Darling Girl Read online

  © 2018 Terry H. Watkins

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  ISBN: 978-1-7322662-4-7

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  CHAPTER ONE

  1957 — Gone

  I AM FIVE YEARS OLD the first time my mama goes away. Gramma stands in my mama’s place outside Immaculate Conception, squinting in the summer sunlight. She’s got the baby, Samuel Taylor, on one hip, and my other brother, Henry David, hangs off her right arm.

  “Where’s my mama?” I ask her. “Are we getting another baby? We really need a girl this time!”

  Gramma doesn’t answer, just gets that look all my grownups get sometimes. She turns and nods toward the black Desoto with the sweeping fins, parked partway up on the curb. My daddy says Grampa doesn’t know to stop unless he runs into something. You can hardly see Grampa’s head over the steering wheel.

  I love Grampa’s car. He calls it Liz, or sometimes Titsloren, which makes my mama punch him on the arm and say, “Not in front of her,” which means me. The car gleams, because he washes it every day and shoe-polishes the whitewalls. Inside, it’s red—my favorite color, even if it does clash with my red hair, which isn’t really red, more orange. I need to ask Grampa what whorehouse means, because that’s what my daddy says whenever he sees that car. I think maybe Grampa will let me drive, so I run around to his window and lean in. He’s already scooting back the seat just enough to squeeze me in.

  Gramma puts the baby in the port-a-crib in the back seat. Henry David crawls up on the window ledge in back to stretch out. I can’t believe he rides like that even when it’s this hot, but you can’t tell him anything. Gramma gets in and slams the door a little harder than you really have to to get it to close. Grampa looks at her over the rims of his little round sunglasses but just says, “Olivia,” in his don’t voice. Grampa’s car doesn’t have a regular PRNDL handle, so I push the D button, and off we go.

  Grampa gives directions and works the pedals since I can’t reach, but I do all the really hard work, like steering and staying inside the lines and ducking when the deputy rolls by in his patrol car. I tell Grampa when to slow down or go fast— which I don’t, hardly ever—and when he needs to start braking. He says, “Good girl!” when I get it right and “Are you sure?” when I don’t, and he never, ever yells at me. Sweat rolls down the backs of my legs from the bend in my knees, but there’s a breeze through the open windows, so it’s not really like an oven like Gramma says.

  We turn right at the last corner, which means we’re going to the Tastee Freez instead of straight home. Now I’m sure it’s a new baby, because we always go the Tastee Freez when they’re picking out a new baby. I can’t wait to tell my daddy when he gets home. We get out of the Desoto to eat our ice cream, because nobody ever eats anything in Grampa’s car. He asks me about vacation Bible school. Me and Grampa wonder if the sisters don’t get real hot in their getups. I think they should at least have short-sleeved ones for summer, or maybe some other color instead of black, and Grampa says I ought to tell Mother Superior that. Gramma spills her ice cream on the baby, which makes him cry, and she says, “Good heavens, Edwin!” and then it’s time to go. I let Grampa drive by himself this time so I can sit in the back and hang my head out the window to catch the breeze.

  Gramma and Grampa are fussing in the front seat, which is something they always do when they think nobody’s listening. I’m always listening, even when I’m not supposed to be. They are talking about “someplace nice,” “getting help,” and “he’s her problem”—stuff that doesn’t make any sense, but that I save for when it will. Gramma keeps looking back to make sure I’m not paying attention, and I keep looking out the car window.

  At Gramma’s house, Grampa’s already set up the wading pool, and after he scoops out the drowned ants, me and Henry David strip down to our underpants and splash all the water out quick as we can. Grampa chases us around the yard with the hose, threatening all kinds of stuff we know he’ll never do. After he refills the pool, Grampa pulls up his lawn chair, putting his feet in the pool and the baby between his feet. We all mostly just loll around. We’re careful not to get Samuel Taylor’s face wet, or he’ll cry, and that’ll just bring Gramma down on us and then we’ll all have to take a nap.

  Mostly, I’m hoping that Gramma brought my new dress to wear to the hospital and all the petticoats that go with it, and that she remembered to bring ties for the boys, even if she thinks it’s silly to put ties on little boys. My daddy’s real particular about how we look when we go out with him, and I don’t ever want to disappoint my daddy.

  When I’m all pruned up, I ask Grampa, “When are we going?”

  “Going where?” he replies in his not-really-paying-attention voice, twisting Samuel Taylor’s wet hair into curls.

  “To the hospital, Grampa!” Sometimes, you gotta remind him about stuff, because his mind just wanders off. Grampa scoops up the baby and scoots real fast across the yard, hollering “Olivia!” in his come-here-right-now voice. Gramma opens the screen door, wipes her hands on her apron, and says it’s time for a nap and she can’t believe he let us run around out there half-naked for the whole world to see.

  Gramma drags me inside and stands me up on the toilet seat lid to brush and re-braid my hair while Grampa puts the boys down. She’s not real careful about the tangles like my mama is. But Gramma’s much better at keeping up with things than Grampa, so I ask her, “When are we going to the hospital?”

  Gramma stops braiding for just a minute, and it gets real quiet. She says, “We’re not going to any hospital.”

  “But who’s gonna pick out the new baby? If we let my daddy do it, he’ll just get us another boy.”

  “Good heavens! The things you say! The last thing your mother needs is another baby! That’s not where your father is.” She’s braiding my hair real tight now and jerking my head back a little while she does, but she doesn’t mean to. Gramma’s just excitable.

  “Well, where are they then? We didn’t get the map out. We always get the map out.” They go away a lot, my mama and my daddy. We always get the map out so I know where they’ll be, and can worry about the right stuff—like alligators if it’s Florida, or avalanches if it’s Minnesota, or earthquakes if it’s California, or seat cushions that float if it’s Havana. A
nd I still worry about that one all the time, because not one of the chair cushions I put in the pool ever floated, not even for a minute.

  Gramma turns me around to face her and tucks some short stray hairs behind my ears where I cut bangs when I shouldn’t have. I cut Henry David’s hair, too, but nobody seems to care that somebody’s hair has to get cut when you’re playing Beauty Parlor. Hair just grows right back anyway. Now, even the fingernail scissors stay in the drawer unless I have a really good reason, like paper dolls and a grownup who’s looking right at me when they say it’s okay.

  Gramma’s looking right at me now, and I start worrying that there’s something else, something new I did that I need to have a good excuse about in case she asks. Finally, she says, “Your father will be home for dinner. He hasn’t gone anywhere.” Well, that’s good because I’m all out of excuses for stuff I’ve done, but now my mind is racing around for the right question: the one she’ll answer.

  Everybody always says I just blurt out whatever I’m thinking, but that’s not true. I think lots of stuff nobody knows about, like how come I don’t stutter in my head, and how will we know if Henry David stutters, too, if he doesn’t ever talk, and why the boys all have two names and I don’t even have one. I’m real careful about what I say on account of sometimes it makes my mama cry, and where is my mama? She never goes anywhere alone. I don’t even think I’ve ever seen my mama alone. If I ask that, will Gramma answer?

  She’s already moving down the hall, saying, “Let’s look at pictures,” which is just about my favorite thing to do in the whole world, so I don’t ask. Dead relatives and Gramma as a flapper fill cardboard boxes kept under the bed.

  Later, Gramma plays the piano, and we sing “Dead in the Coach Ahead” and “I’m Only a Bird in a Gilded Cage.” Grampa, who doesn’t sing, recites a poem, “Little Willie,” and Gramma says “Oh, Ned,” in her aggravated voice, which is practically her only voice. We have wienies and macaroni and cheese for dinner because that’s Henry David’s favorite, but my daddy still doesn’t come home, and then it’s time for bed.

  They put us down in the back bedroom, the one that’s really mine, since I stay there when I come on vacation, which is different from just coming over to spend the night. Henry David is nearest the wall, Samuel Taylor in the middle so he won’t roll off and break like our cousin Amy did, and me on the outside, because sometimes I get up in the middle of the night to make sure everything’s all right. The boys go to sleep right away, but I stay awake listening for my daddy’s car and hearing crickets and neighbors laughing and music far away….

  …And loud voices in the front room. I must have fallen asleep, and it’s probably real late. I can’t tell who Gramma’s yelling at, so after I check to make sure the boys are still breathing, I crawl out of bed and tiptoe down the long hall toward the front room. I wonder if the places where the floorboards meet are like cracks in the sidewalk, because I sure don’t want to break anybody’s back, especially not my mama’s.

  My daddy leans up against the wall, and Gramma’s got her back up like a cat and she’s hissing “…your fault…” at my daddy. I can tell she’s winding up to give him a piece of her mind, so I better save him. I take a running jump at my daddy, and he catches me like always and swings me up high. I hug his neck and whisper “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,” right in his ear. He hugs me right back real tight, and I know everything is all right.

  My daddy slides me around to his back and hooks his arms under my knees, and I rest my chin on his shoulder so I can see what’s going on.

  Gramma stands across the room, and I can tell she’s real mad. Her mouth is a thin line, her eyes are hard and mean, she is vibrating like a guitar string, and it looks like her pin curls might just pop their metal clips at us.

  “She should be in bed,” Gramma spits out.

  “You sleepy?” Daddy asks, and I shake my head “no” into his neck and hang on tight. “Let’s go,” says Daddy. Ignoring Gramma, he grabs an afghan off the sofa on his way out the door. She slams it hard behind us as we cross the yard.

  In front of the house, my daddy tips me through his car window into the front seat, tossing the afghan over my head. It’s dark and quiet out here. Me and my daddy are the only people awake in the whole world.

  “Up or down?” he asks, and I say, “Down.”

  “You driving?” he asks, and I shake my head and say, “Not tonight.”

  He pushes a button and the soft top of the car slides away as we glide away from the curb into the night. I sit for a while with the afghan covering my feet because they’re always cold, but as we leave town and head toward the highway, I stretch out across the front seat and lay my head in my daddy’s lap. There’s no crackle from the two-way radio like in the daytime, and the regular radio’s playing real soft, far away rock ‘n’ roll on WLS out of Chicago, because all the radio stations around here go off the air at dark. My daddy has one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the top of my head. The end of his cigarette glows red in the dark.

  “I can hear you thinking,” he says. “You’ll never fall asleep if you don’t stop. Just watch the stars and go to sleep.” I try, but it’s real hard, and my head is so full of stuff tonight I probably got a question for every star I see flashing by.

  “What’d you do to make Gramma so mad?”

  “Your grandmother’s always a little bit aggravated at me.” And, boy, is that true! I don’t think Gramma can stand my daddy. She’s just about the only person who can’t, because everybody else just loves him. Of course, I’m not sure Gramma can really stand anybody. But that’s not what’s bothering me tonight.

  I’m quiet for a while, listening to the sound of the car on the road and the music on the radio, until finally I just blurt out, “Where’s my mama? If we’re not getting another baby, where’d she go?”

  My daddy’s hand reaches across me to turn off the radio. He flicks his cigarette out of the car, and after a while, says, “Your mama’s real tired.” Well, of course she’s tired, it’s the middle of the night. Only me and my daddy are ever up this time of night.

  “Is she at our house?”

  “No, your mama, she’s gone away to rest—somewhere quiet.” I think about all the noise me and the boys make, and I feel real bad. Except Henry David never makes any noise, and Samuel Taylor’s just a baby, so the noise he makes doesn’t count, and so it’s all my fault, my fault, my fault.

  “When’s she coming back? She has to take me school shopping and bake cookies Friday for the end of vacation Bible school.” There’s lots of stuff only my mama does, and who’s gonna take care of all that stuff if she’s not here?

  “Soon,” he says, “She’ll be back soon. Don’t worry. We’ll get your cookies. Go to sleep now. Go to sleep.”

  We drive on into the night, trees and stars and telephone wires flashing above us. My mama doesn’t come home for a long time.

  CHAPTER TWO

  1958 – Closet

  IN HER CLOSET, it’s pretty easy to imagine my mama is near. Dresses trail over my head as I crawl toward the back, careful not to disturb the stacked shoeboxes and wrapped handbags that tell me the story of her life. I can remember when and where she wore each dress, and which shoes and gloves and jewelry go together to make an outfit. I can still feel her here, in the perfume and in the brush of the dresses against my face. Everybody is saying nothing pretty loud, at least to me, and nobody cares that I miss her awful. My mama is gone again.

  Mama fills up all kind of space when she’s here. Down on the floor playing matchbox cars. Reciting I Sweepa da Street wearing a paper mustache and Grampa’s baggy pants. Singing “Detour, There’s a Muddy Road Ahead” at the top of her lungs in the car with the top down and the boys in the port-a-crib in the back babbling along, but not Henry David, because he never talks. She takes up even more room when she’s gone.

  Gramma doesn’t understand about Henry David, so she keeps trying to get him to ask for stuff, and he just sits there with t
hose big eyes that say sorry and waits for her to give up. He’s got all the patience in the world and never cries, just listens all the time. He understands everything. He’s been to all kinds of doctors, and none of them make any difference. Sometimes, Mama and Daddy fight about him and say ugly things to each other. The last time we took him somewhere, the doctor said they ought to leave him there to live because they knew best how to take care of him and he wouldn’t ever be right. My mama didn’t say a word, just looked at that man like he was something nasty on her shoe, swooped up Henry David, and stormed out of there. My daddy unfolded from his chair, took my hand, said, “We’re done here,” wrote a check, and walked out. Mama held Henry David tight in her lap all the way home, even though he’d rather ride in the back window.

  Most times, I can tell when he wants something. You just watch his face and hands real close. It’s my job a lot to watch him, but he’s not much trouble. He stays close, mostly does what you tell him, lets me read to him and never messes up my paper dolls. But boys can’t play paper dolls forever, and when he goes to school, he’s gonna have to talk—maybe not as much as me, but some. Other people don’t understand and say those nasty-nice things like how he’s so pretty he looks like a doll, and how it must be nice to have one child that doesn’t make so much noise. Somebody’s always saying, “Bless his little heart,” and how my mama must be a saint to put up with all this. Mama says to say, “Thank you” or “He’s just fine,” and not to kick the people who say mean things. Sometimes they make me want to spit.

  But in the back of the closet, the stuff going on out there doesn’t matter so much. If I especially like a dress, Mama draws it for my favorite paper doll, the one we glued to thick cardboard so she’s really strong and doesn’t get bent. She has the most clothes of all my paper dolls. She came with some, but the prettiest ones are the ones me and my mama make for her. I want to look like her when I grow up, with blonde hair that stays in place. My hair’s too red, and both my grandmothers complain that it won’t stay braided and crawls out all over the place, no matter how tight they pull on it.