The Vanishing Half: A Novel (19 page)

“I’ve just never known you to be like this.”

“Like what?”

“Well, friendly.”

She laughed. “I’m just being neighborly. Aren’t you the one who’s always telling me to get out more?”

“But you’re gone all the time now.”

“What am I supposed to do?” she said. “Tell Kennedy she can’t have friends?”

He’d been a shy child, so he never had many friends, colored or otherwise. But he did play with Jimbo, an ugly black rag doll with a plastic head and queer red lips. His father hated his son running around with a doll, a nigger doll at that, but Blake carried him everywhere, whispering all of his secrets into those plastic ears. This was a friend, someone who guarded your feelings behind that frozen red smile. Then one day, he stepped into the yard and saw clumps of cotton scattered all over the grass. On the dirt pathway, there was Jimbo, gutted, arms and legs strewn, his insides spilling out. The dog must’ve got to it, his father told him, but Blake always imagined him tossing that doll into the dog’s snapping jaws. He’d knelt, picking up one of Jimbo’s arms. He’d always wondered what the inside of the doll might look like. For some reason, he’d thought the cotton would be brown.

B
Y
C
HRISTMASTIME
, Stella had spent so many afternoons at Loretta’s house that, out of habit, she told Loretta one Monday that she’d see her tomorrow. “It’s Christmas Eve, honey,” Loretta said, laughing, and Stella laughed too, embarrassed that she’d forgotten. She always
dreaded the holidays. She could never stop thinking about her family, even though their celebrations were nothing like hers now. A tree so tall the star brushed against the ceiling, so much food for dinner that she got sick of leftovers, and mountains of presents awaiting Kennedy. Each December, she piled into the department store with the other mothers, clutching the letter to Santa, and tried to imagine a childhood like this. The twins always received one present apiece, something useful like a new church dress. One year, Stella received a piglet from the Delafosse farm that she named Rosalee. For months, she’d fed Rosalee, running when the pig chased her around the yard. Then Easter Sunday came and her mother killed the pig for supper.

“And I ate every single bite,” she told her daughter once. She thought the story might teach Kennedy to be a little more grateful; she hadn’t expected the girl to burst out crying, staring at her as if she were some monster. Maybe she was. She didn’t remember crying for that pig at all.

“You all doing anything exciting for the holidays?” Loretta asked.

“Just a few people coming over,” Stella said. “A small thing, we do it every year.”

The party was not a small event; they’d hired caterers and a string quartet, invited the entire neighborhood. But of course, she couldn’t tell this to Loretta. She’d known, licking the invitations shut, that she could never invite the Walkers.

On Christmas Eve, the Johansens arrived first, bearing a brick-hard fruit cake, then the Pearsons carrying bourbon for the eggnog. The Robertses, deeply Catholic, brought a tiny blonde angel for the tree. Then the Hawthornes waving from the front steps with homemade fudge, the Whites with an ironic beach snow globe, and soon the living room crowded with company. Stella felt hot from all the people, or the mulled wine, or maybe even from knowing that, across the street, Loretta could probably hear the music. She must have seen
that endless parade of neighbors climbing up the steps. Or maybe not. Her own parents had arrived that evening; Stella had watched the elderly couple climb out of the Cadillac, Reg hefting the suitcases from the trunk, Loretta wrapping her arms around their backs as they glanced around the neighborhood, as dazed as if they’d stumbled into another country. Wouldn’t her own mother look at her new life the same way? At least Loretta’s parents would be proud. She had come upon her nice things the honest way, not by stealing a life not meant for her. Then again, she and Loretta had both wound up in the Estates by marrying well. Maybe there wasn’t such a big difference between the two after all.

Blake swapped her empty glass with another mulled wine, bending to kiss her cheek. He loved hosting parties, even though it only made Stella want to find a corner and hide. Betsy pulling her into a conversation about linens, Cath asking where she’d purchased an end table, Dale dangling mistletoe over her head. She was lingering on the edge of a circle, wondering if her daughter was still spying through the bannister, always afraid that she was missing something exciting. Then the circle of neighbors lit up with laughter, smiling at her, awaiting a response.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “What was it again?”

She was so easily embarrassed at these parties. She’d catch herself on the edge of a political discussion—the Vietnam situation, perhaps, or an upcoming election—and someone would ask what she thought. Even though she read the newspapers and had her opinions like anyone else, her mind went blank. She was always afraid that she’d say the wrong thing. Now Dale Johansen was smirking at her.

“I said I’m wondering when your new friend might show up,” he said.

“Oh I don’t know,” she said. “I think everyone’s here by now.”

When the others exchanged amused glances, she blushed. She hated being the butt of a joke.

“What’re you talking about, Dale?” she said.

Dale laughed. “I’m just asking if your friend from across the street is coming. I’m sure she can hear the music out there.”

Stella paused, her heart thrumming.

“She’s not my friend,” she said.

“Well, people are saying that you’ve been calling on her,” Cath said.

“So?”

“So is it true? Have you been visiting with her?”

“I don’t think that’s any of your goddamn business,” Stella said.

Betsy Roberts gasped. Tom Pearson laughed uncomfortably, as if he were willing it to become a joke. Suddenly, Stella felt as if she had transformed into a totally new creature in their eyes. Something wild and feral. Cath stepped back, her cheeks pink.

“Well, everyone’s talking,” she said. “I just thought you should know.”

T
HE NERVE OF THAT W
OMAN
.

In front of the bathroom mirror, Stella fumed, splashing water on her face. Where did Cath Johansen get off anyway? Storming into her house with that dry slab of fruit cake and telling her, to her face, in her own home, in front of everyone, that the entire neighborhood was judging her. Dale grinning dumbly beside her, Blake watching with that confused look on his face like he’d woken up from a nap to find all these strangers standing around in his living room. She’d stormed upstairs and smoked a cigarette hanging out the bedroom window. She could hear the quiet murmuring of the party downstairs, Blake, no doubt, making excuses for her. Oh don’t mind, Stella, she’s always a little testy this time of the year. Yes, her holiday blues, who knows,
who can understand that woman half the time anyway? Then the Johansens and the Hawthornes and the Pearsons stepping carefully down the walkway, past the manicured lawns, behind their identical front doors to whisper about her. If only they knew. The thought ran through her head deliciously, the same way she always thought, driving on an overpass, of turning her wheel and sending herself careening over the rail. There was nothing more tantalizing than the possibility of total destruction.

“I mean, can you believe it?” she told Blake. “In my own home! Talking to me like that. I mean, where does she find the nerve?”

She furiously spread night cream on her face. Blake lingered behind her, unbuttoning his shirt.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he said. He didn’t look angry, only worried.

“There’s nothing to tell,” she said. “The girls like playing together—”

“Then why wouldn’t you tell me? Why would you lie about going to Cath’s—”

“I don’t know!” she said. “I just thought—it seemed easier that way, all right? I knew you would have all your questions—”

“Can you blame me?” he said. “You’ve never been like this. You didn’t even want them to move in—”

“Well, the girls like playing! What was I supposed to do?”

“Not lie to me,” he said. “Not tell me you’re doing one thing then sneaking over there all the time—”

“It’s not all the time.”

“Cath said it was twice this week!”

Stella laughed. “You can’t be serious,” she said. “You can’t truly be taking Cath Johansen’s side over mine.”

“It’s not about sides!” he said. “I’ve been noticing it too, you know. You’re not yourself. You’ve been walking around like you’ve got your head in the clouds. And now you’re chasing after that Loretta woman.
It’s not normal. It’s—” He eased up behind her, cupping her shoulders. “I understand, Stella, I do. You’re lonely. That’s right, isn’t it? You never wanted to move to Los Angeles in the first place and now you’re lonely as all hell. And Kennedy’s getting older. So you probably . . . well, you should take a class or something. Something you’ve always wanted to do. Like learn Italian or make pottery. We’ll find you something good to do, Stel. Don’t worry.”

One night, long ago in New Orleans, Blake had invited her to a work banquet. “I’d hate to go alone,” he told her, “you know how these things are,” and she’d nodded, even though, of course, she didn’t. She told Desiree she had to work late and instead borrowed a dress from one of the other secretaries. Blake met her in the lobby of the banquet hall, as dashing as any leading man. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” he whispered into her hair. All evening, he never left her side, his hand always lingering at the small of her back. At the end of the night, he brought her to a café for coffee, and halfway through her cherry pie, he told her that he was moving back to Boston. His father was sick, and he wanted to be closer to home.

“Oh,” she said, dropping her fork. She hadn’t realized how desperately she wanted more nights with him like tonight until she realized that there would never be another. But he surprised her, touching her hand.

“I know it’s crazy,” he said, “but I’ve got a job offer in Boston and—” He faltered a second, then laughed. “It’s crazy, Stella, but would you join me? I’ll need a secretary there and I just thought . . .”

They hadn’t even kissed yet but his question sounded as serious as a marriage proposal. “Just say yes,” he said, and the word tasted like cherries, sweet and tart and easy. Yes, and just like that, she could become Miss Vignes for good. She didn’t give herself a chance to second-guess. She didn’t plan how she would leave her sister, how she would settle in a new city on her own. For the first time in her life, she
didn’t worry about any of the practical details when she told Blake Sanders yes. The hardest part about becoming someone else was deciding to. The rest was only logistics.

Now she glanced at him through the mirror, Blake watching her with those soft, worried eyes. She’d created a new life with a man who could never know her, but how could she walk away from it now? It was the only life she had left.

O
N
C
HRIST
MAS MORNING
, she leaned against Blake’s chest, watching their daughter squeal and dive into her pile of gifts. A Talking Barbie that spoke when you pulled her cord, a Suzy Homemaker oven set, a red Spyder bicycle. Look at this, look at that, she must have been such a good girl this year! Unlike all those rotten poor children staring at empty trees who must have deserved it, bad because they were poor, poor because they were bad. She’d never wanted to participate in the Santa mythmaking, but Blake said that it was important to preserve Kennedy’s innocence.

“It’s just a little story,” he said. “It’s not like she’ll hate us when she figures it out.”

He couldn’t even bring himself to say the word
lie.
Which was a lie in itself.

Scraps of wrapping paper littered the carpet, Kennedy collapsing in a blissful haze. Stella opened each of Blake’s boxes to reveal another gift she hadn’t asked for: a floor-length mink coat, a diamond tennis bracelet, an emerald necklace he fastened as they stood together in front of the bedroom mirror.

“It’s too much,” she whispered, fingering the gem.

“Nothing is too much for you, my sweet,” he said.

She was one of the lucky ones. A husband who adored her, a happy daughter, a beautiful home. How could she complain about any of it?
Who was she to want more, when she’d already taken so much? She would have to stop playing these foolish games with Loretta Walker. Stop pretending the two had anything in common, that they existed in the same universe. That they could ever be friends. She would have to tell Loretta that she couldn’t visit her anymore.

In the kitchen, she mashed potatoes until her arms burned. She slid pineapple wedges into the folds of the ham and pushed it into the oven. Blake, watching the Lakers wallop the Suns, told her that Kennedy had gone outside to play with the other neighborhood kids. But when she stepped out, she didn’t see the Pearson boys racing bicycles past or the Johansen girls tugging their wagons or anyone tossing a football. No children at all, their cul-de-sac empty except for Kennedy and Cindy on the Walkers’ lawn, both girls crying. Loretta kneeling between them—frazzled, still in her apron. Stella ran across the street, grabbed her daughter, searched her skin for cuts and scrapes. But she didn’t find any, so she pulled Kennedy in for a hug instead.

“What’s the matter?” she asked Loretta. “Did something happen?”

A fight over a new toy, maybe. Talking Barbie was lying in the dirt between them. But Loretta stood, grabbing her daughter’s hand.

“You should know,” she said.

Her voice was strangely cold. Maybe she had heard the music from the party last night, maybe she was still sore about not being invited. Stella stroked her daughter’s hair.

“You have to share, honey,” she said. “What did Mommy tell you about that? I’m sorry, Loretta, she’s an only child, you know—”

“Oh, she shared plenty,” Loretta said. “Keep her away from my girl.”

“What?” Now Stella stood, gripping Kennedy’s shoulder protectively. “What’re you talking about?”

“You know what she said to Cindy? Well, the girls were playing
some game and Kennedy was losing so she said, ‘I don’t want to play with a nigger.’”