Martha Calhoun Read online

  “Ohhhh.”

  Chief Springer located Bunny at Shorty’s, but before she could get down to the station, Tony Wesnofske, the youth officer, arrived. Because of Tom, Bunny and I had known him for years. He’s much younger than Chief Springer, and everyone just calls him Sergeant Tony. He came quietly out of the back, and when I looked up, he was standing with his hands on his hips, examining me as if he expected to spot some evidence. He was wearing Bermuda shorts and a golf shirt, and his flattop looked freshly cut.

  “Well, Martha,” he said. “This is something, isn’t it?”

  I nodded.

  “Maybe you better come with me.” He led me down the hall to his office. A sign by the door said YOUTH BUREAU. He sat at a small, gray desk and gestured for me to sit in a gray chair beside it. The room was tiny and crowded with metal furniture—a metal bookcase, a metal file cabinet, a narrow, gray metal table piled with papers and folders. One small window faced out on the square.

  Putting his feet up on the desk, he wiggled his chair forward a few inches. The grooves in the bottoms of his sneakers were packed with dried mud, and when he moved, little flakes of it rained down on his desk.

  “You look scared,” he said.

  “I am.”

  “No need to be. I’m used to handling stuff like this. Much worse, in fact. This is nothing.” He made a steeple with his fingers and stared thoughtfully into the air. “You wouldn’t believe what I hear. This town, other towns, too. So different from a few years ago. It’s a city infection. Our boys went to war, Europe, Korea, and fought beside city boys. Brought back some of their attitudes. Passed them on.” He sighed. “You know what I mean?”

  I nodded.

  “Look at Billy Pick. I know his family, used to shop at their grocery store. He was a punk here, a nothin’, he didn’t even play football. Then he comes back from Korea, and he’s a big deal, lots of girlfriends, just ’cause he won’t take no for an answer. Now look at him. Hollywood. That’s where he belongs.”

  I nodded again. Nobody knows what Billy Pick does in Hollywood. He’s not an actor, but he’s handsome and he dates starlets. Sometimes he shows up in gossip columns in the Chicago papers. People make jokes about him, but they say he’s Katydid’s most famous person.

  “Hell, I don’t blame the soldiers,” Sergeant Tony continued. “You can’t turn your mind off to that stuff. I fought in Europe, too. I know what it was like. Look at this.” He leaned forward and pointed to the back of his calf. A small, hairless bubble of skin bulged out of the muscle and moved in and out with his pulse. “A piece of shrapnel gave me that. Push on it.”

  I frowned, not understanding.

  “Go on, push on it.”

  Tentatively, I reached out and pushed against the strange little dome of skin. The bubble deflated, then filled up again when I took my finger away.

  “See?” he said.

  I nodded, still not understanding.

  He put his feet down and sat up. “Now, tell me what happened at the Benedicts’. Give me the whole story. Get it off your chest.”

  I stared at the floor, pale gray linoleum.

  He waited, then went on. “I know it’s a shock. I understand. That Mrs. Benedict—she can get very hysterical. Some of these women, they marry well, then lose all sight of things. I knew her before, you know. She was a few years behind me in school. She lived on Hacker Street. Hacker! You know what I mean?”

  Hacker’s a very short street that runs along the train siding behind the KTD. Mary Sue Zimmerman lives over there. “Yes,” I said softly.

  “You can’t really know whether to believe a person like that, can you?”

  I shook my head.

  “I’d like to hear what you had to say, your side of the story.”

  Without taking my eyes off the floor, I said, “It’s not really what you think.”

  “Oh? What do I think?”

  I looked up at him. “That, you know, something was going on up there.”

  He shrugged. “Is that what I think? Hmmm. Maybe, maybe not.” He put his hands behind his head. “I just know what Mrs. Benedict says. And then there’s your mother.”

  “What’s she—”

  “Come on. Grow up.”

  My eyes dropped to the floor. I fought to hold back the tears. How could I tell him anything? He’d always been like this, always been cruel about our family. It was crazy to try to explain to him. It would only make things worse.

  He saw that I was about to cry, so he waited a few seconds. When he spoke again, his tone was very casual. “Where’s your brother these days? Sherwood?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s he got? Four years?”

  “Until he’s twenty-one.”

  “Segregation, right?”

  I nodded. They keep the boys convicted of serious crimes away from the younger boys.

  “Whew.” Sergeant Tony whistled softly. “That’s rough. They’re rough on boys down there.” He paused. “You know, I didn’t have anything to do with his case. That was adult.”

  “I know.”

  “I think he respected me. We had our differences, but, overall, I respected him and he respected me. You know?”

  I didn’t say anything. Tom has a lot of problems and a lot of anger toward people, but, for all that, there’s a kind of harmlessness about him. He’s soft-hearted. In sixteen years, the only person I ever heard him wish ill of was Sergeant Tony.

  “That ought to tell you something,” Sergeant Tony continued. “I’m someone you can talk to.”

  When I didn’t say anything, he got up and stepped over to the window, looking out at the traffic going around the square. He’s short, far smaller than I. Standing next to him over the years, I used to feel guilty—afraid he’d hold my size against Tom.

  “Your mother goes out on a lot of dates, doesn’t she?” he asked pleasantly. I didn’t respond. “It must be lonely for you, sitting home alone, with her havin’ all the fun. I mean, she’s just about the hottest thing in town, and you’re kind of on the discard pile, right?” He kept staring out the window. I could hear the cars honking and grunting as they edged around each other. Friday is a big shopping day on the square.

  “She works,” I said.

  “Hmmm?”

  “She works evenings at the country club. She’s not out having fun.”

  “Oh, I mean after she’s through work.” He turned and sat against the window sill, crossing his legs. “They stop serving dinner out there around nine, don’t they? And she doesn’t come home right afterward, does she?”

  “Usually.”

  “Usually? Hmmm. That’s not what I hear.” As an afterthought, he added, “That’s not what Tom told me.” I didn’t believe him.

  He studied the back of his hand. “Who’s your mother dating these days? Anyone special?” He was used to my silences now. He just let them sit there and pound on my head for a few seconds before he went on. “Eddie Boggs, right? Yeah, Eddie.” He waited. “Eddie,” he repeated, sounding wistful. “Sad case. Tough. He ever talk about his wife?”

  I shook my head.

  “Tough.” He stood up and walked over behind my chair. I felt him leaning on the back of it. I wanted to curl up, to shrink, to wrap myself in some thick blanket to protect myself from him. Too late, I realized my left arm was exposed, resting on the edge of the desk. His hand clamped down over my hand, squeezing too hard.

  “You’re different from them, Martha.” His voice came softly, from just above my ear. “Don’t get trapped in their kind of life.” I stared at his hand, hardly bigger than mine. The veins made thick, blue lines among the pointy black hairs. “Let’s get to know each other. Open up. It’s the only way you’re gonna get out of this. What was going through your mind?”

  The door rattled suddenly, and Chief Springer walked in. “What’s going on?” he demanded. Behind him, a blur of pink pushed into the room. Bunny was still wearing her waitress uniform. Jumping up, I wrapped my arms around her, burying m
y face in her neck. The sweet fragrance of stale perfume mingled with the cigarette smoke clinging to her hair. The combination was so familiar—I wanted to pull myself up and climb into her arms.

  “We’ll give you a few minutes together,” said Chief Springer. “Come on, Tony.” The chief gave a jerky, chicken wave with his arthritic arm, and the two of them left the room.

  Bunny put her hands on my shoulders and held me at arm’s length. “I didn’t cry,” I said.

  She dropped her arms, and, without saying anything, she started pacing the office. She’d get about three steps in between the bookshelf and the filing cabinet and then have to turn and repeat herself. It was dizzying watching her. “First Tom, now you,” she said finally.

  “This isn’t at all like Tom,” I said. “It’s nothing like Tom.”

  “It’s trouble, isn’t it?”

  “But this is different. I can explain.” While Bunny paced, I told her about the Benedicts’ house and the children and playing purr kids in the woods, about Butcher’s room and his pictures and his baby manliness. Bunny hardly seemed to be paying attention, but when I said I’d let Butcher unbutton my blouse, she stopped suddenly. “You let him touch you?” she barked. Her look was incredibly fierce, and I found myself gasping for breath. So what I’d done really was that bad, after all.

  Bunny plopped down in Sergeant Tony’s chair. She listened as I burbled on, hoping she’d start to understand, but I could see that her attention was drifting again. I felt so hopeless I was weak. My body weighed a ton. I had to go lean against the filing cabinet to support myself. No one would understand. Even I didn’t understand.

  I stopped talking and watched as Bunny listlessly studied the gray linoleum. After several seconds, she said, “Why’d this have to happen now, just when I’m starting to get things together? This town’s been bad luck for me ever since we got here.”

  Something occurred to me. “Maybe we should leave,” I said. I hadn’t thought of it before, but suddenly I realized—why not? Bunny’s just a waitress, and she could be a waitress anywhere. I’ve only got two more years of high school and there are thousands of other schools. My best friend, Mary Sue Zimmerman, I haven’t even seen in a month.

  Bunny was acting as if she hadn’t heard me, so I said it again. “Why don’t we move?”

  “We can’t leave here. This is where our house is.”

  “So what? We just rent. We could move someplace and start all over.” I was getting excited. My strength was coming back. “People don’t like us here anyway. Think of all the trouble that Tom got into.”

  “Trouble would probably follow us around.”

  “We could get a new house. You could get a job at a real restaurant. I could get a job after school. We’d have money.”

  Bunny jumped up and started pacing again. “We can’t leave here,” she snapped. “We live here. Besides, I’m starting to get it together with Eddie, and he could never leave his job at the KTD.”

  Eddie Boggs. Just like his brother Cecil. And just like Wayne Wadlinger and Johnny Tremone and Vic Mattox and Lester Vincent and who knows who else I can’t remember. One thing about Bunny, she’s got the worst taste in men of anyone I ever saw.

  “Now, don’t you say anything bad about Eddie,” she said. “He’s a lot different from his brother.”

  “But, Bunny, there are better men in Chicago. Or New York. We could go to New York and you could get a job in one of the restaurants where people eat before going to the theater, and then all the stars come in afterward. You could wait on Marlon Brando.”

  “Really?” Bunny paused and thought for a moment. “Gee. You know, he grew up around here. In Libertyville. His sister came into the News Depot once to buy a magazine.”

  “I know. That’s why I mentioned him. See, he got away from here.”

  “Gee. And we could move into an apartment. I’ve always wanted to live in an apartment. I mean, an apartment. It sounds so sophisticated.” Bunny came over and put her arm around me. “Gee,” she said, thinking about New York and rubbing my back.

  I pulled away. We were coming to something important. “How about it? Let’s not even think about it. Let’s just move. No more Katydid Country Club, no more Katydid High School, no more Mrs. Benedict.”

  Bunny frowned. “She was out in front, raving at Chief Springer when I came in just now.”

  “Did she say anything?”

  “She called me a slut and you a slut.” Bunny looked away in disgust.

  “Both of us?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’d you say?”

  “Nothing. I spat on the floor.”

  “You spat?”

  “I know,” she said, looking bewildered and shaking her head. “I don’t know where it came from.”

  “Eddie spits.”

  “I had to do something,” Bunny said.

  “But spitting?”

  “I know, I even surprised myself.” She stared out through the water-spotted window, out across West Street to the square. Workmen there were cutting down an elm tree that had died. Elm trees are dying all over Katydid on account of Dutch elm disease. “What a way to grow old,” Bunny said.

  “For who?”

  “For me.” She turned around. “And you. For both of us.”

  Chief Springer returned with a knock. Sergeant Tony was crowding behind him, and there was a woman with them—a large, formidable woman with hair the color of carrots and a broad, pink face. The three of them pressed into the tiny youth bureau, driving Bunny and me behind the desk. There wasn’t room; we were all struggling not to touch each other.

  “This is Mrs. O’Brien,” said Chief Springer.

  “Peggy O’Brien,” she interrupted.

  “She’s a social worker from over in Gordonton,” the chief went on, talking to Bunny. “We’re lucky she was here today and we could locate her.”

  “Why?” said Bunny, her eyes wide. “Why lucky?”

  “ ’Cause we want her to talk to your daughter,” said Chief Springer. “We’ve got a problem here, and maybe Mrs. O’Brien can help.”

  Bunny grabbed my wrist. “She’s not talking to Martha. Martha’s not talking to anyone.”

  “Don’t make this hard on yourself,” Chief Springer said. “We just want to do some talking. This lady here is trained to give help.”

  “We don’t want any help,” snapped Bunny. “We’re perfectly fine.” She was still squeezing my wrist.

  “You’re not fine,” insisted Chief Springer. “This is a serious thing, and this is a small town.”

  “Leave us alone,” said Bunny, her voice rising.

  Chief Springer motioned Bunny to calm down. “Don’t force my hand,” he said.

  Sergeant Tony suddenly pointed a finger. “We’ve carried your family before,” he huffed.

  “Now, now,” said the social worker. “There’s no need to get excited. I’m just here to talk to Martha.”

  Bunny stared at all of them. Her eyes were wild. She started to say something and stopped, her mouth frozen in a perfect “O.” Over in the square, a motorized saw buzzed a long, aching plea through the hot afternoon air.

  “Come on, Martha,” Bunny said. “We’re leaving.” Dragging me by the arm, she pushed roughly past Chief Springer and the wide, solid social worker. Neither tried to stop her, and Bunny pulled me out into the hall.

  “Don’t do this, Bunny,” yelled Chief Springer, but by then we were down the corridor, banging out the lobby past Mrs. Donaldson. Bunny’s car was parked in front, and we drove straight home.

  When we got there, Bunny slammed the door and stomped around the living room, muttering in rage. After a few minutes, though, she started to wind down. By the time Chief Springer and the social worker arrived, about an hour later, Bunny was collapsed on the couch. I touched her on the way to let them in, and she rattled like a bag of sticks.

  Chief Springer explained that a juvenile delinquency petition had been filed against me and that I was being t
aken to a temporary foster home. “I’m sorry, Bunny,” he said. “I didn’t want to have to do this.”

  Bunny sat without saying anything or looking at anyone.

  “This is a lovely foster family,” said Mrs. O’Brien. “We could have put Martha in the Children’s Home, but I’m sure you’ll agree this is better. The Vernons—do you know them? They lost their daughter tragically a few years ago. Of course, Mrs. Calhoun, you’ll be able to visit. We’ll get this all straightened out.” She turned to me. “Now, come, Martha. Let’s pack some clothes.”

  I hesitated.

  “This is a serious thing,” said Chief Springer.

  The social worker wiggled two thick fingers at me, and I went numbly. I took the old, brown suitcase down from the shelf in the front closet. It’s faded and dusty and coming apart at the seams, but it’s the only suitcase Bunny owns. My father left it. Bunny once said that when he disappeared, he took everything worth putting in a suitcase and left the suitcase.

  While Mrs. O’Brien watched, I opened it on my bed, then stood staring into my clothes closet.

  “Oh, come on, just throw in any old thing,” she said. “We can always come back for more.”

  I reached into the rack of clothes, grabbed a bundle, and dumped them in the suitcase. Mrs. O’Brien suddenly spotted something in the closet.

  “A bathing suit!” she called out. “Bring it along. We’ll go swimming.”

  A few minutes later, I arrived at the Vernons’ house with a suitcase full of wrinkled clothes and my striped bathing suit.

  THREE

  I knew the Vernons well enough—or, at least, I knew Mrs. Vernon. Her only child, Sissy, had been in school with me from kindergarten on, and I had been at the class picnic last year, over at Durham’s Pond, when Sissy drowned. She was a strange, frail, sickly girl, absent from school a good part of the time. She usually carried a wadded-up Kleenex in one hand because her nose was constantly running. When we were little and had to square dance or line up with partners—something where you had to hold hands—people fought to avoid Sissy because they didn’t want to touch the hand that held the wad of Kleenex. But that was about as close as anyone came to paying attention to her. As far as plainness goes, I’m hardly one to speak, but at least I was unmistakably around and alive. Even before she died, Sissy was a kind of ghost, always just out of the picture, always just out of your mind.