It was so nice when Mother paid attention to me. It was so nice when she looked at, rather than through, me. In the early days of her bad moods, I used to do all sorts of naughty things just to get her attention: draw on the walls, cut my own hair, mash Mother’s lipsticks against the bathroom mirror. Most of the time she didn’t even notice, and Mamie ended up cleaning up my mess. Mamie was always cleaning up the mess.
THE KNOCK CAME just as Mother was finishing cleaning up from breakfast, her face flushed from the steamy water she used to rinse off the dishes. I was helping, placing each rinsed dish into the dishwasher. We both turned our heads at the same time when we heard the knock, but only I seemed to recognize who was knocking. It was Miss Winnie.
The reappearance of Miss Winnie, more than a year since she first visited the house, frightened me. What if Daddy discovered her there? What if it turned out he had forgotten something he needed for work and when he returned home to retrieve it he saw Miss Winnie in his house? Or what if Miss Winnie did something to Mother, something to get even with Daddy for being so rude to her the last time she was here? Seeing Miss Winnie through the glass panels of the kitchen door, I wanted more than anything to secure the chain lock and walk out of the room.
“Don’t worry about her,” I would say, my voice full of false assurance as I led Mother out of the kitchen. “She’s probably selling encyclopedias or something like that. Let’s just pretend that she is not here.”
But I said nothing and while I said nothing Mother walked to the door and opened it. I followed behind, wanting to stick as close to her as possible.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” said Winnie, her southern accent even stronger than I had remembered.
Winnie not only sounded different, she looked different: thinner and more severe, brittle almost. And the clothes she wore, a navy turtleneck tucked into a long pleated skirt the color of sand, were much less stylish than the pencil skirt and black patent leather heels she had worn the last time she had come to our house.
“No, of course not,” said Mother, who was always unfailingly polite to everyone, even those she considered below her. “How may I help you?”
“Lord, I don’t know how to begin,” said Winnie. She glanced down at me and smiled. “Hey, you.”
Mother looked at me and frowned, the expression on her face a cross between curiosity and suspicion.
“Sweetheart, do you know this lady?” she asked.
I did not know what to say in response.
“I’m sorry,” Winnie said. “I was thinking you might remember me, but anyway, I should have introduced myself. I’m Winnie Meadows. Course, up until last year I was Winnie Hicks. Still getting used to the new name.”
She made a motion with her left hand so that we could see the thin gold band she wore around her ring finger. It had no diamond.
“I used to work at the pharmacy downstairs from your husband’s office,” she added.
“Ernie has changed offices,” said Mother.
“I don’t work there anymore neither,” said Winnie.
We all hovered by the door. For a moment, no one said a word.
“Won’t you come in?” Mother finally said. “I was just going to have a cup of tea. Would you care to join me?”
Why was she inviting Miss Winnie inside? Mother didn’t even know this woman. She wasn’t a neighbor or a member of our church or the Club or anything.
Winnie said yes, she would like to come in, and then she was inside, walking across the red tile floor, looking around at the many-paned glass windows, the sleek linoleum countertops, the brand-new dishwasher and the electric range-top stove, and she was saying how nice everything was, how fancy and new.
“All my husband’s doing,” said Mother, standing by the sink and filling the kettle with water from the faucet. “He insists on the latest gadgets and appliances.”
“That sounds just like Ernie,” said Winnie.
Mother turned off the water and stared for a moment at Winnie before putting the kettle on the stove.
Gray-Gray, who had been asleep underneath the dining room table, appeared at the kitchen door. She was so heavy with kittens that she hardly had any energy to do anything besides sleep and eat. How different she was now, fat and lined with swollen nipples, than she was two years ago when Daddy brought her home to me as a tiny two-pound thing. I walked over to where Gray-Gray’s food and water were kept to make sure that there was food in the bowl. There was. Gray-Gray walked slowly toward it.
“I can’t believe this,” said Winnie, giving me her eager smile, her voice light and animated. “The last time I saw that cat she was thin as a rail, and now she’s about to be a mama!”
Mother gave Winnie a quizzical look as she walked from the stove to the table and sat down, indicating that Winnie should sit as well. “You said I might remember you. When did we meet?”
I wanted Miss Winnie to lie, to say that no, she had never been to the house before, that she knew about Ernie and Gray-Gray because she was the one who gave the kitten to Daddy to give to me. Yes! That would work. Miss Winnie could say that her cat had had kittens and she had asked around the doctors’ offices in her building and Daddy, who loved new things, had agreed to take one. It would make sense. After all, Daddy did bring Gray-Gray home from the office. For all I knew Gray-Gray might have once belonged to Miss Winnie. Maybe, I thought (hoped), that was the reason Miss Winnie was here, maybe she was here simply to check up on Gray-Gray.
“Listen,” said Winnie, who had sat in the seat next to Mother. “I need to talk with you about something, woman to woman.”
She reached out her hand and touched Mother on the forearm.
I watched for Mother’s reaction. Mother did not really like to be touched. She casually retracted her arm so that it was no longer resting on the table.
“The water will be ready in a minute,” she said. “Then we can have our tea.”
“The main reason I come here,” said Winnie, “is to ask for your forgiveness.”
She began crying, a wet, noiseless cry.
Mother glanced at me.
I had sat down at the table when Mother did. Now I turned in my chair and stared at the cat eating her food. Maybe if I looked as if I wasn’t paying any attention to the adults, Mother would let me stay in the room with them.
“Louise,” she said.
I pretended not to hear her. Pretended that I was so absorbed watching Gray-Gray that I had just blocked out every sound.
“Louise, go upstairs and play.”
I still did not respond. I didn’t care whether or not Mother got mad. I did not want to leave her alone with this woman who seemed only to bring trouble to our family.
“On the count of three I want you out of this room, do you hear me?” warned Mother.
I turned in my chair so that I was looking at Mother face to face. I tried to give her my saddest eyes. Her own eyes were hard, Miss Winnie’s soft and forgiving. I felt a deep urge to kick Miss Winnie’s chair. Better yet, I wanted to kick Miss Winnie.
“One. Two. Three.” Mother counted slowly, giving me plenty of time to run.
I did not move from my seat. Mother looked for a moment as if she might rise from her chair to make me move, but the moment passed and Mother was still sitting, glaring at me like I was the one who had ruined the day.
It was all too much and I began to cry. The day had started so well. We had eaten pancakes and we were going to go to Rich’s and wear white gloves and now this, this interruption, was going to ruin everything. Soon I was crying harder and certainly louder than Miss Winnie was, and that felt good, because if anyone deserved to cry it was me, not Miss Winnie. Mother stayed seated but opened her arms and I jumped from my chair and ran into them, burying my head in her neck, feeling her soft skin, which smelled of cherries and almonds, the fragrance of Jergens lotion.
“I don’t mind if she stays,” said Winnie.
I turned around so that I was facing Winnie, positioning mys
elf between Mother’s legs, pressing my back against her breasts. It had been a long time since I had been so near my mother’s body.
“Well, all right,” said Mother, sounding the same as she did when Daddy phoned to say he was going to miss dinner, again. “Just, whatever you need to say, be aware of little ears.”
Winnie nodded.
Mother whispered to me, “You can stay with me, but if I end up telling you to leave, you better do as I say, understand?”
I nodded, secretly knowing that I wasn’t going anywhere. Mother wrapped her arms around me and I could tell she was glad I was there. “Tell me again why you came?”
“I came because, because I want to tell you about this girl I knew. She—her life—well, she was sort of connected to you and I thought you ought to know about her.” Winnie ran her finger along her simple wedding band. “This girl was young and easily tempted. She was the type of gal who didn’t even know how to recognize trouble, forget about trying to avoid it. She was the type of gal who took to drinking when times got hard. She didn’t have no family, none she could rely on, and she lived by herself in a boardinghouse on Juniper Street filled with other women like herself. Half of them were looking for a man to take care of them, no matter if he was married or not so long as his wallet was full.”
A low whistle that fast grew shrill interrupted Winnie. It was the kettle, steam rushing through its spout.
“Excuse me a moment,” said Mother, pushing me out of her lap when she stood. She walked toward the stove and I sat back down in her chair.
After she took the pot off the burner, Mother walked out of the kitchen and into the dining room, returning a moment later with two porcelain cups and the hand-painted teapot. I could not believe it. Mother hardly ever used her best china, only at Thanksgiving and Christmas. She set the empty cups on the table near Winnie and then walked back to the stove, where she placed the teapot on the counter beside it.
She pulled down the box of Lipton tea from the cabinet and put three bags into the pot. She poured water over the bags and secured the lid. She brought the pot to the table, placing it on top of a place mat left over from breakfast.
“Do you take lemon and sugar?” she asked.
“Just sugar,” said Winnie.
Mother disappeared once again to the dining room and returned with the porcelain jar that contained sugar cubes. She placed it on the kitchen table and then sat in the chair across from Winnie, the chair where Daddy usually sat.
“We’ll give it a minute to steep,” she said.
For a moment nobody said anything.
“We need spoons,” said Mother. Once more she rose, but instead of walking to the drawer where she kept the stainless steel flatware, she again went to the dining room and returned carrying two sterling silver spoons with flowers engraved on their handles. Buttercup, the pattern is called. Same one I have. And like Mother, I only use it for special occasions and very special guests, which I did not consider Miss Winnie to be.
“There,” she said.
She poured tea first for Winnie and then for herself. I wanted tea too, but I knew better than to fuss about it. If I did, Mother might easily decide that it was time for me to go upstairs and play.
“All right,” said Mother, once the tea was poured. “Now tell me more about this woman you once knew.”
Winnie looked nervously at her. She seemed to have shrunk further into herself ever since Mother had brought out the good china and sat in Daddy’s chair. (Now that I am an adult I know what Mother was doing pulling out all her treasures. She was making a power play, same as men do.) Winnie rubbed her finger against the handle of her teacup, which was painted with real gold. Mother took a sip of her tea and sat up very straight.
“Well, you see, this girl, see, she got wrapped up with an older man, a family man who took an interest in her. He was a doctor, and he acted like a doctor around her; he kind of acted like he was her doctor. He kept saying she didn’t eat enough; she was ‘malnourished,’ he said. Some days he would buy her lunch. And then it got to be that they were having lunch together almost every day. Then he started taking her out to dinner. He took her to places she never thought she’d see the inside of, least not as a guest. He did other things too; he sent her flowers and bought her candy from the pharmacy where she worked.”
Mother and Winnie exchanged glances.
For a moment the only sound in the room was the soft lapping of Gray-Gray’s tongue as she licked water from her bowl.
“One day he bought her a house,” Winnie said.
“A house?” asked Mother, obviously startled. “A real house?”
“Yes,” said Winnie. “A real house. She allowed him to buy her a house and she was fool enough to believe that soon he would come join her in that house, that he would leave his wife and his child and he would come and live with her instead.”
“Come sit in my lap again, sweetheart,” said Mother. I climbed down from my chair and once again enveloped myself between Mother’s legs. I was eight and a half, too old to sit like this, but I didn’t care. Mother wrapped her arms around me, holding me tight.
Winnie’s voice picked up speed. “Any fool could have told her that this man was not going to leave his family, but this friend of mine was the queen of excuses. She always had an answer for everything, an answer that fit the way she wished the world would work.”
“Where was this house?” asked Mother. Her voice, which had been warm and confident just moments ago, now sounded flat and far away.
“In Virginia Highlands. Not two miles away from his. It wasn’t a big house but it was her own.”
“With strings, I’m sure,” mumbled Mother.
Winnie’s cheeks flushed. At that moment it occurred to me that despite her old-lady clothes, Miss Winnie was still pretty.
“Would you like a piece of shortbread to go with your tea?” asked Mother.
“I do, Mommy,” I said. I couldn’t help myself. I loved shortbread, which also happened to be Daddy’s favorite cookie. Mamie made some once a week and left it in a tin box in the pantry.
“You already had pancakes,” said Mother. “More hot water?” she asked Winnie.
Winnie shook her head.
“Well I’m going to get some,” Mother said, once again pushing me off her lap when she stood.
“Has Miss Gray-Gray ever had kittens before?” asked Winnie, focusing her attention on me.
“No, ma’am,” I said, staring at the table. I knew that Mother might fuss at me if I was openly rude to Miss Winnie, but that didn’t mean I had to act like I liked her.
Mother came back to the table, steam rising from her freshened cup of tea. She put her cup down and walked to the pantry, where she took out the red tin can of shortbread.
“Just one, Louise,” she said, bringing the tin can to the table. I pried its lid off and looked for the biggest piece. I pulled it out, a golden stick with tine marks along the top, and bit off a piece of it, savoring its salty sweetness.
“So what else do you want to tell me about this girl?” asked Mother, sitting back down at the table next to me. I could tell from the weariness in her voice that she really didn’t want to hear anything more.
“What I want to tell you—the main reason I come here—is that when this girl was seeing this man, after he’d bought her the house, after they had, after their relationship changed—”
Winnie glanced at me and then looked at Mother.
“After their relationship changed how?” asked Mother, and though I couldn’t have told you why, it seemed to me that there was something mean about the question.
“After it lost all innocence. Not that it ever was innocent, but something happened—an act, an act reserved for marriage….”
Winnie paused, trying to lock eyes with Mother, who gave no indication that she was catching Winnie’s look.
“After that, this girl would call his house on the nights when she didn’t get to see him. When his wife would answer she w
ouldn’t say anything, she’d just stay on the line so his wife would know there was someone there. Every night after calling she felt as if she was trapped in a deep hole, like she had fallen into the worst kind of sin, but she couldn’t stop herself from doing it. It was like she was stuck down there in that hole and all she could do was try to pull someone else down into it with her. One night she called his house must have been twenty times. She’d hang up when no one picked up and then try again. She knew they were around, maybe not him but his wife and his little girl.”
There was a foreign noise, a sudden cry from the corner of the room. I looked at Gray-Gray. Her stomach was heaving and her eyes were wild but she was purring like she did when I stroked her under her chin.
“Mama,” I said.
“Shh,” said Mother.
“She’d driven by the house earlier that day, saw his little girl out playing in the front yard.”
Gray-Gray walked over to the table and lay on the rug beneath it. Her stomach was pumping up and down and then, still purring, she began to use the bathroom on the floor.
“Mommy, she’s not using the litter box!” I cried, knowing Daddy would be furious if she made a mess on one of the rugs. “Bad Gray-Gray!”
“What in the world…,” said Mother, turning her attention to the cat.
“She’s not doing anything wrong, sugar. She’s just having her babies,” said Winnie.
I jumped from my chair and crouched underneath the table beside Gray-Gray, gently touching the top of her head with my finger.
What I had thought was Gray-Gray’s, well, excrement, was actually her first kitten, a wet bubble of a thing that once birthed resembled a rodent more than it did a cat. The kitten was covered in a clear sort of film that dissolved as soon as Gray-Gray started licking her.
“She knows just what to do, don’t she?” asked Winnie, her voice soft. I turned my head and to my surprise there was Winnie sitting on one side of me, Mother crouched on the other.
Gray-Gray’s eyes widened and she let out meows that were low and long. Her stomach was pumping up and down again and then another kitten bubble dropped out of her, this one black instead of gray. Again Gray-Gray licked it all over, just as she had the first one, her rough red tongue rubbing the embryonic sack right off her baby. The other kitty, the first one, had already climbed onto Gray-Gray’s stomach and was sucking away at one of her teats.
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