Mrs. Kimble (18 page)

T
HE HOUSE
was dark. For a moment Charlie panicked, but the car was still there, silver in the faint light.

“Come on,” he whispered to Jody.

They went in the back door. The kitchen was dark, the parlor deserted. They climbed the stairs, feeling their way along the wall. Their mother’s bedroom door was closed.

Jody reached for the knob. She had always slept with their mother.

“Don’t,” said Charlie. “You can sleep with me.” Their mother never shut her door. He understood that it was closed for a reason.

They tiptoed into his room and slid under the covers. Jody’s thumb crept into her mouth and in a moment she was snoring. Charlie would tease her about it in the morning. For now he let her sleep.

T
hey were to mind their manners in Florida—
please
and
thank you
and
I don’t care for,
not
I don’t like
. They were to mind their father no matter what, with no back talk.

Charlie’s mother followed him through the house as he finished his cereal and brushed his teeth and packed his shorts and T-shirts in the old suitcase. They were to bathe when asked. They were to bow their heads for grace before supper as they’d done when Grandma Helen was alive. Being a preacher, their father might want them to pray all the time. They weren’t to tell him they never did this at home. They were to enjoy themselves and think of their mother waiting for them when they came back.

“Why aren’t you coming?” Charlie asked, though he was glad she wasn’t. His mother made him nervous; there were too many things that could go wrong.

They wouldn’t give her any days off from the dry cleaning store, she said. And for the moment at least, she needed to keep her job.

She kept on talking right up until the Cadillac appeared at the
end of the dirt road. His father had gone to fill the tank with gas. He got out of the car but left the motor running.

“What are we supposed to call him?” said Charlie.

“Why, child,” said his mother, “you call him Daddy.”

T
HEY WATCHED
their mother fade away until she was just a tiny waving thing in a yellow dress, her hair a bright splotch of red against the pale sky. She’d cried when they got in the car. Their father had kissed her long on the mouth. Neither Jody nor Charlie had seen her be kissed before. Jody stared. Charlie turned away, embarrassed.

In a moment they were on the road. Jody lay stretched out across the backseat. Charlie sat up front with his father. The scenery flew past them on both sides, at a speed that made Charlie dizzy. They whizzed past the Baptist church, the corner where he and Jody caught the school bus, the road their mother walked to work. They passed the radio tower, the Dairy Freeze, the Mail Pouch Tobacco sign on the Deakins’ barn. Charlie watched the speedometer, the red needle hovering at seventy.

“How’s school?” said his father.

Charlie hesitated. The question was confusing; school didn’t start for two weeks. Jody poked her head between the two front seats.

“I’m going into second,” she said, and for once Charlie was grateful for her patter. “I already know how to times and divide.”

“Good for you,” said their father.

Once started, Jody wouldn’t shut up. She named every boy and girl from her first grade class. She counted to a hundred by fives, to thirty by threes. She sang a song called “The Polly-Wolly
Doodle.” Charlie was no longer grateful; he imagined pulling her hair until she cried. He looked out the window at the strange fields, cotton on one side of the road, soybeans on the other. They’d been driving only ten minutes and already he recognized nothing at all.

His world was small; he knew it was. When he was little they’d lived in Richmond, and twice a year they’d ridden the Greyhound bus to the country to see Pappy and Grandma Helen. He remembered the grand adventure of those trips, the crowds at the station, the small rest room in the back of the bus, reeking of disinfectant; the stops at Howard Johnson’s, where his mother would buy them caramels to eat on the ride. A map at the bus station showed every Greyhound depot in America, hundreds in all. Someday, when he was older, Charlie planned to ride a bus through every one of them.

He watched his father’s hands loosening and tightening on the steering wheel. The hands were brown, as if he’d been in the sun all summer. A thin band of white circled one of his fingers.

“What happened to your ring?” said Charlie.

His father looked down at his hands. “I lost it.”

“How did you lose it?” said Jody.

“In a rest room somewhere.” The hands opened and closed, opened and closed. “I was washing my hands and it got slippery from the soap and went down the drain. It was an old ring. It belonged to your grandfather.”

After that he was quiet. A while later Charlie asked if they could play the radio. His father turned it on and found a news station; Charlie didn’t ask if he could change it. In a few minutes the news turned to static. His father didn’t seem to notice.

In the afternoon they stopped at a diner. “Order anything you want,” said their father.

Jody and Charlie got hamburgers and french fries and Cokes. Their father had a salad and a bowl of tomato soup. He opened a package of saltines and crumbled them in his fist, then dropped the crumbs into the soup.

Charlie bowed his head and looked down at his fries. The paper place mat was printed with the words “Bless this food.” He waited.

“What’s the matter, son?” his father said. “Something wrong with your sandwich?”

Charlie looked up. His father was already hunched over his bowl. A drop of red liquid ran down his chin, as if he were bleeding at the mouth.

“No,” said Charlie. He bit into a french fry. Next to him Jody had already dismantled her hamburger: meat to one side of the plate, doused with ketchup; bun and lettuce to the other side.

His father slurped the last of his soup and moved on to the salad. He stabbed a tiny tomato with his fork; it jumped off the plate and rolled across the table. Charlie pretended not to notice.

T
HEY DROVE
until it got dark, then parked in front of the Dixie Maid Travel Court. Jody was asleep in the backseat. Charlie followed his father inside the office. Behind the desk an old man smoked and watched a fight on television. He took a twenty-dollar bill from Charlie’s father and handed back change and a key.

“Got any newspapers?” said Charlie’s father.

“You can have this here,” said the man. He handed over a folded paper, the cigarette still bobbing in his mouth.

“Go get your sister,” said Charlie’s father.

He ran outside and pounded on the rear window with his fist. “Come on,” he said. “We’re going in.”

The room was hot and dark. Charlie flipped on the light, the same kind they had in their kitchen at home, a fluorescent tube bent into a circle. His father fiddled with an air conditioner bolted inside one of the windows. It came to life with a loud rattle. There were two beds covered with flowered spreads.

“Which one do you want?” said his father.

“I don’t care,” said Charlie.

Their father sat on the one near the door. He took off his shoes and lined them up under the bed. He sat back on the bed and unfolded his newspaper.

“Can we watch TV?” Charlie asked.

“Sure.”

The set took a while to warm up. Charlie turned the dial, but there were only two channels. He found the fight the man in the office was watching, then sat on the bed next to Jody, who was curled up small and facing the wall, her thumb in her mouth. When the fight ended he slid under the covers, happy to be in bed without bathing or brushing his teeth. His father went into the bathroom. Charlie closed his eyes and listened to the running water, the flushing toilet. His father came back to the bed. He picked up the phone and dialed a long number. “Hi,” he said.

Charlie opened his eyes. The room held a greenish light, from the glowing sign outside.

“South Carolina, somewhere. We stopped for the night. They’re both sleeping now.”

Trucks whizzed past on the highway, a mighty sound. The air conditioner rattled like a snake.

“I won’t keep you. I just wanted to let you know we’re on the road. We’ll be there tomorrow around three.” He turned away and lowered his voice; Charlie could barely make out the words.

“Me too,” he said, and hung up the phone. Through slitted eyes Charlie watched him take off his pants and drape them carefully over a hanger. He wore purple undershorts. He got into bed and turned off the light.

Charlie opened his eyes. He wasn’t tired at all. In the distance he heard highway noises, crickets. A newscast droned in the next room. He thought of his mother back in Virginia, alone in the big house. She’d been different with his father there: laughing too much, smiling for no reason. He thought of her at the Dairy Freeze, the melting custard, the plastic spoon tipped with orange from her lipstick.

He listened to the bubbly breathing on both sides of him. Jody and his father had the exact same snore. For a moment he was jealous. He knew he was nothing like his father.

He climbed out of bed in slow motion, careful not to make a sound. He tiptoed into the bathroom and closed the door before turning on the light. His father’s things were spread out on the counter: toothbrush, Listerine, a bottle labeled “Multiple Vitamins” and another that said “Pierre Cardin.” A gold watch ticked loudly, like a bomb about to explode. Near the sink lay a silver-handled razor. Charlie held it an inch from his cheek. He practiced tracing it over his face the way men did on television.

He crept back into the bedroom and climbed under the covers.

J
oan sat on the patio, smoking—something she never did when Ken was at home. He had the nose of a bloodhound; if she sneaked a cigarette with her morning coffee, he could smell it on her clothes ten hours later. But that night he was in South Carolina with his children; she was free to do as she pleased.

For nearly a week she’d waited to hear. The first day he’d phoned collect from a truck stop in Georgia. He had nothing to report, but just hearing his voice had comforted her. After that, three days of silent torment, in which she imagined him alone with his ex-wife. (Vivian, he’d finally admitted when Joan swallowed her pride and asked. She couldn’t say why, but she had to know the woman’s name.)

Joan butted her cigarette and lit another. The night was damp and moonless, loud with bugs; the smoke seemed to keep the mosquitoes away. He’d called that evening from a hotel, his voice so low she could barely hear him: Charlie and Josephine were asleep in the room. “Why not spring for their own rooms?” she nearly asked, but stopped herself. Maybe, for once, he wasn’t being cheap.
The man hadn’t seen his children in four years; maybe he just wanted to keep them close.

It was a lot to process. Her husband had deceived her, had kept his children—their names and ages, their very existence—a secret. “Why?” she’d demanded that day in his dressing room. “Why on earth didn’t you tell me?”

At first his explanations made no sense. Vivian wouldn’t let him see the children; he thought it best to withdraw from their lives. For weeks Joan cross-examined him; then, finally, he told her the truth. Vivian had left him for another man, and he’d lied to Joan to hide his humiliation. It didn’t excuse his deception, of course; but she forgave him on the spot. She pitied him; more than that, she recognized a blessing when she saw one. They had lost their own child, their Ava; but they would still have a family together. She would be a mother after all.

At first he had balked when she suggested custody. “I can’t,” he said. “She’s their mother.”

“Some mother,” said Joan. “What kind of mother keeps her children away from their father?”

“We can give them a wonderful life,” she told him again and again. “It was meant to be.”

She stood and stretched, longing for a swim; the pool glowed invitingly with underwater lights. After the miscarriage she’d lost interest in swimming. Now, five months later, she could no longer squeeze into her mastectomy suit. She glanced around. No one could see her. The oleanders had died soon after the wedding; now the pool was surrounded by a brick wall.

Why not? she thought. The neighbors’ windows were dark. Ken was far away, her greatest fear—that he would see her mutilated chest—no impediment.

She slipped off her caftan, the wet air gentle against her skin. Naked, she dove into the water and broke into a fast crawl. It was a strange feeling, swimming without her prosthesis; she felt a drag on her left side, the weight of her healthy breast. She rolled onto her right side and tried the sidestroke. Breastless, her body cut cleanly through the water; she felt curiously light. This is what it would be like, she thought, to swim as a man.

She climbed out of the water, slightly winded; she’d been sneaking cigarettes for months. Her body felt warm and loose. She wrapped herself in a towel and went upstairs.

The room was nearly finished. The day Ken left, the paper hangers had come; the next day Burdine’s delivered the bunk beds. She’d bought colorful curtains to match the new wallpaper, special child-size hangers for Charlie and Josephine’s small clothes. (Josephine, she marveled. What kind of woman names a child Josephine?) The children were ten and six, still young enough to share a bedroom; they’d need their own rooms eventually, but she supposed that could wait. She knew from her attorney that custody hearings were complicated, that fathers rarely won; but Ken would be the exception. Getting the children to Florida was the first step.

A warm breeze blew through the window, a child’s good-night kiss. Naked, Joan stretched out on the bottom bunk. For once she fell easily asleep.

H
ello,” Ken called. His voice echoed through the big house. “We’re here.”

Joan got to her feet, her heart pounding. They were two hours early. She’d just sat down to lunch on the patio, Rosa’s seafood salad and grilled pineapple.

“Coming!” she cried, her stomach seizing. For weeks she’d waited for the children to arrive. Now, somehow, she wasn’t ready.

She rushed inside, through the kitchen and dining room and into the foyer. Ken stood in the doorway holding a scruffy cardboard suitcase. His pants were wrinkled, his shirt collar gray with sweat. He looked exhausted. The children were bigger than she’d expected, skinny and strikingly pale.

“Well, hello there,” she said. “I’m Joan.” She’d given a lot of thought to what they should call her; this seemed like the best solution for now. “Welcome to Florida.”

She swooped across the room and gave them each a hug, nearly tripping over her caftan. Josephine offered her cheek politely, but Charlie was stiff in her arms. She ought to have known better, she realized that; no little boy wanted to be mauled by a grown woman.

She turned to kiss her husband and found him halfway up the stairs. Panic rose in her throat. No, she thought. Don’t leave me alone with them.

“I’m going for a run,” he said. “I’ll be back in an hour.” He had left the suitcase in the foyer.

She took a deep breath and turned to the children. Josephine’s hair was carrot-red, her skin white as chalk. Charlie’s hair was curly and red-gold. They must take after Vivian, she thought. Nobody would ever mistake them for my children.

“Well,” she said brightly. “What a long journey you’ve had.” Journey? she thought. What am I? A fairy godmother?

“I’m hungry,” said Josephine.

“Didn’t you have any lunch?” Joan smiled. Lunch was easy enough. “I was just sitting down to eat. Rosa always makes extra.”

She led them through the house. “Rosa,” she called into the kitchen. “Can you bring out some lunch for the children?”

They went outside to the patio.

“Look!” Josephine whispered.

The children stared at the swimming pool. It shimmered blue in the sun, the water striated with light.

“Can we go swimming?” said Charlie. It was the first he’d spoken.

“Sure,” said Joan. “After lunch. You can swim every day, if you want.”

Charlie knelt and felt the water, frowning thoughtfully; his concern appeared almost scientific.

“We can make it warmer,” she said. “Or colder, if you like.”

“How do you do that?” said Josephine.

“With a heater, stupid.” Charlie splashed her legs; she squealed loudly, a sound that could shatter glass. “Or you add cold water to make it cold.”

Rosa appeared and placed two more plates at the table.

“Come have some lunch,” said Joan.

The children sat. They peered suspiciously at their plates.

“What is it?” Josephine asked.

“Seafood salad.” Joan took a bite from her plate. “It’s delicious.”

Josephine wrinkled her nose. “It smells funny. Ow.” Charlie had kicked her under the table.

“What about you, Charlie?” Joan asked. “Do you like seafood?”

“I don’t care for it,” he said.

Just like their father, Joan thought.

“That’s okay,” she said. “Rosa can make you something else.”

J
OAN SAT
in a lawn chair at the edge of the pool, watching the children splash in the water. Sweat streamed down her back; the sun had risen high overhead. Charlie dove headfirst in cut-off blue jeans. Josephine followed in a pair of shorts, her bare chest as flat and featureless as her brother’s. She held her nose and landed with a splash. They had each eaten a cheese sandwich; too late, Joan remembered some rule about swimming after eating. I have children now, she thought. I have to learn these things.

Charlie was a strong swimmer, his skinny little body long and luminous underwater. His sister turned somersaults like a baby seal. They didn’t talk to Joan; they seemed completely occupied with the water and each other. She recalled how she and Ben had played as children, inventing games and stories, speaking in a language all their own.

She checked her watch. They’d been at it for only an hour; she’d never imagined time could pass so slowly. She watched them intently, fearing that at any moment Josephine would disappear
underwater and not come back up. Her jaw hurt from smiling. She wondered where her husband was.

“Watch me!” Josephine cried.

Joan sat up in her chair; it was the first time either child had acknowledged her presence. She watched Josephine dive beneath the surface; a moment later her legs shot up into a perfect hand-stand. Joan applauded loudly.

“Big deal,” said Charlie. He climbed out of the pool and jumped back in, hugging his knees to his chest for a tremendous splash.

“That was wonderful, Josephine!” Joan called.

Charlie snickered loudly. “Yeah,
Josephine
. Good job.”

“Shut
up!
” she squealed.

“What’s the matter?” said Joan.

The child squinted at her, shading her eyes. “Nobody calls me that. My name is Jody.”

“I’m sorry,” said Joan. “I didn’t know.”

Finally Ken appeared, showered and red-cheeked after his run.

“How are you holding up?” he called to Joan; but instead of sitting at the foot of her chaise longue as he usually did, he pulled a chair over from the table and sat at the edge of the pool.

“So far, so good,” said Joan. Then she noticed his hands.

“Ken,” she said. “Where’s your wedding ring?”

He looked down at his hands.

“I was going to go for a swim in the ocean,” he said. “It was too choppy, though.”

Joan frowned. “You never take your ring off when you swim.”

“Sure I do.” His eyes followed Charlie as he bobbed beneath the water and surfaced with Jody on his shoulders.

“What are they wearing?” he asked.

“Shorts. They don’t have swimsuits.”

“Oh.” Ken shifted in his chair; his discomfort was almost palpable. He’s embarrassed, Joan thought—embarrassed to see his seven-year-old daughter swimming bare-chested with her own brother, her small pink nipples as innocent as violets. It was ridiculous.

“Silly old dad.” She leaned over to kiss him; suddenly he got to his feet.

“Maybe you could take them shopping,” he suggested. “Get her a bathing suit. Whatever else they need.”

His reluctance to kiss her in front of the children surprised her. Her own parents had been affectionate with each other; she’d assumed all parents were.

“Sure,” she said. “But what will you do?”

“I’ve got to go to work.”