Lana ran her hands down the soft, worn fabric of Grandma’s dress. It was flat where she had no bosom and bunched where she had no hips. Jeanie’d said pretty mattered a lot when a man chose a bride…a wife. Jeanie’d seen things and heard things when men came courting her sisters, or when her brothers lived in her family’s house for awhile with their new wives. She said having hips and bosoms helped turn making babies into making love.
Lana dropped her hands to her thighs and stared at her reflection in the mirror. She hoped Jeanie was wrong. Grandma said Lana didn’t have what it took for love, and Cletus wasn’t looking for it anyway. But she still wanted to look good, look pretty, look like a daughter her father would be proud of when he let Cletus take Lana as his own.
“Grandma?”
“What now?”
“Do you think my mom and dad will make it?”
Grandma held back whatever mean thought ran through her head, but Lana saw it, a flicker of fury that made her wince. Grandma shook her head and looked away. “No sense letting that spoil your day if they don’t.” She looked back at Lana and pursed her lips into a straight line. “I’m sure they’ll try. That’s what your mother said, anyway.”
“I want you to go to the courthouse with me—I mean with me and Cletus—whether they come or not. You raised me, so you can stand by me if my dad’s not there.”
“Child, you ain’t gonna need me no more. You’re going to be a wife now. You got to stand on your own.” Grandma’s voice was loud, louder than usual, but it didn’t hide the guttural rasp. And her tone of dismissal didn’t cover the wetness in her eyes or the worry on her face. “You’ll be fine,” she added, as she looked away. “Even if your dad don’t make it.”
Don’t make it. Surely he would. Lana tugged at the yellow belt. No grandma, no mother there with her. And no father. She wanted them, she needed them—Grandma to tell her what to do, her mother to smile until the tired lines showed on her face, and her father… Lana needed him to be proud, to be there, to say she was special, a beautiful bride, even if she wasn’t. Lana slipped a finger between the belt and her waist. It felt tight, too tight, and she wanted to yank it off. Throw it all off, the wedding dress, the slip she’d never worn before, and the belt. She wanted to stay here. She wasn’t ready to be a bride…or a wife.
Suddenly she was swallowed in Grandma’s arms, the earth scent overpowering as Grandma pressed Lana against her bosom. The dampness of Grandma’s perspiration wetted Lana’s face, and Lana inhaled, drawing in as much of her grandmother as she could.
“You’ll be fine,” Grandma said into Lana’s ear. Lana could feel her tremble. It was slight, but it was there. “Don’t worry yourself about little things like how you look. Just work hard, don’t complain, and let Cletus be king of his castle. You got nothing here, nothing that’s yours to keep or take with you, and nothing to offer him. Be glad a settled man like that has chosen you. Just do your duty. That’s all you got, and that’s what wives do.”
Lana peeked above Grandma’s shoulder, around their house, at the sparseness of it. It had always seemed enough before, but now that Grandma said it was nothing, it looked stark instead of sufficient. Would this little home be more stark when Lana was gone, when she took with her a nightgown, the two dresses she owned, the letters her mother had written, and the picture she’d drawn of her next to her father the day after his first and only visit? Surely Cletus would make sure Grandma had enough to fill this house, make sure Lana’s absence wasn’t bigger than the new things Grandma could buy. Lana nodded into Grandma’s embrace. She’d do what it took. She put a hand on her grandma’s back and squeezed.
“Do your duty,” Grandma said, still close to Lana’s ear. “That’s all.” There were tears in Grandma’s admonition, deep tears Lana’d never heard before and she wondered who Grandma was crying for. Lana? Herself? Or maybe for Grandpa, the man Grandma’d been wife to when she’d really wanted to be a bride?
“Don’t worry, Grandma. I’ll be a good wife to Cletus. I promise I’ll work hard and make babies, just like I’m supposed to. Just like you say.”
A knock resounded throughout the house. Lana jumped, her heart kicked up like a young colt. Grandma’s hug tightened.
“It’s them,” Lana said into Grandma’s shoulder. “It’s my mom and my dad. He came, he made it!”
The soft cocoon of Grandma’s essence pulled back. It slowly peeled away, her warmth, her perspiration, and her scent, each leaving one at a time, until she let go.
Another knock, louder than the first, shook the lone picture Grandma owned, one of an angel looking down on a house. Do I look all right? Lana wanted to ask, but she didn’t. She didn’t want to upset Grandma.
“I’ll get it. I’ll let them in.” Lana felt bubbles inside. They danced in her heart and widened her eyes. Grandma grabbed her hand and held on for a moment, almost holding her back. “They’re waiting…” Lana laughed.
The knock came again. Lana’s heart echoed the rapid banging. She straightened her dress. Grandma watched her, not paying attention to Lana’s dress or the hair Lana quickly smoothed. Grandma’s eyes were on Lana’s, their dark color sinking into her own before Lana turned and hurried toward the door. She took a deep breath as she wrapped her fingers around the latch, kept her face in a welcome smile.
“Hello!” she sang as she swung the door open.
Hurry, an invisible little voice said as she looked up. It spoke from the pale blue eyes far above her own, telling her insides that hurrying’s what wives do. Jeanie hadn’t taught her that, and living with Grandma hadn’t either. It was Cletus that told her, the way he stood, the way he towered above her as he surveyed his new bride.
“Oh. I thought…”
“I’m Cletus. You ready?” He didn’t look impatient, but he looked ready.
Her heart continued to pound, thumping like a fist on a door. He was so tall, so lanky, already doing what, according to Grandma, a husband should do. She glanced behind him, listened, strained her ears down the drive and far away on the road. No one. No sound. Her father hadn’t come. The thumping softened; it felt like sobs. She wanted to wait, give her parents a little more time.
“We need to hurry,” he said. He twisted to the side, creating an empty avenue for her to pass.
Lana turned back to her grandmother, her face pinching tight. How could she go now? Couldn’t they wait a few minutes more? Grandma nodded toward Cletus, her dark eyes hazy, her lips in a taut line.
Lana clutched the strings of the cloth bag that held her clothing, her mother’s letters, and her drawing, all she had to take with her as she became Cletus’ wife. Her heart ached; it was engorged with pain, making it almost impossible to walk.
Hurry. Lana followed the new man in her life to his truck, her heart throbbing with each step for the old one, the man she’d needed to come, to at least say goodbye as she left this place where she’d waited all her childhood for him. She glanced back.
“Wait,” she said to Cletus. Her feet flew back to the house. She stuffed her hand into the cloth bag and pulled out her childish artwork from ages ago. “Give this to him.” She handed it to Grandma. “When my father comes, make sure he gets this.”
“Write,” Grandma said as Lana backed away. She could hear the tears in Grandma’s voice and see them on her face as Grandma clutched Lana’s picture near her chest.
“I will.” Lana nodded.
Write.
It’s what families did. So far, it was all they did. Today was supposed to have been different.
Chapter 3
James 1947
Mama kept a small stool hidden behind the basket where they threw their dirty gloves and jackets when they came in from doing chores. James squeezed alongside the washstand and slipped behind the basket. He groped in the dark until his fingers found the rough wood. He latched on and dragged the stool to the front of the sink so he could stand on it to see in the mirror above the wash pan and pitcher.
Rain thrummed o
n the tin roof covering the back porch of the house as he set the stool in place. It sounded like thousands of pellets beating out a cadence, a drum roll that ticked away the minutes until Pop came home. James hopped on the stool and leaned over the wash pan, stretching toward the mottled mirror. He reached to the right and tugged the string on the small light Pop had hung there. Time was short. His brothers, Alex and Harold, would be in from doing their chores any minute, and Pop would be home from work soon, too. They would all want to wash, and he’d have to be out of their way.
He tipped his head and studied his face in the low light. His hair hung like black icicles over his forehead, drips of rainwater trickling from their tips as if they were melting.
If the rain had come earlier, his baseball game would have been canceled. Or at least the last at-bat. Then it wouldn’t have been his fault his team lost.
He frowned and stretched farther over the wash pan. He stared at himself, swelling his chest and furrowing his brow even more, making his reflection look bigger, tougher, and better at baseball. He craned his head to the right, then the left, studying his reflection out of the corners of his eyes to see if he could look bigger than six, maybe two years younger than Carla instead of five. Carla was eleven, then Gail, Alex, Harold, and Betsy, all in stair-steps in their ages until they reached Magdalena, the oldest. Maybe he wasn’t really so small. Maybe it just seemed that way because they were all so much older.
He strained farther upward and brought the top of his swollen chest into view at the bottom of the mirror. His toes stung as he perched on their very tips. He danced from one foot to the other, giving his toes a rest. He swelled his chest even more. He craned and studied it until something behind him caught his eye. It moved, it came his way, and he stopped. He dropped flat-footed to the stool, the breath still trapped in his lungs. He watched the shadow as it approached from behind.
“You about done?”
The trapped breath exploded in a choppy laugh, high-pitched and childish even for him. “Magdalena…” His sister stepped closer until her face came into the light, the scent of cigarette smoke still strong. Blue shone from her eyelids, red glistened on her lips, and a black line circled her eyes. “You need the mirror, don’t you?”
“Just for a second.” She smiled. Her smile was nice, maybe not beautiful, like Mr. Morgan had said this afternoon, but nice.
James hopped off the stool and scooted it out of his sister’s way with his foot. “Pop will be here any second. Go ahead, so you can get your makeup washed off.”
Magdalena stepped in front of the washstand and leaned forward, pressing her face close to the mirror. The small light heightened the colors on her face, the pastes and powders Pop would scrub off if she didn’t get it done herself.
“You need to hurry,” James said.
Magdalena didn’t reply. Her hand rose to her lips, her fingers blocking that part of her face in her reflection. James watched her hand make small circular motions around her mouth in the mirror. She tilted her head back and studied her hand’s movements, peering from the bottom of her eyes. The smell of fresh lipstick filled the air. Her hand dropped, and so did her chin. Her lips were brighter instead of cleaned.
“Magdalena…” James moved closer. “Pop…”
“Pop what?” she asked through glistening lips. He watched her press them together, evening out the fresh coat.
“Pop’ll be here any minute.” He touched his sister’s skirt. It wasn’t worn like Mama’s work dresses, or a hand-me-down, since Magdalena was the oldest.
Magdalena turned from the mirror and looked down at him. The color on her face was sharp, even with the light behind her. “I’ll be gone before he gets home.”
“But you’ll miss supper! We’re not supposed to…”
“You take my plate and silverware off the table before he gets here. And tell Mama I went out.” She turned back to the mirror, but her eyes in her reflection were on James’ face instead of her own. “Tell Pop I got a job tryout, okay?”
James saw the way she set her face, the look his brothers said was desperate. Her gaze returned to her own reflection. She ran her littlest finger over her eyebrows, then reached up and fluffed her hair. She’d styled it like Mama’s, but it wasn’t the same color. Not as rich. Magdalena had Pop’s fair hair and coloring.
“Magdalena,” James whispered. “Pop’s gonna be mad.”
“Yeah?” She turned to James again. “No madder than if he finds out about this afternoon.”
James thought of Magdalena at the ball park, smoking, and wearing all the colors Pop hated on her face.
“So don’t tell him a thing, you understand?” Her face was set. “Don’t tell him about the game, or Mama, or me, or nothing.”
“I…I wasn’t going to tell Pop about the game.” James felt his face flush. “I never want Pop to know what I did…”
“Not just that, I mean nothing!” Magdalena’s voice sharpened.
“I wasn’t going to…”
“Listen.” She leaned closer. “I know you don’t want Pop to hear about the game. But he doesn’t need to hear anything, you understand? Nothing.”
Magdalena was like Mama, she helped him feel better when Pop was hard on him. But he didn’t think she was doing that now. This wasn’t about helping him. Maybe not even about keeping Pop from finding out she’d been looking like a hag and smoking like a whore in public.
Magdalena turned back to the mirror and focused on her hair, her hands whisking over it, making it look smoother than it really was. The rain was loud on the roof, and James worried they wouldn’t hear Pop coming. They all did what they could to avoid Pop’s criticism. Even Magdalena. But what she didn’t do was care. She didn’t care if Pop liked her or not. At least that’s what she said. He didn’t understand how she couldn’t care. What Pop thought was important; he made that very clear.
“Magdalena, I heard Pop was a good ballplayer. Is that true?”
Her fingers stopped. He could hear her draw in a breath, slow and deep, as she stared into the mirror. “They say he was,” she finally said, her reflection focused on James. “He doesn’t like to talk about it, though. Where’d you hear that?”
“Mr. Morgan.”
Kitchen noise rose above the pelting of the raindrops. Magdalena’s reflection gazed at James long and hard, then she turned away from the mirror and bent close to him. He waited for her to talk, tell him what Pop had been saying all along: James wasn’t a good ballplayer. But Pop had been, and that’s why he didn’t bother to come to the games. Magdalena lifted her hand, ran her fingers over his dripping hair. She picked up wet strands and moved them to the side.
“Wish I had your hair,” she finally said.
“What?”
“Your hair’s so dark. It’s not nothing-hair like mine. You’re special, James, You have good things about you I wish I had.” She pressed her lips together in a tight line, and he could see the fresh layer of lipstick squish between them. “Mr. Morgan say anything else?”
“He showed me how to bat better. He didn’t say it, but he showed me how because I’m small. And he said you’re not a hag. The reason you don’t need makeup is because you’re beautiful. Like Mama.”
Magdalena’s eyes grew wide; she looked surprised for a second. Then she snorted, unladylike, and dropped her hand from his head. She slumped back against the washstand. “He would know that much, I guess,” she said, not even looking at James.
James frowned. “Know what much?”
Magdalena looked at him, her eyes bright and hard. Then they softened. “About baseball and being not so big. He’s not all that tall himself. So maybe he had to figure out tricks to play better, if he played.” She straightened. “But there’s still something about makeup and beauty. Makeup makes women more beautiful. All women. And he knows it.”
James didn’t like the way his sister talked about Mr. Morgan. He’d been good to help James, and he’d said nice things about her and his family. “Mr. Morga
n knows what he’s talking about. What he showed me about batting worked. If I choke up on the bat, I’ll hit better.”
Magdalena started to snort again, but she stopped. “That’s good, little brother,” she said, twisting her mouth like she was thinking. “Mr. Morgan did right helping you. It took courage. He’s a good man.”
The way she said it didn’t sound right to James, she wasn’t talking about baseball as if it mattered, he could tell by her tone. “You don’t think his tricks are really going to help me, do you?” James stared at her. “I really do need to be bigger to play baseball good, don’t I? Well, I’ll get taller. I’ll be as tall as Pop someday, you’ll see!”
Magdalena’s face changed. Even behind the makeup he could see her tighten, a frown that didn’t really show. She looked worried, but he knew whatever it was wouldn’t last. Nothing bothered Magdalena for long, and she was never afraid. “You don’t have to be tall to be good, you understand? Like I said, there are special things about you. If you need a trick, use it. But don’t say nothing about any of this when Pop gets home. Remember that. Don’t say nothing about this afternoon.”
There was a roar in the distance. It sounded like thunder, but they both knew it was Pop’s truck. King, their old black hound, barked. He knew it was Pop, too, and he was glad. Pop would pat King on the head and give him whatever scraps were left over from his lunch.
Alex and Harold could be heard running through puddles toward the back door, their voices playful, high and low octaves competing as they laughed, both of them on the threshold of turning into men.
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