The Hidden Life of Cecily Larson, page 5
It suddenly struck her as so strange to have his oh-so-familiar voice coming through the stereo speakers of her car in the Home Depot parking lot of her old hometown. How did life turn out this way, anyway? That someone you’d once shared the most intimate and precious parts of your life with could be so far gone and far away, and yet, through the miracles of technology and the fact of sharing a child (children), still envelop you, be indelibly connected. As though moments of your past lived on and bound you, regardless of any opposite intent you might have had.
Regardless of how much you’d wanted to leave the pain behind.
“Moll?” he said again. A slight prick with an X-Acto knife, every time; a warm blanket, too.
She yanked off her wool hat and ran a hand through her newly bobbed platinum hair. Just last week, Hilda down at the Cut-n-Curl had laughed with delight when Molly’d shown her the recent picture of Jennifer Lawrence, of the transformation Molly wanted, away from her plain-Jane light brown waves. Oh, yah, that’ll shake the dust right off ya, Hilda had said. That’ll be just the thing.
Now it was a reminder: She was different. She wasn’t who she’d been. Okay, she told herself. Okay. “Listen, Evan, it’s good you’re coming, for Caden’s sake, but I don’t know about you staying with us.” Having six-foot-three Evan in the tiny bungalow would be like putting a bear on a bicycle and telling him it was no sweat to ride. “It’s a two-bedroom. You’d be stuck on the couch.”
A pause. “The couch is fine. I can’t get a hotel. Apparently, the opposing team has a lot of fans coming down for the game.”
Molly squeezed the steering wheel tight in both hands. She should just say no. She should, should, should say no.
But how? She could still hear that lost-little-boy tone of Caden’s voice this morning. “All right, fine,” she said. “Just text me the details. When you’ll be getting in and all that.”
“Cool. Great. Thanks. Oh, and, Moll, listen, I wanted to tell you: I’ll pay for Cade’s honors bio project. The DNA thing? He said it’d be, like, four hundred dollars, but I think it’s a great idea.”
“What’s this?” Molly hadn’t heard anything about an honors bio project.
“You know, where he’s going to analyze the four generations of your family’s DNA? Cool, right? He seems so excited about it. I guess he’s really interested in genetics.”
“Oh, yeah!” She pretended to know. Now she was light-headed, suddenly. Too hot. She flicked the heater off, tugged at her scarf.
“Anyway, yeah, I guess we can figure it out this weekend, but definitely know I’m good for it.”
The car’s idle was a soft hum. “It’s going to be weird to see you,” she blurted, even as she was thinking how Caden should’ve asked her about this project first, if it was to be her DNA, plus her mother’s and grandmother’s? And why was it so damn hot in this car? She yanked the zipper of her parka partway down.
“And you,” Evan said. “It’s going to be weird to see you, too.” A pause. She somehow wanted to throw something; had no idea why. Then: “But, you know, I’m the same.”
She didn’t know what to say. Landed on: “How unfortunate.”
He laughed. “I see you’re the same, too.” Then he said he’d text her, and she said sure, and they said goodbye and hung up, leaving her alone in the darkness of the idling Mazda beside the snowbank. She realized she’d forgotten to ask how long he was planning to stay. The weekend? A week? Good Lord, she hoped not.
And—was she really the same? Was he?
She seriously doubted it.
The halos around the Home Depot’s floodlights showed tiny flakes of snow drifting down. It was five miles out to George’s house. She flipped the heat back on and put the car into gear.
“Yeah, well, Mr. Rasmussen suggested I send in my DNA and Great-Grandma Cecily’s DNA, plus maybe the two generations in between, and have it analyzed,” Caden said in the darkness on the drive back into town, after Molly had given him a full report on Cecily, and a not-so-full report on her conversation with Evan, and then, trying not to sound too aggravated, asked him to explain about his honors bio project. “He said we’d be able to see how the genes get passed down that way, and trace our ancestry to other countries and stuff. He said it was unique to have four generations in the same town, and the tests are really easy to do now.”
Well, okay. This was pretty cool. And, also, the first thing all school year she could remember Caden sounding excited about, outside of hockey. Maybe it was even a first step toward getting into a good college! Molly had sudden, dizzying visions of him in a white lab coat, the letters Ph.D. after his name. “That sounds great, bud! Let’s just wait a few days to ask Grandma Cecily. Till she’s feeling better, you know? But we can talk to Mom first. I’m sure she’d give you a sample. You could at least do three generations, that way.”
“K,” he said.
She waited. There was nothing more. And, much as she wanted to, much as she tried, Molly just could not read him one bit these days. Was he upset about Cecily at all? Or simply able to coolly accept, with the hubris of the young, that she was going to be just fine?
Molly gave up trying for the moment and just drove, remembering how out of sorts Liz had seemed by day’s end, too, going on about the coming cold snap: how the pipes would certainly freeze in Cecily’s house; how Liz had to make 114 bowls for the Empty Bowl fundraiser and didn’t know how she’d manage. It was strange, come to think of it: Not once had Liz said she was worried about Cecily. Just the house, the bowls, the weather.
Molly watched the swoop of the headlights through the black night. Caden’s fingertips drummed his knee. He always seemed to have some private rhythm going lately.
She couldn’t help wanting to be let in, and she thought of something. “Hey, bud, you know, this project of yours could be really interesting, because Grandma Cecily was an orphan. Did you know that? She never knew who her parents were, or if she had siblings. So we might have a bunch of relatives out there that we have no idea about.”
“Really? Cool.”
Sudden tears stung Molly’s eyes again; she had no idea why. Beyond her headlights, the stars were pinpricks of light in the black sky. She remembered Evan, shouting once, in one of the bad times: You talk about the importance of family! You’re the one breaking ours! You’re the one who thinks you’re going through all of this alone, when that’s the farthest thing from true!
She thought of something else. “Hey, bud,” she ventured. “Those DNA tests—are they the kind that tell you stuff about your health? Like, can they forecast potential issues, or explain things that have happened?”
“Like why you lost the babies, you mean? I don’t think so.”
He said it so coldly that it was like a fall into ice water. He said it as if he was tired of the subject; as if it had ruined his whole life. And maybe, in some way, it had: Every two years, starting when he was two, she’d had a miscarriage. Four babies, lost. By the time he was ten, she and Evan had been so broken, they hadn’t had the wherewithal to keep trying.
Now Molly was reeling from her son’s cruelty, even as she heard her own voice: Try to understand his pain. In adolescence, every emotion is extreme.
But then he spoke up again: “It was probably your fault, Mom. You’re just going to have to accept it.”
Tears flooded her, blurring her vision as she drove.
No, she thought then. No. Her son was not going to set her healing back five years; he just was not going to be allowed to do that. “How dare you speak to me that way?” she hissed.
“You always tell me we have to accept things the way they are! That’s all I meant!”
She swallowed hard. “I thought,” she managed, through gritted teeth, “that I had also taught you about compassion. Tell me, Caden. Tell me what you say to indicate compassion.”
A sigh. “I see your suffering. I acknowledge your suffering. I am sorry.”
“Caden,” she said, teeth still clenched. “I see your suffering. I acknowledge your suffering. I am sorry.”
“You sound totally sincere, Mom,” he said.
“Well,” she said. “So do you.” Another parenting victory. God help her.
Get me home to the laundry, she thought. At least that I know how to do.
Chapter 9
October 1927
Belvidere, Illinois
The train clanked and groaned to a stop at Belvidere with a long, slow squealing of brakes that reminded Cecily of when Horace ran his fingernails across the chalkboard, making the other kids shriek and Miss Oversham rap the desk with her yardstick and shout, pink-faced, “Children! Children!” Cecily was sad to think that she hadn’t gotten to say goodbye to Miss Oversham, and that sadness lodged, humming, underneath her nerves and discomfort. (She needed a toilet, but she didn’t want to say so to the man.) “Ready, kid?” he said, folding his newspaper under his arm, and she just nodded, and stood when he did. He looked like he must ride the train a lot, and she wanted to seem like she had experience, too.
The Belvidere depot was made of red brick and had a wide platform with a long roof running the length of it, to keep everybody dry, Cecily guessed, as she hopped down the grated iron steps behind the man. She had realized two facts about him so far. One: he was always in a hurry. Two: he had confidence in her, though she didn’t know why.
He turned and handed her her suitcase, which he had carried down for her. “You hungry, kid? I bet you are. It’s gonna be a while before we eat, sorry to say.” He started away, and she followed. There wasn’t such a crowd here, only a few folks scattered across the wooden platform. Today, the broad roof was just providing a too-cool shade, when the sun would’ve been nice to feel.
The man led her inside—he seemed to know she needed a bathroom without her saying so, and she was grateful. She used it quickly and washed her hands carefully. When she came out, he was sitting on a bench, and looked at her like he wondered if she was going to be more trouble than she was worth. It was only half past ten in the morning. He left the newspaper on the bench, and they went back outside and around behind the building, where there were more sets of train tracks.
They walked a long way, down between two lines of cars, flatcars on one side, boxcars on the other. The man slowed so she could walk beside him, and he put his hand on her back, looking around watchfully now.
Cecily, struggling with her suitcase, heard a frightening roar in the distance, then the blat of some kind of horn, and laughter. The man just kept walking.
Now there was a stock car with its slats painted bright blue, the words sax & tebow circus emblazoned on the side in yellow. And now a green car with a painting of a larger-than-life tiger: sax & tebow circus big cats. One in red with a clown: sax & tebow circus clowns. On and on, as they walked, Cecily’s shoes crunching rough gravel, each car was illustrated with something new: egyptian camels. zebras. monkeys! liberty horses. aerial daredevils. bareback riders. Even the passenger cars were painted this way.
The orphanage had had a picture book about a circus, but Cecily had never dreamed she’d see one. Was the man taking her to one before he even took her home to meet his family?
By the time they reached a little white caboose, on which was painted a giant, red-nosed clown in a derby hat with a purple flower, her heart was pounding. In the distance, she heard breathy, screechy fast-paced music, reminding her of when she and her friends had tried learning to play the recorder after a well-meaning Samaritan had donated a few to the Home, before Mrs. H. declared she had a permanent headache and stowed the instruments away “for good.”
“We’ll throw your suitcase in here for now,” the man said. He opened the door to the caboose, snatched Cecily’s suitcase and tossed it up inside, alarming her. Then he grabbed her under her arms, lifted her onto the step, and said, “Wait here. Don’t move a muscle.” He disappeared into the next car.
Well. What else could she do?
So, she waited, tapping her foot with nerves, listening to the distant music, the occasional shouts and screeches, the banging. The air smelled of roasted peanuts and popcorn, hay and grain, dust and manure, roasting meat, sweet taffy. Her mouth had started to water, her stomach to rumble.
The man came out wearing a red tailcoat, white shirt, red vest, white jodhpurs, and a top hat. His black boots gleamed. “Come on, kid,” he said, as he headed for the noise, adjusting his white bow tie. “Keep up.”
After the white caboose was a plain red caboose, and that was the last car of the train. The man led her around the tail end of it, where the screechy music grew louder. Some distance ahead in a wide-open field was a massive dirty white canvas tent. Other, smaller tents were off to the side. And lined up in front was a whole parade! A hundred or more people in bright costumes; at least a dozen vivid wagons pulled by matched teams of two or four or six gray or black Percherons; two dozen sleeker horses in plumed headdresses with riders, men and women both, in Arabian-style dress; a dozen made-up clowns on foot in big red shoes and baggy patched pants. In one wagon—just a large cage surrounded by red and gold filigree—paced a pair of tigers, while a dark-haired woman in a short pink dress paced atop it. In another wagon-cage was a sleeping lion, and a handsome man with a whip stood above it, smoking a cigarette. A beautiful young woman in a short red sparkling dress stood on the back of a gorgeous white Percheron, one of three lined up wearing red plumed headdresses. On top of another wagon stood a very tall man, beside a seated fat lady, plus a woman in a flowing satin gown who seemed to have a snake around her neck—could that be? Five men in sequined green suits were stretching and unlimbering themselves. Four zebras draped in gold-rimmed purple silks shook their manes. A man placed a monkey in a purple hat and vest on the back of one, and the monkey screeched and grinned. Two camels draped in red chewed their cud like they were bored by the man who held their leads. On top of another wagon, a seal barked and, when a clown set a ball on its nose, held it there, balancing. A chimpanzee in a blue vest pulled a child’s wagon with a braying goat inside. The smell of the animals was very strong.
“Come on, kid,” the man said, his long legs stretching toward the front of the parade. “You’re gonna ride with me.”
The man led her to the front of the line, then, without warning, lifted her up onto a huge, brilliantly white horse, placing her ahead of the saddle. He climbed up behind her and grabbed the reins, just as that breathy, screechy music stopped. “This is Blanco,” the man told Cecily. “Hold on to his mane.”
Cecily grabbed the coarse hair just in time, as the man clicked to the horse. The lurching of the horse’s big muscles was a shock and a thrill. The gathered crowd, cheering, opened for them to pass through, and Cecily glanced back to see that all the wagons and animals and people were pitching into motion, and the motion was rough and chaotic at first, as the many parts began to merge into a whole. The wagon directly behind the man and Cecily was the bandwagon, and, with a motion from the red-coated conductor, the brass band burst into quick, cheerful music. When Cecily glanced back again, she and the man had become the bow of a long, beautiful boat, all flowing of a piece.
“Wave to the crowd, kid,” the man said, and Cecily did, and people on the ground cheered and pointed and laughed, and she laughed back, as Blanco’s beautiful ears seemed to twitch to the music, and Cecily clutched his mane with one hand and waved and waved with the other, still wearing the little yellow sweater Mrs. H. had given her that morning.
“That’s right, help yourself!” the man said, laughing as Cecily stood on tiptoe to heap scoop after scoop of mashed potatoes from the steam table buffet line onto her plate. “You poor starving kid!”
They’d led the parade through the whole town, across the river and through the orange-tinged trees, past the brick facades of the downtown shops and restaurants, and back again, what must’ve been a mile or more, and all along the route the crowd was a dozen deep and cheering. All together, it was more people than Cecily had ever seen, and they’d all been cheering for her. Flip and Dolores were never going to believe it.
Back at the circus lot, the man had helped her down from Blanco and led her straight over to what he called the cook top—another large white tent—where she was first in line for lunch. The wonder of the mounds of food was almost enough to blot out all the other wonders of the day. She loaded roast beef and gravy on top of the potatoes, said why not to the little logs of steamed green beans. There were side dishes of stewed tomatoes, small plates of peach cobbler, plus coffee with cream that the man poured for Cecily, saying she might as well start drinking it today, now that she was in the circus.
“What do you mean?” Cecily said, but the man just led her over to one of a dozen long tables covered in red-checked cloths—a carnation in a bud vase adorned each—and bid her to sit down. The performers were streaming in, lining up and loading their plates, the men in sparkling green, the tiger lady in pink, the very tall man, the fat lady, the clowns.
“Howdy, Mr. Tebow,” said one of the clowns, and the man nodded at him, then tucked his white linen napkin into his collar and told Cecily to dig in.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the man—Mr. Tebow—shouted through a megaphone two hours later in the center of the packed Big Top. Cecily bounced in her seat, which was a white-painted folding chair next to the backstage entrance.
Cecily had been scraping her plate clean, while many of the performers were still lined up to fill theirs, when Mr. Tebow had pushed back his chair and told her, “Come on.” He’d led her through the maze of backstage tents, where a group of men stood on each other’s shoulders, horses waited to have their shoes replaced, and the chimpanzee fed the goat a head of lettuce. Finally, Mr. Tebow flipped up a secret flap in the Big Top, pointed to the folding chair, and again told her, “Don’t move a muscle.”
