Shelter (1994) (31 page)

Mrs. T. demonstrated by slicing her wiener neatly down the middle, then carving it across into remarkably matched, narrow slices. The girls began to titter in reference to various jokes about wieners, but their covert laughter was swallowed up in the noise of supper in the dining hall. Alma sighed into her hand, aware that everyone was on seconds and very soon they would begin to clear for dessert. She knew it wasn't actually their turn to have Mrs. T. at their table for dinner. Her presence indicated interest in Alma's supper speech, and a form of moral support difficult to ignore. The other girls suspected as much and responded by passing the onion relish, an item no one would touch, back and forth under Alma's nose repeatedly. Finally Mrs. T. secured the relish and sprinkled her mound of beets with a ladylike portion.

"This relish is a specialty of Mrs. Carmody's," Mrs. T. said reprovingly, "and it's delicious. It's made with Vidalia onions, locally grown—those are sweet onions, not at all bitter. You really must try it. I myself don't normally eat onions"—she wiped her mouth with her paper napkin—"but tonight I make an exception. You know, girls, you may not realize just what an excellent cook our Mrs. Carmody is. To cook for so many, so richly, with such variety—"

"It isn't just her cooking, though, is it?" Delia took another bite of her upheld wiener, but her wrist began to wilt and lower in the glare of Mrs. Thompson-Warner's direct gaze. "I mean, she has two other women helping her."

"Yes, of course, but she is responsible for organizing and planning every detail. In addition, she must supervise and direct the help. No small task. And much of what we are fortunate to receive is made by Mrs. Carmody herself—the relish, for instance, and the wonderful breads. Her breads are the equal of any served in the best restaurants of London or Paris, I assure you." Mrs. T. nodded emphatically.

Delia leaned close to Alma and whispered hurriedly, "Listen to her. She's here for the food!"

"What was that, dear?" asked Mrs. T. "In private, we speak to each other. At table, we speak to the group. Would you like to repeat your remark to all of us?"

"No," Delia said.

Alma sighed audibly.

"Pardon me?" Mrs. T. sat up straighter and raised her penciled brows.

"No, ma'am," Delia said, "I would not like to repeat my remark for the group."

"Then you'd best not make further remarks. Silence is always preferable to rude behavior." Mrs. T. took a sip of water. "As I was saying, one day some of you girls will find yourselves supervising others"—she looked specifically at Alma—"whether in business or academia, or in family life. You will then appreciate your experience here in a new and larger way." She looked pointedly at everyone in turn. "You know, when things are done efficiently and well, we often benefit rather unthinkingly. For instance, we've come to expect Mrs. Carmody's delicious, bountiful meals. Of course, there is plenty of fresh, inexpensive produce available from the local farmers, and they're eager to sell to the camp in bulk, but not every cook would know how to take such productive advantage of her resources." The other tables were clearing, and Mrs. T. reached for the job jar. She screwed off the lid and passed it without a break in rhythm. "When things are badly done, we notice immediately. If our food were bad or tasteless, we would wish for better food, though few of us would have the expertise or talent to provide it. Even if we've never experienced an environment that is well organized and productive, we wish for that environment."

That was right, Alma thought. And all the girls were listening, despite their resistance. Alma felt for the folded pages of her supper speech in her pocket, though she kept her eyes on Mrs. T. It occurred to her that Delia disliked Mrs. T. more than anyone else did. As though Mrs. T. told them things Delia didn't want Alma to hear or believe. It was true Mrs. T. was odd, with all her particularities and her secrets about Communism. But no grownup had ever said before that there were secrets everywhere, dangerous secrets someone should do something about. Alma knew it was true. And Delia knew it too, surely.

"We wish for a world attentive to our needs, a world perhaps wiser than we are," said Mrs. T. She paused and the table was still, unmoving, as the rest of the dining hall populace ebbed and swirled around it. The girls sat suspended, each holding a numbered tile from the jar. "That is why our system of government is so important to each and every one of us," Mrs. T. finished, and the spell was broken.

A and B wings ate together, twelve girls lined up on each long white bench. Finally they all began to shift and stand, scraping plates and stacking them. Alma glanced at her tile and saw she was a clearer. It was her job to help take dirty plates to the kitchen and bring back dessert; she began the first of several trips with her arms full of heavy china. The plates were plain and white, sectioned into portions like the plastic plates used in school hot-lunch programs; each had a faded green rim, barely a shadow, as though the plates were older than the dining hall itself. They were solid and dense, like flat stones; Alma felt she carried them from one turbulent universe to another. The clatter of the dining hall gave way to the noise of the kitchen dishwashers, their slosh and hum, and the passings back and forth of the cooks. At every entrance, Alma searched with her eyes for Hilda Carmody, as though to locate the source of gravity and power in this cosmology, but Mrs. Carmody seemed to stay in the rear of the big room, her arms hidden in a deep sink as she sprayed the massive cooking pots. The water from her flat-nozzled hose was so hot it steamed, and she seemed to supervise numerous pourings and tumblings and watery machinations from within a cloud.

Alma put another stack of plates on the metal sideboard and wondered, idly, where Buddy might be; he was usually scuttling around or crouching under this very sideboard so that the girls had to dodge stepping on him. It was always their peril, not his; he seemed to move so fast and so quickly, Alma couldn't imagine what could ever actually touch him, lay hands on him—he seemed an evasive streak capable of outmaneuvering even a force as powerful as Hilda Carmody. How could someone so big be the mother of a kid like Buddy? Alma could imagine him emerging as vapor from the top of Hilda's head, as swirled smoke from the center of Hilda's chest. Herself and Lenny she saw as logical extensions of their parents: Lenny for Wes, claimed and left to herself, as though he'd drawn a magic circle around her and then stepped away. Alma for Audrey, claimed and reclaimed and fed and pulled. And Delia, well, Delia was her father's, left behind. Alma stared across the big kitchen at Hilda Carmody's broad back, and the look of Nickel Campbell's face came through to her, so strongly, as if from some other place. She realized she'd forgotten the look of him, the expression in his eyes. Not the way he'd looked at her, or at Audrey—that she'd ever seen. It was the way he'd looked at Delia, with such waiting and accepting quiet, like he knew all about her and asked without speaking. Asked what? All those days after school at Delia's house, and the Sunday afternoons, all of them Sundays following Saturday trips to Winfield, Alma would look at Nickel Campbell and he would be looking at Delia. His look was something too old for the world, an idea from one of his books. Like
Ivanhoe,
one of the novels from the set he'd given Alma.
I beseech thee.

Alma grasped one of the big pans of faintly warm apple crisp with both hands and backed through the swinging door. That's what it was. Wes lived with Audrey and went away, leaving and returning, and Lenny was away, at home, and Nickel Campbell had gone away, farther and deeper than anyone. People went away from Audrey. But maybe people were always moving, on their way somewhere, and Audrey tried to stand in front of them. Maybe it was all older and bigger than Nickel Campbell. The way he looked. Had he always looked at Delia that way? Alma couldn't remember, but she thought she hadn't been awake to know. It was like she'd woken up in her mother's car on the way to Winfield, driving to or from Nickel Campbell. And she'd wakened reading his face, his look that bathed Delia like atmosphere, his look that asked Delia to forgive him, years in advance.

Walking, Alma saw Mrs. T. at the head of their table, standing and gesturing. She looked to be a sort of island, imperious and pink in her flowing dress, smiling expectantly. She took the warm pan from Alma and leaned close, as though to impart some confidence.

"Dear," she whispered, "whipped cream?"

"No, thank you," Alma said.

"Ask Hilda for it," said Mrs. T., nodding pointedly back at the kitchen doors.

"Oh." Alma turned to retrace her steps. She realized dessert was in full swing all around her and the whipped cream was late. She heard spoons tapping on glasses and the first of the supper speeches begin as she pushed her way back through the swinging doors.

Hilda Carmody's realm had grown quieter. The dishwashers rested mid-cycle and a group of counselors stood in the middle of the room. They stopped speaking as Alma entered, but she saw them hurriedly packing backpacks from a big first-aid box sitting on the sideboard. Alma recognized Lenny's counselors, and McAdams was among them as well. Hilda Carmody suddenly loomed close and gave Alma a big stainless steel bowl of white puffed cream. The bowl was so cold that Alma flinched when it pressed against her, and then she heard something. The windows were open—of course, the windows were always open—and the rear of the dining hall was downmountain from Highest camp, directly below it, and sounds seemed to fall straight down, like water pulsed from a rapids. There were screams. Shrill screams, edging a continuous howl. But the refracted sounds seemed to circle, approach from all angles. The sounds bounced around and faded and came on stronger, like sonar and interference, like something tracked through weather.

The counselors turned abruptly, nearly running, moving through the back door of the kitchen; they turned on their powerful flashlights though it was barely dusk. Alma saw the weak beams of light cross and lengthen through the kitchen window, then there was no one, but the sounds kept on. The other two cooks had gone outside to listen, but Hilda Carmody stood by the sideboard, touching its metal rim with both hands.

She didn't look at Alma, but she seemed to want someone to hear what she said. She spoke toward the open window, as though the words moved through the old screens into the blush of the evening. "He always helps Frank stack wood for the bonfire," she said. "He thinks the sun rises and sets on that Frank."

Alma realized she'd never heard Hilda Carmody's voice. Its timbre was purely soprano, melodic and slow, the words drawled quietly. Alma leaned closer, wanting to hear more. There was something miraculous about Hilda's voice, and surprising. As though she cradled that voice and kept it carefully apart, a last remnant of what she had been before anything happened to her.

"You better get on in there with that cream," Hilda said. She spoke in the same calm tones, so slowly that the words seemed important.

Alma had backed up to the swinging doors into the dining room, but Hilda was still talking. "Don't you worry," she said, like a lullaby. "It's just those girls, into some foolishness or other. Girls will do some fool things..."

The door closed and cut off the sound, and Alma turned to walk the main aisle between the rows of tables. But the atmosphere had changed, as though what was in the kitchen had entered stealthily as smoke. The speeches had stopped. The big windows all around the walls of the room were cranked fully open, and everyone was listening. Most of the girls had stopped eating. Someone, one of the little Primaries, began to cry. Two or three others began to whimper, and Mrs. Thompson-Warner stood up. She banged a serving spoon on the table in front of her, then clapped her hands.

"Girls!" she said. "We will postpone tonight's speeches and go directly and quietly to campfire. Please leave your tables as they are and line up as usual. Girls! Proceed quietly—"

Everyone stood and began a rush for the doors. Mrs. T. was clapping her hands and shouting. Alma and Delia fell in beside each other and Delia linked their arms to make sure they weren't jostled apart. Alma looked for somewhere to put the whipped cream.

"This is going to be easy," Delia said.

"What is?" asked Alma.

"Turtle Hole," Delia said. "Let's go."

She reached into the bowl of cream with one hand and filled her palm with froth. Then she blew it away.

You know how you blow music through it, the stranger was saying, and he held the knife in his hand tight against Dad's neck. Buddy and the stranger were standing by the car again, like before Dad woke up. The woods were quiet and the trees watched. The stranger brought his hand away slowly. He held the knife down for Buddy to see, and the head of the snake lay aslant on the blade, wide as the silver metal. The snake's head was so close Buddy's face that he could see inside the mouth. The snake had fangs now, like a copperhead. Something was lodged inside. Buddy put his hand close the blade and the slit of the mouth drew back, exposing the delicate fangs to their roots. A round white pearl emerged, like a tiny egg, and dropped into Buddy's palm. The stranger pulled away. He took the head of the snake in his fingers and pocketed the blade. Then he held up one finger, as though for silence, opened Dad's mouth, and fixed the head of the snake between Dad's teeth. The head stuck out from Dad's lips like the whole snake wound its way down his throat, and the stranger was pulling Buddy away, tugging him by his wrist, and as Buddy woke up under the folds of the sleeping bag he knew from the moist, mossy smell and the dark that he was still in the cave.

It was Dad pulling at him, and his wrist was still tied to Dad's. Dad was moaning like he did, asleep, calling out in small words, and Buddy struggled to pull back, sink again into his own dream. He pulled his knees in tight with his free arm, tucked his head, rolled his forehead hard against his knees. He wanted to call out for Mam but he stayed still and he could hear her say, in a deep whisper like a secret, words from the singsong rhyme she used to tell him:
white owl's feather.
He saw the feather standing up in the dark like a slender torch. Suddenly, behind and around it, all of space reverberated.
Whomph:
the big air flew through the cave and moved the earth, filling all of space with a pulse that might light up like the sun if it were bright. But the air was blind in the darkness and searched without eyes,
whomph,
again, rolling through, knowing Buddy, what he was. In his dream the rolling air was Mam, standing by the diving rock and bending down to peer in through the slanted opening that looked too small to be the door of a hole that tunneled through a mountain. She was too big to get in, so she put her hands on either side of the rock wall and threw her mind inside to fill it all until she found Buddy. Her mind so big she didn't even need to say his name, he didn't have a name, he was like the marks on the high wall and the ceiling of the cave, older than names. Buddy knew she wouldn't be looking for him now at the camp—he always helped Frank carry wood for the bonfire and lay the kindling. But Turtle Hole wasn't camp anymore. And somehow she'd found Buddy in the narrow, dark crack Dad had made in their days and nights, the crack Dad filled if she left the house too early in the morning, too late at night, so it wasn't safe for Buddy to sleep late, not safe to say he wouldn't go to church of an evening. Not safe to sleep at all because all of night was cracked and turned around behind the blanket she'd nailed to the ceiling, the blanket that hid their bed, hid the voices and dark shapes. Dad had her and she had to do things. And Buddy had to. But she would never let Dad make Buddy stay in the cave; if she knew, she would come, and it was Mam pouring through in the flash of a second, shaking rock in the black dark with her searching eye. Buddy saw her eye, big and wise as the world, peer in at the opening of the cave, the colors darting and moving, and the iris of her beautiful eye was hard with facets like a jewel, and her gaze lit a path through the dark. Buddy could stand up and walk in the light, dragging Dad along behind him. Dad was still tied to him but Dad would never wake up. Wasn't so hard, walking. Buddy only had to pull Dad along to get out, and then Mam would know what to do.