Eating the Cheshire Cat

by Helen Ellis

  When the preacher finished he nodded to the funeral director, who tapped the white carnation on his lapel to signal the pall bearers, who each wore white carnations on their lapels, to leave their loved ones and join him at the hearse closest to him.

  There were no umbrellas this time. To keep the caskets dry, there would have had to have been six men to carry the coffins and six more to keep off the rain. Twelve men, plus a preacher, plus the funeral director and his two attendants would simply not fit around the two partner graves. Mr. Hicks and his partners emptied Dr. Steptoe’s hearse first because he would lay next to the family seated on the first row, under the tarp. Then they got Tootsie, who lay next to him.

  Rain beaded and rolled off the caskets.

  Bitty Jack was not eager to see her boyfriend’s parents lowered like furniture. She was sick of all the tears. This had gone on long enough. She hated this place. She hated the rain. She hated Mrs. Hicks, who had suddenly stood up. Following her lead, the extended family stood up, their soles caught in the mud, laces asunder.

  Stewart never budged, his head in his hands. He didn’t watch the caskets set down on the pulleys. He didn’t sense the crackpot Bitty saw in Mrs. Hicks.

  The funeral attendants pulled the motor levers, which started the caskets on their easy way down. The small engines churned. The pulleys were taut. All eyes, except Bitty Jack’s, were on the Steptoes’ descent.

  Bitty Jack watched Mrs. Hicks sway close to Dr. Steptoe’s coffin. Her lips were still moving, but they were unreadable. It was if she were slurring her words mouthed in tongue.

  Mr. Hicks made his way around the sinking Steptoes to comfort his wife. He excused himself past the preacher, past the relatives, but in his effort to be courteous, he was too slow. Before he could lay a hand on her, Mrs. Hicks jumped.

  She cleared Dr. Steptoe, but belly-flopped onto his wife’s coffin that at this point was close to a foot below ground. She straddled the casket and snatched flowers off it like fistfuls of hair.

  “Tootsie!” she screamed. “Where is she?”

  “Carolyn,” came her husband’s voice. “Carolyn,” through the rhythm of the rain.

  The casket sunk even deeper, two, then three feet. The pulleys swayed under Mrs. Hicks’s frantic efforts. Mrs. Hicks slid to one side, shifted her weight, regained her balance. She jerked up her skirt for better leverage. Her black panty hose tore. Her slim legs fattened against the sides of the casket.

  Mr. Hicks tried to reach down for her, but she was too far gone.

  She bounced on her friend. “Answer me!”

  One of the pulleys broke and the foot of the coffin slipped and hit the hole hard. Mrs. Hicks hugged the coffin like a tree. “Is my daughter with you? Did she die worse than you?”

  “Carolyn,” said Mr. Hicks. “Carolyn—”

  “WHERE IS MY DAUGHTER?”

  Mrs. Hicks put her hands on the edge of the casket door. “Tell me!” She screamed and yanked with all her strength.

  “It’s been locked,” said the funeral director.

  “It’s no use,” said Mr. Hicks.

  But Mrs. Hicks continued. Her fingers slipped off the waxed oak, her body flew backward into the mud, calves moving crazily against the upright casket.

  “Is my daughter with you? Did she die worse than you?”

  Mr. Hicks was on his stomach now. The funeral director joined him. He motioned to his attendants and all four men lay side by side. They reached into the grave, none of them quite reaching her.

  Mrs. Hicks was stuck between the casket and the side of the grave. Her legs still in the air, the four men took swipes at her feet. One of the attendants caught hold of an ankle, but seemed hexed at the sight of Mrs. Hicks’s orange thong.

  The rest of the mourners were shell-shocked, but Bitty Jack came forward and told the attendant to “Pull!”

  Within moments, the men gathered Mrs. Hicks in their arms, but Mrs. Hicks defied them. She pointed through the crowd. She thrust out both arms and screamed for her daughter. “Nicole!” She got loose. “Nicole! There she is!”

  Mrs. Hicks tried to run but she stumbled, one shoe lost, on permanent loan to a size 6-narrow Steptoe. She hit the crowd like rows of Red Rover. Some people got out of her way. One gentleman tried to stun her with the handle of his umbrella. Everyone turned to see what she was trying for. But there was nothing. Just a storm settling and Mrs. Hicks falling for the final time that day.

  She fainted, face first, into the mud.

  Stewart made his first move. He came forward to help Mr. Hicks help his wife through the cemetery toward their car. Each took one arm by what was left of her biceps. They carried her this way: disheveled, legs like string.

  Bitty Jack stayed back. She watched the mourners make way for the Hicks, but, suddenly, one woman stepped out of the crowd.

  She wore a black turtleneck tunic and a long fitted skirt. Her body ballooned in the front and back. Her beads swung at the cliffs of her boobs. If Mrs. Hicks had looked up, the woman would have blocked her view entirely. She put a hand on each man’s shoulder. She said something and Mr. Hicks nodded. Stewart nodded too.

  The woman put her finger under Mrs. Hicks’s chin. She raised it and spoke as if Mrs. Hicks’s eyes were open. “Now don’t you get upset about me stealing your party.”

  With a tiny chuckle, she moved aside and walked straight toward Tom, calling his name, waving as if she might be invisible.

  “I live across the street,” she said and shook Tom’s hand. “We’ll move the reception to my house. Call your people. The back door’s open. It’s the one with the magnolia. Willamina will let them in.”

  The first thing Bitty Jack noticed when she walked into the Summers’s house was a silver-framed eight-by-ten of her thirteen-year-old foe. At the end of the front hallway, Bitty Jack stopped short at the glove table. Guests were filing past her, but Bitty Jack could not resist picking up Sarina’s photo.

  “My daughter,” said Mrs. Summers and took the photo, rubbing away Bitty’s fingerprints with the cuff of her blouse.

  “Sarina,” said Bitty Jack and then again to make it real, “Sarina Summers.”

  “You know her?”

  “We went to camp together.”

  “Oh, yes,” Mrs. Summers said. “Not the best experience for Sarina.” She put the photo back, angling it toward the door. She took Bitty Jack’s umbrella and placed it with the others in a tall brass container. “There was trouble there. I’m sure you remember. Some unfortunate business with a member of the staff.”

  “I remember,” said Bitty Jack.

  “So, who are you now?”

  “I’m Stewart’s girlfriend.”

  Mrs. Summers almost laughed. “Then this should really be interesting for you. Look around the house. There are photo albums everywhere. The ones with the blue leather spines are from middle school. There are pictures of Stewart before he gained the weight. Take a look. You’ll barely recognize him.”

  “I’ll keep my eyes open.”

  Mrs. Summers said, “You do that.” She pointed Bitty in the direction of Tom’s seafood buffet.

  Stewart had gotten there before her. Mrs. Summers had planted him in a reading chair, an arm’s reach from the peel-and-eat shrimp. Bitty Jack waved to him, but with every step she took, someone else stepped in front of her. There were so many people milling about. Everybody damp. Everybody eager for a napkin of their own. Bitty Jack tried to shimmy through the cliques, ribbing each other, keeping it light. Stewart was impossible to reach and, for the time, Bitty Jack was haunted by the possibility of Sarina.

  God forbid she be in this house.

  Bitty Jack made her way around the perimeter of the living room. Pictures were placed on tables and shelves, the bookcase, beneath lamps. It did not matter what the frames were made of—brass or cut glass or crystal or wood—every picture was of that girl. There she was at her sweet sixteen. There she was with her fluffy pom-poms.

  “High school,” explained a
voice over Bitty Jack’s shoulder. It was a voice, less shrill, that had deepened with the years. But Bitty Jack recognized it. It squeezed her throat and made her fight for every breath.

  “That’s me,” Sarina said. “High school cheerleader. Rah, rah, rah!”

  Bitty Jack turned and came to the shocking realization that her mother had been wrong all those years ago. Sarina was still beautiful. Worse than Bitty Jack could have ever imagined. She didn’t seem unhappy, as Mrs. Carlson had predicted. Sarina was bright-eyed and cheerful despite the occasion.

  Mrs. Summers came up behind Sarina and wrapped her arms around her waist and perched her chin on her daughter’s shoulder. “This is who I was telling you about. Stewart’s new girlfriend.”

  “So, how long have you been dating?”

  “Over two years.”

  “Stewart’s had a crush on Sarina since they were little.” Mrs. Summers turned her head to pretend-whisper into Sarina’s ear. “Remember how upset he was when you had to leave to go to camp?”

  Sarina laughed and Bitty Jack remembered how she had bragged about some boy. And then he undid . . . I made myself look . . . he didn’t say anything when I . . . But it wasn’t some boy, it was Stewart. She knew that now.

  Mrs. Summers broke Bitty Jack’s trance. “You two went to camp together. Dear, what did you say your name was again?”

  From Sarina’s expression, Bitty could see that she had figured it out.

  “Mother, this is Jack Carlson’s kid.”

  “Whose?” said Mrs. Summers.

  Sarina said, “You heard me.”

  Mrs. Summers reached out and took Bitty’s wrist. She held it tightly and Bitty Jack wondered if it was possible for bones to break under this kind of pressure. “I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Summers, her apology surprising Sarina as much as Bitty Jack.

  Bitty Jack concentrated on taking a deep breath. In her mind, she heard her mother, Take a deeeeeep breath. “I’m sure my father would appreciate that. I’m sure the owners would want to hear what you said.”

  “No, dear.” Mrs. Summers squeezed her wrist even tighter. “You misunderstand. I’m sorry that you’re here. I’m sorry that you’re involved with the Steptoe boy and that I am going to have to ask you to leave. I will not have the daughter of a child molester in my house. No matter what the circumstance. No matter who she is.” Mrs. Summers let go of Bitty Jack’s wrist. She reached behind her to secure her daughter. “Please leave.” Mrs. Summers stuck her neck out impatiently. “Tell Stewart you’re not feeling well and go out the back door.”

  Bitty Jack felt dizzy. She put her hand on the banister. She closed her eyes and started counting to ten. At one, two, three, Mrs. Summers, again, had her by the wrist.

  “Sarina,” Mrs. Summers said, “tell Stewart that his friend has gone home. Tell him she threw up and was embarrassed and went home.”

  Mrs. Summers wrapped her arm around Bitty Jack and trapped her within the confines of her plump upper arm and double-D bosom. She nearly carried Bitty as she steered her through the crowded, noisy house.

  “Poor lamb,” she explained to every guest who seemed to care. “This is all so upsetting.”

  When they got to the kitchen, Mrs. Summers opened the back door and helped Bitty Jack into the garage with a swift kick in the butt. Bitty Jack lost her balance on the two cement stairs. She landed hard. Her funny bones keeled over and she turned her head to look at Mrs. Summers.

  “No one hurts my daughter.” Mrs. Summers braced herself in the doorway, the noise from the reception backing up her authority. “Not your father. Not the sorry sight of you.”

  Bitty Jack winced as Mrs. Summers slammed the kitchen door. She tried to get up, but she was stunned. She had to figure out a way to get back to the dorms. She had to figure out what to do next. She put her cheek on the cool, painted cement and watched the rain fall outside the raised automatic garage door. She felt a breeze wash over her. She looked under the two cars parked parallel.

  Something moved.

  Bitty Jack got to her feet. She grabbed a Hula-Hoop as her only defense. She crept around the cars, the sand within the hoop sounding off with every step. When she got to the other side, she put down her makeshift weapon. There in the corner, between the cars and a tool cabinet, was a shivering, curled-up, messed-up human being.

  Bitty Jack could not be certain if it was a man or a woman. It was dressed in a gravedigger’s jumpsuit and covered with mud. It sat in a wet, sloppy puddle. It was cold beyond a doubt. Not dangerous. Just confused.

  “Are you okay?” said Bitty Jack. “Do you need any help?”

  The stranger looked up and took off a worker’s cap. A Rapunzel’s worth of long flaxen hair fell around her face. It fell down the front of her. It fell past her elbows. It was a girl, all right, and Bitty Jack knew who. “You were there today. Your mother wasn’t crazy.”

  “Haven’t you heard?” Nicole seemed startled at the sound of her own voice. She licked the snot from over her lip. “I’m the only one who’s crazy around here.”

  PART THREE

  Off with Her Head

  Sarina

  FOR SARINA, it had been a very bad day. Cold without release. Rotten for many reasons. It started with the funeral, which she had missed because of Joe.

  That morning, he whispered “Stay in bed a little longer.” Kiss, kiss, kiss. His body warm. He held her down and made her love him. Turned the alarm off. Kept the blinds wrung tight. When she came back from the bathroom, she found him sitting up in bed. She was naked and on her period. He was stern, his lips curled down.

  “I don’t want you running to the side of some ex-boyfriend.”

  “I haven’t seen him since high school.”

  “I don’t care. I still don’t like it.”

  Joe pulled back the covers and patted the blank spot. He smoothed the wrinkles on the butter yellow sheets. There was a dent in the partial down pillow he had bought just for her. It did look comfortable. Sarina crawled in and felt him press his body into her back.

  “I am the tablespoon. You are the teaspoon.”

  Sarina purred as she always did when Joe flattered the two of them and the way that they fit. She pushed her back against his chest. She closed her eyes at the sound of thunder, not far off, probably in Northport. Reaching back, she ran her hand along his peach-fuzzed hip. She was comfortable with his jealousy. Grateful for an excuse to stay out of the rain.

  They got out of bed when Joe went for the shower. Time for work. Up and at ’em. They ate cereal and Joe walked Sarina to her car.

  “Late night, again?” she asked.

  “ ’Fraid so,” said Joe.

  “Call me,” she said. “I’ll be at my mother’s.”

  Of course, Joe did not call and that’s the second thing that got on her nerves. If she were making a list, in order, it would be the third. The second would be thirteen cars parked on her lawn, twenty more curbed at the neighbors’, the cars extending two blocks over. Sarina had to hike from her Prelude to the front door. She was surprised by the Steptoe party; her house full like when her mother was married.

  That was the biggie, the first strike, the pisser: a Summers gathering. Her mother making rounds. Stewart as the guest of honor. That Chickasaw freak all up in her face. She should have gone to that funeral. Prepared herself. Worn the right clothes. If she had gone, she wouldn’t have had to mingle like company. There would have been no surprises. She would have known what to say.

  At one point Mrs. Summers asked about her boyfriend. “Where’s your boyfriend?” she said. “Where is our dear Joe?”

  Sarina knew her mother knew, but was tough-loving for effect.

  “You’ve got to keep control of him.”

  “I’m trying.”

  “Don’t try. Do.”

  Throughout the course of the reception, Sarina willed him to call. To show her mother that she’d whipped him. To show her mother that she wore the proverbial pants.

  But the guests soon left
and the caterers cleared. The furniture was moved back into place and her mother retired to her room to lie down. Sarina was left by herself in the living room. Not a chirp, not a murmur. Not a boyfriend who cared.

  Through the window, she saw Willamina at her green Chevrolet. She had a trunk full of clothes, extra ironing done at home. She slung two dozen shirts over one arm and carried a stack of sheets on the palm of one hand. She moved steadily, her knee-highs rubbing at the elastic. Sarina waved and wished she could live like Willamina. Sort, press, fold. Spray, rub, wash. No complications. No wants. Not the smallest of desires.

  Willamina plowed past her. Sarina followed, spouting details of the party Will had missed because she was helping caterers in the kitchen: some kid fingering the Swedish meat-ball platter; Stewart up close after so many years.

  “What happened to him?”

  “I don’t know. I guess he went home.”

  “Home where?” said Willamina.

  “Home home,” Sarina said.

  Willamina patted the tight gray curls that fit her head like a cap. “That’s a lot to happen to such a young man.”

  “Hey, Meena, are you cooking dinner tonight?”

  “Not my night. You forget. Your mother’s had me on a schedule for over a year. She likes the house to herself. Come tomorrow. I’ll do something with that left-over shrimp.”

  Sarina said she would, but she knew that she wouldn’t. It was the weekend which brought new movies. Alabama vs. Georgia in a women’s gymnastics meet. It was a time to be seen. Tomorrow, date night.

  Sarina left her mother to sleep, and she beat every red light back to Tri Delta. Inside, dinner was being served, but Sarina snuck up the stairs and locked her bedroom door behind her. She kept the lamps on low settings. She ate two cherry-frosted untoasted Pop-Tarts. She drank a Coke from the mini-fridge, but wanted a beer. She watched a string of sitcoms and did not answer when sisters knocked or called her name. When Joe phoned, she refused to pick up. She just stared at the answering machine, the button blinking as he spoke.