by JJ Marsh
Whenever I spilt gravy or got butter on my elbows, Aunt Louisa would say, ‘A lady slows down while pouring,’ or, ‘a lady asks someone to pass the salt.’ She spoke with the kindest smile and every time I pledged to remember. Problem was, I had so much to learn. In the General Store, ole Miss Raleigh can tell you the price of every single darned thing on those shelves. I reckon ladies get real good at remembering. Elsewise, you can’t be a lady.
One night, we had pork chops and collard greens. I poured my gravy real slow. I asked Uncle Irv to pass the salt. I placed my napkin on my lap. I conversed about the weather and passed a compliment on the food. I looked up and they were both staring at me.
Aunt Louisa smiled and said, “A lady uses her knife and fork to eat pork chops.”
Uncle Irv’s moustache was twitching like it was alive. I put the chop back on my plate, wiped my fingers on my napkin and sighed.
“Very well, Ma’am. I don’t know how I’m gonna get all this meat off without using my teeth, but I sure will try.”
On my way back to the bathroom later that night, I heard them talking downstairs. Uncle Irv repeated my exact words. I coulda sworn he was laughing.
Missus Rice was the meanest old cat you could ever meet. Biggest house on the block. I did errands, earned a little helping her out. Sweeping porches, clearing dropped blossoms, tidying lawns. She found fault in every last thing I did and couple times wouldn’t pay me. Her maid, Lucy, worked there over ten years. I’d had enough after ten days.
When I’m of a mind to mutter and grumble, I can’t talk to Aunt Louisa because it pains her, which just about makes it worse. I can’t say nothing to Iphigenia, our maid, ‘cause she might repeat it and word would get around. No, when I have something to get off my chest, I tell Uncle Irv. After dinner, he sits on the veranda and smokes a pipe. Oftentimes I follow him and sit on the swing seat while he creaks to and fro on that white rocker. We sit there, in the cooling evening, inhaling all those perfumes; honeysuckle, jasmine, pipe smoke, gardenia, cut grass, frangipani, azalea, fried onions and zinnia. Aunt Louisa likes to recite the flowers’ names as we wander the garden. She said if she’d ever had a little girl, she woulda named her after a flower. She didn’t say which. If I was named after a flower, I said, I’d like to be Daisy. She smiled and said it suited me.
“So how was your day, M’belle?” asked Uncle Irv.
I told him all about Missus Rice, her rotten garden, her stuffy ole house and her penny-pinching ways. Uncle Irv laughed and said he knew what she was like. And I thought, well, if you knew, why’d you send me over there? He looked sidewards at me like he guessed what I was thinking.
“Your aunt likes to do good for the older folk.”
She ain’t the one doing good, I thought. But I kept my mouth shut.
Uncle Irv’s eyes crinkled up. I could see he’d got something else to say. He dropped his voice. “And I’ll tell you something else ‘bout Missus Rice, M’Belle. Her momma wanted to call her Charity!”
Me and Uncle Irv laughed ourselves fit to bust, so much I thought something was gonna give. Damn, that man had a sense of humour. Wiping away tears and grinning like an old fox, he straightened up when the screen door opened.
Her voice, soft, like molasses. “Irv, you aren’t teaching Marybelle to be disrespectful now, are you?”
“I am not, Louisa, my dear. We were just having ourselves a chuckle at the neighbourhood. Nothing harmful, I swear. Ain’t that right, May-Re-Belle?”
“No disrespect, Aunt Louisa. I was just observing to my uncle here that Ms Rice is precious ‘bout her pennies.”
Uncle Irv did his silent laugh thing and Aunt Louisa struggled to find the right expression. She chose serene; Our Lady.
I tried to look repentant. Clasped hands, head down, churching it up for peace.
Her beautiful voice held a smile. “Marybelle, you’ve a good heart. I can see that. We cannot judge Miss Rice until we walk a mile in her shoes.”
“Aunt Louisa, I ain’t walking two steps in that woman’s shoes. If you want the truth, in the face of the Lord, they none too fresh.”
Uncle Irv pressed his fingers to his nose and made a snorting noise. Time I hauled ass. I was digging myself into one almighty hole.
“I’m sorry, Aunt Louisa, Uncle Irv. I guess I still got some learning to do. Thanks for a fine supper. I’m gonna haul ... myself off to bed. God bless you both and thanks again for having me.”
Uncle Irv grinned. “Goodnight, M’Belle. And we should thank you.”
I kissed them both. They kissed me back like they meant it. As I trudged up the stairs, I wondered. A Lady. A Doctor. Their beautiful house, peaceful life and civilised routine. What in the name of Jiminy did they want with a thirteen-year-old kid?
Midday, I generally took a break and headed home. Too hot to work, anyhow. Aunt Louisa made salads with watermelon and mint and we drank cold lemonade. One afternoon, Lucy rang the bell.
“The chile done left ‘em on the sidewalk. I come back, roots all dried out. Dead. Ain’t never gonna take. Missus Rice gone bed, she so upset. She ask Doctor Fletcher to come around this evenin’, make amends.”
Lucy looked shamefaced at having to deliver the message. Not as shamefaced as I felt. I followed Aunt Louisa back to the kitchen, apologising all the way. She sat at the table and took my hands.
“Marybelle, you made a mistake. We all do that. What I’d like to hear is what you’ve learned from it.”
I chewed my lip. “Trick of it is, not to stop in the middle of a job. ‘Cause if I do, it’s Uncle Irv who gotta suffer.”
Aunt Louisa smiled. “Good girl. You’re learning. And don’t worry about Uncle Irv. Missus Rice just likes having the doctor visit, although she’s not keen on paying for his time. He’ll only stay an hour.”
“Sixty minutes too long. Poor Uncle Irv. It ain’t right he’s punished on my account. Should be me puts it right.”
“That’s an noble sentiment, Marybelle. But we’ll let Missus Rice have her way. Now, you ready to go back and say you’re sorry?”
My birthday come around end of July. First time since coming to Willacoochee, I got homesick. Back home, Mom’d bake me a cake and the boys’d give me one of their hand-me-downs; knives or belts, a guitar or a mouth organ. And Pa always let me try something more dangerous. This year, I was kinda hoping to rope a steer. But they were two states away and I still wasn’t no lady. Then I got to thinking. Maybe when I get back, I can have a whole ‘nother birthday. And I cheered right up.
Anyhow, Uncle Irv and Aunt Louisa made it real special. Iphigenia cooked pancakes with maple syrup and bacon. A card from the folks, signed by everyone, and another from Aunt Lilibeth in Fayetteville, with a dollar inside. She always sent me a dollar. I always spent it at the bookstore. Uncle Irv handed me an envelope and Aunt Louisa held a box, with ribbons. Sitting at that table, happiness swelled up in me fit to burst. Pancakes an’ all.
Aunt Louisa gave me a dress. White, with a pretty yellow sash and a pair of lace gloves. Just like hers. I had tears in my eyes. The most beautiful thing I ever owned, apart from the hand-stitched boots Mom and Pa gave me for Christmas. Damn shame I couldn’t wear both together. I tore open the envelope from Uncle Irv, wondering if that’s what a lady oughta do. When I opened the card, a ten-dollar bill floated out and onto my lap. I was richer than I’d ever been in my life. I owned almost twelve dollars.
“This morning, I was missing my folks. But now, I think this is the best birthday ever!”
Aunt Louisa got a little emotional, so I changed the subject.
“Shall I try the dress on? You wanna see how a gen-u-ine lady looks, Uncle Irv?”
He laughed but Aunt Louisa shook her head. “Wear it tonight, for your birthday supper. Right now, you better scoot. You’ll be late for Missus Rice.”
“I gotta go there on my birthday?” My voice went real squeaky.
“Marybelle, your uncle has to work on Christmas Day. Whenever people need us, we attend, n
o matter what day it is.”
I nodded, as if I understood.
I told Missus Rice it was my birthday but she said it didn’t make no never mind. I was to clean the windows, inside and out. I started outside, while it was still cool. No flies on Marybelle Calhoun. Fourteen years old and getting smarter by the day.
Just ‘fore eleven, Lucy came to find me.
“Missus Rice done gone lay down, so I made you a birthday drink. Iced tea, my own recipe.”
So sweet and cold, just how I imagined champagne would taste. I drank two full glasses. It was turning out to be quite a day.
“Lucy, this here is the best birthday drink I ever had. It’s real nice of you to make it for me.”
“You earned it, Marybelle. You’re a good girl.”
That’s when it happened. I was gonna take the pitcher to the sink, but lost my grip, made a grab and knocked the whole thing to the floor. It smashed into a thousand million pieces. We both stared, shocked.
“Oh Miss Marybelle. That gone cost your uncle dear.”
I’d messed up again. After everything they’d done for me, I sentenced Uncle Irv to more penance with Missus Rice and Aunt Louisa to more lonely evenings.
No.
I looked at Lucy’s frightened face. “Where’d it come from? The pitcher?”
“The General Store, I guess. But Miss Mary ...”
I lit out of there like a coney with a fox on its tail.
Miss Raleigh started as I burst through the door. I caught my breath.
“Miss Raleigh, good morning to you,” I puffed. “Could you tell me the price of the glass pitcher you sold Missus Rice?”
She looked at me long and hard. “When I sold it to Missus Rice, it cost fifteen dollars.”
I closed my eyes.
“But I’m having a sale today. Thirty percent off glassware. So it’d cost you ten dollars fifty, Miss Calhoun.”
I didn’t run back. First off, a lady wouldn’t. And second, how dumb would it be to break two?
I stopped cold when I saw Uncle Irv and Lucy helping Missus Rice up the steps to our house. She wasn’t even gonna give me a chance to fix it. Soon as I walked through the door, she started. “Leaving the destruction of precious glassware aside, the fact you ran from your duty speaks volumes for your character.”
Heat filled my head and I wanted to throw the pitcher at her sour ole face. But I was a lady. I smoothed my hair and set the package on the table.
“No Ma’am. I just been by the Store to get you another. Same kind. I asked Miss Raleigh.”
Missus Rice lifted her eyebrows. “You cannot afford a pitcher like that.”
“Beg pardon, Ma’am but I can. My kin gave me birthday money and Miss Raleigh’s having a sale.”
She narrowed her eyes as if she didn’t believe a word and turned to my aunt.
“Louisa, no one feels sorrier than me that you can’t have children of your own. But taking in this uncouth girl will affect your standing in this community. You cannot spin silk from straw. If I were you, I’d send her right back where she came from.”
Aunt Louisa stood, white faced. “As a young lady, Marybelle needs to be careful about the company she keeps. She won’t be coming around no more, Missus Rice. Good day to you. Now, don’t forget your pitcher.”
She saw them out and closed the door behind them. Uncle Irv beamed at her, nodding his head in admiration. My hands were shaking. But my Aunt Louisa, she didn’t even break a sweat.
Je t’ai eu
“A toast, to our brilliant son!”
“A toast!”
“To Max!”
“Max, you are every parent’s dream come true.”
“Congratulations!”
“You must be so proud.”
“So happy.”
“So lucky.”
He is happy. He got lucky.
Mutti, Papi, merci vielmal. I owe you. I owe you loyalty, decency, honour, love and respect. I owe more than I have. Thus I am in your debt.
He raises his glass, shakes hands, receives endless trios of kisses, and feels pride. Herr Baumann, a success. An achievement. A piece of work.
As an infant, he received training. Private coaches for German, mathematics, English.
Woher kommen Sie?
X+Y= > 1
I come from Bern. I am Swiss.
He fulfilled their every need. They gave him everything he needed.
As a boy, he received trains.
The basement was entirely taken over by a model railway system. The Hobbyroom, the Hornbyroom. Enjoy yourself for sixty minutes – it’s in your programme. Halb sechs bis halb sieben – trainfun. Trees, bridges, carriages, engines, tunnels, and incredible lengths of track. Papi and he created endless variations of scenery, with all manner of challenge; the trains always went round the track. Nowhere else to go. If he drove them too fast, they fell off. He put them back in their place. It was only at the age of eleven that he realised the whole thing might not have been built for him.
Glücklich. English has two words: happy and lucky. Is it the same thing?
Fast track. There is no stopping this young man, his trajectory is faultless. An enviable house and a lovely wife just seem to happen when he’s not looking. A lake view property with valuable land – room for extension; a Berner Beauty with influential parents – room for expansion. He is invited to join a guild and a politician takes him to dinner. Max is travelling upwards, first class.
Wohlan denn, Herz, nimm Abscheid und gesunde.
So be it, Heart, say farewell and recover.
He lacks nothing, so why should he look back?
His enquiries are his own affair. The Sozialarbeiter says Starbucks at twelve. Poisonous shrew. His hate for her is disproportionate, he knows. She holds the file, the address, the name. The power. She insists on ‘counselling’ before the event. Why does she push so? Why are the evil and controlling in these most sensitive of posts?
“All I can do is inform her of your interest. You cannot see her unless she wants. It is her choice.”
It always was.
He attempts humility. “This I understand. All I wish is that she knows. I want her to know about me. I want her to know she can contact me. If she wishes.”
“In fact, Herr Baumann, she has agreed to meet you. But she speaks no German. Unless you’re prepared to talk to her in French, it won’t happen.”
The woman speaks in threats. Dangling his prize just out of his reach. Incredulous, he assures this hatchet-faced witch that his French is adequate. Adequate.
He attends the first counselling session; it’s all his schedule allows. But his impatience is barely concealed. He has a right to know who she is.
How can these people counsel him? They weren’t there.
It takes nine months. The 8.45am flight from New York to Basel touches down early; he’s waiting for his bags when his phone rings.
“Can you be in Geneva for lunch? She’s already there, and she says she’ll do it today. Say yes now before she gets cold feet.”
He calls Katharina, his Berner Beauty, who is newly enthusiastic about Nordic walking. She has a passion. He must try it. He tells her he loves her. She accepts the sentiment, and tells him her period began today. The announcement contains a reproach. Must try harder.
Geneva is a whore. She hosts them all; Switzerland, France, the World Health Organisation, the UN, the EU, the Red Cross. Lac Leman spreads her banks wide open.
Le Chat Botté, in Hotel Beau Rivage, is her choice of meeting place. A superb combination of ostentatious and discreet. He wishes it were somewhere more private. Max announces himself to the Maitre d’, who gestures with his facial hair across the restaurant. Towards a woman sitting by the window. Max’s mother.
She is smoking. The exhalation blurs his vision of her, her vision of him. He kisses her, only twice, she permits no more. He sits, clutching his hands to stop the trembling. He asks her where she lives, what she does. She avoids, she evades. She steals
looks, between lighting and extinguishing, between ordering and receiving, between smiles at the waiter and searches for nothing in her vulgar handbag. She asks little. He feels like a father, meeting his wayward daughter. He wants to pin her down.
“Why did you give me away?”
She arches her brows. “Were you ever seventeen? Or have you always been middle-aged?”
“I’m only twenty-three. Have you any other children? Do I have any relatives?”
“Not from me. You know, I really don’t like children. I never have.”
“Is that ...”
He stops, and she gives him a contemptuous look.
For the first time, she allows him to see her eyes, full on, open and unguarded. They are grey-blue, with brownish gold flecks randomly dotted, like rust. A black circle rings her iris. There’s a name for that. A name he can’t remember, in any language. As he watches, her eyes change. Her pupils dilate, and she lifts her sullen chin. Just then, they see each other.
“You’re staying here?” His address is formal, he uses vous. They are not yet familiar.
“I allow myself some luxuries.”
“Can we go up? I feel I cannot really speak to you unless we have some privacy. Do you mind?”
“You can come up. But we have nothing to say to each other. Apart from goodbye, and good luck.”
“You’re probably right.” Goodbye and good luck. He follows her into the lift, wondering if she said that the last time she left him.
He can smell her. Perfume, body warmth, some stale cigarette scent; she smells of herself. He can’t look at her face.
Her room is large, but there are clothes on all surfaces. Not only clothes but undergarments. She lights a cigarette, opens the window and turns away from him.
“What do you want from me?” Her question flies out over the hotel balcony.
He sits on the bed, thinking of his wife, his future children, his career, watching the train run around the track. The woman smokes out the window. Light shines through her linen shirt dress, and offers a hint of her body. He’s confused; he looks away. Her clothes, her silk underwear, her make-up, her stockings, her discarded shoes are everywhere. His breath is shallow; he feels smothered. This woman is his mother. She stands in front of him.