Homecoming

  “I know because I heard about how you got cut, that’s how I know.”

  “Then why did you ask me?” Sammy demanded.

  Maybeth bowed her head lower over her plate. Dicey looked at Sammy, trying to will him to be cooperative. Or at least quiet.

  Cousin Eunice spoke through stiff lips. “Don’t be fresh. Don’t you ever be fresh with me. You hear? The reason I asked you is because—because—because I wanted to hear what you would say,” she finished lamely.

  “I didn’t say nothing,” Sammy said.

  “What was the fight about?” Cousin Eunice asked.

  “Nothing,” Sammy said.

  “Sammy?” Dicey interrupted. “Cousin Eunice wants to hear your side.”

  “I can’t remember what it was about,” Sammy said stubbornly. Dicey could have picked him up and shaken him.

  “Who won?” James asked.

  “James!” cried Cousin Eunice.

  Sammy lifted his head. “Me, I did.”

  “That has nothing to do with it,” Cousin Eunice said.

  Yes it does, Dicey said to herself. It does to Sammy.

  “I don’t want you to fight anymore,” Cousin Eunice announced. “I want you to promise me that you won’t.”

  Sammy chewed silently. He kept his eyes on his plate. At least, Dicey thought, his mouth was closed.

  “Sammy—” Cousin Eunice warned him.

  He shook his head.

  “Then you will go to your room. Right now.” Cousin Eunice’s voice sounded angry, and tired. “And you will stay there for the rest of the night. You tell lies. You won’t promise not to fight. I won’t have you at my table.”

  Sammy got down from his chair and trudged out of the room. They heard his slow footsteps going up the uncarpeted stairs. They heard the door slam behind him.

  “I don’t know. I just don’t know,” Cousin Eunice said. She shook her head and the sausage curls on it bounced. “At least I hear some fine things about James. James seems to be making quite a good impression.” She smiled at him.

  James wavered between saying something rude and being flattered. Dicey watched him nervously. “James is smart,” she said, trying to tip the scales.

  “It’s not only that,” Cousin Eunice said. “James conducts himself well, too. He is a credit.”

  “It’s a good school,” James finally said. Dicey let out her breath. James looked across at her, waggled his eyebrows the way Windy had, and kept on talking. “When you think of all there is to learn, in order to understand things. Like history and science—there’s so much to learn. The fathers say that part of man’s purpose is to increase his knowledge, so that he can understand better how great is God’s work. A lot of people think knowledge is dangerous. But they’re wrong. Did you ever think of that, Cousin Eunice?”

  “Yes, of course,” Cousin Eunice said. “God wants children to study hard and behave well in school.”

  James answered slowly. “I guess you could say that. But that’s not the way the fathers talk about it, about learning. They don’t treat it like a duty. They treat it like a gift. Like grace.”

  “I don’t think you can be right about that,” Cousin Eunice said. “Not grace. That’s not what the Gospels say, is it? Nobody’s ever told me the Gospels say that. I’ve always understood that duty is the most important, even the best.”

  James shrugged. “Maybe learning’s just that way for me. Lucky for me, isn’t it?”

  Cousin Eunice smiled at him. The tension was gone from the table. But Sammy hadn’t had much dinner and he was up in his room. Dicey tried not to think about that. It was his own fault anyway, for being so stubborn. But Dicey had never talked about her fights when she got home—you just didn’t do that. That was squealing. Momma never asked about them. Why did Cousin Eunice have to ask?

  After the dishes were done and Sammy was asleep and Maybeth was tucked into her bed and James was settled down to homework in the living room, Cousin Eunice called to Dicey to join her in the kitchen. Dicey saw that a cup of tea had been made for her, and for some reason that made her nervous.

  “Sit down, Dicey,” Cousin Eunice greeted her. She was wearing another one of her black dresses. Dicey had never seen her wearing colors. Her eyes looked out at Dicey from behind polished glass. “I was talking with Father Joseph today.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Dicey said. She wondered what was wrong now.

  “He took me to lunch,” Cousin Eunice said. “Well, I was surprised when he asked me. I wasn’t sure it was right—but he insisted that it was. We didn’t go to a real restaurant, but it was a very nice cafeteria, everything as clean as you could want. I had a fruit salad. There’s something I haven’t ever told you, you see, and Father Joseph thinks I should.”

  “What is that?” Dicey asked.

  “Before you came, you and your family, I had certain—ambitions,” Cousin Eunice said. Her voice was very soft and she stirred her tea thoughtfully. “Father Joseph knows of these, of course. He approved of them, with certain reservations. And since he had approved, I was sure it was the right thing.”

  “What was?”

  “To enter a sisterhood. To become a nun. I was going to be a nun before . . . and Father Joseph had made the preliminary arrangements for me. It’s a useful life. I have a substantial savings account, which would make up my dowry, that and the house. So you see, I could have managed well.”

  “It sounds—” Dicey tried to think of what she should say. “Nice. You’d make a good nun.”

  “Do you think so? I had hoped so. However, that is out of the question now.” Cousin Eunice’s eyes filmed with tears, and she shook her head. “Because of you children. You need me more, Father Joseph says. It is God’s work, just as much, caring for the abandoned children.” As she spoke, she looked over Dicey’s shoulder at something Dicey couldn’t see, something Dicey suspected wasn’t there at all, and her eyes shone. “That is my duty. You will be my family now.” Her soft voice vibrated with the pleasure of resolution and sacrifice.

  “Are you sure?” Dicey asked.

  “It is God’s will,” Cousin Eunice said, bowing her head.

  Dicey sipped tea, which she had never liked, and thought about this. “That’s awfully kind of you.”

  Cousin Eunice smiled at Dicey.

  “You’re giving up something you want,” Dicey said.

  “You are not to speak of that,” Cousin Eunice said. “I wasn’t going to tell you at all, but Father Joseph said that you and I especially must understand one another. So that if sometimes I grow sad . . . you will know why and sympathize with me rather than feeling you’ve done something wrong. Perhaps Maybeth is meant to be a nun, perhaps she has a vocation, and it will be my place to guide her to it. Perhaps she will be my purpose in life.”

  Dicey wanted to get up and run, but she made herself sit still.

  “Father Joseph suggested that I adopt you, so that I will be the legal guardian.”

  “What if Momma comes back?”

  “Surely she has shown herself unfit to raise children,” Cousin Eunice answered. Her lips pursed.

  Dicey couldn’t answer that.

  “However, Dicey, you and I must deal with Sammy. He’s causing some trouble at camp. Not just today—constantly. Father Joseph said he had spoken to you about this. Sammy has to be brought into line. I couldn’t adopt a child who will bring nothing but trouble. Could I? You saw how he behaved at supper. Sammy has to understand that his behavior is unacceptable.”

  “But—” Dicey said, and then changed her mind. “How would you do that?”

  “I’ll talk with Father Joseph. He’s not sure that my house is the best place for Sammy, but he feels we should try it for a while, to see if we can keep your family together. He’s concerned about Maybeth, too, he told me, but I could assure him that we would do well, Maybeth and I. But Sammy—I don’t know. I’ll see. Father Joseph knows about disciplining boys. James, fortunately, is biddable. Sammy has to be brought into
line, so he doesn’t shame me.”

  Dicey stayed absolutely still. She didn’t even blink. She didn’t trust herself to speak.

  “I do feel better, now that we’ve talked. Don’t you?” Cousin Eunice looked happy. Her curls bounced on her head. “You will be like a family of my own. If I’d had a daughter, she might be just your age. You’ll grow up and have children of your own. So that when I’m older, I won’t be alone. Just as Mother wasn’t alone. In a way, I’m glad about this. Aren’t you? And you children will have a good mother.”

  We already have a good mother, Dicey said angrily to herself. Hold on, she said to herself. This was what Father Joseph had decided. It might be for the best. The Tillermans would be able to stay together—maybe. They would have a home. Dicey knew she should feel grateful to Cousin Eunice. But she didn’t. She felt like crying.

  CHAPTER 12

  August choked the city. The morning sun had to burn its red path through low-hanging hazes and clouds of industrial smoke. The streets steamed, as concrete reflected heavy sunlight. The temperature climbed until one in the afternoon, and then continued climbing. When it rained, fat gray drops plopped down upon the roads, then bounced up, as if in a half-hearted effort to escape. At evening, darkness gradually smothered the sun, until night fell upon the city.

  Dicey rose early every morning, cooked the breakfasts, cleaned the kitchen, walked her family to their daily activities and hurried back to pick up her equipment and wash whatever store windows were on her schedule for the day. Then she completed whatever housekeeping chores Cousin Eunice had assigned before she went to fetch her family, played briefly with them, prepared dinner and made Cousin Eunice’s cup of tea.

  Weekends were a little different. For those two afternoons, the Tillermans could go off to a park or a public beach after they had completed the morning chores, or after Maybeth had returned from church with Cousin Eunice.

  Sometimes it was more convenient for Dicey to meet Maybeth at the church, if they were going to picnic at the park, or if Cousin Eunice had friends she wanted to visit with. Dicey would wait outside the big brick building, waiting for the heavy doors to be opened from within. The steeple stretched tall up into the sky. There was a gold cross on top of the steeple, and from below it looked like the tip of the cross scratched the bottom of the sky.

  When the doors opened, Dicey watched carefully for her sister. Lots of children went to church with their parents, all of them dressed up. The girls wore organdy dresses and party shoes and ribbons in their hair, or hats. The boys wore real suits and ties. Cousin Eunice always walked out slowly, surrounded by a group of women who could have been her sisters. They dressed alike. They all wore those high-heeled shoes. They all had curled their hair into sausages.

  These women made a pet out of Maybeth. She would stand in the middle and they would tell her how pretty she was, how lucky she was to have naturally curly hair, and what a sweet, quiet girl she was. “You’re going to break some hearts for sure,” they said, giggling.

  Maybeth listened to this and smiled foolishly.

  “An angel like you—nobody will be good enough for you. She’s a treasure, Eunice,” they said.

  “Don’t I know it?” Cousin Eunice answered smugly.

  “A doll, a perfect doll.”

  Dicey put her hands behind her back and clenched her fists, waiting for Cousin Eunice to see her.

  When Cousin Eunice called her, the women stepped back and smiled primly at her. Maybeth put out her hand for Dicey to take. Her eyes were wide as she looked at Dicey, wide and pleased with the attention. The silly smile stayed.

  Sunday afternoons the Tillermans chose to go to a small park nearby because on summer weekends it was less crowded than the beach. There were trees there, and grass. Several times Dicey saw Mr. Platernis in the park, who greeted her warmly with: “How’s my go-getter today?” Nobody commented on this, except James, but Dicey abruptly changed the subject.

  She found a time, soon after her talk with Cousin Eunice, to try to explain the situation to Sammy.

  “You’ve got to be cooperative at camp,” Dicey said.

  “I don’t like them,” Sammy said.

  “Don’t like who? The boys? Or the teachers?”

  “Don’t like any of them.”

  “Why not?”

  “They’re all bossy.”

  That was all he would say. His little jaw stuck out, and he pulled at blades of grass as they sat by the sandbox.

  “We’ve got a problem, Sammy,” Dicey said. “We have to please Cousin Eunice. The way for you to help is to cooperate at camp. Act more friendly.”

  “Why?” Sammy asked.

  “So we can all stay together with Cousin Eunice,” Dicey said.

  “When Momma comes we won’t have to. And I don’t want to anyway.”

  Dicey sighed. She didn’t much want to herself. She daydreamed about Crisfield and a farm; but she had learned her lesson about believing in daydreams, learned it from Cousin Eunice and her house that wasn’t a big white house by the ocean.

  “Would you do it for James and Maybeth and me?” Dicey asked him. “Would you try, for us? I know it’s hard. I know you get angry. But we need you to try. When we were on our own, you stopped quarreling and helped. Remember?”

  Sammy nodded.

  “You liked that, didn’t you?”

  Sammy nodded.

  “All I want you to do is be more that way at camp. Can you try?”

  Sammy nodded. “You sound like Momma,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you do. When she’d ask me to be gooder, that was the way she’d talk.”

  He ran off to join Maybeth on the swings. Dicey watched him catch a flying swing and leap onto it, then pump furiously with his sturdy little legs. When he caught up with Maybeth, he cheered for himself.

  Day succeeded day in slow procession. Cousin Eunice treated Dicey differently since their talk. She wanted to sit with Dicey in the kitchen every night, with cups of tea, which Dicey could never completely drink, and talk about religion and serving God and how when she was a girl she had wanted to be a nun. But her mother said she wasn’t strong enough in spirit, didn’t have a real calling, should wait to see if she got married.

  Dicey listened. She began to feel sorry for Cousin Eunice, who had lived all of her life in this city, who had gone off to work every morning along the same gray city streets. Dicey didn’t like the sound of Aunt Cilla. She had lied to Momma in her letters. It seemed to Dicey that Aunt Cilla had tried to keep Cousin Eunice all for herself. And then, Dicey thought to herself as the soft voice droned on about service and prayer, just when Cousin Eunice was about to do what she’d always wanted, the Tillermans turned up to tie her down again. Poor Cousin Eunice.

  If that had happened to Dicey, she’d be angry. Cousin Eunice wasn’t angry at all, just sad sometimes. As if this was the way her whole life had to be, not getting what she wanted, always giving it up for the sake of someone else.

  Maybe she enjoyed giving things up for the sake of someone else. Some people liked that feeling. But even if that was the case, Dicey knew her cousin would rather have been a nun. That was what she really wanted.

  It wasn’t very much to want, and she didn’t have even that.

  The money in Dicey’s shoebox increased slowly, day by day. Sixty-five, seventy, which, with the fifty dollars she had left from the car, made one hundred and twenty, then one hundred and forty dollars, one hundred and fifty.

  Maybeth came home from camp with a note addressed to Miss Tillerman. The note requested Dicey to come to camp the next afternoon at two, an hour before the children went home. Somebody named Sister Berenice wanted to talk to her.

  Dicey didn’t want to go. She knew what the sister would say. She read the note and reread it. She considered throwing it away and pretending she had never gotten it, as Momma had done. She ripped it up into little pieces and dropped them into the wastepaper basket. She didn’t want to
hear whatever the sister had to say, about Maybeth being retarded and needing a special school.

  James was no help. He seemed convinced that the fathers, and the nuns too, couldn’t make a mistake. “Go and talk to her. Maybe she knows something we don’t. Maybe she knows something that can help Maybeth. Just plan to learn from her, about whatever she has to say. You’ve got to keep an open mind, Dicey. You’ve got to leave a door open so understanding can get in. That’s one thing I’ve learned.”

  “It’s not just minds,” Dicey said. “You all think it’s just smartness that counts. But Stewart didn’t think that. And I don’t think I do, either. I don’t want to go.”

  “Suit yourself,” James said. “I’d go.”

  “I’m not you,” Dicey said.

  But she kept the appointment, wearing one of the secondhand dresses that made her feel stiff and awkward because they never fit properly. She wore sneakers, because they were the only shoes she had. She held her chin high and a little angry—she knew Maybeth and this woman didn’t.

  Sister Berenice waited for Dicey in one of the classrooms next to the camp playground. It was a room for very small children. All the chairs were small. The tables didn’t even come up to Dicey’s knees.

  Sister Berenice rose from her desk when Dicey came into the long room. The sister was very tall and very thin. She wore a black suit with a longish skirt, and her face was framed by the cowl she wore. She had pale blue eyes and her mouth looked stern. When she pulled up one of the little chairs for Dicey to sit on, Dicey saw with surprise that she wore a silver wedding ring on her right hand.

  “You’re a child,” she said. Dicey nodded. “I asked Maybeth,” Sister Berenice said, sounding cross, “I asked her who her guardian was and she said Dicey, her sister. I asked if you were married and Maybeth said no. Well, actually, she just shook her head. It is the longest conversation we have had. I didn’t think to ask Father Joseph how old you were. Who is the person legally responsible for Maybeth?”

  “Our cousin Eunice, I guess,” Dicey said. “Until they find our mother.”

  “Miss Logan,” Sister Berenice murmured, in apparent disbelief.