The Sisters from Hardscrabble Bay (45 page)

“Well, jail was a good place for you! You caused that other guy with the lobster—”

“Edward!” Idella shouted.

Avis said, “I need a cigarette.”

“No smoking here,” Eddie jumped right in. “You can’t smoke.”

“It’s smoke a cigarette or kill him,” Avis said. “Which do you want, Idella?”

“I’ll have to think about it.”

“Well, I’m going out front—I saw a bench there. And then we’re rolling, Idella. I’ve had enough.” She picked up her coat from the chair where she’d thrown it, started to get her cigarettes, and went out.

“That Avis is always smoking in your face,” Eddie said.

“I better go see about her,” Idella said. “I’ll be right back.”

Outside, a few flakes of snow were falling. She found Avis on the bench. “Beep, beep,” she said. “Can I come out?”

“No.”

“I won’t say a word about the smoke,” she said. “You okay?”

“I’ve been more comfortable. I know that.” Avis brushed a little snow off the bench, and Idella sat beside her.

“You two get so ugly. You hold on to grudges so. Why don’t you dwell on the nice memories, for God’s sake?”

“Maybe I don’t have nice memories like you, Idella.”

“Oh, go on! Stop feeling sorry for yourself! You had a hard life. I don’t deny it. We both come from nothing and we tried to make the best of it. You had boyfriends. You had Dwight. You had a career as a hairdresser. You made rugs. You lived a life. Some parts of it didn’t work out too good. Okay. But people loved you, Avis. Dad loved you! Mother did! I know she did.”

“It’s you with memories of her, Idella, not me.”

“I’ve tried to share them! Little bits are all I have. Collecting eggs with her, combing her hair, using up all her cinnamon. I could have kept them private.”

“Don’t do me any favors.”

“You make me so mad! You make it so hard to love you! You push, push, push people away.”

“How would you know?”

“Because I love you!” Idella said. “I love you, goddamn it! You fool. And I’m sorry you couldn’t have children. And I’m sorry you had the drinking. And I’m sorry for a lot of things. But you haven’t always been so nice to me. You’re so mean and hateful to Eddie.”

“He makes it easy.”

“It’s time to stop. There isn’t much time left. Make the best of it! That’s what I’m trying to do here, coming here, bringing Eddie little things to make him happy. I’m trying to make the best of what there is. That’s why I brought this picture. We looked so happy, all windy and loose. ‘Three Sheets to the Wind.’ ”

“That’s us,” Avis said.

“I forgot the oddness involved.”

“Anyway, what have I got to show for all of it? Least you’ve got the girls. What’ve I got? Some braided rugs I made.”

“Them rugs you made are beautiful.”

“It was make rugs or die from cirrhosis. I didn’t want to die yellow. I didn’t want people lined up looking down at me and talking about how yellow I looked. So I quit the drinking and made rugs.”

“Thank God you quit the drinking. It almost killed you. And you were an ugly drunk.”

“I was, was I?”

“Hollering and cursing. Ugly. That’s why Eddie threw you out that time.”

“And he was an angel? Eddie Jensen, who had his hands up skirts like bees over honey.”

“You don’t have to be mean about him anymore,” Idella said. “You see what he’s come to. He’s an old man who’ll never get out of that chair. He can’t go to the bathroom without two people helping him.”

“You’re right. I see what he’s come to.”

“It was Dad that got you to drinking,” Idella said. “I know it. I felt bad about leaving you on the farm with him. I’ve always felt bad about it. But I had to get out! We all had to get out of there!”

“What did you feel so bad about?”

“Dad was so unpredictable,” she said. “He had such a temper. I know the two of you . . . had a special relationship. I never should have left you there alone with him. It got you drinking. It led to things. . . . Maybe . . . I don’t know. . . . It wasn’t healthy.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. When you rode off with the mailman, I was left to do the cooking you’d done and the cleaning you’d done and all the rest of it. And I wasn’t good at it. Instead of a nice stew with biscuits waiting on the stove, Dad’d find me trying to open a can of beans. I couldn’t take to it, cooking and cleaning. I didn’t want to be too good at it. I saw what it was like for you—doing it all perfect and not getting a thing out of it. And Dad, down in him, hungry as he was, God help him, he understood. ’Cause we were kindred spirits.”

“I know that. I know you were.”

“Most nights we’d sit at that table and drink whiskey. I was what, seventeen by then? I started with a sip or two. He said it’d help get down my cooking. Or we’d get drunk and then cook something together. Some nights it was just potatoes. Then it got to be I had my own glass. He drank from the bottle. We’d sit at the table, and that’s when we’d talk, with the whiskey. I was going crazy up there, see. I wanted to get out in the worst way. And I didn’t want to leave him alone.”

“And what about the other? The rumors?”

“And what might that be?”

“You know what I’m asking, Avis.”

“All right, Idella. All right. We were alone on that godforsaken farm. It was lonely. Some nights we’d both be crying. I cried for the mother I never had. He cried for the wife he lost. He blamed himself, you know. She died having his baby. We sat at the kitchen table trying to find comfort in each other. ‘Avis-Mavis,’ he’d say, over and over again. ‘Avis-Mavis, puddin’ an’ pie.’ He’d stroke my hair and talk about Mother—how beautiful her hair was. How gentle she was. Sometimes he’d hold me. I’d never been held much by anyone. Never, as a kid. But he was lonely, too. He missed our mother till the day he died. ‘I’ve had the best,’ he’d say. ‘There’s no one better. No one half as good.’ He spoiled me for others, see. ’Cause none was half as good as Dad.”

“But you never . . . ?”

“I know the truth. And it wasn’t ugly.”

Idella paused. Then, “Thank you,” she said. “For telling me that.”

“I never did thank you for writing me them letters. In the ‘hotel.’ ”

“You’re welcome. I worried so about you. That never occurred to you? That someone might worry about you?”

“Can’t say that it did.”

“I figured. By the way—you never did say—how was the service in the ‘hotel’?”

“Captivating,” Avis said, and they both laughed. After that they just sat, a few flakes still falling, Avis smoking, Idella waving away the smoke. Idella was very still. Avis looked over at her, but she put a hand up for silence.

“Ssssshhh! I hear it.” She began to hum. Then she began to sing, a little, very soft, “‘Hush-a-bye, don’t you cry, go to sleepy, little baby. . . .’”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Avis said.

“It’s that song. There was one particular song Mother would sing.”

“Do you remember her voice?”

Idella closed her eyes. “I don’t know. I hear a certain voice at times, in my head, that might be hers. She’d sit on the porch and sing to Dad.”

“Do it again,” Avis said.

She did, very delicately, and the song seemed to float in the air between them. “That’s it,” Idella said.

“Imagine that.”

“I have,” Idella said. “Many times.” Then after a while, “The smoke is getting to me, Avis. I’ll go see what Edwardo is up to.”

“I’ll finish my cigarette, and then we roll, Idella.”

“Ten four. Over and out.” And she went back inside.

Well, Avis thought, here’s the way it is. I’m not dead yet—like some of these birds around here. What puny bits of life I’ve got left, I want in my trailer. I want to live alone till I’m ready and then die in my trailer—listening to the squirrels skittering over the roof. Dear God, don’t let me come to a place like this
.
Let me die on the threshold. All them people that used to have lives. They sit and wait for the next meal or pill or piss or blood-pressure check. Sit there rotting and peeing at the same time by the smell of things. No. No thank you.

She went back inside and said, “Get your mink on, Idella. Time to roll. I want to get home before this snow gets any worse.”

“Time to go?” Edward asked.

“Yes,” Idella said. “Have some supper.”

“You gonna make lobster stew?”

She began gathering her things. “Oh, no. Grilled cheese, prob’ly.”

“I want lobster stew!” He put his hands on the arm of the chair, as though to stand. “Christ! I can’t get up!”

“Oh, Eddie,” she said, “you have to stay.” Avis was already over by the door.

“What the hell’s wrong with this chair!” he yelled. “Jesus H. Christ! Help me, Idella!”

“I can’t, Eddie. I can’t. You can’t go home. You can’t walk! The doctor says you have to stay here. Eddie, I can’t bring you home, I just can’t!”

And that time he heard her. He stopped struggling and just sat there staring at her for the longest time. She thought he was going to cry. But then Avis called out, “Eddie, look!”

She’d gone to the blackboard, taken the chalk, and changed the month to “April” and the weather to “Rain.” Eddie saw her and smiled. Then she put a finger to her mouth, and Eddie smiled and nodded.

Idella went up to him and took his hand. “Well,” she said, “me and Avis are going to get on home now.”

“Be back tomorrow?”

“I don’t know if I can,” she said. “I’ll call. Bye-bye, now. You be good.”

He looked up at her. “You’re my girl, Idella.”

“I know that,” she said. “Bye-bye.” She gave him a kiss on the cheek and patted his hand.

And just then it started to thunder, a little rumble in the distance. “Well, I’ll be,” Idella said. “An April shower! Avis, how did you know?”

“Me and God are in constant communication.”

“Put in a good word for me.”

“I always do,” Avis said. “Now, let’s get the hell out of here.”

 

April 1987

 

When Idella got to the home, Eddie was sitting with that bell in his lap, the one from the wooden car. She heard him say to himself, “Five dollars,” and “Them crooks.” Then he saw her, reached up, and said, “That Avis bring you?”

“Agnes Knight dropped me off. She’s picking me up in an hour.” She took off her coat.

“Avis too good to drive you?”

“Avis is gone, Eddie.”

“Gone? Where the hell did she have to go?”

“Gone. For good. I told you. She died two months ago. You don’t remember, do you?”

“She’s dead?” he said.

“Yes.” And she began to tell the story again. “She had an accident. She pulled out in front of a big truck. There were two trucks, see, and she waited for the first one. She didn’t know there were two.”

“Killed her?”

“Not right off. Not directly.”

“Holy Christ.”

She told him again, knowing that he didn’t remember, that his mind couldn’t hold things now. “She didn’t seem all that hurt. One of her neighbors out that way was in the car behind. To hear him tell it, when the ambulance came and they tried to put her into it, she had some kind of fit. She wouldn’t let them. She said it was all closed up in there and she couldn’t breathe, and they were afraid she would hurt herself more. She was some kind of wild. So the neighbor took her in his car. He laid her out in the back. She insisted on having the cold air blow on her. He opened all the windows and drove her to the Osteopathic.”

“What about the car?” Eddie said.

“Oh, it was totaled. Anyway, she had a broken rib. They released her after a day with all this medication. I think she got the pills all balled up. But she insisted on going home to her trailer. She was like Dad after he got shot—get me out of here, you know? Stan took her home, and the next morning he come to take her out to breakfast, as a treat. He found her curled up on her side like she was sleeping. There were fresh corn muffins on the counter. She must have set them to cool and gone to bed.

“I am still in shock, Eddie. It hasn’t hit me yet. I keep seeing her there in her coffin, in her blue pantsuit. Something about her head wasn’t right. A funny angle—too high. She didn’t look comfortable.”

“I sold her that car,” Eddie said. “I could sell me a few cars here. That nurse, Claire, I’d give her a good deal. She gets me Pringles. I keep them in the drawer to hide them from my goddamn crazy roommate. He poured my Pringles all over his bed. Broke ’em, so they don’t stack. The goddamned fool tried to get in bed with me. He pulls off the covers and puts his hand on my leg. Then he sits down next to me and says, ‘Move over, Martha.’ Thought I was his dead wife, crazy bastard.”

“Here,” she said, “let me get your hair combed. They don’t pay attention here.” She got out her comb and started in.

“You’re like my mother, always fussing.”

“Oh—go on! Your mother never waited on you hand and foot like I’ve done all these years. She wanted people to wait on
her
! I was among them! Now, give me your hand.”

“You want to hold my hand?”

“No, I want to clip them nails. Put your hand flat here so I can get at it. You been biting your nails?”

“Gotta eat something,” he said, laughing at his joke. “Say, you bring me anything?”

“Well, yes. Pringles. Of course, you need them like a hole in the head.”

“How many you bring?”

“Two—plain and sour cream. They’ll keep you busy for a while.” She put the cans on his lap. He tried to open one but couldn’t find the pull tab.

“Let me open it.”

“You want one, Idella?”

“I haven’t been too hungry.”

She still couldn’t absorb that Avis was gone. Avis wasn’t an important person in this world. None of us is, Idella thought, but her being gone is a great loss, hard as she was. Things happened when Avis was around. She stirred the pudding up good for all of them.