“Juice?” Aunt Vadine swooshed around the kitchen in her flimsy robe.
“No thanks. Toast and milk will be enough.”
“Back to school, huh, Sis?” Daddy chewed a mouthful of scrambled eggs.
“Yeah, there’ve been some changes I wanted to talk to you about.”
Aunt Vadine glided to the table and poised over Daddy’s cup, refilling his coffee from the pot in her hands. “Your daddy and
I visited last night.” Her words flowed like Aunt Jemima syrup.
And what else?
It was on the tip of my tongue. I gulped a big swallow of milk. How I could even think about breakfast at a time like this
shocked me. And they acted as if nothing had happened.
“Aunt Vadine didn’t realize how badly you wanted a typewriter, said we ought to see about getting one for your birthday. It’s
coming up, February thirteenth.” He winked at me.
“Yes, I do want one, but…”
“Samantha, better get your shoes on. Here’s your coat. I heard the bus beeping down the street.” Aunt Vadine scurried like
a tornado was coming, collecting my things and shooing me out the door.
A heavy frost had snapped every blade of dried grass to attention, glistening in the sun like a sea of glass sequins. My feet
crunched as I walked toward the bus. In the light of day, I tried to remember what I had heard last night. Had Aunt Vadine
gone to Daddy’s room, knowing as a man he’d be
interested
, as Tuwana put it? Would she do that? Aunt Vadine said men had needs. My
head told me she didn’t mean the universal human needs for food, water, and shelter like we’d learned in science class. But
she and Daddy acted everyday normal this morning, except for the mention of the typewriter.
It must’ve been a dream or my fanciful imagination, like Mr. Howard said.
I climbed the steps of the bus, more uncertain with every step, and by the time I slid into the seat beside Tuwana, I knew
it had just been a nightmare. But it seemed so real.
After that I started having the same dream almost every night. Not the swirling black hole, but scary just the same. Daddy
and I would be having a picnic or walking along a stream, the sun making sparkles around us. The picture would flash, and
Aunt Vadine would appear. Daddy wore his army uniform, and Aunt Vadine had long brown hair, painted red lips, and golden eyes.
She held Daddy’s hand, and when I yelled, “Wait for me!” she glanced over her shoulder at me, the holes in her eye sockets
empty. Then she walked the other way, pulling Daddy with her. I tried to run after them, but I had turned into a cardboard
girl, flat like a paper doll. The more I tried to move, the thinner I got, until just an outline remained. That’s when I would
wake up, trying to turn back into Sammie so I could run after them. Sweat covered my body, and the air never let me suck it
in. I pinched my arm to make sure I had skin and flesh. Then I would lie in bed, hugging Mama’s robe to my chest and listen
until I heard Aunt Vadine’s snore, thankful once again she hadn’t run off with Daddy.
The next morning my arms would have red spots from the pinches I gave myself. Bruises, some purple, some fading to yellow
and green, spotted my arms. Thank goodness it was winter and I could wear long sleeves without raising suspicion.
* * *
The middle of January, Daddy took us to a basketball game. Our Chevy had a clunk Daddy wanted to look at, so we took Aunt
Vadine’s car. We invited Slim to go, but he said he felt a bit under the weather, so Aunt Vadine came instead. And Tuwana
of course. All the way to town, Aunt Vadine clucked about what a nice place Mandeville was and how she couldn’t wait to see
Cly play. Tuwana rolled her eyes at me as we sat in the backseat.
“Mother decided to keep her job at the bank. Says there’s a teller’s job opening up soon, and she’s determined to go through
the ranks. The way she talks, she’ll be vice president by the time I’m through high school.”
“Say, Aunt Vadine. Maybe you could see about the secretary job if Tuwana’s mother is getting a promotion.” A job might get
her mind off being my new mother.
“I’ve always felt the woman’s place is in the home.” Aunt Vadine giggled and patted Daddy on the arm.
Tuwana nodded her head like
See, I told you so.
Between the girls’ and boys’ games, I went to the concession stand. Waiting in line, I spotted Mrs. Gray, laughing, the bun
on top of her head bobbing as she chatted with someone. She saw me and came over.
“Sammie, I’ve been wanting to see you. How are you?” She wore the sweater and corduroy pants she’d loaned me, and they looked
much better on her, showing off her nice figure.
“I’m fine.” My fingers itched to touch her sweater, give her a hug, but it didn’t seem right, so I fiddled with the catch
on my wallet.
“We’ve missed you dearly on the newspaper. I feel dreadful about what happened.”
“Me too. I keep hoping I can talk to Daddy about it, see if he’ll come and see you.”
“You mean it wasn’t your father’s idea to… uh…”
“Not hardly.”
“But Mr. Howard said your aunt came at his insistence. Then I met your dad at Christmas and he seemed so nice—I thought there’d
been some misunderstanding.”
“May I take your order, please?” the boy behind the concession counter asked.
“No, not right now. I’ll be back.” I stepped out of the line and turned back to Mrs. Gray. A catch in my throat kept me from
talking for a moment. I looked down at my penny loafers. “My aunt and I have had some problems.”
“So I gathered. When I told you that night at Slim’s I was a good listener, I suspected something, but I won’t interfere.
Slim’s told me a lot about you. He’s crazy about you.”
Looking up, I smiled at her. “I think he’s swell too. Why do you call him Slim and not dad?”
“It’s a long story, but we’ll get together sometime and chat. I lost my mother when I was your age, and life can throw you
some mighty big curves. I know.”
“Thanks. Can I have Daddy come and talk to you?”
“Nothing I would like better.” She turned to go back into the gym, and I got back in line.
“Make up your mind yet?” the guy behind the counter asked.
I ordered a Dr Pepper and M&M’s. That’s when the first glimmer of an idea formed, and by the time I sat back down, I knew
I’d thought of a way to get Daddy’s mind off Aunt Vadine as my future mother. Something had to be done before she pulled him
any farther into her web.
F
OR DAYS I PLEADED
with Tuwana to help me with my plan. Personally, I thought the idea of getting Daddy interested in Mrs. Gray was nothing
short of brilliant.
I thought reasoning with Tuwana might help. “Mrs. Gray is one of the most popular teachers in school.”
“Yes, but probably because no one knows about her past, at least her father’s past. If they knew…”
“All I’m asking is for you to go over there with me, friendly like, as you’re so fond of saying, and we can ask if Mrs. Gray
has a boyfriend.”
“That sounds weird. Old people don’t call it that, I’m sure. Maybe we should ask if she has a love interest.”
“So you’ll go with me?”
“Only because you won’t shut up about it. And Mother can’t find out or she’ll kill me.”
“How about Saturday? She takes your sisters to piano lessons then, doesn’t she?”
“All right, all right. Saturday. Have you looked for the pearls any more?”
“Every place I can think of. I’ve become a regular Nancy Drew.”
On Saturday it snowed again. The wind howled, and we stayed in the house the whole weekend. Daddy and I played so many
games of backgammon, I saw the spots on the dice every time I closed my eyes. Double six. Snake eyes. A four and a three.
I tried to think of ways to talk about Mrs. Gray, but Aunt Vadine kept herself planted on the couch, you know what in her
hands, just whipping the hook in and out. This week she made baby bibs with ruffled edges in yellow and green. When I asked
her what she was going to do with all those baby things, she lifted her chin. I swear, for a minute I thought her eyes were
hollow, like the dream. Then the corners of her mouth tilted up, and gold specks reflected off the bulb of the table lamp.
She never said what she would do with the baby bibs. And I never got a chance to tell Daddy how nice it would be if he talked
to Mrs. Gray.
The rest of January and the first week of February had the same nasty weather—sometimes just cold and wind, sometimes snow
flurries. Cly still had basketball after school, and it was too cold to ride bikes or go to Tuwana’s after school. Besides,
she had to watch her sisters and start supper.
My insides tingled every time I thought about Mama’s hatbox. I desperately wanted to get it from the garage, but Aunt Vadine
watched my every move. If I tried to sneak it into the house, she would blast me with questions or spout her opinion about
Mama roasting in hell.
Then there was the deal about the pearls. I still hadn’t found them. I had to stay on my aunt’s good side if there was any
hope of seeing them again.
One night, when Daddy had evenings and the house had that choking-close feeling, I gathered up Mama’s things—her hairbrush,
the lilac soap, the glove full of dirt, her New Testament, her robe—and took them into Daddy’s closet. Sitting in a dark corner
with Mama’s clothes I’d rescued from the VFW rummage sale, I sniffed the soap. The scent brought tears to my eyes, but I inhaled
deeper, determined not to cry.
Mama, I miss you.
I picked long,
coarse strands of Mama’s hair from the brush and wondered what she would think about Aunt Vadine and Daddy.
Then I remembered the feeling I had from a long time ago. At first it seemed more like a dream, but when I leaned my head
against the closet wall, the pictures came into sharp focus. Mama held my hand while we stood in front of a casket. Grandma
Grace, that’s who it was. Aunt Vadine and Daddy stood off to the side, Aunt Vadine clutching onto Daddy. That surprised me.
Had she always had these feelings for Daddy? Mama whispered something, but I didn’t catch the words, only that she seemed
upset. That would be right. After all, it was her mother in the casket. The next thing I knew, we walked around the cemetery,
looking at grave markers. Mama pointed to this one and that, but I didn’t remember the names. I don’t even think I could read,
or if I could, I was only in the second or third grade. I ran off to chase a butterfly and turned around when I heard Aunt
Vadine’s sharp voice.
“Would you look at that? Someone has chipped a corner plumb off this stone.” She knelt by a grave maker, not one of those
that jutted up like the headboard on a bed, but a shoe-box-sized rectangle flat on the ground. Under the writing and the numbers,
I saw an imprint of two tiny feet. When Aunt Vadine looked up, her eyes had the same hollow look as in my dream.
Baby Sylvia? For some reason that didn’t seem right. Who was buried under the chipped stone? I curled up on Mama’s clothes,
using her robe for a pillow. In my hand I clutched the lilac soap, its sweet, clean smell enveloping me in my meandering thoughts.
The next Saturday, one week before my birthday, Daddy and Aunt Vadine went to town. I called Tuwana to come over to look for
the pearls and then go visit Slim.
“Think. Where would you hide the pearls?” Tuwana stood in
the middle of the floor with her finger on her cheek as if a bolt of lightning might come through the ceiling and provide
the answer.
“I’ve looked through everything in the bedroom and the bathroom.”
Tuwana pulled the cushions from the couch, looked behind the books on the shelf beside the television, all the logical places.
Then, standing with her hands on her hips, she pointed to Aunt Vadine’s wooden sewing box.
“It’s worth a try.” I had my doubts since Aunt Vadine dug in that box every blessed day of the week, pulling string out to
create mountains of doilies. Pineapple pattern. Rose pattern. Single crochet. Double crochet. After the bibs, she’d started
crocheting baby bonnets and booties. Why, I had no idea.
I unlatched the tiny golden clasp at the top, allowing the two halves to open outward. Taking a deep breath, I lifted out
the latest project attached to a ball of No. 2 thread, the shiny hook jabbed into the side. Scissors, a tape measure, instruction
books, and six skeins of thread still in their cellophane wrappers all came out, leaving the bottom of the wooden box staring
up at me, empty. Tuwana picked up the softball-sized skeins, wound around in such a way that they were hollow in the center.
“Listen.” She shook one of them. It rattled. She turned it around and over and found a hole, no bigger around than a pencil,
slit in one end. Inside we found the strand of Mama’s pearls. We shook the yarn ball until the metal clasp came to the opening,
then pulled the necklace through.
“Right in front of our noses.” Tuwana laughed a tinkling
hee-hee-hee
. We joined hands and danced in a circle.
“Good work. Best place to hide something—in plain sight! Quick, let’s get this all back together like we found it.”
Satisfied that we’d arranged it all as we found it, I redid the clasp and held the pearls.
“I feel so evil doing this. Like button, button, who’s got the button. The sneakiest one wins. Now we have to figure out where
to hide them so she won’t find them.”
Tuwana thought for about two seconds and said, “How about if we bury them? Like a treasure?”
“I thought of that. But where?”
It ended up, we found the cocoa tin from my brownie-making frenzy the previous summer and dumped the last bit down the drain.
Placing the pearls in a stretched-out bobby sock, we then stuffed the whole thing in the cocoa box, pushed the lid on tight,
and took it to the camp playground.
Tuwana and I had discovered a special hiding place years ago. Cedars had sprung up, making a perfect circle except for a gap
on one side, which, if you slanted your body and shielded your face with your arm, you could slip into without getting scratched.
Once inside, you couldn’t see out, and no one could see you. We’d take our dolls in there and play for hours. In third grade,
Tuwana had brought one of her mother’s sewing needles. We pricked our fingers, smeared them together, and became blood sisters.