The Freedom Maze (6 page)

Silence. “Well. I have a surprise for you, darling. I’m coming down tomorrow to see you.”

Sophie hung up the phone with a sense of dread. She’d heard that bright, false voice before. Mama saved it for what she called adventures — like moving to a new school or getting divorced. Whatever it was, Sophie knew it was bound to be unpleasant.

That night, Sophie curled up in the window seat and looked at the sky. Moonlight silvered the roses over the garden shed and made a little mirror of the puddle under the water pump. Out in the field, the maze lay coiled like a sleeping snake.

A cloud covered the moon, pulling a black curtain over garden, shed, and maze. When it moved on and she could see again, everything had changed.

Sophie scrambled to her knees, lifted the sash, and leaned out. The garden paths shone blinding white, as if paved with marble. The live oak was smaller, and the leafy blanket over the shed had disappeared. A dirt yard replaced the field, neat wooden cabins clustered around a tall frame tower. Beyond the maze, yellow light glowed in the windows of a shadowy house.

As Sophie watched, a man in a wide-brimmed hat came out of one of the cabins, moseyed over to the tower with a dog at his heels. A moment later, the deep, clear voice of a bell shattered the stillness like the Last Trump. The tower and the buildings and the white paths shimmered and faded, and Sophie was looking at the familiar garden, the vine-covered shed, the oak grove, and the overgrown field, just as they’d been before.

Wide awake, Sophie knelt at the window, hoping for the vision to reappear. But the moon set and the clouds screened the stars, and then she fell asleep on the window seat and woke up stiff and cranky to a hot, sticky morning and the unwelcome news that she had to clean her room before Mama arrived.

“I don’t care, Lord knows, but Sister’s likely to blame my slovenly ways for all those books and clothes you got lying everywhere. Better make your bed, too. And when you’re done tidying, get in the bathtub and scrub yourself. Those knees are a disgrace.”

Sophie obeyed to the extent of pulling up the chenille spread, shelving all the books, and stuffing her clothes in the armoire. She drew a bath, scrubbed her hands and knees until they were sore, and washed her hair. She hid her scratched feet in white ankle socks and sandals and put on the pointless bra and her Sunday blue-gingham shirtwaist. She was scraping her hair back with a plastic headband when she heard a familiar honk and ran out to throw her arms around her mother.

“Hello, darling.” Mama pushed Sophie to arm’s length and examined her critically. “What on earth have you been up to? You look like a wild Indian!”

Aunt Enid came out the door behind the stairs, wiping her hands on her apron. “And you, Sister, look like a French poodle.”

Mama laughed self-consciously and patted her short, tight, chestnut curls. “I got a permanent wave. Do you like it?”

In fact, Mama had gotten a whole new outfit. Her dress was black and white, with a narrow skirt that just covered her knees. Her belt and purse were bright red, and matched her high-heeled, pointy shoes. Sophie was enchanted. “Mama, you look just like a movie star!”

Aunt Enid snorted. “That’s as may be. And won’t Mama just create when she sees that skirt!”

Aunt Enid served supper in the dining room — fried chicken, succotash, and homemade biscuits — and Mama entertained them with stories about Soule College and her new job and all her wonderful new friends.

Round about coffee and dessert, Aunt Enid lost patience. “I’m sure that’s all very interesting, Sister. But it doesn’t explain why you drove all the way down here three weeks before we expected you.”

Mama’s fork, full of gingerbread and whipped cream, paused in mid-air. “Randolph has remarried.” She popped the gingerbread into her mouth.

Randolph, Sophie thought, is Papa’s name. Randolph Perault Martineau.

“Stop staring, Sophie, and close your mouth. You look like an idiot child. Your father has remarried — an artist woman he met in New York, Judith something.” Mama sipped her coffee. “Horowitz. Judith Horowitz. He’s moved into her apartment in the Village, wherever that may be. Doesn’t sound very elegant, does it?”

Sophie jabbed her half-eaten gingerbread with her fork. She felt slightly sick.

“Judith Horowitz,” Aunt Enid said. “That’s not exactly a Southern name, is it?”

“Well, Enid, what would you expect?” Mama said, bright as a button. “He clearly didn’t want a Southern lady. He didn’t want a lady at all. He wanted a beatnik, Jewish —”

“Helen Fairchild Martineau!” Aunt Enid sounded shocked. Mama’s cheeks flushed pink.

Sophie stood up. “Can I please be excused?”

Mama lifted one perfectly plucked eyebrow. “Don’t you want to see your father’s letter?”

Sophie shook her head wordlessly, pushed in her chair, and went up to her room. She took
The Story of the Amulet
from the bookcase and sat down with it on the window seat.

Was it worse when someone died, she wondered, or when they ran away and left you behind? What was Papa doing up there in New York, anyway, apart from getting married? Was it more interesting than playing Monopoly and going to see
South Pacific
with his daughter?

Sophie cried a little, blew her nose, picked up the book again, and opened it. Mama came in, dropped an envelope on the bed, and went out again.

The envelope was addressed to Mama, in Papa’s writing. The four-cent stamp honored the American Woman with a picture of a mother and daughter reading a book together. They didn’t look as if they liked it much.

Sophie pulled out the single, typewritten page.

Sophie folded the letter up again and put it back in the envelope because Mama would pitch a fit if she tore it into pieces. Then she went into the bathroom and pushed the envelope under the connecting door.

On Sunday morning, Mama accompanied Sophie and Aunt Enid to church. The good ladies of Oakwood Methodist stared at Mama’s permanent wave and short skirt, and the Reverend D’Aubert was moved to speak about how women working outside the home led to desegregation and moral degeneration. Sophie wanted to crawl under the pew, but Mama sat and listened with an interested smile, and was extra-bright and charming to everyone during coffee hour. She chatted about apartment-hunting all the way home, and when they got to Oak Cottage went straight upstairs to sit with Grandmama. At loose ends, Sophie trailed Aunt Enid into the kitchen.

Her aunt gave her a harried look. “After that morning, I think I need a little solitude. Why don’t you go cut some roses for Mama’s room? I noticed some Gloire de Dijons coming on to bloom this morning. They’re the yellow ones, over by the cabbage bed.”

It was a sign of how rattled Aunt Enid was that she hadn’t even noticed it had come on to rain. Shears in hand, Sophie stood under the gallery, watching the water sheet down over the garden, knowing she should wait for it to let up, or at least put on her aunt’s gum boots and oilcloth jacket. Instead, she stepped into the downpour and lifted her face, feeling the lukewarm water soaking through her dress and plastering her hair sleek as a muskrat’s. She squelched through the grass to the drooping golden roses and cut a big armful, cradling them in the sling of her blue gingham skirt. Then she ran back to the house, straight up the back stairs to the gallery, and through the parlor to Grandmama’s room, leaving a puddled trail across the polished floor.

“Sophie!” her mother exclaimed.

Grandmama squinted. “What is it, Helen? Is the child hurt? You should look out after her better.”

Mama’s mouth snapped into a hard, bright smile. She grabbed Sophie’s shoulder and dragged her up to the bed. “Look, Mama. Sophie brought you flowers. Isn’t that nice?”

Grandmama’s faded eyes fastened on Sophie, then fluttered shut, as if in pain. “When I was young, girls were taught to cut and arrange flowers
properly.
Go to your room, Sophia, and come back when you’re dressed like a Christian.”

“Now, Mama. She
meant
well. Look at those beautiful roses. You’d better put them in something, darling. You don’t want them to wilt.”

Sophie looked from mother to grandmother. Grandmama’s face was all pursed up like a shelled pecan; Mama’s was as bright and blank as a doll’s.

“There’s water in the pitcher on the washstand,” said Mama. “My land, Mama, if you could just see your face! Didn’t you always say a lady should cultivate a pleasant expression?”

She smiled at Grandmama; Grandmama smiled back, sharp as a curved sword. Sophie shivered.

“Hand me that towel, darling,” Mama said. “You don’t want to catch your death of cold.”

Sophie unloaded the roses into the pitcher and found a linen towel. Her mother took it from her and commenced scrubbing at her dripping hair. “I was just telling your grandmama all about my accounting course and how much money I’ll make when I get to be a real Certified Public Accountant.”

Grandmama picked at her sheet and her bed-jacket, her withered cheeks pink. “This is the Lord’s day, Helen. You remember what Our Lord said to the money-changers in the Temple?”

Mama’s hands stilled on Sophie’s head. “I’m not a money changer, Mama. I’m an accountant.”

“It’s not
becoming,
Helen. A lady does not speak of money and business. She shouldn’t even think of them.”

“A lady who earns her own keep must think about them.”

“A lady does not work for her keep,” said Grandmama decidedly.

“Then how does a lady eat? How does a lady keep a roof over her head and a rag to her back?”

“A lady is provided for. But it’s plain to be seen you’ve given up acting like a lady. I begin to have some sympathy for Randolph, if that is how you spoke to him.”

“I treated Randolph exactly the way you taught me to.”

Grandmama pursed her mouth. “Don’t talk ugly. You were the one insisted on marrying him. It’s nothing to me if he ran off and left you without a penny to your name.”

It was bad enough for Grandmama to light into Mama, but at least Mama was there to defend herself. Papa was not. “That’s not fair, Grandmama!” Sophie burst out. “Papa gives us money. It’s just everything is so expensive, and —”

“You hush up, young lady,” Mama snapped. “You know nothing about it. I
like
working. I
like
keeping figures straight and showing other people how to keep theirs, and most of all, I like getting paid for doing it.”

Grandmama reached a trembling hand toward Sophie. “Come here, you poor child. You love your old grandmama, don’t you? You won’t break her heart with foolishness.”

Mama dropped the towel and marched out of the room.

“Well.” Grandmama felt under her pillow, brought out a little glass bottle. “I declare, that girl will be the death of me. I’d never have dared to speak to my poor, sainted mama in that hard, selfish way. Never.” She shook the bottle impatiently. “Well, child? Are you going to open my salts or aren’t you?”

Sophie took the bottle and tried to unscrew the tiny metal cap. It wouldn’t budge.

“I’m very faint, Sophie,” warned Grandmama. “Excitement is bad for my heart.”

“It’s stuck, Grandmama.”

“A lady doesn’t make excuses, miss. I told Helen no good would come of marrying that man. His mother was from California, I believe.”

Sophie struggled grimly with the smelling salts, wishing she was anywhere except in this dim, overcrowded room that smelled of old lady and damp and suddenly, overwhelmingly, of ammonia, as the neck of the bottle broke, spilling its pungent contents over the crocheted counterpane.

“Clumsy girl!”

Sophie rubbed her nose and streaming eyes. “I’m sorry, Grandmama.”

“Well, fetch a towel, girl.” Grandmama sneezed and edged away from the spill. “Look at you, haven’t even got the sense to stay out of the rain. You’ll come to no good, you mark my words. Just like your no-account father.”

Sophie looked up from mopping at the sheets. “Papa’s not no-account! He’s funny and he’s good and he loves me.”

Grandmama bared her false teeth in a pitying smile. “If he loves you so much, where is he, miss? You’d be better off if he simply knew his duty.”

Choking with fury, Sophie flung the ammonia-soaked towel down on the bed and ran, pursued by the irritable silver tinkling of Grandmama’s bell. In her room, she threw herself on the bed, remembered she was still wet, and got up again.

“Sophie?” Her mother called from her room. “Sophie, go see to your grandmother.”

Sophie went through the bathroom into Mama’s room. She had closed the shutters and was sitting in the rocker with her hands in her lap. Sophie could hear her breathing, very slow and deliberate, with a hitch in each breath. She’d never heard her cry before, not even when Papa left. It was unnatural, like the sun rising in the West.

She came closer. “She doesn’t need seeing to. She’s in a temper.” She hesitated. “Please don’t cry, Mama.”

“Be still, Sophie.”

She sounded sad and tired. Sophie tried again. “I’m glad you like school and accounting. I think you’re —”

“I said, be
still!
”

Sophie bit her lip. “I’m sorry. I just thought —”

“Nonsense,” Mama said flatly. “You didn’t think at all. You never think. And you’re always sorry. You’re the sorriest child I’ve ever laid eyes on. Just look at you, all covered with mud and soaked to the bone. Your hair looks like a hooraw’s nest.”

Sophie’s hands flew to the hair Mama herself had rubbed into a tangled mess. “I brush it every day, just like you told me.”

Mama sighed. “That’s a fib. I declare, sometimes it’s hard to believe you’re my daughter at all. The only explanation is a touch of the tar brush in your father’s family. Those French planters didn’t care who they married, and that’s a fact. Go away and comb your hair, if you can. And change your dress. That one is ruined.”