The Vanishing Half: A Novel (30 page)

By then, he hadn’t run a job for Ceel in three months. “I oughta throw you a retirement party already,” Ceel had told him, in their last phone call. “You ain’t that kid no more I first met. You lost your killer instinct.” Early hung up, knowing that Ceel was just trying to goad him, knowing that Ceel still needed him, the old man telling Early, more than once, that he was the best hunter he’d ever had. Once, his insults might’ve worked. But now life was different. Early wasn’t a kid anymore. He had responsibilities. A woman he loved. Her mother, whom he loved too, who had nearly burned the house down when she had turned on the stove to boil water for coffee, forgotten about it, and gone back to sleep. He had gone out to Fontenot’s that day, bought a Mr. Coffee for the kitchen, taught Adele how to use it. But after that morning, she never made coffee again. When Desiree left to open Lou’s Egg House, he woke up and made a cup for Adele. And if he was off working for Ceel, who would be home to do that?

For the first time in his life, he found a job, a real one, at the oil refinery. Now he went to work every day—like a proper man, Adele would have once said—in gray coveralls with his name stitched over the heart. Early Come Lately, his foreman called him, since he was the oldest roughneck in the crew. He worked mornings when Desiree closed, evenings when she went in early, seesawing their schedules so that Adele was never left alone.

One morning, he took Adele fishing down on the river. Swallows swooped overhead, rustling through the pines. Adele glanced over, tightening her sweater around herself. She wore her hair in two long
braids now. Each morning Desiree combed her hair, or if she had to get to Lou’s, Early did. She’d taught him how to braid one afternoon, demonstrating with pieces of yarn. He’d practiced, again and again, amazed that his fingers were capable of anything so delicate. He liked the mornings when he braided Adele’s hair. She only allowed him to because she was forgetting, and he could forget, too, that she wasn’t his mother.

“You warm enough there, Miss Adele?” he asked.

She nodded, gathering her sweater closer.

“Desiree said you like goin fishin,” he said. “That true?”

“Desiree say that?”

“Yes’m. I told her we find her some fish to fry up tonight. Sound good, don’t it?”

She stared up at the trees, wringing her hands.

“I ought to be gettin to work myself,” Adele said.

“No, ma’am. You got the day off.”

“The whole day?”

She was so surprised and delighted by the idea that he didn’t have the heart to tell her that she hadn’t gone to work in the past nine months. The white folks she cleaned for had been the first to notice her lapse in memory. Dishes ending up in the wrong drawers, laundry folded before it dried, canned beans chilled in the refrigerator while chicken rotted on the pantry shelf.

“Oh, I’m old,” she’d said. “You know how it is. You just start forgettin things.”

But Dr. Brenner said that it was Alzheimer’s and it would only get worse. Desiree cried on the phone when she called to tell Early. He cut a job in Lawrence short to be with her. It’d be all right, he’d told her, rocking her, even though he couldn’t think of anything more terrifying than looking into Desiree’s face one day and only seeing a stranger.

“Are you my son?” Adele asked.

He smiled, reaching for his fishing rod.

“No, ma’am,” he said.

“No,” she repeated. “I don’t have any sons.”

She turned, satisfied, to the trees, as if he’d just helped her solve a riddle that was troubling her. Then she glanced at him again, almost shyly.

“You not my husband, are you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“I don’t have one of those neither.”

“I’m just your Early,” he said. “That’s all I am.”

“Early?” She laughed suddenly. “What type of fool name is that?”

“The only fool name I got.”

“I know who you are,” she said. “You that farm boy always hangin around Desiree.”

He touched the end of her gray braid.

“That’s right,” he said. “That’s exactly right.”

W
HEN THEY RETURNED
to the house, there was a white woman sitting on the porch.

Early had caught two small speckled trout, delighting Adele, who’d watched them wriggle on his line. Now, heading back home, Adele humming, her arm looped though his, he spotted the white woman through the clearing and gripped her arm tighter. Once a woman from the county came by to check on Adele. Desiree was humiliated, some strange white woman wandering around her house to make sure that the living conditions were suitable.

“It must be suitable enough,” she told Early, “she been livin here sixty years!”

He hated the thought of government workers poking around, as if the two of them were not capable of looking after one forgetting
woman, but the visits came with the assistance. They needed money for the medicines, the doctor visits, the bills. Still, he wasn’t too thrilled about meeting the county woman. No surprise what she’d think of him.

He patted Adele’s hand.

“If that lady ask, we’ll tell her I’m your son-in-law,” he said.

“What you talkin about?”

“That white lady on the porch,” he said. “From the county. Just to make it all go down easier.”

She pulled away.

“Quit foolin,” she said. “That ain’t no white woman. That’s just Stella.”

In all the years he’d hunted Stella, imagined her, dreamed about her, she’d become larger in his eyes. She was smarter than him. Clever, twisting away each time he drew near. But this not-white woman, this Stella Vignes, looked so ordinary, he lost his breath. Not like Desiree—he wouldn’t have confused the two, even as he drew closer, Stella clambering to her feet. She wore navy blue slacks and leather boots, her hair pinned into a ponytail. Pitch black, like she hadn’t aged at all, unlike Desiree, whose temples began to streak silver. It wasn’t just her clothes, though, but the way she held her body. Taut, like a guitar string wound around itself. She looked scared, but of what? Of him? Well, maybe she ought to be. He wanted to rage at her for every night Desiree fell asleep thinking of her, not him.

But Stella wasn’t looking at him. She was staring at her mother, her mouth open like a trout gasping for breath. Adele barely glanced at her.

“Girl, come help us clean those fishes,” Adele said. “And go get your sister.”

H
ER MOTHER HAD LOST
HER MIND
.

Stella realized this, slowly, as she followed her down the narrow
hallway to the kitchen, where a strange man unloaded fish from an icebox. All the times she’d imagined what her mother might say if she came home—she would be angry, might even slap her across the face—she’d never pictured this: her mother a shell of herself, bustling around the kitchen as if the only thing on her mind were fixing dinner. As indifferent to Stella as if she’d been gone twenty-five minutes, not years. The strange man following after her, picking up a knife after she’d set it down, keeping her away from the stove, finally convincing her to have a seat at the table while he made her a cup of coffee.

“Are you Desiree’s husband?” Stella asked.

He let out a low laugh. “Somethin like that.”

“Well, who are you, then? What’re you doing with my mother?”

“Why you actin like that, Stella?” her mother said, handing her a spoon. “You know this your brother.”

He couldn’t be the dark girl’s father. He wasn’t nearly as black as her, even though he looked grizzled and tough, like the type of man who might bully a woman.

“How long has it been like this?” she said.

“Year, maybe.”

“Jesus.”

“Girl, don’t take the Lord’s name in vain,” her mother said. “I raised you better than that.”

“I’m sorry, Mama,” she said quickly. “Mama, I’m so sorry—”

“I don’t know what you talkin about,” her mother said. “Probably don’t need to know. Start workin on that fish.”

Her daddy had taught her how to gut a fish. She’d trounced alongside him in the river, water splashing up to her knees. Desiree marching up ahead, stomping so loud, Daddy said, that she’d scare all the fish away. They were his twin sprites, following him through the woods. The fishing part always bored Desiree; she wandered off,
sprawling on her stomach somewhere making daisy chains, but Stella could sit with him for hours, so still, imagining that she could see through the murky water to every living thing swirling around her bare toes. After, he showed the twins how to clean the fish he’d caught. Lay it flat, slide the knife inside the belly, and then what? She couldn’t remember. She wanted to cry.

“I don’t know how,” she said.

“You just don’t like gettin your hands dirty,” her mother said. “Desiree!”

“She at work, Miss Adele,” the man said.

“Work?”

“Over in town.”

“Well somebody ought to get her. She’s gonna miss supper.”

“Stella’ll fetch her,” the man said. “I’m gonna stay right here with you.”

He wrapped an arm around her mother’s shoulders, protectively. Protecting her from me, Stella realized, gently setting down the knife. She stepped out onto the front porch and stared into the woods. She did not realize until she was walking through the dirt that she had no idea where she was going.

T
HE FIRST THING
to know about the Reunion, as it would later be called, is that there were no real witnesses. Lou’s Egg House was always empty between lunch and dinner, which was when Jude phoned from the student union. Desiree loved those noisy calls, even though Jude always sounded harried, rushing off to a lecture or a lab. That afternoon, she was trying to coax Desiree to visit her again.

“You know I can’t,” Desiree said.

“I know,” Jude said. “I just miss you. I worry about you sometimes.”

Desiree swallowed. “Well, don’t,” she said. “You out there livin your life. That’s all I want for you. Don’t you worry about me. Mama’ll be all right.”

She didn’t hear the bell jingle over the door until after she hung up the phone. It surprised her. The diner had been empty when she’d stepped into the back to answer the phone, except for Marvin Landry, who was never sober past noon, the war having done him, and that afternoon in particular, he was slumped in a back booth, a fifth of whiskey inside his jacket. He hadn’t touched the turkey sandwich Desiree had left in front of him. He didn’t even wake up when Stella Vignes stepped inside. He didn’t see her pause in the doorway, glancing around at the peeling linoleum floors, the bursting leather stools, the bum snoozing in the corner. Didn’t hear Desiree call from the back, “Be right out!”

He certainly didn’t see Desiree backing out of the kitchen, retying her apron. She didn’t notice him at all, because when she turned around, she was staring at Stella.

“Oh,” Desiree said. That was all she could think to say. Oh. Less a word than a sound. She dropped her apron strings, the garment flapping uselessly against her. Across the counter, Stella was smiling but her eyes filled with tears. She stepped toward her but Desiree held up a hand.

“Don’t,” she said, choking back anger. Stella standing in front of her, appearing with no warning, no apologies, returning only after Desiree had finally let her go. Wearing that blouse that she would sometimes remember as the color of cream, other times the color of bone, a blouse that looked like it had never stained or wrinkled. Tiny pearl buttons. A shiny silver bracelet. No wedding ring, her hands tightening into fists the way they curled sometimes when Stella was nervous, and she was nervous now, wasn’t she, she had never been nervous around Desiree before. But why shouldn’t she be? All those
years, what had given her the nerve to show her face again? To expect that she might be welcomed? Desiree’s thoughts ran jumbled through her head. She could barely follow them. And Stella’s smile faded, but she still took another tiny step closer.

“I mean it,” Desiree said. Her voice low, threatening.

“Forgive me,” Stella said. “Forgive me.”

She was still repeating those words when she walked around the counter. Desiree tried to push her away but Stella pulled and then they were struggling, and then they were holding each other, Desiree exhausted, whimpering, Stella begging for forgiveness into her sister’s hair. And that’s what Marvin Landry told everyone he saw when he finally woke up: a turkey sandwich resting on a plate in front of him, and a misted bottle of Coke, and behind the counter, Desiree Vignes wrapped around herself.

S
HE
’
S DIFFERENT NOW
.

The same words passed through each twin’s mind. Desiree, eyeing how Stella held her knife and fork, barely gripping the metal. Stella, noticing how boldly Desiree moved around the kitchen now. Desiree, watching Stella rub the back of her neck, a gesture that seemed so wearied, it startled her. Stella, listening to Desiree speak to their mother, her voice soft and soothing. And all the while, to Adele Vignes, the twins were the same as they’d ever been. Time was collapsing and expanding; the twins were different and the same all at once. There could have been fifty pairs of twins sitting at that dinner table, a seat for each person they had been since they’d spoken last: a battered wife and a bored one, a waitress and a professor, each woman seated next to a stranger.

Instead, there were only the twins, Early sitting between them. He felt, watching Stella primly cut her fish, that he didn’t know Desiree
at all, that maybe it was impossible to know one without the other. After dinner, he cleared the dishes while the twins stepped out onto the front porch, Desiree carrying a dusty bottle of gin that she’d found in the back of the pantry. She’d brought it out even though she didn’t know if Stella even liked gin, but Stella’s eyes drifted to the bottle, then back to hers, and Desiree felt the thrill of a silent conversation. She smuggled it outside, Stella trailing after her.

“Don’t y’all stay out too late,” their mother called. “It’s a school night.”

Now they passed the bottle lazily between them, wincing through sips of that ancient gin, which had been a wedding gift from Marie Vignes. The Decuirs had been scandalized—what a present from your mother-in-law!—and somehow, the controversial bottle had been forgotten over the years. Desiree sipped, then Stella, the twins falling into an easy rhythm.