River's Edge (13 page)

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Authors: Marie Bostwick

BOOK: River's Edge
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Now it was Hark's turn to be frightened. Hark was a big boy, but next to Papa's towering six foot three, he seemed small. Papa had a tight grip on the boy's shoulders by now and shook him hard with every question. Hark tried to open his mouth to answer, but each time he tried, Papa shook him again and Hark just flopped back and forth with his mouth gaping and closing stupidly. Finally, Papa gave him one final shake, let go his grip on Hark's shoulder, and pushed him away.
“Go home, John,” Papa spoke through a set jaw with a quiet intensity that was more menacing than his shouting had been. “Go home and stay there. I don't ever want to see you near any of my children, ever again. Do you hear me? Never again.”
Hark mumbled something and backed a few steps away from Papa, who was still breathing hard. With his eyes still on Papa, he reached down to pick up the satchel of books he'd dropped on the ground, then turned around and ran east across the field in the direction of his own farm.
Papa stood with his arms down by his sides but his fists clenched and watched the boy go before speaking to me and to Curt. “Are you all right? Did he hurt you?” He turned his eyes on each of us in turn.
“No,” I answered. “He pushed Curt and twisted my arm, but we're all right now.”
“You're sure?” he questioned again. Curt and I nodded. Seeing that we meant it, he took a deep breath, and I could see his hands relax and his fists open a bit. “Good,” he said. “That's all that matters.”
Cookie, who had not said a word or moved a muscle since her arrival on the scene, suddenly exploded with excitement. “Papa! I thought you were going to kill him! I never even knew you knew how to fight! And I never heard you swear!” she exclaimed.
Papa rubbed his eye with his hand. He looked suddenly tired. “Well, I don't think you need to be quite so pleased. I'm sure it's nothing to be proud of.”
“Yeah, but Papa! I just never saw you like that before!” Cookie continued in amazement. “You were like Tom Mix, riding in to rescue the women and children from a band of evil outlaws!”
Papa chuckled and turned to me. “Elise was the real hero of the day. That was quite a punch you threw. I think you may have broken his nose!”
“Elise broke his nose?” Cookie squeaked with surprise. “She punched him? I don't believe it!”
“She did, indeed,” Papa replied, and Cookie laughed aloud at his confirmation. “I saw her do it. That's why I started running so fast to get over here. I figured if I didn't pull her off, she might kill the boy.”
Cookie grinned. “I guess the properly brought up German young lady is turning into a real American girl.” Papa smiled at me, and Cookie was obviously delighted, but I found the situation somewhat embarrassing.
“You don't really think I broke his nose, do you?” I asked, hoping that it wasn't true. “I didn't mean to hit him. He pushed Curt and then ... I don't know what happened to me. I wasn't thinking. I was just so mad.”
“It's all right,” Papa said. “You were protecting someone you care about, and that was the right thing to do. But it's a bit frightening to realize how easily our protective instincts can get out of hand, isn't it?” I nodded in agreement.
“Yeah, Papa!” Cookie exclaimed in admiration. “For a second I thought you were going to kill him!”
“For a second I probably could have. I should have shown more control.” Papa's face darkened.
I took his hand, squeezed it, and smiled up at him. “I'm glad you came when you did. But how did you know we needed you?”
“Cookie came home with red eyes and ran up to her room. Curt wasn't with her, and neither were you. It was getting late, and I was worried. Then Cookie came downstairs and told us the whole story. We decided we'd better come look for you.”
“Papa, can we go home now?” Curt asked. “I'm starving!”
“Good idea!” Papa said. “Mama has some beef stew simmering on the stove. She even baked a pie in honor of the fact that we have the two best spellers in Brightfield in our family!”
“Is Elise a member of our family now?” Curt asked Papa eagerly, but it was Cookie who answered his question.
“Of course she is. Any girl who can land a punch like that is obviously a Muller!” Cookie and I exchanged grins.
Papa reached down and picked up the heavy dictionary from where it had fallen in the dirt. Then he invited Curt to climb up for a piggyback ride, and when he was securely on board with his arms wrapped tight around Papa's neck, Papa turned to Cookie and myself. “Come on, you two. Let's race to see who can get home fastest. Boys against girls. Ready, Curt?”
“Ready, Papa!” Curt answered, and we all took off at a clumsy lope through the uneven fields.
As we came closer to the house, Papa pretended to stumble, so we all arrived at the same time. The race was declared a tie. Mama opened the door to greet us. A wonderful aroma spilled out into the open air, a rich mixture of simmering meat, newly baked bread, and welcome. It smelled like belonging.
The last time I'd smelled that smell was when my mother was alive, when she'd still been well enough to smile and tell me what she liked to have me play and to remind me to keep the tempo even.
On Alexander Platz, the aroma of belonging was lavender, menthol, and strong tea. In Brightfield, the recipe was different, but the result was the same. I breathed in deeply, and a peace settled in and around my heart, the same way it did when I stood on the hillocks just above the river. At those times I simply knew there was no place else I needed to be, and I was able to rest and breathe easier, not waiting for anything else to happen.
 
That night someone accidentally left the light on and the door open in the garden shed. The glow from the bare bulb pushed out onto the grass and drove a wedge of illumination into the black night sky, dividing dark from light.
In the silent bedroom, I lay warm and safe under the comfortable weight of sheets and blankets. Outside the wind was blowing, carrying the blossoms off the ornamental plum tree that grew near our bedroom. The tiny flowers drifted lazily through the night like snowflakes, taking their time, as if they knew this was their singular dance, their moment of glory, and that once they hit the ground they would become just another bit of fluff in a carpet of flowers, destined to be trod on by careless feet.
“Elise? Elise, are you asleep?” Cookie whispered in the darkness.
“No. I'm watching the plum blossoms fall.”
“Elise, I ... I forgot to tell you something. Congratulations on winning the spelling bee. You deserved to win.”
I rolled over so it would be easier to see her, but in the darkness it was difficult to make out her features. Probably that was best. Something about the anonymity of a dark room makes it easier to speak the truth, as though your thoughts are detached from your body and actions and all the troubles they have caused you in the past.
“Cookie, we both deserved to win. Betsy Semple probably deserved it too, but today I was lucky. The words I was asked happened to be words I had studied. I was so relieved I didn't have to spell
pellucid
after Betsy missed it! I didn't even know what it meant, let alone how to spell it!”
“Really? You're not just saying that to make me feel better?”
“No. It's the truth.”
“Elise, there's something else.” Cookie paused for a moment before going on, as though trying to compose her words carefully. “Ever since that day when we were playing baseball, I haven't been very nice to you. I'm sorry.”
“Well, I'm sorry, too. I shouldn't have made the spelling bee into such a big contest between us. I'm too competitive.”
“Me too. And I was so mean to you about doing things around the house! You just seemed so smart and pretty. You can play the piano and everything.... I just felt like I had to be best at something, even if it was something as silly as spelling. You may be too competitive, but I'm much worse!”
“No! I am!” I was smiling, but in the darkness Cookie couldn't see me and only heard my insistent whisper. “I am much, much worse than you could ever think of being! I am the most competitive, and that is that!”
Cookie was silent for a moment, thinking. Then she said flatly, “That's a joke. Isn't it?”
I burst out laughing, and Cookie joined in. After so many months of tension between us, it was wonderful to let it all out. We couldn't stop ourselves. We giggled uncontrollably. After a while I heard footsteps on the stairs. Mama tapped on our door, telling us to settle down so we wouldn't wake up the boys, but she didn't sound annoyed; she sounded relieved.
We pulled the blankets up over our noses to muffle our giggles, but it wasn't easy. I finally had to close my eyes and breathe deeply to calm myself down. After a few minutes Cookie said, “Do you know something? That is the first time I've ever heard you make a joke. In fact, it's the first time I've heard you really laugh.”
“Hmmm. You're probably right. I don't laugh very much. I should do it more often. It feels good.”
Cookie shifted under the covers, as though she were getting ready to sleep, but I could feel her hesitation in the moment of silence that followed, as she considered the boundaries of our newfound intimacy and whether our shared laughter gave her the right to ask questions. I wondered the same thing. How far would I let her come into the hidden places and sad memories of my life?
Cookie rolled onto her side to face me and drew in a long breath before speaking.
“Elise? I saw you crying—that day when we went to see
The Wizard of Oz.
Are you homesick?”
“Sometimes,” I admitted.
Cookie rolled onto her back and looked at the ceiling for a moment. “Do you miss your father?”
“Yes.”
“And your mother.”
I felt a lump rising in my throat as I answered that yes, I missed her, too.
“Do you want to tell me about her?”
“No,” I whispered. “Not tonight. Maybe someday.”
Cookie was quiet for a moment before bidding me good night. I said good night back and rolled onto my side, facing the window. The screen door creaked, and I heard the thump of Papa's boots on the porch. He shut the door to the shed, and the wedge of light disappeared. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep.
Chapter 11
1941
 
“
E
lise! Aren't you done in there yet? I gotta go!” Chip pounded on the bathroom door, and I jumped, startled by the noise. How long had I been standing there staring at myself in the mirror? My cheeks colored at the thought of my own vanity, but it was just so hard to believe that the girl in the mirror was me. “Sorry!” I called through the door. I gave my hair one last stroke of the brush, blotted my lipstick, and sopped up the water from the edge of the sink with my used facecloth before tossing it into the clothes hamper. A final, disbelieving glance into the glass, and then I opened the door to face Chip, who had continued to hammer on the door in spite of my apologies.
“Sorry,” I repeated sincerely. Sharing one bathroom among eight people wasn't easy. Primping had to be kept down to the bare minimum. This was an unwritten but well understood rule in the Muller household. “It's all yours.”
Chip looked at me. His expression changed from irritation to incredulity, and he let out a low whistle. “Wow! What happened to you? You're gorgeous!”
His reaction surprised and embarrassed me and I felt my cheeks flush with heat. Cookie heard the commotion in the hallway and emerged from the bedroom still fussing with the tricky clasp of the Eisenglass crystal bracelet she'd borrowed from Mama for the occasion. “What's all the noise out here, Chip? Can't you wait five minutes and give Elise a chance to ...”
Her eyes grew wide as they shifted from the successfully fastened bracelet to the shimmering cascade of real silk that was the skirt of my dress.
“Oh,” she breathed. “Oh, Elise. You look beautiful!”
I blushed again, this time from pleasure instead of embarrassment. “Do you really think so?”
“Are you kidding? You're a knockout!” Chip shouted. He grabbed my hand and started pulling me down the hall toward the stairway. A smiling Cookie followed right behind.
“Where are we going?” I asked, laughing. “I thought you had to use the bathroom.”
“Forget about it,” he said. “I can't wait until everybody sees you!”
We must have sounded like a herd of elephants clomping down the stairs, what with Chip pulling from the front and Cookie pushing from behind. I nearly tripped and fell. “Hold on a second!” I protested. “I can barely walk in these heels, let alone run down stairs.”
“Wait here,” Cookie whispered excitedly as she hatched a plan of action. “We'll go on ahead and announce your grand entrance. Take your time coming down the stairs, Elise. Remember what Miss Runyan says.” Cookie transformed her face into a pinched-lipped impression of our maiden history teacher, Miss Runyan. “Don't thump down the stairs like a hired hand, girls. A lady
descends
the staircase as delicately as a butterfly alighting on the petal of a rose and is an adornment to every room she enters.” Cookie spread her skirts, dipped a little curtsey, and fluttered her eyelashes in a perfect imitation of the prudish Miss Runyan, whose annual job it was to give the sophomore girls a vague and wholly uninformative presentation on the facts of life and rules for ladylike behavior. As far as I could tell, three decades of these informative talks had yet to make any lasting impression on Brightfield's female population. While there was much I had come to admire about these strong, stoic, and capable Yankee women, I had yet to see one of them descend delicately onto anything.
Thinking of Miss Runyan started me giggling, which made the job of navigating in high heels simply impossible. Cookie was an accomplished mimic. Chip couldn't help but smile at the accuracy of her impersonation, but he was anxious to get on with the show.
“All right, you two. That's enough. Cookie, are you going down to announce her or should I?”
In the end, they both decided to go, and I could hear them scurrying around the lower floor of the house, gathering up the family and ushering them into the kitchen for a surprise. Quietly, I took a couple of practice steps down the stairs and back up again. How in the world was I supposed to keep my balance and keep my heels from thumping on the steps all at the same time? Like the rest of her talk, Miss Runyan's advice in the area of ladylike descending had been long on theory and short on practical information.
Down below Chuck was complaining loudly and wondering what was so important that it warranted interrupting
The Shadow.
Cookie shushed him, and Chip told him to just sit down and wait a minute.
After everyone was seated, Chip took up a post on one side of the banister, and Cookie stationed herself at the other, standing tall like liveried footmen in one of those movies where the heroine casts off her peasant disguise, reveals her noble bearing, and wins the heart of the hero.
Cookie looked upstairs to make sure I was ready, then nodded to Chip, who cleared his throat theatrically before announcing in a very loud, very bad imitation of an uppercrust English accent, “Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present ...” Chip nodded to Cookie, who took over as herald.
“Miss Elise Braun of Brightfield, Massachusetts!”
I took a deep breath. Then, holding the railing for balance with what I hoped appeared to be a relaxed grip, and curling my toes in the bottom of my shoes to prevent the heels from clacking, I descended the stairs.
For a split second the room was quiet. Everyone sat with wide eyes and delighted expressions, except for Junior, who looked momentarily confused, as though he had just been presented to someone whom he ought to know but whose face and name he couldn't quite recall. It was the first time in months and maybe in years that I could remember him looking at me square on, as if he really was seeing me.
Yesterday, as I'd sat on a folding chair in the Brightfield Bulldogs gymnasium and applauded with the rest of the family as Junior had crossed the stage to receive his diploma, I couldn't help but think he was the best-looking boy in the class, despite the fact that he did look a little uncomfortable in his cap and gown. Now, dressed in the fashionable blue pinstripe suit and red tie that had been his graduation present, he was suddenly a man instead of a boy. I wondered if a similar transformation had happened to me.
His eyes met mine and locked. My voice cracked a bit with nervousness, but I spoke loudly enough so that everyone in the room might assume I was speaking to them, though in truth the question was meant for him alone. “Do you like it?”
The family erupted into a chorus of approval and admiration. Only Junior was silent. Nothing unusual there. The incident with John Harkness marked the moment I'd finally been accepted by the younger Mullers. But it was obvious that my actions had not completely redeemed me with Junior. He stopped being openly hostile to me; he didn't wound me with cutting words anymore. However, he didn't say anything at all to me. Sometimes I wondered if I was simply invisible to him.
But that night, for just an instant, his eyes flickered with recognition. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again and drew his lips into a flat, judging line as though he'd suddenly remembered what he didn't like about me. His eyes became steely and darted away from mine, focusing on their former target, a remote spot where he could observe me from a safe distance. He became a clinical observer who could dissect me into a collection of disembodied parts so he would never have to know me as a whole person.
I felt a short, sharp twinge in my breast. For a moment I thought that my brooch had come unpinned and was sticking me, but when I looked down I saw that the clasp was secure and tight, right where it was supposed to be. I blinked, a little surprised by the intensity of the pain, but recovered quickly, smiling and giving my attention to the rest of the Mullers, who were on their feet, encircling me with a wreath of affection.
Even Chuck, who, like his twin, at age thirteen was still more interested in internal combustion engines than girls, seemed genuinely admiring. “You look fabulous! The dress, shoes, hair—everything!”
Curt piped up, “You look like a movie star, Elise!”
“Thank you,” I said sincerely. “Cookie deserves the most credit. She showed me how to put on my makeup and curl my hair. I didn't know where to start. If it wasn't for her I'd be standing here wearing my first grown-up dress with two braids trailing down my back!”
Everyone laughed, and Cookie shrugged off the compliment, but it was the truth. Since turning sixteen, Cookie had become an avid reader of movie magazines. Her transformation from tomboy to expert in all things female was nothing short of miraculous. It had all started in the spring of our freshman year when Mark Woodward, the catcher on the Brightfield Bulldogs High School baseball team, had smiled and winked at her as we walked home past the field where the team was practicing. That very day she'd traded in dungarees and baseball mitts for skirts and curling irons. Now she knew how all the stars fixed their hair and had modeled my style on a picture she'd seen of Joan Fontaine in
Photo Play.
It had taken her most of the afternoon to get it right.
“Well, I think you both look beautiful,” Papa said, beaming at me and putting his arm around Cookie, whose own party dress was very becoming. It was made of rayon instead of silk, but the midnight blue color complemented her eyes and light complexion, making her look as pale and delicate as a china doll. Her tiny waist appeared even tinier encircled by the wide belt embellished with silver embroidery. The borrowed crystal earrings and bracelet sparkled on her ears and wrist and added to the simple elegance of the gown.
“I just feel bad for the other girls. Who will want to dance with them when we've got the prettiest two girls in town standing right here?” Papa asked and shook his head in pretended sympathy for the wallflowers of the world.
“Oh, I think the other girls might end up taking a turn or two around the floor,” Mama said with a gentle smile. “But you are both beautiful young ladies. Your dance cards will be full before you know it.”
“Mama!” exclaimed Cookie. “Nobody uses dance cards any-more.”
“No? That's too bad,” said Mama. “They always made nice souvenirs. I still have one from the first time I danced with your Papa.”
“Really?” Cookie asked in wonder. “That is so romantic! Can I see it?”
“Later,” said Papa. “You'd all better get a move on unless you want to be late.”
The younger boys went back into the parlor to finish listening to
The Shadow.
Junior said he wanted a glass of milk before we left and started rummaging around in the icebox. Papa went outside to warm up the car for him. The old Ford truck had finally given up the ghost the previous month and had been replaced with a not quite as old Pontiac sedan complete with a Motorola push-button radio. I was glad. I would have felt odd arriving at the dance dressed in an elegant party dress only to climb down from the cab of the truck.
Cookie scurried upstairs to get her wrap. Mine was already waiting downstairs—a beautiful, soft cape of black Persian lamb. It was a sixteenth-birthday gift from Uncle Wilhelm. Father had sent it in a package, along with his own gifts: the beautiful silk dress, the shoes and stockings, and, most importantly, my mother's pearl choker—the one he had been saving for me all those years. The gifts had come months before, and I had been thrilled with them, but until now, the night of the prom, I hadn't had occasion to wear them.
Mama helped me put on my wrap and fasten the hook and eye at the throat. “Turn around once more so I can look at you,” she said, and I obliged, enjoying the way the skirt swirled as I moved. I felt as if I were dancing already.
Mama clasped her hands together, then drew them up under her chin. She bit her lips and nodded with approval. “I want you to know that if your own mother were here she would be very, very proud of you. That is a simply beautiful dress, but more importantly, you are beautiful in it—inside and out.”
“Thank you.” I whispered because my voice was too tight with emotion to allow me to speak properly. I thought how lucky I was to know Mama and how much she and Mother would have liked each other. Mama and I hugged, and I think I would have started to cry if Junior's voice had not interrupted the moment, slicing through it with a sarcastic edge.
“Yeah, it's a beautiful dress all right. Real silk. I wonder where it could have come from? Paris, do you suppose? And the shoes, what do they call them ... French heels, isn't that right? How much do you think he paid for them—or did he just commandeer them at gunpoint from some cowering French shopkeeper?”
Mama spun around and froze her eldest son with a furious look. “Junior! Stop that!” she snapped. Her eyebrows drew together. “What's got into you? Why do you have to be so mean?”
Junior ducked his head, and I thought I saw the barest blush of shame rise in his cheek. He glanced at me and then at Mama. I could see a hint of bewilderment in his eyes, as though he didn't quite know himself. His shoulders twitched in a sort of half shrug.
Mama sighed wearily. “Go on,” she said. “Go and help Papa with the car.” Junior turned to leave but not before giving me a look that lay somewhere between contrition and accusation—I couldn't tell which. He hesitated before opening the door, and for a moment I thought he was going to say something. Instead he followed Mama's orders and went outside to warm up the car.

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