Through an open window, p.15
Through an Open Window, page 15
“Man, he’s kinda out of it, isn’t he?” said Lawrie, when he heard Tom’s bedroom door shut upstairs.
“You don’t know the half of it,” said Margaret, slicing the chicken. “He was nearly delirious when he got here last night. Talking out of his head. Kept mentioning Gloria.”
“Who’s Gloria?” asked Mouse.
“Well, the only Gloria that I know of is the lady who cleans at his office.” Margaret hesitated. “I know I shouldn’t have, you know, taken advantage of him being so sick, but I kept asking him questions and”—she lowered her voice and looked up at the ceiling—“from what I could gather, I think Tom and Meghan might’ve split up.”
“Over Gloria?” said Mouse.
“No, of course not,” said Margaret. “Gloria must have something to do with something else.”
“Well, Meghan’s not such a loss, is she?” asked Lawrie, looking at his sister, who frowned back at him. “Come on, Mouse,” he said, defensively. “I’ve heard you say it yourself. I remember the very first day Tom brought that girl home, you said it seemed like he was just making some kind of point. And you were right. I can still hear him: ‘The most popular University of Georgia sophomore, the girl all the guys wanted, the one with the flawless face and perfect figure.’ ” Lawrie leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head. “I tried to shake off my doubts at the time, we all did. Didn’t tell him what I really thought, that she was no deeper than a teaspoon. After all, when has Tom ever welcomed my opinion on anything? But I could see this day coming. Don’t tell me you couldn’t.”
“None of that matters now, Lawrie,” said Mouse. “It’s still sad. Thank goodness they didn’t have any kids.”
“Yes, but that’s not all,” said Margaret, leaning toward the table and whispering. “I couldn’t get the whole picture. Like I said, he was sort of babbling a lot of the time, but it’s possible that Tom’s lost his job. I think that’s one of the reasons Meghan left him.”
“Wow,” said Lawrie, his eyes going back to the ceiling as though he could see through it to where his brother now was. “Lost his job, lost his wife. If he had a truck to wreck, he’d have the whole country song triumvirate sewed up.”
“You know,” said Mouse, frowning at Lawrie, “you can really be a little prick sometimes. Seriously. Never had a bad day in your life, did you? Don’t you dare say anything like that to Tommy when he gets back down here. Maybe you could try and think how you’d feel if all that happened to you.” Lawrie, looking wounded, sat up straighter and folded his arms over his chest.
The three of them looked from one to the other in silence till they heard Tom’s bedroom door open and his footfalls on the stairs. “Don’t you two utter a word about any of this,” Margaret said, pointing at Lawrie and Mouse with a bread knife. “I doubt he remembers saying anything.”
Lawrie pushed out a chair for Tom with his foot, and pausing briefly, Tom sat down as Margaret placed plates on the table in front of them both, then sat down herself. Picking up his fork, Lawrie paused, looking for something to say. When it became apparent he wasn’t coming up with anything, Margaret looked at her children, her eyes pausing on each one in turn. “Now,” she said, a bit tersely, “about last Saturday night.”
Mouse was the first one to speak. “I’m sorry we made such a scene, Mother. It was unforgivable. And on your birthday. I’ve still got your present at home. You left it at the table.”
Both Tom and Lawrie looked down at their plates, shamefaced. Margaret shook her head and sighed. She poured them all a glass of iced tea. “I know none of you act like you did at that restaurant with anyone else. And I’m not sure why it’s so often easier to be kind to strangers. But you should remember, you three will be all that’s left of this family after I’m gone. It might be good to think about that occasionally. Get some things worked out before then.”
The silence was awkward, and after a minute Mouse broke it. “You’re…you’re not really thinking about moving, are you, Mother?”
“That’s not what I meant, Mouse. And no, I’m not planning to move.” She sighed again, heavily. “I was just trying to circumvent the argument between these two when I brought that up at dinner.” She nodded toward her sons, frowning. “But it didn’t work, did it? You both acted like little heathens anyway.”
Lawrie and Tom remained quiet, color rising in their identical faces.
“So, is that it?” Mouse said. She pointed to the printout of the cottage hanging on the refrigerator door. “That’s the place you were talking about Saturday night?”
“Yes. That’s it. I don’t even think it’s for sale anymore. Maybe it never was. Frankly, I couldn’t even tell you where it is.” Margaret peeked around Lawrie to look at the photo. “But you have to admit,” she said. “There’s something about the place.”
“Reminds me a little of that old dollhouse you gave Emlynn,” said Mouse. “The one she keeps in the window. Both of them look like something out of a book.”
“Hey,” Lawrie said, snapping his fingers, “I know what I wanted to ask you. Emlynn’s been dying to know what was in that envelope. You know, the one she found in the dollhouse? She thought it might be the plans used to build it. If it is, she’d love to see them when you’re done.”
Margaret sat still for a moment, looking at each of her children in turn. It was unusual, and she had to admit, oddly comforting, to have them all around this table in the middle of an ordinary day. Maybe there was a reason they were all here. Maybe she was supposed to tell them. Quietly, Margaret rose and went to her purse. Taking out the yellow envelope, she carried it back to the table and laid it down in front of her children. “No,” she said, “what Emlynn found…well, it wasn’t the plans for the dollhouse. It…it was something…else. Something I think I need you three to see.”
They each looked down at the envelope, then back up at their mother. “This is your father’s handwriting,” she said, pointing to the looping script. “Back from when we were teenagers. So, he must have known what was in here. But he never mentioned it once.” Margaret shook her head. “And I don’t know why. I’ve been trying to work that out since I saw what it was.”
She took a sip of iced tea, feeling three pairs of eyes staring at her. “I waited until I got home Saturday night to open it. I…I thought I recognized it, from…a dream, or…something. But…well, what I found inside has spun me right around. I’d like to see what y’all think.” She picked up the envelope, removed the old newspaper clipping, and placed it faceup on the table. “Take a look at that.”
Their heads almost touching, the three of them did as their mother instructed, bending over the table, eyes moving left to right as they read. “So?” said Lawrie, sitting back up.
Margaret sighed. “So,” she said. “You remember Aunt Edith told me my parents were killed in a motorcycle accident.”
“Yes,” said Mouse.
Without fanfare, Margaret slid the old photograph across the table. “This picture was inside that envelope, too. Take a good hard look at that woman.”
Mouse picked up the photo and held it in front of her face. Margaret watched her daughter’s expression slowly change over to the one she’d worn that spring she played softball and was constantly afraid the ball would be hit in her direction. Mouse then picked up the newspaper clipping again and reread it. “You’re not saying…Who are these people, Mother?”
Lawrie reached for the photo the same time as Tom, and Tom let him have it.
“I’ve been asking myself that very same question,” said Margaret. “And I think it’s possible they might be my parents.” Saying the words out loud to her children made them seem true, not just speculation, and Margaret felt suddenly cold. Rubbing her arms, she stood up and went to close the window. “I’ve never seen a picture of them,” she said, turning back around. “Aunt Edith didn’t have one. She didn’t even know my mother’s first name until she saw it written down on my birth certificate. But take another good look at that woman.”
Lawrie had passed the photo over to Tom, who now looked at his mother, eyes wide.
“I know,” said Margaret, looking at Tom. “I look just like her.”
“Well…you do, a little,” said Tom. “I mean, I guess you do.”
“But this couldn’t be them,” said Lawrie. “You said it yourself. Your parents died in a motorcycle wreck.” He picked up the clipping again. “And these poor people…”
“That’s what Aunt Edith always told me,” said Margaret. “It’s what she told everybody. But if”—she pointed to the small bit of newsprint—“if this is really what happened? Who’d want a little girl to know that? It’s awful. Who’d want anybody to know? And that is your father’s handwriting on that envelope. I’d recognize it anywhere. Why did he never tell me? Why was it stuck inside that old dollhouse?”
Mouse’s hand had risen to her face and was now covering her mouth as she continued to stare at the picture.
“But the most important question,” said Margaret, pulling the photo toward her. “If that baby is me, then who on earth is that little boy? Did I have a brother? And if so, then what happened to him?”
Margaret rose and walked to the pantry, coming back with a bag of pecan sandies. “Here,” she said, sitting down and pushing the cookies toward Tom. “Take one of these, Son. You look pale again.” Tom did as he was told, then passed the bag toward Mouse.
“I’ve been all over the internet,” Margaret continued, “but I can’t find anything about my parents anywhere. It’s like they never existed. I mean, it was so long ago when Aunt Edith and Ida Mae took me in. And God help me, I just accepted what they always told me. Maybe I wanted to, I don’t know.”
“Ida Mae,” said Mouse, slowly. “Wasn’t she that friend of your aunt’s? The one who lived with y’all? Do you think she knew what had happened?”
Margaret suddenly saw Ida Mae in her mind. Barely five feet tall, with eyes the soft gray of wren feathers and hair like cotton candy, so thin and fine you could see her pink scalp in a stiff wind. “Well…” she said, drawing out the word to give her more time. “Ida Mae was…well, she was a bit more than Aunt Edith’s friend.” She raised her eyebrows at Mouse, and Mouse’s rose in kind. Margaret grimaced, then smiled and shrugged her shoulders. “Oh, shoot,” she said. “I should’ve told y’all this years ago. Of course, the topic never came up. Why would it?”
“Are you telling us…” said Lawrie, eyes wide.
“What?” said Tom, looking confused.
“Keep up,” said Lawrie. “She’s saying Great-Aunt Edith and Ida Mae were, you know, a couple. Did everybody know?”
“Now, that’s a good question, isn’t it?” said Margaret, reaching for the sack of pecan sandies and taking one out for herself. “I’ve thought a lot about that recently. You would think people would’ve had to’ve known. Aunt Edith and Ida Mae were together all the time, had been for years. Ida Mae lived at our house. Had her own bedroom. They sat by each other at Second Baptist every Sunday, drove to school together every morning. Ida Mae taught first grade at Tillman for years, you know. But it was different back then. Nobody talked about those kinds of things in polite conversations, and polite conversations were all people we knew ever had. You won’t believe me, but I didn’t know myself until Ida Mae got sick. It was your father who told me.”
Lawrie laughed out loud. “Are you kidding?”
“Nope,” said Margaret. “It just never occurred to me.”
“Lord, what a secret to keep.” Mouse bit into a cookie and chewed it as though it had all the flavor of paper. “How did they do it? I bet they were scared every day of their lives that someone would find out. I mean, the principal of the elementary school and the first-grade teacher? God.”
Margaret shook her head at her daughter. “Maybe everybody knew, and nobody knew. Know what I mean? That’s the way it was back then. When Ida Mae died, the whole town came to her funeral. Everybody treated Aunt Edith the way they’d have done if she’d been the widow, which she was, I guess. Now, if somebody had spoken the truth right out loud, the whole house of cards might’ve come down, but of course, nobody did. And isn’t that the way we keep secrets? By acting like they just don’t exist?”
Jubal had long ago fallen asleep under the table, and now he started snoring. Margaret slipped her foot underneath him and he let out a sigh, then quieted.
“What ever happened to Ida Mae?” asked Mouse, softly.
“Well, I guess it was Alzheimer’s,” said Margaret, with a small sigh, “but of course we didn’t call it that. Back then, a lot of old people just went doolally without a real diagnosis. It seemed to come over Ida Mae quickly, though I’d bet Aunt Edith had been seeing the signs for a while. In the end, she completely forgot who I was. But she never forgot Aunt Edith. I can still hear them laughing together, right up until the night Ida Mae died. Ida Mae always had the best laugh. Way too big and throaty for her frame. Aunt Edith was never really the same after she died, though. She followed Ida Mae in less than two years.”
The three Elliot children sat for a moment in silence, and Margaret, looking from one to another, saw the years reverse right on their faces. Each looked to her about six years old. “That’s so sad, Mother,” said Mouse. “I’m sorry. I never knew.”
“Well, why would you?” asked Margaret. “It all happened a long time before you were born. I’m sorry I never told you about them, as a couple, I mean. Of course, like I said, I never realized they were a couple-couple until much later. Children rarely question their lives, and I certainly didn’t. Now I wish that I had. They were both wonderful parents to me. Do you know, Ida Mae sewed tiny bells on the hems of my skirts when I was little? I made this tinkly sound wherever I went. Fairy song, Ida Mae called it. Aunt Edith made her snip them all off before my first day of school. She’s already the principal’s niece, she said. People will be primed to think that she’s going to be spoiled. I guess I could see her point. And, I guess I was spoiled. But boy, how I missed that fairy song when I could no longer hear it.” Margaret smiled, picking up the photo again. “Ida Mae and Aunt Edith never deserved to be secrets. And I don’t think my parents—if that’s who these people are—did either. No matter how they died. Or lived.”
She held the photo in the palm of her hand, feeling the stares of her children. Margaret looked up. “You know, you all were sitting here at this table one afternoon years ago, doing homework while I cooked dinner. You won’t remember. One of you, probably you, Mouse, was working on a paper on the Bloomsbury Group, I believe, and you’d pulled down this old copy of Mrs. Dalloway, and when you opened it up, a photo slid out from between the pages. Slid right across this table like the winning card in a poker game. You all stared down at it and you had the funniest looks on your faces. I’ll never forget it. It was a picture of me, back when I was young, in a white strapless dress. You all stared at that thing, and then back up at me like you’d never seen me before. All because I looked so different from the way you’d always known me.” She laughed. “Or was it because I was beautiful? I was, you know. Once you hit a certain age, you can say you were beautiful when you were young. It’s like complimenting another person.” Margaret turned the photo around to face them and pointed at it. “But now I understand how you all felt that day. It’s how I feel looking at this picture. I think there’s a strong possibility this baby girl just might be me, a me I never even knew existed.”
With one last look at the photo, she placed it carefully back inside the yellow envelope along with the newspaper clipping. “And I’m telling you,” she said, “the very thought that I might have a brother I’ve never met, well, it’s hard for me to take in. Exciting and scary at the same time, like being given a present from someone you don’t even know. Y’all wouldn’t understand, you’ve always had one another.” Mouse, Lawrie, and Tom remained quiet. “But how on earth do I find him?” Margaret continued. “The police won’t be interested. A lawyer wouldn’t care unless there was some money at the other end, and there won’t be. Who on earth do you get to do stuff like this?”
Bright color rose suddenly into Mouse’s pale cheeks and her back went up straight as a broom handle. “I…uh, well…as it happens,” she said, pulling her purse up from the floor. “I just had lunch with somebody who might know somebody.” She opened her wallet and took out Nathan Culpepper’s card.
15
Mouse
The water was getting chilly again. Mouse turned on the hot tap with her toe.
There were many things she’d loved about this house the day she and Nick first saw it. It was the seventh one they’d visited that sweltering weekend, and the only one that reminded her of the house in which she’d grown up. Of course, the fact that it sat only three streets away from that house hadn’t hurt a bit either. She could easily walk there for lunch with her father, something she’d done frequently over the years.
Mouse had been so pregnant with Ben that day; her belly entered the front door a good three seconds before she did. From the kitchen windows she could see that the big backyard had just enough sun to grow gardenias and just enough shade to let you sit on the porch in the summer without passing out from the heat. The dark wood floors were shiny as glass beneath decades of polish, and those maple trees—Mouse didn’t have to be told—would turn scarlet and gold in the fall. But it had been this bathtub on the second floor that really sealed the deal.
Claw-footed and deep as the grave, this tub was identical to the one that sat in that big blue boat of a house on Albemarle Way, but this time, Mouse didn’t have to share it with a single soul. There were enough bathrooms here for both kids to have one of their own, and Nick only ever took showers. This tub was exclusively hers. Now, in a habit that had become almost ceremony, every night before bed Mouse filled the tub with hot water, threw in a handful of those freesia-scented bath salts Emlynn gave her every Christmas, and slipped in up to her chin. Usually, anything bad she’d experienced in the past twenty-four hours just dissolved and drained away, guaranteeing her a good night’s sleep. But Mouse never took a bath at this time of day.
