C
harlie’s mother sat cross-legged on the living room floor, her nightgown pulled over her knees, a spill of photographs scattered across the faded carpet. Years later he would remember the sound of the scissors’ blades gnawing into the glossy paper, his little sister Jody wailing in the background, the determined look on their mother’s face.
She had been drinking; her teeth were stained blue from the wine. She worked methodically, the tip of her tongue peeping out the corner of her mouth. The defaced photos she stacked in a neat pile: Christmases, family picnics, Fourths of July, each with a jagged oval where his father’s face had been. One by one she slid the photos back into their frames. She climbed unsteadily to her feet and placed the frames back on the mantelpiece, the sideboard table, the naked hooks dotting the cracked plaster wall.
“Better,” she said under her breath. She took Jody by the hand and led her into the kitchen. Charlie dropped to his knees and picked through the pile of trash on the floor. He made a pile of his father’s heads, some smiling, some wearing a cap or sunglasses. He
filled his pockets with the tiny heads and scrabbled out the back door.
His father was there and then he wasn’t. A long time ago he’d taken them to church. Charlie could remember being lifted onto the hard pew, the large freckled hand covering his entire back. He remembered playing with the gold watchband peeking out from under his father’s sleeve, and the red imprint it left on the skin underneath.
His father had a special way of eating. He rolled back the cuffs of his shirt, then buttered two slices of bread and placed them on either side of the plate. Finally he mixed all his food into a big pile—peas, roast, mashed potatoes—and ate loudly, the whole meal in a few minutes. Charlie had tried mixing his own food together, but found himself unable to eat it; the foods disgusted him once they touched, and his mother got mad at the mess on his plate.
His father made pancakes, and sucked peppermints, and whistled when he drove them in the car. On the floor of his closet, he kept a coffee can full of change. Each night lying in bed, Charlie would wait for the sound of his father emptying his pockets into the can, nickels and dimes landing with recognizable sounds, some tinny, some dry and dusty. It was always the last thing that happened. Once he heard the coins fall, Charlie would go to sleep.
B
irdie was unwell. It was mid-morning when she opened her eyes, the room filled with sunlight. She rolled over and felt a sharp pain over her right eye. The other side of the bed was still made, the pillow tucked neatly under the chenille spread. She had remained a considerate sleeper, as if her sleeping self hadn’t yet figured out that the whole bed was hers alone.
She lay there a moment, blinking. She had been dreaming of her childhood. In the dream she was small, younger than Charlie; she and Curtis Mabry, the housekeeper’s son, had hidden in the laundry hampers. “You nearly give me a heart attack,” said the housekeeper when she discovered them. “You’re lucky I don’t tell your mother.”
Through the thin walls she heard movement, the bright tinkling music of morning cartoons. She lifted herself out of bed, her nylon nightgown clinging to her back. In the living room the children looked up from the television.
“Mummy,” Jody squealed, springing off the couch and running to hug her leg. She wore shortie pajamas, printed with blue daisies.
Birdie wondered for a moment who’d dressed the child for bed. She couldn’t remember doing it herself.
“Can I go outside?” said Charlie. He lay sprawled on the rug, too close to the television.
“May I go outside
please,
” she corrected him. “Yes, you may.”
He scrambled to his feet, already in socks and sneakers. The screen door spanked shut behind him. Birdie unwrapped Jody’s small arms from her leg. “Let me get you some breakfast,” she said. The children seemed to lie in wait for her, to ambush her the moment she crawled out of bed, full of energy and raging needs. At such times it could be altogether too much—her stomach squeezed, the sign of a rough morning ahead—for one person.
She took Jody into the kitchen. It was a point of pride for Birdie: her kitchen was always immaculate. The room simply wasn’t used. She hadn’t cooked in weeks, hadn’t shopped except for brief trips to Beckwith’s corner store, to buy wine and overpriced loaves of bread.
She found the box in the cupboard and poured the cereal into Jody’s plastic bowl, decorated with pictures of a cartoon cat. She opened the refrigerator and a sour smell floated into the kitchen. The milk had spoiled.
“Oops,” she said, smiling brightly. She ought to pour it down the drain, but the very thought of sour milk turned her stomach; she left the carton where it was. She eyed the wine bottle corked with a paper napkin. Beside it an unopened bottle, the one she hadn’t got to last night. She closed the door.
“Looks like it’s toast for us,” she said. She put two slices of bread in the toaster. She hadn’t finished the bottle, so why did she feel so wretched? On Sunday night she’d had two full bottles, and not so much as a headache when she woke the next morning.
The toast popped, the sound a jolt to her heart. Perhaps she hadn’t overindulged, just consumed unwisely. She’d already learned that red wine hit her hardest, that a small meal—toast or crackers—cushioned the stomach and allowed her to drink more. Beyond that, the workings of alcohol were still a mystery. It seemed to hit her harder at certain times in her monthly cycle; why, she couldn’t imagine. She wondered if this were true for other women. She had no one to ask. Her mother was dead, and anyway had never touched anything stronger than lemonade. Her father’s new wife probably did drink, but Birdie couldn’t imagine talking to Helen about this or anything else.
“Butter?” Jody asked.
“Sorry, button.” Birdie spread the bread with grape jelly and thought of the wine.
She would have been married eight years that Tuesday.
T
HEIR HOUSE
sat back to back with the Raskins’ house; a tall hedge marked the border between the two yards. Charlie stepped through a bare spot in the hedge and cut through the Raskins’ backyard; then he crossed the street to the Hogans’. Mr. Hogan had already left for work. A single light burned in the kitchen window. Out back the Hogans’ dog, Queenie, snored in her pen. Next door the Fleurys’ German shepherd barked wildly—he barked at anything that moved—but Queenie didn’t even stir. She was an old, fat dog, collie and something else. A heavy chain hung from her collar. Charlie wondered why the Hogans bothered. He couldn’t imagine Queenie going anywhere.
He tiptoed toward the pen, where Queenie’s bowl was filled with kibble. The nuggets were still crunchy. Later in the day they
would be soft from sitting out in the heat. He filled his pockets with the kibble. He felt bad stealing from the Hogans, but Queenie was fat and lazy. Anyone could see she had too much food already.
From the Hogans’ he went through the Arnetts’ yard and into the woods. The path ran along a shallow stream. Earlier that spring a gang of older boys had built a dam there. He’d been watching the dam for weeks to see if more mud and sticks and rocks were being added. One of the gang, a mean, freckled boy named Jeffrey, had moved away; Charlie had seen the truck drive up to Jeffrey’s house at the bottom of the hill. Since then the boys had neglected the dam. Charlie hoped that if he watched and waited long enough, they would forget the dam completely and it would be his.
He knew about moving. When he was little they’d moved to Richmond from Missouri. He remembered the kitchen full of boxes, his mother wrapping dishes in layers of newspaper. His father had driven the truck. Charlie had sat next to him on a box of books.
There had been no truck when his father went away, no boxes of dishes and newspaper that Charlie saw. He wasn’t there when his father left. He was riding the bus to Pappy’s house with Mama and Jody. When they came back his father was gone. Charlie was six then, had since turned seven. His father hadn’t come back for his birthday. He hadn’t come back at all.
He followed the creek upstream, to where six big rocks lay end to end, making a bridge across the stream. If he was careful he could cross without getting his sneakers wet. He’d always wondered if somebody had made the bridge, carried the heavy rocks to the middle of the stream, or if they’d simply been there forever.
On the other side he ran downstream to where the ground got swampy under his feet. He crossed the swamp to the empty house—old,
falling down, its windows covered with boards. Under the front porch lived a mother dog and her four puppies. He’d found the puppies when they were just born, silky, mouselike things with pinkish eyes and small, slick heads, snuggled in close to their mother’s belly. He visited them every day.
He ran around to the front of the house. “Here, boys,” he called softly. The black puppy, the friendliest one and Charlie’s favorite, came first.
He reached into his pocket for a piece of kibble. The puppy came to him and mouthed it, its moist tongue sliding over his palm.
T
HE THING
to do was make a list. In the past Birdie would write down everything: milk, hamburger meat, potatoes. Her husband would drive her to the A&P and walk down the aisles with her and they would talk about the prices of things; he’d lived on a farm as a boy and knew what was in season. Afterward he’d carry the bags into the house and place cans and boxes on the shelves; she’d separate the Green Stamps the cashier had given her and paste them into books. She had saved Green Stamps for years, redeemed them for a carpet sweeper, an egg timer she kept by the stove.
She’d kept busy then. She’d cooked his breakfast.
Eggs,
she wrote carefully.
Bacon.
She’d read to the children and made their lunches.
Cheese slices. Tomato soup.
While the baby slept she would dust or sweep or wash clothes.
Oxydol. Clorox bleach.
Every few days she’d wash two dozen diapers; the new disposables were too expensive, her husband said. After the laundry she’d start dinner. It seemed impossible, now, that she’d ever done so many things in a day.
Birdie looked at her list, written in wavy letters on the back of an envelope. The ink had begun to smear onto her sweaty hands. The complexity of the plan overwhelmed her: the driving across town, the finding of things in the bright aisles, the carrying of heavy bags from carport to kitchen. She sat for a moment with her head in her hands, her eyes leaking tears.
Jody appeared in the doorway. “Whata matter, Mummy?”
Birdie rubbed her eyes. “Nothing, button.”
“What did you got on your face?”
Birdie peered at her reflection in the toaster. Her eyes seemed too far apart, her face round and flat as a dinner plate. There were splotches of bright blue around the eyes and mouth. She rubbed her face with sweaty fingers. Her hands were spotted blue, as with some rare disease.
“It must be this ink pen.” She got to her feet and tossed the pen in the trash. She noticed then that Jody wore nothing but a diaper, and was suddenly ashamed. What kind of mother was she, letting her child run around the house half naked? What if someone should come to the door? What if—she tried to stop the thought, but couldn’t—he should come back?
“Let’s get some clothes on you.” She drained her glass and passed through the living room. Charlie had come back and lay sprawled before the television. The children’s room was a true disaster: toys scattered across the floor, tiny socks and underpants, small muddy footprints on the worn yellow carpet. She found Jody a clean sundress and ran a comb through her soft curly hair. She would take her children to the store, where she would locate the items on her list. People did this every day.
Birdie went to the dresser in her bedroom and took the envelope
from the bottom drawer. Inside were four twenty-dollar bills, the last of the money her husband had left. She folded one of the bills and tucked it into her pocket.
“Charlie,” she called. “Turn off the television. We’re going to the store.”
T
HE CAR
was sweltering inside. Jody wailed when Birdie placed her on the black vinyl seat.
“Hot!” she cried.
“I know, button,” said Birdie. Sweat bubbled up from her scalp and trickled down her forehead; she swiped it away with the back of her wrist. She felt a raging thirst. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d driven the car. Weeks? Months? The hood stretched eternally in front of her. She felt like the captain of a large ship. Ahoy, she thought, turning the key in the ignition.
Nothing happened.
“It’s just been setting awhile,” she said to Charlie’s serious eyes in the rearview mirror, his father’s eyes watching her. She pumped the gas pedal a few times and turned the key again. The engine sputtered, but wouldn’t turn over.
“Goodness,” said Birdie.
“Why won’t it go?” said Charlie.
“Child, I don’t know.” It was not a complicated operation, starting a car. She couldn’t imagine what she’d done wrong. Again she turned the key and pumped the gas. From somewhere in the back of her head, she heard her husband’s voice:
Don’t flood the engine.
But it was too late; the car refused to start.
They climbed out of the car. Birdie noticed two bags of garbage
waiting at the curb. For the second week in a row, the trash collector had forgotten her house.
“We’ll walk to Beckwith’s,” she said. “Let me go get my handcart.”
She left the children sitting on the stoop. Inside, she took the half bottle of wine from the refrigerator and drained it in several gulps. She located the handcart in the kitchen closet and wheeled it onto the porch.
B
ECKWITH’S WAS EMPTY
that afternoon. The front door was propped open. A ceiling fan stirred up a limp breeze, the sweet dirty smell of baked goods and cigar smoke.
“Miz Kimble.” Beckwith nodded from behind the counter. He was a stooped, indoorsy man, his skin and hair and eyes the same shade of gray, as if he’d been dipped in ash.
“Good morning,” said Birdie. She’d already rehearsed it in her mind, how she’d go straight to the back of the store where the bottles of wine were arranged on a dusty shelf. She pretended to deliberate for a moment, then placed four bottles in the basket of the handcart.
“Having a party, ma’am?” said Beckwith.
Birdie kept her back to him.
“Why, yes,” she said vaguely. She hated this man: his dirty little store, his tiny eyes that followed a person around the room. He was a gossip and so was his wife, a fat, slow-witted woman who sat in the front pew at church, arms resting on the shelf of her belly, the better to show her damp armpits to the entire congregation. Birdie pushed her cart down the aisle, trying to remember what else to buy. She picked up teabags, a tube of hand cream, a small jar
of green olives. What else? she thought. She remembered the list and scrabbled through her pocketbook. When she found it, it was all but useless, the ink smeared; she could make out only a few words.
Chicken thighs,
she read.
Hamburger meat.
Well, that was a lost cause. Beckwith’s hamburger was fifty cents a pound, shot through with fat and brown around the edges. You’d be hard-pressed to find sorrier hamburger in all of Richmond.
“Have you got any chicken thighs?” she asked.
“Just the whole.” Beckwith pointed to the freezer case, where two small pale fryers sat wrapped in frosty plastic.
Birdie examined the chickens, her breath clouding the glass door. She felt light-headed, slightly unwell. She had always disliked cooking whole chickens, which looked entirely too much like what they were. A wave of nausea rushed though her. She leaned her forehead against the cool glass.
“You all right, ma’am?” said Beckwith.
“I’m fine,” she murmured. “The heat.”
“It’s a hot one,” said Beckwith. She wished he would disappear into the back room and do whatever shopkeepers did back there. Instead he watched as though she were some kind of criminal, as if there were anything in the sad little store worth stealing. She reached into the freezer and placed a fryer in her handcart. She was dimly aware of the children quarreling somewhere behind her.
“No!” said a small voice. Birdie turned in time to see Charlie wrench a jar of pickles from Jody’s hands. Jody squealed with outrage. The jar broke loudly on the cement floor.