Eleanor (18 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

E
leanor accompanied Tabitha to Riverton. Tabitha told Eleanor that she didn't have to go with her, that she could do it herself, but Eleanor always went and so would go this time. There was something different about this time's protests, however, and Eleanor sensed a real effort by her mother to have her stay home. Tabitha had lost more weight since Christmas, and though her mother would never suggest it, Eleanor believed that her dramas were to blame for her mother's decline.

“It's President's Day,” Eleanor reminded her. “No school today. No Mrs. Hart.” Eleanor had told Tabitha about the “white-trash” comment, and her mother had laughed. “Just need a little talk with that woman,” she'd said cheerfully. “She's got no place to talk, now does she, cupcake?”

They boarded the van together at eight o'clock and drove south to Riverton. Tabitha looked as good as she could, with makeup, a stylish wig, and nice clothes, but there was no denying her frailty. Though not yet fifty-six, she moved with the cautious steps of an octogenarian.

“Honey, this is going to be a long one,” she said. “Go see a movie and pick up some books. Come back around four.”

Tabitha kissed her forehead, and Eleanor had a sudden urge to cry.

“Momma, I'll stay,” she said.

“They haven't changed out the magazines in that office since
Clinton was president. Go see a movie. I'll be fine. You'll be back in time to talk to the doctor. You go. Have fun.”

Reluctantly, Eleanor allowed the van to take her to town. There was an excellent bookstore in Riverton, Sam Bracker Bookstore. It carried new and used titles, took two stories of half a city block, and networked throughout the world to find whatever you needed. It was sometimes expensive, sometimes slow, but eventually, if it was in print, Bracker's Bookstore would get it for you. The original Sam's great-grandson ran it now with his two sons. Many times Eleanor and Tabitha had traded old books for new and haggled down torn paperback treasures from a dollar to a quarter.

Eleanor liked the smell of the store. She knew that particular smell was decay, cheap acid paper disintegrating the books it was made into, but for a reader, it was perfume. How short-sighted, she always thought. Still it was a welcoming smell, full of promise and adventure.

She went to her favorite sections, all on the secondhand floor. Children's literature, classics, paranormal romance (which was getting bigger by the day), history, and science. After ninety minutes of browsing, she found nothing interesting and wandered into the medical section. She'd combed this area with Tabitha, hunting for holistic cures and information. About a year ago, Tabitha had stopped searching these shelves and casually perused the romance sections instead. Today Eleanor caught herself browsing the end-of-life section. Her head was tilted sideways, and she was reading titles before she knew where she was. It made her sad. She left without touching a book and wandered deeper in the store.

First she smelled him. Then heard him. Then, peeking out behind a heavy pine bookcase, she saw him. David Venn. He was talking to a research clerk, sharing a piece of notebook paper.

“I haven't heard of most of these,” the clerk said. “But these three I think we have. Check Western American, Indian Studies, Folklore.” He pointed to a corner of the store Eleanor had visited many times. “European folklore is in the same area, a couple aisles over.” David looked where he pointed.

“Werewolves would be in movies,” the clerk said.

“No,” David said. “Folklore, I think. Maybe history?”

“I'll look it up.” He turned to his computer and typed. “Yeah, it's a science textbook. Anthropology. University of Arizona Press, Dr. Sikring.
Werewolves and the Case for Shapeshifters
. It's ninety-five dollars. I'll see if I can find it used, but I doubt it. It's pretty new. The other book of his on your list,
Skinwalkers,
I actually have. Someone ordered it and never picked it up. Here, I'll show you.”

He led David downstairs to the new books. Eleanor knew that title,
Skinwalkers.
She had ordered it a year before and never picked it up. She hadn't been able to scrape together the forty-three dollars it cost and so had let it go onto the shelf, losing a five dollar deposit. She'd read it in snippets over the past year, ostensibly browsing the section, but ultimately saving the money and learning nothing she didn't already know.

When David had disappeared with the clerk, Eleanor stole to the table and looked at his list. It shocked her. She recognized most of the titles. They'd been the ones she herself had sought out over the years. She'd found most of them and most had been useless. The only thing she'd gathered from her studies was that though there were many cultures with similar stories, no one believed them now, no one except superstitious American Indians and crack-pot satanists. Dr. Sikring had been energetic about the cultural “witnessing of ancestral magic,” as he called it, but had attributed sworn accounts of skinwalker sightings to peyote use. He did mention an incident in 1962 though, but offered no details.

“Is there no way you could come down on the price?” David asked.

“I don't know,” said the clerk. “University presses don't give us much of a wholesale. But I think we'd have sent it back if we could. I'll ask.”

Eleanor ducked behind bookshelves and circled around to the stairs. She crept down the steps and then made a bee-line for the door. A clerk grabbed her from behind.

“What's the hurry,” she said. “You forget to pay for something?”

Eleanor looked up at the woman holding her. She was in her thirties, black hair with grey roots, too much eyeliner, and a wad of chewing gum whose flavor was a distant memory.

“What?” Eleanor said.

“You look awfully suspicious,” she said. “Whatchu got in that bag?”

Eleanor glanced up the stairs, grateful that David wasn't there to see this humiliation but sure he would appear at any moment.

“Leave me alone,” she said. “I haven't stolen anything.”

“Then you won't mind if I look in your purse.” The woman snatched Eleanor's little handbag from her hands and opened it.

“You have no right,” Eleanor protested. “Who do you think you are?”

“Just a quick peek,” she said.

Eleanor's blood boiled. A low rumbling growl issued from behind Eleanor's clenched teeth. It started deep in her belly and ran up her back into her neck where she felt her vocal chords twist, turn, thicken, and stretch. The sound grew deep, louder, and more menacing by the second. The woman looked at Eleanor, her eyes wide.

With a sudden roar, Eleanor snatched he purse back from the woman's hands. The clerk jumped back and fell into a table display of Tony Flaner mysteries. Eleanor ran out the door.

A quarter mile around the block in front of a convenience store that smelled of beer and urine, Eleanor found a bench. She closed her eyes and willed her voice back. She grimaced as it returned to Eleanor's. It hurt.

She went in the store and bought a carton of milk and a candy bar. Eating on the bench, she tried to think what happened. What had that been? A coyote? A wolf? A bear? No. She recalled the noise perfectly, her memory being what it was, and picked out the subtle pitches of all three predators. She'd merged them all into a new sound. She knew coyote, she knew bear, but she'd only heard wolf. It had not been a copy—it became something new.

Her agitation over the incident gave way to excitement about her discovery. She remembered the terrible night at the Masonic Hall, when she'd picked a single attribute to copy, not the whole thing, as she was used to, but only a part. Hadn't she become something new then? And now she'd made a new voice.

Had her parents—her real parents—told her about this? They must have. Or maybe they hadn't since it wouldn't have been necessary had things proceeded naturally. But of course they hadn't.

She cast her mind back, but couldn't remember. She barely remembered her family's faces and then only in bloody flashes, the last instant before she fled to the desert. She had willingly let the years on all fours erode those times. Recalling the happy, daily memories, the water gathering, the cook fire, her brother's laugh, her mother's smile, her father's strong arms—these things caused her more heartache than even the memory of hungry winters, thirsty miles, or even the savage attack that had killed them. And so she'd buried them.

To the world, she was an average girl of fifteen, top of the bell curve; able, but not excelling, competent, and regular. But she knew she was old and ignorant. Tabitha and school had taught her to be a white American girl, but she had had no teacher to show her what she truly was, to explain the monster she was. Except for the impotent reading she'd done, chasing books written by fools more ignorant than she, she'd done little to explore what she was. She denied it. Before this year, she allowed herself only a single annual trip to Nebraska to use her weird talent. Part of the reason had been Tabitha. For all her love and caring, Eleanor saw that she scared her mother. For Tabitha, Eleanor had been only Eleanor and that had been enough. But now things were falling apart, and she felt woefully unprepared.

“Miss? You okay?” a man said. “You want to come inside where it's warm?”

It was the convenience store manager.

“What?” she said, feeling groggy.

“You've been sitting out here for over an hour. You must be frozen solid.”

“I'm pretty tolerant to cold,” she said.

“That may be, but it is cold, and so are you,” he said. “I'll tell you what. I'll get you a hot cocoa if you won't come in.” When Eleanor just stared at him, he left and returned in a few minutes with a foam-topped cup.

“Do you need me to call anyone?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “I'm alright. Thanks for the drink. You're very kind. I'm just resting my feet.”

He looked at her secondhand clothes and worn shoes. He tipped an imaginary hat and went back inside.

Eleanor glanced at her watch. It was late. She had been there a while. She stood up and stretched. Her muscles were cold and stiff. She'd been still too long. She shivered. She headed west toward the clinic at a pace she measured would get her there in an hour, when she agreed to meet her mother.

Tabitha was waiting for her when she walked in.

“You're early,” her mother said warmly. “Good. Let's go. I'm tired of this place.” She turned to the receptionist. “Could you call and see if our ride is available?”

“What'd the doctor say?” Eleanor asked.

“Same old, same old,” Tabitha said.

“Where are the notes? The scripts and pills?”

“I got them in my purse. We'll talk about them later.”

“Did you schedule another appointment?”

“No,” she said brightly.

Eleanor knew then. There was no need to come back to the clinic because there was nothing more they could do. Tabitha's bag would be full of directories of hospice care centers, legal firms specializing in wills, and brochures for cut-rate burial plans. Eleanor had seen the literature before, seen it in the handbags of broken daughters and the pockets of weeping sons and husbands while they pushed a beloved skeleton in a wheelchair through the automatic glass doors for the last time.

“Pain pills?” she said quietly.

“Yes,” she said. “We'll have to pick those up. Good ones this time. I'll have fun.”

“Your ride is on his way,” the receptionist said without looking at them.

Tabitha took Eleanor's hand and together they walked out of the clinic to a bench on the curb.

“Sun's going down,” her mother said. “It'll be a beautiful sunset. We'll be driving right into it.”

“Momma, I'm scared,” Eleanor said so softly she was sure her mother couldn't hear her.

“I know, cupcake,” she said. “But it'll be okay.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

T
heir budget was opened up. Tabitha's medicine was cut to only two prescriptions, and they ordered pizza twice that week. In an unspoken agreement, they had not talked about the doctor's prognosis or the future beyond that week. Eleanor knew that the conversation had to happen, had been coming for years. Their family had always been on a short timer.

Eleanor threw herself into her schoolwork and, just to show her mother she could, she aced two math quizzes and a Spanish midterm. Her homework came back with high marks and even Mrs. Hart commented on her improvement, though she'd only awarded Eleanor a low B for a lecture transcription she called an essay.

Tabitha spent her days opening the house. She prepared the tomato seedlings in the warm sunshine of the kitchen window, and finally had the energy to cook again. It was something of a renaissance for her. She only had to combat the illness now, she said, and not the cure.

The Friday after their last trip to Riverton, Eleanor saw Robby take David into the bathroom after math class. He cast a warning glance at Eleanor before disappearing behind the door. Unable to stop herself, she crept closer but then when she could find no excuse to go nearer, she went back to the math class and watched from the doorway. Five minutes later, the boys emerged. David came out first. He looked irritated and marched up the hall without a glance back at Robby, who followed a step behind and then ran to catch up.

“Don't take it personally,” he said.

“How else should I take it?” said David.

“They answered your question,” he said. “You just didn't like the answer.”

“No, they didn't. I want to make my own decision.” He stormed. The bell rang.

“I'll ask them again, Dave. Okay?” Robby said. “But seriously. She's not worth it.”

“I'll make my own decisions,” he spat back before disappearing down a side hall. Robby turned and looked back. He peered down the hall to where Eleanor hid, but she didn't think he saw her. He was, however, looking for her.

That weekend, Tabitha amazed Eleanor by accompanying her to the grocery store. They took it easy and stopped many times, taking advantage of every bench, stump, and lawn chair on the way. But finally, in good spirits, they arrived, and together they bought groceries. It had been over a year since Tabitha had last set foot in the store.

“We'll have apple pie tonight,” Tabitha proclaimed, tossing a frozen dessert in the cart.

Eleanor hesitated. It was a spendy treat, but her mother insisted.

Tabitha filled the cart with everything Eleanor liked, PopTarts, apples, chicken, artichokes, mushrooms, bacon, eggs, heavy dark bread that could sink a canoe, and real butter, lots of real butter.

That night they had a feast. Tabitha nibbled, and Eleanor ate like she had a reason to, but didn't. When the many leftovers were put away, and the dishes done, they sat together at their table playing cards while a radio played. Tabitha had chosen a modern station and listened with interest to songs Eleanor didn't know.

It was during their third game that Eleanor told her mother about the bookstore, about David's research, and her reaction. The time hadn't been right before.

“He's a smart one, cupcake,” she said. “Glad he's on our side.”

“Is he?”

“Of course.”

“He might not be forever,” she said.

“That is a lame word and a lamer sentiment,” her mother scolded her, taking a crib full of sevens and eights. “You're slipping up,” she said.

“I know. What's wrong with me?” sighed Eleanor.

“The book clerk had it coming. I hope she peed herself.”

“What do you think it means?” Eleanor asked as off-handedly as she could. She thought that both she and her mother were going to pains to act as if this was just another night of pointless small talk and cards, but they knew that each word, each moment was precious. She fumbled the shuffle.

“You're growing up, cupcake,” her mother said. “You're an artist who's done copying the masters and is now trying to find her own style. It's a good thing. Very good.”

“You make it sound like a gift,” she said, giving her mother too many cards.

“Of course it is,” she said. “You're gifted beyond imagination.”

“I don't feel gifted,” she said.

“That's part of the gift.”

Eleanor dropped two cards into her crib and slid them to the side. “Ten,” she said opening with a king.

“Fifteen for two,” said Tabitha and scored the peg. “People are good, Eleanor.”

“Mrs. Hart?” she reminded her. “Twenty-five.”

“Thirty-one for two,” she scored again. Eleanor was losing badly. “Yes, there are bad people, the worst. But they're balanced by the good ones, the best ones. You'll have to find others to trust,” Tabitha said. “When I'm gone.”

“Don't say that, Momma.”

“You will,” Tabitha said, keeping her eyes on her cards. “I want you to. Maybe it'll be David. Maybe it'll be the kind man at the convenience store who gave you chocolate, but Eleanor, I want you to trust someone. I don't want the world to lose you again.”

Eleanor stared at her cards, unable to focus.

“It's your turn, sweetie,” Tabitha said.

“Yeah,” she said. “I guess it is.”

The following Thursday was parent-teacher conference, a meeting between educators and student guardians held three times a year to discuss performance. It was usually either a love fest for the good students or another long, drawn out lecture about parental responsibility for the bad kids. There wasn't much in between. The good students dragged their parents in to brag, the bad were required to attend, and the average kids ignored the whole event. Eleanor and Tabitha Anders had ignored them for years.

So it was something of a surprise when Tabitha, on Eleanor's arm, walked into the gymnasium. Teachers had been planted along the walls at lunch tables bearing their names on landscaped school letterhead secured with blue painter's tape.

Since Jamesford was so small, the entire high school could have its conference simultaneously. Since most of the teachers taught all three upper grades it was easier for them to get it over with. There was a carnival atmosphere with free popcorn, college admissions barkers passing out flyers, and the anticipation of a three-day holiday. Friday classes were cancelled to allow the teachers to recover.

“There's Mrs. Hart,” Tabitha whispered to Eleanor. “We'll do her last. Who's Mr. Curtz?”

“I don't see him,” she said. “But he's got to be here somewhere.”

“Keep an eye out for him.”

Eleanor watched the room not only for the school principal but also for David. She knew his grades were better than hers. He was above average, but his grades had slipped after Christmas. His science courses particularly suffered, but he'd kept a passing grade.

As she scanned the crowd, she noticed her other classmates stealing glances at her and her mother. If Tabitha noticed them, she showed no signs of discomfort.

They stood in line for Mr. Graham. He was in no hurry and the line had stalled on a senior failing physics. Eleanor left the line and went to the kitchen. She found a folding chair leaning against a counter and took it without a word, while Miss Church, the lunch-lady, looked on, unpacking gigantic cans onto a steel shelf.

Back in line, Eleanor opened the chair and Tabitha sat down. She waited patiently, her hands neatly folded over her little handbag, her visage content. She looked as good as she had in years. Though her weight hadn't come back, her energy had, and her sharp eyes darted around the room in eager curiosity.

“Eleanor,” said Mr. Graham when it was their turn. “Glad to see you.”

“I'm Tabitha Anders. Eleanor's mother.” Tabitha offered her hand. He shook it but didn't stand.

“Have a seat,” he said. “I see you already have one.”

“I've been ill,” explained Tabitha.

They settled in while Mr. Graham searched his papers. “I'm glad you came, Mrs. Anders,” he said. “I was hoping you would.”

Eleanor felt a knot twine in her stomach.

“I thought Eleanor was doing well in your classes,” she said.

“She is,” he said. “Slightly above average. Unremarkable.”

They both waited for the old man to continue. He placed two pieces of paper in front of Tabitha. Eleanor recognized one as a quiz and the other as a midterm exam. Both were scored at a solid B.

“These seem adequate,” said Tabitha.

“Look at problem ten here,” he said pointing to the quiz. “It's a complex use of the quadratic formula. Eleanor was one of only four students who got it right.”

“Good for her,” she said. Eleanor was numb.

“Here's the same problem on the midterm,” he said pointing to the other paper. “The values are different, but it's essentially the same problem.”

Tabitha examined it.

“She missed it,” Mr. Graham said. “Ninety percent of the class got it.”

“And?” asked Tabitha after a pause.

“I think she missed it on purpose,” he said. He looked at Eleanor. Eleanor imagined her face a stone carving and stared back.

“What are you saying?”

“I think Eleanor is afraid of success,” he said. “She's smarter than she's testing. She's holding back.”

“Why would she do that?”

Mr. Graham shrugged. “I don't know.”

They sat in silence for a moment, Eleanor an unreadable statue.

“Eleanor,” Mr. Graham said finally, “Are you holding back?”

“Why would I do that?”

He sighed and turned to Tabitha.

“Anyway, Eleanor is doing fine in chemistry and math. I suspect she'll do fine in all her science classes.”

Tabitha stood up. “Thanks, Mr. Graham,” she said. “Eleanor speaks highly of you.”

“I won't be here next year,” he said almost as a warning.

“We'll miss you,” Tabitha said and followed Eleanor away.

Mr. Blake was polite and went over their Spanish curriculum with eager new-teacher enthusiasm. “She's talented,” he said. He could offer encouragement and make it sound fresh. Give him ten years, Eleanor thought.

“Mrs. Anders, how are you feeling?” It was Karen Venn.

“I'm feeling much better,” she said.

“That is good news,” she said.

“Where's David?” Tabitha asked. Eleanor looked for a good direction to flee.

“He took Wendy to the restroom,” she said.

Eleanor gave Tabitha's hand a light pull.

“I've been meaning to ask you,” Karen said. “Where do your people come from?”

“What do you mean?”

“Anders. Is that Danish or something more exotic?”

“English,” she said.

“Oh,” she said. “No American Indian?”

“No. Why would you think that?”

“David once said something,” she said. “Years ago. Was Eleanor adopted?”

“Really, Mrs. Venn,” Tabitha said.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “Oh, look, there's David.”

Wendy skipped ahead of David. He smiled when he saw Eleanor and hurried his pace.

“Mrs. Anders,” he said. “It's great to see you out.”

“Thank you, David,” she said, but Eleanor could tell Karen had upset her.

“Eleanor,” he said still smiling. “Good to see you. You got any plans this weekend?”

It was something any student would say to any other student, but it shocked her. He'd put her on the spot. She didn't want to talk to him, had gone well out of her way to avoid him, had given him no encouragement, and had actually been rude, unkind, mean even. But here he was, taking advantage of their parents as witnesses to speak to her.

“We're going to the park,” she said.

“We're going to an Indian reservation on Sunday,” Wendy said excitedly. “We're going to see where Indians live. See a real medicine man.”

Eleanor shot David a look that she hoped didn't betray more than surprise. David's smile shrank and Eleanor could see he was forming apologies and explanations.

“There's Mr. Curtz,” Eleanor said to her mother.

“Nice seeing you,” Tabitha said to the Venns and followed Eleanor to the principal.

Tabitha straightened herself and said, “Mr. Curtz? I'm Tabitha Anders, Eleanor's mother. I'd like to speak with you.”

“Yes, what can I do for you,” he said.

“It's about Mrs. Hart,” she said. “Maybe we should talk about this in private.”

The principal hesitated then reluctantly agreed. He led her into a side office after opening it with a key.

“Stay here, sweetie,” she said. “I won't be long.”

Feeling abandoned, Eleanor watched them go. She saw the Venns in line for Mrs. Hart. David watched her from across the room. Eleanor turned her back and walked to the popcorn machine.

She knew her mother was laying out the case against Mrs. Hart's ill-treatment of her. She knew also that Tabitha would not hesitate to use the information Eleanor had given her about her teacher and the principal. They had no hard proof, but this was a small town and rumors ran wild like wolves, and when there was a hint of truth behind them, they bit like them, too.

Eleanor wandered back to the door and nonchalantly tried to listen through the din of the gymnasium to the conversation inside.

She focused on her mother's voice and caught only snippets of talk. She picked out phrases, “your wife,” “school board,” “scandal,” and “career-ending” and had to smile at her mother's cold, calm blackmailing. Mr. Curtz spoke too softly for Eleanor to make out or else he responded with only grunts and sighs. Either case was good.

In truth, Eleanor didn't mind Mrs. Hart half as much as her mother did. Eleanor had accepted the teacher's ire and injustice as just another truth, but Tabitha had taken it personally, and had penned several unsent letters outlining more or less the conversation that was happening now. “There's injustice you have to take and there's injustice you can fight,” she said. Eleanor was afraid that saying anything would only make things worse. She pleaded with her mother to let it be, but she wouldn't. “Trust me,” she said. “I got this.”