What Girls Learn

by Karin Cook

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because it’s a special occasion. Don’t you want to look nice?”

  When Uncle Rand stepped out of the car, Mama took a deep breath and brought her hand to her mouth. He was wearing blue jeans and a pin-striped shirt. He looked more like a man than I remembered, a little weighed down the way all adults were, with that look of resignation. His reddish-brown hair was cut short. And he had a moustache.

  I could hear Uncle Rand’s strong Southern accent from the driveway as he talked with Nick about TransAlt. Funny, how his voice sounded both familiar and far away. Elizabeth stepped up to the screen door for a closer look.

  “How old is he now?” she said.

  Mama did some math on her fingers. “Thirty,” she said.

  Nick lifted Uncle Rand’s suitcase out of the trunk and carried it up to the house. Uncle Rand followed closely behind, taking in the yard and the house, touching bushes and shingles, like an inspector. When he saw Mama he stepped back as if he’d been knocked over and caught himself on the foyer wall.

  “Good Lord, Frances,” he said. “I’d never’ve known it was you.”

  Mama’s face went blank for a moment, then a glint of disappointment appeared. She tilted her head and adjusted her wig. Then, Uncle Rand embraced Mama hard, picking her up, and rocking her back and forth. When he set her on her feet, she had trouble catching her balance. He rushed over and gathered us in his arms, palming our heads into his chest. He smelled good, like the inside of the principal’s office or a counter at Macy’s.

  “I don’t believe it,” he said. “How can you girls have grown this much?”

  Mama beamed proudly. Her skin had turned orange from the chemicals, almost as if she had a sunburn.

  “That’s the smile,” Uncle Rand said and pulled Mama by the waist until she was standing next to him. It was then, I could see how they both had the same blue eyes and dimple at the chin.

  Nick cleared his throat and picked up the suitcase. “Let’s get you settled,” he said and started up the stairs.

  Within an hour, Uncle Rand had moved easily into the second-floor guest room between my room and Elizabeth’s. He hung his clothes in the hall closet and set his toiletries out on the edge of our bathroom sink. His supplies took over the medicine chest: strong cologne in dark bottles, a brass razor, and a little scissor for his moustache.

  “How long are you planning to stay?” Nick asked casually at dinner that night.

  I could see Mama holding her breath. Nick had been happy that she’d invited Uncle Rand to come, but now she worried about the way he just moved in. It wasn’t his fault, Mama told me, they were the only family they each had. In fact, she’d practically raised him, even before Grandma and Grandpa died. That is, until it looked as if Uncle Sam might get involved, and Randy took off to avoid the draft.

  “As long as you’ll have me,” Uncle Rand responded.

  “Fine,” Nick said, “that’s fine. As you can see, I’ve been a little outnumbered by women here.” He must have meant this as a joke, a way to make Uncle Rand more comfortable, because it wasn’t true; Nick had a world of men right in the backyard.

  “So,” Nick continued, clearing his throat, “think you might like to do a little driving for TransAlt while you’re here?”

  “Love to. Only one problem.” Uncle Rand hesitated and looked to Mama for permission.

  She shrugged, opening her hands out wide beside her. Nick leaned forward, questioning.

  “Got a deewee chasing me,” Uncle Rand said.

  “What’s a deewee?” I asked.

  “D.W.I.,” he said. “I had a little run-in with the law while I was under the influence.” He laughed deeply and crossed his arms around his body. “Damn cops don’t have anything better to do than chase after a man with a cocktail.”

  Nick shifted in his seat, laced his fingers together and brought his hands to rest on the table. “When can you drive again?” he asked.

  “Whenever I want. As long as I don’t get caught.”

  “Well there’s plenty of other stuff around here to do,” Mama said, looking at Nick nervously. “Anyway,” she continued, almost defiant, “he came to help us, not TransAlt.”

  The next day, UPS arrived with four large boxes for Uncle Rand. The kitchen seemed transformed by his wrought iron pans, heavy cutting boards, and cutlery. They were the tools of serious cooking and they came with a new set of rules. The pans were not to be washed with soap. They had been seasoned, he explained; even the cutting boards had to be wiped down with mineral oil. He clustered like items together on the refrigerator and pantry shelves and set up a spice rack.

  That night, Uncle Rand made dinner, naming me his sous-chef and tying an apron around my waist. We worked side by side, starting in the afternoon, marinating garlic in olive oil and pulling apart squares of lettuce for the Caesar salad. Uncle Rand dropped raw eggs into a pot of boiling water for thirty seconds before slipping them into the greens. He talked me through the twice-baked potatoes with paprika and the lightly battered fish, measuring all the ingredients first and setting them out in small bowls. He garnished with sprigs of parsley and lemon slices.

  “Presentation is everything,” he said, snapping the lemon into a curl with confidence.

  When Nick came in from the garage, Uncle Rand went straight for the cabinet next to the dishwasher. “What’s it going to be?” he asked.

  “Whatever you’re having,” Nick said.

  Their tone suddenly became formal, almost as if they were doing business. Then, Uncle Rand disappeared under the cabinet, digging deep, and resurfaced with an assortment of bottles. He set up shop at the end of the counter, laying out a dish towel and putting his shakers and shot glasses down on top. He had a glass stirrer with his name on it. Nick made small tasters and then speared an olive for each glass.

  Mama rolled her eyes. “It’s the way men entertain each other,” she said.

  Later that night, Elizabeth and I sat on the end of Uncle Rand’s bed as he told us stories about Mama as a young girl. About her braces and boyfriends. Once, she’d even had her picture in Life magazine.

  “Was she pretty then, too?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Pretty as ever,” Uncle Rand said.

  “Who looks like her most?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Well,” he said, sitting forward to study my face, “Tilden has her nose, cheeks, and chin.” He kissed each place as he said it. “And you, Elizabeth, have her eyes and her hair.”

  We all grew quiet. I tried to remember Mama’s hair as it had been, long and light and silky soft to the touch.

  “Did you know our father?” I asked.

  Uncle Rand nodded, paused to think, and nodded some more. “That’s a conversation for another night,” he said. “Now go on to sleep, you two.”

  After I had climbed in bed, Uncle Rand came through my room to smoke a cigarette on the outside staircase. I moved to the window and watched the embers burn red. He was sitting on the top step, a glass of wine beside him, holding his head in his hand, the cigarette perched between his fingers. It looked as if his red hair had caught on fire.

  “What’re you doing up?” he asked and blew a stream of smoke into the air above him.

  I stepped out onto the landing and took a seat on the railing. “I’m not tired.” I wrapped my legs around a post. The wood was damp from the humidity, the air thick and hard to breathe.

  “You know what I’m thinking?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Your grandparents would have loved to see you girls so grown.”

  I held my breath. “How did it really happen?” I asked, my body shaking from uttering the forbidden question.

  “Heart attack,” he said. “Your Grandpa was driving.” He took a long, slow sip of wine. “Your Grandma lived a few days in intensive care, but I think the grief killed her. She would have been so miserable without him.”

  His voice was flat, detached. I wondered if it was really possible
to die of grief or loneliness, like a sickness from inside.

  “Do you miss them?” I asked.

  “Of course,” he said. “But it was your mama who took it the hardest.”

  “She never says anything about it.”

  “It’s not her way. But I’ll tell you one thing, it’s always there.” He paused. “That’s why you girls are so important to her. And Nick, too. Family matters.”

  Uncle Rand got real quiet after that, blew smoke upward in a steady stream. After a time, he turned to look at me out of the corner of his eye. “You have a boyfriend?” he asked, changing the subject. It was the first time an adult had ever talked this way to me. Easy, like a friend would.

  I giggled, embarrassed, and shook my head.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. I’m only thirteen!”

  The driveway looked like a lake, black and rippling under the moonlight. I formed a question over and over in my mind before it came out of my mouth.

  “Do you?” I asked finally. “Have a girlfriend, I mean?”

  He took a drag off his cigarette and tilted his head back. “Didn’t work out,” he said and stared off past the garage.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “What can you do?” he said. “These things happen.”

  “Is that what happened with Mama and my real father?”

  He glanced up at me. “What am I, the family historian?”

  His words stung and my eyes filled with tears. There was so much Mama never told me, but I couldn’t say that to him, behind her back.

  “I know your Mama is private,” he said. “She doesn’t mean any harm. I’m sure she just wants to keep any ugliness from you.”

  “But I want to know,” I said.

  I allowed my need to weigh heavy between us. It felt like the bravest thing I had ever done. My legs trembled. To keep them still, I held the backs of my knees against the wooden banister.

  “What has she told you?” he asked.

  “Not much,” I said. “Just that he was handsome.”

  Uncle Rand smiled. “I suppose that’s true.”

  “What else?” I pressed, the skin on my legs damp with sweat.

  “Your father and I didn’t get on so well,” Uncle Rand said. “You could call it a difference of opinion.”

  “About what?”

  “About the way he treated your mama.” He didn’t say anything more after that. He pushed the tip of the cigarette into the step next to him until it went out. “Come on,” he said, “let’s hit the hay.” He followed me through the door and cut across my room to the hall. He stopped in the doorway. “Nick’s good to y’all,” he said. “Right?”

  I nodded.

  “That’s what matters,” he said. “She’s found someone now. So you forget the past.”

  Uncle Rand and I began a ritual of late-night meetings on the staircase. He told me wild stories about his friends, taught me to whittle, and let me try his cigarettes. I learned to shuffle cards, to play Spit and War, staying up later than I’d ever been allowed, counting cards by the light of the street lamp. One night, we crept down the back stairs and went out into the neighborhood. He had something to show me, a discovery he’d made down at the edge of the Johnsons’ yard. He led us with the beam of a flashlight, crossing side to side along the path. We’d almost reached the end of the property when the light danced across a collection of empty and crushed beer cans, the remains of a party.

  “How do you think those got there?” he asked.

  I couldn’t imagine that he expected me to have an answer, but he waited, staring at me with his brows tipped upward.

  “The TransAlt guys?” I said, more as a question than an answer. This was new territory for me. I felt aware of the air between us. He laughed, kicking some leaves on top and pressing the cans into the dirt with his heel.

  “Yeah right,” he said, winking.

  His words burned in my ears. I could tell that he liked believing I was wise to certain ways of the world, even though it wasn’t true. He put his arm across my shoulder, edging me forward and squeezing his hand around the back of my neck. It was a familiar gesture, but the mix of his words and his touch left me with a filmy feeling under my arms. I swallowed hard, hoping he’d release me. We walked down to the corner of the fence where he shined the flashlight on an empty bird’s nest. There was a silver coin resting in the bottom.

  “It’s for you,” he said. “A Susan B. Anthony.”

  It may have been that I was his favorite, but he never said so outright. I figured it was because Elizabeth wasn’t much of a talker; she’d go and go, fast and furious all day, until she collapsed in the evening and fell right to sleep. It was the ease that came of activity, the comfort she felt in her very bones. Uncle Rand always saw to her first, tucking her in with a playful romp, tickling her until she pleaded with him to stop. Then he’d make his way down the hall and turn his attention toward me.

  Samantha came over to see what Uncle Rand looked like. “He’s cute,” she said, gazing out the window at him. “Body hair is so sexy on men.”

  I didn’t think so myself, but nodded along with her. We were listening to Billy Joel on my record player and reading the back-to-school issue of Seventeen. Outside, at TransAlt, Uncle Rand was talking with the drivers, his arms crossed, peering down over engines.

  “Doesn’t he have a job?” Samantha asked.

  “He did,” I said. “A bunch of jobs, all over.”

  “Yeah, but what does he do now?” she asked.

  The question hung between us unanswered and I felt a part of me seal off from her. There was something shameful in a man without work, a man his age with no family, without a home or car.

  Lainey DeWitt crossed the driveway to where the men stood. Uncle Rand teased her in a way that made us think there might be potential for a romance, always making fun and then taking it back. He held his arm up dramatically, like a traffic guard.

  “Wait, don’t tell me,” he taunted, “you’ve got just the thing that’ll make me look like a movie star.”

  “Can’t help you there,” Lainey zinged back.

  “God, I love his accent,” Samantha said dreamily. “His voice is so sexy.”

  The guys sang out in a pained chorus, slapping their knees and the hoods of their cars. They loved Lainey, the way she could hold her own and dish it out. Uncle Rand had his own charm. He was chatty, giving out nicknames, like prizes, always gracing people with details about themselves that perhaps they thought no one had noticed. It made him appear bolder than I somehow knew he was; I could tell it implied the comfort of familiarity without the work of intimacy.

  “Do you think they’re doing it?” Samantha asked.

  I imagined Uncle Rand and Lainey meeting late at night in the garage, taking off their clothes, and lying down on the throw cushions in the lounge area. Would she keep her shoes on? Leave red scratches from her nails across his back? Wrap her legs around his waist?

  “Probably,” I said, even though I knew that Uncle Rand was home every evening, with me.

  Uncle Rand took responsibility for getting the meals together, running short errands in Mama’s car and transporting Elizabeth to and from the Y. He was careful to always go below the speed limit, so as not to draw attention to himself. Helping out like that left Mama to manage her nausea and resistance. The Mosquitoes had informed her that if she came down with an infection they would have to postpone follow-up until she was well. She became fierce about germs and told people that she would rather they not come near her if they had a cold or anything.

  One day, I found Mama in her garden, weeding with rubber gloves on. She draped a towel around her neck to keep from getting burned and wore her wig, carelessly, like a hat. I sat down next to her and wrapped the tops of the weeds around my hand, pulling in the way she’d taught me, with a low pinch at the base to get the roots.

  “Get the dandelions,” she said, gesturing to the small, yellow flower. “It doesn’t loo
k like a weed, but it is.”

  We worked like this—moving around the marigolds, verbena, and impatiens—a mound of uprooted greens and dirt growing between us, the only sound that of stems giving way.

  “Was Uncle Rand fired from his job?” I asked finally, breaking the silence.

  “Goodness no, nothing like that,” she said. “What makes you ask such a thing?”

  I hesitated. “I was just wondering why he came here.”

  Mama brushed some dirt off her leg. “Does he need a reason?”

  Just then, Uncle Rand rounded the corner with his arms full. He’d made a bird bath out of a hubcap and fastened it onto a stump. “Have room in your garden for this?” he asked, setting it down a couple of yards from where we sat.

  “That’s good,” Mama said, “the birds will help keep the bugs away.”

  Mrs. Teuffel had found the hubcap on Elm Street, climbing out of her car and holding up traffic to retrieve it for Uncle Rand. He was the kind of man people kept in mind to save things for, imagining perhaps that he was handier than he was, that he should want to do more with his time than cook and garden, should want to hammer or build something. Turning other people’s goodwill into his own was the way Uncle Rand distracted attention from his work-less days.

  “Help me fill this,” he said and dragged the hose over to the bird bath. I held the nozzle low, waiting for Uncle Rand to turn on the sprocket.

  Marna hugged her knees to her chest and watched. “Maybe we should get a feeder,” she said.

  That night, lying in bed, I heard a sound near the garage. I walked onto the landing outside my door, expecting to find Uncle Rand, perhaps even Lainey. Instead, I saw Elizabeth and Keith Rogers duck behind a town car and head toward the edge of the Johnsons’ property. Uncle Rand must have heard something too. He walked through my room without knocking and came out onto the landing. His chest was bare; he had a towel tied around his waist and held a pack of Marlboros in his hand.

  “Hear something?” he asked, his voice scratchy from sleep.

  “No,” I said, automatically.