Martha Calhoun

by Richard Babcock

  The phone rang. Mrs. Vernon had her hands in the sink with the morning’s dishes, so she asked me to answer.

  “Martha? I didn’t expect you to pick up,” said Reverend Vaughn. Confined to the telephone, his voice sounded smaller and slightly unreal, though hearing it immediately put me in a playful mood.

  “Only in emergencies,” I said.

  “An emergency?”

  “No, no, I’m only kidding. Mrs. Vernon’s hands were wet.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, how are you?”

  “I’m okay. How are you?”

  “Good, good. I’m great. No more visits from Attila, I hope. After the Dairy Queen, that is.”

  I sensed uneasily that he was pushing on to something. “No,” I said.

  “Good. I think that was just an isolated incident. It won’t happen again.”

  “I hope not.”

  “Yes.” He paused. “Ah, I wanted to let you know that I have to go out of town for the next couple of days. Nothing serious. A kind of business trip. But I won’t be able to come by.”

  “Oh.” I felt a sharp pain in my stomach—not really a pain, more a tiny explosion that seemed in danger of getting bigger.

  “But I’ll be back Friday. That’s still the date of the hearing, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry. I know this is very ill-timed for you. But I’m afraid it can’t be helped.”

  I worked to control my voice. “That’s okay,” I said.

  “Anyway, Friday’s the important day, and I promise I’ll be here for that.”

  “Okay.” Friday was now a straight, downhill fall away. All the possibilities had been wrung out of time until then.

  “Will you be all right?” He had heard the disappointment in my voice.

  “Oh, I’ll be fine, thanks. Thanks for thinking about me.”

  “All right, then. I’ll see you Friday. If I get back Thursday night, I’ll give you a call. Okay? Chin up.”

  “Chin up,” I repeated stupidly and put down the phone. In the kitchen, the water wasn’t running in the sink anymore. I stood there in the stillness in the hall, and in a few seconds Mrs. Vernon stuck her head out the door. She was startled to find me looking right at her.

  “Oh,” she said. “Who was that?”

  “Reverend Vaughn. He’s going away for a few days.”

  “That’s a shame. What bad timing.” She stepped into the hall, drying her hands on her apron. “If you’d like, I can arrange for you to see Reverend Wallenback. He’s a very nice man, very helpful.”

  “No, thanks.” I wanted to say something cruel, something hurtful to her. How could she even think that that dismal man could take the place of Reverend Vaughn? But I fought the urge and ran upstairs. “I’ll be all right,” I called back.

  Twenty minutes later, the phone rang again. Soon Mrs. Vernon was at the bedroom door to explain that Mrs. O’Brien wanted a session that afternoon with Bunny and me. There was a problem, though—Mrs. O’Brien couldn’t reach Bunny at home or at work. I said I thought I could find her with the help of a phonebook. We trudged downstairs, and Mrs. Vernon handed me the Katydid directory. But then she stood there, apparently curious to see what I’d look up. I didn’t want to let on, so I riffled the pages until I got an idea. Then I found the listing for the News Depot and asked the operator to ring that number. After the first ring, Frank Winwood, the counterman, answered.

  “Is Bunny Calhoun there?” I asked.

  “Who?” Frank was in Tom’s class, and the two used to get into fights.

  “Bunny Calhoun.”

  “Why the hell would she be here?” Frank demanded. “She never comes in here. Who is this?”

  “Okay. Thanks.” I hung up and shook my head.

  “Oh, dear,” Mrs. Vernon said. “Mrs. O’Brien really wants to find her.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.” She turned away. “Just concerned, I guess.”

  We went into the kitchen. Mrs. Vernon put the kettle on the burner and scooped some loose tea into the wire nest in the top of her orange pot. After a minute or so, I said I’d try Bunny again. I hurried into the hall, just out of Mrs. Vernon’s sight, and thumbed through the phone book until I found Eddie Boggs’s number. Then I whispered it to the operator. The phone rang eight times, and the operator broke in. “No one’s home,” she said.

  “Keep trying,” I whispered.

  After four more rings, Bunny answered.

  “Who is this?” she said.

  “Me.”

  “You!”

  “Did you get her?” Mrs. Vernon called out from the kitchen. “Tell her to come at two.”

  “What are you doing there?” I asked.

  “Helping to clean up the place. It’s a real pigpen. He’s got engine parts all over the floor. There’s grease on everything.”

  I tried to keep my voice low so Mrs. Vernon wouldn’t hear. “Bunny, how could you?” I said.

  “Don’t talk to me like that,” Bunny shouted into the phone. “You can’t talk to your mother like that.”

  It wouldn’t do any good to argue about Eddie now. “Mrs. O’Brien wants to meet with us,” I said. “She wants you here at two.”

  “At two? How am I supposed to be there at two? I’ve got a job.”

  “Just be here,” I pleaded.

  There was silence on the line for a few seconds. “What’s she want now?” Bunny asked finally.

  “I don’t know, but it sounds important.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You didn’t tell them where I was, did you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “We’ve got to be careful.”

  “I know.”

  A long, thin sigh hissed over the telephone line. It sounded as if the strength were draining out of her. “You’ll be here at two, won’t you?” I asked.

  “Of course, sweetheart,” she said softly.

  She arrived fifteen minutes early. Sitting by the front window, I watched her park the Pontiac and come up the walk. She was wearing a white jacket over her purple sundress, and she had on her white leather sandals. Her hair made a yellow circle around her head. She took long, firm steps, her legs slicing through the air in clouds of purple cotton. Bunny had tried to teach me to “walk confident” like that. She’d marched around the living room, with me right behind, trying to imitate her strides and the purposeful swing of her arms. She could do it and look wondrous, a thoroughbred galloping over a field. But I was just clumsy, my gangly arms and legs always falling out of rhythm. There was too much of me. “That’s it! That’s it!” Bunny would yell as I circled the sofa and passed the TV—but I knew better. I never caught on, and the walking lessons fortunately stopped.

  Mrs. Vernon hurried to greet Bunny at the front door and asked if we’d like to sit in the parlor.

  “Sure, sure, sure,” said Bunny, waving her hand.

  Mrs. Vernon deposited us on the sofa and then left quickly.

  “I make her nervous,” Bunny said.

  “She’s really strange. She came into my room last night and started screaming about serpents.”

  “Serpents?”

  “You know, snakes.”

  “Snakes?” Bunny wrinkled her face into a question mark.

  “She was crying and saying how serpents were the root of all evil. It was as if she was in a trance.” Bunny was still making a face. It occurred to me that this was probably not the smartest thing to talk about right now.

  “Ugh,” said Bunny after a moment. “Snakes give me the creeps.”

  “Me, too.” I let the subject drop.

  “What’s this all about, anyway?” Bunny asked. “What’s Mrs. O’Brien got to say that she hasn’t said before?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t talk to her.”

  “There’s something wrong with that woman. She asked me questions about Grandmother and about your daddy that just made me sick. I’d be ashamed to pry into peo
ple’s lives like that.”

  “That’s her job. That’s what she’s supposed to do.”

  Bunny leaned across the sofa. “But she’s not supposed to enjoy it, that’s what I’m saying. She likes poking around. She’s not even humble about it.” She sat back. “Anyway, it’ll be a relief to get rid of her.”

  “Have you talked to Mr. Beach lately?”

  “Don’t worry. He owes me a lot of favors. He’ll come through.” She reached over and gave my cheek a soft chuck, the kind of pinch you’d give a baby. She took her hand away, and her face lit up. “Martha, God, with just a little color on those cheekbones you’d be the most beautiful girl in Katydid.” She reached over with both hands and pinched both cheeks, and I twisted to get away. “Oh, come on,” she said. “I’m serious. Those are classic cheekbones. I’d kill to have cheekbones like them.”

  Mrs. O’Brien arrived at the same time as the tea. Before sitting down, she studied the tray of tiny toast sandwiches that Mrs. Vernon had set on the coffee table. Finally, she picked out a triangle smeared with cream cheese and sat down in Mr. Vernon’s chair. She carefully put the sandwich on a napkin on the arm of the chair, then sighed noisily and looked at Bunny and me. “We have a problem here,” she said.

  Bunny and I glanced at each other. “Yeah?” said Bunny warily.

  “I think you know what I’m talking about.”

  “Yeah?” said Bunny again.

  Mrs. O’Brien shifted in the chair. Her heavy, deliberate movements seemed to indicate that a great force was being brought into place. “Let’s not be coy with each other, Mrs. Calhoun.”

  “I’m not being coy.”

  “Your daughter appears before Judge Horner in three days.”

  “I’m well aware.”

  “I don’t think you are. I don’t think you’re even remotely aware.”

  Bunny turned to me and shrugged, raising her hands, palms up. “What’s this?” she said.

  “Sergeant Tony called me. He told me about the incident on Sunday. I didn’t believe him—I didn’t want to believe him, I should say—so I came down and read the police report myself.”

  “Jesus,” said Bunny, staring at the floor.

  “You disobeyed Judge Horner, you lied to me, you broke the law, and you ended up on a public road with a drunken, half-naked man in the backseat—the very man you’re not supposed to be seeing. And your daughter was right there with you.” Mrs. O’Brien uttered a false half laugh and turned to me, as if expecting to find some agreement. “It’s almost funny, or a kind of mockery. You seem to think this whole thing is a joke.”

  Bunny stood up quickly. “I’ve had it,” she said. “I want another social worker.”

  I reached for her hand to pull her down, but she brushed me away. “I mean it,” she said. “Why shouldn’t we have someone on our side?”

  Mrs. O’Brien waited just long enough for Bunny to feel awkward, standing before us but not walking out. “You won’t get another social worker,” she said. “I’m your social worker. You can refuse to cooperate, but on Friday, I’ll be there in court, giving my report whether you like it or not.”

  “Come on, Bunny, sit down,” I said. I got hold of her wrist this time and pulled her back onto the sofa.

  “You’re beyond picking and choosing, Mrs. Calhoun,” the social worker said. “You’re way beyond that. The county is involved in your family now, and you can’t shut them out. The county is part of your family now, too.” Her tongue darted out and ran along her lips. Bunny was right—Mrs. O’Brien really did enjoy this. “When Judge Horner told you to clean up your affairs, he meant stop seeing Edward Boggs. And that’s not just advice you can choose to ignore. He’s a judge. He’s going to decide what to do with your daughter.” She moved forward in her chair, leaning toward us. “What’s so special about this Boggs fellow, anyway? I don’t know him, but he sounds bad to me, always drinking, drinking. He’s dangerous, don’t you see? I mean, half-naked in the backseat of your car!”

  Bunny had curled up in a corner of the sofa. Her dress was pulled up, exposing a bruise the size of a quarter high up on the outside of her thigh. I reached over and pulled her dress down.

  Mrs. O’Brien paused, and, on an impulse, I spoke up. “I can explain the thing with Eddie,” I said.

  She looked puzzled. “The thing with Eddie?”

  “On Sunday, in the car. I can explain what happened. It’s not as bad as it sounds.”

  Mrs. O’Brien’s forehead folded into deep creases. She seemed on the verge of speaking but unable to find the right words. I got frightened and wished I’d never said anything. Finally, a pink flush crept into her broad, smooth cheeks. “You think you can explain it?” she gasped. A tiny drop of spittle broke from her lips and sailed in a gentle arc toward me. I felt it land on my arm, but I didn’t take my eyes off her. “You could explain from now until Sunday, and it wouldn’t get any better. This is what I’ve been trying to teach you, but you’re as hopeless as your mother. You can’t explain away trouble. Explanations don’t do any good when the truth is so bad. Eddie Boggs was drunk and half-naked in the back of your mother’s car. Explain it? What are you going to tell me—that you didn’t know he was there?” Her face was bright red now under her carrot hair, and I could feel her breath when she talked. “It’s the same with you, Martha. You were caught undressing in front of a nine-year-old boy. What can you possibly say? What? I’d like to know!”

  I didn’t say anything. Tears were welling up in my eyes and my throat was choked. Her anger had caught me totally unprepared.

  She wiggled forward a few more inches. “You Calhouns think there’s an excuse for everything. Nothing’s ever your fault. Somebody always did it to you. But why are you always in trouble? Did you ever think of that? Why doesn’t it happen to other people? Why is it always you? Explanations!” She tried to spit the word out, but her tongue got tied, and the effect was soft, like someone trying to flick a spot of tobacco off his lips.

  The tears started streaming down my cheeks. I didn’t dare look at Bunny. I knew my face was a horrid, splotchy, drippy mess. And yet I wanted to argue with Mrs. O’Brien. I wanted to fight her point by point. She was right in a way—but she’d missed it, too, and that’s why I thought I could challenge her. She didn’t understand how trouble can spiral, so that each little piece of it gets compounded by the weight of what’s gone before. I wasn’t trying to make excuses about what had happened, but simply to remove the latest piece of trouble so it could be judged on its own. That was my argument, and I wanted to force it coolly on Mrs. O’Brien, who was now sitting there silently, breathing heavily. I wanted to make her understand. But I was helpless, trapped by my sobbing. Tears were streaming from my eyes, my nose was running, and my throat was choked so tight I could hardly swallow, let alone speak.

  Mrs. O’Brien let a minute or so pass in silence. She stared at both of us, then looked out the window. Finally, she turned back to contemplate the little cream-cheese sandwich, still untouched beside her. I knew she was thinking that she could finish it off in a single bite, that it would be in her mouth and gone in an instant, and she wouldn’t have to suffer the embarrassment of holding a half-eaten sandwich in her hand while I wept and Bunny sulked in front of her. Her eyes lingered on the morsel, but she chose to pass it up. “I know it’s hard,” she finally said with a sigh. “You can’t change overnight. It takes time and trauma.”

  She smiled. My sobbing started to let up. I soaked several cocktail napkins wiping my face. Bunny was still curled up on the sofa, gazing off distractedly.

  “I’ve had worse cases than this one, God knows,” Mrs. O’Brien went on. “You’d be shocked at the things that go on right here in Katydid County—things you wouldn’t expect to find in the worst Southern trash novel.” Suddenly, her manner softened. “Oh, I forgot. Remember that girl I told you about who stole the car parts and ran away with her boyfriend and then got pregnant? She miscarried! What a relief. I mean, it was difficult for her,
but now, at least, she can begin to pick up the pieces. She can take a deep breath and start over.”

  On cue, I took a deep breath, letting the air out slowly through my nose.

  “That’s it,” said Mrs. O’Brien. With her hand, she gave a kind of womanly salute, a little wave by the side of her face. In the same motion, she swept up the sandwich and popped it in her mouth. With a few nearly invisible movements of her jaw, it was gone.

  “Now,” she said, “where do we go from here?”

  I smiled and shrugged. I felt weak.

  “Well, there’s no doubt it’s got to start with Eddie Boggs. I’m sorry, Mrs. Calhoun, but I’ll say it as plainly as I can: Get him out of your life.”

  For the first time in minutes, Bunny stirred. She looked at both of us, then stood up. “I’ve got to get to work,” she said.

  “So soon?” Mrs. O’Brien glanced at her watch. “I didn’t think you had to be there so soon.”

  “I have to go,” Bunny said, pulling on the bottom of her jacket to straighten it.

  “Can’t we talk a little?” I asked. “There’s not much time.”

  “No, Martha,” said Mrs. O’Brien. “It’s up to your mother. She knows what the stakes are. It’s up to her.”

  I looked at Bunny pleadingly, but she stared back coldly. “Walk me to the door, please,” she said.

  I followed her into the hall. She stopped just before the front door. “Why’d you let her make you cry?” she demanded.

  “I couldn’t help it. I didn’t want to, but it just happened.”

  “She’s trying to break us. We can’t let her. We’ll win.” Bunny spoke as if each little sentence were a separate pronouncement, unconnected to anything else.

  Mrs. Vernon stepped out of the kitchen, surprised to find us in the hall. “Oh, you’re leaving?” she said to Bunny.

  Bunny opened the door and then turned back. “You better watch out,” she said to Mrs. Vernon. “I saw a snake on your lawn.”

  Mrs. Vernon’s smile twisted and disappeared. Her hand darted up to her mouth. “No,” she murmured.