Downhill Chance (13 page)

“Stop it, stop it!” she said, but Missy, believing she had done wrong and seeking absolution through her tears, held back her head and screamed all the harder. Another grimace distorted Sare’s features, and reaching out, she smacked Missy across the face. Stunned, Missy collapsed into a wide-eyed silence. That this mother could be capable of administering harshness was in itself a moment of incredulity. That this harshness could be turned upon her—who, in even her most devilish of childhood antics had received nothing more then a playful pat on the bottom—was a blow more crushing than the hand of a thousand demons. Stumbling backwards, she reached out to Clair as a crab would a rock beneath a swooping gull. But Clair, as stunned by the slap as Missy, and with a growing nausea in her stomach, saw too late her sister’s reach of trust, and moved, instead, to her mother, who was turning as ashen as the dead, and whose body was beginning to sway as if she might faint. She reached for her, but at that moment a rap sounded on the door, and the uncle inched it open, peering inside.

“Uncle Sim, Uncle Sim!” Missy cried out, the tautness of her body dissolving into convulsions of sobs as she ran to her uncle.

“No, Missy, wait here,” Clair cried out, but Missy was already throwing her arms around the uncle’s legs, wailing, “Mommy hit me, Mommy hit me,” and for the first time since she’d found out about his thievery, Clair was caught standing a scant foot before this uncle, staring into the shadow made by the peak of his cap, to where the scarcest glimmer of light marked the pits of his eyes. Her lip curled with loathing as he laid his hands possessively on the crown of Missy’s sobbing head. But it was Sare who held the uncle’s attention, leaning towards him, as she was, holding tightly to the hand that had just struck her child, its pallor like the sleet clinking against the window pane.

“What’s she done, now?” he asked with a weariness that could as easily been born of Sare as of Missy. But it was the sight of his ears perking back that Clair was keen to catch, and with her lip curling farther, she stepped protectively before her mother.

“Missy knocked over a pan of water,” she said, and before she had a chance to declare that the spilt water was of no consequence, and therefore there was no need for him to stand around a second longer, Missy tore around to face her, her blue eyes grappling at Clair’s heart.

“You made me, Clair!” she cried, her voice swollen with reproach at this second breach of trust.

“Goodness, Missy, it’s not the end of the world,” said Sare, wringing her hands, her voice equally as reproachful as Missy’s. She smiled, more shamefully than apologetically, at Sim, pressing her fingers against her temples. “I’m at my wit’s end with her today, Uncle Sim. She won’t get her hair washed.”

“She was just about to,” said Clair, holding out a hand with which to persuade Missy away from the uncle. “Come, Missy, we’ll get it done fast, and then I’ll take you to the time.”

But, Missy, already embraced by suffering, drew more comfort from her sister’s remorse than her offer of good will, and clinging tighter to her uncle’s waist, sobbed breathlessly, “Leave m-me alone, Clair, you l-leave me alone.”

“She can come with me if she wants,” said the uncle, “her grandmother can help her.”

“We don’t need nobody helping us,” snapped Clair.

“Goodness, Clair—”

“Well, we don’t! I’ll take her to the time.”

“I w-wants Uncle Sim to take me. And I wants Grandmother to help me wash my hair.”

“It’s your mother’s say,” said Sim.

“Won’t it be too hard for the grandmother?” asked Sare, hesitantly.

“She washed it before!” sobbed Missy.

“Yeah, only your bangs—” began Clair, but was stopped by a raised hand from her mother.

“Perhaps the grandmother can do something with her, Sim. I knows I can’t stand to hear them fighting, and it seems that’s all they does these days.”

“A good smack don’t hurt sometimes,” muttered the uncle, slewing his eyes to Clair. But Sare heard nothing of Clair’s angry snort, feeding as she was upon the uncle’s sanctioning of her deed. “Perhaps I can get you a cup of tea before you go?” she offered, her shakiness giving way to relief. But the uncle was wearily shaking his head, the cup of tea an encumbrance to already laden shoulders.

“I just come to check the wood box—”

“I already done it,” cut in Clair.

“Clair—” but Sare’s voice faltered, her strength failing her. “Bless you, Sim, but Clair’s already filled it.”

“There’s no splits,” he noted.

“I’m doing them now,” said Clair, and her look fell pleadingly onto her sister. “I wants you to help me, Missy.”

“I’m going to the time!” shouted Missy.

“Goodness, hush your crying then, silly girl,” said Sare. “Here—come let me wash your face, then you can go to Grandmother’s if you wants.”

Ignoring the hand her mother held out to her, Missy snatched a face cloth off the wash bin and scrubbed at her face.

“Mind you scrubs off that pout,” said Sare. “Come here, child, and give me a kiss, for I can’t stand seeing you cry, and I swear, I won’t get a wink tonight for thinking about you.”

Eyes glowering and head down, Missy allowed her mother to clasp her hands around her tear-stained cheeks, kissing each one passionately. “My, the mess her hair’s in,” she murmured, finger-combing a handful of curls away from Missy’s forehead. “And the fuss she makes when we got to wash it, Uncle Sim— I don’t know what we’re going to do with her. Now, are you going to be a good girl for Grandmother?”

Missy pulled away, refusing to speak, and picking up her mitts from where she had tossed them earlier, stalked out the door ahead of her uncle. Clair watched through the window as she struggled up over the iced garden path onto the road. She turned once, glaring back at the house, the usually cherubic face so disfigured by scowls that Clair felt an impulse to grin at its comic likeness. But then Missy’s eyes caught hold of hers, and even from afar, and with the dark of the evening between them, their coldness reached a place in Clair’s heart that the night’s wind had not. And with a knowing that comes like the darkest hour before dawn, where its presence is more thought than felt, Clair grasped that the little coaxing or prodding that had always in the past been sure to bring a smile or a sense of giving over to that twisted little face was a thing no more. With a backwards glance at the house, the uncle caught up with Missy, and taking her hand, steered her towards the grandmother’s.

“Old bastard,” muttered Clair.

The sleet turned to rain during the night, and by morning the pale yellow of the late winter’s sun cast a brighter light on the saturated outport. Clair was up early, washing her face besides the washstand when the door burst open and Missy came flying in, her hair a tangled mass of curls, and the corners of her eyes still gooked with sleep. “Mommy, Mommy,” she sang out, slamming the door shut, and with a murderous look at Clair, sped over to where her mother was standing near the bin, sipping a cup of tea.

“I had a dream, I had a dream!” she cried out. “It’s about Daddy.”

Sare faltered, a fearful look clouding her face. “No more bad dreams now, child,” she whispered, reaching down to stroke the cheek she had slapped the night before.

“No, Mommy,” said Missy, shaking her head, her curls dancing prettily around her face. “It was a good dream—a real good dream—Daddy was laughing.”

“Ooh, tell me, then,” exclaimed Sare, laying down her cup and squeezing Missy’s shoulders.

“He was picking flowers,” said Missy, bowing her head like one taking a curtain call at the school play, “big, pretty flowers.”

“Goodness,” exclaimed Sare.

“And he was giving them—to—to—”

“Don’t change things, now!” cried Sare.

“To—me,” said Missy, giggling.

“Isn’t that nice,” said Sare, hugging and kissing her girl. “And what else did he do?”

“Nothing else.”

“Then, what did he look like?”

“Like Daddy, silly.”

“His clothes, Missy, what was he wearing?”

“Soldier’s clothes—and he was clean.”

“Clean! My, it’s you that’s silly,” said Sare, giving her daughter a little shake as Missy burst into giggles again. “Now, remember everything—was it a field or a garden that he was picking flowers in?”

“A field, a big field. And the grass was blowing all around his legs.”

“Oh, the sweetness of her; isn’t she an angel, Clair?” she asked as Clair came to stand besides them. “Were there others picking flowers with him? Think carefully, now.”

“Nope. Just Daddy.”

“Did he speak?”

“Nope. He just laughed.”

“Dear mercy, was there anything else?”

“Nope.”

“Are you sure?”

Missy nodded, a pleased smile charming her face.

“There now, what a good girl. Sit up and have your cereal with Clair. Did you hear that, Clair?” she asked, seating Missy at the table. “Wasn’t that the nicest dream? Here, my dolly, have some more sugar in your cereal. You want some more sugar, Clair?”

Clair nodded, smiling as her mother dumped a spoonful of brown sugar into her bowl and Missy’s, and then a dollop of butter. She sought out Missy’s eyes, searching for a smile in return.

“Uncle Sim said you’re bad,” hissed Missy.

“You don’t listen to him,” said Clair, “he don’t like me.”

But Missy was not to be had and began eating her cereal with nary another look at Clair. Clair sighed, but was unable to keep the smile from returning. It was the rarest of mornings when her mother was up before her—and making breakfast. And now with Missy’s dream, it felt as if her father had been for a visit during the night.

A sharp cry from her mother cut short her thoughts. Sare was holding tight to the back of the divan, her face constricted with grief.

“Mommy!” Clair leaped off her chair, running to her.

“He’s dead!” gasped Sare.

“Mommy—”

“Yes, he’s dead, Clair, I can feel it.”

“No, he’s not, Mommy,” said Missy, running to her mother. “He’s picking flowers—for you.”

“Sweet child!” Then Sare broke down sobbing. “That’s w-why you had the d-dream, he’s dead, I know he’s dead.”

“He’s not dead, Mommy,” cried Missy. “He’s not dead; he was laughing, and he was giving
you
the flowers, not
me
.”

“No, Mommy,” said Clair shakily, her worries returning like the devil’s haunt, “he’s not dead, I knows he’s not.” And catching the distress in her eldest girl’s eyes, Sare bit off her sobs, attempting to straightening herself.

“There now, I’ve upset you both,” she cried. “It’s a poor mother I’ve been. Oh, God, help me,” she wept anew, sinking into the depths of the divan. “I just can’t care about anything since he left. I try and I try, but I just can’t care about anything, and I don’t want to; God help me, but this feels worse than death,” and she began to weep harder, her body shaking, her hands trembling as they covered her face.

“Mommy?” whimpered Missy.

“It’s all right,” said Clair, touching a hand to Missy’s shoulder, and despite their mother’s final descent into hopelessness, she felt indeed it was all right, for had they not been circling around and around in a timeless void for the past two years since the day their father left? What weariness to be moored within the expectancy of a moment that never realizes itself, a spiral that cross-threads, carrying them neither upward nor downward. Now, finally, those threads had righted themselves and she felt freed and as willing to follow her mother into the throes of despair, as she was into heights of ecstasy. Just then Alma pushed in through the door, waving a white envelope and blabbering excitedly that it was a letter from Job.

“See? Daddy’s not dead,” shouted Missy, pulling on her mother’s arm. “I told you he’s not dead.”

“Dead? Well, I never thought of that,” said Alma, her face sobering. She held the letter higher as Missy dashed towards her, hand outreached. “But it wouldn’t come in an ordinary white envelope if he was dead, would it?” She looked questioningly to Sare, whose look of sudden rapture had now turned to stone.

“Give it to me,” said Missy, reaching up to grab the letter.

But Alma shushed her away, walking straight to Sare. “I’m going to open it for you,” she said. “You stay where you are, Sare, and you, too, Clair. Missy, come stand besides your mother. Although I knows in me heart it’s good news because your name is handwritten and not typed, and they wouldn’t send bad news like that in handwritten letters. I should know because I receives enough government letters in the mail to figure that one out by now.”

“Alma—”

“Yes, yes, I knows, maid,” said Alma, slitting her fingernail beneath the glued flap and peeling open the envelope. “Give me time, give me time; sure me hands are shaking worse than yours,” and unfolding the white sheet of paper, she went quiet, a tuck furrowing her brow as she stared hard at the lettering.

“Alma!” Sare near screamed. Alma’s face burst into smiles. “See? It’s just as I said. They wouldn’t send news in a handwritten envelope if he was dead. He’s alive, my dear, and had someone writing the letter for him—”

With a cry, Sare flew out of her chair, swooping the letter out of Alma’s hands. “Oh, sweet mercy, he’s coming home,” she moaned, her eyes flying across the page. “Clair, Missy, he’s coming home! He’s coming home!” She stared at them, astonished, crumpling the letter to her breasts.

“Yea, Daddy’s alive, Daddy’s alive,” chanted Missy, jumping gleefully around the divan.

“Yup, he’s alive, all right,” said Alma. “I knowed that soon as I seen the handwriting. Sure, I never even thought he might be dead.”

“Ooh, blessed Lord,” and it looked as if Sare would collapse into a swoon, but steadying herself, she waved Clair to one side, uncrumpling the letter, her eyes flying across the page. “He’s been wounded, but he’s all right and is resting in a hospital,” she read with mounting excitement. “He’ll be home as soon as he’s able.” She swung towards Alma and clasped the surprised woman in a tight embrace. “Thank you, my dear, oh thank you for bringing me such news.”

“I knowed you’d be excited,” said Alma, her arms flopping awkwardly by her sides as she endured Sare’s embrace. “That’s why I runned with it as fast as I could.”