Cavedweller (7 page)

When Cissy came out of the bathroom, the waitress was standing by the open back door near the telephone, smoking a cigarette. She looked Cissy up and down but said nothing. For safety’s safe, Cissy did not try to go past her but cut left and went out the front door. She walked completely around the motel. In the breezeway at the back she found an ice machine, took two handfuls of chips out, and went to sit on the Datsun’s bumper. She sucked ice and watched the day turn brighter and hotter, going back to the machine twice more, until Delia stirred on the front seat.

Honey. Cissy drawled the word once more around her ice chips. Deliberately she turned her head away from Delia’s sunburned, swollen face. She was not going to speak to her mother. Not today. Maybe not ever. People were going in and out of the restaurant, opening the motel doors and carrying out luggage. They gave Cissy a quick look and then went on. Her hair was drying loose and tangled, and the sun was starting to glare into her eyes. She didn’t have the energy to glare back. She was so hungry she was flat in the middle.

Cissy had hated the third grade, begged almost every day to stay home, but as she looked around the motel lot, she felt like promising never to miss a day of school again if only Delia would drive them back to California. How could Delia do this to her? Cissy wiped her arm across dry eyes. No one listened to kids. Grown-ups could do what they wanted. Delia could pick up and go anytime she felt like it. Cissy could lie down on the concrete and cry until her bones melted, and no one would care.

The ice in her mouth was gone. Cissy looked at Delia, who had struggled out of the car and was standing in the sun, blinking like a bird that has just run headlong into a window.

Delia rubbed her eyes and turned to her daughter. “Come on, let’s get something to eat. You must be starved, honey,” she said, and Cissy cringed.

Delia got Cissy settled down at the restaurant counter, ordered her a fried egg sandwich and a glass of milk, and went to the washroom to clean herself up. She had to ask for fresh paper towels and did not notice the look the waitress directed at Cissy.

To spite Delia, Cissy wanted to ignore the food, but was not able to stop herself from devouring every bite, including the pickled red apple on the side of the plate. She could have eaten more, but she wouldn’t ask. She looked around at all the people eating their breakfast and reading their morning papers. The men had tired faces under pushed-down caps with sun bills peaked over their eyes. All the women seemed to wear their hair pinned up with little colored barrettes.

Delia came back with her hair combed and a fresh blouse brightening her face. She signaled the waitress and asked for a doughnut and a cup of coffee, counting out quarters and dimes to make a good tip.

“Long trip?” the waitress asked when she returned.

Delia smiled. “Too long.” The doughnut had cinnamon sprinkled across the top, her favorite. She ate it quickly before picking up the coffee.

“Good appetite,” said the waitress, clearing Cissy’s plate.

“She’s a good girl,” Delia said.

Cissy scowled.

“Kids, huh?” The waitress had the grin of a woman who had raised her own.

“Uh-huh.” Delia drained her coffee cup. She had never liked the coffee in California. It was too strong. This coffee she could drink all day. It was right, like the smell of the air was right, the humidity soothing her parched skin. Delia had to stop herself from laughing out loud. She was home. This place smelled and felt like home.

“I know you.” The cook was leaning through the window behind the counter, soft white arms slung over the edge. “I know you,” she said again.

Delia felt a shock go through her. She had not thought about this, being recognized here in Cayro. For a moment she hesitated, and then that brief signature smile crossed her face. Randall had trained her to smile, say thank you, and move on when people stopped her to gush. “Give them as little as you can,” he always said, “but give them something. They make our life possible.” Reflexively Delia ran her palms down her hips. There was nothing in her pockets, no pen to sign an autograph. She looked to the waitress with an embarrassed shrug.

“You that bitch ran off and left her babies.” The cook’s voice was loud and definite.

The waitress’s eyes widened. Delia felt her knees go weak. Cissy stared at the cook, transfixed, half outraged and half hoping she would call Delia a bitch again.

“You took off with that rock band. Did all right for yourself, did you? Had yourself a good time? Well, don’t think people don’t remember. We remember. You the kind we remember.” The cook crossed her fat arms and nodded her head.

The man sitting at the counter beside Delia twisted on his stool to face her, his starched uniform crackling as he turned. The long hair at the back of his collar was bound with a little rubber band. “Delia? Delia Windsor?” His eyes swept up and down her body, and his mouth crooked up at one corner. “Well, damn!” he said. “Damn!” He gave the cook a stern glance. “Don’t pay that old cow no mind.”

Delia backed away from the counter. The waitress’s face was white and angry. Everyone was staring. Someone said, “Who is it?” and got a whispered reply. The people in the booths stood up to get a good look.

The waitress lifted her right hand. The change from Delia’s tip was cupped in her palm. Quarters jingled against dimes, and then the hand opened and spilled the money on the linoleum in a loud rain.

Delia’s mouth flooded. She pulled Cissy off her stool and tugged her away by one arm.

Everyone watched as they headed for the door. Every person in the restaurant watched Delia’s staggering, stubborn walk. She had never walked off a stage weaker or resisted a drink with more grim determination.

Help me, God, Delia prayed as she dragged Cissy along. Help me.

Cissy wrenched her arm free as soon as they were outside. Delia turned vacant eyes on her and walked on toward the Datsun. Cissy looked back at the restaurant and saw faces at the window, a crowd pushed up close to the door. This was Cayro. This was home.

Until the day she died, despair for Cissy would taste of ice chips and sweat. Fear would wear a pushed-down cap with a stained sun bill. Shame would sport bright-colored barrettes and a tight mouth. And the word “honey” would be a curse.

Y
ou’ll love Cayro. People are different there,” Cissy sneered once they were safely in the car.

Delia stared out the windshield. Her face was pink and flushed with heat. Her mouth was slack. She gripped the wheel of the car and looked back at the diner. There were two posters in the window, one announcing a fish fry sponsored by the local fire department and another proclaiming a welcome week at Holiness Redeemer, with a guest preacher from Gaithersburg. She could see the waitress looking out at them above the sign for the church.

“Nothing a bullet in the brain won’t fix,” Randall would say. “A bullet in the brain, a couple of lines, a shot of tequila.” Delia swallowed hard.

What had she been thinking?

After all this time she could still taste it, tequila oily on the tongue. She had never cared for the lime. Didn’t need salt. She liked the way tequila crossed her palate, burning away the dross. Randall would suck limes and put that powder up his nose. Randall would screw half a dozen girls and race cars on twisty oceanfront highways. All Delia ever needed was a drink in her hand. A bottle of beer, a glass of something, that scalded sweetness at the back of her tongue.

Cissy shifted on the seat beside her. Reluctantly Delia turned her head to look at the child, pale beneath her sunburn, her hazel eyes so dark they picked up the red-black of the hematite stars at her throat.

What have I done?

Delia closed her eyes. Randall had warned her. “Cayro, Georgia, an’t never gonna love you,” he’d said. “If you want those girls, we’ll have to steal them.” She had never listened. She had never believed. But those faces in the diner, hateful and hard—they had looked at her like she was a monster.

I should not have come back.

“Are we going?” Cissy’s voice was breathy and thin. Her left eye was watery and bloodshot.

I’m no good for her, for any of them. No good at all.

Delia’s pulse thudded in her neck, the cars in the lot shimmering to its beat. That song was picking up again, the do-not-deserve-to-live refrain.

Delia nodded her head fiercely, picking up the melody. God-god-god-god-damn. Ought to die, want to die.

“Are we going?” Halfway across the country, Cissy had wept and stormed, but what sounded in her voice now was at a higher pitch. Hysteria threaded the syllables. The child was worn out. The child was at her last nerve.

“We’re going,” Delia said as calmly as she could.

A shot of tequila or a bullet in the brain, it was the same thing when you came right down to it. But Delia had dragged Cissy all this way and she hadn’t even seen Dede and Amanda. She started the engine, shaking her dirty hair out of her face. She’d get Cissy settled, make sure her girls were all right. Afterward she could think about the alternative—one blue metal bullet or a glass of tequila straight up. This was not California. This was Georgia. In this county alone there were two dozen places she could get a gun as easily as a bottle of Cuervo Gold.

 

 

D
riving across Cayro to Granddaddy Byrd’s place took longer than Cissy expected. Twice Delia sat at stop signs so long that people started honking. Her knuckles were white on the steering wheel, and her mouth hung open as if she could not get enough air, as if air was not what she wanted.

“You all right?” Cissy finally asked when they sat so long the second time. A part of her wanted to enjoy Delia’s obvious misery, but another part was frightened.

“I’m fine,” Delia said. “Just fine.”

Cissy shrugged uneasily and turned her attention to the scenery, picking at a bit of toast stuck in the gap in her front teeth. She thought about the people in the diner. Nothing she had imagined on that long trip across the country had prepared her for them. They were everything Randall had ever said they were, hard-faced and cold-blooded. They were the people who had made Delia; they were her match. She glanced over at her mother and quickly turned back to the window.

Cayro, Georgia, was just another wide patch off the side of Highway 75. Most people on their way north from Atlanta never saw it. Downtown consisted of a triangular intersection no bigger than a good-sized basketball court. There was a sign that read WELCOME on one side and COME BACK SOON on the other; The cutoffs at each corner of that intersection were marked with little directional arrows on which someone had drawn smiley faces. The road north led back to Highway 75 and the route to Nashville, but another smiley-face sign indicated that it was also the way to the county hospital. The route south was marked MARIETTA, but the road west was a mystery, with only the silhouette of a chicken beside the smiley face.

“Where does that go?” Cissy asked.

“The river,” Delia said. “Farm country. Your Granddaddy Byrd’s place and a lot of truck farms.”

“What’s a truck farm?”

Delia shrugged. “I don’t know. Farms. People have always called them that. Maybe they’re places where people truck produce out to the markets.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “Never been much industry here. Mostly dairies and chicken farms and peanut fields.”

“What does Granddaddy Byrd grow on his farm?”

“Dirt.” Delia gave a wry grimace. “He an’t farmed in thirty years. He bred dogs for a while, good hunting dogs, people said. But that takes a lot of energy and getting around to talk to folks. He ran out of both around the time I moved in with him. He was living on savings and selling off pieces of land when I got out of school. There may not be much of the farm left.”

Delia drove along slowly, rubbing her neck every couple of minutes. She pointed out Cayro Junior/Senior High School, from which she had graduated. Past that was the brick hospital that had replaced the one that burned down. Cissy stared glumly. Delia turned the car abruptly and drove them back through Cayro, past the courthouse and the Methodist church. She cruised past the church parking lot, looking around intently, and then swung the car back toward the center of Cayro.

“Aren’t we going to Granddaddy Byrd’s?”

Delia stopped the car in front of a little shop with a dirty picture window and a hot-pink sign, Bee’s Bonnet Beauty Salon. “We’ll get there,” she said. She leaned out of the car to peer into the window, which was full of dead plants.

“I worked there before your sisters were born,” Delia said. “Mrs. Pearlman owns it. She was always good to me.”

When they finally pulled up in front of the little farmhouse, it was going on noon. The dusty porch was bare, the windows shadowed by faded blue curtains. Delia sat clutching her purse and gazed around with big, dark eyes.

“Don’t look like he’s here,” Cissy said.

Delia shook her head. “He’s here. He’s always here.”

The screen door swung slowly open. An old man stepped out into the hot sun and gave them an angry glare. Slightly bent, chin thrust forward, shirt unbuttoned, he had wild gray hair all over his head. He came down the steps hesitantly, as if he had to tell every separate muscle what to do, but once on the ground he walked toward them firmly. Delia got out of the car and stood waiting by the fender.

He is not expecting us, Cissy thought as he gave her one long look and slowly walked all the way around the chalk-green Datsun.

“Pitiful excuse for a car, Delia.” He wiped his face with his sleeve.

Delia smiled tentatively and reached for him, then dropped her arms as if her energy had run out. Standing there in the heat, she started to cry. The old man winced as she leaned into him and sobbed on his neck. From the front seat of the car Cissy watched, awestruck. She had never seen Delia cry.