Tomato Girl (13 page)

She lowered her legs over the edge of the bed and sat up, slowly pulling herself into a standing position. “Are those my clothes? Which dress did you pick, Ellie? Shall I try to guess?”

My father answered for me. “I'm afraid there was a mistake, Julia. Tess packed your things, and well, she …”

“What, Rupert? What is it? Did you forget the dress? Well …”

He held the shopping bag out to my mother and looked down at the floor. I was reminded of the time I handed the librarian a book I'd accidentally dropped in the bathtub, ruining every page.

Daddy lowered his voice. “Tess didn't know, Julia. She just picked the first dress …”

Mama took the bag from his hand and looked inside, then she sat back down on the bed, her face drained of all color.

My stomach felt tight and weak all at once. I wanted to believe that God had somehow reached inside that bag and changed
Mama's ghost dress into something else, but one look at Mama's face told me He had not.

Daddy pushed her to speak. “Julia, please. Say something.”

Mama didn't lift her head. She pulled the paisley dress from the bag and draped it across her lap. The ghost dress never looked more dark or ugly.

“Damn you, Rupert. Damn you.”

D
URING THE CAB RIDE
back home, my parents did not speak to each other. I sat between them, Daddy on my right, Mama on my left. I felt like the division mark drawn down the middle of a battlefield.

Daddy made small talk with the cab driver, making no effort to include my mother.

When did this bad thing happen? When did Daddy turn against Mama? Was it when Tess sat in her truck and blew smoke kisses on his neck? Or maybe it began when he first saw Tess walk into the store, a basket of tomatoes swinging on her arm.

While Daddy talked with the cab driver, Mama stayed perfectly quiet, picking at the stitches in her forehead, causing a thin red trickle of blood to run down her cheek.

My sad mama was coming back. I knew all the signs: the bowed shoulders, nervous fingers picking skin, and the drift-away look in her eyes.

I snuggled close, pulling her hand away from her face as gently as I could. “I've missed you, Mama,” I whispered in her ear.

A half smile crossed her pale lips. “I've missed you, too, Ellie. Tell me about Jellybean. How is your little chick?”

Closing her eyes, she leaned her head against the back of the seat. Her bruised skin reminded me of the poem she wrote about shadows crossing a woman's face. In the end of the poem, the woman drowns, but her blue face blooms into a flower. It was a sad and beautiful poem, just like my mother.

Even in my dead grandmother's dress, Mama looked lovely. I wanted to tell her, “You are a queen compared to Tess,” but she would not have believed me, and besides, I didn't want to mention Tess's name.

So I leaned close and told her about my tiny chick. Speaking in my best storytelling voice, I drew out the words to make them last. Mama's tight lips parted. Flickers across her eyelids told me pictures played in her mind. Words are magic that way.

I kept talking, stretching out my tale as long as I could, careful not to mention Daddy or Tess. The lines in Mama's face smoothed like an ironed shirt. I licked my thumb and rubbed away the red streak from her cheek.

“I will take care of you, Mama. Always.”

It was a promise I meant to keep.

T
ESS GREETED US
with a plate of cucumber sandwiches piled on the Christmas tray Mama used for fruitcake and sugar cookies. She smiled with all the sincerity of a game-show hostess showing off a brand new Maytag.

I wanted to slap her.

“I don't care for any,” Mama said.

“Me neither,” I chimed in. “I hate cucumbers.”
I hate you, too, Tess,
I said under my breath.

Daddy took one look at Tess's hurt face and grabbed up sandwiches in both hands. “These are really good,” he said, as he crammed another sandwich in his mouth.

I hoped he would choke.

Tess beamed, her pink face aglow as she continued her gracious hostess act. “Well, I also made lemonade, or I could brew some tea if you want something hot.”

“No, thank you,” my mother said. Mama lifted her head and stared at Tess, her eyes narrow and pointed like darts. “I don't want anything from you.”

Mama didn't wait for Tess to speak. She turned and walked upstairs to the room she no longer shared with my father.

M
Y HANDS SWEATED
as I stood in the hallway outside Mama's room. Taking a deep breath, I twisted the brass knob, nudged the door open, and stepped inside.

Mama was perched on the edge of her bed like a child uncertain where or how she should sit. I almost expected her to run from the room, but she must have realized what I already knew: there was no place to go. Tess had already taken over most of the house, buying new brands of detergents, paper towels, and soaps; rearranging furniture to suit herself; leaving her books, cosmetics, and what-nots on tables in every room. This room was the only part of the house left for my mother, and that was spoiled now, too. Spoiled not by what was added, but by what had been taken away.

I sat on the bed and wrapped my arms around Mama's shoulders. Tears washed the faded bruises on her face. “She wants to take him, Ellie. She wants to steal your father.” Spit formed in the corners of her mouth. Beneath my hands, the muscles in Mama's back stiffened.

“Daddy would never leave us, Mama.” I patted her back, trying to smooth the tension away. “He'll get tired of Tess. You'll get better, and she'll go away for good.”

Mama twisted a tissue in her hands. “When she leaves, your father will go with her, Ellie. Watch and see. I know him, Ellie. When we met, your father was a young man working as a field hand. He came to my papa's front door and offered to clear the back pasture for room and board plus wages. Papa gave him the job, and within three weeks, Rupert had cleared that land. When Papa handed him the wage he'd earned, Rupert said he didn't want the money, that all he wanted was a dance with the dark-haired girl he'd seen reading under the willow tree.”

“And that was you, Mama?”

Mama smiled. “That was me.” She wiped the corner of her eyes with her tissue, then continued. “My father wouldn't hear of it, of course. Papa would not see me married to a field hand. He shoved money into Rupert's hand and told him to leave, even had my brothers escort him to the train depot to be sure we'd seen the last of Rupert Sanders. But your daddy was a determined man, even then. He found his way back to me, and one summer afternoon, he caught me alone under the willow tree. He smelled so good, his arms felt so strong, and when he swirled me around under the perfect sky, I knew I'd go anywhere he'd ask. The next afternoon, I packed my things, and while Papa and Mama were visiting a sick neighbor, I rode away with my handsome prince, all the way to Memphis, where we were married at a little roadside chapel.” Mama paused. “So you see, Ellie, I know how your father acts when he is in love.”

Mama stared right through me, her mind so far away I felt alone even sitting right beside her.

A
FTER HELPING
M
AMA
undress and get into bed, I went back to my room. Jellybean had spent so much time alone and confined to his box that I felt guilty about ever bringing him home. He would have been better off sold to another girl, someone who would love him and tend to him the way he deserved.

Mama had barely touched her tray at the hospital, so she had to be hungry. I knew I was hungry, too, and decided to walk downstairs and find something to eat.

No voices in the kitchen or living room told me that Daddy and Tess had gone outside, maybe to Daddy's toolshed or to the store. I didn't feel like talking to them anyway. I wanted only to eat, and to feed Mama and Jellybean. Afterwards, I wanted a long, deep sleep.

I wanted to make something special for Mama, but I wasn't sure what ingredients or how much trouble I'd be in for messing
up the kitchen. I was supposed to use the stove only with an adult present, but bending the rule this once seemed okay.

Mama kept three cookbooks on the counter beside the toaster. I pulled out the one with the red-and-white-checkered cover and sat down at the kitchen table to decide what to fix. The recipes I liked best were the ones with pictures beside them showing you what the finished dish would look like, assuming you got it right, of course.

I admired a plate of spaghetti with three perfect meatballs, covered with a layer of Parmesan cheese that looked like snow. The instructions, though, were a little long.

Deviled eggs were the most difficult food I'd ever made, and Mama had done the hard part: boiling the eggs. My job was to peel away the shells, cut the eggs in half, and fill the eggs with the yolk, mayonnaise, and mustard combination. The spaghetti meal would probably be too much for me to handle on my own.

I returned the cookbook to the counter and decided to find something easier. Soup and sandwiches might be good.

While cutting the tin lid from the Campbell's can, I noticed a note tacked to the pegboard by the telephone:
Ellie, we've gone to Tess's house to get her tomato plants. Will be back in an hour or two. Love, Daddy.

A panicky feeling came over me. What if Mama was right? What if Daddy did leave? What if he said he was going to get Tess's tomato plants but was lying? I wondered what Mary Roberts would do, but couldn't picture her in a mess like this. She would have handled it long before it got to this point.

After emptying the soup into Mama's pot and adding a can of water, I turned the burner on low heat and sat down at the kitchen table to think.

I reasoned that if Daddy were going to leave, he'd take his clothes, wouldn't he? Unless they're really, really upset, no one runs away from home without taking their clothes. I jumped up from the table and ran into the sewing room to check. All
Daddy's things seemed to be there. His shaving cup, clothes, and alarm clock hadn't been moved since this morning.

I sighed with relief. Maybe there was nothing to worry about after all. Mama and Daddy had disagreed about things before, and they'd always worked them out. Maybe in a few days, they'd calm down enough to talk. Together, they'd decide what to do about Tess. Mama would understand that Daddy couldn't send Tess back to Mr. Reed's house because of the dirty things he did to her. Daddy might want her to stay, but he'd surely see that Mama's feelings had to be considered as well. Somehow, there had to be a better way. Maybe Tess could work in the store and use the money to rent a room? Or maybe she had relatives who lived far away. I would put all my sewing money toward buying her a bus ticket.

I smelled food burning and checked the stove. The soup was fine, but some bread that had fallen under the burner was sending up a thin thread of smoke. The heat and smell reminded me of stormy winter days when the electricity went out. Daddy always rigged up a small gas stove in the living room and Mama melted cheese on thick slices of stale bread, and warmed cocoa or soup in mugs. We curled up in blankets on the floor, the three of us under one cover. With my belly warm and full, I'd listen to their voices and dream until morning.

The soup gurgled on the stove, interrupting my daydream. I turned the heat back a little to keep the bottom of the pan from scorching. Many times, when first learning to heat soup or gravy, I'd left the heat too high and had to spend hours scrubbing pans clean.

Just as I reached for the spoon to stir the soup, Mama screamed.

M
AMA SCREAMED AGAIN
, a long shrill sound.

I couldn't breathe. For a few seconds, I stood frozen, then something broke inside my throat and I screamed, too. Her scream and mine became the same sound, so sharp I felt it slice through me.

Somehow my legs and feet carried me up the stairs toward the mother who needed me.

Lily caught in a hurricane.

Be the calm wind for her.

Be the still water, the gentle rain.

I stopped screaming and tried to breathe.

My legs kept moving.

“Mama! Mama!”

She wasn't in her bed. Shoved to one side, the sheets and covers were piled on the floor. A reddish stain spread out from the bed's center and darkened the floral sheet.

As I started for my room to see if she'd wandered in there, she cried out again. This time, her voice wasn't shrill, but deeper, as
if she'd been hurt: a sound caught midway between a scream and a moan.

The noise came from the bathroom. I hurried in that direction, my hands shaking because I didn't know what I'd find. She may have fallen. Or she could have hurt herself on purpose. Sometimes Mama cries the hardest when she hurts inside. From living with Mama, I've come to understand that the places you can't see or reach can hurt most of all.

The door was closed, but knocking didn't seem important. I opened it and stepped inside.

“Oh, Mama!”

She was crouched on the floor between the toilet and bathtub, looking like a frightened animal. Her dark hair fell into her face so that I couldn't see her eyes. I needed to see them. A person's eyes tell everything.

As I moved closer, I looked down and saw a dull red puddle spread out under Mama. She was bleeding! This couldn't be the monthly blood Tess told me about, could it? No, there was too much. This was something bad. I wanted to look away, but couldn't. There was no one else to hand this to and say, “Here, you take it.” Mama was mine.

I steadied my voice. “Mama, what happened?”

She moved a little, shifting her hips in the puddle of blood, causing her white nightgown to ride up around her thighs, the fabric soaked in blood. Mama's pale legs were smeared red, too. As I looked closer, I saw that Mama held something in her hands, something small and bloody.