by LOTT, BRET
The day after Leston came home with the Studebaker, I told Mr. White that we were moving back to Mississippi, some sort of true proof in my husband’s purchase of a new car that we’d really be going. Mr. White’d only smiled, put out his hand for me to shake.
We were in the gymnasium at West High, the children out on the court in four teams for two games of badminton. Long ago we’d gotten rid of Mrs. Klausman, now had two Long Beach State PE majors paid by the Foundation to lead the children in their daily activity time. There were two station wagons then, too, another woman, Mrs. Cox, and I traded routes in the mornings and afternoons so we wouldn’t get too bored at making the same rounds every day.
Word had it Word always had it at the Foundation, Word about new and fantastic events coming at us, those Words floating through us like the rumors they usually were, but sometimes taking hold, proving out to be true that not too far off was some sort of short day program at Lawndale High. Mr. White’s plans to get the children onto the campus of a public high school for at least a small amount of class time each day were supposedly coming close to actually happening after all these years of fussing and tussling with school board after school board.
All the way back to the old Foundation office on Adams he’d been talking about this happening, our children showing up to public schools. And just before we’d moved, the Word had started its rounds, soon they’d be in real schools, not jammed into an old storeroom.
But that day in the gymnasium, he’d only shaken my hand, put his other hand to my shoulder, and smiled. A whistle blew, and one of the college boys, Neil, a big bear of a boy, black hair in a crew cut, shoulders broader than either Wilman’s or Burton’s ever were, called out to the children, “Okay, people, let’s swing the racket up.
Everybody! ” I glanced to the children, saw them swing their rackets up as close as they’d ever get to together, then looked back at Mr. White.
He let go my hand, took the other from my shoulder, buried both hands deep in his pockets. He said, “If we were in my office, I’d make you sit in that chair in front of my desk, and I’d put you through my lecture on how valuable you’ve been to the Foundation.” He paused, looked down at the parquet floor, said, “But I think you may already know that.” He smiled, said, “And I don’t think you’d sit in that chair, either.”
“Certainly not, ” I said, and smiled. “You know me better than that.”
“Of course, ” he said. “I, being the pompous and arrogant man I am, am right.” He laughed, and I did, too, though I found it hard to. This was the end of things.
I looked out to the children, saw the other college boy Stan was his name, a boy as blond as one of those surfing boys we’d see disappear into fog the morning we would leave for Mississippi standing behind Marcella, his arm on hers, gently lifting the racket in a fine arc from her knee to just above her shoulder.
Mr. White cleared his throat, said, “But what I’m not certain I understand is why you’re leaving. And why, ” he said, his voice gone low, almost to a whisper, “to Mississippi. Perhaps you’re returning to your family ” “I have no family out there, ” I cut in. I swallowed, said, “I was orphaned at age eleven.”
“Oh, ” he said. “Oh, ” and I saw only then how thin this relationship had actually been all these years, he knew nothing of me, knew only I’d been a teacher once, two or three lives before this one. He knew nothing of a logging shack, or of pomade or bamboo fans printed with Bible verses, or of leather belts or blasting stumps for the Government. The fact was that I’d known more of him after our first meeting in an oak-paneled office on Adams than he knew of mwe right now, after eight years of helping him.
But what I found most strange was that I took comfort in that, because it only proved I’d been successful in my mission so far, this relationship was bound up in Brenda Kay, and how I’d been able to lend my hand to helping fix her life, and the lives of these other children.
That was where I’d wanted the focus of my life to stay, and, judging by how little he knew of me, I’d made that happen.
“I’m sorry to hear that, ” he said, his face all serious, and I’d had l to make myself laugh for him, ease the obvious strain I’d put between us. He didn’t know what to do with what I’d just told him.
“Thanks for feeling sorry, ” I said, “but it happened quite a while ago.” I smiled.
He looked down. He said, “Yet I’m still surprised you’d choose to move back. What with the unrest there, the racial tension going on.”
“Racial tension, ” I said.
He looked up at me. “Why, yes, ” he said. “I’m speaking of the freedom marches, the bus rides. Dr. Martin Luther King.”
“Oh, ” I said, and I glanced again out to the court. Stan and Neil stood together now on the far side of the gym, arms crossed. They both had on the same outfit they wore every day, gray sweatpants, gray sweatshirts, whistles round their necks. Stan was saying something to Neil, both of them looking at the children swinging away. Then Neil busted out laughing, shook his head. “Carrie, ” Stan called out, “hold tight to the racket, ” and left Neil to his laughter.
“I’ve been hearing about that for quite a while, ” I said. “But it won’t have anything to do with us.” I looked to him, smiled. “We’re just poor crackers moving to a bayou.”
He looked at me, shrugged. He said, “Well then, why are you moving?
From all this ” he brought a hand from his pocket, gestured at the crowd of children. “And from what’s coming up soon.”
“You mean Lawndale High School, ” I said.
He smiled, said, “That must be common knowledge now.” He paused. “So why are you moving? ” I swallowed again, took in his words, because now he was asking for the truth, not stumbling on it, like he’d stumbled on the small pebble of my history I’d just revealed to him, me an orphan at eleven. He was asking straight out for the one true reason we were moving, and I had to swallow again, struggle out the words.
I forced a smile, said, “My husband, my Leston, wants us to.” I said nothing else, felt myself bite my lower lip, felt a drop of sweat cut a small swath down the middle of my back.
“Oh, ” he said. He took his hands out of his pockets, crossed his arms.
He had on a navy suit coat suits being his own uniform of sorts, and I remember looking at him as he half-turned from me, looked away from me and out onto the court.
He said, “I’ve certainly no experience in that department, as well you know. Marriage, I mean.” He paused, nodded at the children. “I’m quite pleased with the performance of these young men.”
I turned to them, too, saw that Stan and Neil were lining the children up in order of height, little Carrie first, followed by Marcella, Brenda Kay two children back from her, Dennis, I was thankful, five children back from Brenda Kay. They each still had a racket in one hand, and stood a few feet back of one net. Then Stan ran around to the opposite side of the net, a birdie in one hand, racket in the other. “Ready? ” he called out, and Neil, next to Carrie, him so big and brawny next to that tiny child, took hold her wrist as Stan’d done with Marcella. “Ready! ” Neil said, and Stan batted the birdie high up and over the net, Neil swinging up Carrie’s racket so that she batted it right back.
Stan made a big stunt out of backing up and backing up, trying to center himself under the birdie coming back down to him, his arms flailing about as he backed up even more, then finally fell down on the floor, only to have the birdie drop dead center on his chest.
Neil cheered and clapped at Carrie’s making contact with the birdie, her so pleased with herself she dropped the racket, clasped her hands together at her chest and started stomping the floor, a smile wide across her face.
Then the clapping and cheering was picked up by the rest of the children, healthy sounds of young people happy at what success they could find.
Mr. White turned to me, smiling. “You see what I mean? This program is certainly a triumph. A far cry from a chu
rch parking lot. And a far cry from that dismal start with Miss what’s-her-name.”
“Klausman, ” I said, and he nodded, looked back to the children, Marcella stepping up for her chance now.
But I was looking at his navy suit coat, at how, with his arms crossed, the cuffs of his white shirt poked out the sleeves, the cuff links he had on with some insignia on them, and I remember thinking how this was his own uniform, his identification, the clothes he wore saying simply philanthropist. And suddenly I saw Leston’s white shortsleeve shirt and wing tips and black ties, his uniform, Head of Maintenance, it spoke, and there came to me the picture of my two sons wearing their Royal Crown uniforms, Salesman, and I wondered, too, if James, standing before his high-school Ag. class, didn’t wear a white laboratory coat like my old science teachers at Pearl River Junior College wore, those coats saying Teacher. And I thought of Billie Jean, her white outfit and paper hat tacked high up on her head, Nurse.
I looked out at the children there, Stan doing the same act again with Marcella’s birdie, the birdie arcing high, then falling, falling, and I looked at Brenda Kay, at what she had on, blue cotton shortsleeve blouse, blue slacks to hide her scars, white orthopedic shoes, Retarded daughter.
And finally, I looked down at my own clothes, at the gray and blue plaid dress, buttons down the front, thin little collar, black shoes with a low heel.
Mr. White turned to me again, uncrossed his arms, jammed his hands back into his pockets. Those cuff links’d gone, just disappeared.
“Your husband, I imagine, has family there? In Mississippi.”
“Oh, yes, ” I said, nodded, thought of that photograph of Toxie, his two fingers there at his hip. “Spread around the state. We’ll be seeing them.”
“I want you to know how truly sorry I am to hear this from you, hear of your husband’s choosing to leave, ” he said, and here came his hand to my shoulder again, him on stage as always, his touching me meant to convey how genuine was his emotion.
He said, “I’ve never been married, so I can only imagine how difficult it must be to have to form your own will to someone else’s. It must be tremendously difficult, and for that I admire you. Giving up one’s own will for the judgment of another, ” he said, “even at the risk of sacrificing Brenda Kay’s education.” He stopped, slowly shook his head, then said, “I can only imagine.”
And though I nodded, knew in his words was a kernel of truth this was not the best thing for Brenda Kay another part of me seethe , wanted his hand off my shoulder, his words out of my head. I nodded, while inside I shook my head as hard as I could, You can not imagine, I screamed. You can not.
He smiled, gave my shoulder a gentle shake. He said, “We’ll have a party for you and Brenda Kay before you go.”
I lay awake each night, and each night my mind and the pictures I came up with worked right through the same cycle, first, what new occurrences I could use as ammunition against my husband, crash away at him and his own wrongheaded resolve to make us stay here, even if Brenda Kay’d been so scared by that fish beneath her feet she wouldn’t even dangle her feet off the dock now, wouldn’t even climb into the jonboat Leston’d bought off a friend of Toxie’s. Each night I hoped for more occurrences such as that one in the waters of the Gulf of Mexico, even if they’d be at the expense of my baby daughter.
Next came pictures of the life ahead, those pictures prophecies, I knew, the image of Brenda Kay’s name scrawled across the bottom of a picture I might name “Waves at the Beach” as great a glory as I could figure on seeing in my life, a glory I knew would some day be mine.
And lastly there came to me each night that blue and gray plaid dress, my eyes looking down at it, that word Wife and the uniform I knew I’d wear the rest of my days no matter what clothes I had on come to haunt me, me still Lying there awake in bed, still here in Mississippi, still trying to find some way back.
I never knew when or how I fell asleep, only knew that when I awoke each morning I sat straight up in bed, my nightgown soaked with sweat, and shot my eyes round the room in an effort to remember where I was, and who this man in bed next to me was, and why that word Wife still circled me, swirled round me like a fearless ghost in the pale, wet light of dawn on a bayou, outside the open window behind me the lonesome, measured drone of a woodpecker high up in a cypress, this next day in Mississippi already begun. , . f CHAPTER 35.
BUT IT WAS LESTON TO CALL DOWN GOD’S ANSWER TO MY PRAYERS, MY husband to make happen our moving back to California, though he’d no way to know that was what he was doing. On just one day my husband put into motion our lives in a way that led to our leaving this place, and put us back on the narrow path.
One morning in July he woke up before me, and when I sat up in bed he was already at the dresser, pants on, cigarette at his lips. He tucked in the old shirt he had on, then started to buckle the belt, all with his back to me. Sunlight came in from behind me, through that open window, so that his clothes seemed to shine, white in the light as I blinked my eyes, rubbed back the little sleep I’d gotten.
He said, “Taking Brenda Kay fishing. If that’s fine with you.”
He cinched the belt, reached to the dresser for his pocketknife and change. He half-turned to me, smoke snaking up from the cigarette. He blinked at the light shining in on him as he looked at me. “No need to worry, ” he said, and smiled. “You get her dressed, and I’ll entertain her awhile. Give you some time to yourself.” He paused. “Thought maybe, too, we’d take a drive after lunch.”
In his smile was that same confident and powerful man, the one who, the evening he came home and told us he wouldn’t be wearing a gray uniform anymore, had lifted me off my feet, nearly swung me round the kitchen, and for a few minutes while I got myself dressed, then made my way to Brenda Kay’s room, roused her from sleep and led her to the bathroom, there seemed some jagged edge of remorse in me for giving him all the grief I knew I did each day. There’d been the business I’d given him about his knowing there were rays out in the Gulf, for example, or the ten or twelve new mosquito bites Brenda Kay woke up with each morning, me leading her into the kitchen where Leston sipped his coffee and rolled his cigarettes. Then I’d stand his baby daughter in front of him, lift the bottom edge of her nightgown, point out the small red welts.
Each morning I said, “Take a look at these, Leston, ” the red welts on her scarred skin an even deeper red than those about her ankles or arms.
Then I always turned Brenda Kay around, led her right back out the kitchen and to her room before Leston was able to say a word.
Yet still here was my husband, up and out of bed and, I could hear through the bathroom floor, already down in the storeroom under the house, fiddling with his tackle box, making ready, I knew, the old bamboo pole he’d found down there when we’d moved in, fixing right then a bobber to the line, a hook and weight, so that his daughter could fish with him, this same daughter sitting on the toilet and yawning.
Remorse is what I felt, even through the humidity and heat of the day rising up around me. I reached down, reeled off the right number of sheets of toilet paper for Brenda Kay she’d already jammed the toilet four times for using too much of it, the water pressure here nowhere near what it used to be in Manhattan Beach and I smiled at the fact it didn’t matter how fine the plumbing in a house was, if a pipe got plugged, it got plugged.
She finished, and I heard Leston stomp up the porch steps, the screen door bang closed.
“Ready yet? ” he called out from the front room, and Brenda Kay stood, pulled her underdrawers up, flushed the toilet. She watched it like she does, watched it until the water swirled down and disappeared. She looked at me, smiled, proud.
“Daddy’s taking you fishing today, ” I said, and that remorse I was feeling made me smile all the harder, guilt working its way through me.
I said, “You’re going to have a fine time with him. You two catch some fish and I’ll fry it up for supper, all right? ” “Fish? ” she said, and slowly lifte
d a hand to her head, scratched.
“That’s right.” I turned on the water at the sink, said, “Now let’s wash up first, then we’ll get dressed and you can head out the dock.”
She bent to the sink, put her hands under the water like every morning, but then turned her head, looked up at me. “Fish? ” she said. Her hands were still beneath the water, her eyes steady on me.
He’d never asked her to go before, never showed her a thing about surfcasting, nor crabbing. Nothing. This was a fact I knew, but only now did I see what was different about all this, it was Brenda Kay who’d realized it, too, her eyes on me a question, asking, Is it true?
It hadn’t taken me long to find out how little I could teach Brenda Kay on my own, for all the hours I spent each day working on the alphabet at the kitchen table with her, showing her her name printed out carefully in big block letters on tablet paper, Brenda Kay never once made an effort to write out the letter R. Instead, she dissolved into tears after the first twenty minutes of my urging, my holding her hand and tracing the letters, so that still all she churned out the first two months we were here were rows and rows of letter B’s, and scribble drawings, and collage pictures we made with white glue and pages clipped from the Reader’s Digest.
But that spark she had, the spark I was determined not to let die, was still here, this early morning in July she’d perceived a change in her daddy’s behavior herself, one more piece of evidence that there was hope for her. There was a spark in her eyes, the same spark I believed must have been in the eyes of Mr. White’s baby brother himself, and I thought of how that spark’d been lost, burned out. This was my baby daughter, and I knew that if she were only in the right place and surrounded by the right people, the right activities, she could grow, could find a way to write her name, to figure the number of sheets of toilet paper she needed. She needed those other children around her, needed the teachers, needed the time swinging badminton rackets in order for her to learn.