All We Had

by Annie Weatherwax

  It was afternoon. The sun was bright. I had just cleaned the windows. And the light poured in at a brand-new angle. But she would never notice.

  She raised the racket. “I can’t wait to get out of this shithole,” she said. And leaving the impression of tightly woven plaid, she smashed the mouse dead.

  My mother later told me my face turned a shade of green and that she reached out with the tennis racket to break my fall. What I remembered next was waking up in bed with her sitting beside me. She held my hand and stroked my forehead. “You really scared me,” she said. She took my temperature. She brought me water. She heated up some Campbell’s soup. And when I was done with that, she popped a big bag of popcorn and got into bed with me. We watched reruns of Star Trek and cracked up over how boyish and stupid the show was. “Beam me up, Scotty,” my mother mocked in a deep voice. When she threw a handful of popcorn at the screen, I didn’t care that it landed on the floor. All I did was laugh.

  I told myself she’d grow tired of him. I imagined her fixing her makeup, getting ready to break up with him. “His aftershave stinks! His dandruff is gross!” she’d jeer. I could just see her ducking in and out of the bathroom with each exclamation of disbelief. And I pictured the two of us howling.

  My mother took my temperature one more time. I thought for sure she’d stay home with me, but at seven p.m. sharp she got up. She took a shower. She changed her clothes. I heard the familiar clatter as she pulled her makeup out and chucked it back into her bag.

  “I gotta go.” She was sitting on the edge of the bed again. I couldn’t look at her. She reached to touch my cheek and I turned away.

  Vick was old enough to be my mother’s father and just the kind of man she claimed she’d never like.

  “Ruthie,” my mother pleaded. She kissed my shoulder. “Everything is going to be okay. I promise.”

  But I had never been so unsure.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Loyalty

  The April of my junior year, I wrote a paper: “Jesus Has Been Co-Opted by the Devil: An Examination of How the Perversion of His Teachings Is Destroying the World.”

  I thought it was my best, but my teacher, Ms. Simmons, didn’t even read it. She claimed that my subject matter had become “too dark.”

  Ms. Simmons was not the brightest bulb. Her face was thin and elongated and her features seemed crowded for room, so who knows, maybe she’d been squeezed in some elevator doors and suffered brain damage as a kid.

  To humor her, I took my paper back and wrote about something more cheery: the Easter Bunny. And I tried a new angle—instead of just putting my thoughts down, I posed a series of questions. “Would Jesus think the Easter Bunny is doing a good job of representing his values? Through the mere existence of the Easter Bunny, is Jesus trying to tell us something? And if so, what would that be? That life makes perfect sense or that it’s a ludicrous joke?” At this point in my paper, Ms. Simmons had circled Easter Bunny several times, drawn a happy face, and written in the margin: “I already like this paper much ­better!”

  By the spring of 2008 business at Tiny’s had slowed so much, Mel had Peter Pam pumping gas part-time (you can only imagine how it was ruining her nails) and I hardly ever saw her.

  Vick Ward became Tiny’s only regular customer. He was there every Saturday. He’d sip a cup of coffee for hours, grabbing at my mother and starting conversations. He had no clue that none of us liked him. We found out that he’d written the Hansons’ loan and Patti and Roger’s, too. His company had filed for bankruptcy but somehow they reorganized and Vick got promoted. He was now some kind of executive VP.

  Arlene kept her eye on him. Just a look from her was enough to make him squirm.

  One day she and I were standing up against the wall. He sat in the booth right across from us, waiting for his breakfast. “They’re all pigs, assholes, greedy pricks.” Arlene was going off on her new favorite topic: bankers and politicians. She was talking to me but looking at him. He stared out the window and pretended not to hear her. He shifted in his seat. “No, you know what they are? They’re all a bunch of thieves!” Arlene spit the word at him and he flinched.

  Just then, my mother came bounding through the kitchen door with Vick’s hash browns. She was the only one who liked him. According to her, Vick had no idea the loans he made were bad, but Arlene and I did not believe it. We did not see him losing his house.

  Vick looked up at my mother with a big smile and as soon as she put his plate down, he grabbed her and sat her on his lap. She now did this anytime he wanted her to. I tried not to watch, but I couldn’t get over what she was doing. And she didn’t care who saw it.

  My mother tossed her head back and let out a giggle so high-pitched and phony, it left a stench in the air.

  Even Arlene was impressed. “I might think he’s a son of a bitch, but damn if she isn’t good. I’ve never seen a girl work a man quite like that before.”

  Then, suddenly, because he wanted to, he pulled her into him and they started slobbering all over each other like a couple of loose-lipped monkeys.

  It was so gross, I just couldn’t help myself. I burst through the kitchen doors and dove for the sink, barely making it before I puked. And the next thing I knew, the floor was coming at me and I was leading with my head. Just before I hit the ground, whoosh! Arlene swooped up behind me. She caught me by my waist and sat me on a chair.

  “Here, sweetheart, have some juice.” And as if by magic she produced a glass. She moved closer and looked at my face. Her eyes were warm and brown.

  Her only son had died overseas in the first Iraqi war. Peter Pam had made us swear we’d never breathe a word of it. The mere mention of it could send Arlene reeling off the edge. But I could see then in the tender way she looked at me that her son still lived on inside her.

  She brushed a hair off my sweaty forehead. “You have always been a string bean, but you’re getting way too thin.” She cupped my chin. “Now drink up.” She stood back, folded her arms, and waited to see how the juice went down.

  “You see,” she said after I took a sip, “you’re more resilient than you think.”

  On a Saturday morning when the restaurant had emptied out. Peter Pam and I were cleaning up. She finally had a shift inside the restaurant and was gleefully wiping down her tables, lip-synching with a ketchup bottle to Aretha Franklin on the stereo: “R-E-S-P-E-C-T! Find out what it means to me!”

  With his arms stretched out over the top of the booth and a toothpick dangling in the corner of his mouth, Vick digested his food. He was the only customer left.

  When he looked over at Peter Pam, he chuckled. And even though he was probably enjoying her performance—Peter Pam was that good—I took my apron off, balled it up, slapped it on the counter, and headed for his table. I wanted him to leave. I couldn’t stand him. He didn’t know it but my mother’s relationship with him would never last. She hated men like him, finicky and picky about their clothes. And I could just tell, he had no idea how to change his oil or fix a leaky faucet.

  I grabbed for his mug, but he stopped me.

  “Whoa there, kid-o.” He covered my hand over the top of the cup. “I’m still drinking that.”

  I looked down at his hand. He wore a ruby-studded pinky ring. His fingernails were polished, his palms soft and clammy.

  I pulled at the mug but he pulled it back.

  “I never noticed,” he said, “but you got your mother’s pretty eyes.” He smiled and his eyes twinkled like a pair of artificial gems. I pushed my glasses up. For a moment I was afraid to move.

  A reassuring hand touched my back.

  “Will there be anything else today?” Mel said, reaching past me, filling Vick’s water glass.

  Vick let go of my hand on his mug.

  “That’s it,” he said. “Say, what’d you put in those eggs today? They were extra good.”

&n
bsp; Mel ignored the compliment. He slid the check across the table. “Then you can settle up with me.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Guardian

  Days went by. My mother dated Vick tirelessly and my mood worsened. She and I fought all the time. One night she emerged from the bathroom all dressed up for a date. She flung her arms out and flopped down on the couch. Her pocketbook in her outstretched hand hit the cushion with a thump.

  “I’ll have you know,” she said, sticking her nose in the air all smug, “he’s working on another loan for us.”

  “Why? Because the first one worked out so well?” I couldn’t help myself. It was breathtaking how stupid she could be. We’d gotten caught up in a nationwide scam and she refused to see it. She grabbed her purse and stood up. “At least he’s trying to get us out of this mess. What the fuck are you doing about it except hanging out with that tired old queen?” She stormed out and slammed the door behind her.

  No matter how she sometimes hurt me or how hard I tried not to, I missed her when she was gone. When she was out, I hardly slept. I’d wait up and listen for the sound of a car, then her keys in the door. Her purse would hit the counter. She might open the freezer, pull the ice cream out, and eat it standing up. I’d hear the spoon clink against the bottom of the sink when she was done. Sometimes she took a shower. Sometimes she just slipped into bed. And I wouldn’t move. I’d wait until I heard her breathing slow and then I’d inch my way onto my elbows to look at her, her mouth at rest, her lips slightly parted. I’d watch her chest rise and fall and listen to the rhythm of her sleeping. It wasn’t until I knew for certain that she was home and next to me that I could close my eyes and rest.

  I looked around our house. I was desperate not to lose it. But the truth was, it wasn’t this house that mattered, it was her. She was the only thing that kept me from slipping through the cracks.

  She’d started staying out all night with him, so now I never slept. I paced around the house cleaning things.

  That night around ten, I thought I heard a car door slam so I looked out the window, but there was nothing. Miss Frankfurt must have heard the noise too because she was standing in her window peering out with Patti and Roger’s binoculars. She now owned them. She’d bought them at their last tag sale. And she used them to follow my mother’s every move. She’d watch my mother go, and Miss Frankfurt’s lights wouldn’t go out until she confirmed my mother was home again.

  That night, her binoculars wandered all around. When they landed on me, she lowered them.

  Ten minutes later, Pancake started barking his high-pitched frantic yelp, a particular bark that meant one thing: Miss Frankfurt was stepping out. And sure enough when I looked out the window again, she was closing her door. She stood on the top step, adjusted her hat, and took a deep inhale as if summoning the courage to move forward.

  It was spring. The days were warm and the nights were perfect for sleeping. My life was falling apart but the weather had been glorious and the contrast irked me to no end.

  But that night there wasn’t anything else you could see but beauty. The atmosphere was an iridescent regal blue. A million stars shimmered and pulsed in the sky as if it were breathing. Rapture seemed to be upon us and it was impossible not to feel swept up in its embrace.

  When Miss Frankfurt reached the end of her walkway, she pointed herself in my direction and started moving again. The full weight of her waddled from one leg to another. She carried an orange beach bag. The moonlight grazed the shoulders of her light-blue coat. Her arms swung at her sides laboriously as if bringing them along strained her. And even though she huffed and puffed and her hat almost fell off twice, there was something about her that fit the splendor of the night. In Miss Frankfurt there was an unquestionable queen, and that queen was heading right toward me. So I did what my instincts told me to: I hid.

  She rang the bell, didn’t wait a split second, then rang it again. “I know you’re in there, I just saw you, so open up.”

  When I did, she pushed past me with her beach bag and urgently pulled out a kitchen chair. With a moan of relief, she sat herself down at the table. She caught her breath, took off her jacket, and settled it onto the back of her chair. She removed a hankie from her sleeve just as I imagined Jane Austen would.

  “Well,” she said, dabbing her brow, “don’t just stand there, get me a glass of water.”

  I moved quickly. “Here.” I set a glass down in front of her, stole my hand away, and stepped back.

  “For God’s sake, I don’t bite,” she said.

  She picked up the water and guzzled it. Then she started again, dabbing the back of her neck.

  When she caught my eye, she stopped. “Sit, sit,” she insisted, gesturing with her hankie at the chair across from her.

  Her straw hat was decorated with fake flowers and twigs. A few bumble bees were sprinkled about. It seemed like an entire patch of earth had just been tossed onto her head. And the whole arrangement looked as if it needed watering, but she unpinned it from her head and placed it on the table with utmost care.

  “Now,” she sighed. Her hazel eyes pooled at the bottom of her thick glasses. She tucked the hankie back into her sleeve. “Let me make sure we have everything we need.” She leaned to one side, reached into the beach bag, and without breaking her lopsided pose pulled out a pad of paper and pen. Every move she made took effort. Then, as if it weighed a ton, she hefted out a box, and—thud!—dropped it on the table.

  Scrabble! it said in script.

  “If you don’t know it, I’ll teach you,” she said.

  According to Miss Frankfurt, she’d never played with anyone who caught on so quickly. Halfway through game one, we put away the dictionary. By game two we were playing without the timer. She was impressed with all my moves. Two hours went by, but it felt like ten minutes. We used all our brain power, scheming so we barely spoke. I came within points of beating her.

  Then she folded up the board and returned it to her bag. “Well,” she said. “I’ve got to put my feet up. These dogs of mine are howling. But let me tell you something. I had a talk with that teacher of yours. She’d complained about your papers. She’s lucky I didn’t fire her.”

  She pulled her glasses down and the blurry puddles of washed-out color at the bottom of her lenses brightened into light green jewels. She moved forward and looked into me as if she were seeing my soul.

  “Any fool can tell by the way you frame your arguments: there is greatness in you. And you should know it.”

  Miss Frankfurt made her way home in the same labored fashion, the indelible blue of her coat flickering behind her as she went. A few minutes later her den light went on where I imagined her settling back down with her book.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Persistence

  I came home from school to find my mother spread-eagle on our bed. She had separators in between her newly polished toes. Her face was coated with a teal-colored facial mask. What I thought were cucumber slices covered her eyes, but on closer examination I realized they were zucchinis. (They were on sale, she explained later.) Her lips were the only thing that weren’t a shade of green. They were plumped up and red, gleaming with eucalyptus-smelling gloss.

  “Mom?”

  She didn’t move.

  It was hard to tell if she was breathing so I leaned in and took a closer look. A reflection of myself towered over her in the sheen of her mask.

  “What are you staring at?” she said.

  I stood up, startled. Her mouth hadn’t even moved! “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?” I asked.

  She mouthed something that I couldn’t understand.

  “What?”

  She said it again.

  “What?” I repeated.

  “For Chrissake, Ruthie!” she bolted upright and the zucchinis fell. “Can’t you see? I’m resting! Oh, never mind.”
She got up and pushed by me.

  “I thought you were working today.” I followed her into the bathroom.

  “I’m sick of that place. And I’m tired of everyone there.”

  She went on, but I stopped listening. She was splashing her face with water. Green goo was flying everywhere and I had just cleaned the bathroom. “And look at this place,” she said. She flung her hands up and a spray of it hit the wall. “It’s so dreary and small.”

  A glob flew upward. For a moment it held its shape and hovered in the air. Then, bam! It dropped and splattered all over the floor.

  She picked up a towel, dampened a corner, and started scouring her face. It was going to take me forever to clean up this mess. In an act of total desperation I grabbed her towel, threw myself down, and started mopping.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” She gave me a little kick when I didn’t respond. “Look at me!” she demanded. I stopped and looked up. Her hair was twisted in a white rag. The front of her bathrobe was open. There was still a thin line of green at the edge of her face so it looked as if she were wearing a mask of herself.

  “You gotta stop this, Ruthie. Life moves on and we were fools to think our luck would last.”

  We had been here before, teetering on the edge of homelessness. She’d fall into a predictable pattern of drinking and napping. Any state of consciousness in between would set her on edge. I don’t know how she mustered the will to keep going, but she always did. She’d get out of bed, reel in her drinking, touch up her nails, color her hair, and exfoliate her skin. She’d look around to see which man she could blow. Or which one might save us. It filled me with dread and sadness, but it was too painful for her to see.

  She raised her head and cinched her robe. “Now get up off the floor.” She clenched her jaw and stepped by me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Reality