Tender Graces (8 page)

When I went to bed that night, Daddy came in and read to me. He said I was the only one who would listen to his Shakespeare. That made me feel special. Opening up the book, he rubbed the page down smooth, and then took a sip from his glass to clear his throat out. He read, “Of one that lov’d not wisely but too well; Of one not easily jealous, but being wrought, Perplex’d in the extreme.”

I was soon slipping into sleep.

It was about time for summer when things went wrong. It started when Momma went to the bathroom and threw up. When she went back to bed, I brought her water and saltines. It happened again the next day, but Momma wouldn’t let me tell Daddy she was sick.

This went on until she put on her pointy chin. I followed her to the kitchen. She fetched out the stuff to make salt-rising bread and sweet bread. For the salt rising bread, she peeled and cut potatoes and put them in a jar along with white cornmeal, salt, sugar, baking powder, and soda. She poured in warm water and scalded milk, put the top on the jar, and put the jar in a pot of more warm water until ready to make the sponge.

While that set, she stirred yeast to make the sweet bread with cinnamon. I smelled Grandma Faith. Then I saw her. She stood by Momma while Momma stirred. Grandma turned and shook her head back and forth real slow. I knew then something was coming to beat us over the head.

When the dough for the sweet bread was ready, Momma said, “It helps to pound the dog spit out of dough. I worry it until it gives up answers.” She hit the dough three times. “When the stuff in the jar is fermented, I’ll make the salt-rising bread.”

“Will you show me how to make it, Momma?”

“I will one day, I reckon.”

“Why not now, Momma?”

She huffed a sigh, said, “I’m in a mood today. Now let me think.”

It was just Momma and me in the house that Saturday. Daddy was at work. Micah and Buster were down to the creek looking for salamanders. I’d asked him to get me some smoothed rocks while he was there. Sometimes he would and sometimes he’d forget. Andy was over to Mrs. Mendel’s having milk and cookies. Mrs. Mendel made the best oatmeal cookies ever. I was supposed to go, but I wanted to stay by Momma in case she turned sick again.

I asked, “Momma, how come you’re beating up on the dough?”

“I told you. It helps me think.” She stuck her fingers in the gooey stuff.

“What’re you thinking about?”

“I’m thinking about stuff that’s none of your bees-wax.”

“How come it’s not my bees-wax?”

“Go outside and play. I can’t think with you jabbering on.”

I put on seventy-three pouts of pitiful, but she didn’t care.

“I said go. Now!”

I ran back to my room and read a book about Dick and Jane. Then I rode Fionadala all around until I heard Daddy put his keys and hat on the hook.

Momma hollered out of the kitchen, “Fred, I need to talk to you, pronto,” before he could hardly get in the door. I opened my door to listen, and smelled the bread even stronger.

Daddy went straight to the icebox. I heard the ice clunk.

Momma said, “I got something to tell you and I expect you aren’t going to like it a bit.”

When they went to their room and shut the door, I sneaked down the hall and sat outside their door. I brought Fionadala with me in case I needed her.

Momma was saying, “. . . it takes two to tangle, dear husband.”

“Tango,” Daddy said. The ice rattled.

“Tango, shmango, whatever.”

“I thought you kept up with that.”

“Yeah, blame me.”

A drawer slammed.

“I’m not blaming.”

“I’m having babies before I have time to breathe, just like my momma.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“What’s wrong is I’m tired. And you never spend time with them. Off doing lord knows what with that
Keemburlee
.”

“I’m not interested in Kimberly. Can I say the same thing about you and that preacher?”

“You just shut up, you hear? Shut up!”

Something banged against the wall and I jumped.

“I think the pot is calling the kettle black.” Daddy sounded sad instead of mad.

“Uh huh. That so, Fred.”

Micah sat beside me and about scared me half to death. He had come in quiet as a prowling panther. “What’s happening, Vee?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered.

Momma’s voice had that whiny-baby sound to it. “I’d like to keep my figure. I’d like to have my hair fixed up sometime. I’d like to go out and dance without worrying over who’ll watch the kids.” I imagined Momma counting off what she wanted, looking mad at Daddy in between each raised finger.

“Oh for god’s sake. There’s no use arguing. It’s done.”

“I’ve asked Ruby for her special tonic.”

“What?”

“I got to get this out of me. I can’t do it, I can’t. I’m sick of children.”

My toes curled, and there was a buzzing around in my head, like fifty-two bees were in there—big mad kind of bees, like hornets. I looked at Micah, but he stared at his feet.

Daddy’s voice rose up. “Have you lost your mind? That’s our little baby in there.”

“You really are a stupid man, Fred.”

“What are you saying?”

“I need me another one of these.” Ice rattled and footsteps came towards the door.

Micah and I ran outside. I knew how to open the side screen door so it wouldn’t make any noise. We eased out and sat on the steps. I studied Micah’s face to see what he felt, but he looked far off. His back went broomstick straight when Daddy slammed out of the front door and Momma threw something across the room. I wanted my brother to say everything was okay. Instead, he rubbed his hands on his legs as if they were sweaty, then let his arms hang down between them. I stared at the scabs on his knees.

He blinked, and he didn’t want me to see him cry, so he ran off.

I ran to my brothers’ closet, closed the door, shut my eyes, and rode away on Fionadala’s back. Her mane flew in my face while we climbed higher and higher. Sister mountain laughed when we tickled its sides. All I saw was misty clouds. All I felt was wind and horse hair pushing up against my face.

The next week, Momma was more worrisome. She went around the house, back and forth, talking to herself, drinking from a pickling jar filled with something that looked like mud with bits of grass swirled in it. Three times a day she jumped off the steps and ran around the house five times. Sometimes Andy ran with her, giggling as if it was the funniest game.

Daddy stayed at work later and later. One night, he grabbed Momma by the shoulders, his face close to hers, and asked, “What have you done, Katie?” He poured his own tonic and went up to the empty house on the hill. I barely could see him up there. Micah said he caught him crying up there one time, but I couldn’t picture my daddy crying.

Just when I thought we’d all go insane with the craziness, Momma held onto her stomach as she dialed. She said, “Ruby, come get me. I think I done it,” then leaned her head on the wall. “Well, if it don’t, then I’ll do that other thing.” She hung up, and dialed up Mrs. Mendel next. “Can you come watch the kids after my sister gets here? I need to go up to the hospital.”

My brothers stayed out of her way. I had the buzzing hornets stinging my head something fierce, but I stood by her bed as she put clothes in a suitcase.

She looked at me, her eyes red and puffed up. “Virginia Kate, I got to go up to the hospital. Mrs. Mendel will be here. You kids better behave.” She grabbed her stomach and cried.

“Why you going to the hospital, Momma?”

She didn’t answer; she just pushed me out of the way and went to the window with her suitcase to watch for Aunt Ruby.

On the living room couch, Andy had his legs stuck straight out in front of him, and Micah had his arms crossed over his chest.

When Aunt Ruby honked her horn, Momma dialed on the phone again. “Frederick, I’m going up to the hospital.” She hung up and walked out the door. When I tried to follow her, she screamed at me to get my butt back in the house. I went to the window and my brothers came to stand with me to watch as Aunt Ruby drove away with Momma lying in the backseat.

Mrs. Mendel took care of us while Momma was gone. Daddy stayed gone, too. It was quiet in the house. Andy didn’t carry on as much as I thought he would. Micah sulled up and drew pictures of ugly things. I stayed in my room, crying in Grandma Faith’s quilt. I cried until I was tired of it and decided I wasn’t going to cry anymore. I’d dry up every tear since crying didn’t do one bit of good. I told Grandma Faith, “No more crying.” But I heard her cry.

Not long after, Daddy brought Momma home and she was plumb wore out. Their faces were puffed and red. Momma went straight to bed and Daddy went back up to the house on the hill with a box in his hand. Nothing was ever said about what happened. No baby ever came. It was never talked about again.

After that, there wasn’t much happy laughing going on, and booze bottles lined up one, two, three, four, and more.

Chapter 7

Today

Digging through the memories has left my back stiff and sore. My heart is sore, too, taken out of my chest, stomped on, and shoved back in. I get up and stretch, looking at the Popsicle-stick frame holding our faces. That Easter changed everything, but maybe everything would have broken into pieces anyway, with or without Easter dresses and preachers and booze and lost babies. I go to the window and see old moon grinning. Moon doesn’t have a lick of sense tonight.

A gust of wind hits my face and sweeps papers from the bed onto the floor. I roll my eyes. “I know, Grandma. I still have work to do.”

On the way to the kitchen to make coffee, I like how the old worn floor feels cool on my feet. On the kitchen counter is the red-and-white rooster-handled sugar and creamer, alongside the flour jar that matches Grandma Faith’s. Everything is just as Momma left it. Even her cup is rinsed, dried, and left by the sink. I pick it up and rub the cool porcelain. As the cup warms in my hands, I see Momma sipping from it, making that oh-it’s-hot-but-good face. I put the kettle on the fire, and then look around.

Near the corner to the left, at attention, stand the liquor bottles. Beside them is an ashtray full of cigarette butts—the red lipstick-tipped filters make it seem as if Momma’s coming right back to have coffee with me, as soon as she puts her house dress on. I smell her Shalimar and tobacco.

I say, “Momma? I’m not afraid if you want to come to the kitchen with me.” But I really am afraid she’ll float into the room, pour rum into her coffee, and start telling me secrets.

I have a sudden urge to sweep the bottles onto the floor, watch them bleed their liquid until they’re emptied. Instead, I take a circle glass from the cabinet, pick up the rum and pour a bit into it. I sniff it and the smell makes my stomach clench. I’ve had wine and beer, and bubbly champagne on the day of my I-thought-this-would-be-forever wedding, but I never cared for the strong stuff. There must be sparkly magic to it, though, since it kept Momma coming back for more. Daddy knew its magic, too. But he learned it’s the bad kind of trick before it destroyed him for good.

I take a big gulp. It’s fire across my tongue. The frog in my gullet coughs out, “Momma, how could you drink this stuff?” I dump out the dark rum and pour in a splash of vodka. When I swallow the clear liquid, the frog laps it up with a greedy grin. It makes me mad how liquidly smooth warm it makes my tongue, then my throat, then my stomach feel. I glub the rest of it in one throat-heating gulp. I wonder if my chin is getting pointy. Rinsing and drying the glass, I put it back in the cabinet, and leave the bottles where they are, for now.

Momma’s checkered curtains blow on either side of the open window, letting the coolness enter the room. I look out to see a light in Mrs. Mendel’s house and wonder if she’s still awake. She always did turn up on our doorstep when she thought we needed her. But she never meddled. That’s just how things were; mountain people minded their own business much as they could.

From the living room, I step outside. The dark puts its arms around me. The wind is blowing hard; no rain’s come yet. Everything feels velvety and close, like my favorite shirt. I step in the cool grass, feeling the blades under my feet, the springiness of the damp earth.