The Secrets of Peaches (9 page)

T
hanksgiving evening, Birdie kept throwing glances at the stairs, looking for help that didn't come, like the
Titanic
.

Sitting at the table—at her old seat, next to Walter—was Birdie's mom. She looked great. She was like one of those hypothetical astronauts who go to space and come back young when everyone else is either old or dead. It seemed like since leaving her daughter and husband last spring, she had aged in reverse.

Walter seemed slightly tongue-tied to have Cynthia back in the house, but Cynthia made up for it by being so perfectly at ease.

“The garden is looking nice,” she said to Walter. “I took a spin around the yard before I came in.”

“That's Murphy,” Birdie interjected, searching the cabinet. “Parsley, parsley…” she muttered to herself. Cynthia walked to the kitchen, looked over Birdie's shoulder, and pulled the parsley flakes from the cupboard, placing the bottle on the counter beside her. Her mom knowing where everything was just seemed to exaggerate the fact that she no longer lived in the
house. She gave Birdie an affectionate pinch, then sat back down, telling Walter about her new job managing the Tea Room.

Birdie worked with a lump in her throat. She wiped the sweat off her face and glanced at her reflection in the window above the sink—her auburn hair was pasted to the sides of her forehead in sweaty squiggles, her eyes wet from the heat and steam. She'd had a vision of answering the door in the dress she'd picked out, with a clean kitchen behind her and candles on the table—the way her mom and Poopie had always put things together. Instead she'd answered the door with a hand covered in gizzard juice and sleepers in her eyes that her mom had swiped away, the dogs tangled between her ankles and yipping. When Majestic had seen the old family dog, Toonsis, she'd peed because she was so excited and Birdie had had to clean it up. The potatoes had boiled over and left sticky trails of potato water on the stove, onion skins piggybacked to bits of dough stuck to the counter. The turkey was still in the oven and looked suspiciously underdone.

As far as Birdie was concerned, it was all Poopie's fault. Poopie, who had spent the morning traipsing around the parade (Birdie had glimpsed her, munching happily on a fried Mars bar, and then later, waving an American flag at the Elks Club), had been weirdly absent all afternoon. Poopie—who had always been there to give Birdie advice even when she didn't want it, who if you asked her if your dough was too smushy not only said yes but took it out of your hands and did the rest herself—had gone AWOL.

Through the window, the orchard looked cool and inviting—the grass a muted green, the trees empty and serene in their
rows, everything still and at peace except for the squirrels and the occasional cardinal flitting in the branches.

Birdie grabbed the gherkin jar out of the fridge and shook the tiny pickles into one of her mom's glass bowls. She laid it on the table with a thud. The bowl of gherkins was the only thing that looked like it was supposed to.

“Just a few more minutes and we eat.” Birdie bent over the mashed potatoes, trying to relax, but the smoke alarm went off. She dove for the oven. She'd left the rolls in too long. She grabbed a dish towel and used it to grip the pan of rolls. She shoved open the window to let in the unseasonably warm November air. “I'm fine. Everything's fine…” she said, glancing toward the table.

Cynthia and Walter were staring toward the staircase, looking slightly aghast. Birdie took a few steps forward to see what they were looking at. The elusive Poopie was floating down the stairs. Floating. Wearing a long, straight, flowery dress and
lipstick
.

“How's it going, honey?” Poopie asked as she stepped into the room, glancing around the kitchen.
Thank God.

“Perfect,” Birdie said sarcastically, sending her an SOS with her eyes.

“Cynthia. How are you?” Poopie drawled. She sank into the chair opposite Cynthia, ignoring Birdie's distress call, just like the USS
Californian
.

“I'm good, Poopie. You look good,” Cynthia said awkwardly.

Once Birdie had laid out the dinner, with help from neither her mom nor Poopie, she sat. There they were, everyone in their old places, Saint Anthony smiling down on their feast benevolently. The turkey skin crunched. The rolls were slightly
blackened. Somewhere along the way, Birdie had added too much salt to the stuffing. Everyone smiled and congratulated Birdie and then drifted into silence, chewing with grim determination.

“Walter, I don't know why you haven't replaced that truck yet. I would have thought that'd be the first thing you'd get rid of once you got out of debt,” Cynthia said. Birdie's mom had always hated her dad's truck.

Walter shrugged amiably. “It's okay.”

Poopie was pushing her stuffing back and forth with her fork, staring at Cynthia from under her eyebrows. The oven had filled the kitchen with hot, stuffy air, so that it was only cool right near the window. Birdie turned on the ceiling fan and sank back into her seat cross-legged.

“It still runs great,” Poopie muttered.

“Poopie, that truck is horrible.” Cynthia waved her hands dramatically, but Poopie was unswayed. “It's probably going to explode at any moment.”

“It may not be good enough for you, but it works for Walter.”

Yowl!

Birdie spun around. Toonsis had grabbed Honey Babe by the scruff and the two were scratching and sliding around on the linoleum locked in a death grip. Majestic had squeezed into the tiny place behind the fridge and was trying to be invisible. Birdie darted forward and grabbed Toonsis by the hind legs.

“Birdie, don't grab him like that! The pet psychic says you just need to
ask
him not to do things. Otherwise he feels resentful. Toonsis, please don't play rough with Honey Buns.”

“Honey
Babe
,” Birdie corrected, with Toonsis struggling in
her arms resentfully. Majestic leapt onto Walter's lap and let out a yip.

“You're right, Poopie,” Cynthia said, turning cool. “Walter, does the truck still run
great
?” She knew, of course, that it didn't.

Walter looked at Birdie and cleared his throat.

Yip yip!

“Oh my God!” Birdie yelled, standing up and sweeping the two papillons under either arm. She yanked open the front door and deposited the two on the porch, taking a deep breath. The air smelled like dry leaves and fireplaces. She looked down at the dogs and took in their pitiful
Who, me?
faces. “I envy you,” she said, before slamming the door shut.

The argument between Poopie and Birdie's mom about the truck had escalated. Poopie was digging into her stuffing relentlessly, twirling her fork around in it as they talked. The silver of her fork glinted and then, suddenly, a bit of stuffing was sailing across the table.

Everyone froze where they were. A piece of stuffing had landed in Cynthia's short blond hair and dangled there by her ear like an earring.

“Did you just throw food at me?”

Poopie leaned back and crossed her arms, looking both self-conscious and defiant. “Was an accident.”

“That's fine.” Cynthia reached toward the gherkin bowl and knocked it over so that the gherkins went tumbling onto Poopie's lap. “Ooh, sorry.”

“Mom!” Birdie gasped.
The beautiful gherkins.
The only thing she hadn't ruined. But it was too late.

Poopie grasped a turkey leg and jerked it off the turkey, letting
it fly out of her hands at Cynthia. “Ooh, sorry,” Poopie mimicked.

Knock knock knock.

As if waking from a trance, everyone blinked in the direction of the foyer.

Birdie stood up from the table, trembling inside. “Um,” she mumbled. “I'll…get it.” Birdie walked to the door stiffly, glancing back over her shoulder. Everyone sat still, watching her, not looking at one another. She grasped the doorknob and pulled.

There, standing on the top step, a backpack slung over his shoulder, was Enrico.

“Surprise,” he said, reaching his arms around her waist, pulling her into a hug. Birdie sank into him. He smelled like peach blossoms.

L
eeda walked into the foyer of her house. The smell of turkey was drifting in the air, but the dining room table was pristine and empty.

That afternoon, she had wandered around Bridgewater until the temperature dropped with the sun. Now, standing face-to-face with the autographed photo of Lucretia as queen on the console, Leeda swiped at her dress, which was covered in big splotches of powder. Some kid had apparently run out of pecans and pelted her with his funnel cake. She felt her cell phone vibrating in her purse and pulled it out, hitting
Ignore
when she saw it was Birdie. Murphy hadn't even called at all. Birdie, of course, had called five times. Leeda turned off the phone and then brushed at herself as she followed the sound of the TV to the home theater.

Danay and Brighton were sitting on one of the recliners eating popcorn and watching a dog show. Leeda sank onto the armrest.

“Hey. Who did that to you?” No answer. “You missed Thanksgiving dinner. Mom's pissed.”

Leeda opened and closed her mouth. She felt a fresh wave of venom rise up in her throat. “She missed my parade,” she managed to squeak out.

Danay shrugged.

Leeda had the feeling you got in a dream, when you yell and yell and no voice comes out. She wanted to make Danay hear that it was a big deal. But Danay looked so impenetrable, chomping on her popcorn, devil-may-care. All Leeda could get out was a tight, “She said she wanted to see me on the float. With the hyperhalitosis and everything…” Her voice got infinitely smaller until it cut off completely. Because she felt infinitely small.

“It's hyper
hidrosis
. What does that have to do with anything?”

“Well, what if she dies?” Leeda spat out. Danay looked at her like she'd lost her mind. And Leeda couldn't make sense of the look. She couldn't even believe she'd said
dies
out loud. It seemed like some sort of curse.

Danay gave Brighton a sort of can-you-believe-this gesture. “Lee, all that happens with hyperhidrosis is you sweat a lot. The only thing that's in danger is Mom's ego.”

Leeda felt like the oxygen had been sucked out of her. She leaned against the doorway. “I don't believe you.”

Danay slapped her hand to her forehead. “Oh, don't be so dramatic. Brighton knows.”

Brighton, who'd interned at Holy Cross the year before, nodded, his glasses glinting in the light of the giant TV. “It's true.”

Danay turned her eyes back to the screen, but Leeda couldn't stop staring at her sister. She could have been knocked over with a feather.

Finally Danay looked over at her and did a double take. “God. You believed her?” She shook her head.

Leeda backed up slowly.

Danay turned to Brighton, rolling her eyes. “My mom is such a rat,” she said to Brighton, amused. “I'm telling you, she can get her way with anyone.
Anyone.
”

 

Upstairs, Leeda packed her room piece by piece. She stripped her soft white comforter off her bed. She shoved as many clothes as she could into her big gray suitcase. She took her photos of Murphy and Birdie and her dad and stuffed them into the front pocket. She wanted to tear it all down. She wanted to tear down the walls.

She was hoping her mom would hear her and come to see what she was doing. But she didn't.

Finally she walked down the hall to her parents' bedroom. “Mom?” Her mom and dad were reading. Her mom was at the very side of the bed, while her dad was in the middle. They both looked up in surprise, taking in the funnel cake stains.

Leeda swallowed. “I don't understand,” she said, her heart pounding.

“Where were you for dinner?” Lucretia asked, immediately going on the offensive, lowering her book onto the lap of her silky pink long-sleeved nightgown.

Leeda's words rushed out in a wave. “Why couldn't you just be there for me? Like a normal mom? Why is that such a problem?”

Lucretia stiffened. Her hands fluttered on her book. She looked trapped. “Leeda, I'm sorry, but Danay was here and…”

“Time slipped away from you, right?”

Lucretia shut her mouth, souring.

It was maddening to Leeda that pouring out her heart brought that kind of look in return. “Why don't you care if
I
slip away from you?”

“Oh, really.” Lucretia rolled her eyes at Leeda's dad, who did what he usually did—he kept his face in his book, opting out of the controversy. It made Leeda want to scream. How could he not expect more? How could he live with her mom the way she was?

Leeda took a deep breath and tried to even herself out and capture some dignity. “I want it back.”

“What back?” Lucretia asked, squinting at her.

“The Barbie.”

“What?”

“I want the Barbie back.”

Lucretia lifted her book again, as if to start reading. “Don't be ridiculous, Leeda.”

Leeda scanned the room and saw it sitting on the bureau. She marched over and grabbed it. Lucretia leapt up out of bed. “You are out of line, Leeda.”

“Why did you even have me?”

Lucretia didn't say anything. Apparently she didn't have anything to say.

Leeda felt punched down the middle with holes. She moved back to the doorway. “I just want you to know…” she sputtered, “that when you're old and sick and you need someone, I'm not taking care of you! I'm wheeling you off the dock!”

As Leeda sailed down the hallway, she passed Danay coming
to see what the commotion was and pushed right past her. She grabbed her suitcase from her room and hurried down the stairs.

When she backed out of the driveway, Lucretia was standing on the stoop in her nightgown, watching her go. Leeda couldn't tell if she looked pulled apart or just shocked. Leeda backed onto the road and slammed on the gas.

She knew where she was going before she really knew. At the intersection of Anjaco and Orchard, she threw the Barbie out the window and turned left.

As she reached the edge of orchard property, she stepped harder on the gas, feeling freedom, the closeness of redemption. She peered to her left to see if there were lights on up at the house and then glanced back at the road. At that moment, two tan blobs flashed out from the grass and she slammed on the brakes. She watched them disappear under the car with a
thump thump
.

She'd had just enough time to see that they were wearing sweaters.