“Mother wouldn’t approve,” Celeste said, hoping not to rub it all away.
“Well, I ain’t a mother. Now pucker. Like a kiss.”
Celeste did so and, without prompting, squeezed her lips together to work the dabbed-on color to a perfect tint, though Mother would have had a much different way to describe it, using words that Celeste dared not even think.
“Can I see?”
“See what?” Abby applied an unnecessary layer to her own lips before screwing on the lid.
“Me. Can I run inside and look in the mirror?”
“Here.” She reached inside her purse again and produced a small compact, from which she withdrew a circle of powder-flecked cotton and dabbed at her nose. Celeste took the proffered mirror and saw her own familiar face, now enhanced with new color, and puckered her lips again.
“I look like a lady in a magazine,” she said, in awe of this new beauty.
“You got a ways to go before that.” Abby took the compact away, snapped it shut, and turned to look at the scene behind her. “That one—she could be in a magazine.”
Celeste leaned forward, wishing her father would move out of the way so she could get a better view. She tugged at Abby’s sleeve. “Do you want to go up on the patio? It might be a little warmer.”
“Sure. Heaven forbid, I suppose, we could wait inside.”
“I can’t invite strangers in.”
Abby gave a short laugh. “Good policy, sister.”
Making a wide arc around her father and the cameraman, she led the woman to the covered patio, where they sat on cushioned rattan chairs facing the yard. From here, she could see everything. The cameraman’s arm worked furiously, turning the handle on the wooden box, his head buried beneath a square black cloth.
“That’s it,” Daddy was saying. “Now touch the flowers. Go ahead, lean in and smell it; then look at me.”
Nadine followed his instructions, running her tapered fingers across the blossoms as if encountering such a thing for the first time in her life. She looked over her shoulder. “Can I pick one?”
“Of course,” Daddy said, and Celeste drew in a sharp breath. Not even Mother touched any of the flowers in the garden without Graciela’s guidance.
Nadine plucked a flower from the bush and turned to face the camera. She held it up to her nose and then ran the petals across her lips as if they had somehow contributed to the stain. Even from this vantage point, Celeste knew she wasn’t looking at the camera, but at Daddy. She held her head down somewhat and looked up, her eyelids heavy, almost like she was sleepy.
“Hussy,” Abby said, and while Celeste didn’t recognize that word any more than the Spanish term Graciela had used when they were looking on from upstairs, once again the tone was unmistakably insulting.
“Beautiful,” Daddy said, straightening his stance and putting his hand on his hip.
“Why, thank you,” Nadine said. She’d removed her hat along with her coat, revealing chestnut-colored hair coiled and pinned at the nape of her neck. She took the flower now and tucked it just above her ear, thrusting her bust forward as she did so.
“How does that look?” she asked, tilting her head to give the best possible view.
“Beautiful,” Daddy said again, but slower this time. “Blow me a kiss, sweetheart. Right to the camera.”
Nadine complied.
“Now a little twirl.”
And she twirled. Her plum-colored skirt fluted out toward the hem, and she staggered just a bit when she stopped, facing the camera. She giggled like she was one of Celeste’s schoolgirl friends rather than a grown woman.
“Sorry about that. One more spin and you’d have to come catch me. I guess I didn’t miss my calling as a dancer after all.”
“Sweetie, you don’t miss anything,” Abby said, though far too softly for Nadine to have heard her.
When Daddy said, “Cut,” the cameraman’s arm stopped its motion, and he stood straight, emerging from the black cloth covering.
“What do you think?”
“What do I think? I think it’s a good thing your kid’s in the audience.”
Daddy laughed and turned toward the porch, opening his arms. “Come here, Celi!”
At any other time, Celeste would have run to him, sometimes making him tumble under the force of her jump into his embrace, but the scrutinizing eyes of Abby and Nadine slowed her steps, and it felt like she was walking in wet sand rather than the small-stoned path that trailed through the yard and garden. When she finally reached him, he took her hand, called for Abby to follow, and walked her to the brightly colored playhouse in the corner.
“Now—” Daddy squatted down to her eye level—“I want you to look right out at me and say, as clearly as you can, ‘Come find me, Mama!’ Then duck into your playhouse and shut the door.”
“But Mother isn’t here,” Celeste said, looking into his eyes for some sign that he was telling a joke.
“That’s me,” Abby said, not sounding at all thrilled. “I’m the mama.”
Celeste cupped her hands around her mouth and came in close enough to smell her father’s shaving soap. “She’s not my mother, and I don’t like her.”
“Oh, darling.” He hugged her close and nuzzled his moustache in the crook of her neck, tickling in the way that usually made her laugh, then pulled back to his arm’s length. “We’re just pretending. Like you do with your dolls, how you pretend to be their mother? Think of it in reverse. You’re a real little girl, and she is like a great big doll.”
“Now that I like,” Abby said.
Celeste scowled at her. “Nobody asked you.”
Daddy strengthened his grip to get her attention. “Be kind. We’re only going to play for a few minutes. You will say, ‘Mama! Come find me!’ then hide in your playhouse. When I call to you again, you will come running out, look at Miss Abby, run up to her, and hug her.”
Celeste pondered this for a moment. “If I want her to come find me, why do I open the door at all? Why don’t I stay inside and hide?”
“And that,” the cameraman said, “is why you’re some kind of scientist and not a director.”
Daddy chuckled and stood. “What do you suggest?” His question was no doubt directed to any of the grown-ups standing around them, but it was Celeste who answered.
“She should come look through the window and pretend not to see me. And then—” Celeste moved away from her father and stood next to the playhouse—“pretend to look and say, ‘Cel-leste? Where are you?’ And then I’ll come outside because I’ll think I fooled her.”
Daddy’s look of pride warmed her more than any sun ever could.
“How did you think of all that?”
“That’s how Graciela plays.” She didn’t mention that sometimes she pretended Graciela was her mother.
“Well, then, that’s how we’ll do it.” Daddy told the cameraman to set up the next shot and told Abby to take off her coat and hat, making her look like any other mother out playing with her daughter on a lovely day. He bent back down to Celeste and kissed the tip of her nose. “You look beautiful, sunshine.”
She felt beautiful just because he said so, and determined to do the very best that she could to please him. Soon the cameraman’s arm was turning the handle, and at her father’s direction, she stood in front of the playhouse. Looking past Abby’s sullen figure, she saw Graciela standing in the open kitchen door, looking on. She wanted to break away, run into her soft folds, and inhale the familiar scent of coconut and flour, but the sound of the camera took over, and instead she smiled, giving license to her fantasy, and pressed her lips together before saying, “Mama! Come find me!” exaggerating every word and giving a little shrug and a giggle before ducking into her playhouse. She gave one long, sneaky look from behind the door before closing it.
From the semidarkness inside, she could hear Abby shuffling around outside, apparently not doing anything the way Daddy told her to because he kept saying the same things over and over.
Then her face filled the window, blocking out the light, invading the familiar smell of musty lumber with that of a heavy perfume.
“Hey, kid. Don’t make me look bad.”
Celeste couldn’t imagine what she meant by that, and she wished she could stay inside her playhouse until her real mother came home. Or until Graciela called her in for lunch and hot chocolate.
“Act like you’re looking for her,” Daddy was saying. “Put your hand up, like this. No, like this, like you’re searching. Like this.” And then, with an air of frustration, he summoned Celeste outside. Although it wasn’t exactly how they had planned, Celeste popped her head out the window and said, “Here I am!” her eyes finding Abby rather than the camera. Then she swung open the door and stood in the threshold.
“Go to her,” Daddy said.
Celeste brought her hand to her mouth as if to stifle a giggle, knowing it would hide the movement of her lips from the camera. “She needs to kneel down, or they won’t see me.”
“Get down, Abby,” Daddy ordered.
There was nothing about the woman’s expression that made her look like a loving mother. “I’ll get my dress all dirty.”
“I’ll pay for the cleaning.”
Reluctantly Abby knelt in the soft grass.
“Oh, Mama.” Celeste took two small steps and wrapped her arms around Abby’s neck, gently turning their bodies so that she could face the camera head-on. She looked straight into the lens, then up at the sky, pretending to thank God for giving her such a wonderful mother, not letting go until Graciela called her in for lunch.
THE WRITTEN CONFESSION OF MARGUERITE DUFRANE, PAGES 13–24
IT DOES NOT ESCAPE my attention that whatever respect you may have for me will be exhaled forever away before you reach the end of this writing, if indeed I have the courage to write all of the truth as I have been instructed. There are some secrets that are best taken to our graves. For example, did you know that your father had a dwarfed sixth toe on his left foot? Of course you didn’t, as his vanity and propriety never allowed him to be barefoot in any kind of company—not even that of his loving family. I myself only got a glimpse of the thing on sporadic occasions and learned early in our marriage never to comment on it, lest I raise his ire and prompt him to comment on my own flaws. It may seem a silly thing now, but I believe his quest for education and influence came from the constant reminder of his imperfection. The night your brother announced that he was going to sign up to fight in the War, I told your father it was too bad that polydactyly (for such the condition is named) was not an inheritable trait, as it might have made Calvin unsuitable for service.
“How do you know that term?” he asked, as if I had no right to speak it. “Whom have you shared this with?”
I told him nobody, that I’d merely come across it in a medical book when I first took the children to our city library.
Nothing, though, would assuage his anger, and as I recall, he didn’t speak to me for nearly a week.
But listen to me, waxing on about something of so little consequence. Stalling, I suppose. Or distracting myself, as I have always done since Mary died. I barely left the baby’s room for weeks, only for the funeral, and of that I have very little recollection. I slept on the floor; I didn’t eat. Your father has since said he feared he would lose us both.
The first clear memory I have after putting my Mary to bed is the sight of your father’s face, close to mine, waking me from a midafternoon stupor to tell me her death had been ruled a homicide, and the girl was locked up in jail. I don’t know what I’d been waiting for—some obscene fear that she might return with that envious hunger I’d seen and take the rest of my family away, perhaps.
I got up, took a bath, dressed in something fresh and clean. I went down to the kitchen and ate anything I could find. For weeks neighbors had been bringing meals—roasted chicken and hams and cakes and breads. I’d refused plates of food and bowls of soups, and now every uneaten morsel gnawed at me. I remembered what it felt like to have my belly full with my child, and I thought maybe I would be able to fill myself up again and bring her back. I pulled platters from the icebox and rummaged through the pantry, tearing at food with my bare hands, barely swallowing one bite before stuffing my mouth with another.
Mrs. Gibbons found me and offered to heat something proper, but I sent her away. To the market, I’d said, to get something fresh. Fruit, perhaps, or some sweet berries to mix with cream to take away some of the staleness of the leftover cakes.
I ate everything, tasted nothing. Not even the sound of the front door’s bell deterred me. After all, I’d been hearing it for weeks. Well-wishers and officials and I don’t know who all had dropped by, and I’d ignored them. It rang and I ate, caring no more about what or who might be on the other side than I did about the stains of congealed grease on the cuffs of my clean dress. Whoever it was would go away, and certainly had, I reasoned, when the ringing finally stopped. But then a small voice came to me as I shaved a slice of cheese.
“Mother?”
It was, of course, Calvin, looking properly dapper in his school clothes, wearing the black velvet band around his sleeve as his testimony of mourning for his sister. He seemed such a big boy, but no more a part of me than any other child. I hadn’t touched him since the night I kissed his head, having dismissed him from that awful party. Vaguely I remembered hearing his voice on the other side of the nursery door, your father telling him that Mother wasn’t feeling well yet and that she would be better soon. Soon has little meaning to a child’s mind, and he eventually stopped coming to the door. I couldn’t remember the last time the boy had even crossed my mind. His very name eluded me in that moment, and I simply stared until all the letters tumbled into place and I could say Calvin with some confidence.
“There’s a lady at the door.”
A lady?
“Mrs. Lundgren.”
The food in my stomach worked itself into a panic, and I clutched to keep it still. Fearful it would spew out if I opened my mouth, I held my jaw clenched and told him to send her away.
“She asked for Father, and I told her he wasn’t home. And then she asked for you, and I said you were sick, so then she just told me she would wait for Father.”
She told him? As if she had any right to tell anybody anything.
“Are you feeling better?” My little man stood, his eyes taking in the mess of soiled dishes and platters scattered throughout the kitchen. It’s then that I noticed the circles under his eyes, his pale skin, and a mixture of fear and sadness that should have been far beyond his years.
I told him to go upstairs and play, handing him the slice of cheese, which he took with dubious thanks. I assured him I would speak with Mrs. Lundgren once I’d had enough time to put on the kettle for tea and that he shouldn’t give the visit another thought. This pleased him, and he bounded up the kitchen stairs, whistling a popular tune of the day. It was the first bit of life I’d seen since putting my Mary to bed that night, and I watched and listened, hating him for every bit of it. I suppose that, too, is a confession I hadn’t foreseen making in this document, but there it is. Once his existence came back to my realm of consciousness, I resented his very being. Every breath he took was one Mary would be forever denied. Never again could I smile at my baby girl, so I refused to smile at him. My daughter was cold, and I adopted the same frigidity. It seemed grotesquely reasonable at the time, and his father experienced no such interruption to his affection, so I left them to each other’s good graces.
Not forever, of course. When you came into our lives, darling Celeste, you brought life with you. But in that dark time, those months stretched out between Mary’s death and your birth, poor Calvin had little more than a shell for a mother. And yet, remembering the blackness in my heart, I wouldn’t dare to wish to return and make things right. I couldn’t change a thing, you see, because if I did, I might not have you.
I did not, of course, put on a kettle of water to make
tea to share with Mrs. Lundgren. Instead I poured a glass of cold buttermilk, drank it down, and waited for the rest of my food to settle while I used a soiled towel to attempt to clean my face and hands. Mrs. Gibbons had a small room behind the kitchen, and I popped in there long enough to inspect my dress and hair in the oval mirror above her washstand. The gauntness of my face was somewhat surprising, as I’d always had such rounded features; and my hair, for all its neatness, was dull, like that of an old woman. All I really cared about, though, was that there were no traces of crumbs on my bodice, nor any particles trapped between my teeth, and a close inspection granted that assurance.
The sound of a mighty battle being waged with wooden soldiers drifted from Calvin’s room upstairs, and I prepared myself for a battle of my own as I walked to the entryway to see just what Mrs. Lundgren could have to say to us. Upon seeing an empty hall, I felt a surge of relief, thinking the woman had come to the end of her patience and left, but then I saw a shabby coat and fashionless hat hanging on the brass tree, and I knew Calvin must have invited her to wait in the parlor. Certainly, knowing her place in our home, she wouldn’t have invited herself to such a privilege. I hated him even more.
Shoulders straight, I walked into the parlor to find her sitting—sitting—with her hands in her lap, staring at the floor. I allowed myself the luxury of staring at her, this woman whose child had killed my child. Were I of a lesser species or lower class, I might have lunged at her. A life for a life, as God once instructed his people. But then she looked up at me, her gaze like iron, and we took turns stating facts.
“They may put my daughter in prison.”
Your daughter killed my child.
“She’s little more than a child herself.”
I had no response to that, so I simply asked her what she meant by coming here.
“I’d hoped to speak with Mr. DuFrane.”
I told her he wasn’t at home, having no other information to add. Whether he was at his lab, or at the club, or swinging from a skyscraper, I had no idea. I couldn’t be sure he’d been here this morning, or the night before, but I had no reason to indulge that level of detail, and I had no answer to her query as to when he would return. I did, however, tell her that I thought it highly improper for her to come to call on Mr. DuFrane when all matters of the household should clearly be handled by me.
All for a Sister Page 6