“Pasie wasn’t well, then?” I prompted.
“Yes! Yes, that was it! Of course! She wasn’t herself, so thin and homesick.”
Another pause.
“She missed Three Twenty Audubon Street?”
“Yes, Three Twenty and her little dog. When I visited, I found her terribly homesick. Eveline had spoiled her, you know.”
“When did you visit her?” I asked, and held my breath for his answer.
“It was just before the hurricane.” He stopped, a remembering look on his face. He had forgotten I was there. ‘‘Pasie asked me, begged me really, to bring her home. Of course, I couldn’t do that!” Uncle Malvern stopped as though he had settled something with himself.
“And then, Uncle Malvern? Then what?”
“She was a trifle hardheaded, Pasie was. And, well, she left your father—and you—and went to the beach cottage.”
“Alone?”
“Yes, all by herself.”
“And then?”
“Then, the hurricane came, and the tidal wave.” Uncle Malvern shuddered. “We were safe in your house, high in the hills but Pasie—if only she hadn’t left . . .”
“You mean we weren’t all swept into the sea?”
“Oh, no! We were high in the hills!”
High and dry. We had been safe! The whole time! My father hadn’t saved me because I’d never even been in the water! My nightmare had nothing to do with me—only my mother.
“Was my mother—lost?” I couldn’t say the word drowned.
“Not exactly.”
“She wasn’t lost in the Gulf?”
“Drowned, but not lost.”
“But everyone told me—Uncle Malvern, what happened to her?”
“I found her afterward.” Tears were rolling down his cheeks. “I brought her home at last.”
“Home? Here?” I was crying, too. Each thing he said was a small explosion in my head. I’d said too much. Uncle Malvern suddenly seemed to know he wasn’t talking to himself.
“Well, uh, well, yes, that is . . .”
“Is she buried in Saint Louis #2?” I asked.
He nodded his head like a small boy admitting he’d done something wrong. “Promise you won’t tell Eveline and Toosie?” he pleaded.
“But why don’t they know?” I asked.
“Oh, we couldn’t tell the girls! It would have killed Eveline to know that Pasie had left George—and you. That things hadn’t worked out between George and Pasie.”
“But why did you bring her home? Why didn’t my father bring her home? After she died?” Uncle Malvern looked confused. “Why didn’t George bring Pasie home?” I asked.
“Oh, he wouldn’t have done that! George was a good man, but after Pasie left him, he simply acted as though she had never existed. She was a pariah to him, as the Indians say—an outcast not to be spoken of. So, in the end, I had to bring her home. No, we never could have told the girls,” he repeated. “Pariah,” he mumbled, blurring the word.
In the fading light of his bedroom, Uncle Malvern reminded me of someone. Under the soft layer of flesh, sliding into jowls, I saw a cleft chin; beneath the puffy, vein-lined nose, the bones formed a short straight line; the watery, bloodshot eyes were faded blue; the mustache drooped into a delicately shaped mouth. Under the mask worn by Uncle Malvern was Edmond Hilary de St. Denis! It was like a firecracker that only takes a second to go off, but my whole secret life lay in pieces at my feet. I had ripped off Uncle Malvern’s mask and seen Edmond. But to Pasie, Malvern must have remained desirable, and maddeningly unattainable until the end.
“Thank you for telling me all of that, Uncle Malvern,” I said. But he was half asleep and smiled foolishly. “Good-bye, Uncle Malvern,” I said. “Good-bye, Edmond,” I whispered.
I went home shaken by my mother’s unhappiness. I pitied my father, but I didn’t understand how anyone could have been so cruel, not caring about Aunt Eveline, and then not understanding or ever forgiving my mother. I crawled into bed as unhappy as if it had all happened to me instead of to my mother. Then, when I tried to become Jane Whitmore, she became Pasie in a scene just before the hurricane.
“Malvern, bring me home! I can’t stand this place!”
“But, my dear, you are married to George! He is your husband. It’s his place to bring you home. He’ll bring you home if he understands how you feel.”
“No, he won’t. He’ll never understand. When I try to tell him, he pats my hands as though I were a child and says, ‘You’ll get used to it, Aspasie. It always takes time.’ And then, he looks at me with those sad, droopy eyes. Did you ever notice that he looks like an old cocker spaniel?”
“Pasie!”
“Even his mustache droops—like ears.”
“Now, Pasie, he is your husband!”
“I don’t like him!”
“Pasie! Don’t say that. Don’t think it.”
“I hate him!”
“All right, all right, dear. We’ll write Eveline.”
“We’ll go!”
“But Eveline— ”
“It’s not Eveline’s business! Besides, she’d make me stay. She doesn’t believe in quitting. ‘Finish what you start’ is her motto. I don’t have to go home to Three Twenty, you know. I could go to New York. Nini could send Fifi. If you take me—”
“If I can’t take you, Pasie! What would people say?”
“I don’t care what people would say! Oh, Mal, don’t you understand me after all these years?”
“Yes, yes, of course, I do, my dear. But first we must write Eveline. Telegraph, if you prefer. You just can’t . . .”
I saw him, finally. Why had it taken me so long? His cleft chin wasn’t a sign of strength. It drew attention away from his weak mouth. His straight eyebrows met over watery blue eyes. He wouldn’t help me because he couldn’t. There was no one, not even myself. I threw myself on the bed in complete despair. Malvern sat on the edge, stroking my hand and dabbing at my tears.
“Oh, Pasie! Oh, my dear!” he murmured. Finally I stopped sobbing and fell asleep. When I awoke, I was alone. The wind had grown strong and had a voice I’d never heard before.
That was the last Jane Whitmore scene I ever had, and it was so vivid that after I went to sleep, I dreamed the hurricane nightmare. But this time, instead of being inside the wave, I was standing on a cliff watching Pasie at the beach cottage in Honduras. She was alone and had been crying, but now she stopped to listen to the wind. The wind howled at gale force, bending the trees down parallel to the ground. On the horizon, a dark curtain rose and moved toward land, carrying rain so opaque that Pasie did not see the great wave until it hit the cottage, tumbling it like paper. Pasie, who had turned into a paper doll, lay on the crest of the wave as it carried her gently to the foot of the cliff. Then the wave receded and left her lying there, golden curls and seaweed framing her white face.
She lay like Sleeping Beauty until the Prince came. He was riding a burro and looked dumpy, with a skimpy mustache, and thinning hair slicked down under his golden crown. He kissed Pasie and she woke up, three-dimensional again. She returned his kiss, transforming him into Edmond Hilary de St. Denis, handsome and strong. Together, they mounted the burro, which became a great white horse with a flowing mane and took them galloping through the banana trees toward the sea. Everything was beautiful in my dream, except that they forgot Pasie’s white silk scarf and it hung, water-stained, on a tree blown leafless by the wind.
Chapter XXIII
I gulped down my prunes, gagging only once, and brought the plate to the kitchen.
“Where’s Holly?” I asked Nini. I had to tell Holly that she was right about Uncle Malvern.
“Gone,” Nini turned red eyes to me. “Gone to Chicago.”
“But I have to tell her something! And she didn’t even say good-bye!”
“I’m sorry about that, Addie. I’m truly sorry. She had to leave in a hurry. Her mama needed her—a new baby and a new daddy. I bet Holly is sorry sh
e didn’t say good-bye. It doesn’t do for a person to go away without saying good-bye.”
“She was my best friend,” I whined.
“Is, Addie, is. The heart won’t change. She’ll be back come the summer. You’ll see. Maybe back for good! I’m hoping . . . if Sarah . . .”
By summer, I’d be thirteen and Holly fourteen. Too old to be scared in the attic or even in the graveyard. Too old for anything fun. She’d never known she was my best friend. I’d never known it either.
“Holly has to get used to a new daddy,” said Nini.
“Maybe he’ll be nice,” I answered without really thinking about it.
“Maybe.” Nini slowed down polishing the silver. “He’s got his family. Six children he’s bringing for my Sarah to mind, and she’s got four herself. All younger than Holly.” Nini looked at me.
“I could write her,” I said, ashamed I had not thought about Holly’s problems or what her life was like at home in Chicago. It was a good thing she had her Sagoma gifts to help her.
Nini smiled. “Holly’d like for you to write,” she said.
“I could tell her about Jane Whit—about Sandra Lee and me.”
“Do that, Addie. You write her. Just tell her all that’s happening here. How you and Sandra Lee are going to dancing school and catechism and all, and how Miss Eveline and Miss Toosie are looking so well. And how I’m waiting for the summer and hoping it’ll be for good. Tell her I’m waiting.”
“I’ll write this minute, Nini. I’ll bet she’s forgotten she ever was mad at me.”
“Good, honey, good. She’ll like that.” Nini was rubbing the pitcher so hard she’d soon be down to the brass. “Tell her all what you’re doing. And tell her I’m waiting for summer.”
I wrote. I was very humble and understanding. I forgave her, I said, for not saying good-bye. I understood her problems, I said, and she had my deepest sympathy. I told her I needed her Sagoma gifts and hoped she’d help me again in the summer. I mailed the letter, feeling virtuous, forgiving, understanding, mature, and full of wisdom. I hadn’t felt so good since my last Confession.
I went over to Tom’s house and told him about Holly leaving without saying good-bye and about the beautiful letter I’d written. I told him that one should not turn inward and become self-centered, that one should see another’s needs. I told him that friendship is sacred and must be guarded jealously to keep the embers glowing.
I stood there expectantly, and Tom said, “Whew! I hope you don’t write any mush like that to me.”
“Don’t worry!” I answered. “I wouldn’t write you a letter if—if—” I couldn’t think of anything. “And anyhow, you’re here.”
“I’m going away to school.”
“You are! Oh, Tom. Where?” I forgot I was mad at him.
“A school in North Carolina. The boys work there. They do all of the chores, even help when there’s a building to put up.”
I would be all alone. Stuck at Three Twenty Audubon Street. Without any friends.
“But why, Tom? Do you want to leave?”
“Yes,” he said. “And my mother thinks that since I have no father, I should grow up around boys and men more.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll miss you, Addie.”
“I’ll—” I burst into tears.
“It’s not till after Christmas, Addie. And I’ll be home in the summer. It’s not as though I were really leaving home. But, well, there’s Uncle Malvern, and—I want to get away.”
“I understand,” I whimpered. “It’s just that first Holly and now you, and that leaves just me—and Sandra Lee.”
“You’ll have Pumpkin! And listen, Addie, Sandra Lee’s not so bad. You’re pretty hard on her, you know.”
“Me? Hard on her?”
“Well, aren’t you?”
It was true I was always careful to say something mean as soon as I saw her, but that was just to make sure she didn’t beat me to it.
“She doesn’t know you,” Tom went on. “You never give her a chance. You’re so stuck-up.”
“Me? Stuck-up? Me?”
“I bet Sandra Lee and Harold think so. You never talk to them.”
“They don’t talk to me!”
“But if they really knew you . . . When you smile . . . You could make friends.”
I smiled through my tears and Tom laughed at me. “Not like that. You have to dry your eyes and blow your nose first.” He gave me his handkerchief. I looked at it carefully and decided to use the hem of my dress.
“Tom,” I said, trying out the smile again. “What was the word you used to break the code? The one with three letters repeated over and over. It wasn’t Mal, was it? Short for Malvern?”
“How did you know?”
“I asked him if he’d loved her. I thought so because of how he said her name that night in the cemetery.”
“Yeah. It was his name. How could she ever have liked him?”
“He used to be good-looking.”
“That’s hard to believe. But even so, I’ll bet he was always—always just like he is now.”
I didn’t answer. I knew Tom had lied because he was so ashamed of Uncle Malvern, he didn’t want to tell me my mother had liked him.
“Tom,” I said, “you ought to try to like your Uncle Malvern. At least feel sorry for him, don’t you think?”
“That’s it, Addie!” Tom touched my mouth. “That’s the smile I mean! When you smile like that you’ll make friends!”
When I got home, I went straight to the mirror and smiled. I looked so fake and dumb, I laughed out loud, and caught the reflection of someone I didn’t mind. I thought of what Holly had said, that if you believe you are someone, you are. Something like that she’d said. Maybe I was the girl I’d seen for a second in the mirror. I smiled at myself again, and Aunt Eveline, walking in unannounced as usual, caught me.
She politely pretended she hadn’t seen and said, “I have to go downtown tomorrow. I was wondering if you’d care to look for a new dress to wear to dancing school? Miss Rush told me she saw one in Holmes’s window that made her think of you.”
The next morning, we were downtown when the stores opened. The dress was absolutely perfect—all white batiste, trimmed at the neck and sleeves with a pale blue ribbon running through eyelet lace. I loved it and said so.
“One loves people, adores God, and likes things,” Aunt Eveline said, and commanded the saleslady to get the dress out of the window. Aunt Eveline felt the material, examined the lace, the stitches, the seams, and—the price tag. It read $16. Aunt Eveline said, “Thank you very much,” to the saleslady, and with great dignity, on her part, at least, we left. We went to the pattern department, studied the pattern books, bought two patterns to combine, one for the top and the other for the skirt. We bought three yards of white batiste, two of eyelet lace and blue ribbon, and returned home. We had spent $8.35, including carfare.
I helped Aunt Eveline cut out the dress on the dining room table, and after lunch we basted it and went next door, where Aunt Eveline sat down at Aunt Toosie’s sewing machine.
“Aunt Eveline,” I said, as she began to take out pins and pull threads. “I found out something.”
“Hmm?”
“My mother is buried in Saint Louis #2.”
Aunt Eveline opened her mouth and the straight pins she’d been holding there fell, thank goodness, on the floor and not down her throat. The color drained from her face, but I continued.
“I found her gold heart in Saint Louis #2. Uncle Malvern told me everything. He and Uncle Ben buried her there secretly because they didn’t want to upset you. It’s true. Nini knows too. I thought you ought to know.”
“All right, Addie,” Aunt Eveline was in control of herself and I had her full attention. “Let’s have the whole story.”
I gave her the whole story. All of it that I knew, embellished with the parts I’d filled in for myself. When I was finished (her eyes had never left my face) I expected her to rejoice.
Her dearest wish had come true: darling Pasie was buried in Saint Louis #2. Instead, she surprised me.
“You’ve grown upl” she said in amazement. And then, anxiously, “Addie, dear, are you upset about all of this?”
“Oh, no, Aunt Eveline. I like knowing about my mother. I feel as though I know her now, and—I like her.” I did not add: she seems more like a sister than a mother, and you, Aunt Eveline, seem like the mother of both of us.
Aunt Eveline smiled and sighed. She looked very tired. “You’ve grown up,” she repeated.
I opened my mouth to say something nice, like “You’ve changed, too,” but that didn’t sound right and words wouldn’t come.
She bent to pick up the pins. “Help me pick these up, Addie. I want to finish the seams and hem the skirt so that you’ll have the dress for tonight.” Then, she said the most amazing thing of all. “If only I hadn’t meddled. If only I had just let things happen for once, I would have been the wife George wanted, and he would have been a different man.”
I started to reply but couldn’t think of a word to say, and anyhow, Aunt Eveline’s foot was working the pedal so fast, she wouldn’t have heard.
The dress was ready in plenty of time. Aunt Eveline and I surveyed it and congratulated ourselves on having duplicated the store dress exactly.
“Addie,” Aunt Eveline said when I dressed for dancing school, “why don’t you wear the locket?”
“The locket?”
“Your mother’s gold heart. Bring it to me.”
I ran to my room and brought it back in record time.
Aunt Eveline received the heart as though it were the Holy Grail. She took a straight pin and touched a tiny hole right at the top. It sprang open into a locket, with the picture of a very small girl inside. I saw her black straight bangs before tears blinded me.
“Now you know who was in her heart, Addie,” Aunt Eveline said.
My dress was by far the prettiest one at dancing school; at least I thought so, and as Sandra Lee and Harold glided by, Sandra Lee said over his shoulder, “That’s a pretty dress, Addie,” which is really not as good as “You look pretty, Addie.”
Still, it was something, so I swallowed twice, remembered what Tom had said about being hard on Sandra Lee, gave a fleeting thought to the Baltimore Catechism, and blurted, “You look really cute, Sandra Lee! But then, you always do!”
Secret Lives Page 13