Red Ruby Heart in a Cold Blue Sea (9781101559833) (8 page)

13

L
ess than a week after President Kennedy was killed, Thanksgiving came and almost went without a peep. Daddy, Grand, and I went to Bert and Madeline's house for turkey that tasted like sawdust and stuffing I couldn't even look at. Grand's mincemeat pie filling turned sour in my mouth and I swallowed it down with milk gone to chalk. Madeline and Grand talked over dates for the upcoming annual Point wreath-making day. This was a day when all The Point women, including little Evie and Maureen, got together at Grand's house with wire and Christmas whatnots and doodads to make wreaths to sell at the craft fairs in Long Reach, or to ship out of state to some of the summer folks wanting a piece of Maine for Christmas. Sam, Bert, Daddy, Glen, and Bud got permission from the park manager every year to go into the State Park and tip fir and spruce trees for the wreaths. It was usually a fun day, but as they talked about it, I slumped further and further down in my chair in the corner of the overcrowded table, already tired and sad thinking about having to go through it without Carlie.

Lucky for me, on wreath-making day, I had a combination fever and cold that was making its way through school. Dottie got it, too, and the two of us sat in her living room, hacking and sniffling and watching Saturday afternoon bowling, one of Dottie's favorites. Maine's woman bowling champion, Barbara Raymond, was knocking down the big pins like they were feathers. Dottie was a Barb Raymond fan.

“I can't wait to go to junior high,” Dottie said at one point. “They got bowling teams and I'm going to get onto one.” I nodded off on the couch during one of Barb's strikes and slept that day away.

If I could have, I would have slept Christmas away, too, but Grand told me that I had to make the best of it. So, I came up with some ideas for presents, and we worked on them as the days crept closer.

Carlie had been the heart and soul of Christmas. She loved the music, she loved the presents, she loved the season. I was too old, now, to make a list to send to Santa Claus, much less believe in him, but that year, I took a piece of paper out of the little lift-up-top desk in the corner of my room and wrote,
Dear Santa, Please send my mother home. I will never be bad again. I promise. I mean it. Thank you, Florine.
I put it into an envelope, addressed it to the North Pole, and put it back in the desk. Then I waited for the day to arrive, so we could get it over with.

On Christmas morning, my stocking fell off my bed with a clink. I let it lie on the floor and stared at the ceiling knowing that Daddy had filled it and put it there. A newspaper rustled in the kitchen and he cleared his throat. I got dressed, picked up my stocking, joined him and said, “Let's go to Grand's.”

Daddy had said that we should have our special times, but he was quick to agree that we should walk across the road, so we gathered up our gifts and walked to Grand's house against a frigid wind and pellets of snippy snow swirling up from the water.

We reached Grand's house and stomped our boots as we went inside. Grand didn't seem surprised to see us so early. I arranged the presents just so under Grand's tree, and then we opened them. For Daddy and me, Madeline had painted and framed a watercolor of the harbor near sunset that showed the
Carlie Flo
at her mooring. Ida had quilted me a blue wall hanging with colorful butterflies stitched onto it. Dottie wrapped up two thick
Archie
comic books in old Sunday funny papers. Grand knitted me a thick warm sweater out of soft light green yarn. And Daddy had somehow found time to buy me a stack of Nancy Drew
mysteries. With Grand's help, I had knitted Daddy a sky-blue scarf and a matching watch cap that made his eyes shine. With Madeline's help, I had painted a wavy watercolor picture of Grand's summer garden.

I could have sworn that Carlie sat cross-legged beside me, breathing down my neck as I opened my presents. I swallowed my tears and made as much noise as I could when I opened them. I was relieved when all of our gifts had been unwrapped and it was over. Grand made the three of us hold hands during grace. It was the most comforting part of the day, clinging to Daddy's dry, scarred hand on one side of me, and Grand's soft old hand on the other. Both of them squeezed my hands at different times during the prayer, and I held them tight. Then the three of us ate a quiet dinner.

Later, Daddy and I plowed home with our presents through about three inches of snow, chuffing out air as sharp as hard cider. That night when I went to bed, I reached into my desk, took out the letter I'd written to Santa, and ripped it into little pieces. “Bastard,” I said. I slept with no dreams that night, and that might have been my best present since Carlie's disappearance.

I was eating breakfast the next morning as Daddy bundled up and got ready to go out and shovel. He looked out of the kitchen window, then jumped back and said, “Oh Jesus. What does she want?”

“Who? What's the matter?” I asked.

“Hide me,” he said. He headed for the door that led to the cold upstairs. We'd never heated those two rooms. They'd always served as an attic for our junk, including items left behind by Hattie Butts, who'd lived there before us, moved to Florida, and died there.

“Tell her I'm not here,” he said, and shut the door behind him.

I looked out the kitchen window and saw Stella Drowns wading through the snow. “What the hell
is
she doing here?” I thought. I sat back down to wait for her. She saw me through the window in the kitchen door when she knocked and she waved a red-gloved hand as if we were friends. I just stared at her. When she called through the glass, “Good morning, Florine,” hot air from her mouth clouded the glass and hid her face. She wiped it away and smiled at me as I walked, heel to toe, to open the door.

“Morning,” she said, cold air clouding her black hair. Her cheeks, except for the scar, were rosy and her gray eyes were light, like the snow-filled sky. “Was Christmas okay?”

I snorted. “What do you think?” I said.

Stella hesitated for a few seconds, and then said, “I made a coffee cake for you both.”

“We ate,” I said.

“Is your father home?” she asked me.

“Yes,” I said. “But he saw you coming and told me to say that he wasn't here.”

Stella cocked her head like a confused puppy. “What do you mean?”

I was about to repeat it louder when Daddy came downstairs and joined us at the door. He stuck his hands in his pockets and gave me a foolish look.

“Morning Stella,” he said. “Come in out of the cold.”

“Oh, thank you,” she said. “Florine said you told her to tell me you weren't here.”

“Well, that's what you said to say,” I said. Daddy gave me a look and Stella laughed.

She and Daddy sat at the kitchen table and had coffee and cake. She asked if I wanted some. It smelled wonderful, but I refused. Instead, I watched television and waited for her to leave.

If I'd been thinking, I would have planted myself at that table. I might have read some words between the words. But I wasn't thinking, so I didn't catch Daddy's slow thaw.

14

N
ew Year's Eve parties at the Buttses' house were tradition. We kids ate sweets till we got sick, while the adults boozed it up, smoked, played cards, and did it all louder as the night went on. Last year, we'd counted down outside the house, looking into the sky at the stars, Carlie holding up Daddy as he swayed. Her fruity wine breath tickled my nose as I cuddled into the curve of her waist. On the way home, Daddy fell down in the snow. He tripped up Carlie, who fell down in front of him. When she tried to get up, he grabbed her ankle and held on. He pulled me down, too, and Carlie and I wet our pants laughing before we managed to struggle up and lug him, between us, into the house.

That had been only last year. This year, Daddy said he thought we'd stay home.

“I thought it might be a good idea to do something a little quieter this year. So, we're having company over,” Daddy said. “Stella offered to cook us a nice supper.”

He might as well have said, “The devil's coming over to burn holes in your ass with a hot iron poker.”

When he saw my look, he said, “Now, Florine, stop with the faces. You can have supper with us, then you can go to Dottie's house.”

“I thought you didn't want to see her,” I said. “You tried to hide from her.”

“That wasn't very nice of me,” Daddy said.

“What would Carlie think?”

“This has nothing to do with your mother. It's just supper with Stella. Be nice to talk to a friend, Florine. Be like talking to Dottie for you.”

“That's bullshit, Daddy,” I said.

“Where in hell did you get that mouth?” he asked. “That's enough of that.”

“I don't like her. She didn't like Carlie.”

“Well, she feels bad about it,” Daddy said. “She's a friend and she's good company.”

“So's a dog, and it'd be better looking,” I said. His jaw dropped, and then he slapped me across the face.

He'd never hit me before. We looked at each other like we'd suddenly been separated by a high barbed-wire fence. I stormed off and I slammed my bedroom door. I threw my books, one by one, at the wall, swiped all of the things on my bureau onto my floor and ripped the bedding off the bed and tossed it around. Then I flopped onto the mattress facedown, and screamed into my pillow until I was hoarse. I didn't hear Daddy come in until he said, “Grow up, Florine. You can start by picking up this mess.”

“I want my mother,” I said into my pillow.

Daddy said, his tone softer, “I want her too, but she isn't here. Pick up your room, now. Stella will be by in a couple of hours and we got to get this place tidy.”

This battle was lost, and I knew it. I put everything back, then swept the floors while Daddy shoveled the walk and put down sand so our honored jeezly guest wouldn't slip.

She was due at five, and when the sweeper hand kissed the second hand on the twelve, she was at the door like her first day to a new job.

Daddy took a deep breath. “Jesus, what am I doing?” he muttered.

“Tell me and we'll both know,” I said.

He opened the door and Stella stepped in holding an orange dish between two brown pot holders. She and Daddy did a dance where she put down the casserole and went to take her coat off, then he tried to help her, and she put it back on so he could help her, and they laughed. Daddy finally hung her coat on the rack near the door.

Stella wore a red dress with a wide belt around her tiny waist. She'd squeezed every ounce of her thin nothing into a curvy something. I was certain it wasn't for my benefit.

“How you doing, Florine?” she asked.

“Fine, thank you,” I said.

“Glad you could come,” Daddy said.

“Isn't the weather lovely?” I said. Daddy shot me a look.

Stella said, “Well, it's better than nothing, as poor my father used to say.”

“Florine, why don't you set the table,” Daddy said.

As I did that, Stella put her casserole dish onto a black trivet she'd brought that read, “No matter where I serve my guests, it seems they like my kitchen best.” We all sat down and Stella said a short grace, no holding hands thanks be to Jesus, then served us up something with ham, cream sauce, and potatoes. I wish I could say it was awful, but it was one of the best things I'd ever eaten. Flavors popped up like spicy surprises throughout my mouth. I wanted seconds, but I was damned if I'd ask for them. Daddy, on the other hand, kept saying, “This is so good,” over and over again. I caught the satisfied glitter in Stella's eyes as she watched him eat. She had him, at least for this meal. I drank my milk down in a couple of good swallows so that I could be excused.

“I'm glad to see a girl drink her milk,” Stella said to me. “You're growing, and you need your calcium. Makes strong bones and teeth.”

“Thank you for pointing that out,” I said. “May I please be excused, Daddy?”

Daddy raised his head from his plate, nodded, and then went back to the food.

I went into my bedroom and rolled up some pajamas and grabbed my toothbrush from the bathroom. While I did this, Stella talked until the air was thick with words. Words about people who came in the store, people she and Daddy had in common, people in church, and on and on. Daddy made sounds once and a while, but it seemed clear that his job was to gobble down everything except Carlie's good tablecloth. Carlie and I had found that tablecloth one day at a yard sale and brought it home. It was fine white cotton with whiter cotton flowers embroidered on top of it. A little rip in a corner was all that was wrong with it. Stella wasn't noticing how pretty the tablecloth was, though. She sat with her elbows on the table eyeing Daddy as if he was the bird to her cat.

“I'm going to Dottie's,” I said on my way out.

“Okay,” Daddy said.

“Happy New Year,” Stella called as I went out the door.

“Happy New Year your ass,” I muttered, and slammed the door, just a little.

“She's after him, bad,” I said to Dottie. “She laughs at anything he says. It's this jackass hee-haw that she lets out and reels back in again.”

“They got a name for that hee-haw noise,” Dottie said.

“Bray,” I said. “She brays. She prays, too. Says grace.”

“That's just god-awful,” Bud said. “Thanking the Lord before a meal. Bitch should be shot and skinned.”

I smacked his arm.

Dottie and Bud and I were playing gin rummy in Dottie's kitchen. Bud was winning. Or he thought he was winning. I was just about to show him what was what. Carlie and I had played gin rummy for hours on rainy days. She always won, but I had gotten close to beating her a couple of times, which meant I was good, and I was about to prove it.

“Gin,” I said to Dottie and Bud. It was a big win—both of them lost points. Dottie had been trailing anyway, and now she was way back. Bud and I were about equal points, now, although I won the next four hands. I could have played all night, but finally, Dottie had enough. “I'm done. Let's go, Florine.”

“Night,” I said to Bud, and followed Dottie into the hellhole she called her bedroom. A row of dolls her mother had bought her, hoping in vain that she might somehow learn to love them, lined a shelf on one side of her room. I thought about the dolls that Robin had shown me. She had named each one; each one was precious to her. But not to Dottie. The lonely dolls were the only neat thing in Dottie's room because Madeline dusted them from time to time. The rest of the room was a pig pile of clothes and junk that I hoped wouldn't somehow come to life and attack me. The bed was made—Madeline had seen to that, seeing as how I'd be staying—and I pulled on my pajamas and jumped in before Dottie.

As Dottie and I settled side-by-side in her big bed, I listened to the adults partying in the living room and thought about other voices, other years, when Daddy's surprising guffaw and Carlie's girlish giggle had been part of the mix. I wondered if Daddy was missing her as much as I was missing her right now. Then I thought of Stella and her goddamn ham dish and her cinched-in, tiny waist.

“I hate Stella,” I said.

“Isn't worth it,” Dottie said, and yawned.

“Well, how would you like it if your mother's worst enemy came by and made eyes at Bert and acted all nicey-nice when you knew she was a witch?”

This woke Dottie up a little bit. “Hah!” she said. “That's funny. You really think someone would come by and make up to Bert?” It's true that Bert wasn't much of a looker. His ears stuck out so far he looked like a taxicab coming with the doors open.

My heart drooped. “I miss Carlie so much,” I said.

“Wish I could tell you something to make you feel better,” Dottie said, and then she fell asleep. I leaned my head against her warm flanneled back as the adults shouted, “Happy New Year!”

“Happy New Year, Carlie,” I whispered to the night.

I wasn't anywhere near tired, so I decided to go and sit out of the way in a corner and listen to the adults. I got up, pulled my clothes back on, and went out into the living room. When I showed up, they stopped talking and looked at me as if they might burn in hell for laughing in my presence.

“You okay, honey?” Madeline said.

I nodded. “Dottie's snoring.” Everyone laughed.

Bert shook his head. “She was snoring when she was born.”

“How would you know? You wasn't there,” Madeline said.

“I heard her from the waiting room,” Bert said, and everyone laughed again and forgot about me. Madeline went back to talking to Ida while Bert, Ray, and Sam Warner got up and went into the kitchen for a gab and another beer.

Then I noticed Bud, sitting in an overstuffed chair in a corner, taking it all in with his curious dark eyes, a small smile on his lips.

He got up, brushed by me, and said, “Let's blow this popsicle stand.” I followed him into Madeline's studio, where the paints and brushes sat quiet and sober. Bud sat down on Madeline's painting chair backwards, his long, thin legs sticking out like pipe cleaners bent just so. I fell into the cushions on an old, soft couch sitting against the wall, opposite Bud.

“Wonder how Glen's making out,” I said. His mother had made him dress up and join her in Long Reach for a New Year's Eve variety show at the Opera House.

“Wasn't too pleased to go,” Bud said.

“'Spose Germaine had to threaten him to get him into a suit?”

“Probably paid him to do it.”

I thought about Germaine, who looked like a quick and angry monkey. I pictured Ray and Germaine making Glen and the picture made me cover my mouth.

“What?” Bud said.

“Nothing.” We went quiet. I pictured Daddy and Carlie making me. It made more sense to me as my head clicked through the times I'd seen them dancing, touching, kissing, fighting, laughing, and making up. I disappeared into thinking about that, I guess, because Bud suddenly said, “You doing okay?”

“I'm okay,” I said, too quick.
Love me tender
 . . . her feet on his shoes.
Love me sweet
 . . . his hand on her hip. Me sandwiched between them.

“Must be hard,” Bud said.

His eyes were soft and serious, and they opened me up, somehow. “It's all I can do not to scream, sometimes,” I said. “I don't want to talk to Daddy about it because he's so messed up. I don't want to keep crying to Grand, she's heard me enough. Dottie doesn't know what to say. Most of the time, I don't know what to say. It fills my head, all the time. And I miss her. I miss her so much, Bud.”

By the second “miss her” he was by my side with his arm wrapped around me. I rested my head on his shoulder until I was cried out. We sat like that until we heard footsteps and he claimed his arm again. Madeline wandered into her studio.

“Well hi,” she said, her voice pitched high and low and everywhere in between. “I thought you'd left, Bud, and you'd gone to bed, Florine.”

“I'm on my way home,” Bud said. “We was just talking.”

I don't know how Madeline could have thought that, seeing as how I couldn't see because my eyes were swollen to the size of ping-pong balls, but she didn't say anything, just swooped in and wrapped Bud in a big hug.

“Happy New Year,” she said, and gave him a big smack on his cheek. “You get some good rest now, Buddy.” And he left, then I got up and she shawled me up in a soft hug and led me back to Dottie's bedroom. I counted her snores instead of sheep.