Beholding Bee (22 page)

I take three days to plan my revenge. While I am hiding under my quilt with Peabody tucked up beside me, waiting for my diamond to stop aching so, I decide that with Francine, I will go all out.

I do not tell Mrs. Potter or Mrs. Swift because I do not want them to change my mind.

On Friday I wait for Francine to walk past as she goes inside after recess. When she gets up to me, I step in her way. I have rehearsed the whole thing over and over in my mind, plus practiced with Peabody, and that helps my shaking legs quite a bit.

I pause for a moment while all her friends crowd around so they can hear everything I have to say.

I look Francine square in the face. “How’s your daddy?” I say it sharp like I am a rail spike. “Heard from him lately?”

Ruth Ellen gasps behind me, but I hammer on. “Yes, we hear your daddy ran off with a showgirl, isn’t that right?” Ruth Ellen is kicking me with her good leg. I turn back and scowl.

Francine turns beet-colored and backs up. I am glad she knows what shame feels like. Betsy moves away.

Already, Francine’s eyes are tearing up. My revenge is sweet like sugar frosting and I hardly feel Ruth Ellen yanking on my sleeve. “And what about that dress you always
wear? Did your papa buy it because he felt so bad about running off?”

She looks at her friends, who are trying to get around her and into the school. “Is that why you wear the same dress
all the time
?”

I go on and on because I have tapped a well inside me, and it is bottomless and endless. I don’t stop until Francine runs crying into the school.

Ruth Ellen twists my other sleeve and pulls me around so she can look in my face. “My mama told us that secret so we would be kind.” She flings the words in my face. “How could you do that, Bee?”

“What do you mean? After all Francine did, you want me to be kind? And forget?” I back up and stare at her. “I don’t think so, Ruth Ellen.”

“You went behind my mama’s back and told a secret she told just to us. And now that’s going to get my mama into trouble. You are not the only one with pain in your life, Bee.”

Then she drops my sleeve and skip-hops away like she can’t get out of my life fast enough.

100

The next day is Saturday and I spend the whole day being mad at Ruth Ellen. As anybody worth her salt knows, getting good and boiled up under your skin is what helps you start feeling better about things.

On Sunday I am ready to think on if I was wrong. I sit on the porch swing wrapped in a blanket with Peabody snuggled up to me and list all the awful things Francine ever did to me and Ruth Ellen on one side of my mind and what I did to Francine on the other. On one hand I am sure my revenge was right, on the other I am a tiny bit unsure.

When you chew on your troubles like they are taffy, sometimes things get so stuck inside you do not know the right way of things. I turn to my dog. “What do you think?” But all he does is wag his stumpy tail.

I am lonesome without Ruth Ellen. I drink many cups of tea to get any bits of bad taste out of my mouth and sit on the swing for the rest of the morning. It is November, but the sun is shining, and it is warm in my blanket. When nothing else helps, Peabody and I go out and watch Cordelia.

We watch her eat these things from her food bucket: apple peels from the apple cake, eggshells from the batch of pickled eggs Mrs. Potter said we needed on hand, celery ends, potato skins, carrot peels, and leftover casserole that nobody wanted, not even Peabody.

I notice how Cordelia is blooming and blossoming right
in front of my eyes from all the love and all the corn and how she must be three times the size she was when Bobby bought her from that farmer outside Springfield. I wince about the horrible things Mrs. Marsh said about butchering, and I hope Cordelia has forgotten all about it, because I sure am trying.

“Come on, Cordelia. What you need is some exercise. I’m going to give you another chance at running.”

I’ve been thinking on how I would like to see where Francine lives. “I want to have myself a look,” I tell Peabody and Cordelia. “But you’ll have to be very quiet or we’ll get caught. And we surely do not want that.”

It takes quite a while to get Cordelia interested in leaving her pen. She is very fond of her shed and the straw pile and her food bucket and the fence where the squirrels cross.

It is quite a long way to the cemetery, much farther than to Ruth Ellen’s. The cool air fills my lungs as I pump my arms and feel my body move. My muscles warm and stretch. I stop several times to call, “Here, pig, here, pig,” and pull out some corn so I can get Cordelia back on track because she is more interested in chasing chipmunks than running to Francine’s.

There is a hill overlooking the cemetery, and we run to the top. A small gray house with a steep roof and a black door sits on the other side. I wonder why Francine’s grandpa would build a house right here so close to a cemetery, with all the statues so near they could watch you sleep if you leave your windows open. Sometimes, what folks do makes no sense to me.

The house is quiet as brick. There is no smoke rising from the chimney, no clothesline creaking from heavy blankets, no dog barking on the front step. It is all an empty
sheet of paper: no chickens, no children shooting jacks on the porch, no cat. It’s quiet and stripped bare; only the shadows move.

After a while the door swings open and Francine walks out. She pulls her jacket tight over the dress her papa gave her. She sits on the top step and hugs her knees and rocks herself. After a while, her shoulders shake.

The wind picks up and the bare branches above us scratch at each other like old bones. Peabody sits close by me, watching the lonely scene. Cordelia is nosing around the bottom of an oak tree. She likes acorns especially well and I am glad that aside from a few grunts she is mostly quiet. We are too far away for Francine to hear us anyhow. And even when she looks up in our direction, and I slip behind a tree, I don’t think she can see us.

I think about my house, where Mrs. Potter is always waiting on the porch and the swing creaks in the wind and Peabody jumps and yelps as soon as he sees me and he flies down the steps and into my arms. There is always the smell of something good baking in the oven (thanks to me). Cordelia will snuggle up and nuzzle my ear anytime I want and Mrs. Swift is forever asking me to look things up in the dictionary and telling me how girls need to make something of their lives.

“Let’s go home,” I say to my pig and my little dog.

Things may not be perfect at our house, but they are much better than this.

101

Mrs. Potter says we all need days of rest, because it makes us stronger. She and Mrs. Swift nap most of every afternoon now. Mrs. Swift leans back from her autobiography after just a few minutes of work and dozes in her chair. Sometimes she does this while I am looking up a word for her in the dictionary. They eat nothing now, not even cake, and they sip only weak tea.

That night after I crawl into bed Mrs. Potter comes in and whispers good night and sits in my rocking chair. Peabody is snuggled up against me.

“You said you knew my mama,” I whisper. “You keep promising you’ll tell me about her and you haven’t yet, and I really need to know about her.”

Mrs. Potter looks out to the hall. Then she stands up and limps to the door and closes it. “Mrs. Swift doesn’t think you are ready to hear everything. But I do. So I am going to tell you. Yes, we both knew your mama, Bee. We already told you that.”

“I know, but what was she like? Ruth Ellen’s mama told me my mama lived right here in this house and she slid down the stair railing and that means she ate food in our kitchen and slept in our bedrooms.” This last thought is sweet like caramel and I twirl it around my tongue to make it last. “Which bedroom was hers?” I whisper.

Mrs. Potter rubs Peabody’s belly the way he likes so.

“This was her room, Bee.”

Of course it was, I tell myself. My mama would want the room wallpapered with little red berries and tiny sprigs of ivy skipping up the walls, the lace billowing from the four tall windows that are so big they begin at the ceiling and end at the floor, and the bed with the lace canopy.

“What was she like?”

“Well, she was a lot like you.” Mrs. Potter leans back and closes her eyes. “She was about your height and skinny as a beanpole with long brown curly hair, just like you. She had one leg that was all twisted from polio.”

I sit up so fast, Peabody gets bounced all around the bed and he jumps onto Mrs. Potter’s lap.

“No one ever told me that.” I try to remember what I can of my mama but all I see is a mama with her arms around me. I do not see a twisted leg.

“Yes, polio is what killed your grandmother. Your grandfather just about went out of his mind when his little girl got so sick with it, too. When she got better, he hid her away so no one would tease her about her leg.”

“And my papa?”

“Ahhh, yes, Tommy Lee Hockenberry fell in love with Bernadette. They were both sixteen and they met when his traveling show came to town. She snuck out of the house, and your grandfather didn’t know. Tommy Lee could look past her twisted leg. Your grandfather didn’t like him at all.”

“Why?”

“Old Man Bradford had hidden Bernadette away for a long, long time. He hired a governess to teach her at home so she wouldn’t be teased. He didn’t think anyone could look after her the way he did.”

“But my papa was good?”

Mrs. Potter grins. “Yes, Beatrice. Tommy Lee Hockenberry gave no heed to the looks of folks who knew no better.” She smiles. “And your mama was very strong. Even with her twisted leg. Doctors told her having a baby would be too dangerous for her. They said she was weakened in all sorts of ways from the polio, but she wanted you very, very much. Yes, she was strong. Just like her grandmothers before her. It runs in the family.” She chuckles and winks at me.

I feel my heart racing. “Did you help her, too?” I whisper.

“When she needed us. And we were there for her mother before her. Your grandmother’s name was Avalyn Rose.”

I take this in. “And did you appear only to them, too?”

Mrs. Potter reaches for her cane. “Yes, Bee. We have a history of doing that.” It takes a few tries for her to get up out of her chair. “Now get some sleep, Bee. It’s late.”

She limps to the door in the moonlight and turns around. “We’ve found one photograph of your mama when she was a girl. Would you like it?”

I jump off the bed. Peabody wags his stumpy tail, wondering where we are going.

“Tomorrow, Bee.” Mrs. Potter chuckles. “It’s in the attic in an old trunk your grandfather kept. We’ll get it tomorrow when it’s light. Now, get back in bed.”

After she leaves, I watch the thin shadows move across my wallpaper and feel my heart soar. Now I know that my papa, Tommy Lee Hockenberry, loved my mama, Bernadette, very much. I am a little stronger just thinking about that. I look around my room at the wallpaper with the ivy growing up and when I climb into bed I pretend I am my
mama bouncing around on the fat mattress. Then Peabody gives me another chance to be still and he curls up next to me and I feel my dog’s nose pressed against my knee. It is very comforting to have a dog who loves you.

I wonder if my mama had a dog who loved her, too.

102

Before breakfast, before I am dressed, before I have even brushed my teeth, I knock softly on Mrs. Potter’s door.

“Can we get the picture?” I have my blanket wrapped around me and my socks on.

Mrs. Potter rocks in her chair. She pulls herself up and wraps herself in an old dressing gown. Her bed is made, her pillows puffed, her quilt folded neatly at the bottom, same as yesterday and the day before.

“It doesn’t look like you slept in the bed at all.”

She chuckles. “Not much anymore.”

The attic door is at the end of the hall. We tiptoe past Mrs. Swift’s room. Mrs. Potter opens the door carefully so it doesn’t creak. “Walk slowly. The stairs are very steep.”

It is true. A staircase shoots straight up. Mrs. Potter takes one step at a time, bringing both feet up on a step before moving to the next. I am so eager I could fly to the top and it takes quite a bit of effort to slow myself down. Peabody is having a hard time being patient about things, too.

It is very dusty and very dark. There is no light except for the sun sifting through a small window at the peak. I breathe in the old smell of the attic.

“She used to play up here. See, those are her dolls.”

I look where Mrs. Potter is pointing. There is a toy dinner table set with dishes, and dolls with dark curls sit at
each of the chairs. “Look!” I say, beaming as I pick through a trunk of doll clothes and another of toy china.

Warm old wood and dust and cobwebs mingle with oak dressers and paintings and rugs. There are boxes and boxes of things wrapped in old newspaper and stacks of books and magazines.

“Beatrice?” Mrs. Potter is at the far end under the window. She has the cover of a trunk raised. I nearly forgot what we came up here for.

I hurry over and peer into the trunk. On top of a pile of photos is a framed picture of a little girl. I hold my breath and reach for it and stare into the gray eyes of a smiling girl in pigtails. Except for the mark on my face, she looks an awful lot like me.

I stare for a very long time. “There’s no more pictures?” I ask finally, feeling the sad emptiness of wanting more and there not being more.

Mrs. Potter leans back on her cane. “Your grandfather didn’t take any more pictures because he thought it would hurt her to see herself all crippled. He had no mirrors in this house. He was an odd man. Some folks mean well, and they are still very wrong.”

I look into the little girl’s eyes. I think maybe I see a part of myself. I wonder if she would like Peabody and Cordelia.

We do not hear Mrs. Swift climbing the stairs and even Peabody jumps when she clears her throat.

“What are you all doing up here?” Her voice is hard. She looks from Mrs. Potter to me to Peabody. I stand still. Peabody whines.

Mrs. Potter takes a step toward me. She gives Mrs. Swift a long silent look. “It’s time, Abigail.”