“Did ya miss your nap, Miss Grumpy Pants?” she asked, pushing a pin into my hair.
“What the hee haw, Grace? I mean, really? You’re going to be like this right now?” I said, irritable. “Listen, I can finish doing my hair if you’re going to interrogate me.”
“Shut up, Dorothea. You’re acting like a baby.”
I sighed. “You’re right.”
“Besides,” she said. “Your hair would be a hot mess if you did it.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m really sorry. I’m just pretty nervous.”
“I forgive you.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“You ever been on a real date?” she asked.
“No.” I exhaled. “Only those kind of dates. You know?”
“Oh, yeah. I know those kind. The kind where they give you a few bucks extra to...”
“Right,” I cut her off. “So, I kind of don’t know what to expect.”
“Well, I think it’s sweet. Your childhood buddy’s your first date.”
“Hey, can I ask you something?”
“Yeah. You can wear my black shoes.”
“Thanks. That wasn’t my question, but I need them,” I said. “Anyway, Promise said something to me the other day. I just need to know if it’s true.”
“What did she say?”
“She said I act like I’m better than everybody else.” I tilted my head. “Do you think that’s true?”
“Well, maybe she just feels like you had a better childhood. That might be it. But I never been mad at you for that.” She pushed my head. “But I’ll be mad if you don’t stop moving all over the place. I swear, you’re like a bobble head.”
“Golly. So sorry.”
She worked on my hair for a few more minutes.
“All set.” She handed me a mirror. “So, what do you think?”
Grace stood in front of me with a huge smile. I moved the mirror around to get a look at her work. She’d made my flat hair billowy, flowing.
“Well, I think the cosmetology school is paying off,” I said, beaming. “I’ve got the best roommate in the whole world.”
“Dorothea, your boy’s here!” Peace screamed up the stairs.
“You’d better get down there. Them girls are gonna scare the polar bear outta that boy.” Grace pushed me out of our room.
“Polar bear? Good one.”
When I got myself down the stairs I saw Lola and Paul on the porch through the wide open front door. I sat on the steps.
“Paul, I like you a whole lot,” she said. “But I have to go over a few rules with you. Just the same as any other gentleman caller that graces the doorstep of my house.” Her voice was formal, yet warm.
“Sounds fair,” he answered.
“Dorothea may not drink anything with alcohol. She may not smoke or take any kind of drug. You must remain in a public place at all times. No going into a room alone with her. She needs to be home by one a.m. Otherwise, if you are certain that your tardy arrival is unavoidable, you must call me at least fifteen minutes before curfew. And you must at all times conduct yourself as a gentleman. Open doors for her, help her cross the street and so forth. No public displays of affection. No sitting in a car that isn’t traveling down the road.” She sighed. “I think that is all.”
“Okay.” He smiled at her.
“Any questions?”
“Yeah. How do I look?”
“Very handsome.” She fixed the collar of his shirt. “Listen, I trust you, Paul. Please don’t do anything to break that trust. Dorothea is like a daughter to me.”
“Her big brother was my best friend. I won’t do anything to break that trust either.”
“Thank you.” She turned toward me. “All right, Dorothea, he’s ready.”
I walked toward them, trying so hard not to trip over my own feet. I couldn’t look at Paul. His smile would have made my stomach ache with the flight of a thousand butterflies.
“These are for you.” Paul handed me a bunch of yellow roses. “I hope it’s still your favorite color.”
“Wow. Thanks.” I looked at the blooms. “They’re beautiful”
“Yellow roses are the flower of true friendship.” He smiled.
“That’s nice.” A flush crept into my cheeks. I touched my face, trying to hide the pink. “Friendship is good.”
“Yup, it’s a good place to start.” He scratched his head. “You know, I was hoping to make up for the time I cut the streamers off your bike handles.”
“That was you?” I gaped at him.
“I needed to borrow it. I didn’t want to look all girly.”
“I blamed Pete!”
“I know. Sorry.” He motioned to his car, smiling with his hazel eyes. “Would you still like to join me for dinner?”
“Well, I guess so,” I said, walking down the path with him.
He drove me to a very nice restaurant. Held doors for me. He won me over little by little. I didn’t mind.
“So, what have you been up to all these years?” I asked, sitting across the table from him. I picked at my salad, too nervous to eat.
“You don’t want to hear about it. Nothing too exciting.” He smiled, cutting a chunk off his steak. “You know, high school. That went by pretty fast. Football, proms, doing stupid things. Pretty typical. You know, right?”
I nodded. But I didn’t know. I’d never been to a single day of normal high school.
I sipped my soda as he told me about trips he’d been on, girls he’d dated, jobs he’d had. Story after story of a good life. A life I didn’t recognize. I sat, intrigued, eating my dinner.
“Wow,” I said. “It sounds like you’ve had a pretty perfect life.”
“Not really.” He looked at the table. “I’ve had a few slip-ups. Nothing major. You know, girl stuff mostly. Nothing I’m proud of.”
“Yeah, but still.” I pushed my plate to one side. “You’ve had some great stuff happen for you.”
The server brought the check for the meal.
“Well, I feel like a jerk. I just talked about myself the whole time. That’s not right.” He pulled his wallet out of his pocket. “I really hope you don’t think I’m that self-centered.”
“I already knew you were,” I said, smiling at him. “Don’t worry about it. I seriously liked hearing about you.”
“Can we get some coffee or ice cream so we can talk about you?” He checked his watch. “We’ve got plenty of time before you turn into a pumpkin.”
“Really, my life isn’t that important.”
“Yes it is. I want to know what’s been going on for you.”
We stood, walking together toward the exit.
“Okay. But you’re going to have to get it in segments. I can’t tell it all at once.”
“So, did you just ask me out for a second date? And this one isn’t even done yet.”
“This was a date?”
“Of course it is,” he said.
I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. A faint blush had rushed into his face.
He took me to a little coffee house downtown. We sat at a table right next to the window.
“Okay, so you already know some of this. But there’s more to what happened than you all knew,” I said, breathing deeply.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I just haven’t really talked about this in a while. I’m a little nervous.”
“I understand that. You just take your time.” He moved his hand across the table, stopping just short of touching my arm. “No matter what you have to tell me, I’ll understand.”
“Thanks.” I glanced at his hand, wondering if he’d be so eager to touch me after he’d heard my story.
~*~
Not long after dad’s funeral, people slowly tapered away from our lives. We stopped getting calls. The cards no longer overflowed the mailbox. Nobody brought meals. Even the preacher at church stayed away.
Everyone else moved on with life, leaving us behind. I wondered if they ever
thought of us at all. And, if they did, was it in passing? Did they fear that what happened to us might happen to them? I wondered if we were a reminder of how quickly life could change for a family. And for the worst.
My mom withdrew from us, too. She’d stay in her room, the door locked, all the time. After school, I would climb the stairs and sit on the floor outside her door. Her moans and cries escaped through the door frame.
One day, I used an old, dried-up pen to carve into the paint on her door.
“I love you,” I’d written.
As I sat on the floor, listening to my mom grieve, I’d run the tip of my finger over the letters. Repeating with my tracing, “I love you, I love you, I love you.”
Just about every other day, she would come out of her room, convinced that she had strength enough to take care of us. After a shower, she’d come into the kitchen and start cooking something. Cookbook open, ingredients on the counter, oven preheated. Then something would snap. She’d see something in Dad’s handwriting, a picture, the recipe of one of his favorite meals. The grief overtook her. Defeated her. Pete would help her back up to her room where she’d stay for another day.
One day, I noticed a row of small cuts on her arms. The most perfectly straight lines. She had tried to hide them under her clothes. But I saw them.
“Mom, what happened?” I asked, as she reached up in the cupboard for the flour. Her sleeve had fallen up her arm, revealing the red lines.
“What?” she asked, not looking at me.
“Those cuts on your arm. What are they from?”
“Nothing.” She pulled down her sleeves and walked away, leaving me to clean up the kitchen.
I followed her. She’d retreated to her room. Shut the door. Locked it.
“Mommy,” I cried. “I’m sorry.”
I heard nothing.
“Please come back out here.” I sat on the floor, traced the letters. “Don’t be mad at me. Please, Mommy.”
She didn’t answer me. Just stayed in her room.
I used my fingernails to scratch out the “I love you,” trying to dig through the door. All I needed was a hug from her. A kiss on the forehead. Some kind of reassurance. But all I got were tiny chips of paint jammed under my nails. It hurt.
I gave up. Walked away from the door.
After that, she didn’t come down much anymore. She left Pete and me on our own.
Eventually the electricity was turned off. Then the gas. Next came a notice about the mortgage going unpaid. Pete wrote checks and mailed them out.
Then came the letters about the bounced checks.
We didn’t know what to do. We didn’t think we had anyone who could help us. Our grandparents lived in Oregon. We didn’t want to worry them. If we told our teachers they would have us put in foster care. If we told our preacher, he’d do something to embarrass us. And the last thing we wanted was more pity.
We walked across the street and ask the Wests for help. We knew we could trust them. They were our only option.
Mrs. West welcomed us inside, had us sit at the kitchen table.
“Oh, guys. This just shouldn’t be your problem,” Mrs. West said, reheating the leftover chicken and dumplings she served her family an hour earlier. “Paying the bills just can’t be your job. How many checks bounced?”
“Three.” Pete held his head in his hands, rubbing his temples. “And they were really big checks. We’re in so much trouble.”
“Okay, Pete. Just relax a little. Mr. West will be back any minute from his meeting at the school.” She winked at us. “Don’t you worry. He’ll know exactly what to do.”
Within a few days, Mr. West had everything straight and fixed. We would be fine and together and taken care of.
We ate dinner with the Wests every night. They became our second family. Pete and I had a new home.
My mom stopped living for us. She just stayed in her room. And I no longer sat outside her door. I couldn’t stand to listen to her cry anymore. The way she had closed herself off from us made me angry.
I hadn’t just lost my dad. My mom was gone, too.
Cora – 33
After the rejection of the church ladies, my mother took to sleeping in the bedroom. My father had left her there after beating her. She just hadn’t gotten up for much after that night.
For seven days I scrubbed and cleaned. Floors, windows, walls. Nearly ridding the house of the acid, musty smell of him.
On that seventh day, I checked on my mother. Like all other days.
“Mother,” I said, walking into her bedroom. “Do you need to get to the outhouse?”
She stirred, just a small movement. “Where’s your father?” she asked, thin-voiced.
“At work,” I answered, pulling the tattered blanket off her.
“He’s at the mines?” she asked, letting me lift her to sit on the bed. Her skin-and-bones legs dangled over the side.
“No, Mother. He works at Ducky’s now.” I hefted her to her feet, my hands in her armpits.
“He must be watching over Marlowe. He would take care of her.” She groaned, moving her legs for the first time that day. “Do you think she is still there?”
“Maybe,” I answered. My arms around her tiny waist, I lifted her to carry her outside.
“Do you think she’s okay?”
“Marlowe is alive,” I whispered, shuffling my feet through the house and to the backyard. “She is alive.”
While my mother sat inside the leaning outhouse, I collected wildflower petals. Filled my pockets until no more fit. Yellow primrose grew uncontested all along the old shack. The bright sunshine of flowers against the crumbling grime of our house.
“I’m finished, honey,” my mother called. “Would you please come get me? I don’t believe I can walk back to bed by myself.”
Her sparse weight easy to bear, I carried her into the house, to her room. I laid her back in the bed and pulled the blanket back up to her chin. Her soft snoring began near instantly.
I fingered the flower petals in my pocket as I walked back into the living room. The light blue paint chipped in small flakes across the windowsill. Mold dotted the wood where moisture had soaked in.
Passing my hand over the surface, fragments of old, dried-up paint stuck to my skin. I rubbed the flower petals between my fingers as I sprinkled them across the windowsill. The bright yellow covered the decaying wood.
The sound of hard boot steps on the front porch broke my concentration. My heart pounding, I glanced out the window. Titus stood, wiping his feet on the door mat.
“How was work?” I asked, opening the door.
“Fine,” he answered, pushing past me.
“I have a basin of water in the back. You can clean up there.” I followed after him. “Are you hungry?”
“Yup,” he burped, liquor on his breath.
“Once you’re all cleaned up, I’ll get you some dinner.” I rushed into the kitchen.
“I’m goin’ out tonight,” Titus said, from the back porch.
“Where are you going?” I asked, pulling a casserole from the oven.
“Out. Ain’t none of your concern,” he said over the scrubbing of a brush across his nails. “Pa’s pickin’ me up in his new truck.”
“He got a new truck?”
“Yeah. Says he done got it for a song ’cause of Ducky.”
“Where’d he get the money for that?” I asked. “Seems he’s been getting a lot of new things lately. But we’re just about to run out of propane in the tank and I have to use our garden vegetables to trade for meat. We’re going poor, but he’s got enough to buy himself a new truck?”
“Cora,” Titus said. “It’s best ya don’t ask no more questions like that. Gonna get yourself in trouble.”
“I don’t care.”
“Well, you oughta.”
“You aren’t going to Ducky’s tonight, are you?” A wave of nausea hit me as I looked out the back door at my brother. He looked like a man, and it frightened me.
“That’s another thing you ain’t gotta know,” he said, his voice like a slap. “You gonna do a lot better if you don’t stick your nose in it.”
“I don’t want you to turn out like him.”
“Like who?”
“You can’t be like Pa.”
He walked past me into the kitchen. His skin and hair still stained black beyond scrubbing. He turned toward me, his muscles tensed. Patches of stubble grew along his jaw and upper lip.
“I ain’t gonna be like that man.” The lid over his eye twitched. “I ain’t no good. But I’m gonna try not to be like him.”
“You’re a better person than him.”
“I ain’t.” He looked at his fists. “If I was, I wouldn’t let him hurt you and Ma.”
“There isn’t anything you can do about that. It’s just the way life is.”
“I’m gonna do somethin’ about it, Cora.” He set his jaw, determined. “I’m gonna find Marlowe first. Then I’m gonna get all of us away from Pa. Ain’t right, all us sufferin’ just ’cause of one man. I’m gonna fix it.”
“You can’t.” A tear escaped, tumbling down my cheek.
He reached out his hand and touched my shoulder. Flinching, I cowered away from him. He stepped toward me and I raised up my arms to cover my face. All learned movements. All automatic. To shield myself.
“I ain’t gonna hurt ya, Cora,” he whispered. “What’s that man done to you? You know I ain’t like him.”
“I know,” I lied. I turned away before lowering my defenses.
“Listen, I can get us outta here. I got a plan. You just gotta trust me,” he said.
“I don’t trust anybody,” I said, spooning the casserole onto a plate. “Here. Eat this.”
“I gotta go to Ducky’s,” he said, taking the plate. He shoveled the steaming food into his mouth. “I’m gettin’ a job there. Pa told me he wants me in the family business.”
“Family business?” I cut two thick slices of bread from a loaf.
“I don’t know. But he told me that today’s my last day in the mine.”
“I think working for Ducky’d be more dangerous than the mine.”
“Yup. But it’s gonna get me close enough to get Marlowe.”
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