She pointed to her purse. "Read the letter."
A pink envelope stuck halfway out of the side pocket of Momma’s genuine alligator purse. I opened the letter. A picture of spring flowers mixed with green ivy trailed across the top of the page. I caught the faint whiff of lavender.
"That bitch," Momma yelled. "That goddamn bitch didn’t have the nerve to tell me to my face. Sent me a letter on scented stationary."
The letter was from Charlotte. She’d moved back to Athens to stay with her parents. Before leaving, she’d told us her daddy had convinced her that letting us keep our home was the decent thing to do. I guess Donald’s widow decided she didn’t want to be that decent because the letter stated her intention of selling the house as soon as the lawyers settled the estate. But Charlotte wasn’t totally devoid of sympathy for our plight. In a postscript, she offered to sell us our own home at a ten percent discount.
"I drove all the way to Athens to talk some sense into her. The bitch wouldn’t even open her damn door." Momma lit a third cigarette. "But that’s okay, I’ll come up with something special for that whore. She’ll regret messing with me."
I eased down onto the edge of Papa’s old recliner. In the ten weeks since Frank’s death, I’d never really believed we could lose our house. Now, the reality of our precarious situation slammed into me like a locomotive rolling over a plastic doll. I found it difficult to breathe. The air grew thick; afternoon shadows crept across the room. I swallowed the wail forming in the back of my throat.
Momma flicked her cigarette ashes into the fireplace. "I wanted the authorities to blame Charlotte for Donald’s death instead of charging Gordon."
"What are you talking about?"
"Roy’s source in the sheriff’s office told him they’re going to arrest Gordon Zagat for Donald’s murder."
I shot out of the chair. "They can’t do that. He didn’t kill Donald."
"People heard Donald fire him, and others saw Gordon drinking at Mike’s Tavern around lunchtime." Momma shook her head. "I can’t believe he admitted to fighting with Donald on Starview Mountain. What an idiot."
"He’s not an idiot. Mr. Zagat believes in telling the truth."
"That proves he’s an idiot. If he goes to prison for murder, it’ll be his own fault."
"Gordon Zagat didn’t kill Donald. There’s no evidence he did."
She shrugged. "Roy did say all the evidence against Gordon was circumstantial. A good lawyer should be able to get him off."
I rubbed my scalp, trying to massage my throbbing head. "This isn’t right."
"You bet it isn’t right. If I had my way, they’d arrest Charlotte."
I wiped the sweat off my upper lip. "We have to help Mr. Zagat."
"Let me think a minute." Momma stood staring into the mirror above the buffet. A spiteful grin eased across her face. "I’ve got a solution."
"What?"
"I know a fellow who lives across from Starview Mountain Road. He owes me a favor."
"For what?" Before she could answer, I added, "Never mind. It’s none of my business."
"You’re learning, Becky." She rubbed out her half-smoked cigarette and slipped it back into the pack. "If my friend said he saw Charlotte’s car come speeding down Starview Mountain Road the afternoon Donald died, then it would look like she and her male friend had been on the mountain too. Charlotte had more to gain from killing Donald than Gordon did." Momma let out a wicked laugh. In her low, slow-down voice she said, "With any luck, Frank’s granddaughters will be visiting their slut of a mother in prison."
"But that would be a lie."
She finger-combed her hair toward her face. "So what?"
"It’s wrong, Momma. Can’t you see that?"
"You’re the one who wants to help Gordon. If we throw some suspicion on Charlotte, there’d be grounds for reasonable doubt. Then his attorney will have no trouble getting an acquittal."
"You’ve been watching too many Perry Mason reruns, Momma. These are real people with real lives. We can’t manipulate them this way."
"Relax, Becky. I don’t expect them to convict Charlotte. That would be too much to hope for." Momma ran her finger across the top of one of the apples. "I just want a little revenge, want to force Charlotte to waste lots of money on attorney’s fees. Are there any cookies left? Caramel sticks to my teeth."
I sank down onto the ottoman, wrapped my arms around my waist and began to rock.
"Don’t start that rocking nonsense." She headed for the kitchen. "I hope you saved me some of those frosted Halloween cookies."
I jumped up and shrieked, "Fuck the cookies, Momma. Fuck the cookies." Over and over I yelled, "Fuck the cookies." But it wasn’t really me. I was calmly floating near the ceiling, watching a young woman with my face and voice act like a fool. She ran around the living room flailing her arms, pounding her fist against the walls, and screaming, "Fuck the cookies." Finally, she collapsed on the sofa. I drifted closer and gazed into her green eyes. Stunned and bewildered, I recognized the sobbing female as being Becky Leigh Cooper. Me. I was the crying fool.
"Calm down, Becky," Momma ordered. "What’s got into you? A little payback now and then is good for the soul."
"What soul, Momma? You don’t have a soul. Neither do I. We traded them for the power to manipulate, the talent to deceive, and the zeal for revenge." I picked up a linen doily off the coffee table and wiped away my tears. "We did this to ourselves. It’s our fault we’ve lost everything Papa and Grandpa Eli spent their lifetimes building."
She crossed her arms. "You’re talking nonsense. Frank did this to us when he left everything to Donald."
"You signed everything over to Frank to manipulate him into moving back home because you needed him. He hated living here. He accepted your offer because I begged him to. I wanted to take everything from you just as you had taken everything from me. I craved revenge and used Frank to help me get it."
Helen ran her hand back and forth over her forehead. "That drive to Athens wore me out. I’m going to take a nap."
"You’re not going anywhere until we settle this matter."
"What matter are you talking about? Charlotte? Gordon Zagat?"
"Our lives, Momma. Our lives and the mess we’ve made of them." I walked to the front window, pulled back the lace curtain, and watched the cars pass by. "The people of Sugardale believe our family grows beautiful flowers and delicious vegetables. But that’s not we do, is it?"
I released the curtain and turned to face her. "We take seeds of truth and spit on them. We stomp them and smother them with vindictiveness and cruelty until they sprout as lies. That’s what we grow, Momma—lies. From a seed of truth, we grow acres of lies. We feed the deceit to our friends and neighbors, all the while eating it ourselves. We eat so much, we forget they’re lies. How many lies does it take to cover up one truth?"
"Shut up, Becky Leigh." Momma slammed her fist against the fireplace mantel. "I’m sick and tired of hearing you spout off about the truth, like it was something fine and noble. It’s not." She shook her finger at me. "I’ll tell you what the truth is. It’s dirty, ugly, and nothing to be cherished or prized. Truth is simply another name for the filth he pours over you, for the pain he inflicts, and for the shame that never goes away."
"Who, Momma? Who is he?"
She stared at the dying embers in the fireplace. "You don’t want to know."
"You didn’t grow up on a thoroughbred ranch in Kentucky, did you?"
She didn’t answer.
"You’re father wasn’t a major in the army, was he? You didn’t go to a private girl’s school, and you never had a pony named Coal, did you? It’s just more of your lies."
She remained silent.
"Tell me the truth," I yelled. "There was no Coal was there?"
Momma whipped around. "There was coal all right. Every day the mine where my daddy worked dumped its waste, a mix of shale and coal. And every day, I stood poised at the base of the coal bank ready to launch an attac
k the moment the scraps were dumped. I’d claw my way up the bank, fending off older, stronger gleaners, to meet the avalanche of waste head on. The challenge was to fill your pail with coal, slide down the bank, pour it into a wheelbarrow, and return to the top before the others." She stopped, took three ragged breaths and pointed to herself. "I always won. I always got the most. The only reason my family didn’t freeze to death during the long West Virginia winters was because of me."
"Why did you keep that a secret from Papa and me? That’s nothing to be ashamed of."
She let out a laugh that bordered on hysteria. "You haven’t heard the best parts yet, Becky. Don’t you want to know the whole truth and nothing but the truth?"
"Yes," I said, ignoring her sarcasm.
"Belmar Ridge, West Virginia was a company town. Everything and everyone belonged to the Belmar Mining Company. Every night, my daddy would stop by the only bar in town, spend half his day’s pay, then stagger home to our two room shack." Momma stopped to light a cigarette. "Some nights he'd pass out right away. Other nights, he’d beat the hell out of Ma, me, and Laurel too if he could catch her."
"Who’s Laurel?"
"My baby sister. She was eight years younger than me. I tried to protect her."
"I don’t understand. You never mentioned having a sister. Why didn’t your mother protect you and Laurel?"
Momma laughed again. "Daddy beat her down so hard and so often, she couldn’t save a mosquito, much less us. She finally had enough. One afternoon Ma took Laurel and me down to the pond back of our shack. She told us she’d found a better place for us. A place filled with food, warm clothes, and no more beatings. She grabbed our hands and led us out into the pond. The water was up to Laurel’s neck when I realized Ma intended on drowning all of us."
She stopped, rubbed her hand across her forehead again. "I fought my own mother to prevent her from drowning my sister and me, but I won. I carried Laurel back to the bank. When we turned around, Ma was gone."
Momma sat down on the sofa and I plunked down on the ottoman. Now I knew why she’d gotten so angry when I suggested she should’ve drowned me when I was a baby.
She finished her cigarette and lit another. The thumb on her right hand twitched—a sign she was telling the truth.
"What happened after that?" I asked.
"They found her body the next day. There was a funeral. The neighbors brought us food." She grinned. "I’d never seen so much food. Laurel and I pigged out." Then her smile faded. "My sister and I slept on make-shift beds in the main room. That night after Laurel went to sleep, Daddy called me into his bedroom. He said I’d have to take over the wifely duties."
"He meant the cooking and cleaning, right? And taking care of your sister?"
The color drained from Momma’s face. "Yes, that and . . . and everything else that goes with being a wife."
I felt a chill flow across my chest as if someone had poured cold rubbing alcohol on it. "What do you mean when you say... everything?"
Momma stared at her hands. Her right thumb twitched so hard, she had difficulty holding her cigarette. She looked at me with eyes as empty as a corpse’s. "I was thirteen when my daddy made me his whore. By my fourteenth birthday, I was carrying his child."
The foul, bitter taste of bile crawled up my throat and coated my tongue. I slapped my hand over my mouth, choked back the sludge, and willed myself not to throw up. We sat in silence. I did the math in my head. Papa and Momma married in July of ’48. I was born in May of ’50. Did I have an older brother or sister somewhere? "What happened to your baby?"
She didn’t answer. Momma looked lost, as if she’d gone to sleep during a long trip and woke up in a strange town. She glanced around the room as if trying to get her bearings.
We needed time to compose our thoughts. "I saved some of the frosted cookies, Momma. Would you like a cup of coffee or hot tea to go with them?"
"What . . . what did you say?"
"Would you like a cup of tea and some frosted cookies?"
"That would be nice," she said. "We can have tea and cookies and pretend we’re as good as the Queen of England. Can’t we, Becky?"
I blinked back a tear. "Sure we can, Momma. We’re good at pretending."
*****
I placed a platter of cookies decorated to resemble ghosts, witches, and pumpkins on the kitchen table. In our house, even the cookies pretended to be something they weren’t.
Momma played with her teacup, spinning it around on its matching china saucer. She picked it up, put it down, and ran her finger around the rim. As she did, she told me about growing up in West Virginia.
She’d traded her most cherished possession—a barrette decorated with imitation pearls—to the local midwife for an abortion. When her father staggered home the next evening, Momma met him at the front door and slammed a two-by-four across his skull. The blow knocked him backwards, causing him to fall and bust his head open on the steps. She told the neighbors he’d gotten drunk and fallen.
"Did you kill him?" I asked, hoping in a way she had.
"No, although that was my intention. The bastard lived, but lost all memory. He didn’t recognize Laurel or me. He didn’t remember what he’d done to us . . . done to me." Momma shook her head. "I ended up doing the jackass a favor. Some Christian folks took him in, fed him, and gave him a warm bed. He never did another day’s work."
"What happened to you and Laurel?"
"They sent us to an orphanage. The food tasted terrible, but there was plenty of it. We each had a bed and the work was easier than hauling coal. The woman who ran the place tried to whip Laurel once. I snatched the belt from the biddy’s hand, told her I’d wrap it around her neck if she hurt my sister. The old crone never bothered us again."
I handed Momma a tea bag. "What became of Laurel?"
"A nice couple adopted her. She didn’t want to leave me, but it was for the best. The couple had a new car and the woman wore a mink stole. I knew they’d give my sister a nice home. After Laurel left, I borrowed money from the grocery fund and caught the bus to Atlanta."
I filled our cups with hot water. "You borrowed the money?"
"It’s not really stealing if you intend on paying it back, is it?"
I returned the kettle to the stove, sat down across from her, began dunking my teabag. "Did you pay it back?"
She shrugged. "They owed me money for the work I did."
As we drank our tea and ate the cookies, she told me how she’d met Eva Whitcomb soon after arriving in Atlanta. She helped Momma get a job, a room in a boarding house, and a fake birth certificate that said Momma was eighteen instead of fifteen.
"There was nothing Eva couldn’t get, except your father."
"What do you mean?"
"Our boss, Mr. Gillespie, built a big house outside of Atlanta. He invited us out for a weekend party. The Coopers had done the landscaping and Paul Cooper came to the party."
"I remember Papa saying he met you at a fancy party. He said you were the prettiest girl there. That’s why he took you home to Sugardale with him."
She grinned. "All the girls wanted Paul, but I snatched him away from everybody, including Eva. Your daddy had everything I wanted in man. Good looks, money, a nice house, and the respect of important people like Mr. Gillespie." She reached for another cookie. "Before Paul knew what hit him, I’d lassoed him and had a ring on my finger."
"What about love, Momma? Did you ever love Papa?"
She lowered her cup. "In time, I came to love your daddy more than any smart woman should ever love a man. He treated me like a queen. When he found out I was pregnant, he hired Anna to cook and keep house. I wasn’t allowed to lift a finger."
"So Papa’s the one who spoiled you rotten?"
Momma didn’t laugh. "Until you came along. After that, everything changed."
"How?"
"After you were born, Paul practically forgot about me. Everything he’d given me, he now gave to you—his attention, his presents, his lov
e. I couldn’t compete against you."
"It was never a competition, Momma."
"Everything in life is a competition. And there can be only one winner." She pointed at me. "I’d married into the Cooper clan, but you were a Cooper by blood. There was no way I could ever be first in Paul’s eyes again."
Throughout my childhood, I’d tried to figure out why my mother hated me. I’d never dreamed a beautiful, polished, and confident woman like her could be jealous of a clumsy kid like me.
I took a sip of tea. "There are different kinds of love. Papa loved us both."
She pushed back her chair and stood. "He loved you best, Becky Leigh. I got his leftovers. Leftovers and hand-me-downs were good enough for Myrtle Odetta Mott, but not for Helen Elizabeth Cooper."
"Who’s Myrtle Odetta . . . Odetta . . .?"
"Myrtle Odetta Mott," she repeated. "That’s the name my folks stuck me with. But everyone called me ‘Myrtle the Turtle,’ including my daddy. He’d say, ‘Come warm me up, Myrtle the Turtle. You’re sure a pretty thing, Myrtle the Turtle. Don’t make me hurt you, Myrtle the Turtle.’ He’d say . . ." Momma sank down into her chair, grabbed a cookie decorated to resemble a ghost and bit off its head.
If only we could devour the ghosts haunting our lives as easily. It seemed strange to think of Momma as being her father’s Pick, the way I’d been hers and Donald’s. I felt an odd bond with her, like we were both survivors of the same tragedy. I reached for her hand.
She yanked it away. "I don’t need your goddamn pity, Becky. What I need is my cigarettes." She got up, marched into the living room, and left me to clean up the dishes.
As I rinsed out our cups, I thought about her real name. Myrtle Odetta Mott. Little wonder she hated it. It dawned on me her initials were M.O.M. Life can be such a sarcastic brute.
*****
I finished the dishes and returned to the living room. Momma’s purse dangled from her arm; keys jingled in her hand. "Where are you going?"
"I’m going to get some cigarettes before the little ghouls and goblins clog the road."
"But I’ve got something important to tell you. A secret."
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