Nora (3 page)

Dee and Patsy listened very hard.

“I can't hear anything,” Patsy said crossly.

“It's possible her spirit was here with us for a moment,” Dee said. “How wonderful.”

We sat still as stone, listening, but Mother didn't laugh again. She had gone. She didn't make a sound.

Patsy was nine and I was ten when our mother died. Baba came to stay with us until Daddy found a housekeeper we liked. Mrs. Murty was first. She watched TV and knitted while Patsy and I racketed around the house freely. We checked our closets and drawers, looking for clues to what had happened to us. Someone, Baba perhaps, had cleared out all our mother's things. Everything was gone. I couldn't even find the red shawl, though I ransacked every bureau drawer, every hiding place in the whole house.

Our mother's closet, though, still smelled of Shalimar, her favorite perfume. So while Mrs. Murty was clucking over the goings-on in
Leftover Life to Live,
Patsy and I shut ourselves in our mother's closet and cried as we took turns stuffing our feet into a pair of her black satin high-heeled shoes we found tucked away, forgotten, in a corner.

Mrs. Moseley was next. She spent most of her time on the telephone, talking to her daughter who had just had her first baby.

“Check the stool,” we heard Mrs. Moseley say over and over. “Just don't forget to check the stool.”

“I thought a stool was something you put your feet on,” I said.

Mrs. Moseley looked at me over the top of her glasses and said sternly, “The stool's a BM, missy.”

“What's a BM?” I asked, though I knew the answer. I liked to give Mrs. Moseley a hard time.

She threw up her hands and said, “Tell your sister what a BM is, missy,” to Patsy. I think she called us both “missy” because she didn't remember our names.

From then on, every time Patsy and I went to the bathroom, one of us said to the other, “Check the stool. Just check the stool.” I guess you could say it was kind of our mantra.

That kind of thing kept us from freaking out.

One fine Saturday morning when Mother had been dead about a year, Patsy said, “We could ask Dee.”

“Ask her what?” I said.

“If she knows anyone for Daddy to marry,” Patsy said. “She has lots of friends. She might know of someone. Then we wouldn't have to have all those lousy housekeepers. I
hate
housekeepers.”

“Who doesn't?” I said.

We always went to Dee's studio for tea on Sunday afternoon. We didn't have to cross any streets, just run through the fields in back of our house. Dee gave us tea and sandwiches with the crusts cut off and little cakes. It was a very festive thing. Plus, Dee's studio was a fascinating place.

“Daddy is very lonely,” Patsy said practically before she bit into one of Dee's super cucumber sandwiches.

“Poor man,” Dee said. She has this colorful hair, streaked with various shades of whatever paint she's been using. She uses her hair as a sort of rag to wipe her hands on. So her hair is red and green and black and sometimes yellow. Or purple.

She is a real original.

“Have you ever been married?” Patsy asked Dee.

“Once,” Dee answered cheerfully. “For about thirty minutes. Long enough. I'm a loner. I like my own company. I like eating when and what I choose. I don't want any hassle about should we have pork chops or chicken. Heck with it. The truth is, I'm selfish.” Dee grinned at us.

“We think Daddy should get married to somebody so he won't be so lonely,” I said.

“Give him time,” Dee said. “Your mother was his heart's love. There will never be anyone to replace her. Poor man, of course he's lonely. Even with you girls around. Don't worry, darlings, he'll find someone.”

There we were, looking for someone for Daddy to marry. Now he's found someone and we're thinking of ways to eliminate her.

How'd we know he was going to pick a person we couldn't stand? The thing is, we really do want our father to get married again. It's just that we want him to marry someone we
like.

I don't think that's too much to ask.

Five

The days were getting longer. It was mid-April and cold and blowy. Pretty soon daylight saving time would begin and then it would be summer. I leaned my head against one of the small stained-glass windows on either side of our front door. My mother had told us she wouldn't have bought this house if it hadn't been for those windows.

“When the sun hits them, they dance,” she'd said, as if that explained it all.

Daddy came home and found me there. It was a week since he'd told us he was going to Hong Kong with The Tooth. He hadn't mentioned it again.

“Are you reasonably happy?” he said. “Your mother always claimed those windows made her happy.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

He brushed his hand against my cheek. He was not a hugging, kissing man, but when he touched my cheek like that, I knew he was telling me how much he loved me. He would never say it in so many words, but there it was. He loved us, Patsy and me, very much. He would lay down his life for us. I wonder if I will ever love anyone enough to lay down my life for them. If I could have saved my mother's life by dying myself, would I have had the courage? If God had said to me, “Your mother's life will be spared if you die in her place,” what would I have done?

I don't know.

I have only recently begun to think of these things.

I thought Daddy was very lonely. I didn't think he would ever get over Mother's death. He said he hadn't been happy since she'd died. Maybe if he actually
did
marry The Tooth, he'd be so happy he'd forget all about Mother. And if by some fluke he didn't marry her, what
would
happen to him when Patsy and I grow up and take off, go out into the world to begin our world-famous careers as environmentalists or epidemiologists? Mothers, even. (Patsy says you won't catch her changing dirty diapers, but I think when the loud ticking of her biological clock keeps her awake nights, she might change her mind.)

“Why would he even
think
of marrying her?” Patsy and I asked each other endlessly. “She's not even good-looking!”

“She has a certain style,” Patsy said reluctantly. Patsy thought she had the answer. “Two reasons,” she said. “The first is sex,
S-E-X,
pure and simple.”

“But Daddy's almost fifty,” I said. I don't care what I read about people having sex well into their sixties and seventies. To that I say, “BS.”

“BS, BS, BS.” I like the way those letters roll off my tongue. If you use the letters instead of saying the word, you can get away with it.

I gave it one more “BS” for good measure. It drives Patsy nuts when I do that. I like driving her nuts.

“Daddy has his needs,” Patsy said primly. “He is a gentleman of the old school. The Tooth seduced him, and now she's laying a guilt trip on him. That's what gentlemen of the old school do. They marry whoever seduces them because it's expected of them.”

“Daddy is too old to be seduced,” I said.

Patsy's eyebrows soared. “Who says?” Then, in that special irritating tone she uses when she's the professor and I'm the student, she said, “You have to understand, Nora. The Tooth is a woman of the world. She's also a manipulator. She knows how to manipulate men, especially. She's got Daddy painted into a corner. There's no way out except marriage. She seduced him, so Daddy figures he has to marry her to make an honest woman out of her.”

“You're so full of it, you make my eyes smart,” I said.

“Too bad that doesn't happen to the rest of you,” Patsy said smugly. “Plus, Daddy is good-looking in a sort of middle-aged way. He has all his hair, and he doesn't have a big gut. He makes pretty big bucks, and his manners are lovely. Baba even says so. Let's face it, if it wasn't for me and you, Norrie, he'd probably have been snapped up long ago. They take one look at us and figure ‘Whoa! Who needs these two gross teenagers? They are nothing but bad news.' Then they back off and look elsewhere.”

“You're the one that's bad news,” I said. “I'm a pussycat.”

That night Daddy was going to be late, so Patsy and I pigged out on home fries and banana-and-bacon sandwiches. Mash a couple of really ripe bananas with a fork and mix in crisp bacon and toast the bread. A real taste treat.

We ate the sandwiches as we strolled through the downstairs, pretending to be real-estate people showing the house to prospective buyers.

“And this,” Patsy made a swooping gesture, “is the drawing room. We simply
live
in this room, although we do not draw here. Isn't this room done in excellent taste? It also gets the afternoon sun and can take a party of thirty or so with no sweat. And who is this lovely woman?” We stood looking at Mother's portrait, as if seeing it for the first time.

“I wonder what The Tooth's going to do about
that?”
I said. “Suppose she'll turn it to the wall? Or banish it to the attic? Second wives should never live in the first wife's house. I've heard that's death to romance. Too many memories chill out love.

“Like in
Rebecca.
Remember, Pats? When Joan Fontaine got so freaked out about how lovely and wonderful Rebecca was that she dressed up like Rebecca's portrait and almost blew the whole thing?”

Oh, how I love that movie. It's so romantic.

Patsy pointed her one long red fingernail at me. The others are all painted black. Patsy got the one long red nail idea from some rock star. Daddy threatened to sit on her stomach and cut the nail off, but so far he hasn't.

“Know something, Nor? I wouldn't be surprised if Mother's hanging around this house, catching the vibes, checking out The Tooth's undies.”

A month ago Patsy and I discovered the bottom drawer in our guest room seething with The Tooth's lingerie.

“How dare she!” Patsy shrieked, waving a filmy bra and a silk nightgown in my face. “How dare she! Does this mean she plans on coming again? What exactly does leaving your underwear in a strange bureau drawer mean? Think on it, my love.”

“Remember Louise,” I said.

Louise had been our baby-sitter. We loved her. She's married now, with a baby of her own. After Mother died Louise taught us practically everything we know about life, love, and the battle of the sexes. I guess she thought it was her duty. One of the bits of info Louise dished out was to always leave an article of clothing, like an earring or a scarf or a stray shoe, in a boy's car or pocket, if necessary, so he'll have to call you to tell you he found it and should he bring it over. Or, Louise advised, if you really like the guy and he doesn't call, you can call him and ask if he found whatever it was you left and you'd like it back. This, Louise assured us, almost always wound up with the guy asking for another date. Or maybe his older, cuter brother asking for a date, depending on the sexiness of the lost article. Once, Louise said, she'd tucked a pair of bikini panties with big red lips printed on them under the passenger seat and she got three calls, including one from the date's father.

“Damn straight I remember Louise!” Patsy roared, dumping The Tooth's undies in a pile on the floor. She was threatening to torch them, but I stopped her. Instead, we stuffed everything into a paper bag and put it in the Goodwill drop box at the A&P.

We waited for The Tooth to inquire about the whereabouts of her undies, but she never said a word. She knew. She was too smart to ask, though. Too cagey. She was playing a waiting game, Patsy and I decided.

Was Mother hanging around, as Patsy had said?

“And if our mother
is
hanging around,” Patsy went on, “and you really
did
hear her laughing that time, she knows what's going on. She knows about The Tooth and everything. Maybe her spirit has returned to those she loved, and that's us, Nor. She wants to let us know she still loves us even if she is no longer here on earth.”

I've thought about how I'd feel if Mother's ghost
was
roaming through the house. I might be afraid, though I don't know why. She would never harm us in any way. I want to see Mother again more than anything. There are piles of things I want to ask her, talk to her about. But I wonder.

Would she touch me, kiss me, tell me to take my feet off the glass-topped table, as she always did? All I want is for her to be free of pain and to be at peace.

Six

Roberta Middleton has a strip-poker party every time her parents go away and leave her Aunt May in charge. Aunt May is pretty old and deaf and she likes to drink a hot toddy while she watches
Wheel of Fortune
with the sound turned up to the max. When Aunt May's in charge, the sky's the limit.

In strip poker, you're supposed to take off one piece of clothing every time you lose. I wear ten or twelve T-shirts, one over the other, when I play. Other kids wear tons of bracelets and/or earrings, which they remove slowly, one by one. That way no one ever gets down to the bare bod.

Actually, I wouldn't have minded checking out a couple bare bods belonging to Roberta and/or Erica. It was my own bare bod I didn't want to flaunt. Well, maybe
flaunt
isn't exactly the right word.

Roberta thought strip poker sounded sexy. If you ask me, playing strip poker with a bunch of girls is about as sexy as playing Go Fish or Old Maid.

Patsy and I talked it over and decided Roberta's crowd was too immature. Roberta and I had been in the same Brownie troop and Roberta says that forms an unbreakable bond. Roberta's mother was our troop leader. She's very civic minded and is on lots of committees and stuff. She's also president of the PTA and she collects for all diseases, big and small. When she walks up a person's front walk with her collection can in hand, the person inside hides. Then, after fifteen minutes or so, they peek out to see if she's gone and there she is, standing, waiting. Roberta's mother can be very patient.