The Cape Ann (44 page)

“Eat,” Papa said. “You’ll be hungry before Mass is over.”

“I’m not going.”

“What d’ya mean, you’re not going?”

“I’m never going to that church again.”

“The hell you’re not.”

“I’m not going. I don’t care what you say, Papa.”

“You want a slap in the face?”

“I don’t care. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but I’m not going there.”

“You’ll go if I have to drag you kicking and screaming.”

“Leave her be, Willie. Maybe she should stay home today,” Mama said.

“Oh, no, she shouldn’t. No sniveling eight-year-old’s going to quit the Church, not in
my
house.”

When it was time to leave for Mass, Papa said, “Get on that coat.”

“No.”

He slapped me across the face, and I grabbed his hand and bit it as hard as I could. I couldn’t stop. Finally he slapped me with the other hand, and I let go.

“You damned brat.” He cradled his hand. “Get the alcohol, Arlene.” Mama stood in the bedroom doorway, surveying the scene. “Did you hear me?” Papa yelled. “She bit me down to the bone.”

Mama got the rubbing alcohol from the cupboard. “Keep your hand over the sink,” she told Papa, pouring disinfectant on the wound.

Over his shoulder, Papa said, “Get your coat on or I’ll beat you till you can’t sit down for a week.”

Aunt Betty had my coat. She motioned me into the living room while Mama swabbed Papa’s hand with iodine.

“Put your coat on,” my aunt directed, not unkindly.

At last I put a hand into a sleeve. I would rather have put it into a pit of vipers.

In church I sat as far from Papa as possible, next to Aunt Betty. I didn’t take part in the service but sat, intransigent, huddled in my coat, staring at Father Delias. For refusing to bury Hilly, I hated him. And I hated the altar and crucifix and candles and carpeting and statues and music and Latin words.

I studied the worshippers in their heavy coats and scarves. I hated them for coming to this place that refused to bury Hilly, for kneeling and mumbling words whose meaning they did not even know.

Only one old woman sat between me and the side aisle. I
waited until the communicants left their pews and made their way toward the altar for the sacrament. Not for me ever again this communion.

In the confusion of the procession, I slipped from the pew, keeping the shuffling line between me and Papa’s vision. Heading toward the main doors at the back, I was into the vestibule before Papa spied me.

He would be only seconds behind me, however, expecting me to run out into the street. Instead, I took the descending stairway and let myself into the closet under the stairs, where folding chairs and tables were stored. There was a single, small, dim, basement window. Climbing onto a folding chair, I peered out.

There was Papa, standing at the curb, surveying the street up and down. He ran a few steps to the right and glowered into the near distance, checked beneath parked cars, then ran back again.

Now he tramped away, across and down the street to the truck. Yanking the door open, he searched for me inside. Slamming the door hard, he glanced into the back. I was not there. Where had Mama parked the Ford? he wondered, and contemplated the street once more. There it was, half a block farther on. Away he marched in that direction, but of course I was not there either.

Back to the truck he went, climbed in, and started the engine. He would drive home and see if I was hiding there, under the bed or behind the couch. What a thrashing I would get then.

I let myself out of the closet, hurried up the stairs and into the street, not hesitating for a moment. I covered the four blocks to Hilly’s apartment before Papa could conclude his search through the meager nooks and crannies of our house.

Up the wooden steps I pounded, beating on the door as if the Devil were nipping my heels. As I waited, I thought: This is where it happened, right where I’m standing. In the snow. And who cleaned up afterward?

Mrs. Stillman opened the inside door, then the storm door. “Lark. What is it? Is something wrong?” She led me inside and closed the door.

I was startled half out of my wits to see Stella Wheeler, Sally’s mama, sitting in the green wicker chair. And she was startled by my wild entrance. My knitted cap, with the pom-pom and earflaps that tied under the chin, had come half untied and was hanging
down my back. My cheeks were wet with tears from the cold air rushing into my face. And now I stood bent over, like an old woman, pressing my side where it pinched sharply from the running.

“Sit down,” Mrs. Stillman said, “before you fall over.”

Not until I had assurances. “If Papa comes, don’t tell him I’m here. Please.” It was a lot to ask of grown-ups. They always stuck together.

“I won’t tell,” Mrs. Wheeler said without hesitation. She herself looked as if she were on the run from something or someone. Her beautiful hair, like Sally’s only with some gray in it, was loose and unkempt. The fine bones of her face were sharp beneath the skin, which was as thin as ivory-colored tissue paper. The clothes she wore were not Sunday clothes, but an old, wrinkled brown wool skirt and a sweater missing a button, with a ladder near the hem where it was unraveling.

I turned to Mrs. Stillman, who wore a plain, dark blue dress of light wool, a church dress normally, a mourning dress now. She was very serene.

In the calm voice of one who has nothing left to fear, she said, “I’ll tell him you were here and left.” She smiled a little. “That’s only half untrue. Give me your boots, and I’ll put them in the kitchen.” When she had carried away my outer garments, she said, “You’ll have tea and milk and some of the nice Fig Newtons that Mrs. Wheeler brought.”

She disappeared into the kitchen. I sensed that I had interrupted something. Stella Wheeler’s look was even more tentative and distracted than usual. Mrs. Stillman came in with a plate of cookies and tea. “Mrs. Wheeler was telling me a sad story that you might not want to hear. Would you like to sit in Hillyard’s room for a few minutes? You can watch the street from his windows.”

I nodded and followed her into the bedroom. I wanted to hear the story, and I was fairly sure that, unless she whispered, I would be able to hear Stella Wheeler’s voice from Hilly’s room.

Mrs. Stillman set the plate on top of the bookcase and left. I looked around. I liked Hilly’s room. It was plain but cozy, with homemade rag rugs on the floor and a patchwork quilt on the bed. The circus poster Mama had given him was tacked to the wall over the bed, and in the bookcase were books I recognized:
Stories for a Rainy Afternoon
and
Robinson Crusoe
, and others Mama had found for him when she was on the road. Above the bookcase hung the
gilded wooden key which the mayor had presented Hilly. The gilt was tarnished to a warm brown.

I crossed to the windows to check for Papa’s truck. One window looked on Main Street and the post office opposite; the other, because this was a corner room, looked onto the side street. On neither did I spy the truck.

On the lamp table beside Hilly’s bed lay an open tablet, the kind on which he wrote his letters. “Dear Lark Ann Erhardt,” was written on the exposed page.

“Oh,” I said and started. It was as though Hilly’s voice had spoken.

There it stopped. He had never finished. The Hawaiian Islands had been bombed that day. I put the tablet down.

In the next room, Stella Wheeler’s voice had risen.

“The world is wicked,” she said. “What happened was the most terrible wickedness.”

“Don’t distress yourself,” Mrs. Stillman said.

“It was just before Memorial Day. I should have told you then. They were chasing him down the road with the car. There were two young men in the front seat. They didn’t see me. Hilly had on a shirt. That was all he had on. They … they had hurt him.” Her voice was sliding up, out of control. “Then they saw me, and they stepped on the gas. But I saw the man in the backseat. I knew him. It was Axel Nelson. From the hotel.”

“It’s all right, Mrs. Wheeler. Hillyard is happy now. Don’t cry.”

“I’ve thought about it so much,” said Stella Wheeler. “I know I should go to the hotel and kill Axel Nelson. But I can’t. What is wrong with me?”

“SHHHHHH. SHHHHHH. SHHHHHH
.” Mrs. Stillman hushed and comforted Stella Wheeler. “You mustn’t talk about killing. It was killing that broke Hillyard’s mind. We don’t want that to happen to you.”

“But the wickedness—”

“God will punish the wickedness.”

“I’m not sure He does that anymore.”

“Then maybe it’s punishment enough to live in the darkness where wicked people live.” She spoke simply, as if she were talking to Hilly. “You’re a kindhearted little soul. Hillyard would not want you to involve yourself with wickedness on his account.”

I lay down on Hilly’s bed and watched the snowfall, which had begun again. Big, heavy flakes drifted past the window. If Hilly was in hell, as Papa said, I didn’t want to go to heaven. It must be a cold place, the opposite of hell, which was a hot place.

When I woke, a shawl lay over me. It was nearly dark outside. The street lamps were lit, and the deep, growling of snowplows came from Main Street below. How long had I been asleep?

I got out of bed, keeping the shawl pulled around me, and made my way to the living room. “Mrs. Stillman?”

“You’re awake. Are you hungry? I’ve made dinner.”

Was I hungry? I was still half asleep. “Yes. I’m hungry.”

“Good. Sit down there on the davenport and look at magazines while I get the food on.” She rose from the green wicker chair where Mrs. Wheeler had sat. Sally’s mama had left. “Your mama came by while you were asleep. We had a nice visit.”

“Does Papa know where I am?”

“He knows that you’re safe.”

A few minutes later we sat down to boiled potatoes, canned corn, and hamburger patties.

“Your mama brought a beautiful applesauce cake for our dessert,” Mrs. Stillman told me. She left to fetch ketchup. “Would you like to stay with me tonight? I’d be grateful for the company.”

“I’ve got school tomorrow.”

“Your mama left clean clothes in case you decided to stay. She’ll call on the telephone later to see what you want to do.”

While we were clearing the dishes, I asked, “Are you sad?”

Wringing out a cloth to wipe the table, Mrs. Stillman paused. “Yes. I’m very sad because I’m lonely. But I’m happy for Hillyard because he’s in heaven. Some people say that suicide is a sin, but I have never believed that. I say it’s God’s way of calling certain folks home early. It’s much nicer than an awful accident, where the rest of us are left wondering if the person really wanted to go. I’ll be lonely without Hillyard,” she concluded, “but that’s better than his being lonely without me.”

We had our cake and tea in the living room, and when we were done, she asked, “Would you read me a story? That was always very soothing to Hillyard.”

I slept in Hilly’s bed. There was a smell of Cashmere Bouquet on his pillow. I was close to him and dreamed that he stood at the foot of the bed, wearing his Army uniform.

AUNT BETTY WALKED TO
school the next afternoon and met me as I slouched out of the central door.

“Thought you might like some company,” she said, pushing her gloveless hands deeper into the pockets of her old green coat.

“See you tomorrow,” Beverly and Sally called.

The gray-white sky hung a few feet above the water tower. The air was warm and hushed. It wanted to snow again.

“I’ve been baking,” Aunt Betty told me.

When grown-ups were making conversation with me, I felt obliged to respond, whether or not I was in the mood. Also, Aunt Betty suddenly looked down-at-the-heel. The nap was entirely worn from the cuffs and collar of her coat, and she was wearing an old pair of Mama’s boots, one of which was missing the tab that closed it, so the boot slopped loosely up and down, threatening to come off as Aunt Betty walked.

“What’d you bake?”

“Chocolate cake with fudge frosting,” she said, waiting for me to say something.

“Mmmmm. That’s good.”

“And two mincemeat pies.”

“Mmmm.” Actually, I wasn’t very fond of mincemeat. I only ate it if there was no other kind of pie around.

“And a couple of loaves of nut bread.”

“That’s a lot.”

“It’s for after the funeral.”

“What time’s the funeral?”

“Ten.” She reached down to pull up the boot that was trying to stay behind. “Did you leave anything at Mrs. Stillman’s that we should pick up now?”

“No. I’ve got it all in this paper bag.” Including the letter Hilly had started to write. Mrs. Stillman had folded that and put it in the bag. Mama would keep it in her bureau drawer, along with Bub’s pocket watch, given to him by his mama in 1923, and the letter from Earl Samson to his brother-in-law, Bill.

“How is Mrs. Stillman doing?” Aunt Betty asked.

“She’s doing pretty good. She says Hilly is happy in heaven. She says it’s better for her to be without him than for him to be without her.”

“That’s true.”

“Do you think Hilly’s in heaven?”

She didn’t answer right away. Finally she said, “I don’t know.”

The only thing pleasing about that answer was that Aunt Betty was treating me like a grown-up. Still, I would rather she had said yes unhesitatingly.

“Why don’t you know?”

“Because it’s a terrible sin to kill yourself. You can ask the priest.” Aunt Betty’s Catholicism was a link to Uncle Stanley.

“Maybe the Catholic Church is wrong,” I said.

Aunt Betty looked startled. “Well, I think it’s in the Bible that suicide is a sin.”

“If you ever met Hilly, you wouldn’t think he was in hell. If you met Hilly, you’d say the Bible is wrong and so is Father Delias. Anyway, if it’s so terrible, how come the Methodists are burying him?”