Читать книгу Cumberland - Megan Gannon - Страница 12

Five

Sunday, July 7, 1974

31 days

By the next morning Izzy’s temperature is 101˚. I give her two aspirin then wait by the kitchen window, my pantyhose whisk whisking as I rub my knees together. The older Carson brother pulls up at 9:20 on the nose, and Grand walks out of her back bedroom glittering with silver-dollar-sized clip-on earrings, piled necklaces, two rhinestone clips holding back the curls over her ears. She stops short when she sees me and I tug at the hem on my faded, floral dress, the princess waist riding up high on my ribs, the fabric pinching my armpits.

“You plan on attending church today?”

“Yeah, I um… thought I’d go,” I say, suddenly at a loss for an excuse.

“Well then. You know what sort of behavior I expect from you.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I open the front door just as Mr. Carson knocks.

“Carl,” Grand says, holding out her hand like she has a ring to kiss.

“Ailene.” Mr. Carson is so solid and sturdy he’s always reminded me of a metal girder: the perfect line of his hard shoulders, feet always waist-width apart forming one long rectangle. Usually his jeans and pearl-buttoned shirt are dusted with construction site dirt, but this morning his blue button down and brown church pants are as starched and sharply creased as a grocery bag. He takes off his white cowboy hat and gives Grand’s fingers a brisk shake, then steps inside and glances towards the stairs.

“And Miss Isabel, she’s… situated?”

I squirm and glance towards the stairs. “She’s fine,” Grand says, breezily waving her hand by her ear. Mr. Carson watches my face as Grand steps briskly out the front door and waits at the top of the stairs.

“Everything all right, Ansel?”

“Well, I think Izzy—”

“Carl, we’ll be late,” Grand says. Mr. Carson runs one of his big, calloused hands over his forehead and back over his wiry hair, then settles his hat back on before taking two long-legged strides to the door. Outside, he has to baby step to walk beside Grand. He wrenches open the passenger’s side of the rusty truck, taking Grand’s elbow to help her inside, then leaves the door open for me and walks around to the driver’s side. I squeeze in next to Grand and pull the door shut as he cranks the engine, popping the truck in reverse.

We drive down the hill onto Main Street, past the trees and the silent buildings and the one parked car in front of Pauline’s. Though they were open only yesterday, all the stores are dark, dusty, and hunkered so low it’s like no one’s been in them for years. Mr. Carson takes a left on Hill Street and passes a bar and a photo shop before the buildings give way to scrub brush and palmetto leaves. Then the asphalt runs out again and the truck bumps down onto a sandy road, the trees leaning close, draping the air in dusty tatters.

In this part of town the light feels thin and still, the windows of the few square, flaking houses strung up with faded bed sheets. Mr. Carson brakes hard to miss a squawking chicken that flaps back to where three others are pecking around a sagging porch. The house behind it is silent and a dark hand yanks the thin curtain back into place.

We drive to where the road dead-ends into dense trees and scrubby shrubs, pull up in front of the white clapboard church and park next to a silver Buick. Mr. Carson cuts the engine and I slide out of the truck, tugging my dress down so the hem covers my knees, then climb the concrete steps to pull open the heavy door. Grand takes her time, holding Mr. Carson’s arm, looking around the way a queen surveys her royal subjects, though we’re the only ones outside. She passes through the shadow of the steeple, then slowly climbs the steps, holding out her hand to Mrs. Jorgen who’s standing inside handing out bulletins.

“Good morning, Ailene,” Mrs. Jorgen says, stiffly shaking Grand’s hand.

“Inga,” Grand says, nodding at her with a droopy-lidded smile. “And how is your charming husband?”

“He’s fine, Ailene. Same as always.” Mrs. Jorgen exchanges a look with Mr. Carson, who takes off his hat and sets it on the rack above the coats before following Grand into the sanctuary. “Ansel, sweetheart,” Mrs. Jorgen calls, ducking behind the back pew and handing me a paper bag. “A little something came into the pharmacy for…” she glances at Grand, who’s stopping to shake the hand of the two or three people she passes before settling primly into the front pew. “For you to take home,” Mrs. Jorgen says, and there’s a new book of knitting stitches and three skeins of multi-colored yarn inside. I thank her, but when I ask her how much it all costs she just waves me away. “We put it on your Grandmother’s tab, honey. Not your worry.”

“Oh. Okay.” Grand is busy rooting around in her pocketbook twelve pews away, so I whisper quickly, “Do you think I could get some antibiotics?”

Mrs. Jorgen tilts her head and glances towards where Grand is holding up a compact, smearing on orangey lipstick. “Is someone sick at your house?”

“I think… maybe.”

Mrs. Jorgen blinks quickly, touches her fingers to her mouth and whispers, “Well, Ansel, you need a prescription for antibiotics. Have you called the—”

Grand clears her throat loudly and I turn to see her staring at me.

“Thanks again,” I say loudly.

When I slide into the pew, Grand grabs me by the arm and pulls me down next to her. “What did I say? What kind of behavior do I expect from you?”

“I was just thanking her,” I say, holding up the pharmacy bag in my other hand.

“You have no need to thank these people,” Grand says, sniffing and picking a piece of lint off of her navy blue dress. “Now sit up straight and act like you’re part Calvert.”

I stuff the bag under the pew as Mr. Carson scoots in next to me and bows his head. Grand straightens, opens her compact again and fluffs the curls behind her ears with one finger. Light floods us from behind a few more times as the doors open and people come in and take their seats.

Dear God, I pray. Please watch over Izzy and help her get better and don’t let her fever get any higher. Please let our birthday come quickly and please let me get my driver’s license on the first try. And God, please let me have one more chance to talk to Everett Lloyd. Amen.

The organ music starts and Mrs. Jorgen walks up the aisle in front of Reverend Clark to light the candles. Reverend Clark scoots to the front of the church behind his walker and gets his balance long enough to raise his hands in the air as the music stops.

“Let us pray.”

After the service we all cross the street to the fellowship hall, a high-ceilinged metal building with no windows that smells of rust and burnt coffee grounds. In the center of the cold, bare room is a card table with a red checked plastic tablecloth, and Grand stands instructing the other old ladies where to lay out the cookies and Styrofoam cups.

I’m standing against a wall in the kitchen when Mrs. Jorgen mutters to Mrs. Sibley, “I swear I’ve about had it with that woman.” I peek around the corner at them as Mrs. Sibley shakes her head.

“We’ve all about had it. Our whole lives. But I don’t see that there’s much any of us can do about it.”

“Carsons should do something,” Mrs. Jorgen mutters.

“How’s that? Guilt’s a powerful thing.”

Mrs. Jorgen picks up a plate of brownie squares and carries it over to the table. When she sets it down Grand says something, so she slides the plate a few inches to the right. Lips tight, she walks back to where Mrs. Sibley is arranging pinwheels on a plate. “Though if anyone feels guilty, it ought to be Ailene,” Mrs. Sibley starts up again. “Didn’t you say John stopped filling his prescription? Some hoity-toity nurse ought to know how to look after her own husband’s health.” Mrs. Sibley pauses to glance over her shoulder at Grand then reaches under the counter and digs out some floral napkins, plopping them on the tray next to the Styrofoam cups.

“Not to mention guilt shouldn’t cost more than five hundred dollars a month,” Mrs. Jorgen says, pulling the lever on the coffee maker, filling cup after cup.

“That much?” Mrs. Sibley asks.

“At least. Makes you wonder why she can’t pay her grocery bills.”

“Ailene Calvert could never pay for another thing in her life and no one in this old town would say squat. Remember that birthday party they had when she turned ten?”

Mrs. Jorgen snorts. “The rash, you mean?”

“The rash, and that God-awful solo.” Mrs. Jorgen laughs, presses her fingers to her lips and glances over her shoulder at Grand as Mrs. Sibley continues, “Up on that porch all dolled up in her lace and finery, face blistered as a strawberry, croaking out the Ave Maria while the rest of us stood on the ground below, solemn as church mice, just grateful to be there.”

“What was it she had, anyway?”

“Measles. Lord, Inga, you mean to say you didn’t catch it?”

“No.”

Mrs. Sibley shakes her head. “I don’t know how you missed it. They let Ailene pass out the cake, and a week after she coughed all over my slice I about died.”

Mrs. Jorgen sighs and fills another cup, puts it on her tray. “Any time I complained about Ailene as a girl my daddy would lecture me on how Cumberland wouldn’t exist if it wasn’t for that family, blah blah blah. Well, I don’t care what her father did for this town—all the good deeds of one generation shouldn’t absolve the sins of the next. Honestly, Frances. Has anyone even seen that child since they first brought her home from the hospital?”

“Carsons have seen her.”

“Well, she ought to be in school.”

Mrs. Sibley clears her throat and around the corner of the kitchen door I can see her tapping her temple with one finger, whispering, and Mrs. Jorgen’s eyes widen as she shakes her head. “There’s a reason no one asks too many questions, Inga. Let it be,” Mrs. Sibley mutters, then picks up the tray and carries it over to just where Grand is pointing.

After fellowship hour Mr. Carson unlocks the passenger side of the truck and helps Grand in, then holds his keys out to me.

“Really?” I ask, my heart fluttering.

“Haven’t practiced none since school let out.” His face is blank but his eyes are twinkling.

I pluck the keys from his fingers and run around to the driver’s side as he squeezes in next to Grand and wrenches the door shut. I have to scoot my butt to the edge of the seat to reach the pedals, and when I turn the key in the ignition the truck roars then stops.

Grand sighs and says, “Carl…” I crank the ignition again, holding it longer this time, and the truck turns over and idles.

“She’s got it, Ailene.” I take a deep breath and stomp on the clutch, grinding the gears into reverse. “Mirrors,” Mr. Carson says, and I hit the brake as a tan car lurches to a stop right behind us. The driver gives a wave and pulls out so I can back up. Once we’re even with the road I stomp the clutch again, joggle the shifter into first and press down on the accelerator, slowly inching us forward. “Give it a little more,” Mr. Carson says, and when I press my foot down we pick up enough speed so we’re sailing down the sandy road, coasting, light as air, the sun flashing between trees. “Brake,” Mr. Carson says, and my feet hop around looking for the right pedal.

I find the brake as we jounce up onto the pavement, and Grand says “Oh!” half wounded, half appalled, like someone’s just burped into her champagne glass.

“Sorry.”

“Doing just fine, Ansel,” Mr. Carson says. I bite my lip and press down on the gas again as we ease forward, creeping to the end of Hill Street until we crawl to a stop. I put the blinker on and look both ways, then ease out onto Main Street, jerking the wheel a little to line us up with the white dotted line. There are a few cars parked on the other side of the street, but none on this side to worry about sideswiping. Truck tires whirring easily over the asphalt, I point us towards the end of the street, only a few blocks to go until the curve in the dirt road leads up the hill home. Next to me, Grand is seething, but I grip the steering wheel harder and lean forward, craning under the windshield until the light reaches my face.

Must have been a quick hit to the driver’s seat buckling grey matter, or so they all think. It’s the only reason they can figure why I don’t speak. All of them forgetting the one time I opened my mouth and the words came out sloshed and tumbled, how the quick eyes of the doctors caught across the room. I looked to her to know my thoughts, explain for me, but she stepped back as they wheeled me away, stuffed me inside machines, and then I knew. And the severing of that line with her thinking was worse than the severing of my spine. How to explain? They don’t know how speaking scatters thought like buckshot, or how much thinking every day you have to do when half of you is unfeeling, concentrating on anchoring in place. Like legs dipped in sunlit water, how I always confuse the real with reflection. Neither flesh feels, so how can you trust your eyes to tell? Why I’m in the habit of looking deeper than looking, to see what’s fleeting and what’s taking root. How the world tries to tear your attention away from even yourself, it seems. Better to be careful. Better to stay lip-locked against idle chatter that untethers.