Speak Softly, She Can Hear

by Pam Lewis

  Chapter Nine

  She was sure they’d find her. Nobody like her ever just disappeared. It was just a matter of time before one of her parents showed up and all their lives fell apart. It was coming. It was inevitable. When she was outside, she was like a thief, watching constantly for her mother or father. Waiting for the bus, she kept her back against store windows, the better to scan the passersby.

  But no one came. Weeks went by, and nothing happened. So maybe they didn’t know where she was. Josie would surely have told them that Carole had left of her own free will, dropped out. And she’d probably told them the lie about Neal. Josie couldn’t wait to tell everyone that story. Then there was Eddie. She hadn’t known his name, but she would describe him, and Carole’s mother would know. The man from the train, the one her mother had seen on the street. But Carole didn’t want to think too much about that. It didn’t help. For now she was beginning to feel safe. She was building another wall behind her. Every day that went by was another brick of safety.

  The trouble was, she had only seventy dollars left, and she needed a job. She applied to be a saleslady at B. Altman, but when the personnel director asked for a Social Security number she excused herself and made a dash for the escalator. There was no way. Her parents would track her down in no time flat if her Social Security number got out.

  She ducked into a little storefront restaurant around the corner named Earl’s. She liked the name to begin with, written in plain letters across a heavy brown canopy over the front door. And the place was clean, with white tablecloths and heavy silver. She had tea, and Earl himself drew up a chair at her table. He was a big guy, bursting out of his starched whites and checked pants. He said he made it a practice to get to know his customers, but he wouldn’t bother her if she preferred to be alone. Something told her this was okay, Earl was okay, and she said she’d like the company, sure, if he wanted to sit with her a few minutes and talk.

  He wanted to know what she thought of the tea, what kind of food she liked, where else she liked to go in the city, and what she thought of all these kids you see today with their long hair and flowers. He personally found them refreshing. He’d grown up in Eugene, Oregon, in the land of backyard barbecues and ranch houses. “People didn’t know how bored they were,” he said. He’d been waiting a long time to see the world burst free and live. And the music! “So what about you?” he asked her, and then put up his hands quickly in a no-offense gesture. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

  “I ran away from school,” she said.

  Earl nodded sagely. “It’s a whole new world, isn’t it?”

  She said she liked seeing the people at Earl’s, even though she didn’t know them know them, if he knew what she meant. He did. He liked it too. He’d been around the block a few times too, and this was finally home for him.

  One afternoon Earl was shorthanded, and Carole noticed that a man at a nearby table needed a refill on coffee. Without thinking, she got up out of her seat and brought over the pot. The man wanted dessert too. “What do you have?” You, as if she was the waitress. It felt so good to belong. “Crème brûlée, mousse au chocolat, sorbet, torte,” she said. She’d heard the other waitresses run through that litany often enough. The man ordered, and she went to the kitchen to tell the chef. That was how it started. She went in four days a week to cover for one or another of the girls. Without even asking, Earl gave her cash from the register every week so she wouldn’t be on the books, so she wouldn’t owe taxes, so nobody could track her down.

  And there was something else she liked about Earl’s. The order of the place. Everything in the kitchen was arranged so it was easy to clean and easy to reach. Pots and utensils hung from racks overhead. At each station was something Earl called the mise, bowls of all sizes with chopped shallots, minced parsley, butter, salt. Some nights there were fifteen or twenty of these, depending on the menu, and something else he called a reach-in for the cold foods that he and the line chefs needed. When the restaurant was packed, she helped out by signing for deliveries that came in and checking over the orders to make sure everything was there, that the stuff was fresh and smelled right, that it was put where it belonged—in the freezer or the walk-in refrigerator. She had a knack for it, Earl told her. And she was tough too. When something wasn’t right, she’d be on the phone to the purveyor, telling them to take it back or bring fresher or more, or whatever. Or else. The order of the place chased away her fear, time disappeared. She felt nothing but the urgency to get her work done.

  She’d been at Earl’s over a year and was serving lunch one day when three women came in. They were well dressed in their Courrèges outfits, like a bunch of geometry problems over opaque stockings and low-heeled shoes. As she stood at their table, her pencil poised over her notebook to take their order, she recognized Barbara Buchanan. A year ahead of her at Spence, Barbara used to terrify her playing volleyball in gym. She was in the glee club with her too. Carole’s hand quivered as she wrote down their orders. Chablis X3. Barbara looked directly at her. “How is the salad prepared?” she asked.

  Stranded, all Carole could do was stare at Barbara Buchanan and wait for the dreadful moment when she was recognized.

  But it didn’t happen. Barbara made a face, glanced at the others, and rolled her eyes as if to say, What’s with her?

  “However you like it,” Carole finally said. “With or without the garlic. The choice is yours.”

  “Well, that’s better,” Barbara said. “I’ll have it without.” And with that she went back to her friends. Carole took a few steps backward from the women, who put their heads together and talked in low voices. When she got to the kitchen with the order, she could hear the blood pounding in her ears.

  “You okay?” Earl asked.

  She had to think a moment. “Yes,” she said. She went to the little mirror at the back door. It was smeared and uneven, but it did the job. She looked at herself. Her springy blond hair was tamed into a thick braid down her back. Her face was bony now, the cheekbones and chin clearly defined, the nose larger. And something else. Her eyes were darker. She hadn’t noticed the shift, but they were. They were a deeper blue, almost normal. A serious color instead of those child’s pale eyes. She hadn’t noticed because she rarely looked at her face in the mirror. Each morning she twisted her hair without watching herself. She checked herself at a distance to gauge her clothing, but she didn’t want to look at her face. She leaned in to see better the deep blue specks that darkened them. She didn’t remotely resemble the girl she had been.

  One morning the following winter, she was painting her nails at the kitchen table in her apartment, making long syrupy strokes of red, one after the other. They didn’t need her at Earl’s, so she could do what she wanted.

  She’d done six fingers perfectly. It was exacting work, requiring skill and patience. She had a rule that if she messed one up, she had to remove the polish from all the ones she’d already done and start over. This kept her focused on what she was doing, and it ate up the time. She had six colors to choose from in the bathroom, all lined up on the toilet tank, from the purple on the left to the red in the middle and the orange on the right. The color she was using now was her favorite, Candy-Apple Red.

  She was about to start on another finger when there was a long buzz from downstairs. She’d sworn to ignore the buzzer. That had been part of the sublet deal, and her whole feeling of security depended on keeping that promise. All the promises. Anyway, nobody in New York knew where she lived, so it wasn’t for her anyway.

  But the buzzing went on for a long annoying time and then stopped. She stilled herself, the little nail polish brush poised, listening for the sound to start in one of the other units, and it did. Whoever it was tried all three units and then came back to hers again. It might be Mrs. Bo, although it was way too early for her. She came every four months to look around and collect the next four months’ rent.

  Fingers spread, Carole opened the door to the hall using the backs
of both hands so she wouldn’t smudge her polish. Then she went down the stairs to the landing.

  Maybe whoever it was had left. She went down a few more stairs and bent over the banister to look. Suddenly the glass in the front door filled up with the shape of a man. He had on a fedora and an overcoat. He cupped his hands around his eyes, pressing his face to the glass, and peered in. She turned to run back up the stairs and stopped again at the landing to make sure. Oh, no. It was her father. And he’d seen her. She fled to her apartment.

  She could hear him down there on the sidewalk now, shouting her name, banging on the glass so hard it could break. The buzzer sounded nonstop. How could he have found her? How was it possible? She watched him from behind the curtain. He flapped his arms in this terrible way, a way he would criticize in anybody else. He was so angry. That was what scared her. His anger. He’d hit her that time. Maybe he’d hit her again.

  His hat fell off. It just dropped from his head to the street, bounced, and landed near the wheel of a parked car. She expected him to pick it up, but he didn’t seem to know it had happened. That got her attention, the way he didn’t notice the hat, a man who was always so careful. She slipped the window open a few inches. When he saw her, he crossed over to be just under the window, on the sidewalk.

  “It’s your mother,” he said.

  Oh, no, she thought. No.

  “Let me in,” he said. “Answer the door.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “For God’s sake, Carole. Open the door.”

  “Just tell me?” she said, more question than statement.

  He flapped his arms in fury and looked around to see if anyone was listening. “Don’t make me stand out here,” he said. “You must open that door.” He was looking up at her now.

  She wished he’d pick up the hat. It killed her to see it there. It was going to get run over if he didn’t do something. “I can’t,” she said, feeling desperate. “I’m not allowed.”

  He set his face in a way she’d forgotten, sucking in the skin around his lips so his mouth was a straight hard line across. He looked down at his feet, then looked up at her. “Not allowed?” he said. “What in the name of God is that supposed to mean? I’m your father.” He looked so stricken, that was it. And baffled.

  She just stared down at him, frozen, feeling the confusion roil up in her. Afraid of him, for him, afraid about what he’d said about her mother and of letting him in here to this place where nobody was allowed to be but her. Her chest tightened, and she couldn’t take in a full breath. But she knew she would have to let him in, yes, in a minute she would, but right now she couldn’t move. She could only stare down at him in shock. In a minute, she thought, I will. But then, as she watched, he threw up his hands in defeat, turned, and walked away, down the street.

  “Your hat,” she yelled. “Daddy. Your hat.”

  Either he didn’t hear or he wouldn’t hear. She watched the hat get crushed under a taxi. She slammed down the window. Her nails were a mess, of course, but she couldn’t do anything about that now. What did it matter? Her hands were trembling so badly. She wanted to call somebody. But who? Who was there? Naomi? Out of the question. Jeremy? Maybe, but then Jeremy’s father worked with her father. No. There was nobody left. Nobody at all. It was an astonishing moment, seeing herself this way. Up until now she’d felt surrounded. There was Earl and all the customers, the other waitresses, and the guys in the kitchen. But the truth was, nobody knew who she was.

  She went to the window a few times and looked out, in case her father came back, but he didn’t. Finally, when it was close to five, she called his office and talked to Miss Palmer, the same Miss Palmer who used to send the tuition bills to her at Vassar.

  “I’m not supposed to talk to you,” Miss Palmer said. “If you call, I’m supposed to put you right through to him, but he’s not here.” Then she added, “He’s making the arrangements.”

  Arrangements. The word landed like a hammer.

  “I’m not allowed to tell you anything else.”

  Her mother was dead. She must be.

  “Jackie,” she said. She’d never called Miss Palmer Jackie. Nobody did. Not even her father called her that. “Jackie, please?”

  There was a long pause. She could imagine Miss Palmer looking left to right over her long nose. “Don’t tell him I told you. You’ve got to swear.” She paused, waiting for an answer.

  “Yes, all right.”

  “I hate to tell you this, dear, but your mother passed away,” Miss Palmer said.

  “No.”

  “On Wednesday.” Miss Palmer was unable to hide the agitation in her voice.

  “No,” Carole said again.

  “A heart attack,” Miss Palmer said. “On the street. They took her to Bellevue,” she added, as though nothing could be worse than Bellevue, as though the cause of death itself was Bellevue.

  “Bellevue,” Carole repeated.

  “Service is tomorrow,” Miss Palmer said. “At the University Club,” she added. “Everybody’s coming.” There was a long silence. “Oh, my God,” she said. “I shouldn’t have told you all this. He wanted to do it himself. Promise you won’t tell him.”

  Carole felt cold and sweaty.

  “Carole, please? Promise you won’t? I wasn’t supposed to tell.”

  Carole said nothing. This couldn’t be happening.

  “I can’t say anymore. I shouldn’t have said anything.” Miss Palmer’s voice was small and whispery. “I said way too much. He’d be so mad.”

  “Where is he?”

  “At the funeral home, at Frank Campbell’s, or the University Club. I don’t know. He had a lot of stops to make this afternoon.” The phone went dead.

  Maybe it was a trick, she thought with a burst of hope. Maybe. Yes. It could be. Her spirits rose. They were saying it to make her come home. Her mother was too young. And who ever heard of a woman having a heart attack? Only men did, and old men at that. But something in Jackie’s voice had been true, and she called Campbell’s.

  “Indeed,” the hushed, calm voice on the phone said. “Mrs. Conrad Mason. Patricia.” He said it Patree-sha. “Would you be a member of the family?”

  She nodded, shocked that it was true.

  “Miss?” he said. “Would you—”

  “Her daughter,” she said.

  He talked on in a hushed voice. She had to ask him to repeat what he’d said, and he did, very patiently. Cremation had yet to take place. A final viewing if she wished to come right away.

  Sitting numbly, watching the city pass by like some alien place, she took a taxi up Park and across on Eighty-first to Madison. The man at the funeral place gave his name, but she didn’t retain it. He showed her into a small, well-lit room. “Shall I stay?” he asked, and she shook her head, then stood at the door after he’d left, shocked by what she saw. The room was empty except for a bed, or maybe it was a hospital gurney, on the other side of the room, miles and miles away, it seemed, and on the bed was a long white form lit like something sacred and covered in pressed white cloth.

  She was still holding tightly to the doorknob, but she let it go and took several steps closer, her heart beating loudly in the still room. She stopped again. She could see now the opening at one end of the form, the shroud, and her mother’s face small and bare, the eyes closed.

  Her throat swelled, her eyes seared with the tears that came. She went to her mother’s side and stood looking down at her, supporting herself. “Oh, Mommy,” she whispered, the name she’d called her as a child. Very lightly, she touched her mother’s cheek and recoiled at the coolness of it. “Oh, Mom,” she said, feeling more alone than ever. She rocked back and forth over her mother’s lifeless body. “No, no, no, no,” she said, the tears streaming down her face, sounds she barely knew she was capable of coming from her own lips, like the yowling sounds of animals at night. Her cries bounced off the bare walls, filling the room. The door opened, and the man asked if there was something he could do t
o help, and she said no, please, she wanted to be alone, and he shut the door again, his head bowed.

  She was calmer after that, spent, remembering the last time she’d seen her mother, that Thanksgiving when she’d been at Vassar, and how tentative her mother had been, too timid to ask any questions. She’d mostly smiled nervously at Carole, wondering what was the matter. Dear. Her mother’s favorite word for her, dear. So cloying once, but now she wanted only to hear it again. She leaned down to kiss her mother’s forehead, shocked all over once more at its coolness, which brought home again and for good and for all that she was dead. Death was this. It was this clean white shroud, it was touching her mother’s cold cheek. It was nudging her and getting nothing back. The stillness, the irrefutable stillness, of this thing on the table that was once her mother.

  There was no fighting off the memory of Rita now, no avoiding the awful sloppy laxity of her body, the way it had slipped and slithered like a huge wet doll, how hard to hold onto. How different that had been from this prim form that had been her mother, virginal looking except for the dark stains of Carole’s tears and the wanton smear of her lipstick. Both of them were dead because of Carole. Drained dry now, despising herself. She knew it was true. She’d killed her own mother too.

  She didn’t know how long she’d been in there. The man opened the door a few times and then finally came to her, put a hand gently on her shoulder, and said perhaps it was enough, perhaps it was time to say good-bye. She leaned over her mother for the last time, kissed her cold cheek, touched her forehead, and said, “I love you. I’m sorry.” And then she followed the man from the room and let the door close behind her.