Tea Cups & Tiger Claws (8 page)

“I…I accidentally took the wrong path…I have to get back,” said Dorthea, as she stepped to the
left and went down the steps.

The sister slid over and blocked her
way. “That’s baloney,” she said. “You were spying and you know it.”

Then
Billy Newfield reached them, wearing a curious smile. They had her cornered. She stared at the ground. They stared at her until a voice drew away their attention. Dorthea also looked toward the voice and saw what she thought to be the other sister coming down into the clearing, except she had glasses…and didn’t look glamorous like the other one. The first sister yelled, “Look what I found, Abbey, our long lost sister, come to spy on us.”

Abbey
shrieked, dropped a picnic basket she’d been carrying, and dashed toward them. Dorthea tried to think and to breathe and to not look at Billy Newfield, who stared at her like she had cucumbers growing out of her nose. 

When Abb
ey arrived in a cloud of dust, she threw her arms around Dorthea and squeezed out what little breath she had left in her fearful body. Then she grabbed her by the upper arms, pushed back a bit, and started talking face to face. “I’m Abbey, but you knew that of course. I’ve always wanted to meet you, I mean besides that time in Tanner’s Mercantile—when I just stared like Dumb Dora—but mother could never arrange it and Sister was against it, so it just never happened, but now it is happening and I just can’t believe it.”

And Dorthea had thought the first one
acted like a ninny.

Abbey
looked at Dorthea with welled up tears before throwing herself back onto her neck.

“Abb
ey!” said Judith sternly, “She was spying on us like a thief, and who knows what else she had planned!”

“Oh who cares
, Judith!” said Abbey, breaking free from Dorthea. “You’d do the same if it were you and you know it! Besides I’ve been spying on her father for the last fifteen minutes so we’re all even.”

“Father!” said Dorthea.

“Yes, I saw him by the cellar, and he’s quite handsome. You should see him J. After all he is our father too, even though you don’t care to admit it.”

“I have to go,” blurted Dorthea.

“Oh please, not yet,” said Abbey, as she locked her arm with Dorthea’s.

“Yes, please
do stay, Dorthea,” said Judith, imitating her sister, and also locking arms with Dorthea. “Let us introduce our special friend to you. Billy Newfield, this is our dear sister, Dorthea. Her last name is Railer. It’s a name almost as famous as yours. Perhaps you’ve heard it before?”

He had one of those pure, translucent faces that
’s interesting to look at because of its constant fine flush that forever ebbs and flows; redness is easily drawn in by exertion and just as easily pushed back by a moment’s reflection, or by laughter, such as now, when he laughed at Dorthea. He didn’t try to hide it. And he didn’t say “hello,” or extend his hand, or even nod. He just laughed, and stared, along with Judith and Abbey.

“What do you think Billy?” said Judith. “Do we look like identical triplets?”

Billy Stepped back and rubbed his chin like a wise man.

“
Try not to look at her shoes…or the dress…or the hair….”

Dorthea threw down her arms and broke free from her sisters.

“Don’t mind her, Dorthea,” said Abbey. “She says stuff like that sometimes. It’s just her way of having fun.”

Dorthea
faced Judith and said, “You can laugh now if you like, but I’ll be laughing for weeks because I saw you down there prattling like a hen, begging him to kiss you.”

First
Abbey giggled, then Billy, and then even Judith.

People who look ridiculous sound
ridiculous and Dorthea looked ridiculous, but she didn’t know what else to say or do, next to scratching out Judith’s eyes, which seemed too tempting to even think about. She lifted her head, pointed it forward, and started marching up and out of the clearing.

“Wait,” said
Abbey. “Will you take this to remember us? It’s got your name on it. You might as well.”

The placard. She’d forgotten about it.
She had no words for her sisters and never would again. She had black oaths. And she had no eyes. From this day forward, her eyes would be foul pools to them, oil sheened, showing nothing but glare. And nothing could change it, nothing in the world…except knowing about that placard. She turned and saw Abbey holding it out to her. “Why is my name on it?” she asked evenly.

“Because mother always dreamed about getting the famous
identical triplets back together,” said Abbey, “even if only for an afternoon. She had these built—back when we were just little girls—and planned a birthday party for all three of us. But you didn’t come….She sent an invitation but you didn’t come….”

“I guess
you had more important things to do down at Yucky D,” said Judith.

Abbey
gave Judith a pained look but didn’t say anything. Instead, she turned back to Dorthea and said, “But mother didn’t give up. And neither did I. Every year she had the houses painted and every year I wrote the invitation. The houses still get painted but I stopped sending the invitations a while ago.”

And then they all stared at each other until Dorthea
looked at the placard and said, “I don’t want it. You can keep it.” She started to turn.

“Wait!” blurted
Abbey. “Please wait. I told you about the playhouse. I need you to tell me something too.”

Dorthea didn’t say anything
, but she didn’t leave either.

“Tell me about our father.”

“Abbey! Don’t be stupid!” said Judith.

Dorthea started to laugh until she saw the desperation on
Abbey’s face and the embarrassment on Judith’s. It didn’t amount to much, but at least now she had something on them, a little stick, a little knuckle whacker. “What do you want to know?” she asked.

“Is he nice? Does he do nice things for you?”

“Of course. He’s my father ain’t he.”

“Tell me
what he does for you.”

“
Uh…he fed the ducks with me down in the wash.” This didn’t impress anyone, not even Abbey. She needed to dress things up a bit. “And he brings me a ribbon every pay day….I have over thirty of them.” Abbey smiled.

“You should tell him to bring
you some new dresses instead.”

“Shut up Judith!”

Judith looked surprised by Abbey’s outburst, and so did Billy.

“What else?” said
Abbey.

“Sometimes he
tries to teach me the waltz but he steps on my toes and we fall down and laugh.”

Abbey
smiled some more.

“And…and he calls me his girl and takes me to
the lunch counter at Woolworths…and stuff like that.” She was running out of lies. “I have to go now.” She took a step back.

“Does he ever talk about us?” asked
Abbey.

Dorthea pretended to think it over real good
. Then she shook her head and said, “No, he never does. I don’t think he even remembers your names.” And without saying goodbye, she turned and left.

That last part had felt good—
Abbey needed some of the perk knocked off her perky face—but it didn’t come close to making up for the licking Dorthea had gotten from that smug, fork-tongued Judith. And from that pompous Billy Newfield, who could now tell his friends that he’d met Dorthea Railer, Judith and Abbey’s sister, and that she looked like a wash woman, and that he’d caught her spying, and had made her stammer like a moron.

This
accidental meeting shook Dorthea right down to her warped, secondhand Mary Janes. Thanks to the hateful Billy Newfield, the fantasy that had been her dependable shelter for so long got leveled. From this point on, instead of the Newfields reaching down to pull her up to the heights she deserved, she would dream about slapping away their arrogant hands, throwing them overboard, and pulling herself up and into Sunny Slope’s throne room…if it had one. And the hatred for her sisters that had brought her comfort on so many sleepless nights would change too, turning from a fairly plain hatred into uncontained smoldering contempt.

The real damage caused by this
humiliating run-in, though, turned out to be much bigger than a teenager’s fragile ego or petty issues of fantasy and hate. By sheer coincidence, with the insults still fresh and the welts to her pride still stinging, Dorthea stumbled upon a sorry ordeal that might’ve been helped by a calm and thoughtful presence. Unfortunately, she didn’t happen to have those particular commodities just then.

The first sign of trouble came
about half way back up the hill when she heard the sound of breaking glass. She stopped, listened for a second, and then started running—toward her father’s volcanic temper, no doubt. She’d tell him the best lie that came to mind and then ride out the storm. She knew the routine. But when she got near the top of the path and heard grunting and groaning and cussing, she knew that things were different this time. It sounded like a fight. She didn’t see her father or anyone else, but she did see toppled boxes and broken bottles lying in the driveway next to the truck, with the dolly lying on top of the whole mess. She dashed across the driveway and crouched behind the big hedge near the back of the truck.

Through an opening she saw her father
standing between the truck and the house. He had a red, knotted-up face and blood dripped from a crack in his bottom lip. “Now I’m gonna teach you a lesson boy,” he said, looking at the ground.

Dorthea saw
someone on the grass, lying on his side with his back to her, by the back wheel of the truck. Her father kicked him in the stomach. He groaned. Her father then stepped over the body, limped to the back of the truck, and grabbed the big stick that went with the dolly. Dorthea saw her father clearly then, just as he might’ve seen her if not for his blinding anger, and she knew that he’d lost it worse than ever before.

With club in hand, her father limped back
, stood astride the man’s body, and stared down at him with a squinting, determined face. He sucked in a hissing breath through his nose and raised the club above his head. He clenched his jaw and curled his lips and concentrated on the target. And that’s as far as he got.

The
man on the ground braced one of his feet against the truck tire and with the other kicked her father’s feet out from under him. His body stiffened and went down like a statue on ice skates. It didn’t surprise Dorthea because the old man was never more than a few swigs of whiskey away from toppling himself. And it didn’t help that he’d been caught completely out of balance—with his hands raised high and heels off the ground. The other man quickly rolled on top and started wailing until her father stopped trying to fight back. Then the man got to his feet and Dorthea briefly saw his face. He didn’t look like a man at all, more of a boy really, around her age, dressed in gray tennis pants that had big grass stains, as did his gray shirt and orange blazer that had the Prospect Park Country Club insignia on the shoulder. He looked familiar.

Whoever it might be, Dorthea figured the ordeal had come to an end, for better or worse, and not much different
ly than any of the other times her dad had been beaten. Let the young prince of the tennis courts go running to his manservant, and let Dorthea and her father slink back down to Yucky D with another grand day in the books. That’s what she expected, over and done, goodbye and goodnight, but that’s not what happened because her dad hadn’t been the only hothead on the hill that day.

With trembling hands
, a red, wet face, and breaths that erupted in fits and spurts, the boy picked up the club from next to her father’s body. He raised it, just as her father had done, but unlike her father, this young, athletic boy knew how to use the club.

After the first blow,
he looked down and said, “You don’t teach me man. I teach you.” And then he hit him again and again.

The boy’s body blocked Dorthea’s view, but
she figured it ended for her father after the first few blows. But the boy didn’t stop. Dorthea watched in silence. Then the blood started to fly. He kept going. The wet club slipped from his hands. He picked it up and continued the attack. Finally, when he ran out of strength, it came to an end.

He dropped the club
, fell to his knees, and lowered his head. Dorthea saw, not more than ten feet away, the side of his blood speckled face, where a stream of tears made a path through the blood and where snot oozed over his lips and down his chin. He cried out loud.

Suddenly his head snapped up and
he faced Dorthea. He looked right at her, right through the hedge. She’d been seen. He jumped to his feet and backed away. He fell down but popped right back up, like one of those punching bag clowns. He kept backing away, looking at Dorthea, looking at her father’s body. He darted awkwardly over to the body and picked up a hat from the ground. Then, after another look at Dorthea, he turned and ran.

She
’d gotten a good look at him and felt his name trying to jump off the tip of her tongue, but still couldn’t quite remember it.