“You stay and keep Grandma company. I’ll bring you a package of gum from downtown.”
“The snow’s so deep by the garage,” Aunt Betty pointed out, “you can make a snow cave there.”
And that was what I did for the better part of the afternoon. I carved out a cave with a living room, bedroom, and kitchen. It was warm inside, and quiet and snug. Was this what it was like in the satin confinement of Hilly’s casket?
As the afternoon crested and declined, and the street lights winked on, Grandma called me into the house. The trembling black hands of the electric clock above the stove read ten to four. The crimson second hand sped nervously on its rounds, humming in the watery silence of deepest January. I sat down on a chair and pulled off my boots and snow pants.
“Don’t get snow all over the kitchen,” Grandma warned, calling from the dining room. “Your mother and Betty are taking their sweet time downtown. What could they be up to, do you suppose?”
When I had hung my coat over the back of the chair to dry and laid my mittens on the radiator, I reached the box of coconut-covered marshmallow cookies down from the top of the refrigerator. I made less noise than the clock, but Grandma said, “Don’t fill up on cookies before supper.”
Removing two, I returned the box.
“Get yourself a glass of milk and pour me a cup of coffee from the perk,” Grandma told me.
I poured two cups of coffee, adding milk to mine.
“When will I see you again?” Grandma wondered aloud, studying me as I ate cookies, keeping my head over the table so the crumbs would not fall on the rug. “I think your mama should leave you here, at least until she finds a place.” Grandma turned her cup this way and that. “Where will it end? Where will any of it end? Your mama, Willie, the war … I thought I knew the world, and I thought I knew your mama. Now it’s all strange. I’m a stranger, looking in and not understanding what I see.”
Mama and Aunt Betty flung open the back door, panting and stomping and creating a commotion, yet at the same time giggling intimately, bearing with them, at the center of their noisy entrance, a secret, a surprise perhaps.
Grandma and I waited. Aunt Betty appeared first, pulling off the scarf wound around her head and looking from one of us to the other.
“What do you think? Isn’t it glamorous?”
She’d been to the Blue Lake Beautee Shoppe and had her hair done. The pinkish gold around her face was pulled back in two rolls that framed the upper face, the rest of the lovely pale red hair fell free, billowing out in fluff at her shoulders. She looked like Carole Landis in I Wake Up Screaming.
Aunt Betty stepped aside, like a model making way for another model, and Mama advanced, her scarf removed. Mama’s shorter hair had been pulled back from her face into a froth of short curls at the back of her head, sort of like Norma Shearer’s in The Women. But the most notable change in it was not the style. Mama had had her hair hennaed. The henna had taken a firm hold of her hair, shining brilliantly red even in the twilight of the dining room chandelier. Mama smiled and struck a couple of poses.
“My God,” Grandma breathed. “What have you done?”
“Had my hair hennaed.”
“My God,” repeated Grandma, who normally didn’t take the Lord’s name in vain twice in a year. She seemed unable to venture further, however. Her right hand flew to her breast as if to quell violent upheaval there. Presently the left joined it, but to no avail, for her breast heaved as though a volcanic eruption were building.
Mama, in dumb innocence, waited to be complimented.
At last Grandma exploded, “You look like a Minneapolis streetwalker!”
Mama glanced wildly from Grandma to Betty to me, then back to Grandma. The starch went out of her, and she seemed to shrink two inches in height.
I ran to her. “Mama, it’s beautiful. You look like Norma Shearer.” But she didn’t hear me.
“And the expense,” Grandma went on. “You two girls can’t afford a pot to pee in, and off you go to the beauty parlor to throw your money away. Then back you come, looking like Mrs. Astor’s horses, and wonder why I’m upset.”
“You can go to hell,” Mama screamed, and ran upstairs, slamming the door behind her. I followed. At the top of the stairs, she turned. “Leave me alone, all of you.” She hurried down the dark hall. “If I never come back to this place, it’ll be too damned soon,” she swore.
I sat down on the top step. Beyond the closed door at the bottom, Grandma’s muffled voice implored, “Why did she do it?”
“She wanted to be a redhead for her new life. What’s so awful about that?”
“She looks like a trollop.”
“Everybody at the Beautee Shoppe thought she looked like a movie star.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Grandma retorted. “I think half the stars in Hollywood were floozies before they got into the movies.”
“What do you know about movie stars?”
“I know about people. And I know your sister is leading you across the country by the nose. And in the middle of a war.”
“It wasn’t long ago, you were begging me to go to California,” Aunt Betty reminded her.
“It was right for a woman to follow her husband. It’s wrong for a woman to run off, like a wild horse, not knowing why.”
Mama didn’t come down for supper. She closed the bedroom door behind her, and even Aunt Betty’s coaxing wouldn’t bring her out.
“Why would you do a stupid thing like that?” Grandpa asked Grandma when he heard the story of the henna. “On her last night?”
Grandma’s eyes filled. “Because I’m beside myself with worry, old man. Now leave me be.” A few minutes later she pointed to me, advising him, “Take a good look at this child. You may never see her again.”
“They’re not sailing for Tokyo, Hattie. They’re taking the train to Los Angeles.”
The next morning we were pious and regenerate. A gentle snowfall had built the drifts higher and rounded them into whipped cream mounds, but it was not enough to interfere with travel, and several cousins from around Blue Lake stopped for coffee and Grandma’s caramel rolls.
Grandma didn’t mention Mama’s hair. Cousin Millie said, “Now you and Betty are both redheads,” and that was all that was said. The cousins assumed that Aunt Betty was going to California to be reunited with Uncle Stan, and that Mama and I were merely accompanying her. For Grandma’s sake, Mama did not disabuse them.
“If we tell them everything,” Mama observed to Aunt Betty in the kitchen, “they’ll have nothing to speculate about.”
By two o’clock our grips were lined up by the back door, and Grandma was weeping, although we would not leave for an hour. “Come sit by me, Lark,” she said.
We were ranged around the dining room table, the last of the cousins having departed. I dragged my chair close to Grandma’s, and she put an arm around me. Mama and Aunt Betty cleared the remaining dishes and began washing up in the kitchen.
“You’ll be a good girl and help your mama, I know,” Grandma said.
I nodded, smelling the English Lavender cologne that drifted up from the hanky tucked between her bosoms.
“And show respect to your papa. Write to him.”
Again I nodded.
“Sometimes when two people quarrel and break up, a child can get them back together. You might think about that.” She gave me a tight squeeze and kissed my cheek. “Do you understand what I’m saying?” she asked quietly, not wishing Mama to hear.
“I understand.”
“Good.” She rose then, saying, “I’d best start packing food for the train. If you look in the china cupboard, you’ll find a bag of jelly beans and a couple of packs of Blackjack. You put those in your purse.”
Since the front porch windows were still covered with snow, the living room was nearly as dark as night, with only a spill of yellow from the dining room showing me the way. I sat on the davenport and secreted the candy and gum in my old red patent leather purse. I
f Mama knew I had the candy and gum, she would want to keep it, doling it out in little rewards throughout the trip.
When the treats were stashed, I sat in the dark, mulling over Grandma’s words: “a child can get them back together.” Grandma was telling me that there were yet things I might do to restore life as it had been. But what were they?
I heard Mama climb the stairs to prepare her face for the train. I followed, knocking on the bathroom door. “Can I come in?”
“It isn’t locked.”
She stood at the mirror, adjusting the collar of her blouse, critically eyeing herself this way and that, complimenting the newly red hair with the touch of her hand.
Opening a tube of lipstick, she freshened her lips with coral-red color, then blotted them with toilet paper. “Do you need to go to the toilet?”
“No.”
From her purse she extracted a box of Lady Esther face powder, patting her nose and chin and forehead with the cloth puff it held. “Did you want something?”
“I… I…” What words held the magic to keep us in Minnesota and carry her back to Papa? Time ticked away and I stood dumb.
Mama picked up her purse and dropped the box of Lady Esther into it. “It’s almost time to leave. If you have something to say, say it.”
“If we go to California, I’m going to die,” I blurted. Her face held the stunned, accusing look of someone who’s been slapped. “Don’t go, Mama. Please, please, please, please.” I fell on the floor, weeping and pleading.
“Don’t make it harder for me,” she said flatly, pulling me to my feet.
I yanked myself free from her grasp, anger detonating in me. How dare she be calm! Lowering my head, I struck out with my fists, rapidly, mechanically, feeling release and reward when blows struck firm flesh. “I hate you!” I cried, and that felt as good as anything I’d ever said, including confession. “I’ll run away!”
Grandpa closed the shop to come home and drive us to the depot. Because there were so many grips to load into the car, Grandma didn’t come with us but said good-bye at the back door, crying and hugging each of us, then hugging us again, withdrawing the hanky from her dress and wiping her face, waving it as we drove slowly away.
Though Grandpa drove with care, now and again the car slipped sideways in the snow-clogged streets, wheels spinning. Once, when the back end slid into a snowbank, we were stuck for several minutes while Grandpa got the shovel and a box of furnace cinders out of the trunk, and spread cinders under the wheels. The car pulled away from the snowbank and we were on our way again. Because of the delays, we drew up to the depot with only minutes to spare. Everyone grabbed a couple of grips and hurried with them to the platform.
“Want any of those checked?” the agent inquired.
Mama pointed to several, and they were tagged. The others we would carry on board. The door to the waiting room opened and Papa rushed out onto the platform. “Papa,” I cried, and ran to him. I would stay with Papa.
Mama stood stiff as a fence picket, holding her purse tight in her two hands as if to prevent herself from doing mayhem.
“When you didn’t show up on the early train, I jumped in the truck and came highballing down here, seventy miles an hour all the way,” Papa told her. “I want you to come home,” he pleaded. “Please, Arlene. I’ll change. No more gambling, I swear to you. Don’t go to California. I’ll go crazy.” He tried to reach for her hand, but she would not be touched. “I’ve been talking to Dick Mellin about finding a house. He tells me the old Linden house is up for sale. He says it’s in good shape. The old woman took real good care of it. Only the best. Four big bedrooms, he says. Also a back parlor downstairs for your office. He thinks we can get it for a song if we make an offer this week.”
Several blocks away, the train was tooting and bearing down on the station, overtaking us. Papa put his hands on Mama’s shoulders. Her face was a clay mask, lacking all expression.
‘Arlene, say something. This is what you wanted. I told Dick Mellin we were interested, and he should let me know right away if anybody came asking about it. You remember the yard? It’s two lots—a hundred and fifty feet wide by a hundred and fifty deep. Lots of lilac bushes, he says, and roses and peonies. Beautiful trees. Elms all the way around, and remember the willow you were always pointing out? Now it can be your willow.”
“Mama, let’s go home. I want to live there. Please.” If we lived in the Linden house, we’d all be our best selves, I knew it. It was that kind of house. A big, open porch wrapped around it where you could sit on warm evenings, reading the newspaper until the sun went down. And out in the middle of the side yard, on a tall pole, like a flagpole, perched an enormous white birdhouse made to look just like the Linden house.
There was a little widow’s walk on the third floor, which must mean there was an attic. I could have a playroom up there. I was resigned to never having perfect pitch, but with a playroom under the eaves, I would be as confident as Katherine Albers, and if my pitch wasn’t perfect, I would at least have the courage to sing.
“Mama, please.”
The train was slowing, puffing, laboring, screeching, demanding we pay attention. “Please, let’s live there.”
One time, when I had ventured across town selling bazaar tickets, old Grandma Linden had invited me inside because it was cold, and she didn’t want the door standing open. “Stand there, on the rug,” she’d said to me, leaving to fetch her purse.
I had stood in the front hall, peering around. There was a big, open stairway on the right, a stained-glass window at the foot of it. To the left were open double doors leading to the living room, and beyond that, the dining room. A real dining room, not just an ell.
Except for the ticking of a clock, the house was still and serene and self-possessed, without being arrogant. It was not a mansion, yet it was a house that proclaimed from every clapboard and ginger-breaded eave, “I am what I am, and that is enough.” If we lived there, we would one day be able to say that.
I had hold of Mama’s arm, imploring her to consider Papa’s offer. Our grips with tags on them were carried off to the baggage car and handed up. Freight was off-loaded onto a freight wagon.
“Mama, there are hollyhocks by the garage, I remember. And you could have two tables of bridge in the dining room alone. Three or four in the living room, it’s that big.”
“Lark, get your grip,” Mama ordered.
Papa grabbed me. “You can’t take her, Arlene.”
Papa and I would live in the Linden house.
“Betty, give the conductor our grips,” Mama said, without looking away from Papa. The conductor tossed the three bags up into the car and waited for us to board. Shifting her purse onto her arm, Mama took my hand. “She’s going with me, Willie.” Now they both had hold of me. “I don’t wish you any bad, Willie. You can visit Lark in California, and she can visit back here, but we’re leaving.”
“You don’t love me at all,” Papa said, as if believing it for the first time. He looked at Mama, waiting for her to respond, but she said nothing. The train tooted impatiently, anxious to be on its way. It was needed. People waited for it in other places, on down the line.
Papa pulled me into his arms, hugging me and crying. “I love you, Lark. Forget the bad times. Just remember the good ones. Remember the time we went hunting night crawlers in the rain? Didn’t we have a good time?” He squeezed the breath out of me.
Mama pulled me firmly away. Grandpa Browning, who had been standing to one side, picked me up and told me, “Be good to your mama. And don’t worry, d’ya hear? I bet you’ll be back here before next Christmas.” But his voice lacked conviction. He was trying to steal the edge from my fear. “You let us know what you want for Christmas so we can be all ready.” He held me with his left arm now. “Reach in my right pocket of my jacket,” he told me.
There was a little paper bag. I pulled it out.
“I know how you like gumdrops,” he said, and the rims of his eyes grew red.
Grandpa set me down, and Mama and Aunt Betty gave him hugs and promises to write.
“You can call collect when you get there,” Grandpa offered. “It’s all right.”
Papa was crying, and he gave me another painful hug before Mama shoved me toward the conductor, who handed me up to Aunt Betty. In the end, I was going with Mama. “I don’t see how you can leave like this,” I heard Papa say as Mama mounted the steps. The conductor waved to the engineer, then tossed the portable step onto the landing and climbed up into the car.
Aunt Betty led the way, choosing a seat where she could wave to Grandpa, who stood apart from Papa, frowning to keep from weeping. The train gave a jerk and the couplings clanged and the great iron wheels cried sorrowfully.
I sat opposite Aunt Betty, waving to Papa and Grandpa, and feeling my heart being pulled out of my chest. Mama stood between Aunt Betty and me, frowning like Grandpa. Papa ran alongside the train, on the shoveled platform, calling, “Come back. I’m going to buy the house. Come back!”
Gradually the movement of the train smoothed as we picked up momentum and began rolling purposefully forward. Papa lost ground. Still running, he receded until he was a lone, dark figure against the snow, waving from the last margin of the platform.
60
HAVING USED THE TOILET and washed my hands in the brushed metal bowl, I dried them and searched beneath the candy and gum in my purse for a comb. There was half of one, and I extracted it.
Removing the barrette from my hair, I combed all that I could see, front and sides. The back would have to wait. My hair needed … something. Maybe a henna, like Mrs. Erhardt’s. Maybe a more sophisticated style, like Mrs. Weller’s. Something. I sighed. It was a 1930s style in 1942.
Returning the comb to my purse, I dug into the bag of jelly beans and came up with two reds, a green, a yellow, and a black. I dropped the yellow and one red back into the bag, and sat down on the toilet lid to enjoy the remaining three, eating the red first and saving the black for last. Black was my favorite. The most sophisticated flavor in jelly beans, someone once told me.
The Cape Ann Page 40