Tea Cups & Tiger Claws (16 page)

When Ernest practiced being innocent and adorable, the other boys laughed and said he looked like
a vampire, so he tried not to think about mothers and fathers and stuff like that. Someday he’d be too old to have a mother and then it wouldn’t matter anyway. Father McMullen didn’t have a mother, not that anyone knew about, and neither did Father Benito, the third grade teacher. Until then Ernest had his pictures and his schoolwork and the daily race to stay away from the boys who liked to dump him into the trash can.

But one day
Father Benito got a note from the office. After reading it, he told Ernest to go put on a clean shirt and report to Father McMullen. Ernest knew what it meant. Everyone knew. You didn’t change shirts in the middle of the day for anything else. And even though he looked like a vampire, and didn’t stand much of a chance of ever getting adopted, Ernest decided to try his best anyway. Besides putting on a clean shirt, he scrubbed his face until it shined, and put a straight part into his watered down black hair. And then, after rubbing dirt onto the knees of his trousers to hide the bright green grass stains, he hurried to Father McMullen’s office where he expected to see a mother and father. That’s all he expected. Not pretty or ugly. Not rich or poor. Just a mother and a father. Instead he saw an old lady who looked like she hadn’t cracked a smile since the Civil War. She didn’t look old like a grandma, but not young like his real mother either, somewhere in the middle. And Ernest didn’t see a father anywhere in sight, except for Father McMullen, who told him to sit in the big brown chair next to the sofa where the lady sat. When he sat down the chair swallowed him up like a giant toilet seat.

“This is Miss Railer,
Ernest. She wants to talk with you for a little while.”

“He’s not much to look at,” said the
lady. She had spooky eyes.

“Maybe not,
but he’s smart, as you requested, and he never causes a speck of trouble.”

“That’s worth something, I suppose.
” She stood up and took a few steps closer. “Do you have all your fingers and toes boy?”

“Yes
,” said Ernest as he tried to sit still and not fidget, like the boys had said.

“And no other missing parts, I suppose?
” said the lady.

“No.”

“And how old are you?”

“Eight
.”

“What grade are you in?”

“Third,” said Ernest. Then he smiled and tried to look happy and innocent.

“Why are you doing that
to your face?” asked the lady.

“Because I’m happy.”

“Do you always do that?”

“Yes.”

“That could take some getting used to.”

“
Stop that, Ernest,” said Father McMullen.

Ernest stopped trying to look happy and innocent.

“Do you get good grades?”

“Yes.”

“And do you know how to obey like a good child?”

“Yes,” said Ernest, who always obeyed because bad things happened to bad kids. He knew that better than anyone.

“I suppose he’ll do—for a trial anyway,” said the lady. Then she looked at Father McMullen and said, “I guess you’ve got yourself a deal.”

“
Wonderful. That’s just wonderful,” said Father McMullen. Then he turned to Ernest and said, “How would you like to live in California, Ernest?”

Ernest waited a few seconds, like he’d been taught, and then said,
“But if I go to California, who will feed Barry, my pet Bluebird?” He’d said it perfectly, better than perfectly. He looked at the lady and waited to be scooped up like a puppy dog. But she didn’t scoop him up. She frowned at Father McMullen and said, “What’s he talking about? Are there some loose screws that maybe you’re not telling me about?”

“No…he’s just being
silly. Ernest, tell Miss Railer that you don’t have a bluebird!”

Now
he had real problems. If he said he didn’t have a bluebird then he’d look like a liar, or, worse yet, crazy, like a kid who needed to go to the shrink to get his brain fixed. And those kids never got adopted. He had to keep going, even if it meant disobeying Father McMullen. “But I do, Father. I really do. His name is Barney, just like I said.”

“But that isn’t what you said. You said his name was Barry,” said the lady.

“Yeah, Barry…but sometimes he likes to be called Barney.”

“Miss Railer, I can explain this. Sometimes the boys think it helps if they…put on a little show…if they make themselves look innocent. That’s all this is, I assure you.”

“Tell me, Ernest, what is it that you feed this little bluebird named Barry…or Barney?”

“Um…um…fried chicken…and peas.”

“Ernest, you know that’s a falsehood,” said Father McMullen.

“Fried chicken and peas. You’ve almost got the whole Sunday dinner there. What about mashed potatoes and gravy?”
said the lady.

“
Um…um…no, not that, ‘cause it’s too hard to sneak out of the dining hall.”

“And how about peach pie for des
sert?”

Father McMullen closed his eyes and bowed his head and Ernest hoped that he was praying.

“Um…yeah…Barney likes peach pie, that’s his favorite.”

“Ernest!
”

“That’s alright, Father. I have a soft spot for liars, especially those
who put their hearts into it, like this one here. I think he’ll do just fine.”

Now that he’d gotten a goo
d look at her, Ernest decided she kind of looked pretty after all—even though she wasn’t young like his mother—and he might not mind if she wanted to give him a hug, or even a kiss on the cheek. But she didn’t. She just smiled and went to the door.

“You don’t have to leave, Miss Railer. Maybe you’d like a few more minutes, by yourselves, to get
acquainted?” said Father McMullen.

“That’s not necessary. My attorney will
call in the morning. Goodbye.” She opened the door to leave.

“But what’s my name?” blurted Ernest.

“Excuse me?”

“What’s my name? The boys said I’ll get a new name.”

“What was your name when you woke up this morning?”

“Ernest
Dodd.”

“
And that’s what it will be when you come to California. It suits you just fine.”

Unlike Veronica, Sarah felt content tucked under her mother’s wing. Maybe she had the right mother or the right disposition. Or maybe she knew that just as much as she needed her mother, her mother also needed her, and that knowledge made her all the more attached. Before she’d ever said her ABCs, or ridden a two-wheeler without training wheels, Sarah had seen her mother on the bed a dozen different times, face buried in the pillow, crying like a lost child. Sarah knew just the right way to say, “Don’t cry, Mommy.” She knew that it helped when she climbed up and covered her mother’s back with every inch of her little body.

And she trusted her too. When Mo
m said that Jesus died for her sins, Sarah believed it. When she pointed to the wide and easy road that led to hell, Sarah knew that she must always take the narrow way. When she said that “the lamp must never be put under a bushel,” and other strange things, Sarah tried her best to understand. Like most happy young children, Sarah never imagined a day when her mother wouldn’t be the final word. Or the day when she’d listen to other voices and follow other people.

One afternoon Aunt Judith stopped by with Veronica, a toddler at the time, to see if seven year old
Sarah wanted to go with them to get ice cream sundaes at State Street Lodge, one of Aunt Judith’s favorite restaurants. Of course Sarah loved ice cream sundaes, and loved playing mommy to her little cousin even more. She begged to go but her mother looked worried, like always, because Aunt Judith hadn’t yet come through her season of sin—that’s what her mother used to say—and she didn’t like Sarah being around it without supervision. Aunt Judith usually just laughed when her mother acted like that. Then she’d tell her to stop being ridiculous. This time Sarah didn’t wait around for the fuss that came before her mother changed her mind and let Aunt Judith have her way. She took Veronica by the hand and headed out the door to the waiting limousine.

At the restaurant table, while Aunt Judith smoked her long cigarette,
Sarah sat happily with Veronica on her lap and spooned hot fudge sundae into her cousin’s eager mouth. The toddler held on to the edge of the table with her chubby little hands and leaned into each bite, making purring, happy sounds with each spoonful, and then saying “mo i-cweam, Sawa, mo i-cweam.” Aunt Judith had insisted on a full sized, two scoop sundae for her and she’d managed to eat every bit of it.

When the waiter brought the bill, Aunt Judith didn’t pay. She just wrote something on it and left it on the table. Once they got back into the car
, Sarah asked, “How come you didn’t pay the man for our ice cream?”

“Because we have a charge account.”

“What’s that?”

“You know what that is, silly. Haven’t you ever heard your mother say ‘charge it’ when she goes shopping?”

“Mom doesn’t do that. She pays with money at the store because the Bible says it’s not good to be a borrower.”

“It’s not borrowing. It’s a convenience,” said Aunt Judith, who looked a little bit mad. “They send the bill up to the house and somebody sends them a check.”

“I wish I could do it like that. I’d get ice cream every day.”

Aunt Judith looked at her. Her frown turned into a smile and she told Mr. Theo, the driver, to go around the corner to Greenberg’s Drugstore. Then she took
Sarah’s hand and said, “Do you know what mothers do best, Sarah?”

“What?”

“They make sure you have good manners, and that you use proper grammar. And they let you play the piano for them in the evening. And they tell you to say your prayers and memorize Bible verses, just like your mother. That’s what they’re good at. That’s why they’re mothers. But aunts and uncles are different. Uncle Bill can’t show you much on the piano, but if you want to catch a fish, or build a campfire, or ride a horse, nobody can help you like he can. And I can help you too, not with prayers and Bible verses, because I’m not your mother, but with other things. I can show you how to dress and how to do your hair. And I can show you how to shop too, because that’s what I’m good at, because I’m your aunt. How does that sound.”

“Good,” said
Sarah, even though she didn’t really understand.

“And we’re going to start right now,” said Aunt Judith, as Mr. Theo parked the car. She took a pen and paper from her purse and started writing and talking at the same time. “You’re going into Greenberg’s and you’re going to fill a basket to the top with all the things you like. And then you’re going to tell the man behind the counter to charge it all to your aunt’s account.”

“I am?”

“Yes. You are. Right this minute. And if there’s any difficulty, just give them this,” she said, as she tucked the note into
Sarah’s hand. Then she tapped on the window and Mr. Theo opened the door.

Sarah slowly walked up and down the aisles,
too nervous to give much thought to the knickknacks that ended up in her handheld basket. She knew every grownup in the store had to be staring at her—especially the manager, who probably had the phone in his hand that very second, ready to call the police on the little girl with sticky fingers and not a nickel in her pocket.

Despite Aunt Judith’s instructions, she barely filled the basket half way, partly because she had a hard time carrying it, and partly because she figured it’s better to be a little thief than a big one.
Then the time came to go to the cash register. She saw a tall man standing there. He had a red face with glasses resting on the end of a long nose. And he stared at her. He knew she didn’t have any money, she could tell, because when she put the basket on the counter he just kept on staring. Maybe that’s why Aunt Judith gave her the note. She reached into her pocket but couldn’t find it. She tried her other pockets. Not there. Her mind raced to remember the exact words Aunt Judith had told her to say, but then the cash register started making loud ringing noises. She peeked up and saw his big eyes looking through the eye glasses at a price tag, and then the big eyes turned away and looked at the buttons on the cash register. One by one he took the things from the basket and punched in the prices. Then he finished and said, “Seven dollars and ten cents.”

“Charge it to my aunt’s account
.”

“Your aunt’s account?”

“Yes, please.”

“And who might that be?”

“Judith Newfield.”

“Judith Newfield?” he said, looking at her suspiciously, from head to toe.

“Yes.”

He lifted the lid on a wooden box and pulled out a long card. “And your name is….”

“Sarah Evans.”

“There is no
Sarah Evans on this account young lady.”

“I was supposed to give you a note…but I think I lost it.”

“Well then I’m sorry. You can’t buy these—” He stopped talking when he saw something at the bottom of the basket. It was the note. With one hand he held it up and with the other he held up the long card, staring at them both through the glasses on the end of his long nose. He said, “Yes, yes. Very good.” Then, after writing something on the card, he said, “There you are…uh…Miss Evans. You are now on your aunt’s charge account. Please sign your name right…here.” He pointed to a spot on the card and handed her a pen. With perfect concentration, and the best possible second grade penmanship, she wrote her name like her life depended on it, but he barely looked at it.

“Can I get anything else for you, Miss Evans?” he said.

“No thank you.”

He handed her the shopping bag and she hoped it meant that she could leave. She backed up a step. Then two steps.

“Don’t forget your stamps,” he said, pointing to the strip of little green squares on the counter. She grabbed the stamps and quickly left the store.

“What do you think about that?” asked Aunt Judith when
Sarah got back into the car.

“I think it’s…neato,” she said, after thinking it over for a moment, “really neato.”

“I’m happy to hear it because you have my permission to always buy whatever you want. Is that alright?”

“Yes,” said
Sarah, with a big smile.

“But don’t say anything just yet to your mother. I’ll tell her when the time is right. For now let’s make it my little surprise for you, just our little secret. Ok?”

Sarah joined in the scheme, willingly, and understood what it meant: she was keeping a secret from her mother. Not a little secret, like cookies hidden under the pillow, but a big one, bigger than ever before.

And of course
her mother quickly found out, because Sarah treated the kids on the block to ice cream sundaes and banana splits and chocolate malteds at Greenberg’s lunch counter, and one of the mothers called to thank her for the unexpected surprise. The call came at dinnertime. Sarah’s mom answered the phone in the nearby family room. Sarah heard her say, “She did what?” and, “Ice cream for everyone?” and, “How much?” and finally, “A charge account?” which she said over and over again. Then she came into the kitchen with a face redder than a Radio Flyer and sat at the table. Sarah braced herself.

“You know I don’t like it when Aunt Judith spoils you and buys you everything under the sun,” said
her mother in a quiet voice. Sarah looked down at her peas and potatoes. “And when she bought you all those things from Greenberg’s the other day, you knew how it upset me, didn’t you?”

“Yes, mother.”

“But you didn’t tell me the whole story did you?”

“No, mother.”

“And it’s not because you forgot.”

“No, mother.”
Sarah looked up and saw tears flowing from her mother’s eyes. Then Sarah watched helplessly as her mom got up from the table and went into her bedroom. And Sarah knew she’d gone to bury her head in the pillow.

The next day
Sarah’s mother telephoned Aunt Judith and they had a big fight, which only happened when her mother got really mad, because then she said all the things that had been bothering her since the last time she got really mad. After telling Aunt Judith to apologize for being sneaky and pushy, and after demanding that she take Sarah’s name off the charge account, Mom scolded Aunt Judith about drinking and smoking and spoiling Veronica. She told her about heaven and hell. She said that a tree is judged by its fruit and Aunt Judith’s fruit looked rotten. And that instead of working out her salvation with fear and trembling, like the Bible said, Aunt Judith worked it out with shopping sprees and cocktail parties. And she reminded her that a camel can pass through the eye of a needle more easily than a rich person can go to heaven, which meant that Aunt Judith needed to start working out her salvation with a double dose of fear and trembling.

Sarah
didn’t hear Aunt Judith’s part of this particular fight, but, as she got older, and the fights became more frequent, she became familiar enough with them to recite either side almost word for word. Her aunt didn’t get worked up like Mom did. She might call her mother a hypocrite, because she pretended to be poor when she had her inheritance in the bank, but then she’d just ask one question after another until Sarah’s mother wore out. She asked if King Solomon went to hell for being rich. And King David too. She asked if God loved poor people more than rich people. She asked why Mom dressed like John the Baptist, and why God created such a wonderful world if he didn’t want people to enjoy it. She wanted to know why Mom had stopped living. She especially wanted to know why she tried to stop Sarah from living as well.

And that’s how
Sarah knew the fight had almost come to an end: her name got batted back and forth like a worn out shuttlecock. After that, Mom usually had another small outburst before she ran out of anger.

And then Aunt Judith won the fight and
Sarah reaped the rewards, a different reward with every fight. Not counting little things like clothes and jewelry, she got charge accounts at every good store in town, and got to go to Tisdale Academy with the kids from the hill, and got to ride in the limousine more than she rode in her mother’s Chevrolet, and got to fly to places like New York and Paris with her aunt and uncle and cousin.

The bond between mother and daughter
would never break, they depended on each other too much for that to happen, but as time went by, Sarah saw the world less like her mother and more like her aunt—season of sin or no season of sin.