandmother Rosetta’s, and touched each of them with only the pad of her finger. She next studied the one I had been working on that morning. She asked in an almost whisper, “You done these?”

“Yeah, my grandmother showed me how. They’re oils, painted with real boar brushes,” I said. “They’re not so good. Mother says I should take piano or violin or something.”

She turned to me with wide eyes full of what looked like wonder. “Well, I say you done them
real
good.
My
mama would say you got a calling that don’t touch many folks.” She turned back to the painting, and with the fingers of her right hand, without touching, she pretended to pet the dark horse running away from a burning barn.

“I like to copy my grandmother. She paints scenes like that, those burning barns.” I wanted more than anything for Sweetie to be proud of me. “She’s real good at it and I want to be as good as her.”

“I never seen nothing like that, Lissa. They’s the most beautiful things I ever ever seen.”

I turned before she could see tears building. I blinked fast and looked up to the ceiling. When the tears sucked back in, I went to my chest of drawers, took out the diary, and turned to her. “When we leave after brunch, I want you to take this home with you.”

“What do I do with it?”

“You write stuff in it, like secrets, or stories, or whatever you like.”

She took it, placed her open palm across the cover.

“I want it to be both of ours. You can write in it and I’ll write in it.”

“What about?”

“About our adventures, that’s what I’ve been writing about. Open it and see.”

She opened it to a page. “Says right here how we found the turtle bones in the shell that day.”

“Yeah. It helps you to remember things a long time from now.”

“I remember ever-thing all the time. I never ever forget a thing. Mama said she’s never seen anything like it. I remember being borned.”

I decided to let that one go, about remembering being born. “It isn’t just to remember, it also helps to sort yourself out, I guess. You know, get things out of your brain to make room for other things.”

 
“Huh. Well I’ll be.”

“If you don’t want to, you don’t have to.”

She opened it to another page, and read, “‘Today, Sweetie gave me a hawk feather and I will keep it forever and ever.’” She looked up at me, grinned.

“Let’s put it outside so we can get it later.” I took it from her, put it in a paper lunch bag, folded a tight square around the diary, then tossed it on the ground under the window. “There, now, let’s don’t forget it.”

“I told you, I don’t forget
nothing
. Grandpaw said I got a calling for that,” she paused, then, “and other things.”

Mother called us to eat before I could ask what other things, and we left my room. Mother had already changed into her long, silky morning dress and piled her hair on top of her head. Father was at his place waiting. Just as I knew it would be, the table was set with the good china and the silverware shone so I could see my nervous face in it. The food looked good and normal for a change.

Mother said, “Have a seat, you two.” She sat close to Father.

Sweetie and I sat next to each other across from Mother.

I put two crepes on my plate, a big pile of potatoes, and extra butter on my scone. The butter was whipped together with cream, so I had to dip it out with a spoon.

I was about to dig in when Mother asked, “Don’t you think that’s too much food, Melissa? Look at how your thin friend there eats, like a bird.”

The food on my plate grew bigger and bigger. My thighs and stomach exploded right there on the spot. My hips and behind spilled over my chair and puddled on the floor.

Father said, “Leave her alone. It’s genetics. She’ll get over it, like I did. Look at me now—fit as a fiddle, handsome and strong and virile.”

Mother sighed as she put a few bites of food on her plate. “It’s different for a woman, a girl. I was a chubby child and I’m always fighting my weight. I just don’t want her to have to go through what I did.”

I’d never heard her say something like that about herself, but it didn’t help; it made it worse. I thought I’d go ahead and let myself slip under the table and stay there in a big fat lump while my parents said things to embarrass me.

Then Sweetie began piling more food on her plate, as if she meant to do it all along. She put two more heaping spoonfuls of potatoes on top of the small pile already there, along with another crepe, and an extra scone that she floated in the liquidy butter. She asked my mother, “Got any kat-chup?”

Mother sniffed, stood up, and took the bottle from the refrigerator. “Here is your condiment. I would have put it here earlier, but we usually do not eat Ket-sup with our brunch.”

Sweetie smiled, said, “Well, that
is
inneresting.” When she finished pouring ketchup over her potatoes, she leaned over and snuffled the food like a dog, stuck out her tongue, licked, then made a growling noise and bit into the ketchup-covered potatoes.

I watched her with my mouth slung open. I heard Father clear his throat in that way he does when he wants to laugh but isn’t sure about things or what was really going on. Mother breathed as she does when she’s flabbergasted. I couldn’t look at her or else I knew I’d laugh and then there’d really be trouble.

Sweetie lifted her head, ketchup and potato hanging from her chin. “This here food’s so good, I’d feed it to my dog even. That’s why I pretended I was Freckles. Just got away from myself.” She then leaned back in her seat and said to Mother, “Thought I’d just be silly for a spell to ease things up.” She wiped her face with her napkin as dainty as a Queen, put the napkin in her lap, then began to eat with such perfect manners that even Mother would be proud to show her off at her ladies’ club.

I chanced a look at Mother across the table. She had her fork halfway between her mouth and her plate, staring at Sweetie. When she saw me looking at her, she gave me a
look
, and then brought the fork to her mouth.

 
Father shoveled food into his mouth as if it was the last he’d get. He swallowed a mouthful, said, “Did you know the white squiggle in the egg is called chalazae. It supports the yolk, in the center of the albumen . . . ”

“I’ve told you. I don’t want to hear those kinds of things about my food while I’m trying to eat it,” Mother said.

He kept on talking about chickens and eggs that didn’t have words like
fry or butter or scramble or yum this is good thank you
for preparing it
and instead words that had roosters and fertilizing and experimental injections and other disgusting things about chickens and roosters and eggs, on he went,
blah blah diddly doo
scientific boodily blah
and
—

“I never heard such talk at the table ever in my whole life.” Sweetie looked at Father, innocent surprise all over her face.

Not only had Father stopped talking in the middle of his sentence but his face turned red as the Ket-Sup. He cleared his throat, said, “Pardon me; I was carried away, too.” Then he went back to eating.

Mother actually had a tiny smile lift the corner of her mouth before she caught herself and stopped the smile from coming.

I grabbed the ketchup and poured it over my potatoes. With Sweetie there, it was as if no one could do or say anything to make me feel awful. I ate every bite of my food and had seconds when Sweetie herself asked, “Please can I have some more of them fine tasty taters?” And Mother said “Of course,” and gave us both more potatoes without even asking if I wanted any, or worse, telling me I shouldn’t have any more.

After we finished eating, Sweetie and I escaped outside. I didn’t even say, “May I be excused?” or offer to clean up. It was heaven.

We ran to get the diary, and took off for the mountain, laughing all the way.

I asked Sweetie, “Hey, what happened to Freckles?”

“I made that dog up out the air. Never been no Freckles.”

“I’m writing all about today in the diary.” I skipped along, feeling free and happy.

Sweetie cut between two houses, and pointed to the woods. “Let’s go that way.”

“But it’s longer.”

Sweetie acted as if she didn’t hear and ran towards the woods.

When we were on an old log trail, I said, “I’m sorry my mother asked all those questions about your name and all.”

She shrugged. “Ever year at school I get questions from the teacher and the principal.”

“Can’t I ask questions since I’m your best friend?”

“Huh. You asking if you can for a change?”

“Well, yeah.”

“And up to me if I give you a answer?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

A bluejay shrieked at us, and Sweetie mimicked it.

“And if I had anything to tell, I’d tell you.” As if I had anything good to tell.

“Okay. Even Steven, right?”