Lyla, page 11
“Hey, you,” she said. “How's it going?”
I shrugged.
She held her hand out. “Mind if I bum a smoke?”
I could count on one hand the number of times my mother ever bought her own cigarettes. It was too much trouble.
“Did you have fun with Carl tonight?” I gave her a cigarette.
“Oh yeah, unquestionably.”
͠
The morning brought a dewy heaviness that saturated our house and clothes. It was a clammy sticky moisture, but the truth was, we didn't notice it. We lived with it. It was always there. The only time we noticed the dampness was during winter season. Then the humidity was more like frost. It made your skin as cold as the backside of a corpse.
Mother stood in the kitchen with her hands on her hips, screaming at the top of her lungs. The whole house expanded beneath her bellows.
“You can't wear that to school, young lady!” Mother shouted.
“I will wear it!”
“You'll do as I say!”
“No I won't!”
“Oh yes you will, I'm your mother, dammit!”
Mother and Emma Claire fought with tenacious skill. They were good at it, and could carry on for hours sometimes.
I walked into the kitchen to see Mother and Emma Claire in a standoff. Mother stood blocking the screen door, her legs spread wide. We weren't going anywhere until the two of them finished their private war.
“Don't tell me how to dress!” Emma Claire hollered.
“You look like white trash. I won't allow my own daughter to go to school looking like a rag doll.”
“I am not white-trash!”
“Well you certainly look like it, wearing that.”
“Hey, what's going on?” I interrupted, walking into the kitchen.
They both stared at me.
It wasn't anything new to see them fussing like that. Mother and Emma Claire fought like the Devil and his mule. It was their favorite thing to do to pass time.
“Quinn,” Mother said. “Tell Emma Claire that she is not going to school in that god-awful dress. It has a hole in it.”
As if I had any influence over that fiery little girl.
“Unquestionable,” Emma Claire said. “This is simply absurd and unquestionable.”
“Wait,” I said to Emma. “I thought that word meant something else.”
She ignored me. “Tell Mother that she's not the boss of me!”
“I am the boss,” Mother snapped. “Quinn, people will think that she's trash. Is that what you want, Emma Claire? To be a good-for-nothing cracker?”
I failed to see how that mattered at this stage in our lives. Everyone knew we were poor as clams on Friday.
“Come, now,” I said. “Let's all calm down, there's no need to shout. Even if we are crackers.”
“I ain't no cracker!” Emma hollered. “Maybe you both are, but I'm not!”
“Emma, hush,” I whispered, bending down to inspect Emma Claire's dress. It was one of her only dresses, she wore it all the time, even outside to play. “I don't see a rip anywhere.”
“It's right there,” Mother said. “By the neckline.”
My eyes traveled to the neckline, and I saw it, near the white collar, a little tear the size of a penny.
“Oh fiddle, Emma Claire, Mother's right, let's get you changed. Hurry up now, or you'll be late.”
“She's a hateful woman.” Emma Claire shook a fist at Mother. “Emphatically hateful!”
“Now, now,” I said. “There's no need to swear, Emma Claire.”
Emma Claire stomped down the hallway as hard as she could. It sounded like a rhinoceros in wooden clogs was doing the two-step in our house. Mother followed behind, stomping just as hard as Emma Claire stomped.
“What did you call me you, little brat?” Mother said. “You horrid little bi–”
“You're not my mother,” Emma Claire cut her off. “You don't want me, you don't even care about me.”
Mother said nothing.
“It's unquestionably true.” Emma Claire's face was becoming swollen with tears. “You don't love me. Never have. Probably never will!”
Mother was quiet. She did not bother to correct Emma Claire.
“You can have my stupid dress!” Emma stripped her dress off in one sweeping motion. She tugged the garment over her head, wadded it into a ball and flung it at Mother. “There, light it on fire, if you want!”
Emma Claire stood there in the hallway in her panties. Her chest heaved with anger, and her ribs showed through her thin pale skin. She looked like a white water bug.
“I hate you!” shouted Emma. Then Emma Claire thought of the worst insult she could utter. It was something she didn't even understand yet. Not all the way. “I hate you, you whore!”
Mother looked at Emma Claire with enough venom to take down a horse. Her voice became quiet and low:
“Well, I hate you too, and I wish I never had either of you. You're both just two big mistakes.”
Emma Claire sneered. She ran into my bedroom and slammed the door.
Mother did the same thing, darting into her room. She slammed the door behind her in an identical theatrical manner. The walls of our clapboard house rattled like sheets of paper.
I stood alone in the hallway.
Mother's angry voice came muffled through her bedroom walls. “You've both ruined my goddamn life, I hate you both!”
“That goes unquestionably double for me!” Emma screamed.
͠
Emma Claire's bright red dress was a nice one. It was one reserved for special occasions. A little too fancy for school, but it was all she had. She'd almost grown out of it. It was small on her, but no one noticed.
Everything was getting small for her.
Her whole world, in fact.
Emma Claire was getting taller each day. Her legs were stretching into lanky cane poles. Her hair was changing too. It was long dark hair, grown halfway down her back. Overdue for a cutting.
I was the one who cut Emma Claire's hair. The last time I cut it, I'd made it uneven. Cutting hair was a lot harder than it sounded. It's hard to cut thick hair in a straight line. When I was finished with her, Emma Claire looked like she'd fallen headfirst into a mill saw.
But Emma wasn't bothered by my butcher-cuts. At such a young age, she cared little about fashion. She cared more for her books than she did her appearance. Whenever I mangled her hair, I'd hide my disaster by braiding her locks the same way I spliced ropes on my boat.
No one was the wiser.
“Have a good day.” I waved to Emma Claire. “Learn something important and then tell it to me.”
“Bye, Quinn.”
“Unquestionably.”
“That's not how it's used.”
“I'm working on it.”
“Well keep trying.”
Bite me, you little brat.
Emma Claire flitted away and pounced up the school steps in her red dress. She toted her books behind her with a leather strap that held them together. I recognized the leather strap as my old belt. That made me smile. Emma Claire must've raided my closet to find that thing.
Resourceful little thief.
I went to light a cigarette when I noticed a figure standing outside the window of my truck. Startled, I turned my head to see Miss Rachel knocking on my window. If she'd've been a man, I would've rolled down the window to speak. But Miss Rachel was a lady.
I kicked open the door and leapt out of the truck.
Miss Rachel smiled at me. “Hello, Quinn.”
“Hi, Miss Rachel, how are you today?”
I focused on Miss Rachel's mouth, pointing my good ear in her direction. She spoke so soft and quiet, it was hard for me to hear a single word she said.
“How's business?” she asked.
“Oh fine,” I said. “It's been a good season so far.”
“That's marvelous. And your mother, how's she?”
“Oh she's okay; you know she works at Carl's now.”
“Yes, I'd heard that.”
I'm sure everyone had.
I smiled at her. I didn't know what other conversational pleasantries to offer Miss Rachel. I was a cracker, not a socialite. But Miss Rachel was a sharp stick; she knew who she was dealing with.
“You look good, Quinn,” she said.
And I thanked her for the sweet lie.
In a way, Miss Rachel was my boss' wife. I sold my oysters to Miss Rachel's husband Harold, and only him. Just like a lot of oystermen did. Harold had been an oystermen in his early days, working the beds like the rest of us. Then, he'd started his own packing and shipping company. His company was a blistering white-hot success, and we all respected him for it. Harold's success trickled down to us.
And he treated us well.
Harold was a city councilman too. And even though oystermen don't know a lick about politics, it made us feel good knowing he was on the council, using his voice.
“I'm worried about Emma Claire,” Miss Rachel said.
“You're worried?”
“Yes, I'm worried that Emma Claire is bored.”
I ran my hands through my hair. “Yes ma'am.”
“The truth is, she's bored senseless in my class.”
“I think I understand.”
“No, I don't think you do. You see, Emma Claire is bored because she's smart, and her studies are too easy for her.”
“Easy?”
Miss Rachel nodded her head. “Far too easy. Emma Claire breezes through everything, faster than the other students do.”
“I'll tell her to slow down.”
“No. Don't do that, Emma Claire isn't doing anything wrong.”
I was quiet for a moment. “Then why's she in trouble?”
Miss Rachel laughed. “She's not in trouble, not at all. She's smart.”
It came as no surprise to me.
I knew Emma Claire was smart. Since Emma Claire had been a five-year-old, I'd taken her into town with me to do business. That girl knew how to count exact change better than I did. Emma Claire also knew the names of every player on the Yankees. She listened to the radio games with me all the time. Miss Rachel wasn't telling me anything I didn't already know.
“You're saying that she's….”
“Utterly brilliant,” Miss Rachel said. “The most brilliant child that I've ever seen, to be quite honest.”
The pride welled up in my belly, rising through my chest.
“With permission, next year, I'd like to advance her.”
I cocked my ear closer to her. “Advance her?”
“Quinn, what I mean to say is, I want to move Emma Claire to the seventh grade. She's already learned everything that elementary school has to offer. She needs to stimulation.”
Stimulation.
A big word like that sounded unquestionably serious.
In that moment, I began to think about Emma Claire's little face, her fat pink cheeks and dark eyes. I thought about how she liked piggyback rides and the hand-slap game. About how she despised mint, but loved candy canes. That never made any sense to me whatsoever.
“It won't cost a thing, if that's what you're wondering,” Miss Rachel said. “Everything will stay the same for Emma Claire's day-to-day studies. She'll just graduate sooner than the others.”
Miss Rachel stopped talking and stared at me.
“Quinn, do you understand what I'm saying?”
I couldn't answer her.
Miss Rachel embraced me in the parking lot, like one of her students. She stroked the back of my head with her hand.
“Oh, Quinn. I know you must be so proud.”
I was.
Prouder than I'd ever been.
I'd never meant to start crying in front of a lady like that.
It was an indecent thing to do.
͠
Emma Claire and I drove down our little dirt road toward home. The path cut through the woods like a dusty creek, right to our front door. I looked through the windows at the green trees. The pines diffused their green scent into the air. Bright green lizards made themselves at home on the long branches. Green palmetto fronds waved to us. Green katydids chirped at us. Green, green, green. Green everywhere.
While it was true that our family was poor, we were lucky. We had a house on green land; that was more than a lot of crackers had. Especially oyster-grunts like me. The land jutted out into the bay like a continent. It was the most valuable thing my family would ever own. We were lucky to have it.
My Granddaddy had come by the huge plot of land long ago when he was a young man. He was smart as a whip. A money-savvy young thing who gambled better than the Devil himself–or so people have told me.
Folks said my Granddaddy was hell at a card table. They said he had more luck than a team of rabbits missing their feet. Granddaddy would show up to card games dressed in raggedy clothes. Inside his ragged jackets, he had hundred dollar bills sewn into the lining. I never knew why he'd done such a thing, but it sounded mighty clever.
I would've loved to inherit one of his old suits.
My truck brakes squealed as I pulled into our driveway. Emma Claire and I both stared at Carl Plight's car parked in front of our house.
We frowned together in unison.
I don't know what it was about Carl Plight that neither of us cared for, it was hard to pinpoint. It wasn't that he was a bad man, he wasn't. In fact, Carl seemed as decent as anyone could be. He'd given Mother a job at his grocery store, and now she was finally earning a little of money.
God knows, I was grateful to Carl for that.
The thing was, Carl Plight was a graceless man. His awkwardness could make even a politician uncomfortable. And Carl never knew exactly which words to say to me. He stumbled over his sentences like he had a full bladder and a mouthful of peanut butter. So, instead, he'd just look at me with his big bug-eyes. Then, he'd say something like, “You been doing much fishing?” to which I would always answer, “You bet your ass.”
“Aw, Carl Plight?” Emma moaned. “Again?”
“It appears so.”
“How wonderful.”
I nodded. “Unquestionably.”
͠
Mother met Emma Claire and me on the porch. She was covered in white flour and dressed in a frilly apron. One that I'd never seen before. She looked ridiculous wearing such a thing.
“Quinn,” Mother said. “Help me. I've made a horrible mess in the kitchen.”
I refrained from saying anything sarcastic. What I wanted to say was something about how she ought not mess with skillets. Or flour. Nothing good could come of Mother being anywhere near a bag of flour.
But I held my tongue.
Mother squatted down to Emma Claire's eye level. She put her powdered white hand on Emma's shoulder.
“Emma Claire, I owe you a big apology. I was angry this morning, and I said things I didn't mean. I don't hate you.” Mother paused. “I want to say I'm sorry.”
Emma Claire glanced at me, but said nothing.
“You too, Quinn.” Mother looked at me. “I owe you an apology, too. I shouldn't've said what I said. I love you both. I am grateful to God for you both. I'm so grateful.”
Mother was a little drunk, too.
Mother pulled Emma Claire into herself and embraced her. She drew her eyebrows together, wrinkling the skin on her forehead. Emma Claire wrapped her arms around Mother, but didn't squeeze.
Then, Mother stood up and brushed a strand of hair from her face. There were spots of flour on her cheeks.
“Now I want y'all to be sweet to Carl,” Mother said. “He's my boss and my good friend. Try to make him feel like he's right at home, you know how uncomfortable he can be.”
God yes we knew.
But this would never be his home.
͠
The kitchen was a wreck. Flour covered the counter in what looked like a biscuit suicide. The grits on the stove had burned, stuck to the bottom of the pot, charred black.
There's nothing in the world worse than a pot ruined by a grit burning. Except maybe, death by a million splinters. Or being half-eaten by a gator. A grit-burning is the ultimate disaster. The grits weld themselves to the bottom of the pot like tiny chunks of iron. There's nothing you can do to save the pot, you might as well throw it away and forget about it.
“See, I've made a mess,” Mother explained. “I was trying to make biscuits and grits so that we could all have a nice dinner for once.”
I lifted the spoon out of the skillet. “And I take it this was supposed to be some kind of gravy?”
“I know, it's horrible,” Mother laughed, removing her apron. “Can you take over from here?”
“I suppose.”
“Oh good, I'm so relieved.”
“Well, that makes one of us.”
Mother sighed. “You're not mad at me are you, Quinn?”
“No, but you'd better get out of here before you hurt yourself with a rolling pin.”
Mother and Emma Claire left the kitchen. They waltzed into the den to join the notoriously amiable Carl Plight. There, Emma would be engaged in an enlightening conversation about the rising price of turnips.
She never liked turnips.
I dusted the counter. I pinched the mixture of butter and flour together between my fingers and wondered how to tell Mother about the good news. About Emma Claire's advancement into the seventh grade. I wondered if I ought to attempt to tell Mother at all. The truth was, I didn't know if Mother would be happy for Emma, or not. Mother could sometimes be indifferent to good news that didn't involve her.
Her self-centeredness was an unpredictable animal that did whatever it wanted. Sometimes, the best way to rain on a parade was to invite Mother to join the procession. And she would suck the fun right out of it. There was no way to know if Mother would be happy, or be jealous-green as a gecko.
I rolled the buttery dough out like a slab. Then I used an upside down jar to cut the biscuits, like a cookie cutter. These would be big biscuits. I might've been a Florida cracker, but I could sure as hell make a good biscuit. Biscuits were my claim to fame. I didn't have many.
