“Mama.” The baby pointed at me. “Baba.”
His mother shifted as I averted my eyes. “Are you hungry? That’s what he says when he’s hungry.”
“No, thank you,” I mumbled. “The food cart smells awful.” My gaze darted to hers.
The corners of her mouth rose and fell in an almost smile. “We haven’t tried anything. I packed a dozen peanut butter sandwiches for Declan here.” Her eyes were so dark I couldn’t tell if they were blue or black.
“Where you headed?”
“Portland.” She paused for a moment, as if deciding how much she should say. “My husband left us. Unexpectedly.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well, it’s what men do.” She handed the little boy a cup with handles on either side. “Where’re you going?” The material of her sweater was thin at the elbows and the sleeve ends frayed.
“Oregon coast.” I held my teacup between my cold hands and let the steam drift onto my face. “Home to my mother, God help me.”
“I’m sorry too,” she said.
“For what?”
“For whoever broke your heart.”
It was my turn for the corners of my mouth to twitch in a half-smile. “How’d you know?”
“Misery loves company.” She pulled on her ponytail. The little boy picked up the discarded crust of his sandwich and handed it to her. She broke it in half and stuck it in her mouth, chewing slowly. “What happened?”
“Crazy ex-wife.”
“Ah, yeah, well you probably dodged a bullet.”
“You?” I asked.
“Some men are more made for the bar than family life.”
I held out my hand. “I’m Constance Mansfield.”
“Roma Treadwell.” She shook my hand before patting the baby’s head. “This is Declan.”
“What’s in Portland?”
She looked out the window again with a long sigh. “My sister. MaryAnn. She’s married to a rich guy that hates kids. Said we could stay a week. Just long enough for her to list all the things wrong with me.”
“Why bother, then?”
She pointed at her purse. “I’m going to beg for a loan. There’s eighteen dollars and some change in there.”
“What do you do for work?”
“Clean houses. That’s what my mother did and I used to help her before I married Declan’s dad. I was pregnant, just like my mother was with MaryAnn. Same old pattern.”
“I’m nothing like my mother.” I picked at a painful hangnail on my middle finger until it bled. I stuck my finger in my mouth and sucked.
“There’s Declan, you know, to take care of. Don’t know what kind of job I can get with a kid attached to my hip.”
I sat up straighter, suddenly energized with an idea and for the first time in a week thinking of something besides my own misery. “Come to Legley Bay. I know everyone there. I could help you find work.”
She scratched a spot on her shoulder. When she took her hand away the sweater was bunched where she’d gripped. “Legley Bay?”
“It isn’t much. You blink and you’ll miss it. Everything’s gray most of the year. But, as my father says, the sea air will help with whatever ails you.” I pointed at Declan. “And it’s a good place to raise a child.”
She brought Declan onto her lap. “What do you think, buddy, should we go see the ocean?” She put her chin on the top of his head. “You don’t even know me. Why would you do this?”
“Because it makes me feel better to help someone else in trouble. Pure selfishness, really.”
She grinned for the first time. Her teeth were white but somewhat crooked. “You a teacher or lawyer or something? You look like something smart. And talk like someone smart.”
“I’m a writer. I have my first novel coming out this fall. And my advance isn’t enough to live on for more than six months. God knows I can’t live with my mother for long or I might end up in the insane asylum.”
She shook her head, admiration in her eyes. “A writer. A real writer. I knew you were something smart.”
“A broke writer.”
“Just write another book, right? Get another advance thingee or whatever you called it.”
I smiled. “Yep, write another book, that’s the only thing to do.”
***
I shared my sleeper car with Roma and Declan for the rest of the trip. Thinking back on it now, I know they saved me.
Roma and I sat together as we approached Portland. “It rain like this all the time?” She touched her fingers to the glass.
“No. Only nine months out of the year.”
The train slowed, nearing the station. I took in a deep breath. Stay strong, I told myself, knowing my mother waited. When we arrived at the station, I made sure Roma had my parents’ phone number and slipped her several hundred dollars, even though she tried to protest. “You’ll need it for the bus ticket in case your sister doesn’t come through.” We agreed she’d call me in a day or two and give me details about when she might arrive. In the meantime, I would look for a place for them to stay.
“But what about you?” Roma asked. “What will you do?”
I shook my head. “I’ll figure it out.” We hugged and set out across the station.
“There’s my sister.” Roma pointed with her chin toward a woman who stood near the restrooms, dressed all in black and holding a pink purse. She squeezed my hand and then, with Declan on her hip, set off for her sister. I lost sight of them when they were swallowed up by the hordes of people exiting the train.
The station smelled of urine and the unwashed. Crowds jostled me as I walked, carrying my suitcase in one hand and my typewriter in the other. Where was my mother? Would she come? Of course she would, for the pleasure of telling me she told me so. Finally, I spotted her near the exit. Her head was tilted down, looking at her watch, tapping her foot. She wore her blue dress with the polka dots, which she only wore on Sunday to church, and her high-heeled pumps she’d had for at least twenty years. She looked up and spotted me. With her characteristic ramrod posture and her face tense and twitchy, she strode toward me. The traffic and streets of Portland had no doubt caused her anxiety but she would never admit to it. Instead it manifested as anger and irritation, probably directed toward me. I waved and took a deep breath. Then she was there, snatching my typewriter out of my hand and sighing, as if it were an unwanted guest. I expected to see triumph in her eyes but instead I saw resignation, an inevitability that this was to happen. You’ll be back.
I tried to smile as a way of greeting but instead the scratchy tears threatened to come. I swallowed and squeezed the handle of my suitcase.
“You’re too skinny.” Her eyes traveled the length of my body. “Jeans? For traveling?” She turned on her high heels and pointed toward the door. “I’m parked across the lot. It’s raining, of course.” She held up one of her feet. “Mud all over my good shoes.”
We crossed the parking lot, me trailing a foot or so behind. It was sprinkling, and the damp cold felt like it was seeping inside my bones. I shivered; only my feet were warm. Vermont boots were impervious to the dampness and the brown puddles in the parking lot.
My mother’s old station wagon was the same: faux wood paneling, vinyl seats, and the vanilla air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror. When we were settled in, she turned on the heat. It blew hot and dry on my face. After a moment, the windows steamed up. I made a circle on the passenger window and looked out, resting my chin in the palm of my hand. The colors of northwest Oregon were there, green mountains and gray sky and pink cherry blossoms.
“Why are you home?” she asked as we entered the freeway headed west.
“It didn’t work out.”
“The job?”
“Other things.”
The rain fell in large drops now, splashing against the front window. My mother turned on the wipers and then glanced over at me. “I knew you’d be homesick.”
I wasn’t homesick, I thought. I was
happy. And free. “How’s Louise? I missed her. And Aggie.”
“Louise is big as a house.”
“She’s six months pregnant.”
“I gained only seventeen pounds when I had you. These girls think they can balloon up and get their figure back. It doesn’t work that way.” She went on, without taking a breath. “Tim Ball’s our deputy now. If that doesn’t beat all I don’t know what does. The football star becomes the town cop. It’s sad is what it is. You’d think his knee blowing out in front of God and everyone and having to take a dummy job like town deputy would take him down a notch, but he’s walking around like a peacock, same as always. Dumb as a rock, that boy.”
Do you like anyone? I thought. “How’s Daddy?”
“You can ask him when you see him.” She sniffed and turned the wiper blades from intermittent to steady.
I turned farther toward the window. If only I could sink into the cushion. I closed my eyes. You’ll see Daddy in less than hour, I told myself as consolation.
“I went by the hardware shop and told Miller you were coming home.”
I sat up and twisted on the seat to look at her full in the face. “I wish you hadn’t done that.”
“I heard a rumor he’s seeing some girl from Florence.”
“That’s nice for him.”
“Don’t pretend like it doesn’t bother you.”
“It doesn’t bother me.”
She adjusted the mirror with an impatient twist of her hand. “Things change, missy. People move on. Did you expect everyone to be waiting around for you to come home?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I thought.”
“Watch your tone.”
I turned back to the window, stifling a sigh and shoving my fingers into the place between the window and the door where the scruffy black lining held the glass tight. “My manuscript’s going to be published.”
She twitched and the car pitched a few feet into the slower lane. A semi-truck blew his horn and she jerked back on the steering wheel, righting us. She stomped the brake pedal and I lurched forward, straining against the seatbelt as she put on her turn signal and moved into the slow lane behind the semi. Cars whizzed by us on the left, honking their horns. “Surely that’s not true,” she said. Water from the semi’s wake made it nearly impossible to see out of the window. She turned the wipers to high; they beat in a furious rhythm.
I took my fingers out of the window. My hangnail was bleeding again. “It comes out in October.”
“This isn’t one of your little fantasies you write about, now, is it?”
I said nothing. Seven minutes with my mother and I was once again eight years old.
“Why would you come home if this was true?” she added, as if I’d answered.
Because there are people here who love me. And I’m battered and bruised and frightened. I need to come home. Out loud, I said, “I missed the ocean.”
“The ocean.” It was a dismissive scoff, as if the Pacific Ocean were nothing compared to the force of my mother.
The highway narrowed to two lanes, heading west toward the coast. Trees were thicker, mostly firs. I looked up at the mountains. Clear-cutting made some of them look bald. Tears continued to prick the insides of my eyelids but I must have been empty by then because nothing came.
“How much did you get for your book?”
“It’s called an advance.”
“Well?”
“Five-thousand dollars.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes, Mother, that’s it.”
We drove in silence for a while longer.
“You won’t be able to just walk in and get your old job back at the paper. He has someone else now.”
“I know.”
“How do you expect to live?”
“Writing.”
“Five-thousand won’t last long.”
Again, I was silent. My stomach growled. When had I last eaten? Lunch on the train. That was hours ago. “You have anything to eat?” I asked, looking in the back seat. Doris would have had something for me to eat if she’d been the one to pick me up.
Patrick would have fed me. Where was he? What was he doing? Missing him was like an illness. The awful ache in my stomach heightened.
My mother tapped the side of my head with her index finger. “I’m speaking to you.”
“I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“I said you’ll just have to wait until we get home to have something to eat. I can’t afford to buy you something willy-nilly like you’re used to.”
What was she talking about? First she said I was too skinny and then accused me of eating at restaurants. My failings made her feel powerful. It was dusk by now. Mom turned on the headlights. I closed my eyes, lulled into a trancelike state by the warmth of the heater and the purring of the engine.
After fifteen minutes or so, my mother spoke again. “Your father’s left.”
Jolted awake, I sat up and looked at her. “What did you say?”
“He wants a divorce.”
“A divorce?”
“Well, I should say, we are divorced. It was final last week.” Her mouth was a thin line. “Said he was tired of being constantly criticized. And that I’m controlling. Can you imagine? All the sudden, after all these years, he’s Mr. Sensitive.”
“Where did he go?”
“I have no earthly idea.”
“Does he know I’m coming home?”
She fiddled with the rearview mirror but said nothing. The two-lane highway narrowed further. It was dark and the rain fell steadily, the forest thick on either side of us. There hadn’t been another car for miles now. My mother turned on the car’s high beams.
“Mom, did he know I was coming home?” I repeated.
“He’s been gone for a while.”
“A while?”
“A month. Or so.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“About six months, I guess.”
“Six months?” My voice went up at least an octave. “But he’s written to me and didn’t say a thing.”
She shrugged. “He sends money with no return address.”
I stared at her. “What about Reggie? Surely he knows something?”
“Reggie’s a one-eyed, coward, son-of-a-bitch.”
“Mom!”
She smacked the radio button with the palm of her hand. George Jones’s familiar warble combined with static and the wiper blades working overtime were the only noises for a few minutes.
“I suppose you’ll want to live with me,” she said.
“I’m getting a place of my own.”
“That seems foolish. I have no idea how you’ll live. Certainly not on your book salary. You’ll have to get a real job. Or marry Miller.”
I turned toward the window, watching my own reflection in the glass, seeing my father’s eyes staring back at me. I closed them and pretended to sleep.
***
I was home two days when Miller came by my mother’s house. He stood with his hands shoved in his letterman’s jacket, leaning against the doorframe. “Can I come in a minute?” he asked.
I nodded and let him pass. We sat in my mother’s tidy but shabby living room on either end of the couch. I hadn’t noticed before I left but, like my mother, everything was faded and tattered. The couch cushions were worn thin where we’d habitually sat over the years, the arms of the furniture ragged at the seams. Even the mirror over the fireplace was cloudy and warped.
Miller was the same, though, lean and earnest, his fair skin flushed with health.
“You look pretty,” he said after our initial pleasantries.
I smiled, feeling worn down and sad, knowing I looked terrible. I was thinner than ever and there were dark circles under my eyes. “Thanks, Miller.”
“Sorry about your parents.”
I lowered my voice. “I’m not. Maybe he’ll have a few good years before he dies.”
“Constance, that’s not very nice. Your
mother’s a good woman. She was a good wife and mother. That’s all a man should want.”
I kept quiet. How wonderful to be simple, I thought. To never look further than the surface of anything. What had Patrick said? He was an uncomplicated man in a complicated life. Miller was an uncomplicated man in an uncomplicated life.
“You want to go out this weekend?” He smiled, his face alight with pleasure. “The high school homecoming game is Friday night. We could go together. Like old times.”
“My mother said you have a girlfriend. From Florence.”
His eyes widened and then he shook his head. “I’ve never even been to Florence.” He paused. “So what do you think? Friday?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t been feeling well.”
“Think about it, anyway.” Seemingly undaunted, he touched my hand.
“My first book’s going to be published.”
His face lit up; he slapped my thigh lightly. “I knew you could do it.”
“You did?”
“Sure. You’re special, Connie. Everyone knows that.” He paused, picking up one of my mother’s throw pillows and holding it on his lap. He traced a flower on the pillow with his index finger. “You seem different.”
“How so?”
“Smaller somehow.” He looked up at me and his eyes were nothing but kindness and compassion and forgiveness. Uncomplicated. “I thought you’d come home bigger.”
“The farther you go from home the smaller you get.”
“Oh.” His brows furrowed. He cocked his head to the side just as he had done in class when he was trying to understand something but couldn’t quite grasp it.
I meant it figuratively, of course. Time unfolds and if one chooses to take chances and live fully, the inevitable disappointments and heartbreak bring humility, even to a person like me who thought she was incapable of being brought to her knees by anything but professional disappointment. To him, I said, “The world humbles you, if you really live.”
Tea and Primroses Page 19