2014 Campbellian Anthology

by Various

  “Sure.” She picks up her plate and walks down the hall to the steps, then up to Gran’s room. Aunt Leslie trods on her heels the whole way, clearly not about to let Miriam spend any more time alone with Gran.

  The nurse is in the bedroom. From the look on her face, like she has just found a dog pile, she has been told about Miriam and her unfortunate beginnings. “You must not agitate the patient,” she intones, blocking the way to Gran’s bed with her solid breadth.

  “No, ma’am.” Miriam shakes her head, solemn.

  “We will stay here,” Aunt Leslie says, planting herself by the door.

  “No, you won’t.” Gran’s voice has lost none of its strength. “I’m having lunch with Miriam. Not with you.”

  The nurse smiles, fat and fake. “Ma’am,” she says. “You are in a very fragile condition. I should stay close by.”

  “Nonsense.” Gran waves a hand. “I’ll be fine.” There is an edge to her words, the same tone that she uses when the debt collectors come rattling around trying to pry a few more dollars out of the mortgage, and the glass-stoppered bottles on the bedside table rattle with it.

  The nurse blinks, trying to stand against the force of Gran’s will, and folds. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll be just outside.”

  Aunt Leslie is already turning toward the door, furious and fully aware that she cannot challenge Gran’s authority. At least, not yet.

  The door closes and Gran pats the bed beside her knees. “Come sit with me, Miriam.”

  Miriam sits on the edge of the bed and smiles hesitant. “I made your favorite.” She gestures to the tray in Gran’s lap.

  “So you did.” But Gran doesn’t seem interested in her lunch. She looks at Miriam closely. “You look tired.”

  Miriam shrugs. “I picked the beans,” she says.

  “And your aunts? I’ve heard a lot of tramping about.”

  Miriam isn’t sure she can talk about the missing furniture from her bedroom without anger. She takes a big bite of sandwich and shrugs. “They’re packing stuff,” she mumbles around a mouthful of tomato and cheese.

  “Miriam.”

  She nearly chokes on her sandwich, swallows hard and rubs watering eyes with the back of her hand. “They took my bed,” she says. “And the dresser.”

  “Did you want those things?” Gran looks surprised.

  “No.” She pauses, trying to find the words to explain the carelessness that left her clothes tumbled on the floor, trying to get a grip on the fear that makes her throat too stiff to eat. “They’re going to send me back to the orphanage, aren’t they?”

  “I would never let that happen.”

  “But…”

  “Margaret has agreed to take you to live with her.”

  “Aunt Margaret?”

  “I thought you would like that.”

  Miriam bites her lip, considering. “Uncle Earl’s seems okay. And Jeanne.”

  “But?”

  “I want to stay here. In the house. With the garden.”

  “Close to Robert.”

  She cannot help blushing. “I guess.”

  Gran nods. “He’s told you he loves you, then.”

  “Uh. Not in those words.” She presses her hands to her cheeks, red hot with embarrassment. “He said something about marrying me.”

  “Good.”

  “But I’m only fifteen.” And soon to be living with Aunt Margaret. And already said things in spite.

  Gran pushes a curl of iron grey hair out of her eyes. “Fifteen now but sixteen soon enough. Besides, there are worse things to be than young and in love, Miriam. Robert Fannin will do right by you if you let him.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” She doesn’t say anything about what happened in the kitchen.

  Gran takes a bite of salad. “This is good. You use the vegetables in our garden?”

  “Yes, Gran.”

  “You’ve done well with the plants this year. You treat them like I told you?”

  “I sing ’round them every evening. And love them all, even the scrawny ones.”

  “Good. That’s the most important bit.”

  “I know, Gran.” She takes another bite of sandwich. “You should eat. Get your strength back up.”

  Gran laughs and stabs another slice of cucumber with her fork but doesn’t eat it, her eyes heavy on Miriam’s skin. She touches the bruise, gentle. “What’s this?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Miriam.”

  Her face heats up again but she says nothing. Unable to say how Aunt Leslie pinched her hard enough to make her fingers numb, how she has a blossom of bruises under the edge of her sleeve.

  Gran sits up straighter. “Hold still.”

  “Gran you shouldn’t…” Miriam stops as warmth touches her skin, velvety as a late summer evening. The ache and itch of the bruised muscle fades.

  Gran leans back against her pillows with a sigh. Her cheeks are blue-white as snow. “I think I need to rest, darling.”

  “Sure.” Miriam puts her plate on the tray with Gran’s barely-eaten lunch and stands up. “Thank you,” she says, awkward. Gran’s forehead is warm against her lips.

  “You’re welcome, Miriam.” Gran lays her hand on Miriam’s arm as she picks up the tray to leave. “Before you go. Send Leslie and Margaret in here.”

  Miriam hesitates. She knows that look in Gran’s eyes—the same anger that’s been burning in her own chest all day—but she’s only seen it that strong twice before. The second time was when a band of sheet wearing hooligans had chased an immigrant worker up onto Gran’s land. They were mostly drunk and probably wouldn’t have done anything serious, but they’d talked about hanging. Or burning.

  Gran had ordered them off like so many children caught in a Halloween prank. And they had gone without argument.

  Before Miriam has to make a decision, to obey or argue that it isn’t necessary, the door swings open and Aunt Leslie stomps in. Aunt Margaret hovers in the threshold.

  “That’s enough, girl. You’ll tire her out with your mindless chatter.” Leslie reaches for Miriam’s arm.

  “Leslie.” Gran’s voice is like a mountain, immovable and impossible to ignore.

  In the instant, Leslie turns her mouth up into a smile. “Yes, Mama?”

  “I raised you better than to lay a hand on a child like that. You too, Margaret”

  Miriam holds her breath as her aunts look at her, pinning her between them. The smile is still on Aunt Leslie’s face, but her eyes have gone hard and hot with a threat of later punishment.

  “I don’t know what the girl’s been telling you, Mama, but I…”

  “Don’t lie to me, Leslie.” The room shakes under the impact of the words and Miriam grips the tray, white-knuckled.

  Only twice has she heard that tone in Gran’s voice. The first time was when she came to the orphanage to claim Miriam. The director, a hard-shouldered woman who meant to be kind but never was, had said there were legal issues and Gran couldn’t just take Miriam. But Gran had said Miriam was her grand-daughter and she didn’t need to be in an institution as long as she had family willing to take care of her. The words had been polite, but a mirror on the wall had cracked while Gran spoke and by the end the director had changed her mind.

  Leslie is not that clever. “Now, Mama…”

  “I may be dying, but I ain’t stupid. I know what you’ve done. I’ve half a mind to cut you off right now and let the mortgage men have my things. They’ve been after them long enough.”

  Aunt Leslie turns a fine tint of purple, her hands knotted into fists so tight her knuckles creak. “Yes, Mama. I’m sorry.”

  Gran shakes her head. “Not sorry enough, I think.”

  “Really, Mama. I was acting poorly.” She turns to Miriam, desperate. “Forgive me, Miriam?”

  Miriam doesn’t dare to say anything, but she nods, reluctant. Holding onto hurt like that never does a body good.

  “You girls remember what you promised me,” Gran says.

  Aunt Leslie looks
at Aunt Margaret and they both nod. “Yes, Mama.” Leslie sits down on the edge of the bed. “We’ll take care of her like she’s one of ours, just like we said we would.”

  Miriam can hear the lie, brittle as glass in a vice, but Gran nods.

  “Good, Leslie.” She sighs, sinking deeper into the pillows. “Now let me sleep.”

  “Yes, Mama.” Aunt Leslie bustles out of the room, dragging Margaret with her.

  Miriam swallows hard. Maybe she should say something. But Gran’s eyes are flickering shut, her breathing already slowing into sleep. “Miriam.” Her voice is barely a whisper now. “Best to check the mailbox.”

  “There won’t be anything…”

  “I’m expecting something and it’ll do you some good to get out of the house.”

  Miriam waits, but Gran is silent. The first tremor of a snore scratches the air.

  “All right,” Miriam says, quiet. She tiptoes from the room.

  She can feel the vibration of Aunt Margaret and Aunt Leslie coming from the kitchen, alternating furious and frosty contrition. Her head throbs with the intensity of it and she sets the tray on the bottom step and slips out the front door before they can realize she’s gone. Gran might be able to stand up to them, but Miriam is not Gran and she cannot bear the heat and noise and hate in the house any longer.

  Besides, Gran did tell her to check the mailbox.

  Miriam pauses to make sure her sneakers are tied and starts across the front yard. The shade from the oak trees is thick and cold after the sticky heat of the house. She lifts her hair off the back of her neck with one hand, letting the breeze touch her skin.

  She finds Bobby sitting on the tailgate of his truck where the drive meets the long dirt road out to the mailbox. He’s eating the last bite of sandwich, washing it down with an old enameled mug full of water. Brushing the crumbs from his chin, he stands up, slow. “Going somewhere?”

  “Mailbox.” Miriam has the sudden feeling the trip down the road has nothing to do with looking for mail.

  “I’ll drive you.” He drinks the last of the water and walks around to the front of the truck to open the passenger door. “Get in.”

  She shrugs. “Okay.”

  The truck is as hot as everything else, but it’ll make the trip down the road short. Miriam stares out the window, afraid he’s going to try and talk to her again. But he stays quiet as the truck jostles along, dust billowing behind like a dirty flag.

  As Miriam suspected the mailbox is empty. She scuffs a bare spot in the gravel, uncomfortable with the thought of returning the house and knowing that Bobby won’t leave ’til she does. “You all finished? With the house?” she says to break the silence. It is like scratching a fresh scab, but the words come more easily than an apology she is not certain she is ready to give.

  He shrugs. “Seems like. All the heavy stuff, anyways.”

  Storm clouds are rolling in from the west like a wall, dark and thick. A gust of wind kicks across the fields and the afternoon turns dusky. Thunder whispers like the scrape of a chair pushing back from the dinner table, drifting across the tossing rows of corn.

  Bobby’s eyes grow wide, head tilted back as he takes a deep breath. “Rain’s coming,” he says. He puts his arm up, fingers spread wide like he’s trying to catch hold of something. “Hail, too. Big as my fist.” He clenches his hand, demonstrating.

  Miriam shuffles her feet. The storm has the look of violence, green and purple tinging the clouds. “I should head back.”

  “I can drive you.”

  “Naw.” She shakes her head.

  He doesn’t move, a stubborn slant to his shoulders. “Miriam.”

  “No, Bobby. I’ve had enough of your help.” Her mouth twists on the last word, anger boiling on the back of tongue. He steps toward her, fists clenched. She can see the hurt in his eyes and it coils in her stomach like acid but she bites down on the apology.

  “Go on then.” He points up the drive. “Go on.”

  She breaks into a trot. The engine in the truck chugga-chugs to life, then grows distant as he turns out onto the paved road.

  A breath of orange touches the back of her neck and Miriam stops, looks back over her shoulder. Maybe half a mile distant across the fields is a broke backed old tree, grey limbs stretching into the dark sky. For a moment, nothing. Then.

  Lightning leaps from the branches and pours from the clouds overhead, coming together like God slapping his hands. It is almost too fast to see, but the white-hot line of electricity burns on the back of Miriam’s eyelids.

  “Oh.” She stands frozen, heart kicking in her chest.

  Flames blossom in the struck tree, then sputter out as the blurred edge of the storm sweeps near. Cold rain hits Miriam’s head and she turns for the house.

  Feet pounding the gravel, hair whipping through the air, mouth trembling with energy of the moment, she is just on the edge of the rain, drops hit at random and raise gooseflesh. She reaches the yard and ducks under the shelter of the oak trees.

  Rain clatters on the leaves overhead as she sprints for the porch, the storm coming in earnest.

  The front hall is dark and hot. Miriam pushes wet hair out of her eyes with a laugh because otherwise she will cry.

  “You are a disgrace.” Aunt Leslie bulls out of the parlor. “Mother is dying and you stand here and laugh.” She leans close and her eyes are small with hate. “You may have Mother fooled but I know you’re a wild seed. You’ll not get a soft hand from me.” Her mouth twists into a smile that is a promise of just-you-wait.

  Miriam shudders, remembering cold dinners and hard beds at the orphanage and the lie Aunt Leslie told about taking care of her.

  Rain pounds the metal roof.

  “Come quick.” The nurse is at the top of the stairs, nearly yelling to be heard over the water falling against the house. “She’s passing.”

  Miriam steps forward but Aunt Leslie and Aunt Margaret block her path.

  “Not you,” Aunt Margaret hisses. “You stay here.”

  Up the stairs they go: Aunt Margaret and Aunt Leslie, Matilda and Veronica, Uncle Thomas, and last of all Uncle Earl and Cousin Jeanne. The clatter of feet melts into the roar of the rain, deafening.

  Miriam swallows a sticky lump of disappointment, the hall swimming and twisting around the edges as tears well up and spill over. “Not fair.”

  She wipes her cheeks with rain-wet hands, staring blurrily at the mirror at the foot of the steps. She’s just a collection of white smudged arms and legs in the dark hallway. In the parlor behind her, the curtains billow and sigh as a gust of wind sweeps away the tepid air of the house.

  Something in the parlor stands up and paces toward the hall.

  Miriam licks her lips not sure whether to move or stay. Not certain she even can move.

  “I thought I’d taught you better than that.” Gran’s voice is even stranger than the thing in the parlor.

  Instinctive, Miriam glances toward the sound, but the hall is empty.

  “You won’t see me there.” Gran sounds amused.

  She looks back toward the mirror and certain as the day is long, Gran is standing next to her reflection. And beside Gran…

  “Who is that?” Miriam pauses because the thing from the parlor looks a bit like her or maybe she looks a bit like it. It seems familiar and she remembers afternoons when she had first come to stay, and Gran would be out singing in the garden and something would walk with her through the shadows and the sun.

  Gran smiles. “God,” she says.

  There were plenty of pictures of God at the orphanage. A bearded old man in a nightshirt who was usually sitting on clouds or smiling down at the world from the depths of space. But here, in the hallway, there is no beard and no nightshirt, just the presence that makes things grow. And love.

  Miriam straightens. “Pleased to meet you.”

  Maybe God smiles. Something touches her like the first rays of sun on a chilly dawn. She cannot help but smile in return.

  T
hunder bangs overhead.

  Gran steps closer. Her reflection reaches up and her hands are warm and comforting on Miriam’s shoulders. “This is yours,” Gran says.

  Miriam straightens, anger and fear and sorrow melting away.

  “What about the others?” Miriam cannot bear to call them by name.

  “You mean my twice fool of a daughter Leslie who thinks she can stand in my own house and lie to me? Or her sister, Margaret, who has always trusted propriety over her own heart?”

  Miriam nods. “Yes. And my cousins.”

  “Jeanne will grow into her own. Maybe even Veronica and Matilda, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”Gran frowns. ”My daughters will receive everything they deserve.”

  Miriam doesn’t dare ask what that might be, but she remembers when the Klansmen came after the little immigrant, word around town was that none of them could speak nothing but Spanish for close to a month after Gran chased them off. As clearly as she saw Bobby putting her room straight earlier, Miriam knows that Aunt Leslie’s deceit will come back to her. But now is not the time to dwell on ugliness repaid. “I love you, Gran.”

  “Yes. I know.” She steps back and puts her arms around God and together they walk out into the garden. A glance back over her shoulder and a smile. “Hold on.”

  Hail pounds the house. The metal roof clangs and pings. Outside the oak trees crackle under the assault and even the broad eaves of the house can’t protect the downstairs windows.

  Wind pours through the house ’til the hallway sings with it. Pictures peel off the wall and wuft out the front door. The curtains snap and shred and tear away, drifting past like strands of pondweed in a fast current. Miriam drops to her knees, arms thrown over her head as the unwanted plates from the kitchen wobble past.

  “Miriam. Miriam.” Bobby is yelling to be heard above the noise. He pushes through the door, fighting the wind and flock of books pouring out into the front yard.

  “Bobby.” Her heart aches with relief. “I’m sorry.”

  “I know.” He grabs her hand, pulling her to her feet. “Come on.”

  The voice of the wind changes—growling deep and angry. The rain, pouring like a faucet opened up, turns sideways. A tornado is coming.

  Bobby has his arms around her, half-dragging her away from the house, away from the trees. Eyes squinched shut against the battering rain, they find the ditch by accident, falling into ice cold water.