Pocket Full of Teeth, page 7
Suit yourself, then, because this is where it really gets interesting.
MARCH 2001
The first week of March was unseasonably warm. Mama always said that March was the most temperamental month of the year. I walked down the mountain with my jacket under my arm, letting my hair blow in the wind, smelling the sweet scent of tepid air. The branches relaxed in the sunshine, and I knew that buds were soon to follow.1
It was early when I made it to town. The shops were just opening when I walked down Main Street. So early, in fact, that the clump of old men who usually clung to the outside of the general store had not yet congregated.
When I opened the cafe’s front door, the lights were on, and the small kitchen was busy with life. Coffee steamed and bacon sizzled. Cinnamon rolls cooled on the counter, waiting for a final glaze of icing. Soft jazz music played overhead.
“Mornin’,” Liz said over her shoulder. She was working at the counter with her back toward me. Her hair, slightly wet from a morning shower, was pulled back in her typical bun. She wore jeans and a black t-shirt with her white apron tied around her waist.
“Hey, you’re here already,” I said, genuinely surprised at how much she had done. I had assumed that she would be just opening the cafe when she asked me to come at six o’clock.
“Yeah, I wanted to get these rolls out before the church ladies stop by.” She turned as she squeezed a pastry bag in her hands and rounded the corner of the front counter.
“You’ll need an apron.” She nodded to the wall by the back room that held a stack of crisp white linens. “They’re on the second shelf.”
I took the one from the top of the stack and unfolded it. I held it up to my body but made a face when I noticed that its neck strap was not attached.
“Here, let me help,” Liz said as she set down the pastry bag.
She came over and placed the apron onto my chest and looped the strap around my neck, fastening it onto the buckle.
“You know, my first job was a waitress. My aunt used to sing in these clubs, and I used to go around pretending that I was a waitress, asking people if they needed anything. I think I was twelve? Maybe thirteen?” She smiled, and a piece of hair fell into her face. She brushed it back with fingers that moved like blades of grass. She folded my apron at the waist and crossed the ties in the back. “They started letting me keep the tips after a while.”
Liz leaned back and assessed her work. “Jesus, you’re short.” She frowned, adjusting the length once more before tying it at the front.
“Not bad, though.” She nodded as she appraised me. “I need you over here.” She gestured to the display case as she pulled a fresh tray of croissants from the oven. “I’ll get these rolls ready if you’ll stock the display,” she said, already turning back to her work.
I didn’t know what I had expected when I took the job. Liz was different from most people in town, that was for sure. She was independent and direct. She didn’t prescribe to small talk and southern pleasantries, but she made me feel at ease, and I could tell that she was simply herself, straightforward, if not a little bossy.
When the cafe opened at eight, the doorbell dinged as the church ladies came in. I had just lined up the croissants and muffins Liz pulled from another shelf of the oven. I started to think her oven was limitless, perpetually baking new things by itself as if by magic.2
When I looked up, I saw Marianne. She had on a matching skirt suit, high heels, manicured, hair perfectly coiffed. She looked just like Tippi Hedron from The Birds but older. Her eyes sharpened when they spotted me, her face rose in surprise. I looked around for somewhere to hide, but it was too late. I had been spotted.
“Cat,” she exclaimed. “Owen said you’re back, but just look at you.”
I flinched when I heard Owen’s name, felt my mouth go dry, and looked at Liz for support.
“I’m tellin’ you, it’s been so long, and I think about your Mama every day. Lord, I miss her so much, and I can’t even imagine how you’re feelin’. You know, I offered to take you in, but Ray, he’s so stubborn. Said you shouldn’t have to leave your home, and well, I...”
The church ladies behind Marianne looked from the floor to the windows to the displays — anywhere but to me — and I could feel Liz’s eyes on me.
“You know, you gotta come and see me sometime,” Marianne pressed. “I could have you over this Wednesday if you can. We could have one of those big dinners with the whole fam —”
“Here you are, Mrs. Smith,” Liz interrupted her and slid the box of cinnamon rolls across the counter.
“Oh, you’re such a dear,” Marianne beamed. “You know, Liz, here makes the best cinnamon rolls in town. We just have to have ‘em for our Ladies Through Christ meetings.”
I nodded and stepped back.
One of the ladies behind her leaned forward. “She didn’t make these, did she?” The lady looked toward me and grimaced like she had eaten something bitter.
“It’s all me,” Liz said in a curt voice. “Just like always.”
The woman licked her lips and took a step back, still eyeing me. “Anything else?” Liz sang in what I knew to be false cheeriness.
“That will be it,” Marianne responded. She picked up the box of cinnamon rolls and nodded toward me. “I mean it, Cat. It’s real nice to see ya.”
She walked to the door, and the women behind her trailed like leaves caught in a spiderweb, mirroring her movements, glued to her trajectory that led them out the door. The sour-faced women took one more look at me before they left and headed onto the sidewalk.
When the door closed, silence took over, and the soft jazz felt out of place, like neon lighting up a sanctuary. I could tell that Liz was avoiding my gaze as she organized an impeccably arranged spice rack.
“Thanks,” I said in a voice barely above a whisper.
She didn’t respond. Instead, she turned her attention to the fruits, arranging them into containers before opening the fridge and sliding in the baskets of blueberries, strawberries, and raspberries.
“She’s always doing that,” I said, still trying to break the silence. “Asking me over. She used to be best friends with my mom when they were little. At least that’s what she’s always telling me.”
Liz closed the refrigerator and adjusted her apron before wiping the counter so that the silver top gleamed spotless and clear.
“So, your mom passed away?” She said without looking at me.
“Yeah.” I nodded. How had she not heard in this small town? She had to have picked up some of the gossip in town serving coffee. “She died a little over a year ago.”
“Is that why you went away?” She still wasn’t looking at me. Instead, she kept wiping the already clean counter.
So maybe she had heard the gossip.
“Kind of.” I tried to gauge her, figure out how much she already knew, but her face was blank, unreadable. I sighed, deciding to just be honest. Who cared how much she already knew? She seemed different. Maybe she would understand. “I got sick when she died. I had just graduated in December, so they sent me to this program to recover, but the courts said I had to come back home until I turned eighteen.”
“How long is that?”
“This coming New Years. I just have to finish out the year.”
“And then?” Her question hung between us. I had been thinking about that a lot recently but figured I had plenty of time. The truth was, I had never been on my own. Even when Ray moved in, it was still mostly Mama and me.
“I’m not quite sure yet,” I confessed.
She nodded before continuing. “And you’re okay now?” She asked, looking into my eyes.
“Yeah,” I breathed, my heart skipping a beat. “I’m fine.”
Liz stopped wiping the counter but didn’t respond. She looked at me, measuring me up. My chest tightened, and I stepped forward.
“Look, I really need this job,” I pleaded. “Things at home aren’t the best, and I really need the money.”
“For what? Your big escape at the end of the year?” She asked in a pointed voice.
“Maybe,” I admitted, “but mostly, it’s for the house. We barely have money for basic groceries. No one will hire Ray.”
“Well get used to seeing Marianne around.” She sighed and looked around her, then turned back to the counter, pulling out a ball of dough from a container where it had been rising. “She’s always poppin’ in to see if I’m actually working.”
“Wait, does she own this place?”
Liz nodded. “Yeah, along with most of the businesses in town. I just run it during the day.”
“Figures,” I breathed, anger seeping into my voice.
“Anyway, I guess we’ll just have to make this work.” She looked across the cafe and gestured. “You keep the dining area neat, and I’ll handle the food. The bathrooms will need cleaned once an hour. Same thing with the floors. Aside from that, we have leftovers almost every day, and I can pay weekly.”
I opened my mouth to say thank you, but she nodded to the corner.
“The broom’s in the back closet. Grab that and the mop, and I’ll show you have to prep the dining area.”
I took a breath and headed to the closet, happy that Liz had taken me in without question. Well, with only a few questions, at least.
March 16, 1999
The first time I found out my grandmother was a witch was on a night much like this one. Showers rolled in this morning, and the house was stuck in a thick fog. It feels like I’m the only one left in the world. Cat had to stay late at school, and Ray isn’t home yet, but tonight reminds me of a stormy March night when I stayed at the house with my grandmother. She was the kind of woman who always wore a dress and did her hair, even if we were staying in the house every day. She put on her rings and a gold watch every day, cooked in an apron, and always had cookies on hand, although Mom said that last part was because Grandmother knew how much I loved cookies.
One night that summer, she had cooked pancakes for breakfast, and we fell asleep reading fairy tales. She told me about a princess who had two different colored eyes (one blue and one green) just like me. She said I was special, said I had the mark of a witch.3 When I awoke around midnight, I heard voices downstairs.
Grandmother was at the table with a woman. I couldn’t hear what they said, so I crept closer. The woman’s hands were shaking, and a terrible moan came from somewhere deep in her belly. It was a moan of pure sadness. I had never heard someone make that noise before. It sounded like some sort of animal. Grandmother asked if she was sure. The woman nodded and handed her a wad of money, which Grandmother stashed in a tin she kept by the breadbasket. Then, the woman pushed a small bag across the table. She took the contents out, one by one. A photograph. A strand of hair. A handwritten letter. A pair of cufflinks.
I must have moved or made a noise because Grandmother saw me and took me back to bed. When I asked her about the woman, she said that sometimes people need help. Sometimes they need someone to listen to, to tell them they’re all right, that everything’s gonna be okay. Other times, they need someone to help. They need someone on their side to make sure it all turns out all right.
Later, I found out a shop owner in town died of a heart attack. He was fine that morning. His wife said he was fine that morning. He went to the shop, opened it like normal, and then two hours later, he dropped dead of a heart attack. The shop assistant found him. Her picture appeared in the paper, and I recognized her instantly. She was the woman who came during the storm. I asked Grandmother about it the next time I visited, but she said that I was asking about the wrong things, nosing into grown folks’ business and that I should go play in the garden instead.
I stayed with Grandmother every summer from the age of twelve until the year I turned fourteen while my sister went to an accelerated writing camp (or nerd camp, as I called it). I studied her as she made tinctures and tended to the garden. She taught me about tea leaves and nightshades, ointments and moon cycles. We had tea parties in the garden and would play hide and seek in the roses, but she could be overprotective.
Marianne wanted to hang out, but Grandmother refused. She said they were from new money and shouldn’t be entertained. She said we were better than that, better than them, but I was never allowed to go to her house. I asked her if we could get ice cream from the shop in town, maybe meet Marianne there, and she said that we could make our own ice cream.
I tried to tell her that wasn’t the point, but she didn’t understand. She couldn’t see the excitement of going into town, sitting at the soda fountain counter, meeting friends, and ordering a delicious glass of ice cream. All she could see was the end of summer, looming in the distance and the little time she had left.
A few weeks after I asked her if we could meet Marianne for ice cream, Marianne said she was having a birthday party and that everyone would be there, but I knew Grandmother would never let me go. I told her that I would make the tea that night and slipped in a few drops of the nighttime tincture she’d give to her customers. We had our tea in the garden, and I could see Grandmother’s eyes get glassy. I told her I was tired and got a bath early, ditching my tea into the roses before we went inside. She brushed my hair lazily, and I pretended to yawn and rub my eyes, and because I had never lied to her before, she believed me.
When the sky turned dark and I was sure she was asleep, I snuck downstairs, tiptoed out the front door, and ran all the way into town. I was late, but I was so excited when I got to the party. Marianne’s parents welcomed me, and Marianne hugged me and told me how much she had missed me over the last few weeks. There were games and presents and songs and girls in party dresses. I ate cake and played late until Marianne’s dad invited me to stay, and I did.
It wasn’t until later, until the next morning when I came down from my bedroom, groggy from lack of sleep, that I knew something was wrong.
Grandmother knew.
I don’t know how she knew, but she did. And the funny part was, she wasn’t even mad. She said that it was what children did. They loved you and wanted you and needed you until they simply didn’t anymore.
It was different after that. Sometimes I would catch Grandmother looking at me as if I were a stranger, as if she didn’t even know me. When I asked her what was wrong, she just shook her head. I still feel guilty about lying and sneaking out. I wish she was here still, especially on nights like tonight when the house is so quiet. But she died that fall. It was like she knew her time was running out, and not just with me but with everyone. Mom always said the house was haunted, and after Grandmother died and Cat was born, she was convinced. She sold the house to Mr. Johns, Marianne’s dad. He said he’d take care of it. Anyway, I don’t have to worry about any of that anymore. The house is mine and so is Cat and Ray. Only…
Ray’s been staying out at night lately. Says he’s been working a lot, but something doesn’t seem right. And last night was awful. I put on an album and was cooking dinner. He came home just at sundown, and I could tell he’d been drinking. He had that hazy look in his eyes, but I didn’t mind because it made him pull me close, right in the middle of cooking. He just took my hand and pulled me onto his lap and kissed me like he used to. God, that man can make the whole world melt away.
But then his hand tightened on my wrist, and he pulled, making me cry out. He asked me about my watch, Grandmother’s watch, and when I told him that I’d had it, his hand hit my cheekbone in a flash of white. Pain spread across my face, and I couldn’t see.
Cat must of heard me scream, and when I could see again, Ray was standing over me, and Cat was behind him in the doorway. I told Cat that it was all right, that I had just slipped and hit my face on the chair.
I didn’t want to upset her, and I didn’t know what else to say. Ray had never hit me before. He’d never do that. At least not normally.
Maybe it’s ‘cause he’d been working so much. Maybe it’s ‘cause Marianne’s been calling again. I just don’t know what to do. Everything seems out of order lately, and I don’t know how to make it all right again.I just don’t want to end up alone like all the other Saunders women. 4
TRANSCRIPT
Interview with Eddy Sparrow
3:16 p.m. April 27th, 2021
Case No. HI30823
Mom found more stuff on “farmer’s lung.” Here, it’s in this pile.
See? She looked up their symptoms and found that it’s most likely somethin called Stachybotrys chartarum — or black mold. It’s a fungus that works as a complex system, kinda like how ants work as a colony. It reproduces asexually with the help of high moisture or humidity, something we have lots of in the South. And high pulp environments, like rotting trees or even in houses that help it produce something called mycotoxins, which cause respiratory and even neurological diseases. The rotting orchard would have been perfect for black mold and coulda caused the workers and Olivia to have reactions. It coulda caused her to get sick easily, especially if she was exposed to the cold like she woulda been if she was walkin outside at night. Anyway, Cat’s part is next.
By the end of March, Liz and I settled into a routine. My therapy sessions were going well, and they were adjusted to once a month instead of once a week. Ray was mostly leaving me alone and even helping out around the house. Liz and I would open the cafe and work until closing. Then, we’d stay late, talking and cleaning up. She taught me how to make a lemon pound cake that melted in your mouth and how to wait until the dough was slow to move as a sign that it was ready to be shaped. I was better at natural remedies, drying herbs, and making teas, but Liz was patient in a way that I’d never seen. Sometimes she’d remind me of Mama, how she sang when she moved around in the kitchen. Other times, she’d remind me that she was nothing like Mama, how she’d get moody and cold sometimes when I thought she’d finally called us friends.
