All We Had

by Annie Weatherwax

  My mother had spent months convincing herself she was done with Fat River. She’d claimed that when we left, she wouldn’t miss a single thing. But I could see by the way she sat in her seat and stared at the road, that this was not entirely true.

  I found out that year how her mother died. When I was cleaning out our closet, I discovered a newspaper clipping in an envelope among my mother’s stuff.

  There was a picture of her at age four, holding a teddy bear. She was wearing sandals and the sweetest little yellow dress I’d ever seen.

  This little girl, the article said, was eating toast. Her mother was in her bathrobe, sipping coffee and, I imagined, smiling at her daughter across the kitchen table. Then her ­mother’s boyfriend walked in, took out a gun, and shot her in the head. The shot was to the temple and knocked her off her seat. “The victim’s daughter,” the clipping read, “was in shock, but unharmed.” The police found my mother quaking, still sitting at the table, staring at the blood splatter on her toast.

  I looked over at my mother and saw that little girl. I wondered what happened to her shoes and that dress.

  We left Fat River slowly, creeping along the familiar roads back to the highway.

  Behind her sunglasses, my mother was crying. I reached across the seat and held her hand.

  “Okay,” my mother said, “enough of this.” She wiped her face and sniffled. She tapped me on the thigh. “Now how about some music.” She leaned forward and pushed in our favorite CD. But not even the best of seventies disco had the power to soothe us.

  Part Three

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Godforsaken

  Welcome! an oval sign exclaimed. The aggressively bold capital lettering made me feel the opposite.

  Vick lived an hour away from Fat River in a subdivision called Piney Hills, but there was nothing piney or hilly about it. There were no trees and the earth had been flattened out into a smooth blanket of lawn. As we drove in, periscopes of gyrating water rose up from the ground to keep it green. Short fast arcs jetted back and forth, up and down the streets, timed, it seemed, to follow the sun.

  My mother slowed to a crawl. “Isn’t it nice?” she crooned. Our car was falling apart. It coughed and clanged and a line of smoke trailed behind us, but she sat upright grinning as if she were a diplomat in a Cadillac.

  All of a sudden, boom! We hit a speed bump and she went flying. She smashed her head on the ceiling and the impact snapped her out of her reverie. “Fuuuuuck!!” she yelled. She slammed on the brakes and our pile of junk in the back landed on the floor. “God! Am I bleeding?”

  She lowered her head and I parted her hair to examine her scalp.

  “Nope.”

  She took a minute, twisted the rearview mirror, and brushed a strand of hair off her forehead. She turned her face and wiped something invisible from her cheek. Resuming her position in the seat, she cleared her throat and pulled forward.

  The speed bump tore a hole in our muffler, but my mother didn’t seem to notice.

  “Look,” she said, “there’s a person!” A woman stood in front of her house. Her bright yellow dress clashed against the green of her lawn, flattening her shape and leaving a flaring at her edges as if someone had plugged her in.

  “Wave,” my mother said, and honked the horn. “Look!” She gawked out the window. “She’s waving back.”

  But the woman wasn’t waving. She was shielding her eyes, squinting into the sun.

  “See how friendly people are around here?” My mother plumped herself up in the seat and picked up her cup of Diet Coke. With a long, loud, slurp she sucked the last sip through her straw, rattled the cup to confirm it was empty, then reached her hand out and dropped it on the street. I turned and looked behind me.

  The woman covered her mouth and watched the cup tumble. It slid to a stop in a perfect landing, kick-standing on its straw. And just before we pulled around the corner, a crow swooped down on it as if he’d been waiting all his life for trash like us to litter.

  The entrance to Vick’s driveway was flanked by pillars with stone squirrels perched on top. They clutched their acorns and eyed us as if we were thieves. His stucco McMansion shimmered on an expanse of lawn. It was totally gaudy, but my mother gazed up at it transfixed. “I told you it was beautiful.”

  We parked in the driveway and walked up a set of curved granite steps to his front door. The doorbell sang a tune with an authoritative tone that I really didn’t care for, but the lyrics were brilliant: ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong, it chimed, perfectly identifying the homeowner.

  Vick was almost fifty. His hair was slicked back into panels of glossy black, dipping and peaking like dunes. With his veneer of white teeth he reminded me of someone, but I wasn’t able to put my finger on who it was. That day, when his oversize door slowly pulled open and the sticky heat outside collided with his central air, it was as if Vick emerged through dry ice. And I realized, Oh my God! It’s Liberace!

  I couldn’t help myself. I bent over and chuckled into my hand.

  Vick was just the kind of guy my mother used to laugh at. But this time she found nothing funny. She took her purse and swatted me. From her perspective, she’d hooked a big rich one and I had no appreciation for what she’d done.

  He stood waiting, one hand on the doorknob, the other holding up a martini. “Come in, come in.” He gestured flamboyantly with his glass.

  My mother plastered on a smile. “Don’t be rude,” she said through her teeth. She walked by and as if to prove some point, she immediately started making out with him.

  I stood in the foyer feeling awkward, looking up at the cathedral ceiling. A cut-glass chandelier twinkled in midair as if God had placed it precisely there.

  “Ruthie!” Vick shouted, noticing me. It was grating how loud he could be. “I almost didn’t recognize you without your baseball cap!” With his hand outstretched, he stepped closer to mess up my hair, but I pulled away from him.

  “Gee whiz.” He retreated. “Guess someone got up on the wrong side of the bed again, didn’t she?”

  It would never last here. Vick was an imbecile and if there was one thing my mother couldn’t stand, it was infancy in men.

  My mother flared her nostrils and glared at me. To annoy her, I grinned.

  Vick went out and retrieved our things—my mother’s old suitcase and three garbage bags full of stuff. As if he had no use for our shitty belongings, he dropped them in the foyer, then bellowed, “Let me give you a tour!” He shut the door. The weather stripping swept across the floor and the door sealed behind us. He headed down a hallway and we followed him.

  His house smelled like scented candles. New antiques and fake cultural artifacts, the kind of things they make in China and sell at Crate and Barrel, adorned every room. There was an eerie echo in the house and an artificially pleasant light bounced off his objects, as if they were part of a Desperate Housewives stage set.

  In front of us, Vick blathered on about the construction of the house—how long it took and what things were made of. The floors were oak, the tile in the kitchen was from Italy.

  Every surface was accessorized with a pitcher or ceramic bowl. A giant rug hung down the wall of his staircase. “Blind orphans made this in Africa,” my mother breathed, gently running her fingers over the surface of it. “Lynette bought it at Blooming­dale’s.” My mother raised her eyebrows as if this were actually the most interesting thing about it.

  Stuff that people normally used—teacups and plates and pitchers—were imprisoned in china cabinets or sitting on shelves. The candles in the candelabra at the center of the dining-room table had never seen a flame.

  “Don’t touch that!” my mother warned when she glanced back and saw me pick up an apple from a bowl of wooden fruit. “It’s decorative.” This concept confused me. What was the purpose of having so much stuff if you weren’t going
to use it?

  I followed my mother down another hallway. She paused a moment to graze her finger on the marble table along the wall. She contemplated the centerpiece—a boat-shaped bowl filled with black marbles—with an idiotic rapturous look on her face that annoyed me.

  “Move it,” I said, shoving her.

  Vick finally led us to his living room.

  “I just love this room.” Shielding her mouth with her hand, my mother moved closer and whispered to me, “He reserves it for special occasions.” One look around told me he didn’t have many.

  The furniture, the carpet, the walls, everything in it was white. The off-white crown molding looked bold in comparison. The floor-to-ceiling windows didn’t open. Thin sheer drapes framed the windows, limp and motionless.

  Two large fake-Japanese twig arrangements flanked a fireplace laid with decorative birch logs. A mirror hung above the mantel and reflected the pretentious artwork on the opposite wall: a light-beige square stenciled on a blank white canvas. Oh, please!

  “Sit, sit. I’ve put out some cheese and crackers.” Vick handed my mother a martini. She guided me behind the glass coffee table and sat us both down on the couch.

  I’d never understood the ritual of drinks and hors d’oeuvres. What purpose did it serve? But my mother was performing masterfully. Perched on the edge of her seat, she daintily ate her cheese and crackers. She held her martini glass, pinkie extended, like Jackie Onassis would.

  In my opinion, she was overdoing it. But Vick seemed completely fooled.

  In his plaid shorts and pink oxford shirt, he stood across from us leaning against the mantel on his elbows. His stomach hung over his belt but his legs were like sticks. They made his tasseled loafers without socks seem huge on the ends of his ankles. I took note: I could easily push him over if I had to. He took his toothpick out of his mouth and in his overzealous thunderous tone immediately started bragging about his golf game.

  Just this morning, he told us, he’d played his best ever. He then painstakingly recounted every shot, explaining his strategy and describing the trajectory of each one of his balls. With his new 5-iron, he’d hit a perfect approach shot on the ninth hole. He birdied twice. He used words like back nine, bogey, and bite, short sticks and drivers, 3-woods and putters. It was exhausting to listen to. And even though my mother had no idea what he was talking about, she hung on his every word, shamelessly stroking his ego.

  When I was seven, I stabbed a guy in the knee who was choking my mother. When I was eight, we were sleeping in some burnt-out building on a mattress on the floor and when I woke up face-to-face with a rat, I killed it with my bare hands. I took it by the tail and flung it up against the wall. When it quivered, I smashed it with a book.

  But I couldn’t stomach this. I looked up at the ceiling and tuned them out. La-la-la-la, I sang inside my head and let my mind wander.

  Luckily I’d gotten to the point where I could conjure up Hillary Clinton anytime I wanted. It was early June and she’d just lost the nomination. I wondered, was she home in bed recuperating, or was she already at her desk planning her next move? Maybe she was out with Bill. Or maybe she was at the gym working off some steam. I liked the thought of her with Chelsea, the two of them curled up on the couch watching TV together. I saw myself sitting next to them. I leaned in and said something hysterical.

  “Ruthie,” my mother said.

  Chelsea and Hillary both laughed. “You’re so funny!” they howled.

  “Ruthie.” My mother knocked me on the shoulder.

  She pointed and I realized Vick was standing there handing me a present. He crouched down right in front of me and shook the box slightly. “I think you’re really going to like it,” he said. When he winked at me, his smile broadened and filled my view.

  I turned away and looked at my mother.

  “Take it,” she said, nodding and raising her eyebrows. She had one too. A box wrapped in the same paper sat on her lap. “He got it for you. Isn’t that nice?”

  Neither of them seemed to get that I wanted nothing to do with him.

  “Here,” he said. He set the box gingerly down on my lap and backed away.

  My mother tore her package open first. “Oh my God,” she shrieked, “it’s Gucci!” and she jumped to her feet hugging her new bag.

  She inhabited this new character of hers so completely, I found myself constantly looking around, searching for the movie lights. I half expected the walls to fall away and a new stage set to glide in. My mother had always hated Gucci, but when I opened my mouth to remind her, she threatened me with a glare.

  “I love it.” She stroked and posed it on her hip.

  Vick smiled all proud of himself, and when she finished her display, he shifted his toothpick to the side of his mouth, took it out, and looked at me. “Go on,” he said, raising the pick in my direction, “open yours.”

  So I did. The box, like my mother’s, was from Neiman Marcus. I pried the top off and peeled the tissue paper back. What I really needed was a pair of jeans, but as I lifted it out, what unfurled in front of me was a dress.

  My face turned red-hot. I dropped it on my lap.

  “What’s the matter?” he said. “Don’t you like it?”

  I did not wear dresses and anyone who knew me knew that. In my whole life I’d never worn a single one. I wore jeans and T-shirts only—short sleeves in the summer, long sleeves in the winter—and I liked them loose and big. My mother stood facing me, clutching the purse, not knowing what to do. I looked at her pleadingly, but all she did was stare back.

  “Try it on,” he said. “If it fits, I’ll take you both to the country club for lunch.”

  My mother’s eyes widened. She took a gulp of air, then pinched her lips to stifle her reaction. This time she wasn’t faking it, I could tell.

  “She’d love to!” she proclaimed. Before I could respond, she grabbed me by the wrist and towed me out.

  “I’m not wearing that,” I said to her.

  “Please, Ruthie, you’ll hurt his feelings.”

  “Like I care,” I mumbled. “And besides, since when do you like Gucci?”

  “People can change.”

  “Pfft,” I sputtered. “Not that much.”

  “Why is it that you hate every guy who’s nice to me?”

  I had no comment.

  “I mean it, I’d really like to know. He has just invited us to a country club,” she enunciated as if I were stupid. “He’s trying to be nice to you.”

  I did not budge. She was totally faking it here. It pained me to see her this way, making less of herself than she was. And she knew wearing a dress was a line I wouldn’t cross.

  She shifted her strategy. She put her hands together, knitted her brow with melodramatic sadness, and batted her eyes. “Pleeeease, Ruthie. It would mean so much to me.”

  I looked away. She could play these helpless female roles all she wanted.

  “Ruthie, I’m asking you, look at me.” She took my chin and turned my face. Her tone had softened. “Just once in my life before I die, I’d like to see the inside of a country club.”

  Sometimes who I was and what I wanted got lost when I was with her.

  “Please . . . It would make me so happy.”

  I hated disappointing her and she knew that too.

  “Oh, for Chrissake. Stop that,” I said, and snatched the dress from her hand.

  When she and I finally left this place, I would make her pay. I’d make her listen to nineties music in the car; I’d force her to watch Grey’s Anatomy until she vomited.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Humiliation

  Dear Lady Pam-o-lot,

  Peter Pam and I promised we would write each other every week. We’d decided that in our letters this is what I’d call her. She’d address me as “My Dearest Cousin Ruth.” We’d use pen and paper and
stamps and we’d hone our arguments and philosophical musings with flowery language. Words like whence and wherefore would be sprinkled in throughout. Years from now someone might find our letters in an attic, and we were certain that feigning British nobility would only help to get them published.

  I hate it here. Today Mother made me wear a dress. You cannot imagine how horrid it feels to me. I simply do not know how you do it.

  Cheerio for now!

  Your Dearest Cousin Ruth

  P.S. I can’t find my Tiny’s baseball cap. Is it hanging on the hook by the back door?

  I composed this letter in my head on the way through the country club parking lot. The dress was killing me. The hips were too tight. Every time I took a step, it corkscrewed up my waist. And I was wearing a pair of my mother’s heels. Like a dog in boots, it simply did not seem right.

  My mother took small quick steps in front of me. Her tight skirt truncated her stride. She’d touched up her nails in the car and was now trying to dry them. She waved her fingers in rapid tiny motions and periodically blew on the tips of them.

  By the time I reached the door, my feet were throbbing. My mother and Vick were already inside making their way up the wide staircase to the dining room.

  “Oh! My! God!” my mother turned and mouthed to me. “Can you believe it?” she whispered. “It’s like Gone with the Wind.” She pawed at the banister with fingers spread wide, trying not to ruin her polish.

  The clubhouse was old brick covered with dark-green ivy. Inside smelled like stale cigars and freshly cut grass. The ceiling was high and vaulted and when we walked on the wall-to-wall carpeting, the old hardwood floors squeaked beneath it. We sat at a table in the corner overlooking the golf course. My mother scanned the room, glowing as if she were in a deodorant commercial, exuding the confidence that she was sweet-smelling and dry. She didn’t notice, but people were staring at her and nobody said hello to Vick.