by Vicki Lane
As Elizabeth made ready for bed, she could hear Phillip showering in the guest room’s bath. She brushed out her hair, rebraided it loosely, and climbed into bed, taking the side farther from the door, just as she had done when Sam was alive. She propped herself against the pillows, put on her reading glasses, and opened her book. The dogs, settled in their accustomed places, were already deeply asleep. That won’t last, not with the full moon. They’ll be whining to go out around two.
A light tap, and Phillip, modestly clad in a white terrycloth bathrobe, opened the door. A wonderful aroma of soap and shampoo and man flowed into the room. He came in and shut the door, careful to make no sound, then, without speaking, he stood by the bed, seemingly unsure what he was doing there. He cleared his throat, as in preparation for a solemn declaration. Elizabeth put down her book and waited.
“The thing is…” he began, then faltered. “The thing is, I…Elizabeth, are you sure—”
Elizabeth leaned across the vacant side of the bed to tug at the damp terry cloth.
“Phillip, I’m as sure as I’m going to be. We can talk about it another time.”
“And your mother allowed the abuse to continue, even after you had told her about it?”
“Well, kind of…You see, Trish, the thing about it was—”
“No, I don’t see, and I don’t want you to tell me ‘the thing about it’ I want you to answer my question. I’ll repeat it, just in case you didn’t quite understand. And this time, I want a yes or a no. No ‘kind ofs,’ okay?”
There was a sniffle, a pause, and a choked sound that was probably a yes. Elizabeth paused in her cleaning of the empty bookshelves and turned up the radio volume. She had decided to listen to the morning broadcast of “Tell Trish” in preparation for the Thursday meeting with her erstwhile neighbor.
Trish Trantham’s hectoring tones continued. “Bethany, you have to take responsibility for your memories—you have to remember things as they were, not as you wish they had been. You’ve spent your life excusing your mother’s behavior, trying to be the good little girl whose mommy loved her. Now, I’ll ask you again, and I want a direct answer—no qualifying, no explaining—did your mother continue to permit your stepfather’s sexual abuse of you?”
A stifled gulp was followed by a whispered “Yes.”
“Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it, Bethany?” Trish’s harsh, demanding voice suddenly became warm and nurturing, her honeyed syllables rewarding the caller who had at last responded correctly.
A sob of relief and then Bethany quavered, “No, I guess not. Th-thank you, Trish.”
“And do you see now that you don’t owe this evil woman anything? You don’t have to invite her to live with you; you don’t have to spend time with her; you certainly don’t have to allow her any contact at all with your children. Bethany, you have my permission to put this horrible woman out of your life forever.”
“But, Trish,…she’s…she’s my mother.”
“We’re going to commercial break right now. Meanwhile, remember, if you have a problem, ‘Tell Trish!’ My number is—”
“That’s enough of you, Mrs. Barbie.” Elizabeth dropped her cleaning cloth as the radio began to burble the praises of vinyl siding. She jabbed the button to switch to CD and shoved in a reggae disk.
She had driven Phillip and Rosemary down to their cars a little before nine that morning so that they could be on their respective ways: he to his ten o’clock class at AB Tech, and she to Chapel Hill.
“I’ll be back Thursday,” Rosemary had promised. “Mum, how about if I meet you at the Trish Trantham Lifeworks place at one? That’s when she said she could see us.” With an enthusiasm she did not feel, Elizabeth had agreed. She had kissed her daughter good-bye, and watched her drive away. Phillip had taken his time, first opening his trunk as if in search of something, then going into the greenhouse to speak to Julio. Finally he returned and stood by the jeep’s open window.
“Julio says that he and Homero will be right here all day and they’ll keep an eye on the road. I’ll feel a lot better once you’ve done some target practice.” He started to say more, then stopped himself. His hand started up in the familiar gesture.
Elizabeth reached out the window and grabbed the hand, halting its upward sweep. “I know; you want me to be careful. And I will. It’ll take me most of the day to vacuum all those books and put them back in order. And I’ll keep Sam’s gun nearby.”
Phillip leaned to kiss the hand that held his. “Take care of yourself, my love.”
She worked her way steadily through the stacks of books, vacuuming and returning each volume to its alphabetical destination. Slowly the newly cleaned shelves across the living room’s back wall began to fill again. Douglas Adams …Watership Down… all of Jane Austen…Robertson Davies…Hermann Hesse …Lost Horizons… Kazantzakis (and the plangent sound of bouzouki music filled her head) …The Just So Stories… Michener’s Hawaii and The Source… Ayn Rand (but she has no compassion! a philosophy professor had warned her); each volume that she touched recalled a time and place in her life.
And so many demanded the quick rereading of a favorite passage or a glance at a remembered illustration. Mary Renault’s wonderful retellings of Greek history and myth…Salinger …Treasure Island (with the N. C. Wyeth illustrations: cobalt skies and billowing rosy clouds) …Vanity Fair and the lively Becky Sharp…Thoreau.
A copy of Walden, one of the icons of the back-to-the-land movement. She slid it from its faded green sleeve. The front cover was a woodcut, green on cream, showing Henry David Thoreau’s famous little “tight-shingled and plastered house, ten feet wide by fifteen long.” Elizabeth held the book in her hand and remembered. I owe you a copy, Sam had said, handing it to her on his return from a trip, the same year of the deadly plane crash. The one you gave me when we first met didn’t make it back from Nam. But the ideas stayed with me. Besides, it was only a paperback—I hope this will be around a lot longer.
He had handed it to her and put his hands over hers as she clasped the book. There’s important stuff in here, Liz. The things that brought us here; lessons we shouldn’t ever forget. Keep it safe.
She opened the little book and flipped through the pages. As far as she could remember, she’d never read this copy—too caught up in life itself to spare time for the somewhat precious observations of a young man who had, when all was said and done, lived quietly and simply for a few years before rejoining the common throng.
But there’s some fine writing here, all the same, she thought, leafing through the pages. It taught an appreciation of simplicity…and a love of nature that has stayed with me, even if I don’t live as simply as Thoreau did. Of course, he didn’t have children.
She started to shelve the book, then, changing her mind, set it on her bedside table. I owe old Henry David another look, she decided.
Elizabeth dusted off the last two books, Virginia Woolf and Émile Zola—now, there’s an odd couple, and returned them to the shelves, then tried to decide what to do next. Not enough time to begin a major project, and too early to start supper. She looked speculatively up at the loft bedroom. Those spy notebooks. She said I could read them. And I’d dearly love to get a glimpse into her mind back then. Children are so strange and wonderful. And Rosie was such an enigma—when she was Rosie, not pretending to be Running Deer or whatever the name of her Indian princess alter ego was.
Minutes later, Elizabeth was sitting on one of the low twin beds in the loft bedroom. She plucked a speckled-covered notebook from the pile beside her, opened it at random, and read. I know that it was a bad thing to do but I don’t care. Mum and Pa have done bad things too.
AT THE SCUTTLE HOLE
August 1986
WITH CATLIKE TREAD, upon her foe she steals…dum, dum, dum, dee dum, dee dum, dee dum.
The Pirates of Penzance song was running through her head as Rosemary crept up the path to the scuttle hole. A little way off she could hear the bang of Pa’s fence tool as
he drove in more staples to hold up the barbed wire and fix the fence where the cows had knocked it down.
Good thing Dinah stayed with Laurie, thought Rosemary, carefully inspecting the ground ahead of her so that she would not betray her presence by a snapped twig or a rolling pebble. I could never sneak up on Pa if she was with me.
Rosemary would have preferred soft moccasins for her spy work, but Mum always made her wear hiking boots when she went climbing on the mountain, and the clumpy boots made it extra hard to be quiet. Still, she could see Pa now, leaning down to drive in another staple, and he hadn’t heard her yet.
Taking advantage of the banging, Rosemary advanced another few yards, then ducked behind a huge poplar just as Pa stood up and pulled off his T-shirt. He wiped the sweat off his face and flapped the shirt in front of him like a fan. The shirt was dark with perspiration and Pa stretched it out over the top strand of wire.
She had to stifle a giggle. It was fun being a spy. Maybe if Pa left his shirt there while he kept on working…maybe she could creep up and grab it without his seeing her. It would be like counting coup. That would show Maythorn what a good Cherokee Rosemary was becoming.
Pa moved a little farther along the fence, stretching wire and hammering it to the posts. Rosemary stayed behind the big tree, waiting for her opportunity. When he gets to the scuttle hole…then I’ll make my move.
Well, hello there, neighbor. I heard all that racket and thought maybe it was some big woodpecker.
Rosemary peeked cautiously around the massive trunk. Rats! Mrs. Barbie. Just like her to come along and ruin things.
Howdy, Patricia. No, it’s just me trying to keep the damn cows where they belong. Were you looking for Maythorn? She hasn’t been over today—our Rosie’s down at the house reading.
Oh, that Maythorn, she’s here and there. I don’t even try to keep up with her. You know, she has another little friend she visits—a local child called Tammy or something like that. Somewhere over there.
Mrs. Barbie’s hand waved vaguely toward the top of the mountain. The big shirt she wore over a pair of purple shorts fell open, revealing a brightly flowered bikini top.
Her boobs are about to fall out, thought Rosemary in prim disgust. I’m glad Mum doesn’t wear stuff like that.
Mrs. Barbie laughed. She had a silly, tee-hee-hee laugh. Well, as you can see, I was down by the pool. Then I heard the banging and got curious, so I decided to investigate.
From her hiding place Rosemary could see Mrs. Barbie take a step closer to her father and place one hand on his bare chest. She tilted her head to look up at him, batted her false eyelashes, and purred. But I’m glad to find you up here, Sam. I’ve been wanting to talk to you about something. Moon doesn’t notice things and it’s hopeless trying to discuss anything with him. Sam, I’m a little concerned about that retarded local who wanders all around. Do you think he’s safe?
Pa looked at Mrs. Barbie’s hand as he answered. Cletus knows these woods better than anyone, according to his mother. Yes, I’d say he’s perfectly safe.
Pa took a step back but Mrs. Barbie followed him. She twiddled her fingers on his arm.
Oh, Sam, that’s not what I meant. I mean, is he safe to have around the children? I think he may have kind of a thing about little girls, especially Krystalle. He’s never done anything, but somehow—
I don’t think there’s anything to worry about there, Patricia. Cletus is at our place a lot and Liz—
That reminds me, how is Elizabeth? I hadn’t seen her in ages, and then I ran into her at the grocery store last week and I almost didn’t recognize her. She looked…oh, just so tired and unhappy. Is she all right?
Liz tries to do too much. And adjusting to this new life has been hard. Pa said this patiently, like he was repeating himself.
And it did sound familiar. Rosemary had heard her parents quietly arguing about this…and other things too.
Mrs. Barbie’s voice dropped to a low murmur. Rosemary could just hear some of what she said…. Understand all too well…frustration…Moon…drinking problem…attracted to you.
There was a silence. With all the caution of her Cherokee training, Rosemary inched her head to where she could see what was happening. Patricia Mullins had her arms around Pa’s neck. She was pulling his face down to meet hers.
Rosemary hadn’t waited to see what would happen next. She was older than she had been when she saw Mum kissing Maythorn’s uncle…a lot older…and she knew what might come next. They hadn’t heard her hurrying away down the trail.
She hadn’t cried this time. Maythorn had taught her that Indians don’t show pain or sorrow. That other time, a year and a half ago, she had boo-hooed like a big baby, but not now.
Instead of going back to the house, where Mum might ask questions, she had made straight for the Cave of the Two Sisters. There was comfort beneath the solid shapes of the leaning giants, always together, always faithful. She pulled out her spy notebook and began to write.
What was that? She froze and listened. The sound of something rustling through the bushes outside sent a chill over her body. Now it was scrabbling at the entrance to the hideout. A terrible thought came to her and she felt her mouth go dry.
What if it was Cletus? Miss Birdie said that he knew this mountain like the back of his hand. That meant he probably knew about this cave. Was it him scraping his way through the low entrance? Rosemary shivered as she remembered the last time she was alone with Cletus—when he had skinned the squirrel. Is he safe to have around the children?…a thing about little girls—Mrs. Barbie’s words echoed in her ears like the warning cries of circling crows.
The scratching and scrabbling grew louder, and Rosemary grabbed one of the fist-sized rocks that Maythorn had insisted they carry into the hideout. Ammo in case the enemy attack, Maythorn had said. Rosemary’s fingers curled tightly around the rock.
A faded blue ball cap came into view in the low entrance and Rosemary dropped the rock. She sank to a cross-legged sitting position, hastily opened her spy notebook, and began to write, summoning all the nonchalance at her command.
Maythorn slid into view, breathing hard. One braid had come undone and black hair spilled from under her cap. Her jeans were filthy and scratches covered her thin brown arms. She put her finger to her lips and listened intently for a few moments. No sound came from outside the hideout.
At last she relaxed and stretched full-length on the sandy floor. They almost caught me, she told Rosemary. But I gave ’em the slip.
Who was chasing you, Maythorn? Rosemary looked wide-eyed at her friend, her blood twin.
Those folks over the mountain. Tamra’s dad and some others. They have a bunch of mean dogs. I’m pretty sure they’re growing marijuana and they didn’t want me to see it.
Rosemary knew all about marijuana. Officer Jim and Officer Deb had talked to the school assembly about the bad things that could happen to kids who smoked it. How do you know it’s marijuana, she asked, wondering how long Maythorn had been going over the mountain to see this Tamra, wondering why Maythorn had never talked about another friend.
Jared told me. He buys it from them. I followed him over there one time. Maythorn rolled over, reached into the pocket of her knapsack, and pulled out a small tin cough-drop box. She sat up, and with a knowing half smile opened the box and waved it under Rosemary’s horrified eyes.
A small box of matches and a lumpy-looking cigarette lay within the little container. Maythorn narrowed her eyes and looked at her friend. Jared gave me this so I wouldn’t tell Moon that he had some weed—that’s what Jared calls it. And this is a joint.
What are you going to do with it? Rosemary couldn’t take her eyes off the forbidden object. You could get in big trouble….
What do you think I’m going to do with it? A rattle of matches, a spurt of flame, and after several false starts, the joint was alight. You’re supposed to breathe the smoke right into your lungs, Maythorn said. Breathe it in and hold it there as long as you ca
n. Jared showed me how. He said it’s like an Indian vision quest.
21.
THE SPY NOTEBOOKS
Monday, October 17
The defiant words, so incongruous in the young Rosemary’s looping, sprawled handwriting, had been written with pencil, pressed so hard that the indentations were still visible. Two heavy, angry lines underscored the words “I don’t care.” With a sick feeling, Elizabeth turned back to the beginning of the entry.
August 9, 1986—Today I saw Pa kissing Maythorn’s mom. And today me and Maythorn smoked marywana weed. I know that it was a bad thing to do but I don’t care. Mum and Pa have done bad things too.
“Oh, god! The poor baby. It wasn’t bad enough that she saw me that time with Mike, but then to see Sam acting the same way! And that bitch Patricia. Oh, my poor baby Rosie!”
Heartsick, Elizabeth closed the little book and thrust it away. She buried her face in her hands and rocked back and forth in misery. I never wanted the girls to know anything about that…that stupid, stupid, passing craziness that hit first me, then Sam. I wanted them to have a perfect childhood, not worrying that their parents might get divorced, that one would leave. I never wanted them to carry around the kind of anxiety I felt when I was growing up—the emptiness, the guilt.
She raised her head and looked around the little room that for so many years had been Rosemary’s private lair. The unicorn posters had been taken down; the menagerie of stuffed animals had been dispersed; the lavender-blue walls had been repainted apple green. It was now “the loft guest room” not “Rosie’s room.” But the bookshelves still held many of Rosemary’s childhood books and treasures. And, in some indefinable sense, the room retained the imprint of the Rosie that had been.
Elizabeth closed her eyes in a half-formed prayer. She wanted to believe that the angry words penciled in the notebook had been a momentary reaction, that the essential Rosemary herself had remained untouched. But just a few months after this, Maythorn vanished. And Rosie stopped talking. Of course we thought it was the terrible loss of her friend. But was it also a reaction to what she saw as her parents betraying each other?