Martha Calhoun

by Richard Babcock

  “You really think so?” I asked.

  “Yes. You’re special. You outgrew this place ages ago. What you’re going through now is nothing. Nothing! In a couple of years, you’ll move to Chicago or New York, some center like that, and you’ll start a whole new life. Katydid will be behind you forever.”

  “Gee.” It was wonderful hearing him talk like this. I could almost begin to believe him.

  “Do you think you can hang on?” he asked. “It’ll only be a couple of years.”

  I nodded. His hand on mine felt warm. I wanted to lift it to my cheek, to feel the softness of his skin, the bristle of his blond hair. He looked at me silently, and I thought about why I’d come here.

  “There’s something I want to tell you,” I said.

  “Something?”

  “Yes, about you—”

  “Me?”

  “Well, me more, but—”

  “You?”

  “Sort of us, but—”

  “Us?”

  “Mmm-hmmm.”

  “Wait.” He let go of my hand. We both seemed to be out of breath. He stared across the room toward his desk. On top, a book lay flat open, something he’d been reading when I knocked. The couch was unusually low, and his knees loomed craggily above it. Finally he said, “There’s a story I never told you, something about me that might help you out. I had to go through something similar to you once—it was vastly different, of course, but similar in some ways. Do you want to hear?”

  “Yes.”

  “When I was sixteen, back home, I had a very good friend, a boy. I’d known him all my life, but after we got in high school, we became very close. Too close, really, I suppose. And when my father realized how close we had become, he forbade us to have anything to do with each other. My father was a simple man but very forceful, and, of course, I had to do what he said. So even though my friend and I still saw each other in school, and we passed in the hall, we weren’t allowed to have any contact with each other. For two years, we’d just see each other and never talk. Can you imagine? My best friend. Once, I remember, we were in the same gym class, and I came late. He was alone in the locker room. We had to get into our gym clothes standing ten feet apart, not daring to say a word to each other. I rushed to get ready and hurried out, but as I left I glanced at him for a second. He was watching me, and his eyes were brimming with tears, and all the time he was begging me, begging me with his eyes. But he never said anything.”

  “What happened?”

  “The day after we graduated from high school, he joined the army, and I never heard of him again. He was gone like that.” He snapped his fingers noiselessly. “The best friend I ever had, and he was gone.”

  “How did you do it?” I asked. “I mean, how could you see him and not talk?”

  “I steeled myself. That’s the point I wanted to make, since you can do it, too. I just steeled myself. It was as straightforward as that.” As if to demonstrate, he looked into my eyes without blinking. I tried to stay with him, but I felt weak and quickly turned away.

  He stood abruptly. “Well, that was just my experience. Maybe it will help.” He walked over to his desk and sat against the front edge, crossing his legs.

  “It will,” I mumbled. But how? All I knew was that I’d been wrong again, another mistake. I can’t seem to get anything right anymore. Was this what it was like for Bunny—always deluding herself, always misreading her men? Am I that much a part of her?

  He rocked slowly up and back. “I might as well tell you something else, Martha, since you seem to be my only confidante. I haven’t announced this yet, so you mustn’t tell anyone, but I’m leaving Katydid.”

  The words hung in the air. I could have reached out and touched them. “Why?” I asked finally.

  “The truth is, I’ve been asked to leave. That won’t be part of the announcement, so that has to be a secret, too.”

  “But, who?”

  “The church fathers decided they don’t like my kind of ministry. They want more God-and-Bible stuff, more talk about right and wrong. The kind of sermons I give make them uncomfortable. Of course, they were very nice about it; they’re good people. I just wasn’t their type of minister.” He shrugged.

  “What’ll you do?”

  “Oh, I’ll find another pulpit. The church organization will help me, and I’ll find something, I’m sure. And if that doesn’t work—well, maybe it’ll turn out I’m not anybody’s type of minister. But I’ll give it at least one more try.”

  “Gee.” I shook my head. “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, don’t be,” he said cheerfully. “I’m not. I mean, I’m sorry I washed out here, but I’m not going to second-guess the way I worked. That’s the only way I could work. I’m not a God-and-Bible sort of person. I have to minister the way that’s right for me. Besides, as I said, I’ve learned to steel myself.”

  He stood up again and drifted across the room, toward the window. I sensed he was making a signal, so I stood up and walked to the door.

  “Are we still on for tomorrow?” he asked.

  I looked at him blankly.

  “For the hearing. Is your hearing still scheduled for tomorrow?”

  I hadn’t thought of that for hours. “Yes. At least, I think so.” My mind tripped backward, trying to think what might have happened tonight to change the hearing.

  “At eleven?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  He followed me to the door, his hands fluttering for places to rest. Finally, he grabbed the doorknob. “Are you all right?” he asked. “Do you feel better now?”

  “Yes.”

  He opened the door, and I stepped onto the stoop. All around were shadows, and the lawn in front of the church fell down the hill into blackness.

  “Wait,” he said. “Let me drive you.”

  “No, no, I can walk. It’ll be nice.”

  “It’s so far.”

  “Not really.” I ran down the steps. “Thanks,” I said.

  He hesitated. “Wait,” he said again. He moved from behind the door and stepped onto the stoop. The light pouring from the study silhouetted his figure. His fine blond hair seemed afire. “I almost forgot,” he called out. “Did you want to tell me something?”

  “No,” I said, turning away. I felt a sudden heaviness. Why did he have to ask me that? He’d known what I was going to say. Everything had been all right until then. Why’d we have to pretend now? “No, it was nothing,” I called back.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The walk to the Vernons’ took about half an hour. I avoided the square, to make sure I wouldn’t run into anyone who’d wandered back from the fair. I went down Parker Street, behind the hotel, past the army recruiters’ building, the bowling alley, the Sears catalogue store. Turning down Molly Street, I crossed to the other side to stay away from the bars—the Little Las Vegas, Tumble Inn, Murphy’s, all lined up and spitting out bad smells and jukebox music. When I came to the tracks, I crouched and put my hand on a rail, feeling for a train. The metal was cool and still. Down Prosperity Street, I followed the hum of the KTD, letting my body absorb the vibrations from the air. Flashes of white welding light sparkled through the factory’s squinty, stained windows. The midnight whistle was still about fifteen minutes away.

  As I came down the Vernons’ block, I saw someone on the curb under the streetlight, sitting slumped over, like a drunk. When I got closer, I realized it was Bunny. She heard my footsteps and stood, but waited for me to come to her.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  She put her arms around me and hung from my neck without saying anything.

  “The man inside sent me away,” she mumbled finally. “He growled. I heard him growl.”

  Bunny dangled from my neck for a few more seconds and then dropped down to the curb again. I sat beside her. Between her feet on the street was the goldfish bowl she’d won earlier in the evening. “He’s still alive,” she said, pointing to the fish.

  “Lucky him.” />
  Bunny rested her head on my shoulder. I braced my arms in back for support, letting my fingers slide through the cool grass. I told her all about Banyon’s Woods, though she hardly seemed interested. I couldn’t even tell if she was listening.

  “I really am a good mother,” Bunny said, when I’d finished. “Maybe Tom does have problems, but look at you—you’re a perfect child, a perfect child.”

  “Stop it,” I said gently.

  “No, really. Every mother would love to have a daughter like you.” With her head on my shoulder, she was talking across the street, and her voice had a distant quality. She was quiet for a minute or so and then said, “And, anyway, I love Tom, so I don’t care.”

  “I know. I love him, too.”

  She was quiet again. The sharp squeak of a cricket persisted from the tree above us. A car nosed around the corner and down Oak. The driver, an old man, was gripping the steering wheel with both hands and straining to see in front. He went by without noticing us.

  After a while, Bunny said, “You know, I’ve figured out what my problem is. It’s really not so different from anyone else’s. But when things go bad for other women, they drink or take pills. For me, when things go bad, I need to be loved. I can’t help it. That’s just the way I am.”

  “Maybe you should try to steel yourself,” I said. “I mean, not everybody gets drunk or takes pills when things go wrong. Some people just learn to get by.”

  Bunny sat up. “You can’t expect me to change,” she said. “That’s just the way I am. You can’t expect me to be different than I am.”

  That wasn’t really an answer, of course, since people are always being forced to be different than they are. But I didn’t want to argue. I just looked away, and after a few seconds, Bunny put her head back down on my shoulder.

  We stayed that way for about ten minutes, hardly talking. Finally, Bunny said she better get home and get some rest for the hearing tomorrow. She picked up the goldfish bowl and stood stiffly, like an old person. I walked her to the Pontiac, parked up the block. She put the bowl on the front seat beside her.

  “Won’t it slosh?” I asked.

  “He’ll be more comfortable there,” she said.

  I closed the door behind her and watched as the car lurched away.

  The Vernons’ house was dark inside. A pale light from the street drifted through the front windows, making crisscross shadows on the wall. Without turning on a lamp, I could still make out my note, untouched on the table. I had to smile to myself. After everything that had happened tonight, I’d still got in before Mrs. Vernon’s church let out. I tiptoed up the stairs and went softly to Sissy’s room.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  We made a strange, starchy party going to court the next morning. Mrs. O’Brien, not taking any chances, had stopped to pick up Bunny before coming by for me, and, for this hearing, Mrs. Vernon came along, too. We were all dressed up, but no one had quite managed to get it right—every outfit seemed half a season wrong, or half a size off one way or the other. I’d put on my white blouse with the bow in front and a navy skirt. The skirt was too heavy for the weather and nagged against the scratches on my legs, but it looked very conservative and had seemed the right choice when I examined the closet early in the morning. Mrs. Vernon was wearing a flowery violet dress, with a white collar, something unexpectedly gay, and she’d pinned on a white spring hat. Just after breakfast, she’d come down to Sissy’s room to primp and get my opinion.

  “It’s fine,” I told her, though she was the picture of a woman going to church on an April day.

  “The last time I went to court, Josephine told me I looked too dowdy,” she said, frowning. “She told me Judge Horner doesn’t like dowdy women.”

  “I’m sure he’ll like this,” I said.

  Mrs. O’Brien was wearing a huge, formless green shift that swept around her legs when she walked and gave her the appearance of a great broad tree with feet. But the most surprising outfit was on Bunny. She’d chosen to wear a dark blue linen dress—her good summer dress, as she used to call it, though the dress hadn’t been out of her closet in years. Now, with its plain, boxy lines, the dress was sufficiently out of style to appear very proper. Bunny was sitting in the front seat of Mrs. O’Brien’s station wagon when I came down the walk. Seeing her there I had to pause; the dress jogged loose a memory, something I couldn’t quite grasp that saddened me nonetheless. I found myself fighting back tears, even before we’d got to court.

  “That damn fish died last night,” Bunny said, after Mrs. Vernon and I had settled into the back seat.

  “A fish?” said Mrs. Vernon. “That’s strange. A bunch of my carrots died yesterday for no reason. I hope there’s not something going around.”

  “Probably is,” said Bunny.

  At the courthouse, we waited on the benches outside Judge Horner’s courtroom. Unlike the last time, the corridors were almost empty. Shortly after we sat down, Reverend Vaughn appeared. I watched him coming down the long corridor. It cheered me to see him, but when he stood before us, tall and rickety, I found I could hardly speak. Bunny ignored him, and Mrs. O’Brien asked a few sullen questions about whether he’d seen Bishop Sheen on television lately. Finally he was reduced to listening to Mrs. Vernon jabber on about her church. After a few minutes, he managed to escape, and he sat down on a bench by himself, taking a paperback book out of his jacket pocket. Every now and then, I’d glance over at him. Engrossed in the book, he leaned forward, crossing his arms and legs, finally pretzeling himself into a loose, bony knot. “He’s got too many joints,” Bunny had said one time.

  The start of my hearing was delayed. There was another group in the courtroom, and periodically an explosion of loud noises could be heard behind the thick wooden door. At one point, Josephine stepped out and came over to Mrs. O’Brien.

  “These Mexicans,” she said. “So emotional.”

  Bunny looked at her watch and shook her head.

  “We’ve got all day,” said Mrs. O’Brien.

  At 11:30, Bunny said loudly, “I wonder where Simon Beach is?”

  “I told you he’s not coming,” I said.

  Bunny glared at me. “Of course he’s coming. He’s your lawyer.”

  I leaned toward her and lowered my voice, so Mrs. O’Brien wouldn’t hear. “Don’t mess things up,” I said.

  Bunny made a clucking noise with her tongue, then shook her head and looked away.

  Shortly after noon, the courtroom door swung open to a procession of Mexicans. An older woman, probably somebody’s mother, stumbled out first, sobbing into a handkerchief and talking in soggy bursts of Spanish. A man had her by the arm, trying to soothe her and hold her up at the same time. A dozen other people came out behind them. Most of the women were crying. Through the door, I could see Francis X. Moon and Sergeant Tony up at the front of the courtroom, huddled with Judge Horner.

  My hearing was put off until after lunch, so Mrs. O’Brien, Mrs. Vernon, Reverend Vaughn, and Bunny and I made our own procession down the corridor and out to the square. Reverend Vaughn said he had some business to take care of and promised to return later. He hurried off toward the Congo, obviously relieved to be free. Bunny insisted she wanted to look for Simon Beach. I started to argue with her, then stopped. Maybe believing in him will ease things for her, I thought. So the four of us walked across the square and up the stairs of the hotel to his office. Bunny rattled the knob for a while, but the door was locked—even the secretary was out.

  “Well, let’s at least have lunch,” said Mrs. O’Brien. She led us back out to the square and over to Paul’s Front Porch. The restaurant was smoky and crowded. Everyone who works around the square lunches there, and, by the time we arrived, people were milling around the cash register, waiting to get seated. Bunny knows the head waitress, however, and we were quickly led to the first open table in back. Across the room, Judge Horner, Mr. Moon, and Sergeant Tony were together at a table. Judge Horner wasn’t wearing a jacket, and he had on an
unpleasant brown tie. In his rolled-up shirtsleeves, he looked rather slight. He nodded at Mrs. O’Brien, then went back to his conversation.

  Bunny and I weren’t hungry and only ordered tunafish sandwiches. Mrs. Vernon just wanted tea. But Mrs. O’Brien ordered a sliced turkey plate, which arrived with a huge mound of mashed potatoes, a dousing of yellow gravy, and a side dish of corn. The heat spell earlier in the week had passed, but outside it was still in the eighties, and it was particularly warm in the restaurant. The steam rose from Mrs. O’Brien’s plate and circled and hung over our table. My skirt itched and stuck to my legs. Little drops of perspiration appeared on Bunny’s forehead.

  “How can you eat all that hot food?” Bunny finally asked, drawing on her second cigarette of the lunch. She’d only nibbled at her sandwich.

  “I believe in good breakfasts and good lunches,” said Mrs. O’Brien. “Then a light dinner. That way, you get your full meals and a chance to digest them.”

  “Look at those potatoes,” groaned Bunny.

  “My conscience is clear,” said the social worker.

  At two, we gathered again in the courthouse corridor. This time, there was another group seated on a bench. I recognized Toby Warner, a boy my age who’d been caught breaking into Wally’s Record Emporium last year. His mother sat beside him. From across the corridor, I stared at her feet. She appeared to be wearing a pair of beat-up old bedroom slippers. Even in first or second grade, I remembered, she’d always seemed overwhelmed.

  Bunny and I walked down to the end of the corridor, near a window, to get as far away from Toby as we could. The window looked out on the parking lot, and below us I watched a boy, sitting by himself on the curb. He was playing jacks, a game you don’t see much anymore.

  Reverend Vaughn returned and came up to us. “Still hanging in there?” he asked me.

  I nodded. Behind him, I saw Mr. Moon come out of the courtroom and gesture for Mrs. O’Brien to follow him. They walked a few steps down the corridor to be alone.