Tender Graces (21 page)

I left my room and wandered around. Daddy’s keys were off the hook and his hat was gone. Micah was in his room with his
Keep Out and That Means You
sign on the door. I peeked into the living room. Rebekha sat reading in her big chair. I studied her where she couldn’t see me. Her hair was combed neat to her chin and she wore a green blouse and tan skirt. I thought how Momma fidgeted. Even when she slept, her face moved and her feet twitched. Everything about Momma was itchy. Everything about Rebekha was still.

I went in, sat on the couch, and waited to see what Rebekha would do next.

She put down her book. “I think I’d like another piece of cake. You?”

I didn’t say anything.

She went to the kitchen, and came back with two pieces as big as my head. “How about we sit on the porch and eat?”

It was still steam-hot outside, even at full dark. I heard mommas calling their kids inside. Their voices carried across the breeze that rustled the oak trees. Raindrops hit the banana plants against the house. Rebekha and I ate without talking. The night bugs and frogs started up a racket. We rocked on the porch, watching lightning bugs light.

Micah came out with a rolled up piece of paper. “Happy Birthday, Squirk-brain.”

Rebekha turned on the porch light. Micah had drawn me a swirly color painting. In the middle was an outline of a horse, its mane and tail flying out behind him as he ran through all the color.

Rebekha said, “Oh, Micah! How beautiful.” She smoothed his hair. “You are such a talented boy.”

Micah smiled and didn’t step back.

I said, “Thanks, Micah. It’s the best one yet.”

He sat on the top step and leaned against the post while Rebekha and I rocked. Somewhere way off I thought I heard my name called, but I wasn’t sure. All a sudden, everything felt straight and even. I rocked, closed up Momma behind one of my doors, and locked the key. That’s what I pretended.

Chapter 18

My name is Virginia Kate Carey

I waited for the leaves to start turning gold, red, and yellow like home, but most everything stayed green. Micah said it never snowed either, unless hell snowed, too. He said we had to worry about Hurricane Betsy. We had lots of hard wind and rain when she came howling up the Mississippi, but that’s all. She tore up New Orleans instead.

My teacher’s name was Miss Sherry Melon. She had clear blue eyes and thick brown hair. She
clomped
crooked in front of the class, since one shoe was bigger, the sole of it thick and black. The others made fun of her. Maybe that’s why I liked her. In the school library, I looked up West Virginia in the encyclopedia and studied it, pretending I didn’t know anything about it at all.

I read about how in 1926 almost all the chestnut trees died, how a famous writer named Pearl Buck was born there—and so was Barney Fife of
Mayberry
, and how Spruce Knob is the highest place and the Potomac River is the lowest. I read about all the things I already knew so I wouldn’t forget.

Football time came around and for two dollars, Daddy let people park in our driveway and in the front at the curb, even though we were a fair piece away from the stadium. He said the money he made would go into Mr. Campinelle’s need-more-beer bucket. Some people came just for the party and they helped fill the bucket, too. Amy Campinelle served up jambalaya on paper plates, with butter and garlic French bread on the side. Some called it
jam
-bah-lie-ya, and some called it
jum
-bah-lie-ya. I called it rice with stuff in it.

Mr. Campinelle liked to be called Mister Husband. He was as big as a gorilla who ate lots of fried chicken and gravy. When I took Mister Husband and Amy Campinelle’s picture, I had to stand across the street to get them both in it. I loved them more than coconut cake.

Mister Husband stirred up the rice, sausage, and chicken in an iron pot as big as a rhinoceros’ rear. He held a beer in one hand and a big boat paddle he used as a stirring spoon in the other.

Amy Campinelle called out, “Come here, sweet girl. You’re way too skinny, yeah, come get a plate.”

I liked being called skinny.

Mister Husband wrote with shaving cream onto the grass, “Geaux Tigers,” and Amy Campinelle sprinkled confetti and glitter over it.

I asked, “Gee-a-ux? What’s that?”

Mister Husband answered, “It’s
Go
, Little Bit. Can’t you speak Looseeana yet?”

I took my plate back across, sat on the steps, picked out the sausage to save for stray dogs, and ate the rest. I wore Micah’s old britches and in the pocket I had candy cigarettes, so I could pretend to smoke.

A bald man in tiger-striped pj’s going to the game teetered over and handed me a beer. “Here, little girlie. Have a coke.”

His friend grabbed it back. “That ain’t no coke, you drunken idiot.” I took a picture of them while they stumbled off down the street, yelling, “Aiyeeeeee!” Micah told me it was a Cajun’s way of hollering yeehaa.

Sort of cute boys passed by punching the air, or each other, hollering louder than they needed to. I held up my head like Momma, pretend-smoking, and hoped I looked like I had lots of mysterious ways.

Daddy came out with his new mustache trimmed, but his hair still long on his ears. He held a thermos in his left hand and a jacket slung over his right arm. “Young Princess, as soon as my chariot arrives, I’m off to watch our team slay the Dragon!” He took a gulp from the thermos, said, “Ahhh! The elixir of strength.” When he leaned over to kiss the top of my head, I smelled sweet mixed with his usual, and wrinkled my nose to it. He said, “I’m going with a wild herd of students. And, forsooth, there they are now.”

The driver honked his horn like a fool. The car was full and I didn’t see where Daddy would sit. A girl with stringy brown hair stuck her head out of the window. “Hey man, let’s go.”

Someone else shouted, “Hurry up, old man!”

Daddy cupped his hands and shouted back, “Keep your shirts on. Except you, Janet.” He laughed and winked at me, “Just kidding there, Bug.” He threw the thermos in the air, couldn’t catch it, and when it rolled away, had to chase it across the porch. When he got it, he said, “Well, I’m off. Don’t forget to leave the light on. ‘Light, seeking light, doth light of light beguile!’” He jumped from the porch, ran to pile in the car. The girl sat on his lap. Before they sped away Daddy hollered, “Check on Rebekha for me, will you? She’s not feeling well.”

The fools honked while leaving, too, and I was glad when they turned the corner out of sight. Daddy never even noticed I hadn’t said hello or goodbye.

I forgot Daddy, since there was a ruckus going on across the street. Mrs. McGrander, in a sweater and skirt tight enough to cut off her blood flows, danced over to Mr. Portier, and fell right into his lap. Mr. Portier wrapped his arms around her while Mrs. McGrander laughed and kicked up her legs. One of her high-heels flew into the air and landed in the jambalaya.

Mister Husband shook his head and threw the shoe in the bushes.

Mrs. Portier ran over and splashed her drink on the both of them. She yelled, “Maybe this will cool you two off! I’m sick of it!” They jumped up sputtering. I thought she should have smacked them both upside the head, and hard.

Mrs. McGrander looked in the bushes for her shoe, her rear end stuck out for anyone to see. I sent a mind message to Mrs. Portier to go over there and kick her right in the hiney.

Mrs. Portier must have read my mind message. She did just that, kicked Mrs. McGrander right into the azalea bushes.

Mrs. McGrander jumped up screaming, “You red-headed Bitch!” She pushed Mrs. Portier, and then they lit into each other. I sat on the edge of the step and rooted for Mrs. Portier. I wished Micah were there to see them. Rebekha missed it, too, since she’d stayed in bed most of the day. (I tried to be quiet and make sure my chores were done just right, just in case Micah and I were what she was sick about.)

Mister Husband finally made them stop. Mrs. McGrander’s stupid bleached up hair stood wacky all over her head, but Mrs. Portier wasn’t hardly messed up one bit. Everybody went into the house talking at once.

It was so quiet, I thought the world was ending, not even a dog barked. I hummed while I explored, seeing how many things I could name. Naming things made them solid and real.

I said, “That’s an iris, this is a caladium, and that’s monkey grass, begonia, impatiens, and in the neighbor’s yard a dogwood tree.” I wondered if Grandma Faith heard me and felt proud. Maybe this was my prodigy, knowing the names of things. I dug in the garden until my hands and knees were extra dirty. Then a roar went up in the sky, like forty million voices, all coming from the football stadium.

I went inside and put my ear to Rebekha’s door. I didn’t hear a thing. I took a sort of bath at the sink with a washrag full of soap, and went on to my room to read
The Incredible Journey
. I loved the story of the two dogs and cat trying to get back home. I was at page fifty-two, reading
Nomadic life seemed to agree with the cat,
when my door opened and Micah came in.

He said, “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Guess what me and Denny did?”

“I don’t know.”

“Guess.”

“Ate a frog?”

“No, Fart-brain.” He sat on the bed and grabbed my book. “You’re always reading.”

“You’re always drawing. Or at least you used to.”

“I still do.”

“Not as much.”

He picked up Fiddledeedee and socked it in the face. “Isn’t this Andy’s?”

I shrugged.

“Well, if you aren’t going to ask, I’ll tell you anyway.” He went to peek out the door and all a sudden I saw him like he was back at Momma’s. He shut the door and sat on the side of my bed. “You better not tell.”

I shook my head. I never told on Micah.

“I puffed on a cigarette, and not that candy stuff you have. The real kind.”

I picked up my book and pictured all the words telling a story.

“Don’t worry. I won’t do it again, it was gross.”

“I’m not worried.”

“Yes you are.” He stood up and walked around my room, picking up things and putting them back down. “What’s with all this pink stuff?”

“I don’t know. She likes it.”

“Did you tell her it’s ugly as a worm’s butt?”

“No.”

“Well, she doesn’t bite, you know. Just tell her you don’t like pink”

I looked at him as if he was dipped in stupid sauce.

“Guess what else we did?”

“I don’t want to.”

“We threw eggs at old Mrs. Hodges house.” He slapped his knee and laughed.

“Why’d you do that?”

“Because it’s funny. Geez, you’re like an old woman.” He stomped for the door.

I threw a horrid pink pillow at him. I threw the other one, and then Fiddledeedee. Micah laughed like “Muwahahahaha” and threw everything back hard and fast as he could. I yelled, “Stop it!” but I didn’t really want him to.

“You asked for it, leetle seestor!”

I had to go ruin it. “Don’t you want to go home sometimes?”

“No.” He stuck out his tongue, knocked his knees together, and opened the door. “See ya later, smashed potater!” Then he was gone.

I sat in the middle of my bed, liking how messy it looked. Down the hall, Micah’s door shut with a blam. I went to get some milk and heard water running in the bathroom. The water sounds didn’t stop me from hearing Rebekha throwing up. I went quiet to the bathroom door and listened, feeling scared and fidgety. When the toilet flushed, I went back to my room.

I sat in the chair, looked out at the mimosa branches blowing in the wind, and waited to hear Rebekha stirring around. I got up and touched things in my room, like Micah had. From the burlap bag, I pulled out Momma’s brush, her red lipstick, the Shalimar powder, and put it all on the dresser. I stared in the mirror. My hair was tangled and a piece of leaf was stuck in it. There was dirt on my face, and more under my fingernails where I dug around in the yard. Inside my pocket were leaves and seeds I found in the flower garden. I wanted to look things up in my nature book. I wanted to know what everything was, put a name to it, and make it real.

I leaned in until my nose almost touched the mirror. “My name is Virginia Kate Carey.” I watched my mouth say my name and it almost didn’t feel like I really said it.

I opened the lipstick and twisted the bottom until a little bit of the color poked out. I touched it to my top lip, sliding it first to the left side, then the right side. I pressed my lips to bleed the color onto the bottom lip. It was sticky and warm. I waited to feel different. I said, “I am Virginia Kate Carey.”  I heard Rebekha, so I went to the kitchen.

She stood at the sink, her hair all stuck to her head. “Virginia Kate, what in the world is that on your mouth?”

“Nothing.” I stepped back. “I was just going to get some milk.”

“I see. Well, that nothing looks a little too old for you, but I like the color.” She smiled, just a little, said, “Maybe you can borrow my light pink, I mean, just around the house.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

She sighed, said, “I was so tired today. Did I miss anything at the Campinelle’s?”

“Mrs. Portier beat up Mrs. McGrander.”

“You’re kidding!” Rebekha’s tired went out the window when she laughed with her head thrown back. “Why-oh-why did I have to miss that?”

“Mrs. McGrander got on Mr. Portier’s lap. He didn’t even push her off.”

“Mrs. McGrander should sit in her own husband’s lap for a change.” She ran her hands through her hair, frowned, and then turned it up into a smile. “I bet that was hilarious.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Rebekha took the milk from the icebox and set it on the counter. I opened the cabinet to get a glass. “Want some, Ma’am?”

“Yes, please. I’d love some.”

I got down another glass and poured hers first. When I handed it to her, her hands were cold. I said, with my back to her as I poured my milk. “I’m sorry you got sick.”

“Thank you. I’m feeling better now.” She sipped her milk, then said, “Want to watch television? I could make us some popcorn. I mean, if you’d like to?” When she smiled, I noticed a dimple in her left cheek for the first time.