Читать книгу Fire Is Your Water - Jim Minick - Страница 18

7

Ada stumbled to the bathroom to dress for work. The bare-bulb light hurt her eyes as she tried to pull on her hose without ripping them. She scowled at the long mirror. Her uniform’s short sleeves made her long arms stick out like chicken legs. “Cluck, cluck,” she whispered. She checked her teeth. “Yep, still crooked.” She turned to look at her back. “And what a strange bird you are.” The whole uniform blared the ugly turquoise of the HoJo’s cupola, a blue of no stone she’d ever seen, not even the real turquoise a cousin had brought from out west. Next to this, the cuffs, pockets, and collar were all the bright orange of a HoJo’s roof. Never get lost in a crowd with this on, she thought as she zipped up the dress. Unless that crowd all works beside you for Mr. Johnson. She tied on the too-little apron, also turquoise, and pinned on the too-little cap, with its “Howard Johnson” logo. She wished for her bonnet.

She fumbled in the pockets for her name tag. And where does Mr. Johnson expect us to put our tips? The shallow pockets were somehow the worst part. She pinned the blocky “A-D-A” onto her dress, right below “Howard Johnson.” One last look revealed that the orange collar did nothing to hide her long neck. It just framed it like a picture. She grabbed her amulet and purse and then scurried down the stairs.

In the kitchen, Ada hurried to cook breakfast. She had to move all the casseroles out of the refrigerator to get the eggs and ham. The previous day, every neighbor and friend from here to Shippensburg had come with a dish and to look. They’d aggravated Ada with all of their staring, but their food had been a real blessing. At least a month’s worth of eating sat in the freezer, plus what filled the fridge. Yesterday, when she’d seen so much, she decided to return to work. They needed the money, and like it or not, she couldn’t really help her mother. Uncle Mark would come for that.

At 6:45, Ada heard Ellie pull in the lane. She grabbed her coat and purse, kissed her father and mother, and ran out the door.

Ada slid into Ellie’s car and greeted her best friend. The glow of the dashboard cast odd shadows over Ellie’s face, but her eyes, as always, had that lost fawn look—round and dark and innocent. Good camouflage for a sharp wit that had checked the advances of truckers and made Ada cry from laughing so hard.

“How are the little ones?” Ada asked.

“Back asleep by now, probably.” Ellie turned onto the main road. “How’s your mom?”

“OK, I think. Uncle Mark’s taking good care of her.”

Ellie looked at her. “Uncle Mark?”

Ada fidgeted with her apron.

“Why not you?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Ada said, looking out the window. “Seems like I can’t powwow anymore.”

“Oh, Ada.” Ellie stopped the car on the shoulder of the road. “What happened?”

Ada didn’t want to cry at the start of the day, yet here she was, hugging Ellie and telling her about the coldness of her hands in the fire, the death of Seven, and what had happened in the kitchen. “I tried to chant over Mama’s burns, and nothing happened.”

Ellie held her quietly.

Ada’s breathing slowed, and she wiped her tears. “We’ll be late for work if we don’t get going.”

Ellie slid the car into gear, and Ada remembered the last time they’d been late, three weeks earlier. It was the last time she had healed. That morning, when she had gotten into Ellie’s car, she’d sensed something was wrong in her friend’s mumbled hello.

“You all right?”

Ellie had shaken her head. “Beatrice has an earache. Kept us up all night. The child’s whole ear is bright red, and those drops from the doctor only make her scream. Nothing seems to work.” She glanced over. “Think you could powwow over her?”

“Of course, Ellie. Why didn’t you ask sooner? Now turn the car around and let’s have a look at her. We’ll just deal with Mabel later.”

Soon they were walking up the stairs to Beatrice’s bedroom. They found the young girl in her grandmother’s lap.

“She can only get a little bit asleep, and then the pain will wake her,” Mrs. Sawyers said.

Ada cuddled the child for a moment before laying her down on her bed. The girl held onto her neck.

“Rest here for just a moment, little Bea, and then I’ll hold you some more.”

Ada closed her eyes, asked the Lord to help, and bent close to Beatrice. She whispered a chant and gently blew into her ear. Ada did this three times, and when she finished, the child had fallen asleep.

“That should ease the pain,” she whispered to Ellie and her mother. “In a day or so, I expect all the swelling to be gone.”

On a sheet from her order pad, Ada wrote this chant:

Holy womb,

Holy night.

Holy, Holy was the night

when Christ was born.

I take Beatrice Amber O’Keefe’s

aches and pain all away in

Jesus’ name all away.

Amen.

“Keep this in your purse,” she instructed and handed Ellie the slip. By the next morning, the swelling had disappeared.

Now, as they hurried down the turnpike, that memory seemed like a different life from long ago. What was it that had given her that gift, that confidence?

They drove past the service plaza on the other side of the highway. A mile beyond, Ellie pulled off to wait for all four lanes to clear. They both held their breath when she gunned it through the gap in the median’s guardrail. Heading west, they soon entered the still lit-up plaza, where Ellie parked in the rear of the lot.

“Red in the morning,” Ellie mumbled as they faced the brightly colored eastern sky.

“Sailors’ warning,” Ada finished.

They hurried across the lot to work.

At the restaurant’s back door, Ada braced herself, and yet the noise and heat and brightness of the kitchen pummeled her. She followed Ellie to the punch-in clock, which read 7:05. “Not too bad,” Ellie whispered and turned to find Mabel, her hands full of dirty dishes. She was a large woman with a sprig of hair growing from a mole on her cheek.

“Sorry we’re late,” Ada and Ellie said. Mabel just walked on. She had babysat Ada years ago, and she still liked to scold her or tell her mother everything. But now she didn’t say a word, and Ada was grateful.

In the kitchen, they said good morning to Freddie, a short man from the other side of the mountain. He worked the grill, piles of eggs, potatoes, and bacon before him. His shiny toupee never moved. Beside him was James, Ada’s cousin. He flipped a pancake and shouted, “You’re late!” Ellie stuck out her tongue and brushed past him.

Aunt Amanda greeted them from the sinks. “Sorry to hear about your barn.”

Ada thanked her. Of all the people who worked here, next to Ellie, Ada felt closest to Aunt Amanda Wingert. She stopped washing dishes, wiped her hands, and touched Ada’s arm. Ellie disappeared out the swinging door.

“Maybe we can talk during break,” Aunt Amanda said, white curls framing her wide forehead, hair perfect even in this steamy washroom.

Ada nodded and hurried away, not wanting to cry again.

Ada checked the coffee machine, wiped down the counter, and looked over the tubs of ice cream. In the dining room, Ellie and the other waitresses worked the breakfast crowd, taking orders, flirting, making sure everyone was happy. Ada picked up the coffeepots and made the rounds. When she finished, she went to wait on a young couple at the ice cream counter. They each wanted vanilla. “A breakfast dessert,” the man said. Ada bent into the freezer, filled two cones, and handed them to the couple.

The young man squinted as he held up his cone. “This it?” He had a heavy Philly accent. “This all we get?”

“Yes, sir. That’s one scoop, according to Mr. Johnson.”

“Hey, my bride and I are on our honeymoon. How ’bout giving us a little extra?”

“Sorry, but I can’t,” Ada said. “I might lose my job.” She took his money and handed him his change. He didn’t leave a tip.

Ada closed the freezer and cleaned the tiny scoop. She moved to one of the windows to clean the glass. To the west sat the service station with the high mountain behind. The Esso boys in their red caps slouched against pumps, their faces bright in the morning sun. When two cars pulled in, they hustled to check oil, clean windows, fill up the gas. The men yelled and laughed, but Ada couldn’t hear their words. She knew a few of them: Bishop, a neighbor, and Woody, one of Ellie’s cousins. But most were strangers, many from the other side of the mountain.

Ada moved to the double doors and wiped the glass. To the south, across the four lanes, she gazed at Hopewell, a mile away. She found the steeple, and next to the church, she spotted Math-na’s store. Uncle Joe’s farm sat closer, right on the other side of the pike, and two miles away, Ada picked out Uncle Mark and Aunt Rebecca’s farm, the white silo shiny on Hoover’s Ridge.

But Ada couldn’t see her own home. Even though their farm bordered the pike, a small hill separated it from the busy road. She imagined her mother sitting on the porch, her father finishing the milking. In her mind, she saw the long rows of trees in the orchard, the blueberry bushes, and the pond below the house. At the back of the barn, she walked up the earthen ramp to the haymow only to find empty sky and a pile of ashes.

The door opened, and Ada greeted a truck driver. Often she played hostess, greeting so many strangers. Some nodded and said hello. Most just ignored her and headed to the restrooms. Their differences still amazed her—an Italian woman with a beehive hairdo might come right before an Indian family, their skin a rich brown. “Those red-dot Indians never eat ice cream,” Mabel always complained. But to Ada the Indians had the warmest smiles.

The accents surprised her. Just last week, an old man from Philadelphia, only 150 miles away, got mad because she couldn’t understand him. “You jus’ get off the mountain, or somethin’?” he asked. He walked away, no ice cream in hand.

Ada liked to listen . . . to young men from Ireland, families from Boston, Negroes from Baltimore. Once a family of Negroes strolled into HoJo’s wearing colorful robes. “Well, look at them,” James muttered, “still wearing their pj’s.” Ada hushed him and later learned from Freddie that the family was from Africa. “And those were their Sunday-go-to-church clothes.” Freddie could talk with anyone. So could Aunt Amanda.

Ada checked the coffee machine, threw out the old grounds, and rinsed the strainer. She filled it with new coffee and gave the machine a good luck tap to keep it going.

Her first week here Aunt Amanda had taught her the particulars. “I guess I’ll be training you,” she said after Ellie introduced them. “Ellie will be too busy making eyes at those truckers and raking in the tips. She’ll have to give you some lessons on her secrets.”

“Oh, Aunt Amanda, I learned everything I know about this place from you,” Ellie said. “And you still get some nice tips, too.”

“Humph.” Aunt Amanda waved her hand.

“Aunt Amanda can do every job here,” Ellie told Ada. “And when she has to, she fills in for the managers. If you really want to know about something, ask her.”

Aunt Amanda ignored Ellie. She turned to Ada. “You go get checked in with Mabel, and then I’ll get you started on the fountain.”

That first day, Ada had to wear a green apron that said “I’m new.” When she stood beside Aunt Amanda behind the ice cream counter, Ada saw she was at least a foot taller, looking down into the woman’s white hair. Still somehow she felt small beside her. Aunt Amanda didn’t make her feel uncomfortable, just the opposite, yet even at twenty years old, Ada felt so young, as if she’d just entered sixth grade all over again.

“Now, this scoop has to be cleaned between every dip,” Aunt Amanda said. “And one scoop equals one scoop. Mr. Johnson is a stingy old crab, and he doesn’t like us being generous with his ice cream, even if he’s already a millionaire.”

Ada grinned. She remembered the times she’d snuck up here with Ellie when they were in high school. They had crossed Uncle Joe’s fields, the turnpike’s fence, and the pike itself, all to get a tiny scoop of pistachio.

Aunt Amanda waited on a customer, showing Ada how to wrap the cone with a napkin and exactly how much ice cream not to put in. She smiled at even the rudest customer.

When the man left, Aunt Amanda said, “You’ll be surprised. Even on bitter cold days, and even at breakfast time, people still like their ice cream.” She rinsed the scoop. “And they always complain about the quantity, or lack thereof. So I just smile and watch them leave. They’ll drive away and forget about this soon enough.” She picked up a rag and wiped the counter. “When you’re not busy, wipe everything till it shines, and check the coffee machine. I just filled it, but later, I’ll give you a lesson on it. OK?”

Ada nodded.

“Any other questions before I head back to my pile of dishes?” Aunt Amanda nudged her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

Ada said no and watched the small woman move quickly away.

AFTER the lunch-hour rush, Ada entered the ladies’ room and found Aunt Amanda taking a break at her usual spot. She sat at the far end on a stool next to the wavy-glass window, the window propped open. Aunt Amanda didn’t notice, her head bowed as she read. Her arm rested on the windowsill, and a breeze ruffled the book’s pages. Ada was struck by Aunt Amanda’s calmness, her shoulders even more rounded. She licked her finger to turn a page.

The first time Ada had discovered her here, Aunt Amanda was reading the Bible then, too. She had invited Ada to join her. “On break, I like to read the Psalms or about Moses, and I like to look out on the mountain. I’ve seen the prettiest sunsets from this perch.”

“I bet.” Ada had bent to look out, the long ridgeline covered in many shades of green. That view and the breeze and Aunt Amanda’s company made Ada realize how much she didn’t like HoJo’s break room, the clutter of coats, the bang of lockers, the closeness of so many chairs and people. That room had no windows and a cloud of cigarette smoke. By contrast, the lavatory was clean and full of light. Aunt Amanda had invited her to bring her own stool and join her.

Now, Ada hesitated a moment before calling out. Then the round glasses and high forehead turned. “Oh, hello, Ada. Come join me.”

Ada sat on the other stool, and for a while, the two women were quiet.

“I was reading about Moses and the burning bush just now. That man did not want to do what God told him. He hemmed and hawed. Imagine! Yet he eventually did. And God gave him the tools he needed.”

Aunt Amanda paused and looked at her hands. “And the idea of a bush burning without burning has always fascinated me. When I was a kid, I kept searching for other burning bushes. I’d walk through the woods looking at every bush, and each one would be like the last—green and empty. Then one day, I glanced at one out of the corner of my eye, and it looked odd—no flames, really, but more than just leaves. When I looked straight at it, the bush was a bush, nothing unusual. I looked sideways again, and nothing changed—the bush was just a bush. But in a tree far beyond it, I saw the same thing—some movement, flame-like, that disappeared. I don’t know what it was. But it made me understand that maybe all bushes and trees and birds are burning, all of them full of God’s voice.” She paused before adding, “If only we had eyes to see and ears to hear.”

“Didn’t Moses have to turn his eyes?” Ada asked.

“Yes, yes he did. When he first saw the bush, he couldn’t look directly at it.” Aunt Amanda found the passage and read, “‘Moses said, I will now turn aside, and see this great sight, why the bush is not burnt.’ It’s as if he had to look out of the corner of his eye, too, the bush burned so bright. Like we can’t look directly at the sun or we’ll be blinded.”

Aunt Amanda closed the Bible and set it aside. “Oh, but I’m rambling. How are you, Ada? And how’s your family?”

“I think we’re all going to make it.” Ada shifted on her stool. She was grateful Aunt Amanda didn’t ask more. It was as if Aunt Amanda already knew—about the fire and her mother’s hands and now, this black space she was afraid to look at.

Aunt Amanda placed her hand on Ada’s, just for a moment, and that was enough.

“There’s Will.” Aunt Amanda pointed out the window. “I had hoped he might come out while you were here.” She looked at the gas pumps, fifty yards away. “He’s the tall, black-haired young man out there. He just started yesterday.”

Ada saw his back as he leaned against a pump, talking with two other men. A car pulled up, and Will took long, loping strides toward it.

“I helped raise that boy. He’s my nephew, you know. His mother died giving birth to him. And when that happened, something disappeared in Sam, his father, and never returned. So, little Will would wander over to my house just about every day. Sam died of cancer four years ago. We had to sell the farm to cover the bills . . .” Aunt Amanda looked at Ada. “To be honest, he feels more like a son than a nephew.”

“I bet he loves you.” Ada was not sure what to say.

“Most of the time, especially now that he’s on his own and I don’t have to discipline him.”

Another car pulled up, and Will began washing its windows. Even from this distance, Ada saw his huge grin.

Will noticed his aunt and waved. Aunt Amanda waved back. Then he pointed to the sky, cupped his hands, and gave a loud cronk cronk sound.

“What’s he doing?”

“Oh, that’s Will talking with the ravens. They must be up above us somewhere. On the drive in this morning, he told me he’d been watching a pair all day yesterday acting like they were feeding young. He wants to find the nest, and knowing him, he probably will.”

Will looked back at the window, and Ada could tell he just now saw her. He waved again, but this time the gesture was awkward and hesitant. He turned to help the other men.

For some reason, Ada suddenly recalled the sparrow from so long ago, the injured one she’d held until its eyes opened again and stared right into her. For a moment, Ada felt the quickness of its tiny heart in her palms, and looking out at Will, she felt her own heart flutter.

Cicero

Babies are the ugliest things, even if they’re your own. That skin all scrunched up nasty and wrinkly, the color off. When the pinfeathers come in, I swear they look like starlings, those fowl so foul they can’t be called birds. I loved our threesome, but my god of rat guts, some days I thought they were worse than ugly.

They shit worse than ugly, too. Loot and me would come back to find one of them hadn’t made it to the edge, so we’d have to shove it over the side. That whole rock face below turned white streaked, like some piece of your modern art. I studied it one day and wondered if maybe instead of words, I should’ve taken up painting shit—forget Keats and Dickinson, make a go of it as the avian equivalent to your Pollock or Picasso.

Anyway. I didn’t have time for art; those sweet little gutbags were always squawking for more food—more, more, more! Loot didn’t like going to the trash dump, but I didn’t mind. You just had to be careful. And the rewards! Sticky buns and hot dogs, eggs and cheese and oatmeal, lots of oatmeal.

One morning way back when I was one of those ugly nestlings, my mom returned with something brown and red, with a little yellow, too. My two sisters and me, we opened our beaks wide as we could and set to begging for whatever she had. And Mom chose me, little ol’ ugly Cicero. She thrust that food into my beak, and right then, I knew what heaven tasted like. It’s a piece of a burger meat with ketchup and mustard. I immediately wanted more.