Lost (30 page)

“Now, Bessie's brother Urban used to live over by Sandison, Ohio,” Vivian said. “He sold hardware around through these parts. Drove a red truck.” Seldom did she look directly at Leona; she nodded or frowned or stared at the fire. Only when Leona's head was turned did she feel the brush of those shrewd blue eyes. Several times that evening, when she glanced up, she saw Vivian's head turn slowly away. She knows something, Leona thought, and the tension drew tighter and tighter in her stomach.

“
Mortimer, how can you be so stupid?
”

“
Uh … just lucky, I guess
.”

The children, even Mamie, laughed. Walter looked at the radio and spoke directly to it. “Oh, Mortimer,” he said, letting his hands rise buoyantly at his sides, “you really are stupid.”

When the clock struck eight, the children were led away to bed in the attic. As she rocked, Funny Grandma's long, knobby fingers moved awkwardly through the Bible in her lap. Minutes later, Vivian returned and the old woman cowered in her chair. “I'm ashamed of you, Mama. It's your own flesh and blood. It's me, Vivian.”

Only one eye looked up. “Go play.”

“Mama …”

“Go play, smart aleck.”

“Mama, it's time to go to bed.”

“No.” She started to rock again, her slippered feet tapping the floor. The Bible sank into her skirt and snapped shut. “Now see what ye did? How'll I ever find my place?”

“Let's go to bed, Mama. Come on, up we go. It's late.”

Still shaking her head, Funny Grandma took the cane, grasped the handle until it fit her hand, and, leaning on it, stood. Vivian was gone with her for quite a long time before she came back and sat down with a cup of coffee. “Would you like some?” she asked. Leona smiled and said no. Except for the ticking clock and the occasional hiss and crackle in the wood stove, nothing disturbed the night silence.

Vivian leaned her elbows on her spread knees. “You mustn't mind my old mama,” she said at last. “In her heyday she was nothin' to be monkeyed with. But now, half the time, she don't know who she is. She thinks she sees things, reads signs in all kindsa things. Sometimes she thinks these kids are hers. She's been saying she'll come visit 'em from the dead. It's one of her favorite things to promise people, but they don't know that.”

“I don't think they mind,” Leona said.

The wind shook the windowpanes. Hardly lifting her head, Vivian glanced at the night outside, then at Leona, and turned back to her coffee. “I don't mean to insult you, but I have to ask you something.” She rolled the sides of the cup in the palms of her hands. “There's something wrong, ain't there?”

Before Leona could formulate an evasive answer, Vivian's head came up and she was staring straight at her. “Them kids,” she said. “They're not yours, are they?”

Leona's heart was beating very fast. She was pinned by those intelligent blue eyes. What or how much the woman knew was impossible to guess. If she lied, Vivian might easily trip her up. Frantically she searched the tangle of her thoughts for a plausible answer that wouldn't incriminate her. Time stretched between them until Leona knew she couldn't delay her response any longer. Tears stood in her eyes. “No,” she said softly, “no, they're not.”

Vivian was still staring at her. Then she said, “I didn't think so,” and, as if embarrassed by their frank exchange, she dropped her gaze again. “Too many things just didn't add up. Whose are they, then? Kin of yours?”

“Yes,” Leona said, her mouth as dry as a stick.

“How'd you happen to end up with 'em?”

“I was taking them home,” Leona said, not knowing what else to say. “For Thanksgiving.” In a way, it was true.

Vivian rocked, biting her lower lip thoughtfully. “Well, that makes sense,” she said. “Have you had some trouble with 'em?”

Leona closed her eyes and let out a deep soundless breath. Now, what's she leading up to?

“Oh, you needn't tell me. It's just … I keep missing things. I put a spoon down and reach for it and it's gone. Biscuits disappear, my old pack of cigarettes. It's all little stuff. I keep a couple of silver dollars in a dish in the cupboard. They went. I said to my mama, ‘Looks like somebody's fixin' to take a trip, collectin' all my stuff.' And
she
said, ‘Or else they's plannin' on company,'” Vivian laughed.

Leona said nothing, staring at the night that made faint mirrors of the windows. From a hook inside the wardrobe, Vivian removed a gown and robe and, picking up her coffee cup, went to the kitchen. Soon she was back, in her nightclothes, lowering the window shades, fluffing a pillow on the couch, unfurling a quilt. “Oh, Vee,” Leona said, “you don't have to stay with me tonight. I'm feeling better. Really, you should go to bed.”

Cupping her hand to a lamp chimney, Vivian blew out the light. “When bad weather sets in, I always move out here by my stove. It's too cold in yonder.” Through the dark reddish light of the stove, she motioned toward the draped doorway beside the wardrobe. “Besides I've got this 'ere couch broke in just the way I like it. Don't you worry 'bout me.”

Leona started to protest again, but Vivian wouldn't hear of it and then, as the night settled into the room, somewhat shyly they said good night.

It was snowing harder; hour after slow hour it fell, obliterating any trace of them, isolating them from that other, brutal world. No one will find us here, Leona thought, and it was true. Nothing had moved on the county road beyond the barn; no one had stopped by except Hardesty; the telephone could not ring. And even if the Turner women had been suspicious and wanted to report the children's whereabouts to the authorities, Vee couldn't have done it.

It suddenly dawned on Leona that after she had received the terrible news about Emma, all her other concerns had been answered—but with a spiteful vengeance. She had needed to get rid of the car and it was gone. Desperately needing rest, she had it now—in the extreme. She had yearned for a little safe time with these children and that, too, had come to them. Their lives—the terror and desperation, the fear of capture, the hiding and the night driving, the endless flight from that maniac—all of it had been reduced to this house of crumbling firelight, programs on the radio, the children playing in these lofty rooms, yelps of surprise, laughter, time spent in bare simplicity. How long can this possibly last?

At eleven o'clock, Leona made another attempt to fall asleep, pulling the quilt up under her chin, only to lie there staring through the amber dark, expecting at any moment and against all logic to see a madman emerge from the kitchen doorway and the glowing eyes of that monstrous dog.

15

“
This is the
‘
Arthur Godfrey Show,' and Arthur's not here
.
Please stay tuned
.” Music started to play. The kitchen and living room were suffused with light; the children had finished their breakfast. Aunt Vee carried a tray to Leona. “Now, I like Arthur Godfrey,” she said, “but it irks me that he can't get to work on time. You'd think he could. Did you hear it when he talked about F.D.R.'s funeral parade? I'll tell you, it broke my heart when he started to cry.”

Leona said she hadn't heard it, and Funny Grandma said, “Did ye say F.D.R.'s dead?” And Aunt Vee had to explain all over again that it had happened some years ago, that Funny Grandma had just forgotten about it.

To the children, the farmhouse was like nothing they had ever seen before, a source of almost endless curiosity and adventure. They would never in their lives adequately describe what it was like to awaken in a cold attic and go down those rickety stairs to the warmth of that kitchen. It was their room, where they stayed, where things were brought to them from the hidden regions of the house for them to play with, and it was primarily from the kitchen that Mamie took things.

She didn't know why she did it—she liked Aunt Vee. It was something she felt compelled to do, as if by returning to the way she had been with Sherman, she could hold tighter to that part of herself she remembered most deeply. This morning, through the glass sides of a jar of odds and ends, she had seen a small picture in a gold frame, a tiny picture of a man and a woman. And she wanted it.

Patsy and Walter were playing Chinese checkers on the kitchen floor and the three women were still talking about F.D.R. “He's flown off to Heaven,” Funny Grandma said, “and nary a soul told me.” With her back to them, Mamie opened the cupboard door a crack, looked back toward the living room—the radio had come on. “
Howarya? Howarya? Howarya?
” the gravelly radio voice exclaimed, and a ukulele was strumming. Using the tips of her fingers, Mamie turned the jar lid. “Hey,” Walter said to Patsy, “that's cheatin'.” Then from the living room, the radio announcer said, “
And now the news from our international desk, this Wednesday morning, November eighteenth …
”

Mamie withdrew her hand from the cupboard and slowly turned on her toes. She heard nothing else. November eighteenth. It's my birthday, she thought. And nobody knows. She remembered the last time she had a birthday and how she had waited. “You cheat,” Walter said, abruptly standing up from the star-shaped game. “Aunt Vee,” he moaned, trotting into the living room. “Patsy's cheatin' me. She won't play right.”

Mamie bent to Patsy, clasping her knees, and said, “Patsy, guess what?”

She shrugged.

“Patsy, it's my birthday.
Today is
. I'm eight years old,” and when Patsy looked at her blankly, with none of her excitement, Mamie whispered, “When Aunt Vee comes, tell her. And then act like you don't know. I want it to be a surprise.”

“How'er you feelin'?” Vee asked Leona. “Do you feel like sittin' up?” It was just after twelve, the time of day when everything hummed with light.

“Yes,” Leona said, “I think so. I'm really sore, but my head seems clearer.” And she started to edge up.

“No, no, not now,” Vee said, walking toward her. “Something's come up.”

“What is it,” Leona asked, a little alarmed, pushing herself up higher against her pillows.

“Sh-h-h,” Vee said with her finger to her lips. “Stay where you are.” She pulled the rocker over and sat down quickly on the edge of the seat. “I don't want them to hear us.” She shot a glance toward the kitchen. “That little girl of yours—the blonde one—she's been puttin' out the word that today's her birthday. She's the wise old age of eight.”

“Mamie?”

“Uh-hum. That one.”

Careful not to reveal too much, Leona thought for a moment before she answered. “I hadn't thought of it. But I guess it might be. I guess it is. It slipped my mind.”

“Well, sir,” Vee said excitedly, but Walter ran to the doorway.

“Can I have another toast?”

“You shore can,” Vee said. “In a minute. I'll be in there directly and I'll fix you one.”

“Patsy wants one, too.”

“That'll be all right, you can tell'er I said so.” She turned to Leona. “So we have to do somethin', don't we? It'd be a crime to let it pass.” She smiled. “'Specially since she's goin' to so much trouble.”

“Yes, of course,” Leona said. “But, Vee … I don't have anything to give her. Not something a little girl would want for a birthday present. If you're thinking of having a party, she'll be really disappointed if she doesn't get presents.”

“You leave that to me,” Vee said. “When you're stuck in a place like this, you just have to make do. We're gonna have to be a little resourceful, that's all. Now”—she looked again toward the kitchen—“after a while, I'll get them all outa the house. We'll … we'll build a snowman. Mark's already said he'd help. So when we're outside, could you mix up the cake batter? Then, while Mark entertains 'em, I'll come back in and bake it. I'll put ever'thing you need on the bottom shelf of the cupboard. Now, tell me. Are you sure you're up to this?”

“Yes,” Leona said. “If I can get to the kitchen, I'm up to it.”

“Good,” Vee said. “She don't think so, but she's gonna be surprised.”

Not much time had passed when Vee backed through the doorway again, talking to the children, and finally turned toward the bed. She was hiding a cigar box under her apron, a box that turned out to be crammed full of small toys and trinkets—a yo-yo, a ball, a few jacks, old jewelry, a doll's head, a shiny new tin kazoo, and more. “I've saved this stuff a long time,” Vee said. “My cousin Emery used to bring his kids to visit, so I started collectin' things for them to play with. Then he moved the whole tribe to Arkansas. So … d'you think she'd like this?”

“I don't know,” Leona said. “I think she would. There's so much there it'd take her a while just to go through it.”

“Then it's settled. I'll find you some wrappin' paper. You can give it to 'er.”

“But, Vee, I can't do that. These are your things—if you want her to have them, you should give them to her. I'll think of something else.”

“Oh, you won't neither, no such a thing. No, sir. It should come from you.” Vee closed the cigar box, set it on Leona's lap, and, with a wink, went back to the kitchen.

Running her fingers through the box of trinkets, stirring them, Leona turned up a rhinestone brooch, then an arrowhead. She had no idea if Mamie would like these things. If the situation was different, she would have liked to give her something new and wonderful—a bicycle, maybe, or a puppy. But there was nothing she could do. More than anything, she couldn't belittle Vee's kindness. Maybe she would wrap one of the dresses she'd bought for Mamie in the beginning. That would really be her present to her.

Leona listened to them go out. When she sat up straight in the bed, her head throbbed so painfully she nearly fainted. She waited for the pain to subside before she stood up. She felt wretched. “I'm not as far along as I thought,” she muttered. Pressing a hand to her throbbing head, she went to the kitchen, pulled a chair to the cupboard, and, holding the bowl on her knees, began to mix the ingredients for the cake. I really shouldn't be up, she thought.