All Things Cease to Appear (24 page)

Catherine didn’t mind—in fact, she preferred knowing her little one was safe and sound beside her—but George wouldn’t have it. As stern as a drill sergeant, he’d get out of bed, scoop her up in his arms and carry her back to her room, kicking and screaming.

Children don’t sleep with their parents, he explained the first time. She needs to learn that.

Heart pounding, Catherine lay there listening as her daughter cried.

Leave her alone, he warned. You’ll be sorry if you get up.

Sorry how?

You’ll be sorry, he muttered.

What, George? What did you say?

But he didn’t answer. Furious, he turned away.

I’m not sleeping in here with you. She whipped off the covers, went into Franny’s room and climbed into bed, holding her very tightly. You’re safe now, she whispered. Go to sleep.

You’re going to spoil her, George said the next morning, from the doorway of Franny’s room. That’s what’s happening here. You’re the problem, Catherine, not Franny. It’s you.

This went on for weeks. Exhausted and a little desperate, she finally sought the guidance of their pediatrician, who confirmed that nightly disruptions were routine for small children in a new house; it could take them up to a year to adjust. He wrote a prescription for a mild sedative. It’s very gentle, he told her. It’ll help you get her back on track.

She thanked him and took the prescription, but had no intention of filling it. Aside from Tylenol or antibiotics, she didn’t approve of giving drugs to children.

When George came home, she told him what the doctor had said, and they argued about it. He dug through her purse, searching for the prescription, then went to fill it himself. Later that night, he added a dose of the purple syrup to Franny’s bottle. Within minutes of drinking it, his daughter was fast asleep.

Even so, Catherine lay awake, awaiting the usual disturbance, but it didn’t come.

What do you know, George said the next morning before pushing off to work. The miracles of modern medicine. Designed to help totally incompetent parents like us.

She broke down and called her mother.

What is it, Catherine? You sound upset.

She considered saying something completely irrelevant, keeping the conversation light and happy, like her mother preferred it, but right now she needed her help. I miss New York, she said, which was code for so much more. She missed their old apartment, the little table where she’d drink her coffee and sketch still lifes and watch the slow tugboats on the river. She missed the neighborhood, the Chinese grocer who’d put his palm on the top of Franny’s head like he was checking a cantaloupe for ripeness, the Polish woman at the bakery who always gave her a free cookie, the bowlegged shoemaker who’d fix George’s worn-down heels. Churches, the smell of incense and melting wax, anguish. I miss my work, she said.

You’re making a life with your husband, her mother said. For Franny’s sake. Isn’t that what matters most?

It was what her mother had done for her and Agnes. Sacrifice. The tradition of compromise had been handed down through the generations like everyday china.

George and I, she said. We’re not…

You’re not what, dear?

Compatible. It was the most diplomatic word she could think of.

Your father and I aren’t, either, and look how long we’ve lasted.

Catherine stood there, twirling the cord around her finger—tighter, tighter. She wanted to say,
He’s odd, insensitive, I’m afraid of him,
but only said, We’re not getting along.

It’s difficult with a small child, her mother told her. I know you don’t believe me, but it’s the same for everybody. Franny comes first, you know that. Love takes time. And marriage isn’t easy. It never has been.

I know, she heard herself say.

And think of yourself alone. Raising Franny. It’s not easy to be a single mother, either, you know, with everything on your shoulders, plus the financial strain. I don’t know what you could afford—you don’t have a steady salary, and your work, well, it doesn’t pay much, does it? Remember your poor aunt Frances, look what happened to her. You’ll end up being a waitress somewhere, leaving Franny with strangers. Can’t you try, Cathy, to just make the best of it? Do it for Franny, she added.

You can stop now, Mother, I’m convinced. She hung up.

The conversation confirmed that the only thing keeping them married was Franny. Their daughter was the mascot of victory, and a prize only one of them could keep.

She took her cigarettes and sat on the screened porch. She could see Wade in the distance on the tractor, mowing the field, going back and forth, back and forth. Faintly, she could hear a Rolling Stones song on his radio.

The day was overcast, the field thick with fog. She stepped outside and walked into the field. The humid air clung to her. She stood there alone in the middle of it. She could feel her outlines blurring, as if she could fade into the opaque landscape and disappear.

Takers

1

IN A SMALL TOWN
like theirs, people talked. You couldn’t get far without somebody knowing your business. Mary Lawton didn’t consider herself a gossip, but you’d still hear things. It spiced up your day. Someone would see something and tell this person or that one, who told somebody else, and all of a sudden it was real. It was news.

The girl worked at the inn, everybody knew that. People had seen them together. Her shiny black hair was hard to miss. Something about her—
bold
was the word. That figure. Those jeans. Mary had overheard some of the men joking about her, what they’d like to do to her if they had the chance. Keep dreaming, she thought.

One afternoon Mary saw her coming out of Hack’s with Eddy Hale. They had their arms around each other and were looking plenty intimate. It made her angry, since Eddy had been hurt enough already. The girl had silver bracelets up her arm that looked like a Slinky and jangled when she moved. When Mary said hello, Eddy went a little pink, but his mother had taught him to be polite and he put down his bag and introduced them. This is Willis, he said. Willis, Mary Lawton.

The girl had the tentative beauty of a roadside flower. She smiled at Mary.

Willis is working over at the inn, Eddy explained. That’s where we met.

They talked a while longer and he told Mary he’d applied to a music college somewhere in Boston. He asked about her family, careful to avoid the subject of Alice, and she told him nothing was new and then they parted and she stood there a minute, reflecting on what a nice, good boy he was and how that girl, whoever she was, didn’t deserve him.

It was after school, and groups of kids were walking through town with their backpacks, the girls with their leather pocketbooks. Two came out of Bell’s Five-and-Dime with orange and purple lips; they had a new snow cone machine that was all the rage among middle-schoolers. Walking past the window, she saw Cole Hale and her son, Travis Jr., standing at the counter on either side of Patrice Wilson—Mary knew her parents. She turned on her stool from one boy to the other, giving each the attention he desired, but Mary knew there’d only be one winner in that contest. She considered knocking on the glass, but thought better of it. The last thing Travis needed was his mother catching him in the act of being himself.

—

THE TOWN WAS
changing. You could see it in the cars parked along Main Street. Used to be only pickups and jalopies. One or two new shops had opened, sprucing up filthy storefronts with snappy awnings and brightly painted signs. City people with deep pockets were buying up the old farms that nobody could afford to operate, much less maintain. Honestly, she didn’t mind her commissions going up, but it was hard for everybody else. People like the Hales, who’d lost it all. You couldn’t blame people for being angry. And it could make things difficult for newcomers like the Clares, forever distinguished as
those people who bought the Hale farm.
They were outsiders, and the fact that he was a professor didn’t help. Only a few Chosen High graduates went to college, usually to the community college in Troy for the cheap tuition and a full roster of night classes. Every few years, one or two went to Saginaw, which cost twice as much as the state university. For all of them, travel typically meant they’d enlisted and been stationed in some exotic place. Most of the boys in town had served. Her own Travis would likely want to go, but she intended to talk him out of it.

Still—the Clares didn’t exactly try to fit in. They kept to themselves. She’d see the wife in church, always alone, slipping into a back pew and leaving early, before the concluding prayers. More than once, Mary had seen her emerging from the confessional, dabbing at tears with a handkerchief.

As the weeks passed, Mary detected a strain in her eyes, but maybe she was reading too much into it. The cool darkness of the sanctuary did bring out people’s emotions, the constant draft over their heads, the smell of candles, the beautiful idea of God. Because you had to wonder if He really was up there. What you did in church—you came to terms with things. You came to terms.

She would pray hard. For her children, her husband. For the world to settle down. She would pray with every ounce of strength. She’d go home, put her feet up and review, not without despair, the consequences of her life. You had to live with the choices you made. You had to live with your mistakes.

—

ONE AFTERNOON,
she drove over to the farm to deliver a church flyer. The door was open and she peered through the screen. She could hear the child pattering around upstairs. The house seemed unusually orderly. Mary remembered how hard it was to keep house with a little one underfoot, but not a single thing was out of place. Even the old wood floors seemed to gleam. No clutter to speak of. No toys, no papers, no shoes. They didn’t have a bell—country houses often didn’t—and she was about to knock when she heard a muffled cry. Let’s not be dramatic, she told herself, and then it came again. It was quiet for another minute, and then the child began to sob, the abrupt result, Mary guessed, of some sudden indignity.

It set her blood boiling. She knocked hard on the screen door and it rattled in its frame. George Clare came down the stairs, holding the little girl on his hip, his expression unfriendly, cold. The vague smell of gin. The child blinked back tears, her eyes wet, her lashes thick. He stood at the door, looking at her.

Is this a bad time?

He didn’t answer but was clearly displeased. The child shuddered, wiping her eyes with her little fist.

Is Catherine—

She’s indisposed.

Mary had never fully grasped the meaning of that word.

Momma sick, the little girl said.

Well, that’s too bad. I was hoping—

Just a headache.

The little girl frowned at Mary.

Your poor mommy has a headache?

The child looked at her father uneasily. Momma
sick
!

Nothing serious, he said pointedly, standing taller, rigid.

Well, if you could just give her this, Mary said, handing him the flyer. We’re having a potluck supper. At church? We’d love for you all to come.

George glanced at the blue sheet, then back at her. I’ll give it to her, he said, but she suspected he wouldn’t. The way he was looking out at her made her nervous. Something about his eyes made her want to leave immediately.

Thanks so much, she said, her singsong as phony as margarine, feeling his gaze piercing her back as she walked to her car and drove away.

—

TO MARY’S SURPRISE,
they came to the potluck. George knew how to make an appearance, something he’d learned at those fancy schools. He was wearing a suit and bow tie and had shaved and combed his hair. She supposed he was attractive; some women would think so. Hello, Mary, he said, in that slippery tone of his.

Welcome to St. James’s—

But he’d already turned away.

Catherine and the girl were dressed in mother/daughter dresses, navy blue shifts with thin green sashes. When Mary complimented her, Catherine said, with pride, that she’d made them herself. Look at my party shoes, Franny said, pointing down at her Mary Janes.

Her first pair, Catherine said.

For a tiny, self-indulgent moment Mary had a memory of taking Alice to Browne’s for shoes when she was that age—when things were simple and she wasn’t shooting drugs into her veins. Mary had tried to do all the right things: Catholic school, music lessons, ballet. She’d been a wonderful little girl, and it was amazing to think that such a heinous transformation was even possible. Almost a year had passed since she’d seen her. Seven months and three days since she’d heard from her. The last time had been a call from a phone booth in San Mateo.

Travis shot her a look now. He could always tell when she was thinking about their daughter—this dark thing they shared, their mistake. On the one hand, it drove them apart; on the other, it bound them together inseparably.

Are you feeling better? she asked Catherine.

Better? She looked confused.

You had a headache. The other day, when I—

Oh, that. She glanced at her husband, who was skirting the periphery of the party, looking bored and talking to no one. I get them sometimes, she said. Her eyes seemed to cloud over.

You okay?

Of course—I’m fine, thank you. Meaning:
It’s none of your goddamn business.

Well—Mary took her hand—you need anything, just let me know, all right?

She met her eyes for a moment and nodded. Thank you, Mary. I will.

—

THEY’D DRAWN
a good crowd and everyone brought something. Father Geary had made his famous chicken fricassee. For a priest, he was an accomplished cook. Catherine Clare had deviled some eggs, neatly arranged on a large plate. Everybody loved Mary’s salads, so she made coleslaw and her mother’s German potato salad. They put all of the food out on the long table in the courtyard. She had supplied the tablecloths, and there was plenty of iced tea and lemonade to go around. She noticed the Hale boys lurking on the other side of the fence and was glad when Father Geary waved them over. Probably needed something to eat, she figured. They looked up to the priest, although they’d stopped coming to mass. Cole and Travis Jr. used to sit together, acting up all through the service. Not wanting to seem intrusive, she and Travis would sit several pews behind, watching the backs of their heads. What thick hair they had! How tall they were getting! After church, they always went back to her house for supper, and she knew Cole liked her cooking, usually a roast and potatoes, something to warm him up, served on her good china. And he wasn’t shy, good for him. You could see how much the poor thing missed his mother. Sometimes her eyes would tear up in the kitchen. What’s the matter now? Travis would bark, and she’d fan her face and say she’d eaten something hot. It’s nothing. Nothing.