Homecoming (17 page)

The kitchen was large enough for all five of them, but not big. Sunlight made it brighter
than the rest of the house. It was shiny clean. The gray linoleum floor gleamed, the
refrigerator shone, the windows, looking over a tiny yard, were polished. There was
a formica-topped table in the center of the room, and the woman told the Tillermans
to sit at the four chairs that surrounded it. She opened the windows and the back
door, then fetched herself a chair from the front room, putting it beside Maybeth.
Before she sat down, she put some water into a kettle, put the kettle on the stove
and took a mug out of a cupboard. As she did all this, she spoke to them in starts
and stops. “Yes, Mother passed away. You couldn’t have known. It was her heart. Her
heart was always weak, but we never knew. She wouldn’t complain, you see. She was
only in her seventies. Seventy-two. A wonderful person—everybody said how wonderful
she was. It was a shock to me. I found her, when I came back from work. Sitting in
her chair by the window. A Wednesday it was. We had a high mass for her.” She sighed,
the kettle whistled, and she poured water into her mug. She dunked a teabag, in and
out, in and out. “I have been—not quite the same since Mother went away. People have
said that to me. It has been hard for me.”

She turned to face them, and Dicey saw little tears gathering in her little eyes.
She took off her glasses and polished them on a paper towel.

The Tillermans sat silent, their mouths clamped shut, not knowing what to say. The
woman sat down at the table with them. She sipped at her tea. James looked at Dicey
and raised and lowered his eyebrows, as Windy had. Dicey smothered a giggle.

“And then, of course, to see four children on my doorstep. Well, I had no idea. You
don’t mind, do you? You aren’t offended? I was afraid. You hear of such strange things
happening these
days. Especially to women who live alone. I live alone now. I hoped you would go away.
If Mother were here, of course . . . ” Her voice drifted off, her eyes drifted away
from them and out to the windows.

Nobody spoke.

Finally, the woman gathered herself together with a kind of shake over her whole body.
“But what am I thinking of? Are you thirsty? I don’t know what I have for children
to drink. Living alone, I don’t keep much food in the house.”

“Please,” Maybeth said, “I would like a glass of water.”

The woman looked at her. She smiled at Maybeth and said, “Of course, you all would
like a drink of water, wouldn’t you? What a pretty child you are. Really, like an
angel. I was a pretty child too. Everyone said so—and we have photographs.”

She got them each a little jelly glass full of water. They drank quickly and then
Dicey refilled them once, twice, three times. The woman smiled absently.

“What are you doing here?” the woman asked, as if the question had just occurred to
her. “Where are your parents? Who did you say you were?”

“We are the Tillermans,” Dicey said again. She announced all of their names again,
“James, Maybeth, Sammy, and I’m Dicey.”

The woman repeated their names softly to herself. “My mother’s maiden name was Hackett,”
she said.

“Our mother,” Dicey began. She looked sharply at Sammy in case he might be about to
interrupt, “is your mother’s niece. We used to get a card and letter from your mother
every Christmas, and Momma would read it to us. That’s how we knew about Aunt Cilla,
and her address. But I don’t even know your name.”

“Eunice Logan,” the woman said. “Miss Eunice Logan. That makes us cousins, you know.”

“Does it?”

“Yes, because your grandmother was my mother’s sister. That means your mother and
I are first cousins. Does that make us second cousins?”

“I don’t know,” Dicey said.

“Your grandmother would be Abigail Tillerman. Abigail Hackett she was before she married.
Priscilla Hackett was my mother, you see. Before she married.”

“Do we have a grandmother?” Dicey asked.

“Of course. Everyone does. But where are your parents? Are they visiting in Bridgeport?”

Dicey found herself ready to lie again. She could say they were visiting and the children
had come to meet Aunt Cilla, and then later the Tillermans could go off and—and do
what? If she lied, then she would get herself into a box. They had come such a long
way. They had to have some kind of help from this cousin she’d never even heard of
before. (That was strange too, that Aunt Cilla had never mentioned a daughter.) If
Cousin Eunice didn’t help them, they would have to go to the police. Dicey had to
tell the truth.

But first she had to say it to Sammy. Say it out loud. “Momma’s not here, Sammy,”
Dicey said.

He nodded, and tears welled up in his eyes. Dicey reached over and put her hand on
top of his. He laid his forehead on her hand and closed his eyes.

“You don’t know where your mother is?”

“No,” Dicey said. “She ran away, I think. Anyway, she disappeared. We were on our
way here to find Aunt Cilla, so we just came along. We hoped she’d be here.”

“Where’s your father?”

“He’s been gone for years,” James said, his voice sharp.

“You’re alone?” Cousin Eunice asked. They nodded. “Oh
dear. Oh dear, oh dear. You poor, sweet little things. I don’t know what to think.
I have to ask advice. Will you excuse me to make a phone call? You’re absolutely alone?
I don’t know what should be done.”

She hurried out of the room, swinging the door closed behind her. Sammy raised his
head and Dicey retrieved her hand, now a little wet. “I don’t understand,” Sammy said.

“Neither do I,” Dicey answered. “She’d never heard of us, you know that? And we’d
never heard of her. But Momma answered those letters, every year.”

“What should we do?” James asked.

“Tell the truth and see what happens,” Dicey said. “We can’t do anything else. Can
we? James?”

“We could take off again, and look out for ourselves until—”

“Until what?” Dicey asked.

“Until we grow up?”

“We could,” Dicey agreed. “We always might do that and we’d figure a way out, I guess.
But for now I think we shouldn’t, unless we have to. We don’t have any idea where
Momma is, and I want to find out. Maybe this Cousin Eunice will take care of us—I
could work later and pay her back. That’s what I’m hoping will happen. Just so we’re
together.”

“Is Momma gone for always?” Maybeth asked.

“I don’t know,” Dicey said. “She might as well be.”

“Don’t say that!” Sammy cried. “Don’t you ever!”

Cousin Eunice returned. “My friend—he’s an advisor really, he’s my spiritual counselor—he’ll
be by after supper. We have to get some more food—I have only two dinners in the freezer.
Dicey? Can you go to a store and get three TV dinners? I don’t know what kind you
children prefer. Is that all right?”

“Of course,” Dicey said. She flushed and said, “We don’t have any money.”

“None?”

“None. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry—I feel so sorry for you—I don’t understand what has happened—”

“Neither do we,” Dicey answered.

“How could you? You’re only children.” She reached for her purse and took out ten
dollars. “This will be enough. You must want milk, children should drink milk. And
fruit? Can you decide what you need? Will this be enough?”

Dicey nodded.

“The grocer is two blocks away, just around a corner. You go up the street, turn right,
and you’ll see it. But don’t talk to strangers.”

Dicey nodded, lowering her head to hide her smile.

“And you should call me ‘Eunice.’ Cousin Eunice. Because we’re cousins. And could
you pick out a cake from the frozen foods? Something light, perhaps lemon; something
that will sit well with tea.”

Dicey walked to the store, not thinking about anything in particular, just taking
it slow. There was a kind of pool of sadness in her heart, she thought, and she wondered
why it should be so. Not only for Momma, because she had not expected to find Momma
here. She didn’t ever expect to see Momma again, she realized. The sadness was for
themselves, even though they were much better off now than they had been, say, just
last night at this time. Dicey picked out three chicken TV dinners and went to the
fruit counter.

Once again, everything had changed on them. Perhaps it was all this changing that
made her sad. Or perhaps the disappointment, after finally arriving at Aunt Cilla’s
house, and finding only Eunice there, whom they had never heard of. A stranger. Who
pitied them.

Probably, they could never go back to New Haven. She wished they could have stayed
there longer. She wished she knew something more about those two young men. She didn’t
even know their last names. Or phone numbers. Or address. Stewart hadn’t even stayed
to find out if the Tillermans would be all right. The Tillermans had just drifted
through his life, touch in, touch out, and gone without a thought.

Dicey paid for her purchases and walked slowly back to the little gray house. Maybe
it was just that she was away from the ocean, the salt water with its tides and turbulence,
that made her sad.

Father Joseph, Cousin Eunice’s friend, was a priest, a slender, restless man with
thick gray hair and deep lines in his forehead. He had cool, thoughtful light-brown
eyes, deep set, and a thin mouth. He wore shiny black trousers and jacket, a black
shirt-front, and the band of white, crisp and stiff, around his neck. Cousin Eunice
introduced him and fluttered nervously around him on her high-heeled shoes, bringing
him a cup of tea and offering him a tray with a little china pitcher of milk and a
little china bowl of sugar cubes.

Father Joseph did not show pity for the Tillermans as Eunice had. They sat together
in the living room, on the chairs and the floor. He asked them about their home in
Provincetown and their school, about Momma, about living in a summer resort area,
about the fishing fleet and about books. After a while, he suggested that the younger
children go to bed, while he and Cousin Eunice and Dicey made some plans.

“But they have no nightclothes,” Cousin Eunice said.

“We can sleep in our underwear,” Dicey said. “We washed everything out last night.”

The priest remarked, “You did? You do seem to have managed well.”

Dicey took the younger ones upstairs. James protested, but she
told him: “We’re guests. We’re strangers here. She didn’t even know we existed, and
she’s trying to help us. Let’s just do as we’re told, okay?”

James and Sammy were to sleep in the small back bedroom that looked out over the yard,
in a double bed. Maybeth would sleep in the other twin bed in Cousin Eunice’s room.
Maybeth looked small lying there, her curls spread behind her on the pillow, her hands
folded over the clean sheets. “You okay, Maybeth?” Dicey asked.

The little girl nodded.

“I think I liked it better when we all slept in the same place,” Dicey said, smiling
at her. “Like that first night.”

Maybeth nodded.

“I expect I’ll be sleeping in with James and Sammy, on the floor, or downstairs on
the sofa,” Dicey said. “If you want me.”

“It’s okay, Dicey,” Maybeth said. “I won’t be lonely.”

“Lonely? All cramped together here in this little house? Why I’ll hear you if you
roll over. I’ll hear you if you sneeze—and come running.”

Maybeth smiled at Dicey and closed her hazel eyes.

Dicey went back downstairs, where the adults awaited her in the living room, which
was cluttered with the kinds of things collected over a lifetime, pictures and little
china figurines and pillows stuffed with pine needles.

Father Joseph greeted her. “Sit down, Dicey, we have to get to business now. That’s
an odd name, Dicey. What is your real name?”

Dicey sat cross-legged on the floor, between the two in their chairs, looking up at
them. “Dicey’s my name,” she said. “I don’t have another one.”

“You just don’t know it,” the priest assured her. Dicey didn’t argue. After all, maybe
he was right.

He studied her, as if he wanted to see her thoughts. He made her uncomfortable.

“Your cousin has agreed to make you welcome here, until we can make inquiries about
your mother, and your father.”

Dicey looked at Cousin Eunice, who smiled foolishly at her and said, “It must be temporary,
I’m afraid, but—”

“Your cousin has—certain plans, of which she may tell you later,” Father Joseph said.
He smiled at Cousin Eunice across the top of Dicey’s head, and she blushed like a
little girl. “However, the Church has summer activities in which your younger siblings
can participate. A day camp for the little boy and the young girl. James will attend
a school-camp. Will he object to that?”

“He likes school,” Dicey said. “He’s awfully smart.”

“I thought so,” Father Joseph said. “I’m one of the teachers there, so I can see that
he gets into the proper classes. And of course there will be more active things to
do in the afternoon.”

“That sounds fine,” Dicey said. “Thank you. Thank you both. I know we’ve just sort
of fallen on you,” she said to Cousin Eunice. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, don’t be sorry,” Cousin Eunice said, leaning forward, pushing her glasses back
up her nose. “We are family, aren’t we? And when I think of you, all alone—abandoned—like
myself really, in a way. Why, I couldn’t do anything else, could I? Only, I work,
you see, so I have to be gone all day, and there will be so much to do with four children
in the house. Cleaning and shopping, laundry.”

“But I can do that, can’t I?” Dicey asked her.

“That is what we hoped,” Father Joseph said. “And the Church, Eunice, can give you
clothing, as well as all the support we can offer, and counsel. Have the children
no other relatives?”

“None that I know of,” Dicey said. She knew she had interrupted, but she didn’t like
him talking about them as if she weren’t there.

“Mother had just one sister,” Cousin Eunice said. “Abigail. She would be their grandmother.
But I don’t know much about her. She was much younger than Mother, twelve years, and
then they never were close. I’ve never met her. They might have had a falling out.
I did write to her when Mother passed away, but I received no answer.”