Eleanor (11 page)

“They used to burn witches,” she said. “Still do.”

“Not in this country,” he said. “Things change, Eleanor. For the better in this case. We don't kill witches any more. That was hundreds of years ago.”

“Sulfur Springs, Arizona, 1962. A group of Navajo led by a medicine man attacked and murdered a family in their home because they said they were witches.”

“Is that what you put in your paper that pissed off Mrs. Hart?” he asked.

She shrugged and pulled her hat down over her ears. The cold didn't bother her, but she felt her ears glow red with rage from the topic, and didn't want David to see it.

“Well,” David said after a minute. “I'm not that way.”

“No, you're not,” conceded Eleanor.

Still holding hands, they walked quietly. Eleanor relaxed and squeezed David's hand through her mitten. He squeezed back. She liked that.

“You know,” he said at her gate. “I got an A- on the chemistry final. I saw yours. You got a B.”

“The student becomes the teacher,” she said.

“The teacher tanked the test,” he said.

She shrugged. “Better a B on the test than a BB in the eye,” she said.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

E
leanor and Tabitha spent a quiet Thanksgiving at home. Tabitha's sickness diminished her by the day, but she kept up her morale by rereading her favorite books and just watching Eleanor carry on with the daily chores.

Eleanor roasted a chicken, and made stuffing and the instant
mashed potatoes with cheese they both liked. She opened a can of jellied cranberries and left it standing upright like a monolith on the saucer.

Seated around their little table, their games put aside, Tabitha said a prayer before Eleanor cut into the chicken.

“Thank you, God, for all you've done for me and my lovely little girl. Thanks for making her kind. Watch over her when I'm gone. Amen.”

“Aren't you supposed to say something about the food?” Eleanor asked.

“Nah, the food's got a great and certain future. It's you I worry about.”

At times, Tabitha would glance at Eleanor, and she would catch the look, the sad forlorn helplessness of a mother knowing she won't be there when she's needed. Tabitha would look away instantly. The future was a sad subject for her mother. Though she'd often be the one to bring it up, Tabitha would get misty at even a discussion of next summer's trip, let alone plans for graduation or jobs or colleges. It frightened Eleanor. She smelled the death inside her mother, tasted it in the air she breathed, knew it grew stronger, that wicked thing inside of her, and, like her mother, often fell into sullen hopelessness.

“Is Mrs. Hart still riding you?” Tabitha asked.

“I don't know,” Eleanor said. “She only called on me once yesterday.”

“That's once more than she used to. What was the question?”

“Something about the metaphor of snow in
To Build a Fire.”

“It's cold and puts out fires,” her mother said.

“You'd think so, but apparently it has something to do with industrial dehumanization.”

“That's a stretch,” Tabitha said, moving her chicken around her plate.

“I thought so, but didn't say it.”

“Don't let her get to you. She's just focusing her guilt for a while. It'll pass.”

“Yeah, it's getting better already,” Eleanor lied.

After dinner, Eleanor put the leftovers away and served pumpkin pie with whipped cream.

“This is too much,” Tabitha said.

“They were on sale,” Eleanor bragged. “I picked it up this morning. They were way over-baked. They were only two dollars.”

“Still so much more than I can eat. I'm so full.” She'd only had a spoonful of mashed potatoes, a taste of cranberries, and a sliver of chicken Eleanor had cut for her and later scraped into the bin.

“We'll have it later,” Eleanor said. “Let our food settle first.”

The two curled up together on the sofa and watched three hours of commercials interrupted occasionally with a James Bond movie. Tabitha was tired by nine. Between the food and her pills, she fought to stay awake.

“Have you heard anything more about Halloween?” she asked, blinking her eyes after stifling a yawn.

It was just a conversation piece, one that Tabitha had thrown out every day after that night. At first her tone was concerned and scared, but over the weeks, her interest had softened to curiosity and gossip. She'd been furious at Eleanor for what she'd done, but couldn't stay mad at her. Eleanor had been in a terrible state, and the frail woman put aside the cause for the cure with the trained efficacy of a seasoned nurse. They'd worked through the time together and now only feared the aftermath.

“You know,” Eleanor answered evasively.

“What is it, Eleanor? You're holding something back. I can tell. What happened?”

“It's nothing. Gossipy people. Small town.”

“Eleanor what did you hear?”

She snuggled closer to her mother, smelling the fresh-scented dryer sheet in her clothes, her clean skin, and the death lurking beneath it.

“There was a waitress at Cowboy Bob's,” Eleanor said. “She was at the grocery. She recognized me. I heard her talking to her friends about seeing me at the truck stop that night.”

“What were they saying?” Tabitha lowered the volume on a swerving SUV commercial. Eleanor was grateful she hadn't muted it.

“She was speculating why I was there, with Dwight.”

“And what did she conclude?”

“That I needed money,” Eleanor said quietly.

“Oh, dear,” Tabitha said.

“It's okay, Mom. It's just talk,” she said. But Eleanor knew the danger. When she'd heard the talk in the grocery store, she'd frozen and ducked behind her cart. She was alone in the aisle—the gossipers were three aisles over with the bread—but she could hear them, and they were talking about her. They suspected—no, accused—her of promiscuity and low morals.

“Poverty,” one of them had said. “It was only a matter of time. I bet her mother put her up to it. You know, I hear she's a heroin addict. That's why she never leaves the house anymore.”

“It's always the quiet ones you have to worry about. My little Penelope would never sink so low. She's saving herself. She's never even kissed a boy.”

That was a lie. Eleanor knew Penelope. When she wasn't throwing up her lunch in the bathroom, she promenaded through the halls in tube tops and traded spit with a senior named Trent in the parking lot.

“Why don't they take that girl out of that household and into a foster home or an orphanage?”

“It's too late,” said another. “I think it'll have to be prison now. No reforming that kind.”

“Shameful. Two in the morning you say?”

“She practically sat in his lap. He bought her food. I saw him let her into his truck.”

“Why didn't you call the police or something?” asked Penelope's mother.

“Not my business. I'm not a busybody.”

“Are you sure it was her?” asked the other.

“Ninety-nine percent,” answered the waitress.

“Well, someone should be told. I think I'll write a letter.”

Once out of the store, halfway across the parking lot, Eleanor threw up. She hadn't eaten much. The morning's toast, jam, tea, and sugar spewed out of her quickly until black bile choked in her neck.

Tabitha looked like she was about to throw up herself.

“Don't worry, Momma. She wasn't a hundred percent sure it was me.”

Eleanor didn't speak of it again. She checked out
Anne of Green Gables
from the library and read it to her mother in the winter afternoons while snow blew in circles outside. It was a
nice weekend. Eleanor cleaned the house, made food, answered
the mail—bills and junk mail—and doted on her mother like she was a queen. Late Sunday night when Tabitha got out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom for her pills, Eleanor was there with a cup of water and the tablets. Her mother thanked her and let her help her back to bed. Eleanor went up to her room and listened as Tabitha tossed herself into a fitful sleep.

The next week, Eleanor sensed something had changed. Voices hushed when she appeared. She caught glances and stares and felt a thickening and twisting rope in her stomach. She hid behind her hair, slumped, and hurriedly moved between classrooms.

Late in the week, Mrs. Hart was taken sick, so a substitute set them to quiet reading. Eleanor caught snippets of whispered conversation.

“What a whore,” someone said.

“Always the quiet ones,” said another.

“Poor David,” said someone else.

The looks and whispers didn't stop. If David heard them, he showed no signs of it affecting him. He sat with her as usual at lunch.

“So you know what tonight is?” he asked her. They sat together alone. David's friends had chosen other seats that week.

“Friday night fights on HBO?” Eleanor suggested.

“Yes, exactly,” he teased. “But strangely enough, it is also the first day you can ask someone out to prom.”

The winter prom was two weeks away. Eleanor had noticed the posters and banners all over school but hadn't thought twice about them. Now she did.

“What are you saying?'

“I'm saying no one can ask anyone else out to the prom before midnight tonight. According to the rules, twelve-oh-one is the first minute someone can be asked out. Not a second before, or it doesn't count.”

Eleanor blinked at him.

“Kind of interesting don't you think?” he said.

“Yeah, sure,” she said. “Stampede to Barbara's house then?” She'd overheard Barbara whisper about David to her friends. Barbara knew he was going to ask her to prom but didn't know how to respond.

David laughed. “I guess there might be.”

“Advantage to have a car,” Eleanor said. “Juniors and seniors get first pick.”

“I hadn't thought of that,” David said.

“Hurmph,” snorted Eleanor. “How's Wens?”

“She's good,” he said.

“What's wrong?” Eleanor said, sensing a lie.

“What?” said David. He shook his head. “You can see through me that easily?”

Eleanor nodded. He smiled.

“She's having a hard time. Mom got moved to days. There's no one to watch her. Mom had to put her in Percy's Preschool. She hates it.”

Percy's Preschool was a house with faded plastic play equipment in the backyard and a hand-painted sign out front. Mrs. Percy lived in a back room of the house and paid two girls to help her look after fifteen or so kids for ten hours a day.

“Isn't she making friends?” Eleanor asked.

“Not yet. She's sulking. The extra money Mom's getting barely covers the cost. But at least she's getting some sleep now.”

“She works hard,” Eleanor said.

“And worries about Wendy all the time,” he said. “If she worried about me half as much as she does her . . .” He trailed off.

“What?”

“I don't know,” he said. “It's like I could go missing for a week, and she wouldn't notice I was gone until she needed a babysitter for Wendy. She's my mother, too, you know. I mean, I love Wendy; it's not her fault. It's Mom's.”

“Maybe she doesn't worry about you because she doesn't have to,” Eleanor said.

“She doesn't have to worry about Wendy either, but she does.”

Eleanor sipped her milk and tried to read David's expression.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” he said. “You do—you brought it up.”

“I'm sorry,” she said.

“No, no. I'm sorry,” he said. “Mom got a letter from Dad. He's being moved forward to some tiny town. Mom looked it up. It's pretty dangerous. She's just tense.”

“She yelled at you?”

“She's just tense,” he said.

With the soccer field frozen, Mr. Blake's P.E. class turned to basketball. He divided up the class into four teams and went over some basics before setting them to play. Eleanor was too short to be very helpful, but she could dribble where few others could. She was made a guard and ran up and down the court with the ball. She'd throw it to whoever yelled the loudest. No one, except the in-bounder, ever passed it to her.

After class, Eleanor changed out of her gym clothes and waited for the others to leave. The snippets of conversations she caught were not about her. She wondered if the novelty of her slander had finally worn off.

Midge was waiting for Eleanor when she stepped out of the changing booth. Eleanor was surprised to see her. She hadn't sensed the girl's presence. Midge sat on the bench, her book bag on her lap. Over the fragrances of industrial soap and designer shampoo from the shower, Eleanor smelled an open bag of Cheetos hidden in Midge's bag.

Midge and Eleanor had never been friends. Neither really had any. Midge was ostracized because of her weight. Even when she lost a few pounds, she was always referred to as “the fat girl” behind her back. Eventually, she'd stopped trying to be anything else and accepted her lonely position. She snuck food from the cafeteria and stole mouthfuls between classes. For years Eleanor and Midge passed each other in the halls like distant sailboats on the same lonely voyage with a wave and a hello and a parting of the ways until next time.

“Hi, Eleanor,” Midge said.

“Hi, Midge. You okay?”

The big girl nodded. “Yeah, I'm okay.”

“Good,” said Eleanor.

“I heard something, though. I thought I should tell you.”

Eleanor tensed. “What?”

“I heard some talk. Some ugly talk about you, and I thought you should know what everyone's saying.”

“What are they saying?”

Midge looked around to make sure they were alone. Eleanor listened and smelled and knew they were.

“I don't usually tattle on people you know. People sometimes talk in front of me like I wasn't there. I usually don't care or even think about anything, but I thought you should know about this.”

“What?”

“Some girls are saying,” she said slowly, picking her words like Bingo numbers, “that you slept with a guy at the truck stop so he'd beat up Russell Liddle and his friends on Halloween.”