Good to a Fault

by Marina Endicott

  Clara went outside and stood to the right of the door where they could not see her. She studied the wooden handrail, remembering her own mother—for some reason remembering her as a young woman in a grey dress with a white collar. Standing at the foot of the front porch steps, waiting for Clara’s father to come down and take them to church. A hat on her head, one of those little bands you had to pin on, grey velvet. Her dimpling cheek, smiling at Clara’s father, her wide, childish, heartbreaking mouth. She missed her mother so badly. Impossible as she was.

  When Clara went back into the room they both looked at her sideways. They’d been talking in low voices, and for the first time she saw a resemblance between Darlene and her mother. The broad planes of their cheeks, and their eyes, with well-defined corners and dark line of brows. Their bodies, too, their strong open shoulders and the same narrowness across the back.

  “I’ll go down and get some juice,” she offered, but Lorraine said not to leave. “I’m just telling her where things are—it’s no big secret any more, we got to get the stuff out before they crush it or whatever.”

  “Oh, I’m sure they won’t do that until…” Until the insurance investigators were through with it, she meant, but Lorraine ran over her words.

  “I want Darlene to get the stuff, it’ll ease my mind.” Her voice was flat, almost rude—fever burning civility away.

  Clara took a notebook from her purse and wrote down: pillow.

  Lorraine talked directly to Darlene, giving her the job. “In the glove compartment, I want the map book. The registration and insurance. My box from the trunk. The kitchen box and the duffle bags—you can take those to Clara’s place, if she’s got a garage or somewhere to stash them?” Clara nodded. Lorraine turned her gaze back to Darlene. “Okay, for a while, until we figure out where you guys are going next, while we’re working on first and last month’s rent.”

  Darlene looked at Clara. Clara did not know exactly how to interpret the look. Was she asking Clara not to tell about Clayton being gone? Or considering whether, or when, Clara planned to throw them out of the house?

  Lorraine nodded, and Darlene slid down off the bed, obedient to some understood command. She went into the bathroom and shut the door.

  “I wanted to ask you about that,” Lorraine said, making an effort to sit up straighter. The debt racking up was too much to bear, she wanted to scream and throw Clara out of the room. “About the next few days…”

  She couldn’t get it out properly, and it seemed like time was speeding, contracting.

  “I know we’ve got to get the kids out of your hair.”

  “I’m happy to keep the children,” Clara said. “The family. As long as they need a place to stay.”

  “I don’t have enough money to pay you,” Lorraine said as baldly as she could, to cut through all those words of Clara’s.

  “No, no! Don’t—” Clara said.

  “We’re lucky to have the chance, lucky you’re being so kind.” Lorraine said. She could not bring herself to mention the shelter, the nail file, the need to train Darlene to fend people off of both her and Trevor—she pressed her fingers into her eye sockets, under the brow bone, to get rid of those thoughts.

  “It’s not kind,” Clara was saying. Lorraine could hear her getting all chokey.

  “You might be doing it from guilt or something, but it’s kind, you’re good,” Lorraine said, dismissing all that bullshit. “Darlene, you finished in there?”

  The door popped open, and Darlene came in her quick, sidling way back to the bed. She didn’t meet Clara’s eyes.

  Clara felt weighed down by the burden of obligation that all this was putting on everyone. If she was a better person she would be able to lift all that, say how happy she was to have company in the house, to have them. Her mother could have done it. All she could do was stop herself from false joviality. She closed her notebook and picked up her purse.

  “We’d better get going, then.”

  “Good,” Lorraine said. She closed her eyes. Not interested, for the moment, in obligation or gratitude or convention.

  Darlene put her cold fingers on her mother’s eyelids, and went with Clara to the hall.

  Before heading for the impound lot Clara stopped for lunch at a little rundown café, because Darlene said “How about there?” Darlene had chicken soup and Clara sat watching, unable to eat for the great lump that pity had jammed into her throat. Darlene’s arms were trembling by the time the soup came, her hand shaking her spoon. It looked like good soup, at least. Darlene’s arms were too thin. That tank top was not fit to wear. She needed sleeves to stay warm, even in July. The sharp bones were almost visible under her skin, making her seem insubstantial, but also strong. Clara hoped that was how children looked who were naturally thin. Lorraine was thin, but was that natural, or because of her illness? Mrs. Pell was built like a propane tank, a little head and a big squat body. Darlene did not look like she could ever become that. She’ll have to be strong, Clara thought. She asked, “Is the soup good?”

  Darlene nodded. She said, as if further to the soup, “There’s a girl in Trimalo, where we lived, whose mother died. She was run over by a car, so it wasn’t the same.”

  “Oh, no—I’m sorry for the girl, it must have been hard to lose her mother so suddenly.” Why say such stupid things? No easier to lose her slowly.

  “She had to do all the work when they moved. Her father couldn’t do anything, like get the phone hooked up or anything, he was too sad.” Darlene’s voice was flat and quick, almost mocking, as if she thought she’d sound older that way.

  “How old was the girl?”

  “Twelve. She babysat us when my mom worked. She had to go down to see her mother at the place. The police place. She felt her mom’s face. It was all cold.”

  Still the quick words without proper feeling attached. Too risky to let deep feeling loose, maybe especially in childhood. “Darlene, do you want to talk about something a little less sad?”

  “Everything is sad.”

  “Yes, you feel that, don’t you?” Clara could remember that so clearly, how there was nothing in the world that was not sad. “What a heavy feeling. Do you need some dessert to lighten you up? Ice cream?”

  Distracting a child with food—a recipe for obesity, Clara thought. But ice cream appeared to be just the ticket. Darlene’s sundae came in a tulip glass, with whipped cream and a cherry. It made them both happy, briefly, and when they went back to the car the sun seemed to have come out, or a breeze had picked up. The air was clearer.

  The impound lot was at the end of a paved road with so much dust and dirt packed over it that it looked like gravel. Driving along with the windows up, Clara tried not to think about the end of this malevolent cancer, of all these people who would be so sad. But she couldn’t pretend to herself that she expected Lorraine to recover, because it was clear to her that Lorraine would not. Although she hoped that she was mistaken.

  The high fence had outward-jutting barbed wire at the top. Clara felt she should have come alone to this depressing junkyard. But Darlene yelled, “There it is! There’s the Dart!” Threading her narrow hand through the fence, straining her finger to make Clara see.

  The attendant let them in, and gave Clara an envelope and a clipboard with a form on it to sign. He didn’t offer to come back to the car with them. He was what her mother would have called “rough”—grizzle-haired with strong-smelling clothes. She smiled at the man to make up for her mother’s opinion, as she had so often done in her company.

  Darlene dashed ahead through the warren of paths, around the corpses and ghosts of cars. How much life we pack into our cars, Clara thought, missing her own. And missing her mother’s car, that Clayton had now. Who knows in what town he’s selling it, she thought. Good riddance. Time to get rid of some of her mother’s baggage.

  The Dart had keeled over to the left, both wheels gone on the crumpled driver’s side. Darlene was already around on the passenger side, yanking on the fron
t door.

  “Wait!” Clara said. “I’ve got the key here, I think…” Yes, in the envelope. On a Playboy Bunny keychain. How could any man?

  Darlene slipped it from her hand and into the lock, jiggled it as if she knew the secret, and it opened for her. It was a heavy door. The car smelled stale, smoky, of rubber and burning. Darlene leaned forward and up onto the seat, to flip open the glove compartment. But it stayed shut.

  “It won’t—it won’t open!” she said, too loudly, pulling harder to show Clara. Her sharp young voice sliced through the still air.

  The man at the gate called something, and Clara turned, letting the door slip out of her hand. Just in time she turned back and caught it, before it slammed shut.

  “Oh!” Clara pushed the door wide open again and leaned on it, her stomach leaping. She could have broken Darlene’s hand.

  “Yikes,” Darlene said, not particularly worried. “The thing’s broken, the thing that makes the door stay open.”

  The gate man, beside Clara, had brought a short crowbar and a rubber mallet.

  “Times things’re stuck,” he said. “Might need these.”

  “Thanks,” Darlene said.

  She took the crowbar and pried the sharp end in at one edge of the glove compartment.

  “Should you?” Clara was saying, when the little door popped open.

  “Okay,” Darlene said, giving the gate man as big a smile as her mouth would make. “Go now.”

  He grinned back at her, ignoring Clara’s hand-flap of apology. Off he went.

  “You can’t be so—” Clara hesitated to say rude. “He might have been insulted.”

  “Why?”

  Clara decided it would be stupid to try to explain. Darlene had pulled out the maps, four or five separate provinces and the one larger book of all Canada. She flipped through it, but quickly, as if she didn’t want Clara to see. Clara made a business of looking for her notebook in her purse, to find the list. “Map book, yes, registration folder.”

  The interior of the car was a mess, but no worse than any vacation trip. A garbage bag must have gone flying in the crash, full of wrappers and orange peels. Clara was shocked to see a burned patch on the back seat, blurred by cherry juice.

  Darlene looked past her. “That’s not from the accident, that’s from the laundromat. We were doing the laundry in Yorkton, and Gran was smoking in the car.”

  “She burned the car?”

  “She fell asleep. No more smoking in the car ever, my mom said. Pearce was in the front seat sleeping, and my mom freaked when she saw smoke coming out of the window. And you should of seen Gran jumping around in the parking lot, putting out her skirt!” Darlene laughed out loud, with a mean gleam in her eye.

  Clara was suddenly worn out with all this eventful life.

  After laughing Darlene was quiet, her hand on the warm gold vinyl of the front door. Then she slid into the front seat and pried out a small orange corduroy log, the size of a doll bed pillow.

  “My mom likes this little one under her neck,” she said, stroking the corduroy with the welt, the velvety way, and then back, her fingernails dragging the pile up. “It’s not dirty, look.” She scrubbed her cheek against it, then climbed out and handed it to Clara, who tucked it in her bag and carefully crossed out Pillow on her list. Darlene slammed the car door as hard as she could. A huge sound in the silent impound lot.

  The trunk was packed like a jigsaw puzzle, boxes of every shape. The kitchen box was crammed with pots and an old plastic jug filled with cutlery. Other boxes, shoes and boots were stuck here and there: the whole thing given a hard shake by the accident and the tow. When they’d pulled out the duffle bags, and her mother’s little box, Darlene balanced the kitchen box on them.

  “You don’t have to open these,” she said. “You have enough stuff.”

  “Of course,” Clara said, unmiffed. She put the Playboy Bunny key back in its envelope.

  Darlene stared out the back window even after she could not see the Dart any more. It had not been bad, being in the car, even though Gran complained. Better than some of the places they’d lived—better than Espanola, last winter. She didn’t have to come, anyway, Darlene thought. She could have stayed in Winnipeg, if she hadn’t fought with Mrs. Lyne. Who wouldn’t fight with Mrs. Lyne, though, and who could stand her stinky trailer?

  She did not want to think about where her dad might be. Instead, she thought about going to sleep in the back of the Dart while they drove through the darkness, Trevor and her lying on each other’s laps, twisting around to get more comfortable. Her dad whistling for a while in the mornings, or his face pressed against the window pretending to scare them when he came back with doughnuts—but she wasn’t thinking about him. She loved sitting on the floor of the back seat, with the vibrations humming in her bones, and the ticking the motor made when they’d finally stopped late at night, the heavy feeling of stillness after moving for so long. Like the night in the parking lot, with the big moon, when they all lay out on the hood of the car, staring up at the sky, looking for satellites and shooting stars. Except that was the night that her dad was gone for a long time, and they woke up in the middle of the night when those scary guys rocked the car, looking for him. Her mom locked all the doors and whispered to stay still, not talk, not breathe, until they went away.

  That was a long trip, to Saskatoon. They had stopped ten miles outside town so her mom could try to tidy everybody up, and then Pearce spat up on her last clean top, so they went to the Saan store to buy a new top so they could go see Darwin at her mom’s cousin Rose’s house. But Darwin was not at the house any more. The people who lived there now had never heard of her, or Darwin, so they’d lost him. Her mother had cried when they came out of the house, because she missed him. And then was the crash, and now here they were, parked at the hospital again, the parking lot that Darlene was getting to know very, very well. She tried to focus her eyes on Clara but it was too hard. She walked beside her, not even trying any more, carrying her mother’s box and the orange pillow.

  Lorraine was asleep. Darlene slid the box into the bedside table cupboard carefully, not making any noise. She put the orange corduroy pillow on the bed beside her mother’s arm and looked at Clara—what should they do?

  Clara had managed office staff for twenty years, but she found it strange to be the authority for a child. She tore a page from her notebook. “We’ll write her a note,” she said.

  Dear Lorraine, she wrote. We’ve left what you asked for in your bedside cupboard, and the nurse will have the key. Please don’t worry about the things in the car, they’ll be keeping the car in the lot for a few months. I’ve asked my parish priest to come by when he’s in for his visits, and he can tell you that I’m a good citizen. I’ve got a couple of weeks off work, anyway, and I promise I’ll look after the children. So you don’t have to worry

  What a stupid thing to say. She added, about them. Leaving Lorraine free to worry about herself as much as she might like. Clara usually had nice clear handwriting, but for some reason the pen was not co-operating, and the letter looked scrawly and irresponsible.

  I’ll be back to see you later, she put. Clara Purdy.

  When they got home, they found the baby trapped in a cage made of dining room chairs. Trevor was trying to keep Pearce happy by feeding him crusts of bread between the bars. A soap opera blared through the house from where Mrs. Pell snored on the couch in the TV room. The boys had been crying, but they’d worn out their tears. Pearce had smears of gummy bread crusted on his cheeks. Clara caught him up and soothed him, his arm gripping fiercely around her neck in his relief.

  She washed everyone’s face, gave Pearce a bottle to calm him down, and made grilled cheese sandwiches. Mrs. Pell managed to stay sleeping even when Clara snapped off the television, and didn’t wake, or allow herself to be seen to be awake, till Clara brought her a sandwich and a cup of coffee. She took them with an ill grace and shut her door tight.

  Clara took the children
out to the back garden in the bright summer evening, asked Mrs. Zenko next door to watch them for half an hour, and raced over to the mall. She bought new shorts and running shoes for Trevor and Darlene, in a frenzy of efficiency, and a folding playpen for Pearce. The diapers would last a few more days. The groceries would hold till tomorrow. She found a case of formula on the way to the checkout, and was back within forty minutes. Mrs. Zenko and Trevor were watering the flowerbeds while Darlene lay on the grass with Pearce, tickling his knees with a long thread of grass. He was kicking, exercising, not laughing but calmly pleased to be fussed over. He reached his arms out for Clara, his huge face smiling, glowing in the lowering light. What a beauty he was.

  Mrs. Zenko had brought over a large plastic container of the plain cookies she called angel cookies and a pretty wooden high chair, in perfect condition. “None of my children want this old thing,” she said, as if she was embarrassed to offer something so slight.

  Clara thanked her gratefully.

  “Not the easiest thing to do,” Mrs. Zenko said. “Taking on a family like this. I heard them yesterday, and this afternoon—I nearly came over to help, but I thought she wouldn’t take it too kindly, so I just listened.”

  The noise must have been very bad, Clara thought. She and Mrs. Zenko knew each other well enough. “I’m not going to be able to leave the children with her,” she said quietly. “Not for any length of time.”

  “No.”

  “I like their mother, Lorraine,” Clara said. “He’s deserted her.” She leaned her cheek against the bird-feeder pipe her father had put up. It needed seed. Tomorrow she’d let Trevor climb the stepladder and fill it. “I’m going to need a book on looking after babies.”

  “You can read up, but most of it’s just good sense. It’s only ordinary to be with babies, after all. I’ve got a jar of chicken soup for you to take her tomorrow,” Mrs. Zenko said. She coiled the hose neatly and went back to her own garden.