Borrowed Children (12 page)

I remember my heart falling when Daddy put Willie in my arms.

“Laura latched on twice as hard, feeling I had left her. When other children called for Mama, she called ‘Vrena!' And she loved your mother's music. Until she got too big, she'd sit in Rena's lap, still as a stone, while Rena practiced. ‘Vrena has songs in her hands,' she told me.

“Rena dressed Laura in the morning, put her to bed at night. When your mama was at school I felt like I was just keeping Laura. And I know that's what Laura felt. It made me sad, but I couldn't change it. It was too late.”

The loss in Omie's voice stirs something in me, too. Mama and Laura … I know that hurt. Where does it connect? Mama lifts Willie from my arms to bathe him for the first time. I stand at the kitchen sink in tears.

No wonder Mama sent me to Memphis. She was afraid of losing Willie to me. Are there always two stories going on like that?

“I don't know what Laura expected—your mother to go on the road and take her along like a suitcase?—but she didn't expect your mother to marry. And when Rena and Jim ran off—”

“Ran
off?”

“Don't tell me you don't know that story.”

“I don't.”

“Heavenly days, child! Well, don't tell Rena I told you.”

“So you didn't want her to marry Daddy either.”

“Not at seventeen, I didn't. Opie told Jim just to wait a year or two, but no, Jim had to go back to the mountains and take a wife with him.”

“How did they get away?”

“Rena said she was staying overnight at Corrie Landrum's and they left on the train.”

Omie pulls up more thread.

“And you didn't know?”

“Of course I knew!”

The thread sticks. Omie leans on the arm of the wing-backed chair and tried to pull it free. When that doesn't work, she opens her sewing stand, where the big cone of thread has slipped from its spindle. She resets it.

“There!”

The crochet hook begins to tug at the line.

“How?”

“How what?”

I don't know if she's forgotten or just doesn't want to tell.

“How did you know?”

“Renad been acting over-ordinary, the way people do when they're about to upset everything. And after she left, Laura noticed something missing, I forget what, a thing she wouldn't have taken to Corrie's. So Opie went after them. Said he arrived at the same time as the train.”

“Did they hide?”

“Your mama and daddy? Not for a minute. Jim Perritt just said he'd be proud to have Opie stand up with them. ‘No sir,' said Opie, and that was that.”

“What about Aunt Laura?”

“She cried like an orphan for longer than I care to remember. I could have skinned Rena. But there's nothing as hard as a young heart, Laura's included. You remember that.”

What I remember is Aunt Laura on the streetcar, saying Mama is no more her sister now “than a toy that's rolled out of reach.”

23

It's raining and the streetcar is crowded. I feel funny going to Aunt Laura's for lunch. Yesterday while Omie talked I felt I was meeting Aunt Laura as a little girl. But today at her house she'll be grown up.

Nobody pays me any mind. Does that mean I look like a city girl? Omie helped me pin my hair under.

I can tell as soon as I arrive that something is wrong. Old newspapers are piled on the porch and the curtains are drawn. Aunt Laura is slow in coming.

She has on a black satin bathrobe, shiny as coal and trailing all the way to the floor. It's tied with a gold cord, but looks like it might fall open or off anyway. Maybe I'm early and she's just gotten out of the bath. But she doesn't have that kind of look. And when she takes me by the shoulders in her usual greeting, she doesn't smell that way either.

“Are you sick? Maybe this is a bad time for me to come.”

“Heavens no, Amanda. People in the city don't get up with the chickens. Except your grandparents. They've probably had you witness every sunrise since you got here.

“Oh, no. I've slept later here than I've ever slept in my life. I don't have to pump water or fry apples—”

“That's right,” Aunt Laura cuts in. “I forget that morning requires breakfast, too. I've heard that the sun coming up looks like a fried egg. Disgusting, but I expect that explains it.”

“Actually it's good you've had breakfast, because we're going to be a bit delayed. I thought we could have cold beef for lunch, but Cresswell decided that wasn't good enough for company, so he's gone in search of something better. Put your umbrella down and come have a seat.”

I look for an umbrella stand like Omie's or a milk can like we have at home, but I don't find any, so I just lay the dripping thing down.

Aunt Laura leads me into the straw-chair room. Sure enough, she's changed it. The chair is by the window, and, in its place, there's a yellow loveseat with a trunk in front for a table. I sit on the loveseat, but wish I had the straw chair. Aunt Laura leans back in it like a tired queen.

“Has Uncle Cress gone to a restaurant or the grocery?”

“Neither. Or, in a sense, both. He went to a delicatessen.”

She waits to see if I know what that is.

“It's a place which sells cooked food to take home. Cress says with this rain we need something hot. But there's no telling what it'll be. Except expensive. Cress's tastes run high.”

She stops a minute, picks at lint on her robe.

“So Amanda, your visit to the big city is almost over. Are you ready to go back to Beanburg?”

“It's Goose Rock. And it's not the end of the world, you know.” I'm amazed to hear those words come out of my mouth. “We have books and school and—a rosewood piano.”

Here I am boasting about the piano when every time we move I wonder why we keep it. Long before moving day the piano is loaded into its wooden crate to be ready when the best chance comes. There has to be full daylight, no rain, and still Daddy worries the whole day that it's going to fall out of the wagon. Once we're settled it has to be unpacked and tuned. Then the crate turns back into a playhouse and the piano collects new dust.

Aunt Laura smiles. “I know Rena kept her piano, ‘if only as a hostage against hard times.' That's what she told Mother. I say times are already hard if she doesn't get to play.”

“She plays Christmas carols. And in the summer, Mrs. Holcomb brings her chautauqua to Manchester. It's a little festival, with readings and music and poetry, two or three nights in a row.”

“No doubt that's just what Manchester needs. And we need some refreshment. Let me fix something to hold us till Cress gets here.”

I guess it's a dressing gown she's got on. People here probably wear those all day.

In a minute she comes back carrying two big glasses of orange juice.

“The one with the cherry is yours. I looked for some crackers, too, but there don't seem to be any.”

Her hand shakes as she holds out my glass.

“To your health and your travels, Amanda,” she says, lifting her drink. “May they both take you far.”

I touch my glass to hers.

We sit for a few minutes sipping our juice, and then the front door opens and it's Uncle Cress behind two big sacks. He carries them through the parlor to the kitchen without even saying hello. Uncle Cress is tall and usually walks with a swagger, but today he's round-shouldered. And his blond hair, always neat and shiny, looks like straw.

“All right,” he calls from the kitchen, “we'll be ready to eat in a minute. Somebody in this house knows how to treat a guest.”

Cold silence. Then he goes on.

“You're pretty special, Mandy, when I have to drag your Aunt Laura out of the bed to see you.”

“That's okay.”

“And find she's asked you to a lunch of old roast with the fat stiffened on it.”

“I don't mind, Uncle Cress, really.” I hope he will stop.

“And not a drop to drink in this house. Nothing. And do you know why?”

“Cress—” Aunt Laura begins.

“Because your lovely Aunt Laura is a sot. Yes, she is. Went to bed drinking from a jar and woke up pickled.”

Uncle Cress laughs hard but it doesn't cover the clink of

ice.

“Don't pay him any mind, Amanda. I'm afraid your Uncle Cress is a bit spoiled.”

She almost whispers this last, but Uncle Cress booms right back, “Spoiled! That's a fine thing for you to say, Laura Culton. Who expects her toenails clipped onto a silver platter?”

Aunt Laura giggles. “Isn't he wild?”

She drinks her juice straight down.

After more rustling, Uncle Cress hollers, “Come and get it!” and we walk into the other room. He's brought in folding chairs and heaped the card table with paper cartons. I look for a plate.

“Our guest will have to help herself to a saucer or a soup plate, since the charming Miss L. can't wash a dish.”

“I thought you had a maid.” I didn't mean to say that.

“This is her week off,” Aunt Laura says, searching through a box of barbecued chicken.

Uncle Cress snorts. “Her year off, don't you mean? Even the fullest glass gets empty sometimes, Mandy. I can't support Miss Laura and her servant habits forever.”

Aunt Laura spoons ice into her juice glass and fills it with something clear.

“Some men go to work, Cresswell. Most men don't expect to quench the lifelong thirst of two people from one glass.”

All he says is, “It lasts a lot longer if you don't have one person guzzling.”

I try to eat, but my stomach hurts and everything tastes like sand. There's nothing to drink but what's in the bottles, clear for Aunt Laura and amber forUncle Cress. I take some ice and wait for it to melt.

Uncle Cress eats like a starved horse but Aunt Laura just picks at her chicken wing and crumbles her roll. Only her drink is disappearing.

All of a sudden tears roll down her checks—no sound, just two streams of water. Then, without finishing the tears, she starts to laugh. It's a horrible sound, high and broken. I want to do something to stop it, to help her, but I'm frozen. In one motion Uncle Cress stands up, leans across the table, and slaps her hard on the cheek. The flat crack of his hand on her face cuts off the laughter. I jerk back as if he hit me too. Then he walks around the table, picks Aunt Laura up, and carries her out. She can't weigh much, but Uncle Cress is still off balance. His footsteps falter all the way back to their room.

The rain is pouring now and Omie's bright house seems as far away as the moon. I'm scared to move. What if they hear me and come back? What if they don't? But I can't just sit here. I'll put away the food and clean up the kitchen. That might be a little help. If they're not back when I finish, I'll leave a note and take the streetcar home.

I've never been in Aunt Laura's kitchen, but I don't hesitate. Dishes can pile up pretty high with six children, and I've helped out at the Skidmores', too. Here there's just Aunt Laura and Uncle Cress. I push through the swinging door.

There's not a countertop to be seen—it's all dishes. Not cleared and stacked; piled any which way, with food still on them. Before I get close enough to see, I hear the scurry of roaches. I want to turn and run.

Instead, I find the sink and lift its load of dishes to the floor. I draw water to heat on the stove.

Then I see the empty wood box and panic. In this rain I'll

never find dry wood. Could they have a water heater like Omie s? I turn on the spigot to see. Sure enough, the water begins steaming. Hot water gives me hope.

I look at each plate hard, like it could keep me from thinking of Aunt Laura. I scour the glasses. There's no room in here for clean dishes, so I find a tablecloth and spread it on the dining room floor. When I finish there's enough stuff for a congregational dinner. I scrub the counters and wash the floor. Three times. It doesn't make me feel any better.

Shelf paper is all I can find for a note. But what can I say?

Aunt Laura,

Gone home. Hope you feel better. Do not worry.

Mandy

I don't put
Love
and I don't put
Amanda.
I can't.

24

At the streetcar stop I have to wait in the rain. What am I going to say to Omie? Shell want to hear about the visit and it's not for me to tell.

But when I get there Opie's describing a mill accident. By the time he gets through, supper is ready. Maybe I'll get by—

“And how did you find Miss Laura?” he asks, first thing.

“Easy. She's right where you said she'd be.”

“And did she feed you ambrosia?”

I think it's Aunt Laura he's poking fun at, but I'm not sure.

“Chicken.”

“The bird of the gods.”

“Samuel—”

Opie lowers his head.

“Uncle Cress brought in food,” I offer.

“Money's a good cook.” He goes back to his soup.

We eat in silence except for silverware clinking and the creak of Opie's chair. Then Omie gets up to pour coffee.

“We're going to miss you, Mandy,” she says, coming around behind me. “I can't believe the time has gone so fast.”

“I'll miss you, too. And Memphis and this house—” I look at the dining room, its pale blue walls and high rail holding Omie's plate collection. There are flowers, fruit, birds—even a naked lady with cherubs dancing around her.

“But I promised your mother I wouldn't keep you. And you must be getting homesick.”

She kisses the top of my head, then goes around to Opie.

“Who would have thought we'd be borrowing children?” he asks, as she fills his cup.

“They're every one borrowed,” she tells him.

I can't help but think of the last table I sat at. The crowd of boxes, Aunt Lauras wild laugh. I wonder how she imagined her life those years when she ate at this table. And Mama, too. What was she dreaming? Sawmill gravy and a rented house full of kids?