Читать книгу All the Beautiful Girls - Elizabeth J. Church - Страница 7

The line of Aunt Tate’s jaw was fierce and unyielding, like a hammered steel length of railroad track, but her eyes were soft and puffy from furtive crying. “You can keep what you can carry,” she said and handed eight-year-old Lily a cardboard box. Lily stared into the shadows of the empty box as if it held answers to all of the mounting uncertainties that frightened her.

It was June 1957, and Uncle Miles and Aunt Tate were in Lily’s house in Salina, Kansas, picking through things like crows at the town dump. Lily wanted for them to leave everything the same as it was before, not to move her father’s copy of Andersonville from the nightstand or her big sister Dawn’s toothbrush and pink pajamas with the elephants that danced and wore silly hats. Mama’s dresser scarves should not be folded and packed in a box, and her hat with the white netting should not be wrapped in tissue paper and tucked away for Aunt Tate ’s church bazaar. Lily’s whole life was disappearing—all of her history, everything that fixed her feet to the earth and held her safe.

“C’mon, honey,” Aunt Tate said, trying to prod Lily into action. “The longer we stay here, the more it’s going to hurt. Let’s just get this over and done with, all right?” Aunt Tate clumsily patted Lily’s shoulder and picked up a box she’d packed for Uncle Miles to load onto the back of his pickup. “Get a move on, Lily,” Aunt Tate said, this time firmly, and then headed down the hallway.

There was no place Lily wanted to be, to stay, other than home. This home. Her home. But, standing in the middle of her former life, Lily realized she didn’t have a choice. She looked at her bed with the deep purple bedspread, the curtains Mama had made with the purple fringe running along the hem. Her stuffed animals, still sitting in a row on top of her pillow, just as she’d left them in her Before Life. Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy, the gingerbread man with the nap rubbed into nonexistence by her love. The deliciously soft pink bunny rabbit that had appeared in her Easter basket one year. The desk her father made that was just her size with a cabinet door she could open and close. Her red leather jewelry box with the mirror inside the lid and the ballerina that twirled on one toe while a tinkling, silvery bell played “Frère Jacques.”

When Lily had asked Aunt Tate what would happen to the house and everything in it, Aunt Tate said, “That’s for the adults to decide.” Lily knew better than to push her luck, and so she let it be.

Dangling her legs in her apple-red pedal pushers, Lily sat on the edge of her bed and picked up the pink rabbit, tugging gently on his long satin ears. The things she wanted to put in the box wouldn’t fit. Her family couldn’t fit. The only home she ’d ever known could not be wedged within those four cardboard walls. Her swing set, the toy telephones she and Dawn used to call each other. The familiar view out her bedroom window, the way the leaves on the elm tree turned their silvery backs to the breezes just before a rainstorm. Her parents dancing in the living room while Brook Benton sang “Love Made Me Your Fool,” his voice rumbling smooth and low on the hi-fi; her father’s hands threaded into Mama’s thick gold hair; Mama’s full-skirted pastel dresses. The cool, apricot-colored satin lining of Mama’s best coat, and how it smelled of ripe pears and wisteria. No one was going to call Lily Scallywag—not anymore. And Lily couldn’t fold and pack Dawn’s skinny ankles turning cartwheels or her sister’s voice reciting the endless “Paul Revere’s Ride” until Lily wanted to scream. Nothing fit, including Lily. Lily no longer fit anywhere.

WHILE DADDY HAD brylcreemed his wavy hair and worn a suit and tie to work as manager of the rail yards, Uncle Miles was a diesel mechanic who wore overalls and plaid shirts and rolled his own cigarettes and later stuck his rough, callused fingers inside Lily and whispered with his sour breath, “Our secret.”

As for Mama’s older sister, Aunt Tate was too tall with wide shoulders and so maybe secretly a man, and she moved ponderously, as if someone had hit a slow-motion button on her life and put her at permanent half speed. She wore loose-fitting, pastel cotton housedresses that hung limp and lifeless below her knees, and sensible black lace-up shoes with low heels. The only jewelry Aunt Tate allowed herself was a plain gold wedding band, and she kept her lusterless brown hair short and tightly curled. She was formidable, strict and austere in a way that had always made Lily both shy and wary. “It was the Depression,” Mama once said. “It made your Aunt Tate hard. Deprivation made her think that being rigid was the only way to survive. But there’s a soft center there; she has a heart, I swear.” Still, Lily thought that even Mama had been more than a little cautious when faced with her sister’s perennial judgment.

WITHIN TWO WEEKS of the funeral, Aunt Tate had enrolled Lily in the July session of summer school, “To keep you out of my hair.” Lily’s aunt and uncle lived several blocks from Lily’s old house on Sycamore Street, but to Lily’s relief, she would still be able to attend her familiar elementary school. Before class on the first day, the kids gathered around Lily on the playground. “Did you see their guts?” “They said your sister was all tore up! Ground chuck!” Lily’s best friend, Beverly Ann, hung back from the others, seemingly frozen in place, nervously watching Lily’s reaction.

Lily ran into the breezeway, squeezed herself between a cool concrete pillar and the prickly leaves of a sumac bush, and waited until the bell rang. Mid-morning, Mrs. Tobias had the class put away their books and pencils, and then she conducted a ceremony in which Ray Bellamy carried a cage with a bright red bow and presented Lily with a chubby brown hamster bought and paid for with the sympathetic nickels and dimes of her classmates. Shannon Leary followed Ray, carrying a bag of wonderful-smelling cedar chips and a box of hamster food.

“You’ll have to keep his water bottle filled,” Mrs. Tobias said, her cool, composed hand on the back of Lily’s neck. “And take really good care of him.”

“What’s his name?” Lily asked, looking around the room at her classmates.

“That’s for you to decide, honey.” Mrs. Tobias walked to the blackboard. “But we can list possibilities, if you’d like.” She picked up a piece of chalk and began writing as Lily’s classmates shouted out suggestions.

When all was said and done, Lily chose Pickles. Dawn had loved the vinegary saltiness of their mother’s homemade pickles, and she’d sucked on them until her mouth was funny-looking, smoochy and all scrunched up. Dawn made the best faces, and the sisters would laugh until they got the hiccups. Pickles was a happy name. When Lily pressed her index finger between the bars of the cage, the hamster put his whiskery face up close, sniffed. It made Lily smile. Pickles let her stroke his soft fur, and with his little, rough tongue, he licked her finger.

The moment Lily walked through the kitchen door, Aunt Tate spotted the cage and said, “Not in my house. What were they thinking? Rodents? Your Uncle Miles will have something to say about this.” When Lily started for her room, Aunt Tate added, “Leave the cage here. The food and all, too. You won’t be needing it.”

As soon as Uncle Miles got home, he took the hamster cage to the backyard. Lily knelt on her bed and watched from the window as he cornered Pickles and pulled him from the cage. He twisted the hamster’s neck in a swift motion, and the little animal’s body wilted in his beefy hands—the same way the pullets did when he killed them for Aunt Tate ’s soup pot.

Lily was breathing fast, and she wanted to cry. Her stomach hurt. She sat back on her bed and found a tender spot on the inside of her thigh, just above the cuff of her seersucker shorts. She pinched it as hard as she could, watched the skin turn white, then a deep, purply red. She did it two more times, in different places. But Lily didn’t cry. She’d made herself a promise while sitting beneath the green awning in Gypsum Hill Cemetery where strangers—people who hadn’t lost what she’d lost—cried until their noses ran ugly and red and full of snot. Lily decided, then and there, that crying was weak, an unaffordable loss of control. No crying. Not ever again.

When it was nearly time for supper, Aunt Tate appeared at Lily’s bedroom door, wiped her wet hands on the front of her red-and-white-flowered apron, and looked at Lily wordlessly. Finally, she said, “Child, he only did what had to be done,” and Lily knew it was a sad excuse for an apology but likely the best she’d get. Avoiding her aunt’s gaze, Lily pushed out her lower lip and blew so that her dark cherry curls lifted briefly from her forehead. Aunt Tate continued, “Life is hard. You’ve had it easy, up until now. But—” Aunt Tate stopped talking.

Lily looked up at her aunt, who stood frozen in place like King Midas’ daughter in the aftermath of her father’s royal embrace. She watched her aunt frown briefly, as if she were suppressing tears, and then Lily saw real tears traveling down her aunt’s cheeks.

Aunt Tate cleared her throat. “It’s for your own good. Your mother didn’t do you any favors by coddling you all the time, and if you don’t toughen up, the world will eat you alive.” She sighed and perched on the bed beside Lily. Absentmindedly, Aunt Tate played with a length of Lily’s hair. “Look, honey, I know I seem mean to you, but I’m not. Neither is Uncle Miles. That’s not it, at all.” She let go of Lily’s hair and folded her hands in her lap. “You can’t let what’s happened make you a victim. People will want to see you that way; they’ll say, ‘Oh, that poor little girl. She’s so pathetic. Let’s just let her get away with anything and everything.’ But I don’t want for you to live your life trading on being a victim. I will not let that happen. You have to face life, head on.” Aunt Tate stood and squared her shoulders as if preparing to march. She held out a hand to Lily, who took it. Aunt Tate’s tone was softer now. “Come set the table. It can be your job from now on.”

Lily dutifully laid out four places, just as she’d done at home. Four plates. Four water glasses. Knives on the inside, sharp edge toward the plate, napkins folded neatly.

“Moron girl can’t count,” Uncle Miles said when called to the table for macaroni and cheese topped with a crisp bacon crust. “One. Two. Three,” he said slowly, pointing to Aunt Tate, Lily, and then his own broad chest. “Sister, did you check this one out of the dumb farm?” Uncle Miles asked, pretending it was a joke, only Lily knew better.