Mormama

by Kit Reed

  Every night we had to kneel down and pray for Ivy to stand up and start walking, and every day that Ivy tried and failed, Mama hardened her heart. And, Leah? Poor Sister, Mama was so done with babies that she didn’t even name her after a flower. She let Tillie name her, that’s how little she cared, and sweet Tillie saw to it that Leah got a pretty name, even though it made her different from the rest.

  So Leah was the last, and by the time God took her away from us, she was also the least, because of certain things that Mama refused to talk about. Then, it was like a miracle! God gave her sweet little baby Elena, our own cute little playtoy that we could dress up and fuss over and play with, like a living doll.

  Mama pretended Elena was our baby sister and we let her pretend. Pretend she did. She held that baby’s story tight inside her until that terrible last day. And yes, we were both present, at least until the last minute. Rosemary and Iris, Mama’s two flowers, Iris and Rose, but Rosemary saw death coming and ran downstairs to telephone for a priest.

  So Iris alone saw what happened and she heard what Mama said right before her mouth opened and the murky spirit inside came out. Iris saw it, and what Rosemary says about it is exactly what Iris says.

  We saw the spirit leave her, whatever it was, and now some days Rosemary speaks in Mama’s voice like Mama did in her sudden furies, and other days Iris does, because the spirit is still inside the house. It stays with us because, yes, of this we are both certain. In the end, Mama loved us best.

  Better than Papa?

  Especially Papa, because he defied her in ways we’re not allowed to talk about.

  She didn’t even like Papa. She never loved him at all.

  Oh, but she loved this house.

  She loves this house!

  And this house and everything in it is ours to protect and defend for Mama, for as long as Mama keeps us here.

  CHAPTER 42

  Dell

  She’s sitting up there on the broad front porch in spite of rain and descending darkness: Miss Ivy Ellis, so carefully composed that only an empath would know that every muscle in her is taut with waiting. Maybe it’s the rain diffusing what little light there is left in Jacksonville, Florida this afternoon, maybe Dell is worn out and freaking. Whatever it is, the old thing’s face gleams like the head of a goddess on a coin, living emblem of a household disrupted.

  She cranes. “Who’s there?”

  “It’s me.”

  “Oh, sweetheart. I thought you’d never come!”

  Dell rocks back on his heels, but only a little bit. Keeps his voice even, asking, “Who do you think I am?”

  She frowns as though he’s a fool to ask; his identity is a given. “Where were you? Where were you all this time?”

  “At the library,” he says, advancing. Proceed cautiously, man. You don’t know what year she’s in. He waits for her to process the information.

  Whatever’s going on inside her head, Ivy’s voice is close to breaking. “Where were you all this time?”

  “In your family archives down at the library, Ma’am.” As though that will satisfy her.

  “Don’t call me Ma’am. You make me feel old!”

  “Yes Ma’am!”

  “I waited so long.”

  “I’m sorry. I got held up.” Dell has no idea where in time Ivy Ellis is drifting right now or what she wants from him, but homeless and nameless as he is, used up by days of research and driven by possibilities raised by the ancestral journal, he is bent on one thing, and at the moment, this ancient, bedazzled old girl sits before him like a gift waiting to be unwrapped.

  She wails, “I waited and waited.”

  He lingers in the shadows, framing his next response. It takes him a beat longer than it should, two beats, three to come up with it, but Ivy has been waiting for so many years now that she is patient. Finally he says, “I’m so very sorry, dear.”

  Her voice melts. “Oh. Oh, thank you.”

  Get to the point, asshole. Whatever it is. “What are you waiting for?”

  With a blissful smile Ivy answers, “Why, for you, of course.”

  “Me?”

  “Mama won’t let me out of the house the way I am, she doesn’t want anybody to see me like this, all useless and crippled, so count your blessings, dear. Bad pennies never stay in Mama’s pockets, as you know. You are so very lucky. She used to love me, but she never liked you.”

  He has nothing to say to this. Waits.

  “Why didn’t you take me with you when you went away?”

  Careful, careful. “Who do you think I am?”

  “Why, you’re my best, bad brother, and you know it.”

  Bingo. Dell can’t help it; he laughs. “I thought you’d never guess.”

  “Oh, Randolph!”

  “Oh, Ivy!” He seizes her hands.

  “Don’t!” Just as suddenly, the clumps of skinny old fingers turn into Silly Putty, slithering away. RmmRmm. As if on its own, Scooter revs up and backs her away from him. “Good Lord, child. Whoever you are, you certainly aren’t Randolph Ellis.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Hold still!” She squints and squints. “You don’t even look like him!”

  “No Ma’am, I’m not him, but I could be…”

  “My best bad brother is long dead.”

  “… related to him.”

  Then she wails so loud that he moves to shush her, but there’s no way to stop what comes next. “He came home too damaged to have any children at all!”

  Thud. Whatever he thought brought him here, he was wrong.

  “All that agony, and I’m the only one he told.”

  “I’m sorry.” He is, but he’s not ready to take this apart and study it right now. He’s sorrier than he knows.

  “Don’t apologize,” Ivy says, “I knew you weren’t Randolph on the very first day, but you’re good company, and…”

  Careful, Nameless. Wait.

  “I needed a sweet boy I could tell. I get so lonely, being the only one who knows.”

  After a while, you just run out of things to say. They sit there listening to the rain.

  Finally she says, “See, the war maimed him; the Boche artillery took his foot. He came home with gangrene, and the worse injury. It would break Papa’s heart. And Mama despised him. He loved Papa but he didn’t want to show himself until he got his wooden leg. He was ashamed.”

  He can’t help it, he echoes, “Ashamed.” Like me.

  It takes Ivy a long time to complete this thought. “Because he was a cripple, just like me.”

  “I’m sorry!”

  “Oh, please stop saying that! It was lovely, seeing Randolph again. The two of us hugging, knowing I’m the only person he told.” She almost smiles. “He sent Vincent with the message. I was so glad! On that Sunday, Vincent waited until they all went out to church. Then he brought my brother to the house and we were so glad that we hugged and laughed, oh, we laughed. I didn’t know it was our last. He held me close so I wouldn’t see how bad it was, and we talked about all the Sunday parties we’d have together while they were at church, laughing and, oh, it makes no never mind, because I never saw him again.”

  A long sigh. Another painful wait.

  “Next Sunday Vincent went for him, and he came back with the note. The influenza took him, along with half of south Jacksonville. I kept the note.” She fishes around in her skinny bosom and comes up empty. “Never mind. We were so happy that one time, and now he’s dead.”

  Dead, and Dell is dead empty. No ancestors left on his plate. He’s just whoever the hell he really is.

  She adds, “I’m sorry, dear.”

  Days wasted on his stupid search for affirmation. Documents, the missing will, if there ever was one, that’s all he was looking for, anything that would locate him at this exact point in time and space for a real reason. Proof! “Me too.”

  He turns to go, but her voice nails his feet to the deck. “Please!”

  “I.” Manners kick in. “I’m s
orry.”

  “Stop saying that!”

  “I’m … I have to go.”

  “You can’t leave now, son. I need.”

  “Really, Miss Ivy. I have to…” What? Get it together. Draft your to-do list. Pack. Shut up shop. Move on.

  She’s not exactly clawing at the air, but she is. She’s that desperate. “I need!”

  “Ma’am, do you need to go to the…” Don’t go there. “Oh, you mean inside. Let’s get you inside, it’s too wet out here for a special lady like you.” Yes he is wasted. Spent and wobbling in his tracks.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, as Dell turns the chair and opens the front doors and starts her down the long front hall, back into her crappy life. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

  Then Ivy turns the scooter smartly and faces him, and the light inside her switches on. Once again she is that bright, patrician figure on a medal, gleaming. “And when you’re finished packing…”

  Did I tell her? He doesn’t think so. He turns politely. “Ma’am?”

  “Come back for me. It isn’t safe.”

  Wuow.

  “I’ll try.” There’s nothing left for him here. He needs to get down there and deep-six all his useless evidence. Destroy the index card and ditch the jacket. They stiffed me. What was he really wearing when he got hit? That was never my coat.

  Then, why …

  Ivy calls after him. “Promise!”

  Split. Get out while you can. Leave or you’ll get stuck in the mud, and that’s not a metaphor.

  There’s no telling how much deeper it will get.

  “Please!” Her voice curls about him and clings. “Don’t leave me trapped in this terrible house!”

  “Yes Ma’am.”

  CHAPTER 43

  Mormama

  Lord, did you not hear me pray? I have been praying ever since the first drop fell. Did I not pray hard enough or loud enough to be heard wherever You are? What do You want from me? So much wind, all that water, could You not lift this old ark off its foundations and release the poor souls still trapped within?

  It rained so hard and for so long this time that I hoped! I thought, this time, oh Lord, this time.

  Hurricane winds, days of rain sheeting down, rain that goes on and on, there is no end to it. There’s water running in the streets, water overflowing the curbstones, rain drenching our sidewalks and creeping up to cover the lawn, it’s the worst I’ve ever seen. Forgive me for presuming, I thought, Thank God, the flood.

  Let the waters rip this tomb of iniquity off its moorings and carry Manette’s house, our prison, out into the St. Johns River, let it rush us downstream to death; I thought God would crack this ark wide open, I saw it smashed to bits in the rapids, and I thought, Fine.

  Then the current would carry the rest of my daughter’s temple to possessions downstream and out to sea, and every soul still trapped in here would be freed. I thought the winds and waters would tear bits and pieces of my daughter’s folly off our floating prison and I gave thanks to God. But it’s still here.

  I feel the house rocking on its foundation, I hear it groaning under the strain and yet, and yet …

  Oh Lord, let the St. Johns River take us; let Manette’s house smash against the jetty and rebound on every rock it strikes, let it lose planks and plaster and supporting members on its way downriver, let the storm blow all her windows to perdition, releasing all my daughter’s lares and penates to the wind. Lord, scatter Little Manette’s cherished objects on the ocean floor, send all her porcelains and furs and pretentious costumes flying willy-nilly as her shrine to avarice settles in the sand and breaks to pieces on the rocks, and let all the souls trapped within this house fly up to you.

  Oh Lord, accept us. I begged you take me instead of him, but it was too late, and here we stayed, the soul of Teddy trapped in the earth below, I promised Teddy, Lord. We’ve waited for so long!

  I have prayed for fire, flood, hurricane or lightning every day since he burned up. I prayed for invasion by Seminole Indians or hordes from all those heathen countries to converge on us and put an end to this, but the life in Manette’s house goes on and on. I used to pray that an earthquake would shake her monument to greed off its foundations and smash her pretty ornaments to shards, and last night I had hopes.

  Oh, I hoped. But the sun is rising and the rain has stopped. The storm is gone and the house that Little Manette Ellis demanded is intact, even to the front porch rockers, and we’re still here.

  When we lost Teddy I died a thousand deaths, and over time I have died a million more, because a part of him is still down there in the earth under the cement. By the time we got back from Ellis Park the screaming had stopped, but I could still smell the fire.

  I know how it happened. It came into my head that very night. God brought me down the back stairs after midnight, long after the doctor came and the undertakers took what they could find of my darling boy. Nobody told me that it was the last possible moment, but I knew. In fact, Dakin and Vincent leveled the ground at six the next morning, and the workmen came in and poured cement at noon. He had his reasons, and I understand.

  I went down underneath the kitchen porch to the laundry room and I knelt on the charred ground where my boy shrieked in agony and I cried and cried. Then I felt him. I didn’t hear Teddy, I felt him, and I knew at once what this terrible day had been like for him, all but the last big. No! God spared me the pain. Or Teddy did.

  He spared me the moment at which. At which! I can’t bear to think of it. It wasn’t a recital, there was no apparition. It was pure Teddy in my head.

  Manette was testy that morning. She’d called Tillie and me to her boudoir, and I saw. She sat in her embroidered wing chair with Everett cradled on her lap and she snarled at me. Her little sweetheart had a cold. He was four years old! The older children scattered; they knew what she was like, but Teddy was a loving spaniel, curled up close to her feet, in hopes. My hardy, neglected boy wanted love, but with the toe of her beaded slipper, she nudged him aside.

  “Hush. Evvie is feverish.”

  She handed off the smallest to Tillie and me and dispatched us on that idiot outing to the park, trilling, “When Nurse takes my girls out in the pony cart, people always say, I know you belong to Manette Ellis. I can tell by the eyes.” Girls, because that was the picture she composed. Frilly white dresses and white kid sandals, pink silk bow ribbons in their hair. No boys.

  If only I’d refused!

  But my selfish daughter was balancing her needs on that Saturday when all the children who were old enough had gone out to play because even for the best-managed families, the schools were closed. Manette dispatched Ivy to the stables and Vincent came with the pony cart long before Tillie finished making the last of the twins’ silly finger curls.

  Teddy begged to go. Manette laughed. “They make pictures for the Metropolitan on Saturdays, silly. No boys allowed!”

  The Sunday Metropolitan included pictures of society’s prettiest children photographed in Ellis Park, and she insisted that I go with Tillie, to make sure that the twins’ curls and bow ribbons were perfect and they were properly posed. “And Mormama,” she said, because she could not bring herself to call me Mother, “don’t let him click the camera until they smile!”

  Only Teddy knows what happened after we left the house, and he let me know.

  They were together in her boudoir, Manette and her cherished Everett along with dear Teddy, always so amiable and anxious to please. Then Everett gave a little cough— eh-ah, and she lifted him up like a baby prince and cried, “Oh my darling, you’ve caught a cold!” and Everett cuddled and whispered into her neck, “I don’t feel so good,” at which point my daughter saw poor Teddy stretching his arms up to her with such yearning that she cried, “Your brother is ill, Teddy, don’t bother me!”

  And Everett, whom God condemned to a long, unhappy life as a malingerer, whined, “Make him go away!”

  And she did.

  My sweet boy said
something to his mother that it would break my heart to repeat. So loving. So hurt. So sad. He tugged at her skirt, “Oh, Mama. I just.”

  “Go out and play,” she told him, although he knew it was forbidden, and when he hesitated, she lied. “Biggie will take care of you,” she said, although Saturday was the day that Biggie boiled water for Manette’s whites— her precious towels, her fine sheets.

  “I can’t.” He swallowed his tears and tried to explain, but no words came out, just noise.

  Then Little Manette shouted in a big, ugly voice, “Stop that, Theodore Ward Ellis. Just go.” Then she added, almost as an afterthought, “Your brothers will play with you.” This is how well Manette knew her sons.

  The big boys were already halfway up May Street, running after the pony cart. When they caught up they stuck willow whips into the wheels, laughing at the noise they made smacking between the spokes, and I laughed with them all the way to the park. At the gates, Tillie threatened to whale the tar out of them and they turned back, but by that time Teddy was making his way downstairs and into the great parlor, excited by how wrong it was, and how good it felt.

  It was wrong but it was wonderful. Three years old, and on his own! He was all alone in Mama’s house, free to do as he wished. Manette would say it was all Dakin’s fault because of the matches, but she’d never say it out loud. First she blamed Vincent, she blamed Biggie, after all, they were undependable by nature, the colored help. Then she blamed Teddy’s big brothers for neglecting him, she advanced on the strength of her reproaches, her hideous Dies Irae: It was all their fault. After all, it couldn’t possibly be hers.

  In fact, Dakin was the only one in the house who smoked; men do, ladies would never think of it, and that day Dakin died a thousand deaths, although Manette never spoke of it. Cigars, he chose. Nasty cigars to make his point, and don’t you think Manette’s houseboy John liked his master insisting on that bowl of kitchen matches in the first-class parlor because he was too busy to go to the kitchen to get a light? Lord knows John knew better than to leave matches within reach of the children, but when you get to be eighty, you just get tired. He did Manette’s bidding until he started dropping things, and she let him go. He kept the kitchen matches in a tin on a shelf so high above the stove that no child could reach, but Dakin’s silver matchbox lived in that cut-glass bowl on the pier table, and then …