Tender Graces (35 page)

I shrugged.

“You won’t listen. Momma has you in her spell.”

“You’re silly, Micah.”

He stood up, and then helped me up. I noticed how big his hand was, how tall and wide-shouldered he’d become. He was like my brother and like a stranger all at the same time. We brushed the grass off our backsides and went in the house. While I set the table, Micah joked around with Rebekha like nothing bad had been said. I didn’t know if he felt lighter because he’d finally told somebody, or if he was faking it because he needed to. I felt dark wings flying through me.

Chapter 28

Today

Another cup of coffee is steaming, and I’m eating stale bread I toasted in Momma’s old toaster, with peanut butter spread on it. Even though I didn’t sleep long, it feels as if I slept a night away, floating on a cloud. The storm passed on away while I was under Grandma’s quilt, and now the sun’s shining bright through the kitchen window. I finish up my breakfast, and then walk outside, cross the spongy-from-rain grass, pass Mrs. Mendel’s garden, and head to her door. It’s time to go see her, but I’m scared about what she might say to me about Momma.

Uncle Jonah said Mrs. Mendel found Momma. Said Momma wore a red dress, and her hair was pulled up into a long ponytail like a young girl. She was curled up on the grass beside the garden. I’ll never know what Momma was doing outside that night. Maybe howling at the moon, freed and happy for the first time in a while. I imagine her spirit lighter than the mists.

I bet she danced through the grass to Mrs. Mendel’s garden to sniff the flowers. Flowers look special under the moon. She danced, just as I did earlier, with the moonlight shining on her red dressed up self, holding her vodka with lemon, twirling, dancing and laughing, until she lay down and went to sleep, and dreamed of what? The beginning of her life? Or the end?

Knocking on Mrs. Mendel’s door, I look up at the lonely house on the hill, wondering if it’s still empty. I think of Daddy there so long ago and wish I could pull him into a hug. Tell him I don’t remember all those bad days so much as I remember that he’s good. I like to conjure up what I need, and sometimes a girl needs her daddy.

When I came back to help Momma after her accident, I stared up there and imagined I could live there. Thought up what colors I’d paint and what I’d plant in my own garden. I thought I’d live there while Momma stayed in the holler. I’d look down and see her passing by the kitchen window, and then I’d go down and have coffee with her.

When no one answers my knock, I turn to go back. Mrs. Mendel had watched over us kids, even when we didn’t know it. And she’d watched after Momma all these years. She was Momma’s only friend. I hope Momma knew that.

Behind me, a male voice says all early morning bird chirpy, “’Morning!”

I turn to see an almost handsome man with dark brown hair and hazel eyes walking to me. I answer, “Good Morning,” and the frogs are back in my throat. “I was looking for Mrs. Mendel.”

“My aunt’s down the road at a morning tea, if you can imagine.” He grins as if he can’t imagine and his teeth are strong behind firm-looking lips. He quick-walks closer to me and studies my face. “My name’s Gary. I’m Anna’s nephew.”

He holds out his hand and I shake it firm before snatching my hand away. I don’t know why I feel so ornery, maybe because Mrs. Mendel isn’t home. Maybe because I don’t want to talk to anyone, especially some grinning man. And maybe because I never knew she was called Anna. Maybe I want to stay in the past and he feels like the now. I squeak like a field mouse, “I’m Virginia Kate.”

“I know.” The corners of his eyes wrinkle up. “I heard a lot about you from my aunt. She has pictures of you and your brothers all over the house.” He runs his hands through his hair. “When I visited years ago, I had the biggest crush on a photograph of you as a teenager. You’d just gone back home and my teenaged heart was broken. Never thought I’d get to meet the person immortalized in that silver frame.” Big grinning again, he has no sense. “I live in North Carolina, smack in the Smokies.” Even more grinning from him (fool grinning), then he says, “I’m staying here for a while to help my aunt with some things.”

“Oh, well, I need to be getting back.” I back away. “Tell her I came by to see her.” I must look insane, with my hair wild and messy, my clothes wrinkled, no bath, haven’t even brushed my teeth. I pretend I don’t care. Men are nothing but trouble and heartache—messy silly creatures, that’s what they are. That’s what my grandma and momma found out. That’s what I told my ex-husband. That’s what my daddy always was, too. Trouble.

He acts as if he didn’t hear a word I said. “Yep, like I said, I’m taking care of things for a little while. Have my own business so it leaves me free. So, if you need anything, just come get me.” He points to his aunt’s place. “Right there, if you need me.”

“I’m fine. Momma died and I’m going through her things.” I hate I said something personal to him. “I mean, I don’t need anything, thanks.”

“I’m sorry about Miss Kate. I knew, but I didn’t want to pry. I was here when my aunt found her.”

“Oh.”

“Aunt Anna tried to get your momma out of the house, but she wouldn’t leave it, at least until that night we found her.” He pushes his hand through his hair again. “I’m sorry. I talk too much.”

“She was in an accident when I was fifteen. She thought her looks changed. I don’t know.” I wave my hand in the air, brushing away invisible flies. It irritates me how I blabber to this person standing in my way of getting back. “She didn’t like getting old and she didn’t like losing her pretty. I suppose that was important.” I shut my mouth tight, finally.

“She was a beautiful woman.”

I nod.

“I don’t know if you need to hear this, but she didn’t look like she was in pain. I mean, well, she looked happy. Like she found some kind of peace or something. I know that’s a cliché.” He slides his eyes away from mine. “She looked angelic. The moon was shining on her face . . . ” He turns red as Mrs. Anna Mendel’s tomatoes. “At first, I thought it was her last night.”

“Huh?”

“Dancing. Out under the moon.” His eyes turn right back to mine and stay there until I look away.

“Yes. Well. I’ll be getting on now. Thank you.” Hightailing it back, I shut the door with an extra push. Standing at the counter I take deep breaths, pressing my shaking hands into the Formica. When I feel calm again, I make another cup of coffee and sneak a peek out the window. Gary is gone and I breathe out all my air long and slow. I push myself back, back to then, away from now. But the image of Momma sleeping in the grass, near Mrs. Anna Mendel’s garden, the moon shining on her while she smiles, stays with me—as it will forever.

With my coffee, I go into Micah and Andy’s room. I’m not surprised to see that nothing has changed here either. Their beds are still on opposite walls with their rootin’ tootin’ bedspreads. Momma left everything as if they were coming right back from playing outside any minute. Inside their dresser are clothes, too. It’s pitiful.

I say, “Momma, why?”

She’s in the other room, ornery as the live-long day is long.

I’m trying not to picture her wandering through the house, looking at our things, touching them, just as I am. Pretending we’re about to gallop in, full of kid-energy.

Under Andy’s bed, there’s a cigar box shoved against the wall. When I open it, I find rocks, pulverized leaves, my letters, and photos. The one of Soot and Marco is on top. Breast cancer almost took my Soot away last year, as it had her momma. I feel the same catch in my heart over my old friend as I did when I was a girl. I loved her then, and I still do. Soot and Marco married, have two kids, and still work the diner. I put the photo in my pocket.

There’s one of me on my red bike, my hair in pigtails, and another of Micah and me in front of the oak tree. There’s a letter from Micah talking about Louisiana. One from Daddy asking him about school. Opening my letters to my brother, I read about how I miss him, miss my mountain. All the longings of a little girl who’d been taken away and didn’t understand it. I look up and out the window at the silent shadows of things bigger than me, and wonder if I will always feel as if I’ve been snatched up by the roots.

Underneath everything are the Texas-shaped cufflinks Mee Maw gave Daddy. I roll them in my hands, remembering how Mee Maw filled up this house and the house in Louisiana with her craziness. She’s a zillion years old and I don’t believe she’ll ever die.

I put Andy’s things back in the box and leave it on his bed to take back with me to my room. Nothing is under Micah’s bed and I’m disappointed. I want to find something interesting. I touch their dresser, tracing the scars of their scratched initials: MDC and ACC. I hear Andy and Micah laughing, talking about boy-things. It makes me smile. Uncle Jonah made their dresser, just as he made Momma’s and mine. My uncle sanded the wood, ran his long fingers over the warmth the sandpaper made from his pressure. The smell of mahogany, maple, pine, and oak filled his workroom. So different from Uncle Ar-vile’s stinky, ugly shed. I wish Uncle Jonah had been around that summer instead of Aunt Ruby. We’d have gone there instead. What would be different now if we had?

I step inside the closet, close the door, and at first the walls move in closer, closer, the light from the keyhole shining, then I close my eyes, and I want to be on Fionadala, thundering up the mountain, sweet air against my face. I open my eyes and step out.

There is a shelf to explore. Using Andy’s stool, I stand on it and reach far in the back. A rolled-up piece of paper meets my hand. I take it down and as I unroll it, my stomach churns. Micah has drawn a demon-face, with sharp black horns, a red-black mouth with jagged blood-dripping teeth, and eyes that bulge under a Frankenstein forehead. The monster has a hole in his stomach, and maggots, flies, and green goo are climbing from it in a big snarly mess. Its clawed hands are stretched out to a boy drawn in the left corner. That little boy is holding himself in a tight ball, like a babe in the womb. The drawing leaves me shaken right to my toes.

I say to the teensy boy, “It’s the opposite now, Micah. You’re the giant and he’s the little nothing in the ground.”

I start to roll it back up, but then decide if I burn it, the smoke will go up to the sky and make healing rain fall down on Micah. I take the monster drawing back to the kitchen with me, wad it up, and throw it into the sink. With Momma’s matches, I touch the red tip to the side, hear the scratch, and whoosh, smell the sulphur. I place flame to paper and watch the edges curl up and over. I watch the monster disappear, and when it’s gone, I scrape the ashes into one of Momma’s ashtrays and take it to the bathroom. Sprinkling the ashes in the toilet, I flush them down, down, all the way down.

I say, “Bye Bye Uncle Ar-vile. Go see Aunt Ruby, you sick bastard.” I flush twice. Then I wash my hands of them both. That’s all I can do.

I wander down the hall—I’m not planning anything at all. I have all the time in the world. I’m strolling in the breeze. I’m a wandering woman with my thoughts all up in my head willy nilly. I’d whistle if I didn’t hate whistling more than liver. I’m in no big hurry. La Tee Dah.

I stop outside Momma’s room and lay my cheek against the door. I don’t feel a warming tingle. I don’t go in. I’m a chicken-heart. Momma snorts and Grandma Faith sighs.

My bare feet make no sound as I back down the hall and return to the living room. Even though I’m quiet as a kitten, I hear other footsteps. And laughter. And yelling. The television has a black screen, but I hear all those old television shows. Laaassie—is there trouble girl? Trouble? Lucy you have some ‘splaining to do! And, I hear the radio playing old bubblegum rock, and the sound of dancing—the air moving with the bodies. I hear the sounds of ice against glasses. Ghostly memories take shape and form, wavering.

Back to the kitchen to refresh my coffee, I stop and stare at the booze. They’re so straight and tall on the counter. I open the tops and pour every stinky drop down the drain. The fumes rise up and hit my face with a slap, but I don’t flinch.

I slap my hands together. Another job done. I eat another piece of toast. There’s a strange resting coming over me so I almost feel like humming. It’s as if someone’s entered my body and is guiding me around the house, trying to coax me into Momma’s room. I can feel it, the way my feet want to move back down the hall. I decide a bath with Momma’s Dove soap would be just right instead.

I get clean underwear, shorts, and a t-shirt from my dresser, and go to the bathroom. I put the plug in the drain, turn the faucet to hear the squeak and the rush of water, remember Momma’s drunken-cure-baths. I search the cabinets until I find a bar in the back, hidden behind some washrags. Momma’s secret Dove stash. The chaotic cabinet full of multi-colored towels is still the same, and I grab a well-worn blue towel and faded pink washrag. They smell like sweet mountain air. I slip into the hot water and let the tense fall out. I let the worry slide off my skin, and then up in the air inside Dove bubbles, where they swirl up and out the window. I soap my hair, still too long for hot Louisiana, but not for the mountains, no sir-ree. When I rinse, the water covers my eyes.