Runny03 - Loose Lips (7 page)

“Walk like a lady, Maizie.”

A furrow on Maizie’s young brow gave a fleeting indication of what she might look like as an old lady.

“Hello, G-Mom. Hi, Aunt Juts.”

“Don’t call your grandmother that. Really, Maizie, it’s Good Friday and you’re standing in the square in front of God and everyone.”

“Oh, Louise, don’t be too hard on her,” Cora said

Louise ignored her mother. “Where’s Mary?”

“Still in church.”

“What’s she doing in there?”

“I don’t know.” Maizie shrugged, which meant she did.

Louise, hands on hips, prodded. “Your sister flies out of church like an arrow. Now, stop trying to fool me. What’s she doing in there? Is Extra Billy in there?”

“Mom, Billy’s not a Catholic.”

“One more reason not to like him.” Louise pursed her lips.

“Oh, Wheezie, stop trying to be more Catholic than the pope.”

“Julia, if you’d open your eyes—”

Juts snapped back, “And if you’d open yours you’d realize you’re pushing Mary into that boy’s arms. If you didn’t knock him every five minutes, she’d tire of him.”

“Don’t tell me how to raise my daughter. You’re not a mother. You don’t know anything.”

Cora placed her bulk between the two. “I don’t want a rumpus. Louise, go on back in there and fetch her out. Juts, button your lip.”

Louise stalked back up the steps and into the church.

Julia whined, “She started it.”

“Have enough sense to shut up,” Cora commanded. “It’s Good Friday.” She put her arm around Maizie. “How do they expect you to grow up when they haven’t?”

Maizie giggled. “Uh-oh.”

That exclamation was due to the sight of her mother propelling a scowling Mary down the steps, bumping her from behind with the purple purse, a little swat here, a little swat there.

Louise strode past the three, calling over her shoulder, “Meet you at the store. We’re going to have a little talk.” She prodded a recalcitrant Mary again.

Juts laughed, knowing Mary was going to get hell.

“Talk—they’ll have a come-to-Jesus meeting.”

Maizie whispered, “Billy snuck into St. Rose’s last night and left a love letter for Mary in the hymnal. But he must have gotten the pew wrong because it wasn’t in our row. Mary’s flipped through every hymnal in there.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” Juts laughed. “Mom, don’t you think Louise is making too much out of Extra Billy?”

“Come on, let’s walk over to Frederick Street.” Cora motioned for her daughter to start, then winked in the direction of Maizie, just ahead.

“Oh.” Juts shut up, realizing Cora didn’t want to talk in front of Maizie.

Maizie dashed for Cadwalder’s. “G-Mom, can I get a soda?”

“Yes, tell Mr. C. I’m on your heels. I’ll pay for it.”

“I think I’ll wait outside,” Juts volunteered, prudent for once.

“I think you’ll be out in the cold till you pay your bill, girlie.”

“Where’re Celeste and Ramelle? They’re usually in church.” Juts changed the subject.

“Having a Mr. and Mrs.” This was Cora’s euphemism for a knock-down-drag-out fight.

“Oh boy.”

“Those two haven’t had cross words for such a long time.” Cora, loyal to Celeste, refused to elaborate. “I’ll be right out.”

Julia lingered on the square, waiting for her mother and niece. She smiled and waved at friends and foes. She passed and repassed and was quite stunned when Junior McGrail marched right by her, looking neither to the left nor the right, as she paraded into the drugstore.

Just then Cora and Maizie trooped out.

“Mom, Junior McGrail just gave me the cold shoulder.”

“She nodded at us,” Maizie chirped, thrilled to be able to contribute to an adult conversation.

“You might be taking bread out of her mouth,” Cora said as they walked the two doors east to Frederick Street.

“I don’t see it that way. There’s enough hair in this town for two shops. Besides, hers is in North Runnymede and ours will be in South Runnymede.”

As they walked into the former shoe store the three ignored Mary’s tear-streaked face. Juts’s Irish terrier barked a greeting to her.

“What are you doing here, Buster?” Juts addressed the dog.

“He was here when I unlocked the door.” Louise spoke in an even tone of voice that meant she was struggling to control her temper. “Mom, what do you think?”

“You two have sure cleaned this place up.”

“Now, I think the mirrors should line this wall, with cabinets underneath and big comfy chairs here so people can read while they’re under the dryer.”

“Louise, we also need chairs we can pump up and down.”

“I know that. Right here will be the reception area with lots of music. I’m tired of feeling like I’m in a funeral parlor when I go into a beauty salon. And over here—”

“Girls, how are you going to get all this done?”

“What do you mean?”

“Cabinetwork is pricey and mirrors will put you in the poor-house, to say nothing of the plumbing for each sink.”

“Chester can do the cabinetwork and Pearlie can paint. We’ll scrounge up the rest,” Louise replied forcefully.

“You two better get on the good side of your men.”

“Paul will do whatever I tell him,” Louise bragged.

“Mother, why would you want a husband that dull?” Mary flared up.

“Don’t be a nit. If you don’t get the upper hand with a man he will run with other women, drink, or gamble and then you’ll both be in the shitcan.” Louise shocked herself by saying “shit-can,” but she’d had such a go-round with Mary that her guard was down.

“I don’t want that kind of marriage,” Mary stubbornly argued. “I want a man who loves me, who—”

“Love, oh Mary, don’t make me laugh. What do you know about love?”

“I know it doesn’t mean you give orders.”

Louise advanced on Mary, who stood her ground.

Cora put a stop to the fuss. “Louise, there’s plenty of time for her to learn about men.”

“What I’m trying to get through her thick head is that if you lie down with dogs you get up with fleas.”

“Mother!” Mary ran out, slamming the door behind her.

“Mary, Mary, you come back here this minute.”

“Want me to go get her, Mom?”

“No, Maizie, you stay right here. She can’t go find Billy because he’s at work. She’ll go home.” Louise shivered. The heat wasn’t on in the store. “Let’s go.”

“Louise, there’s a time to wink as well as a time to see.”

“Mother, stay out of this!” Louise grabbed Maizie by the elbow and pushed her out of the store, leaving the door ajar.

Julia watched her sister hurry Maizie down the street. “Louise thinks she knows everything,” she said.

“She’s not young enough to know everything.” When Juts started to laugh, Cora smiled at her. “And neither are you.”

“I never said I knew everything, but she’s just pushing Mary at that boy, she’s making him irresistible.”

“I know that.”

“Then why don’t
you
say something?”

“Because everyone has to learn.”

Juts reached down to pet Buster. “You mean everyone has to learn the hard way.”

Cora shook her head. “Everyone’s got to learn however they can.”

“But you know Mary’s going to get in trouble—maybe even big trouble. Extra Billy is wild as a rat.”

“And handsome as a prince. Julia Ellen, escort me back to Celeste’s,” Cora said firmly.

“Okay.” Juts waited for her mother to step outside into the sunlight, then locked the door behind her. “Mom,” she whispered, “I’m afraid Mary will get pregnant.”

“Might.”

“That would kill Louise. The shame of it—not that I think it’s the worst thing in the world but, well, it’s not the best. Mary would be an outcast in these parts.”

“If you take a person’s lesson away from them they have to learn it later, and each time that lesson gets put off it gets worse and worse. I’m an ignorant woman, but I’ve learned that much in this life.”

“You’re not ignorant.”

“Can’t read or write.”

“Lots of people can’t read and write. Anyway, I have to think about what you said. I feel like I should do something. Maybe I should talk to Mary.”

“Suit yourself.”

T
he pilot light glowed like a blue moth’s eye. Exhausted from the duel between passion and reason, Celeste stood over the stove. She believed she should be above showing emotion and she was angry at herself for arguing with Ramelle.

After all, she was the daughter of a war hero, T. Pritchard Chalfonte, a Confederate major who slogged through four years of deprivation and horror yet never complained. He was thirty-eight when his third child was born, and Celeste clearly remembered her father in his forties and fifties. The Chalfontes aged slowly, so the major seemed young for a long, long time.

Nor did her mother, Charlotte Spottiswood, vent whatever steam had built up inside her. Celeste reviewed her brothers and deceased sister; no matter how they differed, all practiced restraint. After the Great War, when two of her youngest brother’s comrades returned, she learned that Spottiswood had died as befitted a Chalfonte, doing his duty and without comment. Although their father passed away in 1897, his legacy of quiet courage informed his children and their children.

Raising her voice at Ramelle seemed nearly as vile as if she had struck her. In all the years they had been together she couldn’t recall a more vehement denunciation, not even when Ramelle became pregnant by Curtis and married him. Perhaps the loss of Spotts, still so raw, enabled her to overcome whatever
jealousy she might have felt toward her other younger brother, Curtis. She tried to remember how she had felt. All that came to mind was her joy at little Spotts’s birth. On reflection, 1920 had proved one of the happiest years of her life.

Ever since, Ramelle spent the winter and early spring in California with Curtis, the high spring, summer, and fall in Maryland. Spotts would turn twenty-one in a few weeks and she loved the girl as if she were her own daughter. Curiously, even though Ramelle was married to Curtis, the name on the birth certificate was Spottiswood Chalfonte Bowman—Ramelle’s maiden name.

She did recall a subdued disagreement when Spotts decided to attend a Western college, Stanford, instead of Bryn Mawr, Celeste’s first choice. However, she didn’t shout. She merely pointed out to mother and daughter that the Eastern schools provided one with better connections throughout life. After all, there wasn’t much power in the West that she could ascertain, so the leaders of the younger generation still graduated from Ivy League schools. Spotts graciously declined. She liked the West better.

Celeste even called Curtis, who said, “She’s old enough to make her own decisions.” She never remembered her parents saying anything like that to her or to her other siblings. Times had changed, and not for the better. She believed young people needed guidance. You couldn’t allow them to do whatever they wanted to do. They were too self-indulgent for that.

However, she restrained herself, and Spotts hurried off to Stanford, which she loved.

This disagreement was different, though.

In the nearly twenty-one years since Spotts’s birth, Ramelle had never altered the schedule. Now she declared she was returning to California because Curtis had enlisted. This was a big alteration.

Initially, Celeste had tried the reasonable approach. That didn’t work. Then she tried bribery. That didn’t work, either.
Finally, she lost her temper. Ramelle walked away from her, went to her room, and shut the door.

That didn’t surprise Celeste. After all, had Ramelle shouted at her, she might have done the same thing or simply jumped in the Packard Twelve and roared off.

The teakettle whistled. She poured herself a cup and sat in the cozy glassed-in nook off the cavernous kitchen. Tea and tulips. She adored tulips, and masses of them swayed under the nook window. Spring took two steps forward and one step back. It had remained cool all week and Easter Sunday showed no promise of warming. However, the tulips didn’t mind; they opened their flame-orange petals lined in black, their reds, whites, purples, and yellows in defiance of the crisp air. The cherry trees were more prudent. They were waiting for a toasty day in the mid-sixties.

Windblown light deepened to gold. In an hour the sun would set. Twilight had made Celeste ache ever since she was a child. The pain deepened with age. She couldn’t understand how quickly the years flew by and it made no sense at all to her that she was in her sixties, although everyone told her she looked like she was in her early forties. Whatever her exterior, she had sixty-three years of memories. She loved her life. She wanted sixty more years. And she loved Ramelle.

The truth was, she was jealous. This jolt of self-knowledge made her put down her cup with a rattle. She’d never been jealous. Why now?

A light footfall in the kitchen made her turn around. Ramelle, in a red silk robe, the one Celeste had brought her from Paris, walked to the stove. She didn’t see Celeste. So Celeste enjoyed the delicious experience of observing someone who doesn’t know she is being observed.

She had learned many things over the course of her life, and one of them was that there is the self you know, that you show to others; there is the self you know, that you don’t show to others;
there is the self others know about you, that you don’t know; and lastly, there is the self others don’t know and you don’t know, either. It takes a disaster, a catastrophe of some sort, to blast out the self no one knows.