What Happened to My Sister: A Novel (27 page)

“Tell me what happened to him, god dammit!”

“I was asleep, Momma,” I whispered, hoping she would soften
her voice to match mine. That first time I didn’t know to cry. “I don’t know what happened—I was just sleeping.”

“I ain’t talking about
now
,” she said and then she hauled off a good pop across my face to prove it wasn’t no dream.

It took me a few times to figure out what she was talking about and then I landed on what she wanted to hear and what I needed to say to be let alone and for her to feel better. All I ever wanted was for Momma to feel better.

“A man came and banged on the door,” I would answer.

“What was I doing at the time?” she’d ask.

“You were pinning up wet clothes on the line,” I’d answer. She’d nod and say, “Go on.”

“You heard a pop and came running in time to see the man with the rifle going back to his car.”

“It was a truck,” she’d correct me, “but keep going. Who was the man?”

“Selma Blake’s husband,” I’d answer.

“Anything else?”

I learned to time my answer perfect. If I answered too quick she’d slap me and tell me to
think on it real hard
before I opened my
pie hole
. If I took too long to answer she’d shove me, saying
don’t you be keeping anything secret—you tell me what you’re thinking right now
. Finally I knew I had to wait the time it took to say one-Mississippi-two-Mississippi before I’d say:

“Nothing, Momma, I swear.”

“You’re right,” she’d say. When she nodded I knew her better mood would last a few days. If she didn’t nod? Well, then I knew anything could happen. “You remember that now.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Go back to sleep now.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I’d close my eyes for her to see so she’d think I was falling back under, but no sleep would ever come back to me on those nights.
I’d lay awake listening to myself breathing, thinking about Momma’s questions and how strange it all was, and when the sun would rise and it’d be time to get out of bed I was almost sick at my stomach from being tired.

By the time the police came around and asked me about the last time I saw my daddy alive, I could practically see Selma Blake’s jealous husband climbing back into his truck. At first they were real interested in ever-thing I said—they asked what he’d been wearing and did I notice anything else. Momma seemed worried but I don’t know why. The police left us alone after that.

I remember all of it clearly, like it happened yesterday. But no matter how hard I try I cain’t see Daddy’s face anymore. Laying here on the scratchy sheets at the Loveless, I squinch my eyes closed to try to picture him but nope. Nothing comes. I have to put all thought of the picture under my mattress out of my head because otherwise I cain’t sleep. I tell myself I’ll get to be with it after Momma leaves for her secret job.

The next morning I hear Momma shifting in her bed which means she’s thirsty. It’s quiet enough to hear her swallowing a sip of whatever’s left over by her bed from the night before. Usually it’s whiskey and Tab.

“Momma?” I ask the sleepy lump of her. “Do we have any pictures from before? Like, of Daddy or anything?”

She doesn’t stir under the covers but I know she’s awake. After all, she just poked her head out and sipped some whiskey and Tab.

“Or from when I was little maybe? Do we have any pictures from back there in Toast?”

Toast
was the magic word. Funny, because the second I said it the room felt different and I knew Momma would answer me.

“Why are you asking me that?” She peers at me from above the covers. Something about the way her voice sounds tells me I was stupid to bring it up. Now she’s going to suspect me of doing exactly what I did! “What are you up to?”

“I don’t know,” I say, not meeting her eye. “Nothing.”

But I
do
know. I bet I’d be asking her about it anyway, because I been seeing all the zillions of pictures of Cricket’s life and even before I found the picture in Momma’s travel case it got me to thinking how I wouldn’t mind seeing a photograph or two of me from when I was a baby.

“The answer is no,” she says. “We don’t have any pictures.”

“How come?”

“What?”

“How come we have no pictures of us?” I ask her.

“Well excuse me, sorry we’re not
rich enough
to own a camera for you,” she says. “Little Miss Fancy Pants.” That last part’s muffled on account of her head being back under the covers.

A few minutes later we both shock at the sudden banging on the door. Mrs. Burdock. Again.

“I know y’all are in there,” she hollers through the thin door. “Don’t think I don’t know it.”

She bangs again.

I’ve gotten real good at holding my breath. When Mrs. Burdock first started coming up and banging on the door Momma would put her finger to her mouth for me to be quiet and I’d hold the air in so long I’d make noise letting it out, but now I know when to breathe out in time to do it quiet-like so no one can hear, not even if they were standing right up next to me. Both Momma and me, we learned quick that Mr. Burdock hadn’t been telling Mrs. Burdock the whole truth because he saw us come and go ever-day but he must have told Mrs. Burdock we hid in our room and never came out so she wouldn’t fuss at him for not collecting rent.

“Open up and we can settle this like adults. You think you can cheat us, living here rent-free like y’all are? You think that’s the way we do business? They may let things slide up in them hills y’all come from, but down here in the
real world
we’ve got a business to run. You hear me?”

Mrs. Burdock uses her whole forearm so the entire door rattles when she hits it.

“You may have sweet-talked my husband into turning a blind eye but enough is enough,” she says to her side of the door. “He isn’t going to stick up for y’all forever. Open up and we can talk about this like civilized human beings. Y’all are still civilized human beings, aren’t you?”

I look across at the lump of Momma laying in bed. She’s got to where she pulls the covers over her head if she’s home when Mrs. Burdock comes to call.

“This can’t keep on, you know,” Mrs. Burdock says.

I peeked out from the window once when she first started coming at us, and what she does is she cups her hands around her mouth and puts her face right up to the wood of the door to talk through to us. It’s smart of her—the sound comes straight to us without bothering any of our neighbors.

“Don’t make me call the po-lice”—she says the word like it’s split in two. “That’s what’s going to happen next, y’all hear me? I’m calling the po-lice if you don’t settle up the bill. And I got a news flash for you: they’ll haul y’all out of there so fast it’d bring tears to a glass eye.”

Mrs. Burdock talks whether someone’s near or not. She doesn’t mind carrying on a whole conversation with her own self. If you come upon her when she’s in the middle she’ll just turn up the volume of her words so you feel like you’ve been a part of it from the beginning. I can hear bits and pieces of her talking and then I make out Mr. Burdock’s deep voice mixing in:

“What’s all the commotion up here?” he asks Mrs. Burdock.

“I don’t know who they think they’re fooling, acting like the room’s empty,” Mrs. Burdock says.

“Calm down, calm down,” Mr. Burdock says. “Let’s leave it be for now.”

“We’ve
been
leaving it be,” Mrs. Burdock says, “and look what
that’s gotten us. Standing here with a fistful of nothing, that’s what. This is unacceptable. I want them out of here, Hap. I want them gone.”

“Bess, now come on,” he says, “those two got nothing.”

“Then they shouldn’t have rented a room!”

“What happens to the girl, huh? If we turn them out on the street, what happens to the little girl?” Mr. Burdock says. “It ain’t
her
fault, them having no money—”

“Well, that’s some kind of mother, isn’t it,” Mrs. Burdock says. “Letting her daughter forage for food like a goddamn
ferret …
”

Mrs. Burdock keeps talking but Mr. Burdock must be leading her away because their voices get hard to hear before disappearing altogether. After I’m sure they’re good and gone I sit up in my bed.

“Momma? Why’s Mrs. Burdock coming at us if you got a job now?” I ask.

She doesn’t stir.

I look around our room and wish I could ask the man whose name’s on all the bottles laying around. I bet Jim Beam would know why Mrs. Burdock’s so mad at us. I’m not supposed to clear them out because the clinking makes too much noise and the dumpster is right outside the Burdocks’ window. Mrs. Burdock peeks out whenever anyone throws anything away, wanting to catch whoever’s been forgetting to latch the flat plastic top of the bin closed. She put up a sign saying there were raccoons in the area and to
please be mindful
about the bin lids but someone (not me) isn’t paying it any mind.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Honor

I realize now why Mother was so keen on getting the house landmark status. I wish to God I’d paid more attention and helped her go about it a better way, but how was I to know she was being foreclosed on? And anyway, I’m not so sure being of historical significance would have saved it. Well. We’ll see.

I drive down to City Hall, a building that always disappoints me in its cement-blocked blandness. It looks like a community center in Provo in the 1970s. It depresses everyone who works there too, judging from the slumped demeanor of nearly every cubicle inhabitant.

After twenty agonizing minutes watching a Mr. Sylvester, the slowest-moving human being I’ve yet to encounter, try to locate our file, we settle in for the brass tacks. Which in this case means a lot of self-important sighing, scanning of paperwork, and head-shaking.

“Yeah, it’s like I thought,” he says, closing the file folder and looking up at me. “The historical claim was unverified. And without
verification and proper authentication, we cannot proceed. Looks like a caseworker even went out to talk to your mother and explain this to her
again
a few days ago. As a courtesy. And frankly, we were getting a little sick of the calls.”

“Calls from whom? We haven’t called you,” I say.

“Ma’am, your mother’s been calling over here every single day, sometimes multiple times a day,” he says, sighing for emphasis. “All due respect, it was getting a little old. The pestering.”

“First of all, I think you’re mistaken,” I say. “You got her mixed up with someone else. That doesn’t even sound like my mother. She wouldn’t pester a flea. And furthermore the caseworker was the first she’d heard from y’all …”

I trail off because he’s begun vigorously shaking his head, clearly not listening, just waiting for me to finish so he can shoot down everything I’m saying.

“Ma’am, I have a record here of all the interactions we’ve had with your mother regarding the matter,” he says, triumphantly referring to his silly little folder again. “I can document for you all the times she contacted us about this. Looks like we first told her the case had been rejected last year. Well, nearly a year ago. Nine months ago. She applied again and it says here she submitted
supplemental papers
though it doesn’t say what those were. Huh. They were returned to her and she was again rejected. That was seven months ago. Case notes—I’ll read it aloud since we’re not allowed to show you official documents but I can read this part out loud. The caseworker writes—and I’m quoting here—‘told her the genealogical research she provided was incorrect. Showed her the independent research we conducted proves unequivocally that she is not related to Charles Chaplin. Told her all genealogical research corroborates our findings. Even hers.’ ”

He closes the folder and takes off his reading glasses.

“Wait, wait just a second here,” I say. “
What?
We’re not related to Charles Chaplin? That’s absurd.”

“Mrs. Ford, can I speak candidly?”

“Yes, of course.”

“You ask me, your mom knew all along,” he says.

“That’s impossible,” I say. “If you saw her house, all the memorabilia. She’s collected it all her life. Family heirlooms. Dolls. Collector’s items! We even had tour groups coming through. Well, more like local school field trips and the ladies’ auxiliary. But still!”

“Ma’am, I could collect Princess Diana stuff, but that wouldn’t make me royal,” he says. “Anyone can collect anything. Y’all have the same name is all.”

“With all due respect you don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, looping my purse strap onto my shoulder and standing up to go. “But I appreciate your time.”

Chaplins always take the high road
.

“I’m telling you: it’s a pure coincidence.” He sighs and sits back in his chair. “I’m sorry.”

Why do people say they’re sorry when they’re not?

“You know, I told your mother all this when she came in,” he says. “The way she reacted? My guess is she knew all along.”

Out in the parking lot I’m shaking so hard I press the Panic button instead of Unlock on my car remote and the alarm is set off. A Freudian slip if there ever was one.

Chaplins always take the high road
indeed, Mother.

I can’t wrap my head around this. This is huge. This changes
everything. Think
. I have to think. I’ll have time to figure this out after the bank, and God only knows what I’ll find out there.

Turns out, it is worse than I thought.

“Your mother took out a sizable mortgage on the house,” says the bank officer named Clifford. Clifford is intent on bending a
paper clip straight, and once he does, he tries to get it back to its original shape. I guess Clifford here is a fan of lost causes.

“Unfortunately at this point there’s nothing we can do. She has defaulted on both her mortgage and the personal loan she took out last May. She owes a lot of money. We’re talking thirty thousand and change. Our only option is to take over the property. I wish I had better news for you.”

“How much time do we have? To raise the money.” I shimmy to the edge of my seat and press my arms into my sides for exaggerated cleavage. A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. I wish I’d thought to wear something low-cut.