Under the Mercy Trees (21 page)

“Interesting.”

They walked up the two flights to Marietta's apartment. Voices and laughter spilled out onto the landing. Marietta's door was propped open. Cassie knocked on the doorframe, and they stepped into the foyer. The apartment had its original 1920s hardwood floors, in good shape except for water stains around a radiator. Liza caught a glimpse of built-in bookcases through the bead fringe that served as a living room door. There were so many layers of old paint on the walls that the corners and angles in the apartment had lost their definition and were rounded instead of sharp.

They followed party noise into a big, old-fashioned kitchen, where all the guests had gravitated. Several women and two men leaned against walls and counters, sipping wine or preparing food. Liza knew most of the women by face, if not by name. Cassie introduced her to the men. Vic was the only guest who looked older than Liza. His gray hair was cut short, and he had a small, neat beard. A few dandruff flakes spotted his dark green turtleneck. Chad was plump, with bright yellow hair and sideburns. He wore a nylon Hawaiian-print shirt. Plastic inserts kept the pointy collar stiff.

“We're honorary women,” Vic said, shaking Liza's hand.

“What is
that
?” Chad took Aunt Fran's deviled egg plate out of Liza's hands. “Oh my God, a deviled egg plate. Only in the South.”

“Chad loves specialized cookware,” Vic said.

“And mayonnaise.” Chad slipped an egg out from under the plastic wrap and popped it in his mouth.

Their hostess, Marietta, waved from the sink, where she was chopping vegetables for a salad. Her sleeveless cotton dress was tied too high in the back to be flattering. “Liza, I'm so glad you made it.”

“Can I help?”

“Sure. You can wash these alfalfa sprouts.” She handed Liza a container of little sprouts.

Liza tasted one. “I didn't realize humans could eat these. We grow alfalfa to feed our horses.” She ran the sprouts under the faucet.

“They're really good for you. Totally organic, no pesticides or herbicides,” Marietta said.

Cassie set her things on the kitchen counter to Liza's right and started crushing chickpeas with a pestle. “What else do you grow?”

“Soybeans, mostly, to supplement my husband's job selling farm equipment. And some fruit trees and vegetables just for us,” Liza said.

“Are you organic?”

“Raby sprays the fruit trees. If he didn't, the bugs would get everything.”

Cassie gave her a look. Liza could tell Cassie saw her as misguided, someone to rehabilitate. “You've got to read
Silent Spring
, Liza. You'll never spray again.”

“Maybe not.” Liza didn't mention that they also sprayed their tobacco. If Cassie didn't like pesticide on her apples, Liza could imagine how she would feel about tobacco.

Vic unscrewed the top of a big jug of Gallo wine and poured glasses for Liza and Cassie. He and Chad watched Cassie mix tahini into the chickpea paste.

“Cassie, we saw your hubby at the mall the other day. What a hot body,” Chad said.

“Hands off. He's straight,” Cassie said, unperturbed.

“Oh, for God's sake, I said he was cute. I didn't say I wanted to jump him,” Chad said. He and Vic laughed.

Liza realized then that Chad and Vic were a couple. She had never been around any openly homosexual men before. She stole a look at Cassie and Marietta. Neither of them seemed at all uncomfortable. Liza shook water off the sprouts and spread them on Marietta's salad.

Marietta wiped her hands on her dress. “I think we're ready. Come get a plate, everybody. We'll eat in the other room.”

They got their food and took it to the living room. Other than the built-ins, the only furniture was a low couch and a coffee table made from packing crates. Marietta had served in the Peace Corps in Ghana. African masks and statues, some of them blatantly phallic, decorated the walls and every available surface.

“I like your couch,” Liza told Marietta.

“Futon,” Cassie corrected her.

“Thank you,” Marietta said.

They settled cross-legged on the floor. Chad ran his hand over a well-endowed fertility statue on the coffee table. “Almost as big as Vic.”

“You flatter me,” said Vic.

Liza averted her eyes from the statue, then felt disappointed in herself for being so provincial.

After they ate, Marietta introduced the evening's business. “The plan is to be open from ten until two, four days a week. That's school hours for those of you who have children. I'll be there most of that time, but I'd like at least one other person there with me, to man the desk and phone.”

“To
woman
the desk and phone,” Cassie said.

“Sorry, you're right,” said Marietta. “Here's the sign-up sheet.” She passed it to her left. “Now let's talk about money. We have a three-month grace period before we have to come up with our own rent, but we're on the hook immediately for the power, phone bills, and printing costs for the pamphlets we're putting out. Ideas?”

“I can try to get us some corporate sponsors,” a woman said, sounding doubtful.

“It's worth a try,” Marietta said.

“We could do a bake sale,” Liza suggested.

Cassie snorted. “We're a feminist organization. Our fund-raiser shouldn't endorse the traditional happy homemaker role.”

Liza looked around. “But most of us here are homemakers.”

“Speak for yourself. I'm an activist,” Cassie said.

“Given the amount we need to raise, I think grants may be the way to go.” Marietta hefted a large paperback book to her lap. “This lists a bunch of foundations and their grant guidelines. Liza, you're the English teacher. You know how to write. Would you be willing to do some applications?”

Liza reached for the book. “Of course.”

“Great. Any other thoughts?”

No one said anything.

“Okay, people. Business meeting adjourned.” Marietta twisted around and reached for a drawstring bag on the bookcase behind her. She opened it and pulled out a plastic baggie of crushed dried leaves and little squares of thin paper. She rolled a cigarette and lit up. A sweet smell that was not regular tobacco wafted toward Liza. Marietta passed the cigarette to the woman beside her, and Liza realized just how square she was. Before the joint could make it to her, she left the circle and went into the kitchen to pour herself another glass of wine. When she got back, Cassie, Vic, and Chad were sitting on the floor with their backs against the futon, discussing which members of the Wake Forest University faculty were homosexual.

“Practically the whole foreign language department. I've never seen so many repressed souls,” Vic said.

“It is a Baptist college, after all,” Cassie said.

“That Anton Zaltow. He claims he has a girlfriend out of state, but I know he's gay,” Chad said.

“You think everybody's gay,” Cassie said.

“Not everybody. Just every single person over the age of thirty,” Chad said.

“And a lot of the married ones,” Vic said.

“Not every middle-aged single person is gay,” Liza said, trying out the new word. “I have a friend in New York City who lives with a male roommate. He isn't gay.”

Cassie raised an eyebrow at her. “Does he date women?”

“He doesn't share that with me. We used to be boyfriend and girlfriend, and he may not want to hurt my feelings.”

Cassie and Chad looked at each other and burst out laughing.

“Doesn't date women. Lives in the city. Has male roommate. Sweetie, your friend is gay,” Chad said.

“I don't believe that,” Liza said.

“Marietta, roll another joint,” Chad called.

Liza took a sip of wine. Martin came back to Solace Fork from time to time, and when he did, she enjoyed the attention of both her husband and her first love. That made her twice as attractive, didn't it? But now memories were lining up in her mind like pictures on a slot machine. The contempt in the voice of Martin's roommate when she called. The polite but indifferent reaction from one of Martin's male friends at Chapel Hill—Liza was used to getting more of a response from men. The countless times Martin put her off when they were teenagers and she wanted sex. That last time, at Rendezvous Falls, when he unwound her arms from around his neck and she knew there would never be another time.

She looked around Marietta's apartment. The African statues with their uncovered male genitalia seemed to lean toward her. Across the room, two women held hands. Marietta was taking a hit off the joint. Liza picked up her wine glass and the grant-writing book and went over to Marietta. “I need to get home. It's a bit of a drive. Thanks for hosting.”

Marietta exhaled. “Oh, no problem. Thanks for doing the grant applications. Let me know if you need any help.”

Liza got Aunt Fran's empty egg plate from the kitchen and left the apartment. Chad's loud laughter echoed after her down the stairs.

She still drove the Ford Sunliner that had carried her and Martin through high school. Raby maintained it with the same care Liza's father had, polishing it monthly and wiping child spills off the leather before they could set. She got in the car, tossed Marietta's book on the floor, stuck the key in the ignition, and gunned the motor. She was a good driver, had never so much as nicked another car in a parking lot, but upset and not looking, she backed into something with a crunch. She got out. The cement base of the lamppost she'd hit was unscathed, but the taillight on the right fin of the Sunliner hung by its wires like an eye from a socket.

Three stories up, someone looked out of Marietta's apartment window. Liza got back in the car and drove out of the parking lot, the taillight banging against the bumper.

At home she parked the car in front of the house and went inside. She could hear Alissa babbling to herself in her crib and bathwater running. She went to the bathroom door. Sandra was in the tub, playing with a plastic measuring cup. Raby turned the water off and wiped his hands on a towel, then saw Liza. “Back already?”

“I wrecked the car.”

He was immediately protective, touching her to make sure she wasn't broken. She pulled away. “Just the taillight.”

He relaxed. “Lord, honey, you scared me. Let me go take a look.” He went to inspect the car.

Liza knelt on the bath mat next to Sandra. “Are you ready to wash your own hair tonight?”

“You wash it.” Sandra said it “wass.” She couldn't say the “sh.” She poured water from the measuring cup over her tummy.

Liza reached for the shampoo. “You're a big girl now. You need to learn how to wash your own hair.”

“But you love washing my hair, Mommy.”

How they knew these things. Liza squeezed shampoo on her hands and lathered Sandra's dark hair. She checked for the day's crud behind Sandra's ears and rubbed the extra suds down her back and arms. “Lie back.”

Sandra wiggled down into the water, and Liza rinsed her hair. “I love you,” Liza said.

“What?” Sandra yelled, her ears under water. Liza couldn't tell if she really couldn't hear or was just pretending.

“Never mind.”

Sandra sang a wordless song, to hear how it sounded through water. Her hair floated around her face.

Raby came back in. “It should be easy enough to fix. I can take it in tomorrow.”

“I don't want it anymore.”

He gave her a quizzical look but let her be. “It's your car.”

Down the hall, Alissa started to fuss. Raby left to check on her.

Sandra sat up, water beading over her shoulders. “Why you crying, Mommy?”

Liza reached for a towel. “I got something in my eye.”

Raby got the car fixed and found a buyer on their local radio call-in show. The morning of the day the man was supposed to pick it up, Liza watched from their front living room window as Raby polished the already spotless car. Their neighbor Mrs. Cooper walked across the street and spoke to him, and they both came toward the house.

Liza opened the front door. “Good morning, Mrs. Cooper. What can we do for you?”

Mrs. Cooper looked at Raby, confused. “I'm here to babysit.”

“She's going to watch the girls for the day, while you and me take the Sunliner to Howling Rock. One last cruise.” Raby rocked on his heels, his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. Liza could tell he was pleased with himself but also afraid she would turn him down. She wondered when she had become someone who most often said no.

“Let me get my pocketbook,” she said.

Raby drove the winding back roads to Howling Rock instead of taking the highway, to feel the power of the convertible on the curves and hills. His hands slid expertly along the steering wheel as he maneuvered the turns. “They don't make 'em like this anymore.”

“If you don't think I should sell it, I won't.”

“I'm fine with you selling it.” They crested a low mountain, and the town of Howling Rock appeared below, first the Swiss-cheese rock formation that had given Howling Rock its name, then the little tourist town itself, its shops and galleries pressed in a curve against the mountain like crowded teeth.

“But first we need to take some pictures, for posterity.” He pulled into the paved area in front of the famous outcrop, ignored the No Parking signs and parked the Sunliner right in front. The rock rose forty feet above them, ravaged with a dozen holes, the smallest the size of a basketball, the largest as big as Liza. A hundred thousand years of nature and curious hands had worn the surfaces smooth. Wind piped through the holes, the deep tones loud even with the car windows rolled up.

Raby opened the glove compartment and took out their Kodak Instamatic. They got out of the car. Liza's light coat flapped around her.

Raby backed away with the camera. “Lean against the car, Liza.”