All the Best People

by Sonja Yoerg

  “Hey, hey, hey.” He swung to the curb, brought the car to a stop.

  She yanked the door open, jumped out.

  “Hey, where’s the fire?”

  Carole ran down the long block to the corner, her blood pumping hard. She recognized the intersection and turned right toward the center of town, listening for the sound of Ray’s car behind her. She ran until her legs felt wobbly. She slowed a little and glanced behind her. No one. Pulling her coat tighter, Carole arranged her bag on her shoulder and hastened down Main Street. The show at the Flynn was letting out. She was comforted to see the crowd, but skirted around them, avoiding eye contact. She couldn’t face anyone she knew.

  Overcome with exhaustion, unable to think where else to go, she headed up the hill to her aunt and uncle’s house. She was too wretched to care what they might say about her being out so long without notice, or about anything else, and focused her flagging attention on making it there. But as Carole turned up the familiar walk, her resignation was mixed with relief.

  She let herself in. The house was quiet. She climbed to her room, opening the door slowly so the hinges would not creak. Already overly warm, she peeled off her hat and coat and crossed to Janine’s bed. The girl lay on her side, the bedclothes pulled to her chest, her braid curled on her shoulder. Her lips were opened slightly, as if she’d been about to say something, and her cheeks were touched with pink.

  “Our fathers are dead,” Carole whispered, “and our mother has wronged us. But here you are, my little sister, safe and loved, if only by me. I’ve kept my word. If there is anything good in me, it’s yours.”

  25

  Carole

  Carole reached the paper-wrapped loaf across the counter to Mrs. Caldwell, who tucked it into her shopping bag, her arthritic fingers struggling with the simple task.

  “Thank you, dear.” She opened the bakery door and the bell at the top tinkled.

  “You’re welcome, Mrs. Caldwell. Have a good evening.”

  The shop was empty for the first time since lunch. Carole lowered herself onto the stool beside the register to rest her feet for a moment. She’d begun working part-time at Pedersen’s a year before the war ended, immediately after graduating from high school. Mrs. Pedersen was shorthanded because her husband had been called up for active duty in Europe. Aunt Regina had been opposed to Carole taking the job, saying she’d expected her to have aspirations beyond being “a lowly shopgirl.” Carole insisted it was her patriotic duty, which was true, but it was equally true she was dying to get out of the house.

  After the war ended and Ludo Pedersen came home, Carole had expected to be let go. But Mr. Pedersen did not return whole. He jumped at the slightest sound and could not remember the recipes he’d been using since he was fourteen, baking alongside his father. He set the oven too high, mistook baking soda for flour and could not be left unsupervised. So Carole remained behind the shop counter and the Pedersens baked together.

  Mr. Pedersen’s condition aside, her job was more pleasant now than in wartime. Sugar and flour were plentiful again, and customers no longer had to present ration cards. Carole had never gotten used to having to deny anyone something as basic as bread and had always been aware of how she had never really suffered during the war because of her family’s money.

  The bell tinkled again and Carole rose from her seat. Janine strode in, tossed her book bag to the side and came behind the counter.

  “Did you save me some gingersnaps?”

  Carole bent to kiss her cheek. Her sister made a face but accepted the kiss. “Hello to you, too.”

  “Well, did you?”

  Carole prepared her sister’s snack, which she ate on the stool while Carole served the day’s last customers. She said good-bye to the Pedersens, flipped over the Open sign and walked with Janine to their apartment on Pearl Street. They’d lived there since shortly after her eighteenth birthday, when she’d learned the hard facts about her parents. Carole realized she didn’t need to fight with her aunt about Janine, or anything else; she could simply leave. Aunt Regina had surprised her by not arguing, and had in fact helped subsidize the apartment so the girls wouldn’t bring shame on the family by “living incorrectly.” Her aunt was happy to be rid of Janine, that much was clear. Both aunts had known about Janine’s real father but had kept the secret to avoid scandal. Carole would keep the secret as well, for her sister’s sake.

  Janine was delighted with the new arrangement. Carole wasn’t much of a disciplinarian, not that discipline or reason or cajoling had much of an effect on the girl. If Carole really needed Janine to do something, she resorted to bribery, but since Janine had Carole’s full attention, she behaved reasonably well.

  On a sweltering Saturday in July, Carole was arranging cookies inside the bakery’s display case. One leg dangled in the air behind her as she maneuvered toward the front row, concentrating on not ruining the intricate icing. She positioned the last cookie and glanced up. A man grinned at her from the other side of the glass. She startled, knocking her head against the case.

  “Ow!” She extracted herself, brushed the sugar from her hands and touched the sore spot on her head. The man was her age, about twenty, and broad-shouldered, wearing blue gabardine trousers and a matching shirt, neatly pressed.

  He winced. “Sorry! Didn’t mean to surprise you. I was just trying to get your attention.”

  His eyes were the brightest blue she’d ever seen. “Well, you’ve got it now. How can I help you?”

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” He leaned toward her. His gaze was direct but not cocky.

  She nodded.

  A smile spread across his face. “I’m a sucker for cinnamon rolls.”

  Carole returned his smile and felt herself redden. She picked up a set of tongs and reached inside the case.

  “I’d like the one all the way in the front,” he said.

  She stretched toward it, her foot leaving the floor, and began to laugh. He broke out laughing, too, a sound like a spring river. She grabbed the roll with the tongs, then dropped it, which made them both laugh harder. Finally Carole backed out of the case, still chuckling, and dropped the roll into a paper bag.

  “Will that be all, sir?”

  “I hope not.”

  She shifted from one foot to the other but didn’t drop her gaze. He was steady; she could see that in the solid way he stood without fidgeting or gesturing. She didn’t want him to leave, but she couldn’t think of what to say that didn’t sound silly or forward. Plenty of boys and young men had shown interest in her, but she’d been quick to turn them down. She didn’t talk much, but that line she had down pat.

  “I’d like to see you,” he said.

  “Okay.”

  He grinned. “Okay.”

  “I’m Carole.” She offered her hand.

  He lifted his open palm to hold it, as if it was a bird that had alighted there. “And I’m Walt.”

  • • •

  Carole had no idea how Walt had convinced her to visit her mother at Underhill. They’d only been dating six months, and here they were, bouncing along the snow-packed roads in his Packard, heading to see Solange Gifford. It had been eleven years since Carole had watched her mother handcuffed and shoved into the police van. During the last two, Carole’s hatred for her mother and disgust with her actions had not dulled. She didn’t dwell on it—that wasn’t her way—but neither had she altered her view that her mother had wrecked their family.

  Rain began to fall. They were in the middle of a January thaw. Walt switched on the wipers. “When did you say you came out here on your own?”

  “About five years ago. But I couldn’t see her because they’d put her in a coma.”

  He shook his head in sympathy. “Do you think maybe that’ll happen again?”

  “I have no idea.” Secretly, Carole hoped it would. She remembered how devastated
she’d been to learn she couldn’t see her mother. She’d been so naive.

  Walt nodded, accepting the possibility the trip might be pointless. That was so like him, never worried that spending time might be wasting it. Regret was useless to him. He made his choices, did his best and searched for things to delight in wherever he could. Maybe it was how he was wired, but Carole suspected it had as much to do with his background. His family owned a hardware store. They were neither poor nor wealthy, so Walt didn’t expect the world to be harsh and unfair, nor did he expect to have whatever he pleased. He had invited her into a world where contentment was neither a sign of privilege nor a second-place prize.

  After they’d been dating for a while, Carole had no choice but to tell Walt her mother had been committed, but her mother’s affair, and Janine’s parentage, remained a secret. As for her father, well, so many men had died in the war, Osborn Gifford was just one more casualty. She’d admitted she didn’t get along with her aunt, and that was all she’d needed to explain her situation. Why embarrass herself? Why risk scaring him away?

  Walt gestured at the town of Underhill as they drove through. “What do you think of a place like this?”

  She considered the general store, the coffee shop, the second-hand clothing store. “It’s quiet, all right.”

  “Quiet’s good, don’t you think? I could set up in a place like this.”

  He smiled at her, those blue eyes lively and warm, telling her “I” really meant “we.” She touched his cheek. “Yes, quiet’s good.”

  A few minutes later they entered the reception area of the hospital, as dingy and depressing as Carole had remembered. She spoke to the woman behind the desk and crossed the waiting area to sit beside Walt.

  He held her hands. She knew how cold hers were from the warmth of his.

  Walt said, “Are you worried about seeing her?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can go outside while you visit with her.”

  “No. Please stay.”

  Carole couldn’t sort out her feelings. Her anger with her mother was still acute, but it was attached to a recollection of her mother that had become vague. It was like hating a shadow.

  They waited for so long that Carole got up to ask the receptionist when her mother might be coming.

  The woman didn’t look up. “They’re getting her ready.”

  As she wondered what that might entail, a nurse came through a set of doors to her left. A woman in a pale gray shift and a baggy cardigan followed behind. If it weren’t for her mother’s red hair, Carole might not have recognized her. She was forty years old but looked sixty. Her skin was nearly translucent and her gait was unsteady. Carole could not breathe. Walt appeared at her shoulder and she steadied herself.

  Her mother cast her gaze around the room as she entered, hugging her arms to her chest. She smiled uncertainly at the receptionist, looked at her daughter, then at Walt. Her mother came closer, her confusion deepening.

  Carole pushed out a whisper. “Mama.”

  Solange glanced at the nurse behind her and twisted a button on her sweater between her fingers. The button was on the verge of falling off.

  “Mama. It’s me, Carole.”

  Her mother looked at her intently this time. Her eyes widened and filled with tears. She grabbed Carole’s forearm clumsily, as if testing to see if she was real. “Carole. My darling girl.”

  Although Carole had imagined this moment—as a child full of longing and as a young woman full of resentment—she wasn’t prepared for it. She froze, at an emotional impasse.

  The nurse ushered Solange into the waiting area, led her to a chair and left to chat with the woman behind the desk.

  Walt said softly, “Let’s sit down with her, all right?”

  As Carole took a seat beside her mother, she noticed Solange’s hair was damp and she gave off a peculiar odor, like ether or a solvent. The skin on her neck and wrists was dotted with red marks, from punctures or bites, and her fingernails were bitten down to the quick. What sort of hospital was this? The brittle anger inside Carole began to crack.

  Walt introduced himself to Solange, who nodded in reply, her gaze wandering. Carole fidgeted with the strap of her handbag, wishing she’d thought about what to say. Should she mention her father’s death?

  Without warning, her mother twitched violently and clutched Carole’s hand. A terrified expression came over her. “Is the baby all right?”

  “The baby?”

  “Yes! The baby! The baby!”

  The nurse approached, annoyed for the interruption.

  Carole said, “Oh, you mean Janine. She’s ten now.”

  Her mother scowled. “No, the baby.”

  “Her name’s Janine.”

  “Who’s Janine?”

  Carole glanced at Walt, flustered. It hadn’t occurred to her that her mother wouldn’t know her daughter’s name. “My sister. Your daughter. She’s ten years old.”

  Solange shook her head and swayed. “No, no, no, no, no.”

  The nurse addressed Carole, her tone matter-of-fact. “She worries all the time about a baby. Screams all night about it.”

  Carole moved her face closer to her mother’s. “Mama, listen to me.”

  “No, no, no, no, no.”

  “Mama, listen to me. It’s Carole.”

  Her mother fell silent. She stared at her daughter, anxious and imploring.

  Carole squeezed her mother’s hand. “The baby is fine. She’s perfectly fine.”

  Solange exhaled in relief and smiled. “I’m so glad. She’s such a good baby.”

  Part 3

  26

  Carole

  October 1972

  Carole had made her appointment with Dr. Carvalho for early morning, hoping to be on the right side of normal, and took care with her appearance. The appointment was Walt’s idea, of course. He’d insisted after the incident in the office with Erwin Battle. How could she refuse? Walt was concerned, and she wanted to tell him the truth, but it would only make things worse for him and no better for herself. In the days since she’d lost control, the voices had receded and a small light in a corner of her heart grew brighter. Maybe something to help her sleep was all she needed.

  Perched on the exam table, wrapped in paper, she told Dr. Carvalho about her insomnia and no more. She relaxed the muscles in her face and ignored her palms sticking to the paper.

  “Headaches?” the doctor asked.

  “A few mild ones.”

  “Appetite?”

  “Fine.”

  “Sexual interest?”

  She looked past him, at the eye chart on the wall. “Well, normal, I suppose.”

  “Any hot flashes?”

  “Maybe. I do get hot.”

  “Any unusual stress?”

  “Just the sleep problem.”

  He took notes, performed a routine physical and handed her a prescription for Valium. “For the insomnia. You might be in early menopause, too. Give it a couple of months and come see me again if you’re not better.”

  Early menopause. That’s what she’d tell Walt.

  The pills did seem to help. She got a little more sleep and felt better. Not normal, because she didn’t trust her recollection of that, but more stitched together. It wasn’t something she could relax into, though. She scrutinized herself and how other people reacted to her, so it was like living in a movie in which she was both actor and viewer and not comfortable in either role. Carole didn’t think of herself as someone who took much for granted, but now she did. She had taken her sanity for granted, had treated it with the same certainty as gravity or nightfall. When you have nothing to stick you to the earth, and nothing to mark your days, you are changed forever.

  Wiped smooth by Valium, Carole existed in a state of tentative normalcy. She tended to her family and the g
arage and the house, keeping her excursions into the greater world as infrequent and brief as possible. She saw no point in testing limits. And her family, especially Walt, treated her with an extra dose of politeness and an extra breath of patience. They probably didn’t even realize it. Carole couldn’t blame them, not when she was so conscious of her own actions, but her family’s behavior increased her sense that something irrevocable had happened. She would never get her old life back. She could accept that, she thought, as long as the life replacing it was not her mother’s, as long as she didn’t end up locked away from her family.

  Two weeks after the doctor’s visit, Walt offered to take Carole to visit Solange, an example of his new solicitousness. He’d never been unkind or impolite, but if she needed to go somewhere, she went, and if her husband wanted to join her, he did. Now she was handled. She needed handling. It was prudent.

  Her mother was waiting, as usual, by the patio doors, and smiled broadly when Carole entered. “Carole, my dear.” Solange hesitated, then smiled again. “And Walt. What a nice surprise.”

  They sat at a table in the lounge. Her mother did not ask why Carole had not visited recently, as Carole feared she might. Solange seemed more satisfied and calm than she had ever been, and Carole wondered if that was a symptom of her own changed state of mind; her mother appeared more normal because Carole was not. A vein of resentment opened up inside her. Did her mother deserve to be satisfied and calm, after what she had done to Carole, to Janine, to their father? Did she deserve to feel better than Carole did?

  Solange peered out the window. “Last week it was so warm we had lunch outside.”

  Carole felt her face flush with shame.

  As they drank coffee from heavy mugs and spoke of small things, Carole became confused as to why they—any of them—were there. It was fleeting, but Walt noticed. He had been watching her, she realized, and perhaps comparing her to Solange. Of course he would. She did, too. Every day, Carole searched for her mother in her reflection in the mirror until she became nauseous and dizzy, as if behind her eyes she’d find a telltale sign, a link to her mother’s broken mind.