That Saturday was even more special than the others had been. Now I could really enjoy myself, knowing Our Jane and Keith weren't really suffering . . . and someday I'd know about Tom, too.
It was ten-thirty when Cal and I drove back from Atlanta, both of us rather tired from trying to do too much: see a three-hour movie, eat in a restaurant, and do some shopping. Clothes for me that Cal didn't want Kitty to see. "I hate those saddle shoes as much as you do. However, don't let her see these new ones," he warned before we drove into the garage. "Sneakers are fine for gym, and the Mary Janes she bought for church are just too young for you now. I'll keep these locked in one of my workshop cabinets, and give you a duplicate key. And if I were you, I'd never let my wife see that doll or anything that once belonged to your mother. I'm ashamed to say that Kitty has an abnormal hatred for a poor dead girl who couldn't have known she was taking from Kitty the one man she could truly love."
That hurt, really hurt. I turned big sad eyes his way. "Cal, she loves you. I know she does."
"No, she doesn't, Heaven. She needs me once in a while, to show off as her 'prize catch'--a college man--'her man,' as she so often puts it. But she doesn't love me. Underneath all those exaggerated feminine curves is hidden a small, cold soul that hates men . . all men. Maybe your father made her that way, I don't know. I pity her, though. I've tried for years and years to help her overcome her traumatic childhood. She was beaten by her father, by her mother, and forced to sit in hot water to kill her sins, and handcuffed to her bed so she wouldn't run off with some boy. Then, the moment she was set free, she ran off with the first man she met. Now I've given up. I'm just hanging around until one day I can't take any more--then I'll go."
"But you said you loved her!" I cried out. Didn't you stay when you loved? Could pity be the same as love?
"Let's go in," he said gruffly. "There's Kitty's car. She's home, and there will be hell to pay. Don't say anything. Let me do the talking."
Kitty was in the kitchen pacing the floor. "Well!" she shouted when we came in the back way. "Where ya been? Why ya look so guilty? What ya been doin?"
"We went to the movies," said Cal, stalking by Kitty and heading for the stairs. "We ate dinner in the kind of restaurant you seem to hate. Now we're going to bed. I suggest you say good night to Heaven, who must be as tired as I am, after cleaning this house from top to bottom before noon."
"She ain't done one damn thin on my lists!" snapped Kitty. "She went off with ya an left this house a mess!"
She was right. I hadn't really done much housecleaning, since nothing ever seemed to get messy and dirty, and Kitty seldom bothered to check.
I tried to follow where Cal led, but Kitty reached out and seized my arm. Cal didn't look back.
"Ya damned stupid kid," she hissed. "Ya put my best china in t'washer, didn't ya? Don't ya know I neva use my Royal Dalton and Lenox unless there's company? It's not fer every day! Ya done chipped my plates, two of em! Ya done stacked my cups, broke a handle! Cracked anotha! Didn't I tell ya neva t'stack my cups, but t'hang em up?"
"No, you never told me that. You just said don't stack them."
"I did tell ya! I warned ya! Ya don't do what I say not t'do!"
Slap slap slap.
"How many times do I have t'tell ya?"
Slap slap slap.
"Didn't ya see t'hooks under t'shelves--didn't ya?"
Sure, I'd seen the hooks, and hadn't known what they were for. She hadn't had the cups hung from the hooks. I tried to explain, to apologize, promising to pay for the plates. Her eyes grew scornful. "How ya gonna do that, dummy? Those dishes cost eighty-five dollars a place settin--ya got that kind of dough?"
I was shocked. Eighty-five dollars! How could I know the fancy dishes in the dining-room breakfront were only for looking at, never for using?
"Yer a damned fool--that's my best--took me foreva payin fer all those cups, saucers, plates, an thins--now ya gone an ruined my thins--goddam Jesus Christ idiot hill-scum trash!"
Her pinching grasp hurt my arm. I tried to tug free, "I won't do it again, Mother. I swear I won't!"
"Yer damned right ya won't do it again!" Wham! She punched my face, once, twice, three times!
I staggered backward, off balance, feeling my eye beginning to swell as my nose began to bleed from blows she threw like a boxer. "Now ya git upstairs an stay in that room all day tomorra--with t'door locked. No church an no food until ya kin come down an make me believe yer really sorry t'have ruined my best thins that should be hand-washed."
Sobbing, I ran for the stairs, for the little room with the furniture Cal and I had chosen, hearing Kitty swearing behind me, saying such awful things about hill-scum trash I felt those words would be forever engraved on my brain. In the hall I collided with Cal. "What's wrong?" he asked with alarm, then caught rue and forced me to hold still so he could see my face. "Oh, God," he groaned when he saw my injuries. "Why?"
"I chipped her best plates. . broke a handle off a cup . put her wooden-handled knives in the washer. . ."
He strode off, descended the stairs, and down there I heard him raise his voice for the first time. "Kitty, because you were abused as a child is no reason for you to abuse a girl who tries to do her best."
"Ya don't love me," she sobbed.
"Of course I do."
"NO YA DON'T! Ya think I'm crazy! Ya'll leave me when I'm ole an ugly. Ya'll marry some otha woman, younga than me."
"Please, Kitty, let's not go through this again." "Cal , . . didn't mean t'do it. Neva mean t'hurt her. Or hurt ya. I know she's not really bad . . it's jus somethin about her. . somethin about me, don't understand it . . . Cal, I got me yearnins t'night."
Oh, God, what went on beyond their bedroom wall had taught me only too well why he stayed on and on, despite all the ways she had of castrating him.
In that bedroom with the door shut and locked, he was putty in her hands. She didn't blacken his eyes, or make his nose bloody. What she did for him made him smile in the morning, made his eyes bright, his steps light.
The next morning was Sunday, and Kitty forgave me for chipping her china, forgave me for breaking a cup handle and ruining an expensive knife. . . now that she had Cal under her thumb again. Yet when Cal and I were in the car, waiting for her to finish checking to see what I'd failed to do, he said without looking my way, "I promise to do all I can to help you find Tom. And when you're ready to go to Boston to see your mother's parents, I'll do some detective work myself, or hire others to find your mother's family. They must have been very wealthy, for I hear a Tatterton Toy Portrait Doll costs several thousand dollars. Heaven, you must show that doll to me one day--the day you fully trust me."
To prove how much I did trust him, while Kitty napped upstairs that very afternoon Cal and I entered the basement. First I had to put in a load of Kitty's clothes, and while the washer spun I opened my precious suitcase of dreams and lovingly lifted out the doll. "Turn your back," I ordered, "so I can straighten her gown, put her hair in order. . . and then look, and tell me what you think."
He seemed stunned to see the bride doll with her long silver-gold hair. For long moments he couldn't speak. "Why, that's you with blond hair," he said. "How beautiful your mother must have been. But you are just as lovely. . ."
Hurriedly I wrapped the doll again, tucked her away. For some reason I felt deeply disturbed. After seeing the doll, why did Cal look at me as if he'd never seen me before?
There was so much I didn't know. So much to keep me awake at night in the small room with so much space still taken up by all the things Kitty refused to move out. Again Kitty and Cal were arguing, over me.
"Stop telling me no!" said Cal in a low but intense voice. "Last night you said you wanted me every day, every night. Now you shove me away. I'm your husband."
"Kin't let ya. She's right next door. Where ya wanted her."
"YOU put her in our bed! But for me she'd still be here between us!"
"I went in there--walls ain't thick en
ough. Makes me self-conscious t'know she kin hear."
"That's why we have to get rid of all your stuff. Then we could put her bed on the other wall, much farther away. You do have a huge kiln in your classroom. And all the other junk should go as well."
"It's not junk! Ya stop callin my thins junk!" "All right. They're not junk."
"T'only time I kin get a rise out of ya is when ya defend her--"
"Why, Kitty, I didn't know you wanted a rise out of me."
"Yer mockin me. Yer always mockin me by sayin that, when ya knows what I mean . ."
"No, I wish to God I knew what you really are up to. I wish I knew who and what you are, what thoughts go on beneath all that red hair--"
"Ain't red! Auburn! Titian . . ." she flared hotly. "All right, call it whatever you want. But I know this: if ever you hit Heaven again, and I come home to see her nose bleeding, her face bruised, her eyes black . . . I'll leave you."
"Cal! Don't say thins like that! I love ya, I do! Don't make me cry . . . kin't live without ya now. I won't hit her, promise I won't. Don't wanna anyway. . ."
"Then why?"
"Don't know. She's pretty, young--an I'm genial old. Soon I'll be thirty-six, and that's not far from forty. Cal, life ain't gonna be no good afta forty."
"Of course it will." His voice sounded softer, more understanding. "You're a beautiful woman, Kitty, getting better each year. You don't look a day over thirty."
She yelled: "I wanna look twenty!"
"Good night, Kitty," he said with disgust in his voice. "I won't see twenty again, either, but I'm not grieving about it. What did you have when you were twenty but insecurity? You know who and what you are now; isn't that a relief?"
No, apparently knowing who and what she was was the horror of being Kitty.
However, to celebrate Kitty's traumatic thirtysixth birthday, that summer Cal reserved rooms in a fine hotel near a beach, and in August, the month of the lion, all three of us were under a beach umbrella. Kitty was the sensation of the beach in her skimpy pink bikini. She refused to leave the shade of an umbrella bright with red stripes. "Skin's delicate, burns easy . . . but ya go on, Heaven, Cal. Don't mind me. I'll just sit here an suffa while ya two have fun."
"Why didn't you tell me you didn't want to come to the shore?"
"Ya didn't ask."
"But I thought you liked to swim and sunbathe." "That's how much ya know about me-- nothin." Nobody had any fun when Kitty didn't.
It was a flop of a holiday, when it could have been so much fun if Kitty had only shared the water with us, but Kitty made her birthday vacation a torture.
The day we returned from vacation, Kitty sat me down at the kitchen table with her large box of manicuring equipment and began to give me my first manicure. I felt ashamed of my short, broken fingernails as I admired her long, perfectly groomed ones, with all the cuticles pushed back, and never a chip--never! My ears perked up when she began her lecture on how to have nails as nice as hers. "Ya gotta stop chewin on yers, an learn how t'be a woman. Don't come naturally Chill girls, all t'gracious ways a woman has t'have. Why, it takes time an trainin t'be a woman, takes a lot of patience with men."
The air-conditioning made a soft, hypnotic whir as she continued.
"They're all t'same, ya know, even t'sweettalkin ones. Like Cal. All want one thing, an bein a hill gal, ya know what it is. All is dyin t'slam their bangers inta yer whammer, an afta they done it, if ya start a baby, they won't want it. They'll say it's not theirs, even if it is. If they gives ya a disease, they don't kerr. Now, ya heed my advice, an don't listen t'no sweet-talkin boy--or man--includin mine."
Kitty finished painting my nails bright rose. "There. They do look betta now that yer not scrubbin on washboards no more an usin lye soap. Knuckles done lost all t'rednesso Face done healed--an are ya harmed, are ya?"
"No."
"No what?"
"No, Mother."
"Ya love me, don't ya?"
"Yes, Mother."
"Ya wouldn't take nothin from me that was mine, would ya?"
"No, Mother."
Kitty rose to leave. "Got anotha hard day of bein on my feet. Slavin t'make others look pretty." She sighed heavily and looked down at her five-inch heels. She had remarkably small feet for such a tall woman; like her waist, they appeared to belong to someone petite and frail.
"Mother, why don't you wear low-heeled shoes to work? It seems a pity to make yourself suffer in high heels like that."
Kitty stared with disdain at my bare feet. I tried to tuck them under the full skirt that fell to the floor when I was sitting.
"Shoes ya wear tell people what yer made of-- an I'm made of t'right stuff, steel. Kin take t'pain, t'sufferinan ya kin't."
Hers was a crazy way of thinking. I vowed never again to mention her miserable, too-small shoes that curled her toes so they could never straighten out. Let her feet hurt . . . why should I care?
Summer days were full of work and cooking, and Saturday treats. Soon there were signs of autumn, and school supplies showed up in store windows, with sweaters and skirts, coats and boots. I'd been here eight months, and although Logan had begun writing to me again, still there was no word from Tom. It hurt so much I began to think it was better to stop hoping I'd ever hear from him . . . and then there it was, in the mailbox! Just one letter.
Oh, Thomas Luke, it's so good to see your handwriting, so good, please let me find only happy things inside.
With his letter in my hand, it was almost as if I had Tom beside me. I hurried to sit and carefully rip open his letter so as not to tear his return address. He wrote with the flavor of the hills, but something new had been added . . something that took me quite by surprise, and despite myself, I felt jealous.
.
Dear Heavenly,
Boy, I sure do hope you get this letter. Been writing my fool head off to you, and you never answer! I see Logan from time to time and he nags at me to write to you. I do, but I don't know what happens to my letters, so I'll keep trying. Heavenly, first of all I want you to know that I'm all right. Mr. Henry is not cruel, not mean as you no doubt think, but he can sure drive you to do your very best.
I live in his farmhouse which has twelve rooms. One of them is mine. It's a nice room, clean and kind of pretty in a plain way. He has two daughters, one named Laurie, age thirteen, and one named Thalia, age sixteen. Both are pretty, and so nice I don't really know which one I like best. Laurie is more fun; Thalia is serious, and gives everything more thought. I've told them both about you, and they say they're dying to meet you one day soon.
Logan told me about Our Jane's operation, and how well she's doing, and that Keith is happy and well. You know that's a load off my mind. Trouble is, according to Logan, you say little about yourself. Please write and tell me all that has happened since last you and I were together. I miss you so bad it hurts. I dream about you. I miss the hills, the woods, the fun things we used to do. I miss our talks about our dreams, miss so many things. One thing I don't miss is being hungry, cold, and miserable. I have lots of warm good clothes, too much to eat, especially milk to drink (imagine)--and cheese and more cheese.
I'd write a letter two thousand pages long if I didn't have so many chores to finish before bedtime. But don't worry, please don't. I'm fine, and we will meet again someday soon. I love you,
Your brother,
Tom
.
I sat thinking about Tom long after I finished the letter. Then I hid his letter away with those from Logan. Had Kitty somehow kept Tom's letters from me? That wasn't really possible since I was home every day while she worked, and I brought in the mail almost every day. I stared around my cluttered room, knowing Kitty had been in here and moved things about. It wasn't really my room as long as Kitty kept her "thins" locked behind those cabinet doors, and obviously she checked over all my belongings. Her huge pottery wheel was shoved into a corner, and she had shelves everywhere filled with little knickknacks where my books would have fitte
d nicely. Kitty had no use for books on her shelves. I sat down at my small desk and began to answer Tom's letter. All the lies I'd told Logan would also convince Tom that Kitty was an angelic mother, the best ever . . . but I didn't have to tell lies about Cal, who was the best father possible.
He's truly wonderful, Tom. Every time I look at him, I think to myself, that's how Pa should have been. It feels so good to know that at last I have a real father I can love, who loves me. So stop worrying about me. And don't forget one day you're going to be president--and not of a dairy firm either.
Now I'd heard from Tom, and knew Our Jane and Keith were happy, and Logan wrote that Fanny was having the time of her life--so what did I have to worry about? Nothing. Nothing at all . . .
Fifteen Hearthrobs
. EARLY-MORNING LIGHT IN THE CITY FOUND ME AWAKE about six, when once I'd risen at dawn to begin my day. Downstairs in the second bath I took a quick shower, put on clean clothes, and began breakfast. I was looking forward to returning to school and renewing my neglected friendships. Unbeknownst to Kitty, I had a brand-new outfit that fit perfectly. Cal had paid far too much for it, but I wore it with so much pride. I saw the boys staring at me with ten times more interest now that my figure wasn't hidden by loose fabric. For the first time in my life I began to feel some of the power that women had over the opposite sex, just from being female, and pretty.
I could lose myself in class listening to the teacher talk about monumental people who left their marks on history. Did historians skip over character faults, just to inspire students like me to always strive harder? Would I leave my mark? Would Tom? Why did I feel so driven to prove myself? Miss Deale had always made the people in the past seem human, fallible, and that had given both Tom and me hope.