Warpaint (15 page)

“I don't know,” she almost wailed. “That's why I'm scared. And then his teacher called – maybe Mr. Gentry found out. What will they do to Ted, for being so mean?”

“Hmm. You know I haven't talked to your mother about that meeting yet.”

“Don't tell her I told you! Ted would kill me.”

“Honey, calm down. I don't go back on secret-secrets. But if Ted's teacher is involved, then maybe it'll all just be over, and your secret can be buried in the back yard, with that other one we fixed. Just let me talk to your mother first, okay?”

“Okay.”

 

♦

 

Seated on Dr. Shea's examining table, dressed only in a blue paper gown, C.C. drummed her heels lightly against the cold stainless steel, waiting, waiting. When someone knocked on the door, she said, “It's okay. I'm ready.”

Dr. Shea came in, with a thick manila folder under one arm. “How are you?”

“Good. Fine. How are my x-rays?”

“I just want to take a listen, first.” She put the folder on her chair, adjusted her stethoscope, and gently folded back the paper gown. “Take a deep breath? Out. In? Good. Another? Out. Good.” Dr. Shea hung the scope around her neck and sat down, laying the folder in her lap. “I've got bad news, I'm afraid.”

C.C felt as if her oncologist had just socked her in the mouth. “But the x-rays were routine, weren't they? What could be bad about my lungs?”

“I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but the breast cancer has metastasized to one of your lungs. I'm surprised because you've responded so well to the Herceptin, I just didn't think – but I have to help manage your emphysema, too, and when I saw the pictures, well, I called in a radiologist, to be absolutely sure. We need to talk about your options –”

“Options? No – wait, wait. I can't. I can't do this. I can't – I need time. Not chemo again. My hair just grew back!” she said, grabbing a handful of it. “Fuck.”

“I know. I know. Did somebody come with you today?”

C.C. shook her head.

“Shall I call your friend? I don't think you should be alone.”

“I don't want anybody. Not yet.”

“Shall I just tell you what course of therapy I think you should follow?”

C.C. crossed her arms and her ankles, rocking herself gently. “No. I want to ask you first, point blank: can you cure it? Will I ever be cancer-free?”

Dr. Shea's whole face softened with regret. “No, C.C. All I can do is try to control it. But that doesn't mean you can't live a full life. That's what I'm here for: to help you survive, to keep you comfortable, to help you make the most –”

“Stop. Please just stop it!”

“Are you sure I can't call your friend? I really think –”

“No. I need to be alone. I need to think. I don't have to decide right this minute, about anything, do I?”

“Not right this minute, but soon. Give me a call in the next few days.” She took a card from her front pocket, and wrote on the back of it. “That's my cell. Don't hesitate to use it, bypass the office get straight to me. As soon as you can? Please? You're sure you're okay to drive?”

“Yes. I am, thanks. I'll call. Soon.”

Dr. Shea nodded, and left the room, closing the door softly behind her. C.C. stared into space for a few seconds, then shook herself and began to dress. Somehow, she got out of the office, paid her co-pay, and drove herself to the “shed” where she sat down on the couch, shivering and sweating.

“Fucking crab,” she muttered and then shrieked, a long, loud mad sound that made her own ears ring.

When C.C. showed up at the condo late that afternoon, Quiola was deep into packing for another move; open boxes, stacks and balls of newspaper, twine, tape and in amidst it all, the cat.

“She's been in kitty heaven,” said Quiola.

“So I see. You're making good progress here – better than I'm doing with the “shed”. But I just called some local movers to finish for me.” She sat down on the edge of the couch. “There's no good way to put this, so I'll just say it: the crab is back. I thought it was a routine x-ray for emphysema.”

Quiola turned away from an open box. “What emphysema?”

“Dr. Shea says I've a touch of emphysema. I don't believe her – it's just a cough.”

“What do you mean you don't believe her?”

“How could I have emphysema? I smoked, okay but only a little, for maybe three years. Doesn't make sense. Emphysema's for the hardcore.”

“You didn't believe her? You didn't believe your own doctor?”

“Oh, who cares? The cancer is back. Fucking crab. Here I thought I'd beaten it off with a stick. What am I going to do?”

Quiola sat down in the middle of the messy living room floor, then laid flat on her back, on the cool hardwood and took several deep breaths, while Amelia curled up on her belly. C.C. slid off the couch and onto the floor with them both.

“Where is it back?”

“In my lung.”

“When did you find this out?”

“Today. This morning.”

“And the emphysema?”

“Just before the surgery. But I still don't think –”

“I don't care what you think,” said Quiola rolling onto her side, spilling the cat. “And I'll tell you one thing. You are not going to any doctor's appointment alone again. Ever. I intend to stick to your side like glue. Emphysema is a disease, not an article of faith. What would your father have said?”

“Doctors make mistakes, too.”

“X-rays don't.”

“Yes they do if they aren't read –”

“Enough!” Quiola got to her feet and walked out.

 

♦

 

Having planted, like so many Americans, a victory patch to support the troops during the War, the Davises continued to grow fresh peas, beans, chives, basil, corn, so when Liz took C.C.'s hand and headed into Nancy's summer garden, it was full to bursting with flowers, early vegetables and sprouts of what would soon become the late summer crop.

“You have it with you? Yes?” Liz asked. “Good. Shall we bury it next to the other one or find a new spot?”

“Next to the other one. Mom said we could pick flowers for the dinner table.”

“Lovely. So, do you remember where we buried the other one?”

C.C. pointed at an apple tree that sat between the pear and cherry trees.

“Fine.” Liz moved past the black-eyed susans, the peas and beans until she stood with C.C. at the foot of the apple tree. She put down her basket of gardening tools. “Pick a spot,” she said, as a yellow butterfly zigzagged by. It was just after lunch, and the sun showed signs of muscle, so that after Liz had put on her gloves, knelt on one denim knee and had been digging for a while, she worked up a light bead of sweat. C.C., dressed that day in a crisp jumper, watched and fingered the piece of paper in her pocket.

“There,” said Liz. “that should be deep enough. Hand it over.”

C.C. withdrew the paper from her pocket, and looked at the words, then turned her blue eyes up at Liz. “It will be gone, won't it?”

“All gone. I promise you, Ted won't hurt Tuck. When a person buries a secret-secret, it's all over. The other one didn't come back, did it?”

“No.” C.C. held out the piece of paper. “Ted is okay?”

“He's fine. He's just a boy, that's all. Boys are funny. They like to scare girls. They like to stir up trouble. Ted just wanted some attention, that's all. He got it and it's over.” She mounded dirt on top of the secret-secret, written out on the paper, and got off her knee, brushing dirt from her jeans. “Feel better?”

“I do. I really do!”

“Told you.” She shook off the spade, adjusted one glove and selected a pair of shears. “Carry the basket?”

“Okay.” C.C. took the handle. “Mom said black-eyed susans, yellow daisies and the larkspur.”

Liz stared out across the garden. “Really. You mother has her ideas, doesn't she?”

“Yep. Like when she cooks, too. If Daddy cooks dinner, you never know what will happen. Like when Mom went to have Tucker. Daddy made us dinner, and it was steak and onions with fried potatoes. Can you believe it?”

“But that sounds yummy! What's wrong with it?”

C.C. laughed so hard she almost dropped her basket. “Oh, Aunt Liz, of course it was yummy. Daddy's dinner is always yummy, but it's
wrong,
don't you see? Because you don't make steak with
fried
potatoes, steak goes with baked, or maybe twice-baked.”

“Oh, I see. Your mother does have rules, doesn't she? And what's the plan for tonight?” She began to cut black-eyed susans, laying them on one side of the basket.

“Soft-shelled crab, coleslaw, peas, bread and butter. I like that. Do you?”

“Peas when they're fresh. Crab, always. Especially soft-shelled ones – and your Mother knows it, too.”

“Yep. She said it was because of your show you're having in the City.”

Liz half-smiled. “Not much of one, but your Mom is an optimist.”

“What does that mean?”

Liz leaned over the larkspur, and cut a bunch. “It means she has faith in me. She thinks I'm a good painter.”

“You are! I know you are!”

“Thanks, honey.” Having cut the flowers Nancy wanted, Liz put the shears away and took the basket from C.C. who asked, “Want to see the crabs? Dad has them in an ice bucket in the pantry. I think they look like big bugs. Don't you?” She shaped her hands like claws. “When they wave their arms and made them go like this?” She made a clamping motion with her clawed fingers. “Big bugs from the sea. But I'm going to eat them up before they can eat me!”

 

♦

 

Parker Moore moved with slow deliberation from one hive to the next, his bee veil, a sheer cloth that he'd had his wife sew to an old hat, closed, checking that no moths had been about, wreaking havoc with his swarms. Around the turn of the century, he'd switched from his inherited, old-style hives to the Langstroth modern ones, which had, in only one season, doubled his local profit. Pleased, he'd added to his apiary until he had about a two-dozen colonies.

“Father?”

Parker turned toward the voice of his youngest daughter who stood at a distance, arms folded across her chest, her light summer dress a size too big, a hand-me-down from her sister, Anita. With her sun-darkened skin and light eyes, she was a handsome girl,
too handsome for her own good,
her father thought.

“What does your mother want?” he said impatiently.

“She says you got to talk some sense into your son.”

Parker turned back to his hive. “Tell her I'm busy.”

“But he's gonna enlist.”

This made Parker Moore straighten up. Taking his daughter by hand, yanking his veiled hat off, he nearly dragged Lizzie across the farm, marching, at a good clip, away from his bees, past the far barn, the near barn and in through the back screened door of the house, which he slammed.

“What the hell nonsense am I hearing?” he shouted at his eldest as he made his way from the kitchen to where Parker Junior – called Park – stood, beside his mother.

His son stiffened, and looked his father square in the eye. “I'm going over.”

Sara Moore, seated at the dinner table, wore what Liz thought of as “Mother's stone-face.” Her thin-lipped mouth set in a straight line, her blue eyes hard as marble, she shook her head. “Father, your son has lost his mind.”

“No,” said Park. “I have not. I'm a man. My country is at war. I know my duty.”

“Your duty?” said Parker. “Your duty is to this family and this farm, not to some idiot in a Southern swamp. We've got troubles enough here without you running off to fight in another man's quarrel. Let those foreigners solve their own problems.”

“But it is our problem. The
Lusitania
–”

“– was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Don't dump Wilson's garbage on me, boy.”

“You voted for him.”

Parker became very still as the young man spoke, eye of the hurricane still, which made Sara clasp her hands. Lizzie started edging over to the kitchen. The silence did not break until Parker at last intoned, with the finality of an ax-stroke, “You have work to do. So do I.”

“Father –”

“Did you hear me? Jo shouldn't have to muck out all three barns by himself.”

Park said nothing. He glanced at his mother, then turned on his heel and marched past Liz, out the kitchen door.

“Wait!,” the girl said and hopped out the door after her brother, caught up and jogged along beside him. “You're not going to go, are you, Park? You're not gonna leave us?”

“Just watch me. Just you wait and see.” He raised his voice as they neared the barn. “Jo? You in there?”

Liz stopped dead, letting her brother hurry on. She watched his back, blinked, watched and then murmured. “He is going. He's going all right.”

 

♦

 

Quiola unbuckled the noseband and throatlatch, scooped her hand under the crownpiece, and encouraged Splash to relinquish the bit. Slipping on his halter, she cross-tied him, hung up the bridle
where Mike could see it, and unbuckled the girth. Splash stood quiet, watching.

“So you caved,” said Megan, checking her cell for messages.

“You could call it that.”

“I thought you didn't want to move.”

Quiola lifted her saddle and saddle pad off Splash, set the saddle on a tree and flipped the pad upside down on top of it. Somewhere in the distance, one of the horses whinnied. Splash let go some pungent gas. Quiola wrinkled her nose.

“Thanks, buddy. Phew. Feel better?”

Megan grinned. “He does. So?”

“No, I didn't want to move. But she's going to need me. The cancer is back.”

“Oh, God. I'm sorry. I thought –”

“So did I. Hoped, anyway.” She clipped Splash's lead to the halter. “Does he need a bath?”

“Not really but you can give him one, if you want.”

“I'd like to.” She stepped into the tack room, got a carrot from her stash, and offered it to the horse, who snapped it up in his soft lips. “You should see this house, Meg. It's gorgeous.”

“That's a bonus, then, isn't it?”

“Oh, yeah, sure.”

Megan put a gloved hand on Quiola's shoulder. “It'll be all right.”

Quiola kept her face turned to Splash, and said, “I wish. But she's lying to me. She told me don't worry, she's going to beat it. But I didn't like the tone of her voice, so I phoned her doctor. She's dying, Meg. Where she's at, people don't bounce back and she's keeping that little fact to herself.”

“Maybe. Maybe it's a little bit of denial, too?”

“Oh, yeah. That too.” She stared down at her own hands. “I'm not good at this.”

“Hey, girl, nobody is. Listen, if you need anything, you know you can ask?”

Quiola nodded.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

“Go on, Meg. I know you have a lesson, and yes, I'll be here Monday.

“Sorry I have to run. You try to have a good weekend.”

Quiola leaned against Splash's wither and took off her helmet, with a deep sigh. The horse craned its neck, nibbling at her shirt, then licking the flat of her offered palm.

“Okay,” she said. “A bath. I can do that, at least.”

 

♦

 

C.C. stood before the mirror, staring at her newly re-bald self. She could scarcely believe she'd been forced through another molt, hair coming out first in little tufts, then in large, extravagant clumps until she went back to a barber and had herself shaved again to save herself from looking like a mangy dog. A wracking cough came up from the bottom of her feet and pulled her into a fetal position at the sink as she gagged over a wad of greenish-clear mucous. Panting, she washed it down the sink and closed her eyes. Every morning now for the past whole month had started like this, in the bathroom like this, hacking up part of her lungs, panting, wondering if she'd ever catch her breath again. She leaned against the cold porcelain of the sink and closed her eyes, just breathing. When she opened her eyes, she sat down heavily on the terry-clothed toilet seat, a cheek in one hand, taking as much air as she could, weariness like water washing through her. After a few minutes, she got back on her feet, cleaned her face, put on her robe, slippers and tucked a brown plastic medicine bottle into a pocket. After brushing her teeth, she opened the glass door of the shower, turned the taps and adjusted the temperature. Stepping across the large master bedroom, in which she'd installed a four-poster queen, a relic from her childhood, she opened the bedroom door.

“Quiola?”

The cat appeared in the hallway, mewing.

“Good morning, Amelia. Quiola? You up?”

“Huh?” came a sleepy voice from the next room. C.C. stepped down to it and pushed open the already open door. “Do you know what time it is?”

Quiola squinting, mumbled, “What?”

“Rise and shine.”

“What time is it?”

“Six.”

“Middle of the night.”

“Just because it's dark? Come on – you've got to help me decide which of the new things I should show.” She drummed her thin fingers against the door lintel. “I can't believe it's finally happening. A solo show! Do get up – Amelia wants her breakfast.”