Trying, you know, to communicate.
Calmly Graice asks, Who is trying to communicate?
I don't know! Persia says. Her forehead crinkles in sudden perplexity. She smiles wanly. I don't know their identities and I haven't seen their faces.
A long moment follows.
In the apartment overhead there's a jarring thump, a thud, the sound of a child's running feet. The sounds too of a radio or a television, a ceaseless murmur as of water flowing rapidly over stones.
Graice says, swallowing, I don't understand, Mother. Who is Persia is in the bathroom, the faucet is turned on full blast. She calls out petulantly,. seem angry with me, or with someone. I mean, that's the general tone of the communication. It exhausts me and I re sent it. I mean, what has it to do with me? I'm not to blame.
Graice would speak, Graice would confront her mother, but she feels a warning tinge of pain behind her eyes: the onset of a migraine headache, if she isn't cautious.
Lately, increasingly this past year, Graice has been susceptible to these fierce paralyzing headaches. White piercing pain and a hammering inside her skull. better to be cautious.
And that night she manages to sleep heavily. isn't wakened until five in the morning when she feels something nudging against her thigh and a rhythmic jiggling of the bed: Houdini the midnight black cat, who sleeps on top of Graice's bed whenever she allows him, awake now and grooming himself with quick deft motions of his tongue, his warm furry weight pressed snug and importunate against the curve of her thigh.
When Graice pets him, he's startled at first; then his purr erupts crackling like small mad flames.
Is Persia home?
Clearly not: Graice would have heard her come in.
Still, Graice calls out, Mother?
No sound. Only Houdini purring and nudging his sleek bony head against Graice's hand.
Graice falls back to sleep exhausted and in the morning has forgotten much of the previous evening, the exchange with Persia, the words she'd uttered or meant to utter or had not the courage to utter. If I re member, it's in vague watery patches like any of my dreams.
May 11, 1960. By chance, Graice Courtney sights her mother on lower Main Street, late afternoon and there's a warm rich sepia cast to the air; yes, it's Persia, unmistakably Persia though the fiction is, these days, she's given up entirely on men; she's working part time as a salesgirl in a hosiery shop there she is, about to enter Lucky's Bar & Grill in the company of a man, a stranger. short, thickset, coarse bulldog look to him: mean.
Has he got money, though? Is he one of the paying ones?
Listen to Persia's laughter: high soprano laughter like glass being broken.
And she's in her glamorous new raincoat, dark maroon shot with iridescent threads, tight belt; she's teetering in high heeled shoes, her hair a gaudy tangle.
Twenty feet away, Graice Courtney stands staring, simply staring.
She knows she should turn away, in prudence, in shame, in caution for her own emotional well being, quickly before Persia sees her; but Graice is in an unnatural state, a vindictive small minded state.
coldly staring at this woman who is her mother who has betrayed her so many times.
Now Persia has seen her and there's no re treating.
Graice? Honey? Why are you.
Persia stands with her arm linked tight through the arm of her man friend, as if for support. She's trying to smile, a crooked lipsticked smile.
Graice doesn't re ply; Graice stands her ground, smiling too, but bitterly.
Persia, agitated, tries to bring the scene off with something of her old aplomb, stammering, Roy, this is my daughter, Graice; I've told you about Graice, haven't I?. Graice, this is my friend, Roy. Roy Baker. Roy mumbles H'lo, gives Graice a grudging embarrassed smile.
He's a fairly well dressed man in his mid fifties with an alcoholic's re d pulpy nose and close set liquidy eyes.
Though she is eighteen years old and hardly a child, Graice behaves like a child. Says nothing. Not a word. Just this look of hers, this Angel of Wrath look, knowing, accusing, brimming with contempt.
Does he pay you, Momma? In cash, or just in drinks?
As if overhearing Graice's thoughts Persia re aches out weakly toward her, makes a vague motherly gesture. Say! Why don't we all go get a bite to eat together? What time is it? Persia's voice is gay, a party voice. In this public setting, the dull pink neon sign LUCKY 5
BAR & GRILL behind her, city buses careening past issuing clouds of exhaust, this voice sounds a distinctly desperate note.
Graice murmurs coolly, No, thank you, Mother, I can t.
Roy Baker snuffles loudly and stares at his feet. Persia's suggestion seems to have made him profoundly unhappy.
But Persia is still trying to bring the scene off, half angry, half pleading: she's Doris Day in a Technicolor comedy, an American tale of harmlessly crossed motives, confused identities, protracted but soluble misunderstandings. Seeing that her daughter is about to walk away, she says, Roy, dear, I think I'd better go with Graice. Do you mind, dear?
I'll call you later tonight, I promise. Roy Baker says, What? Why?
The tone of his voice suggests that he's a man accustomed to having his way with women. with a certain class of women.
Roy Baker pulls Persia off to the side. They speak sharply together.
Listen, says Roy Baker, and You listen, says Persia, and Roy Baker pulls at Persia's arm, and Persia tries to shove him away, poor Persia staggering in her high heels, wisps of hair in her face Suddenly before Graice's eyes it's a public scene of a generic sort, a man and a woman, both slightly drunk, quarreling in front of Lucky's Bar & Grill, truculent re d faced little man, shrewish middle aged woman. Roy Baker is damned angry and so is Persia but it's clear she wants, still, to placate him, to charm him; it's what Persia knows best, her deepest most feminine instinct. no matter that the man is gripping her hard by the arm, shaking her, hurting her. Graice stares transfixed. Is this re ally happening? Is that woman my mother?
She turns blindly away, and Persia calls after her, and Graice calls back over her shoulder, her eyes hot with tears, Stay with him! Of course, stay with him. You disgust me!
Graice begins to run. She hears Persia call after her, Graice!
Graice!
but she doesn't hesitate, just runs, runs.
Graice works from four thirty until eight thirty at the Hammond Public Library, then has supper at the restaurant in the Greyhound Bus terminal , sits at the counter and afterward in the waiting room reading.
underlining passages in her book with brisk motions of her pen as if she were in a place suitable for such schoolgirl activity and not in this place of noise, commotion, the arrivals and departures of strangers. If Graice is aware of the occasional men who approach her, the one or two who seat themselves deliberately beside her, crane their necks to look at her book, she's careful not to give any sign. In the inhospitable light her face looks pale and chiseled, the eyes deep socketed. Her shoulder length hair is a fair crisp brown dusted with ashes.
Graice Courtney has never re turned to Kitty's Korner since the night she met Jinx Fairchild there. Telephoned him, and asked him to meet her there. Her fantasy that Jinx might re turn looking for her is continually and scornfully overruled by her knowledge that he would never do such a thing; she doesn't exist for him.
And why should she, for him?
Graice Courtney, for him?
And how could he help her with Persia, in any case?
Graice is still sitting in the bus station at eleven thirty when a policeman approaches her. Miss? Are you waiting for a bus?
eyeing her as if she's a runaway or an inexperienced prostitute and Graice says quickly, No, I'm just. just waiting, gathering up her things, hurrying away, angry and chagrined. Could she be arrested?
There's a NO LOITERING sign prominent on the wall.
Main Street is nearly deserted, the storefronts darkened; she's walking in long fast strides hoping the policeman isn't following her. She's only a few blocks, in fact, from Lucky's Bar & Grill. She wonders where Persia is, what Persia's condition is now. though the incident six hours ago has blended with the many incidents of weeks and months previous, indistinct as muddy water splashing into muddy water.
Here's the re gal fronted Palace Theater where she and Persia saw Butterfield 8 that afternoon months ago. Like schoolgirls playing hooky together, like sisters with shared secrets. except Persia had lied about the hospital tests and would subsequently lie about her very lying, blaming the hospital for losing the laboratory results.
She wants to drive both of us crazy. I will never succumb.
Now playing at the Palace is the biblical epic Ben Hur starring Charlton Heston. At this late hour the ticket window is darkened and a solitary usher stands yawning in the foyer, waiting for the last show to end.
Graice walks all the way home, fueled by desperation and rage: about three miles along dim lit, near deserted streets. Much of the distance is steeply downhill and there's pleasure in that, a kind of euphoria.
When she unlocks the door to 1 6 D of the Buena Vista Arms she sees to her surprise that there's a light burning in the kitchen a light burning in the living room. Persia's raincoat has been tossed down on the sofa. Persia is home already; Persia came home before Graice did!
And Roy Baker isn't here with her because there's no sign of him, not a whiff. Graice Courtney can smell her mother's man friends sometimes before she enters the apartment.
Here's Houdini the midnight black tomcat with the frayed ear and the round little belly, materializing suddenly underfoot, mewing to be petted, or to be fed. He's called Houdini because of his gift for materializing out of nowhere, purring his eager proprietary purr.
Graice stoops to pet him; sees that his food and water bowls are full; whispers to him, Quiet, Houdini! No noise! She's feeling a wave of gratitude. sheer re lief. that she's home, safely home, and Persia too is home, in bed. Quietly Graice moves through the rooms switching off lights. She undresses in her bedroom, uses the bathroom, stands by Persia's closed door for some minutes, listening for Persia's breathing heavy, rasping, arrhythmic , scarcely breathing herself. She's in her floral print flannel nightgown, bare toes curling on the chill linoleum floor.
She pushes the door open. Momma? The familiar smells of soiled laundry, sharp perfume, Persia's chemical hair, Gordon's gin.
Persia is in bed asleep or seemingly so, breathing in waves; there's a faint ghostly light filtered through the curtains and Graice shyly whispers, Momma? and again Persia makes no response Graice tiptoes to the bed, trembling, lies down beside her mother, on the outside of the covers. Persia gives off heat. Is she asleep, or pretending? As often she'd pretend to be asleep when Graice crept into her parents' bedroom as a little girl, wanting nothing more powerfully than to slide beneath the covers with them, with Persia especially, wanting to hug and cuddle, and it was nicest when Persia wasn't fully awake but would turn to her sleepy, sleepily smiling, and gather her in her arms and not a word. And if Daddy was asleep on Momma's other side, not a word.
Graice settles back on the bed, cautious not to wake her mother.
She crosses her arms across her chest, crosses her ankles, lies very still. So grateful to be here she could cry, Jesus she could cry, still shivering but it's with excitement not with cold.
They lie like that, side by side, until morning, Houdini the midnight black cat curled snug at their feet.
And a week later Persia Courtney is dying.
Tiny re d ants in the curly hair under her arms, and in the crinkly hair between her legs. She's weeping and muttering, trying frantically to pick them off. Pick them off! Pick them off' And the shards of broken glass on the bathroom floor, glittering. And on the kitchen floor. Wavy drunk zigzag lines in the linoleum tile so her vision jumps and she can't see. walks barefoot whimpering in pain.
She'd lifted the glass of gin in both hands; still it went squirming out of her hands like a live thing.
Jrjs where are you? Graice can't you help me?
She's screaming. No one to hear but the neighbors. But they won't hear.
She's asleep. for hours. Trapped in sleep like sludge. Some thing holding her head down. Something furry and warm and heavy against her mouth, smothering.
That thing, that beast. The green tawny eyes flaring up in the dark.
Graice? Can't you help me? Help me The black furred creature runs panicked and skittering on its sharp claws, trying to escape. Specks of froth at its mouth.
Caterpillars in the bedclothes. she feels them but can't move away.
