Masquerade (14 page)

              “Reports?”

              Martha placed her hand on Celeste’s shoulder. “Time to get a life. It’ll do you a world of good. And who knows, might be somebody waiting out there with your name on his heart.”

              White hot rage coursed through Celeste’s body. Beyond  belief,  this  woman.  Intruding where she had no

business. Who did Martha think she was, insisting she snap out of her grief? It’d only been two months since Joe’s death. 

              Celeste took hold of the boys’ hands. “Time to relieve my aides. You might want to do the same.” The last jab in, she left Martha with mouth gaping.

              As she approached the other children, Lily tottered over, eyes wide, finger pointing. “Head’s on fire.”

              Celeste studied the child’s face. All sunshine. And such a cute button nose. She turned to see what Golden Girl pointed at. Ah, Martha’s flaming red hair. She stifled a chuckle.

              “Warm, Teacher Tater.”

              A hardy laugh, the first she’d experienced in a long time, bubbled up from deep within. She smiled, ran her hand over Golden Girl’s curls. “Yes, we’ll get warm, Lily, but not over Miss Filbert’s head.” She chuckled again. “Okay, boys and girls, time to line up.” She gestured them toward the door while Barbara and Amelia collected balls and returned them to the storage closet.

              The rest of the morning passed in a blur. After lunch, the children gathered their turkey pictures crafted by tracing their hands. In a clamor of good-byes, as if they might never see their teachers again, they finally shuffled to the bus.

              Exhausted, Celeste drove home, the streets already slick with snow. A great sadness seized her abdomen. This would be the first Thanksgiving without Joe. They always bought a fresh fir and decorated the house for Christmas over Thanksgiving weekend. Not this year. No

stringing of lights with Purdue football droning in the background. No kisses under the mistletoe. No snuggling under the covers, their laughter ringing in the darkness.

              A car sat in the garage when she angled in and cut off the engine. Mother and Father. What were they doing here? She grabbed her tote bag and tiptoed through the mushy snow.

              When she opened the door, Massenet’s Meditation from Thais filled the house and cinnamon clung to the air. Her breath caught in her throat. Tears stung her eyes. Why did they insist on torturing her?

              “There’s our girl.” Father winked and spread his arms. An uncharacteristic greeting from the typically stoic Thomas Waite. Was someone ill? Dying? Perhaps they’d come to soften the blow.

              She scrubbed at her hair and received an awkward hug from Father. “Well, this is certainly a surprise.” She shook out her jacket, hung it on a peg, and kicked off her wet loafers.

              In the kitchen, Mother hovered over steaming pots, Celeste’s favorite brown apron tied around her waist.

              “Kinda early for supper, don’t you think?” Celeste lifted a lid and sniffed. Ah, Mother’s homemade spaghetti sauce, her secret recipe, the one that took an afternoon to simmer to perfection. She had to admit, it smelled nice.

              “And hello to you, too.” Mother arched her eyebrows, moved to the counter, and chopped fresh oregano. 

              “What is all this, Mother?”

              Father passed by, headed for the living room. Moments later, the music stopped and the television roared to life.

             
Well, just make yourselves at home, everybody.

              With a knife poised in the air, Mother breathed deeply. “The best food you ever ate, that’s what,” she said with a dramatic lilt to her voice.

              “You know what I mean.”

              “We couldn’t let you be alone on Thanksgiving. Why, that would be positively indecent.” Her silver bracelets jingled when she sprinkled oregano into the sauce. She wiped her hands on a dishtowel.

              Out the kitchen window, the snow fell heavy. Great, the three of them trapped in this tiny house for who knew how long. Indiana winters could be vicious. Sub-zero temps. Snow on the ground until March or longer. Luckily, Father knew how to drive on snow-packed roads. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have risked the trip. His clients needed him.

              “Maybe that’s what I wanted. Did you ever think about that?” Celeste braced her hand on the counter.

              “Pshaw.” Mother clucked her tongue. “I don’t think you know what you want right now, dear girl.” The small mole beside her mouth disappeared into the folds of her skin when she pressed her lips together.

              Celeste ground her teeth. “I want . . . I want—” What was that racket?

              “Dry socks. Look at your feet. You’re going to catch your death of cold.”

              Celeste   angled   around   her   mother,  swept the

dotted Swiss curtain aside, and peered outside. Her breath steamed the window pane. Tires spun, grounding up chunks of snow. The neighbor’s car was stuck in a ditch alongside her driveway.

              “I’ll see what I can do to help.” Father, black trench coat in hand, moved through the kitchen and into the utility room.

              “You’ll do no such thing, Thomas. Not wearing your good coat.”

              Celeste pushed away from the sink, charged into the spare bedroom, and returned with a goose down jacket, sock hat, and gloves. “Here, Father, try these.”

              He shrugged into the winter gear. “Not bad.”

              “Might be a little snug for you, but looks like they’ll work.” She’d always thought her father looked like Sean Connery, that same austere and brooding brow. She wished he could stand up to Mother like Connery most likely would.

              When Father opened the door, a gust of snow blew in. Shivering, Celeste forced the door shut against the wind, then tiptoed to her bedroom.

              “Change those socks now.” Mother’s shrill voice sounded from the kitchen.

              She rolled her eyes and huffed.
Right on it, Mother
. Opening her vanity drawer, she retrieved a burgundy velour jogging suit. After she shrugged out of her polyester pantsuit and damp socks, she ran the blow dryer over her cold feet, torso, and back. Luckily, her gas furnace worked, but the extra direct heat felt good, cold-natured as she was.

              By the time she returned to the kitchen, Father stood in the utility room stamping his feet on the doormat and peeling off his outer garments. Mother sat at the oak table studying a Good Housekeeping magazine while fiddling with a hairpin in her chignon.

              “Your neighbor’s out of the ditch now. Took a bit of pushing, but we finally got the car out,” Father said walking into the kitchen in his stocking feet. He idled at the stove to sniff the sauce. “This about ready? I’m starving.”

              Mother scowled at him, then flipped through her magazine. “All in good time, dear.”

“Good time” arrived an hour later as the three sat around the table. Few words passed among them. Celeste slowly swirled her spaghetti around her plate.

              “Aren’t you hungry, dear?” Mother rested her elbow on the table and tapped her French manicured nails on her rosy cheek.

              “Just taking my time.”

              Mother dabbed at her mouth with a linen napkin. “You can’t fool me, daughter. I know you haven’t been eating.”

              Shoveling in his food, Father now paused, forearms anchored against the edge of the table. He locked eyes with Celeste. “Leave the girl alone, Patricia. She’ll eat when she’s ready.”

              A slight nod at her father. At last, he’d stood up for her.

              Mother sipped her wine, smacking her lips once, and  then  smoothed  the napkin over her lap. “Well, I still

think you’re way too thin. Someone ought to be watching out for you.” She speared a broccoli floret. “Have you given more thought to moving back home? Your room’s waiting for you. And Snuggles misses you terribly.”

              Ah, Snuggles, the family poodle. The sweetheart of the household. But not enough to pull her back. Not nearly enough.

              Her fork clattered against the plate. “Mother, you sound like a broken record. I’m staying here, and that’s final.” She looked to her father for support, but with head down, fork moving, he’d clearly retreated into his cave.

              Her mother’s hand shot up. “All right. All right. But don’t come crying to me when you can’t make it. When you’ve gotten yourself sick or worse.”

              “When are you going to let me go? I’m sorry, Mother, but I’m not your little girl anymore.”

              “Well, you’re certainly not acting like an adult, that’s for sure. Grown women don’t languish over some man who’s not coming back.” Mother threw her napkin on the table.

              Celeste’s mouth fell open. Rage rippled through her body. “I can’t believe you said that. I’m grieving—a perfectly normal reaction after loss. If you can’t understand that—”

              “And how long are you going to hide behind that excuse?”

              She scooted her chair back. “You’re impossible.” She eyed her father. His head remained bent with only an occasional glance at his wife. But no words. “Why does everything  have  to be
your
way, Mother?” She struggled

to take in air. “You’ve had me under your thumb from the time I was little. I’ve always done what you wanted, even when it cost me.”

Mother turned her face to the wall.

              “No, Mother, it’s time we got this out in the open. I never wanted that abortion, but you insisted. Said having a baby at my age would never work. I had college to think about. My whole life ahead of me. I could have more babies.” The tears flowed now. “Well, I can’t have more babies. The abortion ruined me, and it’s all your fault.”

              Mother’s head snapped toward Celeste. “My fault?” She jabbed a finger at her chest, glowered at Father. He ruffled the edge of his placemat. “Go ahead, Thomas, tell her. Tell your daughter the truth.”

              He raised an eyebrow; his chest rose slowly, then fell.

              “I’m tired of taking the blame, Thomas. Tell her how you insisted.” 

              Celeste studied her father, twisting her hands in her lap. “Father?”

              He cleared his throat. “A man’s reputation in the community is important, sweetheart.”

              “What?” She slipped out of her seat and backed toward the sink.

              “We would’ve had to send you away if we didn’t take care of it.” His gaze flickered to Mother’s face. “Your mother couldn’t tolerate that thought.”

              Her head hurt; she couldn’t make sense of it. “Wait a minute. No one would’ve had to send me anywhere. Catholic girls got pregnant all the time in the 70s.”

“Not
my
girl,” Father said. “That simply wasn’t an option.”

“My baby could’ve been born—”

              “And then what, Celeste? Drop out of school to care for an infant? You weren’t thinking clearly.” Her father squared his shoulders, smoothed a hand over his sweater. “You needed us to make the decision for you. And we chose what we felt was in your best interest.”

              “Joe was coming back.”

              “Joe,” her mother grunted, but her father raised a hand to silence her.

              “Joe never knew about his baby. That’s right, Mother, I never told him. I couldn’t bring myself to hurt him, not like you hurt me. Better he never knew than suffer the way I have.”

She turned to her father. “All this time you let Mother take all the blame, and you never said a word. Not one word. All I wanted was to know you still loved me and my baby. Your grandchild. But all you could see was your ruined reputation and a piece of tissue easily discarded.”

“We were good Catholics, Celeste. Think about how it would have looked.” Mother’s chin rested on her chest, hands folded in her lap.

“
Good
Catholics? A good Catholic supports life. Besides, we rarely attended, so that’s hardly an excuse. It’s only ever been about good impressions, hasn’t it?” She glanced from one parent to the other. A sudden weakness seized her arms and legs; she braced herself against the counter. “Please, just leave.”

“Celeste, calm down.” Her mother gestured toward the window. “The heavens are dumping truckloads of snow out there, dear. We can’t simply up and leave.”

“Fine, then I’ll leave.” She pushed away from the counter and charged into the bedroom.              

“Celeste, stop it.” Mother started after her.

She tore open the closet and retrieved a backpack. Tugging open drawers, she whipped out underwear, shirts, pants, and a cosmetic bag and stuffed the items into the pack.

“Please, be reasonable.” Her mother stood at the bathroom door as Celeste whisked her toothbrush and toothpaste off the counter.