Baker Towers (14 page)

“And Mama,” she said. “Isn’t it time we got a phone?”

S
HE SLEPT
in her childhood bed, the mattress bowed in the spots where she and Dorothy had slept. Sandy occupied Georgie’s old room. Lucy—as she had her whole life—shared a bed with her mother. In the morning the house smelled of breakfast, scrambled eggs and fried toast. Her mother still kept hens, in the coop Joyce’s father had built.

The mornings were damp, smelling of fall. From the front porch Joyce watched the neighborhood children walking to school, girls in loafers and plaid skirts, carrying stacks of books. A strange sadness filled her. Her own girlhood had passed too quickly. She felt older than she was, lost and depleted. Nothing had turned out the way she’d planned.

Each morning she slept late, then walked to town for the newspaper.
Reds Vote Japs Out of U.N. Senator Nixon Denies Wrongdoing, Admits Gift of Dog.
The world seemed very far away.

One morning she walked across town to the Bell Telephone office, paid a deposit, and brought home a telephone. She had dressed in her uniform; walking down Main Street, she felt the gaze of shopkeepers, old women, night miners coming home from the Twelve. A man watched her cross at the corner. He turned and spoke to his buddy in a low voice, and laughed. Later, at home, Joyce hung her uniform at the back of her closet. She never wore it again.

She’d been a girl when she left, barely eighteen; she had committed herself to military life with a certainty that now seemed childish. She’d tried to convince Irene Jevic to enlist with her. Like Joyce she had no money, no boyfriend, no prospects; they both seemed destined for the dress factory. Irene’s sister worked there already. In a few years the place had transformed her into a stout matron with eyeglasses, broad in the behind from too much sitting, plagued by headaches and eyestrain. An
example that should have persuaded anybody, in Joyce’s view; but Irene was both timid and stubborn. Only one argument could convince her. “There must be a hundred boys for every girl in the air force,” Joyce told her. “If you can’t find a fellow there, you might as well give up.”

Irene agreed, but lost her nerve, and in the end Joyce rode the bus alone to the induction center halfway across the state. The ride itself was a revelation; except for a class trip to an amusement park near Pittsburgh, Joyce had never left Saxon County. In her small suitcase was a leather-bound copy of
Pride and Prejudice,
the only book she’d ever owned. It was a going-away present from Miss Peale, who’d inscribed the flyleaf in the careful loops of the Palmer method:
Good books are good friends. From your friend and teacher, Viola Peale.
Joyce had read it in a single day. The story itself—a convoluted tale of young women scheming to find husbands—did not impress her. Of all the books ever written, she wondered why Miss Peale had chosen this one for her.

Poor Miss Peale. She’d seemed stunned when Joyce told her the news. “The air force?” she’d repeated, as if she’d never heard of it. “Joyce, are you sure?”

“It’s a fine opportunity for a young woman.” She’d been told this by the recruiter and had repeated it to her entire family.

“But it seems so—
drastic.
”

“I’ve given it a lot of thought,” Joyce assured her. The reaction disappointed but did not surprise her. Her mother, Dorothy, even her brother Georgie had failed to understand. There was no reason to think Miss Peale would be different.

Later, she saw that she hadn’t explained it properly. She wasn’t like Georgie, desperate to leave Bakerton; if she’d merely wanted to escape her hometown, any sort of job would have sufficed. File clerk or factory girl. Cleaning houses for money—or, if she managed to find a husband, for
free. But Joyce longed to devote herself to something of consequence; of the paths open to her, only the military seemed meaningful enough. She was a Bakerton girl with no education and no prospects. Serving her country was her only chance, the only way her life could ever be important.

She’d considered herself, if not born to it, then raised for it. In every important way, the war had defined her childhood. Of all the Novak children, only Joyce had spent her evenings in the parlor with their father, listening to Lowell Thomas: the bombings and casualties, the daily movements of troops. As a youngster, she’d saved her gum wrappers, valuable sources of aluminum. Though she hated knitting, she’d made afghan squares for the Red Cross. Later, in junior high, she’d organized twice-yearly collection drives, gone door-to-door asking for old tires, used pots and pans, anything made of metal or rubber or tin. She was a proud girl, and begging was not in her character; but she had done the work gladly. Her small humiliation was nothing compared to the sacrifices of the soldiers. The same sacrifices she would make later, as an adult.

She was sixteen when the war ended, almost ready to enter the world. After the initial joy of the surrender, she was at a loss. Working in an office as Dorothy did, or in a store like Georgie, would have seemed a capitulation. Her whole life she’d imagined her future in uniform. She couldn’t picture it any other way.

O
ne afternoon, coming out of the butcher shop in Little Italy, Joyce glimpsed a short, stout figure in a familiar plaid coat.

“Irene!” she called.

The girl turned and broke into a grin. The two friends embraced, laughing and exclaiming. For the first time in weeks, Joyce felt at home.

“Good to see you, stranger,” she teased. “Did you lose my address? I thought you fell off the planet.” She linked her arm through Irene’s. “Come on. Let’s go have a pastry at Bellavia’s. My treat.”

“Joyce, I can’t,” Irene stammered. “I need to get home.” Her watery blue eyes were bloodshot. There was a roll of extra flesh beneath her chin.

“Not even for a minute?” Joyce looked at her closely, shocked by how she’d changed. Irene wore rimless eyeglasses, and the left side of her face looked swollen. To Joyce she looked forty years old.

“Irene,” she said softly. “Is everything all right?”

“I have a toothache.” Her hand went to her cheek. “It’s driving me
crazy. And I’m kind of in a hurry. I should have been home at four. My mother’s going to wonder what happened to me.”

“Are you still working at the station?” After graduation, Irene had been hired to answer phones at KBKR. The pay was lousy, she’d written, but it kept her in lipstick and movie tickets.

“Oh, no. I quit that ages ago. I’m at the factory now. Listen, I have to run.” She gave Joyce’s elbow a squeeze. “When do you head back to North Carolina?” She started down the street, not waiting for an answer.

“It’s great to see you,” she called over her shoulder. “I’ll try and stop by the house before you leave town.”

Joyce watched her go.
The factory,
she thought wonderingly. A few years ago, Irene had been as horrified by the place as Joyce was. Now she’d quit a perfectly good desk job and—if Joyce was any judge—would work in the factory for the rest of her life. Bakerton did this to people: slowly, invisibly, it made them smaller, compressed by living where little was possible, where the ceiling was so very low. Joyce thought of her father, a big man whom Bakerton had diminished. After thirty years of mining he’d walked with a stoop. Once, to show her how he spent his workday, he’d crouched on his hands and knees beneath the kitchen table, the contorted posture of a miner in low coal.

How can I stay here?
Joyce thought.
How much smaller can I get?

“T
ell me what you see.”

The doctor spoke in a deep voice. Joyce caught her mother’s eye, nodding encouragement. Rose was shy around strangers, self-conscious about her accent. The gaze of a stranger, a man especially, could render her speechless.

“Flashes of light,” Joyce interjected. “And her vision is blurred.”

“It’s like I look at everything through a veil,” Rose added.

The doctor made a note in a folder.

“Does she need glasses?” Joyce asked.

“No,” he said curtly. “That wouldn’t help.” He turned to Rose. “Have you been tired lately?”

“Sometimes,” she said softly.

“Any unusual thirst?”

Joyce thought of her mother standing at the sink, drinking two tall glasses of water, one after the other. She had never considered this odd. Rose had done it for years.

“Have you gained or lost weight?”

Rose explained, haltingly, that she cooked too much since the children had left. If she’d gained a few pounds, that must be why.

In the end a nurse came to draw blood. “What’s the problem?” Joyce asked the doctor.

“I won’t know for certain until I see the test results, but I suspect that your mother is diabetic.” Briefly he explained the nature of the disease: a problem with the pancreas, a hormone it failed to secrete.

“But what does that have to do with her eyes?”

He explained that diabetes puts stress on all the organs: the kidneys, the heart. The eyes were particularly vulnerable. “There’s another doctor she should see.” He wrote a name on a card. “His name is Lucas. He’s an eye specialist in Pittsburgh.”

Joyce took the card. She had never been to Pittsburgh in her life.

“One more thing,” said the doctor. “Mrs. Novak, could you take off your shoes?”

Rose bent and unbuckled them. The doctor reached for her foot and held it in his lap. He took a wooden tongue depressor from the table behind him and ran it along the sole of her foot.

“Can you feel this?” he asked.

Rose nodded.

“What about this?” He prodded her skin with the end of the stick, then repeated the test on her other foot.

“Diabetes can affect sensation in the extremities,” he explained. “Your mother might cut herself and not feel it, and the consequences could be serious. Diabetics are prone to infection, and their wounds don’t heal normally. What would be a minor abrasion in a healthy person could become gangrenous. The patient could end up losing a foot.”

“Is that common?” Joyce asked, horrified.

“It’s not uncommon. I’ve seen cases.” He turned to Rose. “I don’t mean to scare you, Mrs. Novak. But it’s important that you take care of your feet.”

Rose leaned close to Joyce and whispered into her ear.

“My mother has a question,” said Joyce. “Is there some kind of medicine she can take?”

“I’m afraid not. There are no easy treatments for diabetes. The most important thing is to keep an eye on her diet. No sweets. Cut back on bread and starches.” He reached into a drawer and handed Joyce a printed leaflet. “If she lost some weight along the way, that certainly wouldn’t hurt.”

Joyce took the paper. It was a list of foods, with calorie counts.

“Diabetes is a serious illness,” said the doctor. “Your mother will have to be very careful. If she can control her diet, it will add years to her life.”

L
ATER, AT HOME
, Joyce made a tour of the yard, a pad and paper in hand. Two broken windows. The back screen door was nearly off its hinges. The front porch had several rotten floorboards. Someone as heavy as her mother could easily step right through.

She went around to the cellar door, down the steps to the basement. Water pooled near a crack in the foundation, another item to add to her list. The shelves were loaded with canned peppers and tomatoes, boxes of empty Ball jars. Broken glass crunched beneath her shoes. She thought of Rose in her bare feet, placing the jars on the shelves. How easily, and how often, she might drop a jar.

Her father’s toolbox was where he’d left it, on a low table in the corner. Joyce knew from her mother that Georgie seldom visited—he was busy
with his fancy wife, his baby son, his job at the department store. When he did come to Bakerton, it clearly never occurred to him to fix anything. The toolbox was covered with dust.

She pried open the rusted latch. Inside, the tools were neatly stacked. One by one she lifted them out: hammers, wrenches, a framing square, several pairs of pliers. Exquisite, heavy tools, handmade by her uncle Casimir, who’d forged wheels for mining cars during the day and worked nights in his own blacksmith shop. The wooden grips were worn smooth from use. From her father’s hands. Tears stung at her eyes. She closed the box.

The upstairs door squeaked open. She heard footsteps on the stairs.

“Joyce?” Her little sister stood in the doorway to the kitchen, a macaroon in her hand.

“Don’t come down here. There’s broken glass on the floor.”

Lucy took another step. She peered into the dimness. “Why are you crying?”

“I’m not.” Joyce turned away. “Go back upstairs.”

The door closed. Joyce fumbled in her pocket for a handkerchief. Her hands were dirty from the tools.
I must look a sight,
she thought. Carefully she replaced the tools. She blew her nose and went out through the cellar door.

She had come home to help her mother. That was the explanation she’d given her superior officer, her few friends in the service; it was the story she’d told herself. Rose’s letter—
I don’t feel so good. Every day I get a headache. I think maybe I need glasses.
—had come at a convenient time. She hadn’t asked for help. Joyce had simply volunteered. She was disillusioned with military life, fed up and furious; and here was an escape route, a way to save herself without losing face. A sick mother—she was ashamed to
admit it, but she had even liked the sound of that. Explaining the situation to her CO, she’d felt noble and high-minded. She hadn’t stopped to consider whether any of it was true.