Читать книгу The Ice Garden - Moira Crone - Страница 8

“Your sister is hanging out that window, look,” Sidney said.

I was standing in the stiff short grass outside Fayton County Memorial Hospital, looking up at the next-to-last window on the second floor. Sidney was next to me, her large, deep eyes behind those cat’s-eye glasses of hers. We had to stand on the lawn because neither one of us was allowed inside. Sidney was excluded because she was colored—me, because I was ten.

My father had appeared in a second-story window holding something oblong, white—a blur, really. “Hey, down there!”

The next moment I saw the silhouette of a capped nurse through the window’s sheer curtain. She pulled my father, and our newborn, away.

“Why wouldn’t Mamma come to the window?” I asked.

“She’s tired,” Sidney said and then changed the subject. “You cherish your sister, you hear me?” I said, “I hear.” Nobody had to tell me that part. I had been an only child too long to be jealous.

She pronounced the name they had chosen. To me it seemed uglier than mine, which was not fair. I said so.

“Okay, you name her,” Sidney said. “It’s allowed.”

I hadn’t thought of that. “I have to see her up close first,” I said.

She said, “You know you smart?”

Sidney always called me smart. I liked it. She had no baby of her own, not then. In a way, I was hers. She took that pride. I resolved I would wait until I could hold my sister to name her. Sidney said that would be tomorrow.

I hardly slept that night and woke up early the next day. The sky was bruise-blue with thunderstorms. I rushed downstairs and gobbled breakfast, which was bacon, but then I found out they weren’t coming yet. My mother needed more rest. They’d be home Friday.

Two more whole days.

At lunchtime, Sidney got permission to go in the hospital nursery. She gave me a report on the baby when she came back: her nose turned up, not down. She had big hands, long fingers. Maybe she would be a piano player like her mother.

Then, five days after she was born, we sat waiting on the side porch for a good hour in the heat. When I looked down the street, the horizon wobbled.

Finally, finally, my father’s dark Mercury pulled in under the porte cochere. He took the basket in the front seat in his hand, opened the door on his side, and came up and put the baby on the porch step right next to me. Sidney was the only one who said anything, and she said it softly, “Well, will you look at that?”

I was afraid to touch her at first. Her folded features were more perfect than I had ever seen on a doll. I couldn’t believe someone could be so tiny and be alive.

I went through all the names I had been considering, but none of them fit.

My father was silent all this time, not a word. His mouth was a line, straight across, tight. He went back to open the car door to fetch my mother. He stood there, holding it open, shoulders back like a soldier.

For the longest time, nothing happened. Finally, her leg swung around and touched the driveway pavement. She had on the same black heels she had left in. I could see where the toes separated, the coating of talcum powder between them. She stood, unfolding her striped, shirtwaist dress with a full skirt—the belt hiked up high because her tummy still bulged. That surprised me. When she came into the light, she said to me, “Well, how do you like her?”

I was staring at my mother at that moment, not the baby. Her body and looks were things I observed the way some people relied on the clouds and the moon, to try to decide what weather was coming. She was beautiful all the time. Everybody in town said so. She was a blue-eyed, broad-shouldered blonde who went through a room like a magnet, pulling men’s heads behind her. But that day when she stood before me, her hair like straw, and only pinned up with a few clips, no fancy French twist, and no eye makeup to speak of, she seemed worn down, soft, even harmed. I had no concept of what she’d been through, a black closet called “labor.” I imagined that she fell down on the floor, and got soft, and then somehow, the doctors pried the baby out. I didn’t have any details, and sincerely, I did not want them.

My mother had no smile for any of us.

My father took her elbow to help her up the stairs. She was unsteady on her feet. When she got to the porch, he picked up the basket next to me and offered it to her.

She looked at the handle, “You carry her for a while, how about it?”

He cleared his throat.

“Hello, Sidney,” she said, “You know how tired I am?”

“Hope you feel better now, Miss Diana,” she said, with something in her tone, I thought, like a secret.

My mother turned back to me, “Well, what do you say about her? You had a look now?”

I said, “She’s lovely.”

“Connor, you hear that?” She rolled her big eyes.

When we went inside to the library, my father put the basket on the coffee table. We all sat down as if we were at the end of a long journey. An air of low discomfort moved through us. I didn’t know how that could be, but it was. Sidney went to get some iced tea. When my sister squirmed, I begged to hold her.

My mother said, “Well, let her, what’s the harm?”—which put off the mood for a moment.

My father obeyed, lifting the baby from the basket, and told me to get into position.

They said for me to sit in the wingback chair. I climbed up into it—wide as a throne—and put my feet on the stool. Finally Sidney lifted the baby into my lap, showed me how to cradle her soft head.

Under her dark wisps of hair, her soft spot was moving up and down, a tiny, lacy trampoline, blue blood coursing through. She arched her back, drew up her limbs. The great perfect roundness of her. She grabbed my finger, made a little kiss with her lips. I had found her a name by that time. I whispered in her ear. Sweetie.

My father said, “Well listen to that, darling,” to my mother, and she said, “She can call her what she likes.” Then she asked my father to take her to bed, and he agreed. She took his hand and clomped up the stairs, almost in a hurry. His wing tips made little thuds on the carpet, out of sync with her steps.

When Sidney said she had a four o’clock bottle, I had to hand my sister back. But I sat right next to them in a kitchen chair while Sidney let her drink and drink. She said she was “thirsty as a sailor.” Once, she fell asleep, the nipple in her mouth. Sidney thumped the bottom of her feet to wake her. She startled, and her arms spread out, her fingers too. “She does that because the bough breaks,” Sidney said. “Isn’t she something?”

“The bough breaks?” I asked.

“She thinks it does. She’s born with that song, she comes with it.”

We were at the breakfast table while the sun went down, and the sky turned from raging pink to purple. The cicadas shuddered and rattled. The day had been put down into a frying pan and was sizzling there.

When she had finished the bottle, my sister slept again.

That first night, my parents had her in a bassinette in their bedroom. She woke us all up around three, wailing. I could hear my mother, her voice all breathy, “I can’t stand this Connor. You!”—and then something else, whispered.

He said, “What do you mean? What?”

I could hardly fall back to sleep. I couldn’t wait to see my baby sister again. They had told me they would let me dress her in the morning.

After about four nights like that first one—Sweetie’s wailing, their talking, no one sleeping through—my father came home from his law office in the middle of the morning on a Tuesday. Sidney and I were shelling peas, surprised to see him. My mother was upstairs in bed—she had come down earlier and said she couldn’t sleep a wink at night for the baby’s crying, then gone back up.

“I came to talk to you, Sidney,” he said, clearing his throat.

“Yes, Mr. McKenzie.”

He sniffed, the way he did. “Why don’t you move in with us for a few months? I’ll pay you fifty a week. You can take the sleeping porch next to the nursery. Move in; keep all your things here. Help get this baby right. On a schedule.” When he was done speaking, he took off his hat and held it in front of his stomach.

Sidney drew in her mouth so her lips disappeared, and she pushed up her eyeglasses. After a long pause, she said, “Let me have some time to think. I’d appreciate that.”

“Please,” my father smiled, his eyes glistening with hope. “Do. Think about it.”

I already knew the answer.

The next day, after another night full of crying, it was rainy. Sidney came in the back door at seven-fifteen, her usual time. She paused by the washing machine on the laundry porch to take off her coat and lean her umbrella upside down in the corner to dry.

My father and I were in the kitchen, holding our breath, and Sweetie was snoozing in the bassinette on the floor. My mother was upstairs. Sidney took her apron from a hook and tied it on, and then she threw back her head and walked toward us.

At the dish drain she turned, held quite still, and wove her fingers. Her neck was so long it sometimes made me think of a swan. She bit down on her bottom lip for a moment, which made her face flatter, half as pretty.

“You know Mother likes me home at night because she had that stroke. And my brother’s wife is sick and I may have to go up there,” she said. “Any day. To nurse her. She just had a child and then, two months ago, the tumor came back. My brother Reginald. Went up there to work at the Port Authority.”

My father threw up his chin, listening. “Are you leaving to go to Philadelphia any time soon?”

“No, but he could ask for me.”

“How about a few weeks, just a few?”

She shook her head.

My mother came in and sat down. She was in a seersucker housecoat with a spot of coffee on it. First, she was silent, and then she turned to my father and said, “Did you ask her? What did she say?”

But Sidney turned to my mother, and said, “I cannot spend the night. I am sorry.”

“Really—honestly. Why can’t you help us out?”

“My mother, and my brother’s wife—”

“What does your brother’s wife have to do with it?”

She got up from the table, pushing it away from her as she stood, so she was shoving it at the rest of us, and knocking the baby’s bassinette with the table’s leg. “For Christ’s sake,” she said.

My father bit the inside of his cheek. Then he reached down, for the basket—because she woke Sweetie. “What did you do that for?” he asked.

She said, “Christ,” again, and then “Connor?” and she stomped off through the butler’s pantry.

Soon, the two of them were arguing in the dining room—a large, dark room with long drapes. We hardly ever went in there.

My mother: “You told me, you promised!”

They argued, a lot. I was accustomed to it. But it had gotten quiet for the last six months. When my mother had been big with Sweetie, she had been more silent all around, and easy. Now she was more like herself again.

Sweetie was fussing. Sidney took a sugar cube and wrapped it round with cheesecloth, tied it up at one end, and said, just to me, “If you are careful, you can let her try it.”

And I said, “What?”

“She suck on it. It’s a sugar teat,” she said. “It’s what people do in the country. We didn’t have a pacifier when I was a girl.”

Sweetie took to it, her little mouth working hard, and very red.

I heard my mother say, “All right.” Then she went up the stairs.

My father reappeared in the butler’s pantry. “Sidney, can I have a word?”

She went to him slowly, and they spoke softly. Her mouth exaggerated the words. “I can’t stay overnight here. I am sorry about it, Mr. McKenzie. I might could find somebody.”

He followed her back into the kitchen and sat down. Then he said, “Yes, I heard you,” shoving his chin into the v of his hand, squeezing his cheeks. Sweetie had lost the teat and was crying, so I lifted her out of the basket. She weighed no more than a little cat.

My father took a deep breath in a moment and removed his fingers from his face. He said to Sidney, “See if we can find someone else.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. McKenzie,” she said, a second time, stretching out her arms to let me know she could take Sweetie.

“Sure,” he said, his voice hardly audible. “So am I.” He didn’t look at her. He said this to the kitchen table.

One night, not long after Sidney’s refusal, when Sweetie wasn’t even a month old yet, I heard her crying in their bedroom. That was normal—the 4:00 a.m. bottle—but she was very loud. My father, his voice so high and light that I didn’t recognize it at first, was saying, “What is this? Why is she there? Who put her there?”

If my mother answered, I couldn’t hear her.

I heard loud footsteps, and little squeaks. I came out of my bedroom and saw him rolling Sweetie’s bassinette toward me on its wobbly wooden casters, which were no bigger than spools. At my door, he took a sharp turn and pushed her into the nursery, a small room next to mine where we already had the crib set up. I had been told she wouldn’t be ready to sleep in there for a month or more. I followed him in, asking questions.

He refused to answer. He picked her up and went over to the crib. I told him the bed wasn’t made. No sheet. “Okay,” he said, quickly, “Okay, Okay.” He put her back down in the bassinette, then stood over her for a while, staring down as if she had something to tell him and he was waiting to hear it.

I joined him, wondering at our baby. She wasn’t crying. She was silent. Why she was so quiet was the mystery. Her legs pedaled in the air under her thin yellow nightgown. She kicked her booties off. I put them back.

After gazing at her a while, my father shook his head and said to me, “Go back to bed, then. She’s fine. You see the bottle?” He found it among the blankets of the bassinette and stood it on the night table. “You know what to do?” Then, after a few minutes, he put the cover over her, gave her the pacifier, put her on her stomach, and rubbed her tiny back with his thick fingers. When he was certain she was asleep, he left.

Later, from down the hall, I heard my mother’s voice, very high. I still couldn’t tell what she was saying.

But he asked, “What is the matter with you?”

Two days later, without anybody saying anything to me, my Aunt C pulled into our driveway in a light blue Rambler with a tiny oval grille in front. She was from faraway D.C., which we called Big Washington because there was another city in the state we called Little Washington.

After she hugged me, she said, “Where’s the little doll I’ve heard so much about?” Just as I was fixing to get the baby, there was barking in the carport. Although I had been begging since kindergarten, we didn’t have a dog.

“What?” Sidney said, appearing on the porch—she’d heard it too.

“Cleopatra,” Aunt C said, looking at me. “Connor told me I could bring her. No kennel would take her for months on short notice.”

Months.

A yellow dog with a black mouth and eyes drawn round with black crayon, Egyptian style, bounded out of the car. Soon she was dashing around our house, her nails making ticking sounds on Sidney’s polished floors. It was almost the same excitement I felt the great day Sweetie came home.

I brought my sister out in the hoop-handled basket to show Aunt C. I had dressed her in a little jumper with bows in the back and no buttons, and I gathered her one curl into a tiny ribbon. She had very fine hair for a baby her age, I thought. She was twenty-two days old.

Sidney was hesitating in the doorway that led to the butler’s pantry. “S’at dog staying?” she asked.

“She loves everybody,” Aunt C said. “Just rub her throat. I promise.”

She crept over and bent down to do as Aunt C said, with great caution. The dog tried to lick her hand.

“See?” Aunt C said. Sidney seemed calmed, if not won over. I went to get the bags.

Aunt C had visited before, so I already knew about her luggage: a round traveling case with a wrist strap and two big leather bags she called grips. All were decorated with stickers from her travels. Paris, Gibraltar, Kenya. Her husband had worked for the government overseas. She told me I should take them to the sleeping porch, for she wanted “to be near the nursery.”

I realized why she had come.

Soon, she was exploring the drawers of Sweetie’s dresser, sorting booties, folding caps, asking me about a rubber sheet for the crib mattress, which I told her we didn’t have yet. She took out a pencil and asked for paper to make a shopping list. While at this task, we heard my mother coming down the hall, cooing, “Is that C?”

“Yes, dear,” she said.

“And nobody woke me?” she said. She had on a big plaid shirt of my father’s and his pajama pants. It was three in the afternoon.

“How are you feeling, Diana?”

She threw back her shoulders. “What did he tell you?”

Her fingernails had little dirty brown moons. There were things in her blonde hair, feathers, possibly. She had looked like this for weeks now. I was used to it. Just then the dog came up, “Your mutt?” she said, confused. “Connor said you could bring her?”

“Yes.” Aunt C seemed a little wary. “Yes, he said the children would like her.”

My mother nodded, surprised. “What lies did he tell you?” She put her hand at her broad forehead. Her hair fell down in waves from there, to just above her shoulders, a bleached golden blonde with darker roots.

“I don’t think he told me any, just that you were tired. After your labor. All of it. Just how things are,” Aunt C smiled.

“Oh. You take a look at that Odile? She will be glad to see you.”

“I think she is beautiful, congratulations,” Aunt C said.

Who would want to call her Odile? Some name from my mother’s side—people she said she hated, the Marginaults. Then why did she choose it? For spite? Sweetie deserved better: she was long-limbed, graceful. When she slept on her back, she did a perfect demi-plié. I had memorized her: several times a night, I got up and checked in on her.

“Congratulations is a strange idea,” my mother said. “It isn’t an accomplishment. It happens to you—you don’t do anything—hardly.” She whispered this last word. From somewhere she produced a cigarette, lit it. I was glad to see that. She slouched, her shoulder blade supported by the door frame now. “What a thing, a dog,” she said.

“She likes you,” Aunt C said. Cleo, with her black smile, her big red tongue hanging over the side, was looking around in case anyone did something interesting.

My mother blew into the dog’s face. Smoke. Cleo sneezed two times, which made my mother laugh. Aunt C looked at me—as if she wanted to know what I thought. I shrugged. Maybe it was funny. My mother took a deep breath, and then a little bit more smoke came out. “I am trying to let Odile cry it out.”

Ooo-deeel was how she said it. It was her Charleston voice. She pronounced things differently for a line or two sometimes, especially when she was talking about the house, and us. O was “ooo.” Out was “oat.” “That’s what the pediatrician says. But whatever she cries aboat can’t come oat of her. She’s just keeping it in and in, and it’s not coming.” She went on, “Sidney will say she doesn’t cry, but the truth is she’s a nocturnal monster—just doesn’t let on in the daytime. I think she’s mad at us. She knows—” Then her voice dropped, and the vowels changed back—she could get out of it as easily as she went into it. “You know Connor expected a boy. The whole thing was—” She rolled her glance down to me and stopped. “She waits till Sidney leaves so she can raise hell.” Another drag on the cigarette, her hair falling into her face again. “You stick around and you will see. Doesn’t she raise hell, Claire?”

It was the most I had ever heard my mother say about Sweetie at that point. I didn’t think my sister raised anything. How could she? She weighed nine pounds.

The nights Sweetie had been in the nursery at my end of the hall, she hadn’t fussed much, except at four, when she wanted a bottle. She cried a little, and I got up, held her, and fed her. Both of us slept until eight-thirty or nine after that. I wouldn’t have called it “hell,” even if I were allowed to. But I didn’t want to be contrary, so I nodded.

Aunt C reached over and kissed my mother on the cheek. “Now you take care, darling. I know this can be a hard time—”

“You know?” she asked, and a high, half laugh came out of her. “I need a bath to get this milk stink off me,” she added. “Have you ever leaked? I still leak and I am not nursing. I took the pills and they aren’t working. I want to die. I do.”

“You smell fine,” Aunt C said. “You don’t mean it.”

I thought so too. She was beautiful, and she had us, so how could she want to die?

My mother smiled at that. “Beautiful if you like cheese. Lord. I am a mess.”

“No you are not,” Aunt C tried to tell her.

But it was true, she was.

More smoke billowing behind her, she shuffled back into her bedroom. It was good to see her with a cigarette, but that business about a boy was hateful. What an awful thing to have against a person. I had not heard any of this before. And what a stupid thing to want, a boy when you could have a baby you could dress in Swiss dot. There was no point to a boy in my mind, though, if I’d had a brother, I’d have found a way to love him.

Aunt C took me downstairs where Sidney and the baby were. She had a cup of hot tea and a piece of toast, and offered me the same. When we were done, she announced we were going to Thornton Park.

No one had thought of this before. It was a wonderful idea. There were swing sets, a garden around a fountain, and a broad expanse of sand where nothing would grow under the deep shade of oaks. The light there was always filtered and chalky, unlike anywhere else. The tree trunks were painted white up to a certain height, as if they were wearing turtlenecks. This was meant to kill insects, but I didn’t know how. The park was five blocks away. I thought of it as heaven.

The outing took a lot of preparation. We found the “pram”—what Aunt C called a baby carriage—on the laundry porch. Once it had been mine, apparently. I had no memory of it. We sponged it down and turned its mattress over, tucked soft sheets around it. We discovered a clean, tiny bonnet—a baby could not go outside without a hat, Aunt C explained to me. I thought that was a very good rule. We strung a set of silver bells Aunt C had brought across the hood so Sweetie would have something to bat at.

I liked watching Aunt C with our baby. Though she’d never had one, she knew what to do.

This was Sweetie’s debut, I decided. She had not been out of the house except on the porch since she’d come home. We slid her under a lace-trimmed blanket, gave her a pillow so people could see her face and she could look out. We showed her how the silver bells sounded. She loved them, I could tell.

We had the carriage out of the house and halfway down the paved path to the sidewalk when I heard the front door open.

I did not expect what I saw then, nor the great longing that came with it: my mother was standing on the threshold with her hair in a kerchief, a pretty lavender print skirt on, and pointed slippers with no heels. She hardly ever wore flat shoes. They meant she was being “down to earth.” Her hair seemed wet, what you could see of it below the edge of the scarf.

We stopped short. I meant to go get her hand, bring her with us, but Aunt C put her arm across my chest.

“Well Diana? Shall we wait for you? Come—” Aunt C called to her.

“Where are you going?” She sounded like someone my age.

Cleo was pulling at us.

“The park,” Aunt C said. “Some air—why don’t you try?”

She stood in the doorway staring out at us for quite a while without answering—two or three minutes.

I was about to call to her to come on, but Aunt C said, “Claire, let your mother decide. And let her rest, if she wants. You have to think of her—” She took my hand and placed it next to hers, on the handle of the pram.

My mother didn’t speak or move. She was held there, frozen.

We waited.

Finally, she stepped back.

She just couldn’t go to Thornton Park and have a lovely afternoon. She had put it to the test, and she didn’t have it in her.

There was a turn I felt, inside—a little revolution at that moment. I would have denied it, yet there it was, and I would feel it over and over after that, and it would be stronger and stronger.

Aunt C, Sweetie, and I, with Cleo on the leash, took off. How could we, so easily? But we did. My mother became a pastel figure through that thick glass, and then she shrank away into the darkness of the foyer, the second parlor.

We walked west. I was thinking of her and not thinking of her. Half a block away, I could hear her loudly pounding the Heroic Polonaise on her piano, as if she meant to accompany our march. Be with us in some spirit.

I put my attention to the daylilies edging our yard, to the interesting pattern of the cracks in the sidewalk, broken by big, old oak roots—everywhere, everywhere, everywhere, except to the desire for her within me.