Billie Standish Was Here (9 page)

I took my plate to the kitchen and washed it. Then I washed it again. I was very, very thorough.

Mama leaned against the kitchen doorjamb a couple of minutes later. “I never would've dreamed,” she said to Daddy.

“Hmmm?” He was still glued to the paper.

“It was Lydia Jenkins.” That got his attention. “She doesn't have anybody to take her to town now that Curtis is . . . gone, and she asked if I would.”

“When?” Daddy frowned.

“From now on, I guess.” The two of them stared at one other like they'd just dug up a body in the backyard and were each trying to decide if the other had put it there.

T
  he next day I waited for Miss Lydia to tell me about her conversation with Mama, but we passed the midday meal chitchatting about nothing in particular. We were washing dishes before she got serious, and then the subject wasn't what I'd expected.

“Billie Marie?” she said. “We've agreed we can talk about anything needs to be talked about, haven't we?”

Of course we had. “Uh-huh, sure.”

“Then I have to ask. Have you started getting your monthlies yet?” She was staring out the window at her garden.

My first thought was magazine subscriptions. Why would she ask about that? I hadn't subscribed to anything since
Highlights
when I was a little goober. Then, ohhh. Of course. I shook my head. “No, not yet. Why?”

“Your mother
has
told you where babies come from, hasn't she?” Her voice shook a little.

“Well, yeah,” I said, remembering that awful morning with Mama all red-faced and stammering, getting mad at me because she had to talk about it at all. “Sort of.”

Miss Lydia took me by the shoulders. “No ‘sort of' about it, child. Either she did or she didn't.”

I could feel a pulse in my ears, pounding out a warning. “Well, she told me about the egg and how if it's not fertilized, the stuff gets passed once a month and what to do . . .”

“Billie Marie.” I'd never seen Miss Lydia so sober. “Did she tell you
how
the egg gets fertilized?”

“Well, no, but—” But all of a sudden I did know. And then there was a freight train inside my head and I saw a big dark spot like I'd stared too long at the sun and, as my knees buckled, I was thinking
oh-my-god-oh-my-god-oh-my-god-the-joke-that-man-that-comment-that-look-this-is-what-they-meant-but-Mama-and-Daddy-and-Miss-Lydia-and-Mister-Jenkins-and-oh-my-God-oh-my-God-everybody-who-has-ever-had-a-baby-that-awful-that-awful-it-wasn't-just-it-wasn't-just-Miss-Lydia's-father-and-then-Curtis-inherited-this-terrible-idea.

Miss Lydia's face was only a couple of inches from mine when I opened my eyes and I could see myself reflected in her glasses, scared and small, same as I felt. When I realized I was on the floor, I raised up so fast we banged heads and bounced apart like a couple of stooges, but neither of us laughed.

She steadied herself against the counter while I got my feet under me. I spoke first. “Do you think . . . I mean, are you saying . . . oh, Miss Lydia, do I have a baby inside me now?”

It sounded ridiculous out loud. Mama didn't even let me wear a training bra yet, even though I needed one. It hadn't been that long since I'd packed away all my Barbie stuff.

If I had a baby in me—it came all at once—then everybody would find out. I had to lay my cheek against the cool Formica counter in front of me.

“Aw now, child,” Miss Lydia started. I heard it catch in her throat. Calling me “child.” She was trying to stay calm, but her hands were shaking a lot worse than usual. “I seriously doubt it. I really, really do. But I had to ask. . . .”

I had a jumble in my head and was trying to fit the pieces together. “But . . . if I haven't gotten the curse yet, is it possible?”

“Billie Marie! It's hardly a curse!”

“Well, that's what Mama calls it,” I said.

Miss Lydia shook her head like she felt sorry. “Well, you call it whatever you want, but that mama of yours is somethin' else.”

But she wasn't thinking about Mama. It looked more like she was trying to remember the combination to a safe she hadn't opened in years. She blew out a lungful of exasperation.

“I don't know.” She was matter-of-fact, like I had asked if we were going to have a white Christmas that year. “It doesn't seem like it would work that way, but I just don't know. It's a whole lot easier to find out you're not expecting early on than if you are.”

“So what do I do?” My chin started quivering. I couldn't make it stop.

“Lemme think on it.”

I had an inspiration. “Is there something I can do, something I can take, I mean, to make sure it doesn't, didn't, happen?”

“NO!” Miss Lydia started out of her chair and I jumped. “Oh, lord, no, child, no. Don't you even begin to think about hurting your body in any way, shape, or form. Just put that outta your mind this instant.”

“I just thought . . . maybe there was some easy way. . . .” Just thought. Just wished. Just hoped. Just make it go away.

Miss Lydia's mouth twisted up like she'd bitten into something sour. “If there was, wouldn't anybody have a baby they hadn't planned on, now, would they?”

Oh. Of course. That girl who went away to take care of a sick aunt for six months. The other one who gave birth to a nine-pound “preemie” seven months after her wedding. All the women who were married up all nice and tidy and still liked their kids about as much as canker sores.

“So what do I do now? Just wait to see if my stomach starts growing?” I felt light-headed.

Miss Lydia shook her head. She looked a little cross. “I said, ‘lemme think on it.' ” I didn't see how I was going to think about anything else until I knew for sure.

I sat up straight as a yardstick and gasped. “I fainted!”

“Yeah?” She frowned.

“Well, on TV, that's always the first sign somebody's going to have a baby. That's how you know.” I felt cold.

Miss Lydia smiled for the first time since the subject had come up. “Well, now, honey, that's TV. You just can't believe everything you see on it. Besides, that's men writin' about woman things for you.”

Oh. I had no problem with the difference between fact and fiction, but I'd always thought even fiction was based on something true. I hadn't thought about anybody just plain getting it wrong.

Miss Lydia interrupted my thoughts. “I probably shouldn't've even brought it up. Chances are . . .”

“Now, wait a minute,” I said. “Of course you should've brought it up if it was on your mind. That was our deal, remember?”

Miss Lydia smiled, but there wasn't a shred of happiness behind it. “That it was. Just promise me you'll try not to worry yourself sick over it, will you? What's done is done and worrying about it won't change a thing about what is and what isn't.”

I nodded and swallowed what was rising in my throat.

T
  ime has a frustrating way of continuing on at the same rate no matter how many terrible things have happened. So one day just kept dragging on after another. Each one with an equally anxious yesterday and tomorrow for bookends. I ate and slept and went to Miss Lydia's. I tried not to bring it up in case she'd put her worries aside. I tried to push on my stomach only when nobody was around to see it.

After a while, I'd forget to be afraid for stretches of two or three hours. Then I'd remember and feel guilty, like I had changed my fate just by letting my guard down. It's hard to talk yourself out of stupid thoughts when you're scared.

And I had plenty of stupid thoughts to spread around. For one thing, just the idea of Mama and Miss Lydia in the same car made me break out in an itch. I couldn't see Mama leaving her usual behavior at home any more than I could see Miss Lydia putting up with it and couldn't imagine how that was going to average out. Of course I was rooting for Miss Lydia, but I did still have to share a roof with Mama. If they were going into Milton together, I was ready to be the go-between, if not the referee.

That Saturday morning I walked into Mama's bedroom and was surprised to see her dressing up like she was going to church. Once she was on the winning end of the zipper in back of her dress, I said, “You want me to go with you?”

She jumped like she hadn't known anybody was there. She's so skittish. “No. Why would I?” She stood in front of the vanity while she brushed her hair back.

I wasn't sure how I felt about being left behind. I watched out the front window when Miss Lydia hobbled out and dumped herself into our car. I couldn't stop watching until long after they were out of sight. Then I turned on the TV and sat watching cartoons. Pushed on my stomach every couple minutes to see if anything was going on there.

Daddy usually ate at the grain elevator when Mama was gone to town so I was surprised when I heard his truck in the driveway at straight-up noon. I had the TV off and was in the kitchen before the back screen-door slammed. By the time he came in, I was pulling cold cuts and sliced cheese out of the refrigerator.

“Aw, now,” Daddy said as he passed, “Don't go to any trouble. I can make a sandwich for myself.”

As food preparation goes, I'd never seen Daddy do more than butter his own bread. But now that I thought about it, making lunch for just the two of us would be pretty strange. Kind of like I was taking Mama's place. Cooking for all three of us never felt like stepping into somebody else's role.

It seemed like the rules were changing every day. Either that, or becoming visible was making me pay more attention.

I got out plates and started building a ham and cheese sandwich on Wonder Bread. When Daddy came back from washing up I couldn't think of anything to say, so I kept my head down with my hair hiding my face.

Once he started slathering on the mayonnaise, though, another dilemma stuck a horn in my gut. With Mama gone, where did we eat? I took my time getting ice and let the tap run a good long while. I waited.

When I turned, he was sitting at his usual spot, but the newspaper was nowhere to be seen. I caught his eye without meaning to and his face was a big question mark. I froze.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“Uh . . . uh-uh. Why?”

“I dunno. You look like you just came across a fresh train wreck.”

I could hardly leave then. I sat down in the chair that used to be mine when we all ate together.

Everything was off balance. It felt like the table was going to tip and slide everything on it crashing down into Mama's empty chair. I said, “No . . . I just remembered something.”

“What?”

“What what?” It sounded like a smart remark. I wanted it back as soon as I said it.

“What did you just remember?”

“Nothing.” My face was on fire. This was my father. And I was just as relaxed as I would be if somebody plunked me down to lunch with the president.

He sat and chewed, trying to read me. “How's your cheek?”

“Oh, the old ‘does your face hurt? It's killing me'?” I listened to my nervous laugh like it was coming from some other stupid person.

Daddy didn't smile. In fact, he frowned a little. “No, I wanted to know. How's your cheek?”

I coughed and cleared my throat. “It's okay. Miss Lydia gave me this plant stuff to put on it, and it started healing really fast.”

“Plant stuff?”

“Yeah, hollow vera, I think she calls it. It's this plant that has goop inside the leaves and it's the best burn medicine there is, she says.”

He nodded. “You really do enjoy spending time with that old woman, don't you?”

I was surprised. “Well, yeah,” I told him. “I mean, she's interesting and funny . . . and she teaches me all kinds of stuff . . . and it's way better than—.” My face heated up again.