Ferris Beach (30 page)

“I couldn’t care less about what happens to Dexter,” he said, jaw clenched. “Or R.W. They can rot in hell for all I care.”

“Oh.” I felt my own face get hot with his anger, with my misunderstanding of what he meant.

“I just would rather nobody knows.” He leaned forward, pulled his knees up, arms hugging them. “I mean, that’s all Perry needs, right?” He stared at me again, watched as I sat braiding a piece of pine straw. “You know this gets out and every bastard in the school will be after her, people like that jerk-off Todd and his friend from Greensboro.” He paused, teeth clenched again. “You know all those people you run around with. You know what they’d say and do.”

I was stunned. The pine straw was motionless in my hand as I looked towards the highway. He was saying the same thing that Perry had said in the bathroom the year before; he was lumping me in with all of
them,
the group Misty and I had wanted to be a part of but had always remained on the fringe.

“They’re not my friends,” I said, and tossed the straw to the side. “And I won’t tell, I promise.” I stood to go, brushed off the seat of my jeans and was heading back to the path when he stood, too, jumped in front of me.

“Why
were
you in that tree?” he asked. I shrugged, looked
down first at my feet, tan Wallabies darkened by the damp ground, and then his, the same style Converse he had worn for years. “What were you expecting to see?” He bent down, trying to get me to look at him. “Thought maybe you’d see some fancy velvet drapes and wallpaper?” I shook my head. “What then? What were you looking for?” He stepped closer. “Did you see what you wanted to see?”

“No!” I looked up, swallowed hard to keep from crying.

“Why then?”

“I don’t know.” I shrugged again, looked away. “I guess I was curious.”

“About what?” His plastic bag with his gifts was still on the ground, one of the tags visible. At first I thought it said
from
Merle, but now I saw that it was
to
him.
To Merle from the Lan-dells.
That explained the classical music; he had called me from Mrs. Poole’s house. “About what?” he asked again and stepped closer.

“You.” I felt like it took forever to get the word out of my mouth, and then it fell solid and heavy. He stepped back, bent to pick up his bag, and then stood there, his breath visible as he stared out at the irregular pattern of granite. All the possibilities suddenly came rushing in. He could turn and run away without ever looking back, or he could clear his throat and spit on the mossy ground, or he could hold his sides and laugh and laugh. But he just stood there, the bag swinging as he rocked from side to side. “You were curious about me?” He looked at me, put his hand to his chest. In the distance I could hear the cars, could hear Christmas music and horns blowing. In less than two hours Angela would be in our house, turning the holiday into a holiday just by making it four instead of three of us sitting down to eat. He stepped closer, silendy on the moss, and then suddenly leaned forward, his lips pressing mine for an awkward split second. Then there was a long pause as we both stared in the direction of the highway.

“Sorry, forgot you had a boyfriend,” he finally said and stepped away, tilted his head in the direction of Misty’s house.

“But I don’t,” I said and watched him kick the bottom of the shed door to loosen it. “Misty just likes to tell people that.” I breathed in, smelling the woodsmoke and pine in the cold air. My hands were shaking so I stuck them in my pockets. “What you did for Misty the other day, the way you stood up for her was real nice,” I said, and stepped towards him. “Except that now she thinks your brother is cute.”

“She can do better than Dexter.” He pulled on the rusty handle and the door swung open. “So can Perry.” There was a softness in the way he said her name, and I couldn’t help but wonder if
he
had ever been with her, in a different way, a tender way.

“I hope she’s okay,” I said as he squatted and peered into the dark shed where there was a rusty shovel and old black tarp.

“Says she is. I called her.” He pushed the door to and stood, stared straight up into those thick pine branches. “She said she knew about it all, that she was
supposed
to act scared was all.” He shook his head. “Says Dexter and her are gonna get married. He’s giving her a pre-engagement ring for Christmas.” He laughed sarcastically and looked at me then, shrugged a sigh of helplessness. “If he does, it’s stolen.”

“She
knew?”
I asked in disbelief, and he turned towards me.

“No, no way. She’s lying,” he said. “She’s scared as hell of him.” He reached out, fingers locking around my wrists, squeezing as he spoke. “She’s not that kind of girl any more than
you
are,” he said, squeezing still harder when he said
you.
“How would you feel if they had done that to
you.”
He shook me with each word. “Think about it.” I looked down when I felt the tears coming to my eyes. His knuckles were white as he squeezed me, my own fists clenched and pressing against his stomach. And then he released his grip, rubbed his open palms up and down my sleeves, barely touching. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Really.”

I wondered what we must look like. I saw an aerial view of
Merle reaching out stiffly to hug me, our heads pressing together as we rocked back and forth like in a slow dance. His wool plaid jacket was rough on my cheek, my mouth just an inch from his neck, the same neck that had once been wrapped in snakeskins and dirty rawhide-strung ratfinks. The house next door to his began cranking up the music, and though above us we could see patches of the afternoon sky, within the thickly wooded space where we stood it was like dusk.
Hark the herald angels sing.
In the distance horns were blowing as people drove home from work, and very soon the local radio station would begin announcing where Santa Claus had been spotted and his predicted arrival into the Fulton city limits. And late that night when I got into bed, I would think through the whole meeting, second by second, every single word and look and touch, and if Angela should creep into my room after midnight to tell her latest stories, then maybe I would surprise her, finally, with one of my own.

Angela called at the time she was supposed to arrive to say that she was running late. “Oh, Kitty,” she said, lots of background noise making it hard to hear all she said, “I’m so sorry that I can’t get there for dinner, but something really important is going on. I can’t wait to tell you all about it. I can’t wait to see all of you. Wait a sec ...” I heard her put the phone down, and then there were just muffled voices and music. Through the doorway I could see my mother in her green knit dress and matching pumps as she lit the red tapers in the center of the table; she was using her fine china, white with a gold band around the edge, and the Waterford crystal that she kept on the very top shelf of the china cabinet. She had put down her best linen tablecloth and the matching napkins, which she had somewhere along the way learned to fold like swans. “I’ve always had a soft spot for swans,” she had said many times. “They always
remind me of the Public Gardens and growing up in Boston.” It made me ache to watch her, knowing that in five minutes when I told her that Angela wouldn’t make dinner, she would stiffen and bristle and say that she wasn’t surprised.
Of course she can’t make it. What kind of fool was I to think she would?

“Kitty, I’m back.” Angela laughed, her breath short and quick as if she’d just run around the block. “I’ll be there around eleven, okay? It’ll still be Christmas Eve, right?” She paused, waiting for me to say something.

“Please don’t do this.” Now I could see through the dining room and into the kitchen, where the big turkey, its legs crossed and tied, was golden brown in the roasting pan as my mother basted it again in butter and then left it on the top of the stove while she went back to her Waldorf salad. “Try to get here sooner. For dinner.”

“Well.” She paused. “You’re afraid that Cleva will fly off the handle if I’m not there, is that it?” I didn’t say anything. “Yeah, I see what you mean. Well”—her voice fell—“hold on.” Again I could hear voices and music as I waited. “I’m on my way,” she said. “I sure don’t want the burden of you and Fred having a lousy Christmas.” She paused. “See you soon,” and then she hung up before I could say good-bye.

“Kate?” Mama was standing there, cheeks flushed with the heat of the kitchen. “Who is it? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I hung up the phone.

“Angela isn’t coming, is she?” She stood there, a red-and-green oven mitt covering her hand and arm like a cast, and stared around the room, past the flickering tapers and cut holly centerpiece, as if she were disoriented and didn’t know where to go or what to do.

“No, she is,” I said, and followed her back into the kitchen. “She’s just running a little late, that’s all.”

“Why the long face?” My father came in from the back porch, where he had said that Mama was, under no circumstances, to
go. As a surprise he was going to have a greenhouse built for her and had built a little model of one to present to her on Christmas morning. He had borrowed tongue depressers from Sally Jean, who got them at the hospital, patiently glued the frame, and then wrapped it all in Saran Wrap; there was an African violet and a zebra plant from the florist inside. My mother had no idea what he was planning. “C’mon. It’s Christmas Eve.” He squeezed her hand. “Why did Theresa Poole throw the clock out the window?”

“Angela’s running late.” Mama sighed and went back to the sink. “That means she probably isn’t coming at all.”

“Yes, she is,” I said. “She was leaving right that minute.”

“We’ll see.” Mama was scooping the oyster dressing from the turkey and putting it in a big bowl. “I hope Sally Jean’s meal turns out okay. She has Thomas’s sister and husband visiting for the first time since . . .” Her voice fell off. My mother had stopped mentioning Mo, a loyalty to Sally Jean making her want to forget.

“I do, too.” I went to sit on the counter by the sink where I could see Merle’s house. I still could not believe what had happened that very afternoon; it made the blood rush to my head just to think about it, the way he had leaned in, his lips brushing mine. It was not even a second and yet, when I thought about it, it was like slow motion.

“Sally Jean is trying so hard. I hope they all have a real nice holiday. I hope the children got her something nice.” Mama looked at me as if to pose a question, and I told her that Misty had gone shopping earlier.

“Today? She waited until today?” She shook her head and looked at my father as if to drive home a point. She was going to be surprised when she saw just how much thought he
had
put into her gift. I had gotten her some Wind Song cologne, which I gave her every Christmas, and a large tortoise-shell clip, since her hair had finally grown long enough that she could pull it back in her old style. I wasn’t sure how much thought I had put into my gift either, considering I had gotten the idea of the clip from
“The Gift of the Magi,” and was relieved I had not had to make any sort of sacrificial trade there at Belk-Hensdale.

Just the day before, Misty had found Mo’s stocking carefully wrapped in tissue paper and placed on the end of her bed. “I guess Sally Jean wanted to get it out of the decoration box,” Misty had said, and all I could think about was how the year before, Sally Jean must have found it and just left it there. Everything else was pulled from the box and then returned, with Mo’s cotton quilted stocking still there on the bottom. “She made my dad a
new
stocking to match hers, a crocheted one.” Misty made a face. “She said she’d make me and Dean crocheted ones, too, if we were interested.”

“Santa Claus has lots of tricks up his sleeve.” Daddy laughed, his hand patting his chest, as he pulled out the bottle of brandy he’d been
sipping
from all day. “You are never going to guess what you’re getting, Cleva.” He sat down at the table and lit a cigarette. “You’re going to love it.”

“You know what I’d really like?” She turned and I knew from the quick glance she gave his hand with the cigarette that she wanted to say
stop
, but then she changed her mind and I was relieved; what I really wanted was a happy, merry Christmas, though I really felt that nothing could dampen my holiday. When I felt the bits of tension, when I thought of Perry there on the ground, I forced my thoughts back around to Merle, the smoothness of his mouth, the softness of his voice. Before I left the cemetery, Merle had said that he would see me real soon, that he’d call me. Of all the times that I had thought through Angela’s visits and days spent with Mo Rhodes, second by second, it was nothing compared to the careful dissection I had done of my meeting Merle in the cemetery; I had every millisecond memorized.

“Tell me what you’d like,” he said. “You name it, Cleva. Anything within reason.” He laughed a long deep Santa Claus imitation, his face red as he finished and took in a much needed breath.

“I’d like to have a very merry Christmas” she whispered, came and stood right behind his chair, lifted the cigarette from his hand and stubbed it in the ashtray, before massaging his shoulders. “I’d like,” she whispered, “for you to go and get a physical, start the new year off with a good bill of health.” She hugged him, her face right next to his, voice low and serene. “And I’d like for those people back on that street to turn off the damn music for five minutes. If I hear ‘Frosty the Snowman’ once more today, I am going to stick my head in the oven.”

“I like it,” he said. “Don’t think much of the physical, but as for the merry Christmas, yes.” He stood and walked over to her. “And, oh boy, do I like it when you’re mean, Cleva.” He muscled her under the misdetoe and kissed her right on the mouth, smudged that carefully applied lipstick all over her chin. “If Theresa Poole could see you now,” he said. “And by the way, Mrs. Poole drew herself a picture of the nativity scene, and there at the back she drew a great big fat man. Well, Cleva Burns walked by and said, ‘Why, Theresa, what lovely art you’ve done but now tell me, who’s the fat guy there at the rear of the stable?’” He paused, jiggled Mama, who with cheeks flushed and eyes watery, smiled, mouthed, “Who?” He looked at me where I was still sitting on the counter in front of the window; in one glance I saw myself and then I could look beyond the darkness and see Merle’s house. “Mrs. Theresa tilted up her nose and said, ‘Why, Cleva, don’t you know? Why, don’t you know?’” He could do a wonderful Theresa Poole impersonation, and it had gotten better and better since he told this same joke every year. “’That’s Round John Virgin.’” My mother said the words with him, laughed. “Okay, so here’s a better one.” He stopped, swallowed hard, opened his mouth as if to belch but nothing happened. “Bad gas.” He patted his chest.