Persia stands with her arm linked tight through the arm of her man friend, as if for support. She's trying to smile, a crooked lipsticked smile.
Graice doesn't re ply; Graice stands her ground, smiling too, but bitterly.
Persia, agitated, tries to bring the scene off with something of her old aplomb, stammering, Roy, this is my daughter, Graice; I've told you about Graice, haven't I?. Graice, this is my friend, Roy. Roy Baker. Roy mumbles H'lo, gives Graice a grudging embarrassed smile.
He's a fairly well dressed man in his mid fifties with an alcoholic's re d pulpy nose and close set liquidy eyes.
Though she is eighteen years old and hardly a child, Graice behaves like a child. Says nothing. Not a word. Just this look of hers, this Angel of Wrath look, knowing, accusing, brimming with contempt.
Does he pay you, Momma? In cash, or just in drinks?
As if overhearing Graice's thoughts Persia re aches out weakly toward her, makes a vague motherly gesture. Say! Why don't we all go get a bite to eat together? What time is it? Persia's voice is gay, a party voice. In this public setting, the dull pink neon sign LUCKY 5
BAR & GRILL behind her, city buses careening past issuing clouds of exhaust, this voice sounds a distinctly desperate note.
Graice murmurs coolly, No, thank you, Mother, I can t.
Roy Baker snuffles loudly and stares at his feet. Persia's suggestion seems to have made him profoundly unhappy.
But Persia is still trying to bring the scene off, half angry, half pleading: she's Doris Day in a Technicolor comedy, an American tale of harmlessly crossed motives, confused identities, protracted but soluble misunderstandings. Seeing that her daughter is about to walk away, she says, Roy, dear, I think I'd better go with Graice. Do you mind, dear?
I'll call you later tonight, I promise. Roy Baker says, What? Why?
The tone of his voice suggests that he's a man accustomed to having his way with women. with a certain class of women.
Roy Baker pulls Persia off to the side. They speak sharply together.
Listen, says Roy Baker, and You listen, says Persia, and Roy Baker pulls at Persia's arm, and Persia tries to shove him away, poor Persia staggering in her high heels, wisps of hair in her face Suddenly before Graice's eyes it's a public scene of a generic sort, a man and a woman, both slightly drunk, quarreling in front of Lucky's Bar & Grill, truculent re d faced little man, shrewish middle aged woman. Roy Baker is damned angry and so is Persia but it's clear she wants, still, to placate him, to charm him; it's what Persia knows best, her deepest most feminine instinct. no matter that the man is gripping her hard by the arm, shaking her, hurting her. Graice stares transfixed. Is this re ally happening? Is that woman my mother?
She turns blindly away, and Persia calls after her, and Graice calls back over her shoulder, her eyes hot with tears, Stay with him! Of course, stay with him. You disgust me!
Graice begins to run. She hears Persia call after her, Graice!
Graice!
but she doesn't hesitate, just runs, runs.
Graice works from four thirty until eight thirty at the Hammond Public Library, then has supper at the restaurant in the Greyhound Bus terminal , sits at the counter and afterward in the waiting room reading.
underlining passages in her book with brisk motions of her pen as if she were in a place suitable for such schoolgirl activity and not in this place of noise, commotion, the arrivals and departures of strangers. If Graice is aware of the occasional men who approach her, the one or two who seat themselves deliberately beside her, crane their necks to look at her book, she's careful not to give any sign. In the inhospitable light her face looks pale and chiseled, the eyes deep socketed. Her shoulder length hair is a fair crisp brown dusted with ashes.
Graice Courtney has never re turned to Kitty's Korner since the night she met Jinx Fairchild there. Telephoned him, and asked him to meet her there. Her fantasy that Jinx might re turn looking for her is continually and scornfully overruled by her knowledge that he would never do such a thing; she doesn't exist for him.
And why should she, for him?
Graice Courtney, for him?
And how could he help her with Persia, in any case?
Graice is still sitting in the bus station at eleven thirty when a policeman approaches her. Miss? Are you waiting for a bus?
eyeing her as if she's a runaway or an inexperienced prostitute and Graice says quickly, No, I'm just. just waiting, gathering up her things, hurrying away, angry and chagrined. Could she be arrested?
There's a NO LOITERING sign prominent on the wall.
Main Street is nearly deserted, the storefronts darkened; she's walking in long fast strides hoping the policeman isn't following her. She's only a few blocks, in fact, from Lucky's Bar & Grill. She wonders where Persia is, what Persia's condition is now. though the incident six hours ago has blended with the many incidents of weeks and months previous, indistinct as muddy water splashing into muddy water.
Here's the re gal fronted Palace Theater where she and Persia saw Butterfield 8 that afternoon months ago. Like schoolgirls playing hooky together, like sisters with shared secrets. except Persia had lied about the hospital tests and would subsequently lie about her very lying, blaming the hospital for losing the laboratory results.
She wants to drive both of us crazy. I will never succumb.
Now playing at the Palace is the biblical epic Ben Hur starring Charlton Heston. At this late hour the ticket window is darkened and a solitary usher stands yawning in the foyer, waiting for the last show to end.
Graice walks all the way home, fueled by desperation and rage: about three miles along dim lit, near deserted streets. Much of the distance is steeply downhill and there's pleasure in that, a kind of euphoria.
When she unlocks the door to 1 6 D of the Buena Vista Arms she sees to her surprise that there's a light burning in the kitchen a light burning in the living room. Persia's raincoat has been tossed down on the sofa. Persia is home already; Persia came home before Graice did!
And Roy Baker isn't here with her because there's no sign of him, not a whiff. Graice Courtney can smell her mother's man friends sometimes before she enters the apartment.
Here's Houdini the midnight black tomcat with the frayed ear and the round little belly, materializing suddenly underfoot, mewing to be petted, or to be fed. He's called Houdini because of his gift for materializing out of nowhere, purring his eager proprietary purr.
Graice stoops to pet him; sees that his food and water bowls are full; whispers to him, Quiet, Houdini! No noise! She's feeling a wave of gratitude. sheer re lief. that she's home, safely home, and Persia too is home, in bed. Quietly Graice moves through the rooms switching off lights. She undresses in her bedroom, uses the bathroom, stands by Persia's closed door for some minutes, listening for Persia's breathing heavy, rasping, arrhythmic , scarcely breathing herself. She's in her floral print flannel nightgown, bare toes curling on the chill linoleum floor.
She pushes the door open. Momma? The familiar smells of soiled laundry, sharp perfume, Persia's chemical hair, Gordon's gin.
Persia is in bed asleep or seemingly so, breathing in waves; there's a faint ghostly light filtered through the curtains and Graice shyly whispers, Momma? and again Persia makes no response Graice tiptoes to the bed, trembling, lies down beside her mother, on the outside of the covers. Persia gives off heat. Is she asleep, or pretending? As often she'd pretend to be asleep when Graice crept into her parents' bedroom as a little girl, wanting nothing more powerfully than to slide beneath the covers with them, with Persia especially, wanting to hug and cuddle, and it was nicest when Persia wasn't fully awake but would turn to her sleepy, sleepily smiling, and gather her in her arms and not a word. And if Daddy was asleep on Momma's other side, not a word.
Graice settles back on the bed, cautious not to wake her mother.
She crosses her arms across her chest, crosses her ankles, lies very still. So grateful to be here she could cry, Jesus she c
ould cry, still shivering but it's with excitement not with cold.
They lie like that, side by side, until morning, Houdini the midnight black cat curled snug at their feet.
And a week later Persia Courtney is dying.
Tiny re d ants in the curly hair under her arms, and in the crinkly hair between her legs. She's weeping and muttering, trying frantically to pick them off. Pick them off! Pick them off' And the shards of broken glass on the bathroom floor, glittering. And on the kitchen floor. Wavy drunk zigzag lines in the linoleum tile so her vision jumps and she can't see. walks barefoot whimpering in pain.
She'd lifted the glass of gin in both hands; still it went squirming out of her hands like a live thing.
Jrjs where are you? Graice can't you help me?
She's screaming. No one to hear but the neighbors. But they won't hear.
She's asleep. for hours. Trapped in sleep like sludge. Some thing holding her head down. Something furry and warm and heavy against her mouth, smothering.
That thing, that beast. The green tawny eyes flaring up in the dark.
Graice? Can't you help me? Help me The black furred creature runs panicked and skittering on its sharp claws, trying to escape. Specks of froth at its mouth.
Caterpillars in the bedclothes. she feels them but can't move away.
Asleep but fully conscious, the curse of full consciousness, even in the grave, even in death, this terror. She feels them in her hair, crawling over her face, her breasts, her unprotected belly.
Graice help me. Graice. Her nipples ache as if she's been nursing.
She has died, they've buried her alive.
Sweating like a pig.
No amount of talcum powder can disguise the smell, nor can face powder disguise the tainted cast of her skin. the color of rancid butter.
Is the telephone ringing? It's Duke Courtney come to save her.
Begging her forgiveness but it's too late.
In any case, she won't touch the phone any longer. She has felt it quiver in her hand, heard the tiny mocking whispers inside.
Graice please help me. honey where are you?
It's spring. The fragrance of blossoms and death. She's screaming and sobbing and someone begins knocking at the front door and she jams the pillowcase against her mouth to stifle her cries until the danger is past.
It might be the police, come to bury her alive.
Police with grinning faces, leering eyes, standing over her.
How they'd laugh, seeing the infestation of re d ants! A frenzy of re d ants! In her pubic hair. inside her vagina.
Cunt, they'd say, laughing. Filthy cunt.
She's pouring the last of the gin into a glass and the surprise of it, the precious liquid sloshing out, the smell in the bedclothes, soaking into the mattress. So quickly! An old faded lizard shaped stain of menstrual blood in the mattress. years old. Persia has not had a menstrual period in a year, still she's fearful that one of her men friends will see, will smell her, will re coil in disgust.
The ants! Red stinging ants! She runs water in the tub, lowers herself desperately, slipping, losing her balance, knocking the back of her head against the tub, she's partly unconscious but still the hot water splashes frothing into the tub. Her mind is a stained porcelain tub on old fashioned claw feet splashing with frothing water.
Time pleats. The sun swerves overhead.
She's in the bedroom. she's in the kitchen and her mind is clear.
Like a windowpane briskly washed, a flood of light shining through.
God help me, please God help me. It isn't too late.
Again, the furry black creature, the bright eyed beast, skulking in the corners, watching. As soon as she weakens and lies down it will settle itself over her mouth and suck away her breath.
Devil. Devil.
Her bare toes and the heel of her right foot are bleeding from fragments of broken glass. Yet there is no glass that she can see.
the floor has been swept fastidiously clean.
She's a good homemaker. Old Dutch Cleanser, Brillo pads, Oxydol. But she's out of cigarettes and it's a thousand thousand miles to the store.
Here's what she does: fills a three quart pan with water, sets It on the stove, turns the gas burner on high. Panting, excited. Hair sticking to her sweaty forehead. Calling, Kitty! Kitty kitty kitty.
But the creature is smart, wary, apprehensive. The cunning of the devil. Green tawny eyes flaring up. claws on the linoleum floor stumpy tail erect in arrogance. Persia's enemies sent this creature home with Graice to smother them both in their sleep but Persia has a plan, calling, Kitty. Here, kitty kitty kitty! She's in her old glamorous negligee, champagne colored, lace, pleats, tiny bows, a present from her husband, her adoring young husband, many years ago Here, kitty! Pretty kitty.
The water is slow to come to a boil.
Eventually, it comes to a boil, the big pan rattling on the burner.
Hunger lures the black cat out of his hiding place. suddenly he's in the kitchen, underfoot, mewing his plaintive hopeful meow. Persia's eyes flare up too. Persia is barefoot too, toenails braced against the floor. Kitty, here kitty. she calls in her hoarse voice and as Houdini rubs and preens against her leg Persia re aches for the pan of boiling water, lifts it by both hands, no time for pot holders; she tries to step out of the way as she pours the seething water onto the cat but the cat trips her, the cat is wild, frenzied, the two of them are screaming.
Help me! Help me Graice.
It seems that Persia's negligee is on fire, her very flesh is on fire.
She runs to the door, throws open the door, runs out onto the landing, and the stairs are gone, the apartment building below is gone, Buena Vista Street, the city of Hammond, New York, all Persia knows, gone.
Graice Courtney notes in her journal merely: May 18. Mother was taken to Hammond General Hospital today by ambulance. Uncle Leslie and I followed.
Not until years have passed will Graice understand that Persia's story is a familiar one: an alcoholic's slow, then rapid, decline; dizzying rapidity at the end. A familiar story but utterly new and strange and terrible to Graice and she will never learn to tell it properly, even to herself: only in pieces, shreds, quick short takes.
Hearing Persia's screams on the stairway landing outside the apartment, a neighbor came and saw and called an ambulance, and now it's through others' eyes that Graice Courtney begins to see her mother.
How had Persia become so emaciated? Nearly skeletal except for her grotesquely swollen belly, astonishing to observe. And astonishing too the breasts collapsed and flaccid as balloons emptied of air.
Persia's lovely breasts!
And her skin, coarse, a sickly orangish yellow, even the whites of her eyes jaundiced: the hue of urine.
And her breath, rasping, labored, foul. And a grainy white powder at the corners of her mouth.
Graice Courtney sees. Yet somehow cannot see. cannot comprehend.
Recording neatly and succinctly in her journal: May 19.
Mother is in intensive care. The doctor says it will be a while before she'll be well enough to come home.
Graice's thinking is initially optimistic, and Persia's relatives and friends seem to agree: now that Persia is safely in the hospital she will receive the treatment she needs. No more making appointments with doctors, then breaking them at the last minute. as, it turns out, she'd been doing for more than a year.
Says Madelyn Daiches, Now that Persia is in the hospital she can't drink, and she'll be so scared, when she gets out, she won't drink.
And when it's explained to Graice that her mother has a condition called cirrhosis of the liver, among other medical problems of varying degrees of seriousness, Graice's first response is one of childlike relief: It isn't anything serious, then. Like cancer or heart disease.
As for the second degree burns on her legs and feet, the burns are only external, superficial. They'll heal.
Those days, weeks. slate colored skies streaked with rain.
accelerating gradually like water approaching a falls. The roaring deepens so slowly you can t hear it.
Persia re mains in the intensive care ward, kept alive by IV fluids dripping into her exhausted veins and by a tube sucking bile and body fluids into a clear plastic bag taped to the side of her bed.
A somber proposition, the body as a mechanism for taking in and expelling fluids. Persia's few visitors Madelyn, women friends, a neighbor or two Persia is conscious enough to forbid all male visitors, including Leslie Courtney are shocked by her appearance, claim they wouldn't recognize her: the eerily discolored skin, the eyes swollen nearly shut, a look of weariness, fatigue, age. And that puffed up little belly, the belly of a woman in an advanced state of pregnancy, mysteriously out of proportion to the re st of her body.
Because It Is Bitter, and Because It Is My Heart Page 27