Calling Me Home

by Julie Kibler

  “Remember now, you’re in Cincinnata, boys,” my father said. “Things are different here. You might not get away with what you can at home. You want to end up in jail over this? Both of you, let’s just gather up Isabelle and go on home. Come on now, Isabelle.” Daddy’s eyes pleaded with me to do as he asked.

  “I’m not leaving. Daddy, I love him.”

  Jack and Patrick stepped forward. The looks in their eyes said they thought I was an animal for admitting this much. But I knew better; they were the animals.

  “Isabelle, sweetheart, you don’t have any choice. You’re a minor. Your marriage is invalid. And you’re coming home with us.” He stood up to me, when he’d refused to stand up to anyone else. And I was the one he’d loved most. How could he?

  So what choice did I have then, my brothers willing, maybe eager, to let blood over this, my father unwilling to intervene? At that point, I believed the best thing I could do for Robert was to leave quietly, without drama. We would have to find another way to be together. We were married now, at least in the eyes of God. We had the right.

  But I was wrong. I should have refused to go. I should have run as fast as I could, far away from the ones who’d always claimed to love me.

  24

  Dorrie, Present Day

  I COULDN’T IMAGINE how Miss Isabelle must have felt, leaving the place she and Robert thought would be home. Robert must have been out of his mind with worry and heartbreak when he returned later to that empty room, and when he imagined what lay in store for Isabelle at home. But if he hadn’t gone for that meal, who knows what might have happened when those louts showed up with their fists and a gun. (Louts, sixty-two down. The definition might as well have said “Jack and Patrick McAllister.”) And I’d so wanted to like her father. He’d seemed like a fair man—one who loved his daughter more than anything. I supposed his hands were more or less tied because of the times, and if he’d tried to help the two of them, he’d have been powerfully outnumbered. But I hated him, too, for letting those nasty brothers of hers get away with what they did.

  We’d blown right past Elizabethtown while Miss Isabelle talked. I hadn’t the heart to interrupt her. Up ahead, an exit pointed toward another little town—named after someone else, of course. “You ready to eat?” I asked, though the timing felt insensitive.

  Miss Isabelle heaved a tiny sigh, as if revisiting that day had worn her out. I hoped again it wasn’t a mistake to let her share her story with me. But what could I do? She wasn’t a child, and I couldn’t stop her if she wanted to tell me.

  “I am hungry.” She seemed surprised.

  Faced with the usual three or four small-town restaurants right off the interstate, we went with a familiar breakfast-food chain, even though we’d had our fill of breakfast food that morning. The hostess seated us quickly.

  But more than seventy years since Miss Isabelle’s wedding, some folks still weren’t ready for us—and who some of those folks were would surprise you. This old boy and his wife were eating at the table next to ours. Before we even got settled, he proceeded to stare, nudging his wife’s foot with his toe when he thought I wasn’t looking and quirking his head at us, trying to get her attention. She just looked, gave a tsk with her tongue, and shook her head, then went back to buttering her pancakes, but her fool husband kept ogling me and Miss Isabelle like we’d each sprouted an extra nostril.

  Maybe the best response would have been for us to ignore him and carry on with our meal. Miss Isabelle and I were both more than a little tense after she told me the part about her brothers forcing her to leave Robert. Maybe what occurred next in that restaurant would not have happened if not for our emotional state.

  Maybe Miss Isabelle projected a bit.

  And what could I do to stop a nearly ninety-year-old angry woman from expressing her entirely valid opinion?

  “Young man,” she said, and I almost cracked up. The guy was sixty if he was a day, but he was a baby compared to Miss Isabelle. “Haven’t you got better things to do than stare at people?”

  He did a double take, then looked over at his wife, who was obviously trying her best to ignore the whole situation. She scooped another dollar-size pancake into her mouth, licking her lips to catch the dripping syrup. Mr. Eyeballs contemplated his own food while the waiter delivered our ice water and menus. But before long, there he was again, sneaking glances, shifting his weight so he could hear our conversation—not much, given we were both weary and drained.

  By the time the waiter came back for our order and went off to clip it up over the grill, the man was outright gawking again. And Miss Isabelle might have ignored him at that point had he not leaned back against the pleather seat, toothpick hanging out of the side of his mouth, legs spread so far apart in his tight jeans I could have seen the outline of his boys if I’d looked close enough—which I didn’t, thank you very much—and said to his wife in a stage whisper, “I never saw a black girl and an old white woman together in a restaurant around here. You think she’s her maid?” He scoffed. “Lady’s taking her out for a birthday or something? Otherwise, I can’t imagine why—”

  Miss Isabelle stood in the narrow space between our tables. It took a while for her to draw herself up to full height, naturally. Long enough for me to think, Oh no, he didn’t. Fool really should not have said that. But what’re you gonna do? I waited for the fireworks.

  “No, she is not my maid. She’s my granddaughter.” I’m sure my jaw dropped as far as the man’s did at that. “Furthermore, I’m almost a hundred years old, and I can’t believe they still permit idiots like you to walk the earth. In case you missed it, it’s now perfectly acceptable for whites and blacks to have relationships. To be friends or relatives. Or lovers.”

  Our waiter hovered nearby, and Miss Isabelle waved him over. “Sir, we’d like our food to go. I can’t stay in this building another minute.”

  Our waiter stood there, hands flapping, unsure how to handle this obviously sticky situation. Miss Isabelle dug her credit card out of her pocketbook, then waved me to follow her. We sat in the waiting area until the waiter brought us steaming to-go boxes and cups with lids.

  “I apologize, ma’am. I’m not sure what happened there, but I am really sorry. Are you sure we can’t seat you somewhere else to enjoy your meal?”

  “Oh, honey, it’s not your fault,” Miss Isabelle said. She looked past him to the manager, who hovered behind him. I’m sure the woman entertained visions of her corporate race-relations officer grilling her about the events. “But may I suggest you post a notice on your door that says ‘No bigots served. Of any color’?”

  The waiter packed our food containers into a handled bag. He returned Miss Isabelle’s card. “There’s no charge. We’re so sorry.”

  “Oh, well, I don’t mind paying for the food,” she said, but he waved her away.

  We found a little picnic area on the town square. Monuments and markers dotted the area. The whole scene, bordered by old buildings, was downright quaint (eleven across), and, finally, completely different from anything I’d seen at home. Eating from those flimsy Styrofoam boxes was awkward and messy. Miss Isabelle fumed. But eventually she sighed and relaxed her shoulders.

  “I’m sorry, Dorrie. I shouldn’t have caused a scene back there, but you know, there’s no call for that kind of—”

  “Oh, hush. As of right now, you’re officially my hero.” It was true. I couldn’t have said what she had better. “I can’t believe sometimes how people act—even black folks. Some of them have this idea it’s being disloyal to hang out with white people. If you hadn’t said it, I would have.” That’s right. Those folks looked a lot like me. If you’d squinted just right, I could have been their daughter. Which reminded me …

  “Miss Isabelle. Granddaughter?” Surely she was just messing with the guy, but I had to ask. Was there some bigger reason she’d invited me on this trip—one I’d never even considered?

  “I couldn’t think of a better way to wipe the judgmenta
l look off that jackpot’s face, pardon my French. So what if I want to call you my granddaughter? You are the closest thing to family I have these days.”

  Miss Isabelle’s compliment touched me, but it saddened me, too. I drained my Diet Coke, hoping the emotion would pass.

  “Oh, stop looking at me like that, Dorrie. I know what you’re thinking, and all that’s in the past. You’ve got more to worry about than an old woman and her ancient history. What I want to know is what you’re going to do about Stevie Junior. Have you decided? What about your boyfriend? Are you just going to leave him hanging until he gives up? Is that smart?”

  I sighed and scraped myself together. “I’m still thinking things over. I’m taking my time on this, instead of flying off the handle and trying to fix things the first way that comes to mind. Unless—God forbid—Stevie’s decided to go ahead and spend that money and make things even worse, he can sit there and stew for another couple of hours about all the sh—the trouble he’s gotten himself into. Teague, well, he’s probably already given up.”

  “I don’t know,” Miss Isabelle said. “Sometimes the good ones surprise you. Sometimes they stick around longer than you’d think—after they should have given up.”

  We were finished eating, though Miss Isabelle had only consumed about half of her double-decker club sandwich and fresh melon balls. I crammed our litter down in the bag and tossed it in the trash can by the table. We wandered back to the car, each lost in our own thoughts.

  25

  Isabelle, 1940

  IF HOME HAD felt like a prison before, now it was maximum security. In fact, it was solitary confinement. When my brothers delivered me to Mother like bounty hunters, she took my suitcase and led me upstairs. She gestured to the bathroom door, waited while I relieved myself, then followed me to my room, where she dropped my case at the end of the bed and left without a word. The door had a double-sided keyhole. I heard metal twist in the lock, then her footsteps receding deliberately down the stairs.

  Patrick was already at work outside, tearing latticework from the side of the house, lopping the frail arms from the tall cedar tree closest to my window. Attempting to descend those flimsy branches would have been madness. Perhaps they thought that was the case; by then, they mightn’t have been far off. Soon, I wasn’t surprised to hear the ladder scrape my windowsill. I peered out. My brother hammered long, thick nails into the window frame to prevent me from raising the sash.

  Mother and Daddy argued in the distance, her voice steady and harsh, his hushed and pleading. I’d always thought Daddy was in quiet control of our household, that he’d chosen to leave the running of things to my mother. Now I knew the truth.

  At first, Mother brought meal trays, three times daily, and waited at the bathroom door while I bathed or relieved myself. I learned not to drink much water or tea at once as I was required to take care of life’s most basic and private needs on her schedule. I sipped until shortly before I knew she’d appear for another meal and bathroom break, for I refused to call out.

  Eventually, she allowed me some meals downstairs, but only those where my brothers were present, instructed by her, I’m sure, to pursue me if I bolted. Not that they needed reminding. Mother looked at me with no expression; they still looked at me—when they acknowledged me at all—with disgust. I much preferred the meals I took upstairs.

  I had no plan yet. When Mother finally spoke, it was to assure me if I had any intention of trying to contact Robert, she’d make certain he and his family were punished more severely than I could begin to imagine. Nell was conspicuously absent, and I saw Cora only for seconds at a time when she scurried in and out of the dining room to pour coffee or refill dishes. She never looked at me. I scarcely tried to make eye contact, so ashamed was I of all the trouble I’d caused her family.

  All that kept me within sanity’s margins during those weeks was writing letter after letter to Robert, though I had no idea whether he’d ever read them. I realized that, in my haste to gather my things at the rooming house, I’d left the thimble on the nightstand. When I remembered, I sank to my bedroom floor and wept for hours. I couldn’t identify a single physical reminder of Robert. Everything was gone. I prayed Robert had found the thimble and saved it. I worried, too. Perhaps my failure to take it had telegraphed an unintentional message—one of rejection. I regretted now not having had the presence of mind to leave him a note. I wondered if Cora had told him how I was being kept prisoner.

  I finally spoke to my father when Mother stepped into the kitchen briefly while Jack and Patrick, who had already finished eating, smoked on the front porch. Since my capture, she no longer complained about their smoking or sent them out back. I guess she considered them men now, due to their act of heroism.

  I begged my father to explain why he’d let them come after me, why he hadn’t left us alone when he discovered I loved Robert. “It’s not fair. It’s so unfair. I thought you wanted more for me, Daddy. You wanted me to be happy. And you wanted more for Robert, too. We love each other. He can still be a doctor. I could help him. You always said I’d make a good nurse. How could you let her do this?” I babbled in my desperation, rushing through everything I’d waited to say until we were alone.

  “Isabelle, my girl…” He sighed, shrugging as though I should understand. I understood, certainly, that he’d allowed the others to decide the fate of my marriage—no matter that he respected Robert, no matter that he’d trusted him for years, encouraging his education and providing for it.

  “I’m not your girl anymore, Father,” I said, and looked away. We didn’t speak for a long while after that. I never called him “Daddy” again.

  * * *

  ANOTHER DAY, I managed a conversation with Cora. Father had left hastily after she poked her head into the dining room to report someone’s emergency. I wasn’t sure where Mother had gone. She’d complained of a headache; I assumed she’d gone to bed. She would never have left me entirely on my own. My brothers were absent. I gathered a few dishes and carried them to the kitchen under the guise of helping to clear the table—something I’d done often in the past.

  I pushed through the swinging doors, startling Cora. She looked up from soapy dishwater and saw me with my load of dinner plates. She looked away again and didn’t acknowledge me other than jutting her chin to indicate where I should place the dishes, but I kept the china in hand. If anyone entered the room, it would appear I’d just arrived.

  “Is Robert all right?” I asked, my voice low and hurried. I didn’t give Cora a chance to answer, though, gathering speed as I poured out my apology, fearing it might be my only chance. “I’m sorry for everything, all the trouble I’ve caused you and your family. But I love him, you know. It’s the only reason I did it. I love him, Cora.”

  She dried a hand on her apron and raised it to rub at what could have been an itch near her eye but may well have been a tear. “Can’t talk about it, honey. You go on now, take care of yourself. Don’t worry none about us.”

  “But Robert—”

  Cora swung her head around. “We’re all fine now, but if your brothers get wind of you trying to talk to me, they’re gonna follow through on their threats. Day after they bring you home, they come to the house looking for Robert, and they mean business. He’s likely not to survive what they’ll do next if he touches you again or any of us try to talk to you. Not just Robert. They mention our house, the church, talk about accidental damage, burning things. Miss Isabelle, you’ve got to leave us alone.”

  She turned away. I couldn’t see her face, but her breath caught, as if she were trying to control her emotion. My hands trembled. I set the dinner plates on the counter, the leftover splotches of gravy already congealing, their scent turning my stomach as the words Cora said squeezed my heart into my throat.

  * * *

  MOTHER INQUIRED WHETHER I needed sanitary supplies for my monthlies. Her concern surprised me. Then the subtle knock and scrape of the metal wastebasket against bathroom tile enligh
tened me. She was waiting for a sign—a sign my body hadn’t been altered to a point that would visibly shame my family.

  One day, I told her I needed napkins, and she sighed audibly, relief plainly relaxing her body from head to toe. She thrust a box past my door within minutes. I felt my face flush. We’d never discussed their use beyond what was necessary. I’m sure she assumed I was embarrassed.

  But it wasn’t embarrassment that drew the color. It was fury.

  26

  Dorrie, Present Day

  IRONY WAS THE answer to forty-two down, and it hit me as we started the final stretch to Cincinnati. My Stevie Junior in a panic and doing stupid things because his girlfriend was pregnant. Miss Isabelle’s mother in a panic over whether she was pregnant and doing stupid things.

  The thought of Stevie conjured a call from him. I wasn’t exactly ready to talk, but there was no time like the present. We were on a straight stretch of road, so I dug my phone out and hit the answer button. He was yapping before we connected.

  “Okay, Mom, this here’s the deal. Bailey is seriously freaking. She told me she better have the money by tomorrow morning, or she’s gonna tell her mom, and then her mom is gonna tell her dad, and then her dad’s gonna come over and bust my ass. Or worse—”

  “Hold up! Hold up a minute now.” I reminded myself how to breathe—inhale, exhale, inhale—trying to keep my eyes on the road and my hands on the wheel, when all I really wanted to do was find two little adolescent necks and wring them. It was becoming a fairly regular desire, and not an especially healthy one.

  “‘Hold up,’ Mom? You have no idea what I’m dealing with here.”

  “Really? Is that so? You mean I have no idea what it’s like to deal with teen pregnancy? Yeah. You’re right.”