Mrs. Kimble (29 page)

“When are you going to settle down? What are you waiting on?”

Charlie smiled. “I’m not waiting. I like being single.”

Curt dismissed this with a wave of his hand. “That’s no life for a man. No kind of life at all.”

“Some people shouldn’t get married,” said Charlie, thinking of his father. “I’m afraid I’m one of them.”

“That’s no way to talk,” said Curt. “You’ll be alone your whole life, you keep thinking like that. Pretty soon you’ll be as old as me. Then what’ll you have?”

“I try not to think about it.” Charlie laughed. “What about you? Don’t you get lonely out here all by yourself?”

Curt shrugged. “You get used to it. In the beginning I felt sorry for myself, losing Maple so young. But I had her twenty-three years. That’s more than some folks get.”

Charlie nodded. “I worry about my mama. She’s getting older now. I wish she had someone to look after her.”

Curt got up abruptly and refilled his cup. “Your mama is still a young woman. I’d say she can look after herself.”

Outside, one of the dogs barked sharply.

“I don’t know what’s got into her,” said Curt. “Excuse me for a moment.” He disappeared into the living room. Charlie heard the screen door open, Curt talking to the dog in a low voice.

He took his cup to the sink. Curt’s kitchen was immaculate. A clean frypan lay drying on a towel. Beside it were two glasses, two plates, two forks. A gold ring sat in a saucer next to the sink, as if someone had taken it off to wash dishes. Charlie picked up the ring and examined it. Two stones, garnet and topaz. He put the ring back in the saucer and went to the door.

“I should be going,” he told Curt. “They’ll have dinner waiting.” He reached down and patted Blondie’s head. “Good to see you, Mr. Curt.”

“Give my regards to your mother,” said Curt. “Tell her I said Merry Christmas.”

Charlie crossed the clearing and followed the path to the dirt road. It was nearly dark, the blue dusk of early winter. The porch light was on. Jody sat on the steps in an old barn jacket.

“Where have you been?” she asked. “Shame on you, leaving me alone with her.”

“Sorry.” Charlie fumbled in his jacket pocket. “I went for a walk.”

Jody eyed his pack of cigarettes. “I thought you quit.”

“I did.” He sat beside her on the step. “Where is she?”

“Taking a bath. I talked her into it. I don’t think she’s had one in a week.”

An owl moaned in the distance.

“I worry about her,” said Jody. “She doesn’t take care of herself.”

Charlie exhaled: two, three perfect rings of smoke. “Is she drinking?”

“I don’t think so. But still. Half the time she doesn’t answer the phone. I don’t know where she could be.” She took a cigarette from Charlie’s pack. “How are you doing? Since Anne-Sophie left.”

“The house feels pretty empty.” He stared into the woods and thought of Curt on the other side of it, feeding his dogs.

“I don’t get it,” said Jody. “Why not do what she wants? Why not get married?”

“Why not? Go ask Mama. She’ll tell you why not.”

Jody chuckled. “No thanks. That’s one conversation I can do without.”

“I’m serious,” he said. “Think of the misery she could have saved herself if she’d never married
him
.”

“People get divorced,” said Jody. “You can’t blame him for everything.”

“Sure I can blame him.”

“Oh, please.” Jody inhaled deeply. “Nobody could live with Mama. She’s a disaster.”

“How do you think she got that way?”

Jody shrugged. “What could he do? He fell in love with someone else.” She stared into the distance. Charlie knew she was thinking of Russell.

“Well, isn’t that the whole point of marriage?” he said. “You’re not supposed to fall in love with someone else.”

Jody exhaled loudly. “Do you think that’s realistic?”

“No,” said Charlie. “That’s why I’ll never get married.”

Jody smiled. “I’d marry Russell in a minute, if he asked me.”

No danger of that, Charlie thought. Russell would never leave his wife; Jody would grow old waiting.

The door opened behind them. Birdie stood wrapped in a flowered housecoat.

“Charlie Bell,” she said. “Wherever have you been?”

T
HEY ATE
breakfast for supper, sausage and eggs, the only meal Jody knew how to cook. Charlie cleared the table. He stowed the jars and magazines in the parlor, then placed the television on top of the refrigerator.

“Eat your eggs,” Jody told Birdie. “You’ve barely touched them.”

“I’m too excited to eat.” She beamed at Charlie. “Having my children on Christmas Eve! It’s just marvelous.” She’d kept her red hair but needed a touch-up: under the bright kitchen lights, the roots were yellow-gray. Charlie looked at her hands, spotted like a ripe banana.

“Mama,” he said. “Where’s your ring?”

They’d bought it for her two Christmases ago. A mother’s ring, Jody called it, set with their two birthstones, January and November.

Birdie looked down at her hand. “The jeweler’s,” she said. “One of the stones was loose. I took it to get fixed.” She sprang up from her chair. “Time for dessert. Homemade fruitcake! Charlie’s favorite.”

Charlie and Jody exchanged looks. Fruitcake was not his favorite—nor, he believed, anyone else’s. He dreaded the lacquered sweetness, the candied orange bits that stuck in his molars; but he accepted a slice. He stuck in a fork and encountered resistance, something stiff and unyielding at the bottom. He turned over his slice of cake. The bottom was lined with printed waxed paper.

THANK YOU
, it read.
FOOD LION IN-STORE BAKERY
.

C
harlie left Montford the day after Christmas. He tossed his duffel bag into the trunk and went inside to say good-bye. Jody stood at the sink, washing dishes. Birdie sat at the cluttered table, watching television.

“I guess that’s it,” he said.

Birdie rose. “Charlie Bell.” She took his face in her hands and kissed him tenderly on the cheek. He felt the imprint of her mouth, the waxy stain of lipstick. He studied her eyes, a murky green flecked with gold.

“I forgot to tell you,” he said. “Curt said to wish you a Merry Christmas.”

Her eyes widened momentarily, or maybe he imagined it.

“You ought to go visit him once in a while,” said Charlie. “Him all alone in that house.”

“I’m sure he’s fine.” Birdie turned away to adjust the antenna, sending a shower of static across the small screen. “It’s not as if he’s an old man. He’s my age, for goodness’ sake.”

“Still.” Charlie studied her back, the bow of her neck. From the
rear she looked like a girl. Only the front of her had changed, sunk slightly, like a sackful of soft things. She was fifty-one that June.

“You drive carefully now,” she said.

Jody turned off the faucet. “Let me walk you outside.”

The afternoon was warm for December, smelling of moist earth, an early spring. Their boots dug into the muddy ground. Birdie’s lawn was neatly trimmed. That fall someone had given it a good mowing.

“When are you leaving?” Charlie asked.

“I’m right behind you,” said Jody. “I’ve got to get out of here. She’s making me nuts.”

His stomach lurched in the familiar way as he backed onto the dirt road. He punched the horn and waved to Jody and Birdie, who’d emerged from the house in her slippers. They stood on the porch an arm’s length apart, their curly hair the same shade of red. It pained him to leave; at the same time he was grateful. The house felt crowded with the two women, the agitated air humming between them. It was something he’d never understood, why their mother pushed Jody away, why Jody kept trying. She called Birdie daily, averaged three visits to Charlie’s one; yet the tension between them never abated.
Stop trying so hard,
he wanted to tell her.
She wants to be left alone.

He turned onto the paved road, thinking of the mother’s ring, left in a saucer next to Curt’s sink. Birdie had grown up with Curt; he’d heard a hundred times how they’d built forts in the woods, colored Easter eggs, sat at the kitchen table making figures out of flour dough while Miss Ella fixed supper. Yet he couldn’t recall seeing them speak to each other as adults. Occasionally, in town visiting over a holiday, he’d drive Birdie to the store; twice they’d bumped into Maple Mabry in the parking lot. Both times Maple
had greeted him warmly. Birdie had responded with a stiff hello, averting her eyes.

He thought of the path through the forest, still worn bare after all these years. Well, why not? he thought. His mother must get lonely, and Curt was alone now too. No reason they shouldn’t keep each other company. What he couldn’t understand was why she’d keep the friendship a secret. When he’d mentioned Curt’s name, she’d been visibly uncomfortable. Then again, his mother was a relic. She might not understand that times had changed, that a white woman could be friends with a black man. He felt better knowing that Curt was near, that his mother had someone to look after her. He thought of his own silent house, the empty spaces left by Anne-Sophie’s things, not yet filled in by his own clutter. He imagined Birdie in her old barn jacket, plodding through the dark forest toward the lights of Curt’s trailer.

Good for you, Mama, he thought. Good for you.

B
IRDIE WATCHED
her son drive away. That’s it, she thought. The last I’ll see of him for months. Her birthday was in June; if she wheedled enough, he might come and visit then. She heard clanging in the kitchen, Jody attacking the dishes. She was a clumsy girl; Birdie was just waiting for the family china to end up in pieces on the floor.

She went into the house. “Careful,” she said. “Those are your grandmother’s dishes.”

“Don’t worry.” Jody rinsed a plate and set it in the drainer.

“They’re irreplaceable.”

Jody shut off the faucet. “Then maybe you should take over. I have to make a phone call.” She wiped her hands on a tea towel
and took the phone into the parlor, stretching the cord as far as it would go.

Birdie stared at the television. In ten minutes her soap opera would come on; she wished Jody would take a nap, a walk, anything so she could have a little peace. She thought of the bottle of wine she had stashed in the linen closet. She had not drunk in days.

She’d been good lately. It was, she thought, Curtis’s influence: he never made her feel bad about drinking, would even have a glass with her before bed.

Jody reappeared and hung up the phone.

“Who did you call?” Birdie asked, adjusting the antenna.

“Russell.”

Birdie had been hearing about this beau for years but had never seen any trace of him. She was starting to wonder if Jody had made him up.

“Are you sure you ought to call him?” she said. “Shouldn’t he be the one calling you?”

“Says who?” Jody laughed. “Emily Post?”

“That was how we did it in my day.”

“No advice, please. My relationship with Russell is going just fine.”

“If you say so.” Birdie adjusted the TV antenna; static sprayed across the screen. Of course the child was fooling herself. She’d dated this Russell for three years; if an engagement was forthcoming, Birdie hadn’t heard anything about it. She was tempted to point this out, but her daughter took offense so easily. She’d learned to keep her mouth shut.

“Jesus,” said Jody, scraping at a dirty plate. “How long have these been sitting here?”

Birdie flushed. She was sick to death of being lectured about her
housekeeping; if Jody didn’t like the accommodations, she could drive to Gretna and stay in the hotel. Then a thought came to her: If she’s going to take over my house, I’m going to speak my mind.

“I guess I’m old-fashioned,” said Birdie. “It would bother me terribly, dating a fellow for so long, and him never even meeting my family.”

“It’s a complicated situation,” said Jody.

“Complicated how?”

Jody reddened. Usually Birdie was the one who blushed, but with her daughter she was cool as a cucumber.

“I’m just asking,” she said sweetly.

Jody shut off the water. “If you must know, Russell is married. He and his wife have had problems for years. They’re about to get a divorce.”

“Married?” The floor seemed to move, as if the house had become unmoored. Birdie gripped at the wall, the table. She felt truly ill.

“He’s miserable with his wife,” said Jody. “He just stays with her because of the kids. He never loved her. He’s in love with me.”

Birdie remembered the girl who’d taken her husband away, the hateful Moira Snell.
I love him,
she’d said, so smug.
I’m in love with your husband.

“In love?” said Birdie. “That’s a reason to destroy a family? Because you’re in love?”

“Mama—”

“How could you? After your father ran off with that young girl? After all he put us through?”

“Mama, sit down. I upset you.” Jody touched her shoulder.

Birdie wrenched her arm away.

“Get out of my house,” she said.

S
HE LOCKED
herself in the bathroom, splashed cold water on her face, and waited. She stared at herself in the mirror, the color high in her cheeks. Married, she thought. My daughter and a married man.

She listened to Jody’s heavy footfalls in the bedroom next door, wire hangers jingling in the closet, a suitcase slamming shut. Soon she would be gone; then Birdie would find the bottle in the linen closet and set about the hard work of forgetting what she’d been told. She knew from long experience that it could be done. She’d already forgotten a lifetime’s worth of painful things.

At the mirror she reapplied her lipstick, swatted her hair with a brush. Like every year at this time, she was ready for the holiday to be over. Her children’s concern exhausted her; they treated her like an old woman who might fall down and break her hip. She peered out the tiny window overlooking the forest. The path was clearly visible through the bare trees. I’m not so old, she thought.

A knock at the door.

“Mama,” said Jody. “Come out and say good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” said Birdie, not moving.

“Mama.” Jody’s voice sounded thick; she too had been crying. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you that. I knew it would upset you.”

Birdie waited.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” said Jody.

Footsteps on the stairs; the front door closed with a thud. From the window Birdie watched Jody’s car disappear down the dirt road. She came out of the bathroom and reached into the linen closet. The bottle was where she’d left it, behind a stack of towels.
In the kitchen she rooted through the crowded drawer for her corkscrew; she wasn’t used to having so many clean utensils. The afternoon light was fading. At this hour her kitchen seemed lonely and sad.

She glanced out the window. An hour of daylight remained, perhaps less. She could wait an hour, but why? There was no reason to wait.

She left the bottle on the kitchen counter, pulled on her boots, and went out the back door. She made her way down the dirt road, pacing herself. Then, when she reached the forest, she ran.

She knew the path by heart now, every rock and gully and exposed root; she leapt over them easily in her boots. The air was cold on her bare arms; she had forgotten her coat. In a moment she wouldn’t need it. His trailer was warm inside. She wouldn’t need any clothes at all.

He was standing on his porch as if he’d been expecting her.

“Curtis,” she said, catching her breath.

She had never come to him in daylight. But what difference did it make if nobody was there to see?

C
HARLIE GOT HOME
at dusk, heated himself a frozen dinner, and ate it in front of the evening news. He felt as though he’d been away a month; it surprised him to see how little had happened in the world. There’d been a house fire in southeast D.C.; a six-month-old baby had died on Christmas morning. A reporter stood before the burned-out house, the charred skeleton still smoking in the rain. The fire had started in the kitchen; the owner, a single mother named Charmaine Watkins, had been sleeping there with her three children, huddled around the gas stove for heat. The two
older boys had escaped unharmed; their mother was in critical condition but was expected to survive.

“The cause of the fire is still under investigation,” said the reporter. “According to reports, the Watkins family had lived without heat for several months even though the house was newly renovated.”

Charlie dug into his Salisbury steak. The meat had begun to cool; the sauce had developed an oily skin.

“The house was purchased ten months ago from this man, District housing developer Ken Kimble—”

Charlie looked up from his food.

“—founder of the Homes Project, a nonprofit company that claims to provide affordable housing for poor families.”

Charlie stared at the television. In the corner of the screen was a photo of his father, smiling broadly, dressed in a tuxedo.

“Kimble, who is already under investigation by the Department of Housing and Urban Development for alleged financial misdoings, could not be reached for comment.”

The broadcast cut to a commercial; Charlie switched channels. The D.C. station offered expanded coverage of the fire. Charmaine Watkins had complained to Kimble’s office for months about her furnace; it was defective when she’d bought the house. She couldn’t afford to replace it herself.

The picture flashed to an impressive Tudor house. Another reporter, a handsome black woman, stood before it.

“WDC has tried repeatedly to contact Ken Kimble,” she said, “who lives in this house in Great Falls, Virginia.

“Kimble left town the day before HUD announced its disciplinary action against him. His wife declined to be interviewed on camera.”

His wife.
Charlie wondered if Dinah was in the house, if she and the kid were trapped inside, hiding from reporters. He knew first-hand how brutal the press could be, drawn to scandal like hungry mosquitoes. He pushed aside his food and lit a cigarette, surprised to see that his hands were shaking. He’d wondered about Ken Kimble’s business dealings, wanted to believe the man was crooked though there was no evidence to suggest it.
He doesn’t make a dime off of it,
Dinah had told him at Thanksgiving. She had trusted the man. In that way she was just like Charlie’s mother.

He thought of Birdie holed up in Montford. Her TV didn’t pick up Washington stations, and Charlie had never known her to read a newspaper. His sister would find out soon enough, though, and when she did she wouldn’t believe it. She was like every other woman Ken Kimble had hurt. Their mother. Dinah. Probably Joan down in Florida. The old crook had even charmed Anne-Sophie. Charlie thought of her at Thanksgiving, how she’d laughed at Kimble’s jokes.
To me he didn’t seem old. I thought he was charming.