Dolores Claiborne (35 page)

But mostly I thought about Vera and me—two bitches livin on a little chunk of rock off the Maine coast, livin together most of the time in the last years. I thought about how them two bitches slep together when the older one was scared, n how they passed the years in that big house, two bitches who ended up spendin most of their time bitchin at each other. I thought of how she’d fool me, n how I’d go’n fool her right back, and how happy each of us was when we won a round. I thought about how she was when the dust bunnies ganged up on her, how she’d scream n how she trembled like an animal that’s been backed into a corner by a bigger creature that means to tear it to pieces. I remember how I’d climb into the bed with her, n put my arms around her, n feel her tremblin that way, like a delicate glass that someone’s tapped with the handle of a knife. I’d feel her tears on my neck, and I’d brush her thin, dry hair n say, “Shhh, dear ... shhh. Those pesky dust bunnies are all gone. You’re safe. Safe with me.”

But if I’ve found out anything, Andy, it’s that they ain’t never gone, not really. You think you’re shut of em, that you neatened em all away and there ain’t a dust bunny anyplace, n then they come back, they look like faces, they
always
look like faces, and the faces they look like are always the ones you never wanted to see again, awake or in your dreams.

I thought of her layin there on the stairs, too, and sayin she was tired, she wanted to be done. And as I stood there on that rickety landin in my wet galoshes, I knew well enough why I’d chosen to be on those stairs that are so rotted not even the hellions will play on em after school lets out, or on the days when they play hookey. I was tired, too. I’ve lived my life as best I could by my own lights. I never shirked a job, nor cried off from the things I had to do, even when those things were terrible. Vera was right when she said that sometimes a woman has to be a bitch to survive; but bein a bitch is hard work, I’ll tell the world it is, n I was so tired. I wanted to have done, and it occurred to me that it wasn’t too late to go back down those stairs, n that I didn’t have to stop at the bottom this time, neither ... not if I didn’t want to.

Then I heard her again—Vera. I heard her like I did that night beside the well, not just in my head but my
ear.
It was a lot spookier this time, I c’n tell you; back in ’63 she’d at least been
alive.

“What
can
you be thinking about, Dolores?” she ast in that haughty Kiss-My-Back-Cheeks voice of hers. “
I
paid a higher price than you did; I paid a higher price than anyone will ever know, but I lived with the bargain I made just the same. I did more than that. When the dust bunnies and the dreams of what could have been were all I had left, I took the dreams and made them my own. The dust bunnies? Well, they might have gotten me in the end, but I lived with them for a lot of years before they did. Now you’ve got a bunch of your own to deal with, but if you’ve lost the guts you had on the day when you told me that firing the Jolander girl was a boogery thing to do, go on. Go on and jump. Because without your guts, Dolores Claiborne, you’re just another stupid old woman.”

I drew back n looked around, but there was only East Head, dark n wet with that spray that travels in the air on windy days. There wasn’t a soul in sight. I stood there awhile longer, lookin at the way the clouds ran across the sky—I like to watch em, they’re so high n free n silent as they go their courses up there—and then I turned away n started back home. I had to stop n rest two or three times on the way, because that long time sittin in the damp air at the bottom of the steps put an awful misery in my back. But I made it. When I got back to the house I took three asp’rin, got into my car, n drove straight here.

And that’s it.

Nancy, I see you’ve piled up purt-near a dozen of those little tiny tapes, n your cunning little recorder must be just about wore out. So’m I, but I come here to have my say, and I’ve had it—every damn word of it, and every word is true. You do what you need to do to me, Andy; I’ve done my part, n I feel at peace with myself. That’s all that matters, I guess; that, n knowin exactly who you are. I know who
I
am: Dolores Claiborne, two months shy of my sixty-sixth birthday, registered Democrat, lifelong resident of Little Tall Island.

I guess I want to say two more things, Nancy, before you hit the STOP button on that rig of yours. In the end, it’s the bitches of the world who abide ... and as for the dust bunnies:
frig
ya!

From the Ellsworth
American,
November 6, 1992 (p. 1):

D
olores Claiborne of Little Tall Island, long-time companion of Mrs. Vera Donovan, also of Little Tall, was absolved of any blame in the death of Mrs. Donovan at a special coroner’s inquest held in Machias yesterday. The purpose of the inquest was to determine if Mrs. Donovan had suffered “wrongful death,” meaning death as the result of neglect or criminal act. Speculation concerning Miss Claiborne’s role in the death of her employer was fueled by the fact that Mrs. Donovan, who was reputedly senile at the time of her death, left her companion and housekeeper the bulk of her estate. Some sources estimate the worth of the estate to be in excess of ten million dollars.

From the Boston
Globe,
November 20, 1992 (p. 1):

T
he stunned directors of The New England Home for Little Wanderers announced at a hastily called press conference late this afternoon that Christmas is coming a little early for the hundred-and-fifty-year-old orphanage this year, thanks to a thirty-million-dollar bequest from an anonymous donor.

“We received word of this amazing donation from Alan Greenbush, a reputable New York attorney and certified public accountant,” said a visibly flustered Brandon Jaegger, head of the N.E.H.L.W.’s board of directors. “It appears to be completely on the level, but the person behind this contribution—the guardian angel behind it, I should perhaps say—is completely serious about his or her anonymity. It almost goes without saying that all of us associated with the Home are overjoyed. ”

If the multi-million-dollar donation proves out, the Little Wanderers’ windfall would be the largest single charitable contribution to such a Massachusetts institution since 1938, when ...

From
The Weekly Tide,
December 14, 1992 (p. 16)

M
rs. Lottie McCandless won the Christmas Cover-All at Friday Night Beano in Jonesport last week—the prize totaled $240, and that’s a lot of Christmas presents! Nosy Nettie is
soooo
jealous! Seriously, congratulations, Lottie!

John Caron’s brother, Philo, came down from Derry to help John caulk his boat, the
Deepstar,
while it was at drydock. There is nothing like a little “brotherly love” in this blessed season, is there, boys?

Jolene Aubuchon, who lives with her granddaughter, Patricia, finished a 2000-piece jigsaw puzzle of Mt. St. Helens last Thursday. Jolene says that she’s going to celebrate her 90th birthday next year by doing a 5000-piece puzzle of the Sistine Chapel. Hurrah, Jolene! Nosy Nettie and all at the
Tide
like your style!

Dolores Claiborne will be shopping for one extra this week! She knew her son Joe—“Mr. Democrat”—was coming home with his family from his toils in Augusta for an “island Christmas,” but now she says that her daughter, famous mag-first visit in over
twenty years!
Dolores says she feels “very blessed.” When Nosy asked if they would be discussing Selena’s latest “think-piece” in the
Atlantic Monthly,
Dolores would only smile and say, “We’ll find lots to talk about, I’m sure.”

From the Early Recovery Dept., Nosy hears that Vincent Bragg, who broke his arm playing football last October ...

 

October 1989-February 1992