Beyond Deserving (29 page)

Katie lay in bed and remembered the few books with red and brown spines, and the spill of her schoolbooks on the unoccupied bed, clothes on the floor, her hairbrush and mirror on the dresser, but nothing more, and all of that seemed so impersonal to her, devoid of character. What kind of child had she been? There was nothing left of her in the house to tell. In her mother's room there was a portrait of her done at five or six, with color retouching to give her apple cheeks and lemony hair. That was all. It seemed strange to Katie, that portrait, because the child in it was not recognizable as herself. She thought she would have recognized photographs of her, past age twelve, say, but not before. There had to be a high school yearbook somewhere; she would get it out and look at it, she thought, though the next day she forgot the intention.

Katie remembers that when she came into the house after school, she entered quietly, speaking if her mother was in the room, or if her mother called out to her from the kitchen, and otherwise going to her room silently to read or brood. She spent a lot of hours staring at the ceiling. When she was about Juliette's age she went through a long period when she slept too much, or badly; she would go straight to bed after school, until her mother called her for dinner. Then she was awake through long hours of the night, and after that, sleepy and reluctant in the morning.

Rhea wakes up cheerful. When Katie opened her eyes in the morning, her daughter was watching her, and as soon as she saw that Katie was awake, she broke into chatter about anything—the day's plans, the upcoming breakfast, a dream she'd had.

June is a mild presence these days. Katie remembers her sterner (as she can be, still, with her). On the whole, June treated Katie delicately, as she might treat someone recovering from what used to be called a nervous breakdown. She didn't pry. They all did best when they kept busy. Rhea had a game she loved that was played like Monopoly, but was about farming. It was endless and boring and silly, but it took up hours, especially if Rhea could talk Aunt Chris into playing too. On another card table, on the sun porch, there was a “Schmuzzle Puzzle,” a jigsaw of what looked like baby lizards, difficult for Rhea and not very easy for Katie, either. Besides that, Rhea loved to play card games like Go Fish, Hearts, and Old Maid. Sometimes she helped her Aunt Chris make elaborately decorated cookies while Katie sat at the table and watched. “We sold these at our school carnival last year,” she told Katie, “for fifty cents apiece!” Christine smiled fondly. Katie said that didn't surprise her.

It was strange to lie near Rhea at night in the dark room, surrounded by fuzzy animals and Japanese boxes, under a spread decorated with printed pandas. Katie tried to guess what Rhea might dream, but she could only suppose there were fantasies provoked by movies, and, whatever the dreams, that they were not nightmares, because Rhea never seemed to stir.

One day Rhea said she had something to show Katie. Katie followed her to her room and sat down on one bed while Rhea looked in a few drawers until she came up with an old flat gift box like a scarf might have come in.

“I've saved them all,” she said. “See?” She seemed pleased with herself, or pleased that she was able to show Katie. She had dumped some greeting cards onto her bed. She stirred them around, then handed one to Katie. “See?” That's yours from Christmas when I was six.”

Katie looked at the card quizzically, not remembering it, and then Rhea gave her another card and said, “And this one was from my father.” The child kissed the card and passed it to her mother. “I've saved them all.”

Katie managed to utter, “That's nice.” She felt guilty and embarrassed, and desperate to be somewhere else. The cards became instantly familiar, and as she looked at them dutifully, one by one, she remembered choosing and buying each one, and taking some of them to Fish to sign. Hadn't Rhea ever realized that all the cards were addressed in her handwriting? Hadn't she guessed? The cards that were supposed to be from Fish said, “Merry Xmas, from Fish,” or just “Fish.” One was scrawled completely illegibly, and Katie could instantly recall the scene where she screamed at Fish that all she was asking him to DO was to put his goddamned NAME on a goddamned CARD for his KID.

Ursula, apprised of the birthday/Christmas, deception, advised Katie that somewhere truth would catch up with Katie's good intentions, and Rhea might be hurt more than she would have been otherwise. But even Ursula admitted that a ruse once begun was difficult to end, so Katie kept on with the cards, even that same Christmas, signing Fish's name herself, sending another lie into the pile of lies. And Rhea saved them all.

Later, lying in the dark, Rhea asked about Fish. She asked “Is he a hippie?” and Katie said, “I don't think so. I don't think you would call him that,” wondering furiously where Rhea had heard such a thing. She wanted to know, “Does he build nice houses?” and Katie patiently explained that he worked on old ones, to make them nice. Then Rhea asked, “Where do you live?” When Katie named the town, she said no, she wanted to hear about the house, and so Katie painfully described their house, a little shabby, in need of paint, but surrounded by lots of trees and vines and bushes, with a nice bright kitchen (well, it did get lots of light) and a fireplace in the living room—speaking slowly, until Rhea was asleep and did not move when Katie said, “It's a house in a hollow, perfectly chosen for the couple we make, with an old chicken house in the back full of empty bottles put there, day by day, by your father, Fish the fish.”

June now runs what amounts to a small factory, which produces her own designs. She specializes in comfortable clothing for working women in the 12 to 16 size. Katie wonders if women ever mind that June is herself a tidy size 10. She also produces a line of accessories, scarves and satin rosettes, ribboned clips. On Christmas Eve while Katie was there she had a benefit for one of the hospitals. Although she didn't put strings on her gift (she had been doing this for four or five years), she was pleased when told that her funds had helped in the new preemie ward. June the baby-helper, Katie thought. She wondered what had happened to the passionate doctor-lover of so long ago. June didn't go out while Katie was there. Katie couldn't bring herself to ask Christine about her mother's personal life, largely because she knew she was being stingy with the details about her own. She noticed books by C. S. Lewis and Thomas Merton lying around. Though she had never read either writer herself, you could not exist in the environs of a “hip” community without hearing of both. There was even a C. S. Lewis study group. She had seen the notice on bulletin boards, along with study groups for feminist mythology, dreamwork, and A Course in Miracles.

“Have you thought of going to school?” June asked one evening, a few days before Katie was returning to Oregon. June was knitting an elegant sweater of mohair and silk. Rhea had fallen asleep watching television, Christine was in bed. Katie was pretending to read
The Ladies Home Journal
.

“I haven't,” Katie said simply.

“There are so many career opportunities these days,” her mother said. “In business, health—”

“I hadn't noticed.”

“You're a bright young woman, to spend your life serving food.”

“I haven't the money or disposition for school, Mother.”

“I wish I had spoken sooner. You might have stayed here and gone to Tech while Fisher was—away.”

“Too late,” Katie said, appalled at the thought.

June put her knitting down and looked directly at her daughter. “I'm not interfering if I say I want the best for you. I still want you to have a good life.”

“Still? After I don't deserve it?”

“I didn't mean that. I meant, you're forty years old, and I might not concern myself with your welfare. But you still seem rootless and unfocused, Katie, you still seem unsettled.”

“I've lived in Oregon nearly twenty years. We have a house.”

“You're not going to let me talk about this, are you?”

“Mother, lots of people get by. Most people, maybe. Everybody doesn't have a career. What did you do for years and years?”

“It was different when I was young. If you were lucky enough not to be a poor woman, you thought it was your job to take care of the house and the family. Now, I must say, that seems a luxury fewer and fewer women have.”

My, Katie thought. Mother the Feminist.

“But you could still choose something. You could still make your life mean something—”

“I marched for hunger last year.” Actually, she had walked on the sidewalk alongside the group as they set out from the plaza toward the next town, carrying placards. It had been a beautiful spring Saturday, and she had gone for something to do, and because Fish had mocked the effort, and her interest in it. She had spent days thinking about hungry people, in this country, maybe even her town, and God knows, in Africa and Asia. It had soothed her, to think about emaciated women with their drooping, flaccid breasts flapping over the cheeks of their starving babies. She had thought: So many people are desperate. So many people die young. She felt lucky, being who she was. She gave forty dollars to the hunger walk.

“Good,” her mother said, and picked up her knitting again.

Katie hated her, as she always did, not for interfering, but for being right. Katie's life was mostly very boring, especially with Fish gone “away.” She got by on the vicarious experiences of Ursula, mostly, hearing about children abandoned in junkyards, or found wandering naked in a house full of far-gone users, and about Ursula's children, whose lives were good and sometimes funny, especially Carter's.

“There is something I want you to know,” her mother said in a moment. “If something should happen to me before Rhea is grown—” She paused, to let that sink in, Katie supposed. In truth, Katie had not considered the possibility of her mother's death. June was in better shape than Katie. “If that happens, you should know that there would be plenty of money for Rhea. Christine would have the house until she died, but there's money and the business. But there would be strings.”

“Of course.”

“I didn't want you to worry.”

“You didn't want me to look forward to a free ride!” Katie exploded. “It never crossed my mind! I've always assumed you are IMMORTAL!” She threw the magazine from her lap across the room, nowhere in particular. “Why don't you fucking BILL me for my visit here?” Rhea, asleep on the floor, moaned.

“Katie, Katie,” her mother said. “You know I'd pay your way if you wanted. I'm glad you came, for your sake as well as Rhea's. For all of us.”

“Why? So that on some quiet evening you can slip in the knife? Usually it's my nutritional standards.”

Christine appeared in the doorway. “Don't, June,” she said quietly. At least she knew not to admonish Katie!

“It's all right, Aunt Christine,” Katie said. “I was just about to tell my mother that I have a new job, as soon as I get back. I'm going to work for the theatre festival. I'm going to have a GOOD JOB.”

She stormed out of the room and left the two women to commiserate about Katie's bad manners and temper. Goddamn her, Katie thought. There'd be strings. Big surprise.

Of course she had done a small mean thing, bringing up the theatre job just then, and not telling her mother what the job was. She might have said anytime, Mother, you'll never guess, aren't you glad you taught me to sew, did you know I learned so well? I'm going to be a stitcher in a costume shop. I'm going to like working for once.

She knew she had withheld the information because it would have pleased her mother.

She went to bed. In a little while Christine helped Rhea to bed. The child didn't seem to have waked. Christine sat on the edge of Katie's bed and stroked her arm. “Your mother never seems to find the right way to say things, Katie, but she means well. She loves you. She's a good person, good to Rhea, and to me, and if she knew how, she'd be good to you, too.” Katie turned over sullenly, like a bad child. Rhea was the good one. Oh, wasn't she a sad case? Katie thought of herself, wallowing in self-pity and jealousy. Oh to be a child again! Of different parents, in a different life!

To be Rhea, even.

In the morning, Rhea's sweetness and enthusiasm assuaged Katie's bad feelings, and June acted as if nothing had happened. Whatever June's efforts to make Katie feel guilty (and Katie would have had a hard time remembering them, but one was surely last night!), Rhea's disposition and health relieved Katie of the burden. She only felt sorry that Fish had missed out completely. A sweet daughter might have been good for him. But that had not been the child's function. Katie had not used her.

Of that much she was glad.

40

The week goes by, and Fish does not return Katie's car. In the middle of the week Katie calls Ursula to ask what is going on over there, and Ursula acts thick-headed and makes her ask about Fish specifically. Ursula says he is pushing hard to start a new job, a big one. He is working until dark every night. “Oh, it's the car,” she says. “He didn't call you?”

“To say what?”

“He didn't call to say it would take longer?”

“Nope.”

“It's still sitting in front of the garage. Are you okay without it?”

“Yes,” Katie says. And it is true, she is. She walks to work. She has spent the week sewing velcro in vests and jackets, so that the actors in heavy Shakespearean costumes can change in a hurry.

“Should I tell him you called?”

“I guess. No, no, don't. He said Monday. I won't give up until next week. It has a Monday in it, too.” She laughs and hangs up. She tells herself it is a good sign. Fish isn't acting out of character. If he were prompt, it would bother her. Getting her car fixed right away now seems a cool, dispassionate act she is glad he has avoided.