Melody (37 page)

“You really do look a lot like your mother did when she was your age, Melody,” Cary said. “And you're just as pretty.”

I glanced at him and saw how intently he stared at me. May stood by my side as I squatted beside him. We were inches apart and the glow of the flashlight made his eyes glimmer.

“No I'm not,” I said. “I could never win a beauty contest.”

He laughed. “Sure you could, and I'm sure you will.”

“You're beginning to sound like Adam Jackson,” I said.

His warm smile evaporated. “I didn't mean to,” he snapped.

“I just meant that was the kind of thing he was telling me.”

Cary nodded and gazed down at the pictures. “Well,” he said softly, “the difference is he didn't mean it. I do.”

I kept a smile to myself as I sifted through the photographs. Under the ones I had seen before, were earlier pictures of Mommy and Daddy in boats, on the beach, on swings behind the house. Uncle Jacob was in most of the pictures, too, but he always seemed to be off to the side or even a little behind Daddy and Mommy. I found their high-school graduation pictures and could see how Mommy had developed into the beautiful woman she now was.

She was photogenic: the pictures all caught her in funny, happy poses. I imagined it was Daddy who had taken the pictures, but when I turned one of them over, a picture of Mommy in a bikini posing on the beach, I saw the initials K.C. and the date.

“What does this mean?” I asked Cary. He gazed at it a moment and then smiled.

“Oh, I bet that's Kenneth Childs. Here.” He pulled another album from the stack and searched through its pages. He pointed to a picture of a good-looking young man, his arms folded across his chest, leaning against an apple tree. His light brown hair fell loosely over his forehead and lay in long strands down the sides and back of his head. He wasn't smiling. He looked serious, almost angry. “That's him. He doesn't look all that different now. He still has long hair, only he keeps it in a ponytail.”

“He does?”

“Uh-huh. Sometimes he wears an earring.”

“I don't believe it,” I said. “Judge Childs's son?”

“Kenneth is an artist,” Cary said. “He can do whatever he wants and get away with it.”

I nodded, wide eyed. Cary flipped the pages until he found another picture of Kenneth Childs. In this one, he was at least sixteen or seventeen. He was taller, but his face hadn't changed all that much. He still had long hair and I thought I saw an earring in his left earlobe. He was dressed in a pair of jeans and just a vest with no shirt underneath it.

“Any more pictures of him?”

Cary shook his head.

“He was the one who used to take the pictures. My father told Laura and me that once.”

I stared at Kenneth's photo a moment longer. Then I gazed at the other pictures in the album. There was a really nice one of my daddy and mommy when they were in high school. They sat on a bench in a gazebo, Daddy's arm around her. She had her knees pulled up, her arms around them, and her head was back against his. There was a rose in her hair. Her face was radiant. Daddy looked as happy as I had ever seen him.

“I like this one,” I said.

“Do you?” He gazed at the photograph. “They were good looking. Why don't you just take the picture?” Cary suggested.

“Really?”

“Who's going to know?” He shrugged. I looked at May and then ripped the picture from the page.

We looked for a while longer. There were pictures of relatives I had never heard of. Finally, we came to a set of pictures of a mousy-looking woman who continually looked as if she were going to burst into tears.

“And who's this?” I asked.

“That's Grandma Olivia's younger sister,” Cary said.

“Really? I didn't see any pictures of her in the house. Does Grandma Olivia have any brothers?”

“No.”

“Where does her sister live?” I asked.

He paused as if to decide whether or not to tell me. “She's in some sort of hospital.”

“Hospital?”

“She's not—” He pointed to his temple and shook his head.

“She's in a mental hospital?”

“Yeah, I guess. She had a drinking problem and other problems. We don't talk about her much. Grandma Olivia doesn't even like anyone asking about her.”

“How terrible.”

“I guess so,” Cary said. “She was brought here for a little while years and years ago, but she couldn't handle life on the outside. I really don't know much about her,” he added.

“What's her name?” I stared at the small-featured woman holding herself as if she thought she might fall apart.

“Belinda,” Cary said.

“What a nice name. What's wrong with her?” I looked closer at the photographs. In one she looked more comfortable, even pretty. “I mean, why did she have a drinking problem and other problems? Did anyone ever mention that?” I asked.

“No, not really. I once heard my father say she laughed after everything she said and looked at every man as if he were her long-awaited prince, no matter how old or what he looked like.”

“How sad,” I said. I studied her face a moment longer and then turned the pages. I hated having to admit it, even to myself, but Grandma Olivia had been pretty when she was younger. Grandpa Samuel was always a good-looking man. As I perused these family pictures that captured moments like birthdays, parties, afternoon outings on boats and on the beach, I wondered about Mommy's childhood. There must have been happy times living in these rich, comfortable surroundings. How I
wished she had told me more about them. How I wished there had been an earlier end to the lies.

May was getting fidgety and Cary was afraid she would get dirty moving around the basement so much, so we put the pictures back. I held on to the photo of Mommy and Daddy and we left the basement. We were surprised to find the butler on the back porch, searching for us.

“Oh, there you are. Good,” he cried when he saw us coming. “I was sent to fetch you. It appears Mrs. Logan is somewhat under the weather and your father wants to take you all home.”

“Ma's sick?” Cary said. He hurried on ahead of May and me.

Aunt Sara had apparently been struck with an upset stomach, and while we were down in the basement, she had spent most of the time in the bathroom throwing up her rich, delicious supper. Uncle Jacob looked distraught and angry.

“Where have you been?” he snapped. “We're going home. Your mother's got the heaves.”

“What happened?”

“I don't know.”

A maid helped Aunt Sara from the bathroom.

“I'm sorry,” Aunt Sara wailed. “I've ruined everyone's good time. I'm sorry, Olivia,” she said from the doorway. Grandma Olivia was sitting on the settee, alone in the sitting room. The judge and Grandpa Samuel had been banished outside to smoke their cigars. Grandma Olivia had accused them and their smoke of turning Aunt Sara's stomach.

“Men and their filthy habits,” she remarked. “Get her some fresh air, Jacob.”

“Right, Ma. Say good night and thank you,” he muttered at us. Cary paused in the doorway first and did so. Then May followed, signed, and smiled. Grandma Olivia closed and opened her eyes as a response. They followed Uncle Jacob and I paused.

“What's that in your hand?” she demanded before I could utter a word. Apparently, she had eyes like an eagle.

“An old picture of my mother and father,” I replied.

“So Cary's taken you into the basement,” she said nodding. I thought she was going to become furious. That, on top of everything else, would turn Uncle Jacob into a volcano. However, Grandma Olivia just sighed deeply and shook her head. “I don't know why, but he and Laura used to love spending the most beautiful afternoons in that hole under the house.” She caught herself and grew stiff again. “You better hurry along. Sara needs to go to bed.”

“Yes, Grandma.” My heart was pounding. Cary, May, and Uncle Jacob were at the door following the maid and Aunt Sara out of the house. “I was wondering,” I said quickly, so I could hold on to my courage, “if I could come by to see you by myself.”

“See me?” She pulled her head back. “When?”

“As soon as possible. Tomorrow after school?”

She looked amused by the idea and then stiffened her lips. I was sure she was going to brush me off, but she turned toward the wall and said, “I'll be in my garden tomorrow afternoon.”

“Thank you, Grandma Olivia,” I said. “I'm sorry about Aunt Sara.” She turned back to me and I forced a smile and hurried after everyone.

Grandpa Samuel and the judge were standing off to the side watching the maid escort Aunt Sara to the car. The smoke from their cigars spiraled into the night.

“Just give her some bicarbonate, Jacob,” Grandpa Samuel said.

“That's what comes of a steady diet of plain and simple food, Jacob. Take your wife out for a restaurant meal once in a while.” the judge suggested with a grin.

“Feed her poison so she gets used to it? No thank you,” Uncle Jacob said.

The judge roared. He looked at me. “Good night,
Little Haille,” he said. “Don't forget to practice that fiddle.”

We got into the car. Aunt Sara had her head back. The maid had given her a wet cloth to put over her forehead.

“I'm sorry, Jacob,” she said. “It just all started bubbling in my stomach.”

“Let's not talk about it, Sara. It will only make it worse.” He drove home as quickly as he could.

For the whole ride back, May sat forward holding Aunt Sara's hand and looking concerned. Cary tried signing that she would be all right, but May remained near tears until we got Aunt Sara into the house and into bed.

Finally, my aunt's color returned and she told us she was more comfortable. She kept apologizing to Uncle Jacob, who finally said it was all right. He thought the food was too rich and admitted he had a hard time holding it down himself.

“Get some sleep now,” he declared. May kissed her mother good night and we left the bedroom.

“I'm just going to listen to some news on the radio,” Uncle Jacob told Cary. “See that your sister gets to bed.”

“Aye,” Cary said. He turned to me and I helped him get May into her room and calmed enough to go to sleep. Afterward, we paused awkwardly in the hall.

“I wonder what happened to the whale on the beach,” I said.

“Let's change and go see,” he suggested.

About ten minutes later, both of us were in jeans and sneakers.

“Where are you going?” Uncle Jacob called from the living room.

“To see about that beached whale,” Cary said. “Be right back.”

“Make sure you are,” Uncle Jacob warned.

We hurried out of the house and over the beach. The absence of a crowd of people indicated something had occurred. When we drew nearer, we saw the whale was gone.

“Coast guard must have come and dragged her out to sea,” Cary said.

“Think it's all right?” I gazed over the dark water.

“Either she swam off or sank where they unhitched her,” he commented with characteristic Cape Cod bluntness.

“At least she won't be victimized by cruel people.”

“Yeah,” he said. Even in the darkness, I could feel his eyes on me. “You sure look a lot like your mother in those pictures.”

“Thank you,” I muttered, looking down at the sand. Then I took a deep breath of the fresh salt air. “I guess I'll catch up on my reading for social studies,” I said.

“Catch up? I bet you mean go ahead.”

“Something like that,” I confessed, and he laughed. “I'll try to see all your teachers and get them to give me your work so you don't fall behind.”

“Whatever,” he said.

We started back to the house. I walked with my arms folded over my breasts, my head down. Above us, the night sky burst with stars, but I felt afraid to look up, afraid I would be hypnotized and spend all night standing on the beach.

“Say,” Cary said, “would you . . . would you like to see my model ships?”

“Up in the attic?”

He nodded.

“Sure.”

When we entered the house, we heard a voice on the radio droning about sin and damnation. Both of us peeked into the living room and saw Uncle Jacob slouched down in his chair, asleep, and snoring almost as loudly as the radio. Cary put his finger on his lips and smiled. We walked up the stairway quietly and he pulled down the ladder to the attic.

“Careful,” he said as I started up after him. He reached down to help me make the last few steps.

It was smaller than I had thought. On my earlier quick
look, I hadn't seen how the roof slanted on both sides of the room. He had a table on which he worked on his model ships. The completed ships were lined up on a half dozen shelves. It looked as if he had done a hundred or so different models. To the right was a cot and on the left were boxes and sea chests.

“Careful,” he said when I stood up, “Watch your head.” The roof slanted sharply, so I had to move forward to stand up straight. “This,” he said, going to the shelves, “is my historical section. They go left to right chronologically. This is an Egyptian ship.” He lifted it gingerly and held it in front of me. “About three thousand
B.C
. It has a double mast, joined at the top, from which the sails are hung.”

He put it back and lifted another.

“This is Phoenician. They were better shipbuilders. It's called the round boat, one of the first to depend mostly on sails rather than oars, and as you can see, it has a larger cargo space.”

I saw how serious he was when he talked about his ships. His face filled with enthusiasm and brightened. His voice was full of energy and he talked so fast and so much, I was overwhelmed, but I tried to keep up.

He went through the Greek and Roman models, showed me a Norse vessel that he said was used to invade England. He had even constructed a Chinese junk. He said that although it was still used, it lacked three components regarded as fundamental to ships: a keel and stem and stern posts. He lectured and illustrated everything on his models, but I saw that he was most proud of his sailing ships.