Little Altars Everywhere

by Rebecca Wells

  Then Baylor has to go and rip my heart to shreds, just when it is the last thing I need. He runs into his room and gets this picture he’s drawn of his big sister and hands it to the officer. This is Sidda, he tells the policeman. This is what she really looks like.

  Then he holds out a white cotton shirt of hers and says: This is what she smells like, if you need to get dogs to trace her.

  Sometimes I don’t know which child is the strangest: my oldest or my youngest.

  I go inside and call up the Ya-Yas. Necie and Caro come over immediately, even though Caro already has on her pajamas. I set out some cheese and crackers and start to fill the silver ice bucket.

  I say, Mother, why don’t you set out some olives and open a can of artichoke hearts?

  Shep says, My God, Vivi, this is not a party.

  I scream, Do you want people to starve just because Sidda ran away?!

  He looks at me and my best girlfriends like we’re some kind of nuts, then he takes his keys down from the hook by the toaster.

  Where do you think you are going? I ask him.

  Out to look for my daughter, he says.

  Damn you Shep Walker, you can’t walk out and leave me to deal with this by myself. You can’t do that to me!

  I can’t just sit here on my butt eating Ritz crackers, he says and walks out the door.

  I yell after him, When will you be back?

  I don’t even have to hear him reply. Necie and Caro answer for him in unison: I’ll be back when I get back.

  I smoke eighty-four-thousand cigarettes. I refuse to believe that anything has really happened to my daughter. God will not let anything bad happen to my children. I will not let Siddalee drive me to the insane asylum like she has tried to do hundreds of times.

  Mother keeps muttering and praying her damn rosary under her breath, until I finally have to jerk it out of her goddamn hands. I tell her, That’s all you’ve ever done in every single emergency of my life! God, you are worse than having no mother at all.

  I’m immediately sick and ashamed of myself and go to Mother and give her a hug and kiss. I say, I’m sorry, Mama, but this is really throwing me for a loop.

  That’s alright, Viviane, she tells me. I just pray to God that your daughter running away from you is not punishment for the way you treat me.

  The bitch.

  I stub out my cigarette (although not in Mother’s face, as I would like) and I walk down the hall into Sidda’s room and shut the door behind me. I stand next to her dresser and close my eyes. I don’t reach for the lamp, just close my eyes until they adjust to the dark. I stand there and make myself take ten deep breaths until I can see my daughter’s face and her body clearly in my mind. I see her red hair, the brown eyes, the way she lays in bed reading with one eye partially closed. I see her freckles, her lips, the tiny scar on them from when she ran into the wheelbarrow when she was three. I see her arms and hands, her fingernails that I always tell her to push the cuticles back from when she gets out of the tub. I see her stomach, how it pooches out a little, her butt so tiny. She’s going to have a tight little butt like mine, not a big fat butt like her aunts on Shep’s side of the family. I see her little breasts the way they are starting up. I see her pubic area where there isn’t any hair yet.

  She is mine.

  I carried her for nine months. I lost my waist for her. My feet grew from size six to seven-and-a-half. I lost my potential for her. I lost my twin boy for her. I could have had twins, but only she lived.

  He came out first. He was in my womb. He was born. He stayed awhile and then he died. He had Shep’s hazel eyes and red hair like Sidda. He would look up at me and I could see my face in his eyes. He died after four days.

  This is how I was tormented. I laid in the hospital bed at St. Cecilia and cried. I did not want to see anyone, not even the Ya-Yas. No one understood. They said it would pass.

  Shep said, Vivi, you’ve got to stop this. Look at our girl, she is perfect. He said, Our baby girl has the most beautiful glittering eyes in this whole hospital.

  My twin boy would have made everything work out. He is the one who would have given it all back to me, everything I have lost. And I would have done anything for him. If he would have told me to go to River Street and become a beggar, I would have done it. If he would have said at any time of the night or day, “dance with me,” I would have carried him in my arms and danced.

  But Sidda is the one who lived. I paid for her with him.

  I laid there with the nuns floating in and out and the sounds of their rustling habits and the hospital noises. I did not want the shades open. I cussed at God until He came to me.

  Then I said, Will you comfort me now? Will you take me in your arms and hold me?

  But God said, The only reason you wanted twins in the first place was to get attention.

  I was cheated. Children do not bring you attention. They take it all away.

  After that I did not talk about my twin boy to anyone. I kept him hidden inside.

  Two weeks later, I was at home with Sidda in her bassinet, and the phone rang. It was an insurance salesman. He said, Don’t you want insurance on the twin that lived? You know, Mrs. Walker, she could die too, God forbid.

  I could not eat after that. I starved my body back down into a size six, which is where I belong. I drank gin and quinine water to settle my stomach.

  Then before Sidda was even old enough to turn over by herself, my father rounded Davis Circle too fast and was killed. Before he ever looked at me and saw who I am! And I didn’t know it then, but I was already pregnant with Little Shep.

  Part of me spoiled then, and nobody noticed.

  All they said was, Vivi Abbott Walker, you look positively gorgeous after all you’ve been through. Aren’t you glad you have that darling little baby girl? And another angel on the way!

  Four children—a husband—a house, dripping goddamn boiling water over the chicory coffee every morning of the world. Everything gets sucked out of me, every ounce of my high school goldenness, every single iota of my college education—gone. The only thing left is the Ya-Yas.

  And now here I am, standing in my missing daughter’s room. I can see her navy blue round-toed Keds in the closet. Her stack of books on the nightstand. I can smell her eleven-year-old smell, spicy, and new.

  And in an instant I know exactly where my child is.

  I fling open her bedroom door and run down the hall.

  Caro! I scream, Call the police!

  She hands me the phone. The damn police, they treat me like I’m some kind of nut. Calm down, they say, we’ll handle this.

  I hope you burn in hell! I tell them. Don’t you dare treat me like I don’t know what I’m talking about! Screw you and the horse you rode in on!

  I hang up the phone, light another cigarette, and dial so hard I break a fingernail. The mayor himself answers the phone and I say, Kidd, this is Vivi Abbott Walker.

  Then I tell him what I need and he says, You got it, Vivi.

  That is the thing about living in a small town. I once dated Kidd Gerard. I broke the man’s heart while he was at Auburn, sending me telegrams once a week. I know he’ll do what I ask, even though he hasn’t kissed me on the lips in twenty-two years. I always tell my two daughters: Don’t ever underestimate the power women have over men. And don’t ever let them know you have it either.

  I make Mother stay with the kids. Then Necie and Caro drive me in Necie’s station wagon. They are such good friends to me. They keep lighting me ciggies and Caro has her arm around me saying, Don’t worry, Vivi, we’ll find her. We will not let anything happen to that child, you hear?

  Necie drives that station wagon like a bat out of hell and we beat Kidd there. I take some deep breaths and say a prayer to St. Jude, patron saint of the impossible. Sidda could be roasted to death. She could be suffocated like the millions of children who crawl up into abandoned refrigerators and the door slams shut and they are locked in there for all eternity.

&
nbsp; The bookmobile is parked underneath a crepe myrtle behind the library in the gravel parking lot. I get out of the car and take the flashlight I’ve brought with me and walk over to it. I stand right next to the van and I can still feel the heat of the day on the outside of it. I try the door, but it’s locked. I knock loud and hard.

  I say, Sidda baby, it’s okay. Hold on, honey, we’ll take you home before you know it.

  If she’s not in there, then it’s all over. If she’s not in there, then she is nowhere and I will kill Shep Walker because I am too chicken to kill myself.

  Then Kidd pulls up, looking handsome as ever. He strides over to me with a huge ring of keys and says, Hey Vivi. What can I do for you this evening? I got the keys to unlock anything you want.

  I can’t believe the man is flirting with me after all these years, and my daughter almost dead.

  I say, Open that bookmobile door, would you, please, Kidd? I think my oldest child is in there.

  He does just what I say. I love a man who can take orders. I step inside and it is simply stifling in that van. The air conditioner has been off for hours. She could be dead, I think. Is that what you want, Vivi Walker? Do you want her dead?

  Sidda? I call out. It’s me, baby. It’s Mama.

  That bookmobile is hot as hell, it’s a 475-degree gas oven.

  I shine the flashlight around. No air, no Sidda. Once you shut off the air conditioning in a book van and shut the door and windows, it’s as good a way as any to commit suicide.

  I will not throw up. I will not let the thoughts in my head push me over the edge. I will not have a child of mine kill herself. I will not lose the twin and her too, both without me having any say-so whatever.

  I shine the light. I can see the titles on the books. Look, there is Hemingway, Papa Ernest. Why did he put a bullet through that gorgeous male head of his? Blood all over that thick sexy beard.

  Sidda, I call out, please! Baby, if you’re here, please come out, please!

  I hear a shuffling.

  God, listen to me. If you will let her still be alive, I will give up Bombay gin. Maybe not Tanqueray, but definitely Bombay.

  I walk straight to the tiny storage closet in the back and open the door. I follow my instincts. One thing I have is instincts.

  There she is—crouched in there, hiding from me.

  I bend down to her. I want to kill her.

  Then Kidd is at my side. He says, I’ll be damned if this is not female intuition.

  I say, Sidda, honey, you are carrying this book thing too far.

  She is crying. She says, I don’t want to go home. You can’t make me go home!

  I bend down to take her hand and she knocks the flashlight out of my hand. Kidd shines his big torch on her.

  I say, Siddalee, get up from there.

  She screams, I hate you! You said Daddy was dead.

  I want to slap her to death, after all she has put me through.

  Kidd says, Young lady, you heard your mother. Now get up out of that closet and stop your foolishness.

  Sidda doesn’t budge. She stays hunkered down with her arms wrapped around her knees and says, Yall are all sons of bitches.

  Well, Kidd has had it, so have I. He reaches down and jerks her up to her feet and I say, It’s alright, Kidd, it’s alright. (But I’m glad somebody has jerked her up. She needs some jerking if you ask me.)

  I put my hands on her shoulders and tell her, Listen kiddo, stop being so dramatic right this instant, you hear me? Now let’s go get in the car and go home.

  The child stares at me like she’s about to spit in my face.

  Kidd says, Vivi, do you want me to handle this for you?

  I say, No. Thank you, Kidd. Excuse us for just a minute, would you please?

  I grab Sidda and walk her over to Necie’s station wagon. By the time we get there, she’s sobbing.

  Keep an eye on her, will you, Caro? I say. And don’t dare let her out of this car.

  I straighten my hair that must look like hell in all this humidity and walk over to Kidd. He’s standing by his car with his foot propped on the running board. In spite of myself, that man still gives me goose-bumps like he did when he was a quarterback. You cannot think like that, I tell my shriveled-up insides.

  I give him a little kiss on the cheek and say, Thank you, dahling. Everything’ll be fine. I’ve just got a high-strung daughter on my hands, that’s all.

  He says, Well, I sure hate to see you have to go through this.

  I know, Kidd, I tell him—like he has no idea of half of it. Now listen, you and Nona absolutely must come over sometime soon. It has been too long.

  Yeah, Vivi, he says. Like he still wants me.

  When I get back in the car, Sidda is sitting there shaking and doing her damn hyperventilating trick. She grabs onto me and won’t let go. I don’t know why she does that, I am not a child psychologist. Her palms are hot and sweaty against my arm. I want to push her away from me. I don’t like it when my children get close to me when I’m not in the mood.

  We finally get her home, and I draw a bath for her, and hand her one of the Darvons that I always keep around the house for cramps. Then when she’s done, I go and lie down in the bed with her. It’s cool and dry in her room and the curtains are open with a little sliver of light spilling in from the porch light. We both love it in the summer when it is scorching hot outside, but real cool inside with that huge central air conditioner blasting away.

  I kiss her on the forehead. Precious, I tell her, You have got to stop taking things so seriously. Your father came home just like I knew he would. Is that all you were worried about?

  She says, Mama, I don’t feel like talking, I’m too tired.

  I say, Well then, I’ll talk and you listen: You can’t run away from things, Siddalee. You’ve got to stay in this house where your life is. Don’t you think I want to run off and hide in a bookmobile or join the circus? We all do. But we have responsibilities.

  She rolls away from me onto her side. I can feel the little bumps of her seersucker nightgown against my fingers. I stroke her hair and kiss her neck. You are magnificent, I tell her. You are my most beautiful, intelligent child. I adore you. Don’t ever run away from me again.

  I kiss her one more time before I leave the room. I still have guests in the house. It’s late, but I fix a round of drinks for everyone. Except for Mother, of course. She has put the other kids to bed and just sits there, pursing those chapped lips, acting like a martyr.

  Shep stands behind me, rubbing my shoulders. I don’t even know when he showed back up. He says, Thank you, Viviane. You did good.

  You’re welcome, I tell him. See? I don’t just sit on my butt and eat Ritz crackers.

  When the Ya-Yas leave, I take off my makeup and cleanse my face. I rub on my cold cream—I don’t care how tired I am, I never go to sleep without doing my cleansing ritual. Then I go and peek into Sidda’s room. There she is, propped up like the Queen of Sheba against the pillows, holding her flashlight and reading. Not even trying to hide it. I am so mad I want to slap her. Reading, laying up in bed, relaxing, after all the shit she has put me through!

  But I do not say a word. I tiptoe down the hall to the kitchen. I reach up to the pill cabinet and get myself a Darvon too, and swallow it with a jigger of bourbon. That child is not going to get all the attention in this family. I work hard as hell in this house and I am sick to death of never getting what I want! I swear I could write a book about all the things no one has ever thanked me for.

  In summertime the child just lives for the bookmobile. Which is the whole reason why she hid up there and rode downtown and let them lock her up. She thinks books are her best friends and she wanted to be surrounded by them.

  I understand. None of this is strange to me. I am her mother, though, and it is my job to teach her that you cannot escape from life. Life is not a book. You can’t just set it down on the coffee table and walk away from it when it gets boring or you get tired.

  C
ruelty to Animals

  Little Shep, 1964

  Buggy, my Mama’s mama, has got the meanest little lapdog you ever laid eyes on. One of those puny-butt poodles that’s nothing but bone and fluff. And to Buggy that dog can’t do any wrong. It can pee or poop or tear up the bedspread and Buggy just says, Isn’t that just the darlingest thing you have ever seen?

  Even though I don’t care for yap-butts like that dog, I still think an animal oughta get treated with some respect and not like a nutcase, which is what Buggy has been turning that puff-ball into.

  My Daddy says, Buggy is going to drive that animal as crazy as she did her daughter.

  See, I’m real fond of dogs myself. Yard dogs, that is. We got three of them at Pecan Grove and I’m the one that gets up early in the morning to feed them. They get a cut or scrape, I’m the one that cleans it. We got a Catahoula hound named Jep, who is so dumb that once he ran into a telephone pole and knocked himself out cold while he was chasing my Daddy’s truck. We also got Lamar, a German shepherd that Mister Charlie Vanderlick gave us. And we got Jolene, a white collie that Lulu picked out from my cousin’s dog Josie’s second litter. Josie was a dog famous for her ability to sleep standing up. She got shot with porcupine quills once when Daddy took me and her deer hunting with him in West Texas, and I’m the one that pulled them out of her, one by one. I still got those quills in a pickle jar in my bedroom. I’m saving them for when I’m a vet. Gonna put them in my office to remind me of my first surgery. Because removing those quills was a operation for me, that’s for sure. You just try and pull dozens of quills out of a collie. It hurts them something awful, and they’re all crying and squirming, but you’ve gotta pull those quills out or they’ll hurt even worse, maybe even get an infection.

  You can have those lapdogs, though. I’m scared I’ll step on them and that’ll be all she wrote. Plus, they don’t fetch or hunt or roll in the grass with you or anything. They just sit up there on the couch waiting for their favorite soap opera to come on.

  My Daddy says, It is just like your Mama’s mama to take up with some animal the size of a rat.