The Calamity Club by Kathryn Stockett - 40

I f it was up to me, I would jerk a knot in Lucille.

With only a week left till school, you figure a girl deserves a little fun with her cousins before the end of summer. Well you figure wrong. As if it wasn’t enough that Lucille called Marybeth and her mama fat, now the whole family knows Lucille kept Mrs. Heidelberg’s adoption money and picked up a urchin for free.

It was Gloria’s mama started it. Yesterday at church, before Mrs. Heidelberg came over, she overheard Mrs. Heidelberg upset, talking to Big Tom about what Tom and Lucille did, so Gloria’s mama called Lucille up on the telephone last night and asked was it true. And did Lucille say she was sorry for telling the family all those lies? Or for wrapping me and Tom up in her scheme?

No. She told Gloria’s mama so what if it’s true, mind your own damn business, and congratulations on winning the ugly contest.

So now the other mamas think it’d be best to keep the cousins away from me.

Marybeth is the only one I really care about seeing anyway, so this morning, I write her a apology note since, unlike Lucille, I am a civilized human being.

Dear Marybeth,

I am sorry I lied to you about Memphis. Please forgive me. I was in a bind.

Your best first cousin, Meg.

Short and simple, like when you make a prayer to God. I show it to Willy May and ask does it look all right.

Law knows it can’t hurt , she says and takes the letter to deliver it for me. I spend the rest of my morning with my nose in a book. After I finished Huck Finn , I tried one called The Secret Garden , but after a few pages I took it right straight back to the library and told Mrs. Block, who I pretend works there, that I had had enough of orphans for a lifetime and I needed to exchange it for something more cheerful. I was firm so she didn’t argue. Now I am reading a book called The Call of the Wild . The dog in it is nothing like those dogs snarling out my window. It gets my mind off things a while.

A few hours later, Willy May comes back with a letter. But I see it is the same one I wrote, not even damn opened. I sho am sorry, Meg , Willy May says.

When Lucille comes in the kitchen, I ask could we at least go pick up those free toys they set out in the yard. No point in letting them go to waste.

I wouldn’t touch their charity with a ten-foot pole , Lucille says. Well I would, but evidently I don’t get a vote.

I figure the day could not get much worse until the black car pulls up. It is Big Mr. Heidelberg this time. I have not seen him come over here ever. I stand back and let Lucille deal with the man.

Big Tom, come in, come in , she says, all nervous. Can I get you a—

He stomps past her without speaking a word. So huge and shaking the whole house, Lord I hear those bottles clinking in the china cabinet in the dining room. I hold my breath. He goes directly into Tom’s office and shuts the door. Not a slam but it sends a message. Lucille and I both lean in to listen. We can only hear parts.

… time for you to staht acting like a man, Son , he says, and I want yoah wohd that foolish business is ovah , and Yoah mothah is woid sick—

I’m so sorry, Daddy, I promise. Nothing like that will ever happen again.

There is some hemming and hawing and stomping about. Then Mr. Big Tom says, And you need to luhn to control that damn wife a yoahs.

Ha. I am glad Lucille heard that. Though Lord help Big Tom if he ever tried to control Mrs. Heidelberg.

When the doorknob turns, we dart back to the living room, pretend to be busy doing something. He stomps out with nary a word and lets his own self out the front door.

That evening before supper, I see Tom standing in the kitchen. He is awful quiet, gazing out the back windows like he is listening to something. Maybe it’s those wild dogs I hear in the middle of the night, snarling and snapping in the woods. I am too scared to ask if I really hear them or if they’re just in my head. Sometimes it is better not to know things like that.

How you doing, Tom? I try and ask it like his mama does.

He smiles sad and says he is alright, he is keeping his head above water. Don’t you worry about me, Meg.

At least there is a bright side to all this. First of all, after some very serious and quiet arguing, Tom and Lucille make what they call a peace treaty. What it comes down to is you got to treat marriage like a war. Since selling Tom’s book is the only hope they got left for any money, Lucille agrees to stay off the liquor drinks so Tom can keep working hard as he can. Well thank you, Baby Jesus, because I have been a nervous wreck. It’d got to where I was getting the indigestion at supper, worried a Heidelberg would walk in and see a bottle. Tom’s mama has not been by since Sunday when she told them the jig was up.

Supper does run a hair quiet now, without anybody arguing. But who needs conversation when you got a chicken potpie to enjoy?

Willy May brought it, and Tom pops it in the oven to warm. How in the hell have I never tasted such a thing before? It is a pie you toast up hot, with pieces of chicken and a creamy business inside, and it is the bee’s knees . I learned that term on the car radio. I do see somebody pulled a fast one and snuck some green peas into it, but they don’t get past me, I sort those to the side. Lord, this thing tastes like a damn chicken dessert .

The second good thing is, while we are eating our potpie, Tom says, I know school starts Monday. What do you say we try and go swimming every morning this week?

I say that would be just fine, sir!

Say around eight, then. Don’t be late, turkey, or I’ll have the lake all to myself.

The next morning, I got my suit and cap on by seven thirty. Me and Tom walk through the quiet, piney woods. There is a little haze hanging over the lake water this early in the morning. I doubt the cousins would come this time of day, so it’s just us. I slip in and the lake water is warm as a bathtub. Tom practices me on my arm strokes and teaches me what he calls technique .

Get a rhythm to it, Meg, that’s it, you’re doing swell, kiddo. When I am worn out, I lie on the dock in the sun and he takes his swimming independent time. I watch him close as he swims toward the middle. That is just my nature. As he swims farther out, I want to holler, That’s too far, Tom. Come on back. Gets awful deep out in the middle. But Tom is a strong man long as damn Lucille is not pulling him down.

On the walk home through the woods, I get the nerve up. Tom, do you ever hear wild animals chasing something in the night?

Tom frowns at me. You heard the dogs? Like he is surprised. Like maybe he thought they were in his own head too.

I nod. It seems like I hear them on the worst nights, when I am having a rough time. Why are there so many? It sounds to me like there are sheer packs running around at night.

I don’t think Tom wants to tell me, but he says, Those are slave dogs, Meg. They used to hunt slaves that’d run off from their owners. They were bred for their bad temperament and their long teeth. The only way you could stop them from eat—from killing the slave was to shoot the dog, so they bred them by the thousands. After the war, they just turned them loose.

Slave dogs.

I skitter close to Tom and take his hand. Can they get us? Walking through these woods, Tom?

No, no, don’t worry. No dogs will come after you with me around.

I guess that is about the best you can ask for in life. To find the person who will keep the dogs from getting you.

After three days in a row of swimming, I am laying on the living room floor after supper, reading my McGuffey Reader. Some of it is too young for my reading level, but that is just the price you pay when you’re in the Exceptional Learner Group.

Tom is sitting on the green sofa with Lucille. She’s hardly said ten words to me all week.

Do you really think so, Tom? she asks him. When he says he does, she says how that would be so nice, to get away awhile and see some friends, go to some decent stores. Course I got to look up at that.

I hope I am not a old woman still jerking alert every damn time somebody mentions going to the store.

New York sure would be nice in the fall , Tom says . I could deliver the manuscript to Bill in person, see what he thinks about it.

What will you do with me? If you go to New York , I ask.

Lucille gives me that eyebrow of hers for talking when you are not spoke to.

You’ll come with us, turkey , Tom says, smiling. Did you think we would leave you here by yourself?

I do not begin to answer that.

After a while, Tom says plan on a afternoon swim tomorrow since he wants to work late tonight. I lay in bed thinking about New York City in the fall. Wouldn’t that be something? For two years the most I saw was the wrong side of a door and scary faces up on a ceiling. And soon I could be taking in the city lights, maybe shaking my behind on the avenue. I fall asleep and dream about all that spectacular.

Have you seen my book, Meg? The one by Fitzgerald?

I am in my room waiting for our afternoon swim.

Lucille took it , I tell him. Probably the only intelligent thing I have seen her do around here is read that book, but I have no qualms tattling on her.

Thanks. I’ll be ready to go in a few minutes.

He goes in their room to get ready. Since I am suited up already, I go back to organizing my school materials at my table. Only one weekend left and I will officially be in the sixth grade. I already asked Willy May to please find out what time Mr. Oney will pick me up Monday morning. Only thing I am nervous about is seeing those cousins, now that Lucille has ruined my reputation as a respectable orphan. But mostly I am itching to go sit in a schoolroom again.

Tom walks out telling Lucille he will need his book back tonight. He does not sound very happy about it either.

It is dusk by the time we get back from the lake. I am plumb worn out, in a good way. When I come down from changing, Tom is in the kitchen, wearing a funny pink apron over his clothes. It frills around the shoulders and has a flower pattern to it.

I see you looking at me, turkey , he says, opening the oven. It’s the only apron we had. He smiles and lifts a roast beef out and sets it on the stovetop to cool.

Lucille comes into the dining room wearing a white nightgown to her feet. She looks near like a ghost to me. There is some makeup on her face, but it looks strange and white. Her red lipstick is crooked along the top. She looks shocked, like she has seen something.

Tom meets her in the dining room. You not feeling well tonight, darling? he asks.

I’m—I don’t know what I am, Tom , she says.

He sets his palm on the side of her cheek and she looks up at him. It is about the sweetest thing I have seen her do.

But then Tom draws back, frowning. Lucille. We had an agreement. He follows her to the china cabinet which she is opening with the damn key. Look, I understand if you need a drink now and then—

Well, this is now , she says, with a rude little flip on the end.

And what about this afternoon?

That was then.

Well nobody thought to tell me she was taking damn liquor this afternoon. I am almost glad I didn’t know that.

Tom says he is going to fix her a plate of food, that she needs to eat. Lucille mutters she’ll be making another martini . She gets a new bottle out and picks at the red wax, picking and flicking it onto the wooden breakfront. I scramble to clean it up, that is all we need, after everything, for Mrs. Heidelberg to find this out now.

Lucille uncorks the thing, and it makes a pop sound. Bring me a pitcher of ice and two glasses, Meg. She snaps her fingers at me like I am her servant.

I go fetch Her Highness what she wants. It’s bound to be too late for Mr. Oney to be driving at this hour anyway.

When Tom sees me on the stool hacking ice in the sink, he says, You don’t need to be doing that, Meg.

It is all right, Tom, believe me, I have dealt with worse. He still takes the ice pick away from me.

I take two glasses out to the table. Since Tom does not drink, I sure hope that second one isn’t for me. I set them both at Lucille’s place. I guess she plans to drink them damn two at a time.

Tom sets out three plates of roast beef with rice and gravy and some extra ambrosia salad for Lucille. Lucille moves one of those glasses in front of Tom’s place.

Stop it, Lucille, you know I don’t want that , Tom says and moves the glass back over.

She pours some in his glass anyway and pushes it back over to him. Like she is the devil temptress with the apple and he is the Eve. It smells like so much rat poison to me.

What’s gotten into you tonight? Tom murmurs and sets his napkin in his lap. Now I made you a plate, and you need to eat something. He said that sterner than I have heard him speak to her before.

Lucille waves at her plate, says, I can’t eat that , and lights a cigarette instead. Woman would rather eat a cigarette than food. Then she pulls out Tom’s favorite blue Fitzgerald book from who knows where and sets it on the table between them.

Thank you, I’ve been looking for that , Tom says. He moves it closer to him and pats it twice like Mrs. Heidelberg does my head. Lord, I don’t want to even think about her.

I read your book while y’all were at the lake.

We both look up. Tom’s fork is midair. What? he says.

She closes her eyes like she is concentrating very hard now. I went in your office. And I read your book, Tom.

Tom sets his fork down. That’s not fair, darling. You should’ve asked me—

I couldn’t help it. After everything, Tom . I am sort of mad she got to read it first.

Tom looks like he doesn’t know whether to smile or frown. He settles on both. Well? Are you going to tell me what you thought about it?

She takes a sip of her drink, and like she is so tired she can barely talk, she looks at him and says, Do you know what you’ve done, Tom? Her voice goes higher. You plagiarized it. Fitzgerald’s story. Even the names are almost the same.

I don’t move. I’m not sure what that word means, but her hand holding the glass is shaking.

But that’s—those are just placeholders. It’s not the same story at all , Tom says.

She reaches over and takes the book back that Tom patted and she slowly opens it to where there is a folded piece of paper inside. She unfolds the paper and reads it out loud. An educational exorbitance that in her youth was only for the daughters of the exceptionally wealthy—showed the delicacy of her features.

Then she sets the paper down which I guess is Tom’s writing, and she reads from the blue Fitzgerald book: An educational extravagance that in her youth was only for the daughters of the exceptionally wealthy—showed the exquisite delicacy of her features.

Tom looks puzzled but I see what she means. Alright, well, maybe that’s—I’ll cut that line , Tom says. My story’s very different than his.

How, Tom?

It—just is, it’s an entirely different tone of voice.

She takes another long sip of her drink. When she claps it down hard on the table, it splashes. Looking at her plate of food, she says, A young man goes to Princeton and his mother dies, so he moves to New York where he works in an advertising agency, he falls in love with a younger woman, but she breaks it off to marry a richer man, so he— She presses her red lips together. What does he do next in your story, Tom?

He— Tom stops. Goes on a drinking binge , he says. By his wide-open face, that must be what happens next in the Fitzgerald book too.

It’s plagiarism, Tom! Lucille says, straining her face at him. Her muscles are so tense, I can see the bones in her neck. Except when it’s not. When the lines are good, they’re stolen, and when they’re not, it’s just—

I’ll go through and cut anything that’s too similar, it’s a process you don’t understand, darling. Novel writing is subjective and one opinion does not make a majority.

Lucille’s one eyebrow rises. Her noseholes go wider. I was him, I would move back some inches. Even though you viewed me as Bill Davenport’s air-headed pretty little secretary. She smiles, imitating Bill Davenport’s airheaded pretty little secretary, I spent a good portion of my job reading manuscripts. Hundreds of them, Tom, maybe thousands, to decide what was worth his time or not. And believe me, many tried to sound like him. She points to the blue book. Bill even had a name for those, the Phony Fitzgeralds he called them, but never did I see one that ripped him off so blatantly, but that’s not even the real problem here—

But—alright, I know it needs work. This is only an early draft. Tom picks up the blue book and starts thumbing through it. Look, here Rosalind throws the ring away. My character— He stops and swallows. Rose—I’ll change that name—would never do that. Did you read the whole thing, Lucille? If you did, you’d see it’s—

No. Because I couldn’t get through it. She widens her eyes, she cannot believe he would ask this.

Because it’s too … similar? he asks, then quieter, Or because you didn’t …

Because it’s amateurish, Tom! The writing is terrible! Nobody is going to publish this drivel!

Tom draws back like she slapped him. He hears her now. But I want her to shut up, and be nice to him and didn’t she hear him say, it is a process she doesn’t understand?

You wrote that Rose is —she picks up the piece of paper— pathetically and blondly gorgeous, with a mind like a precarious diamond? What’s that horseshit even supposed to mean, Tom?

Tom shakes his head. He does not know either what that is supposed to mean.

It’s unreadable , Tom. There’s no sense going any further. Everything you’ve written reads like some tired cliché … and even if it didn’t, why would anybody read it —she presses her hand on top of her hair like a crazy person would do— when a genius has already written it perfectly? She squeezes her eyes shut. I cannot believe you—you did this to me again, Tom.

For a few seconds, nobody says nothing. I don’t even want to eat this roast beef anymore. Tom just stares at her, like she is a stranger to him. She sets both her elbows on the table, like she is tired. Way she is holding that cigarette so near her head, she is apt to set that big red hair curl on fire. Well I wish she would! Light herself up like a damn cigarette!

Meg , did Tom ever tell you what he used to do in New York City? she says. As an occupation, I mean.

God, Lucille, we don’t need to get into all—

I’m speaking to Meg. Meg, did Tom ever mention that to you?

I look at Tom. This feels like a trick. There is something awful coming off her, a sick green-yellow color.

The answer is nothing, Meg. He did nothing. Do you know why? Because Tom. Fails. Everything.

Lucille, what are you doing—

Real estate, automobile sales, stockbroker—

Stop it, Lucille.

Art dealing, wine importer—boy, that was a mess. What about when you decided you wanted to be a cotton farmer, remember that, Tom? The only thing this godforsaken state is good for, and you couldn’t even do that? She takes off a black heeled shoe and holds it up. I bet if I planted this shoe out there in the yard, I could grow myself a goddamn Bergdorf Goodman shoe department!

I give her my meanest-eye stare—she knows Tom is not strong like her, he is a very sensitive man. Tom tries to snatch the shoe from her, but she jerks it away. You’re drunk, Lucille, and you need to go to bed , he says .

She snorts loud. And you’re one to talk! Then there’s Yale. Can’t forget about that one, can we? She looks at me and bats her eyelashes, smiling terrible like some crazy clown. Meg, did you know our Tom failed out of college after only two semesters?

You did? I did not mean to ask that, it just came out. We have talked about Yale and how much he loved it. Tom looks away, and I am so sorry I said that. I don’t care , I say to her. I don’t even know how many whatever those things are there is in college!

A lot more than two , she says and laughs dry. And Tom failed right out. Lucille Heidelberg, married to a regular world-class failure. She takes an angry long pull on her cigarette. Tears are running down her face now. I want to tell Tom he is not a world-class failure. I want to hug him and tell him that. A long snaky ash from her nasty cigarette drops onto her fruit ambrosia. I hope she eats that and it makes her sick.

You know what the worst part is, for you, Tom? she says and then quieter, You told your mother and father how proud they’ll be when you get your big advance check.

Tom looks like all his air is gone from his body. All his joy gone. She has sucked it out of him. His face looks like it has slipped to the side. It is strange. That is all I know to describe it.

I watch the cigarette ash sink into Lucille’s ambrosia, turning it gray. Tom says, I think you should go on upstairs now, Meg.

Yes sir. I leave my plate of unate food and go like I’m told. After a while, I hear feet and Tom’s office door shut.

It takes me a long time to fall asleep in the first place and then I get woke up by a noise. It is not those dogs, no, I think it is a door downstairs. It is still dark out and my windup clock says it is five in the morning. I lay there awhile, but now that I am awake, I get to thinking. And I have got something important to tell Tom. I go sit at my table and prepare it on paper.

And it is, in my opinion, Lucille is not somebody he ought to trust if his book is bad or not. Just because she was Bill’s secretary at Scribner’s does not make her a expert, especially when you consider she was probably drunk when she read it. And while I will not say who I heard it from, I happen to know for a fact that some liquor turns lazy, some it turns crude, but every one of them it turns stupid. Plumb rots a personality.

Though in Lucille’s case, she is awful even when she is not drinking. I will not say that, she is his wife. But that is my opinion.

Then I will tell Tom to let me read the book. Even if it is not eleven-year-old material, I know quality when I see it.

When I look out in the hall, their bedroom light is on and the door is open, but they are not in there. I slip downstairs in the dark, and I can see Tom’s office door is cracked open. I creep over and peek through, and Lordamighty, in the dim light I see papers flung all over that room. Some torn or wadded up, some stepped on, one has a cigarette put out on it, and I go in and start gathering them all up. When I turn around, I realize Lucille is in here too, laid out on Tom’s sofa. Still in her white nightgown. I don’t know where in the hell Tom has gone off to.

Lucille, you need to get up and go upstairs now , I tell her. Because this is serious. That is all I need, Willy May showing up here in a hour or two and seeing her like this! Laid out drunk beside a half-empty bottle and a glass of it on the coffee table, not even a drink coaster placed under it. That mess will leave a ring for good.

When she does not move, I poke her white arm with a finger and say it with authority this time: Lucille, get up. You cannot be sleeping in here like this!

Real slow she lifts her head. The black crayon around her eyes has run down her face. Her hair is a flat red mess, red lipstick smeared from her mouth corner to her ear. She gets herself up to a sitting position, then to her feet, swaying and blinking around. She looks certified crazy, anybody would say so. And what does she have the gall to say to me?

Didn’t I tell you not to wake me up?

I am sorry, Lucille, but Willy May will be here soon, so you need to get upstairs. Now where has Tom gone to? Tell me now. I have not spoke to her with so much sass ever. I expect a argument.

But she jerks her thumb over to the window. Before she weaves out of there, I hand her the bottle and that glass. I don’t know where they keep the key to the cabinet, so she can just take it upstairs with her. Then I peer through the office window into the dark, cradling my hands around my face. A sliver of pink sun has already come up, and in the side yard I spot Tom. There is just enough light to make out one of Lucille’s bottles hanging from his hand.

Oh Tom, Tom! You know better than to fool with that!

I shut the office door and run out the front and look for him. He is strolling off in the direction of the damn woods. His hair is stuck up funny in the back and half his shirttail is hanging out his pants. This is not like Tom at all, he likes a neat appearance. I watch him take a long swig from that bottle.

When I catch up with him, I say, Tom, that is enough. You need to come inside with me now and go to bed.

He turns and smiles and says, Meg. How are you? It’s good to see you , like we are at a damn party on the avenue.

Good to see you too, Tom. Now come with me before the maid or your mama shows up here and sees you like this.

He puts his hand on my shoulder and says it like he means it, I’m so proud of you, Meg. I hope you know that. I’m so proud of you.

I am proud of you too, Tom, but it is time to get in the house. It takes me a while of tugging and begging and steering but I finally get him turned in the right direction. He lets me lead him by the elbow back to the house, and I help him up the front porch steps and inside. I tell him like I did Lucille, Just tote that bottle on up there with you, thataway. I walk careful behind him up the stairs. It feels somewhere between helping a toddler and a old lady. Down the hall I aim him to his bedroom, where Lucille is already fast asleep. Tom climbs up in the high four-poster bed and lays down, shoes and all. Something dribbles out his pockets, Lord if he didn’t stuff them with dirt and sticks and leaves. I tell him we did not need that mess brought in the house but I will have to deal with it later. Long as I got them both in here in bed. I stuff both their bottles and Lucille’s glass in his side drawer.

Tom sits up. He isn’t wearing his glasses, and I can see his freckles. He looks like a young boy.

I’m sorry, Meg. I know I’m a sorry excuse for a father.

You are not a sorry excuse, Tom. We all have a bad day. That is just a part of life.

Thank you. For taking care of us, Meg.

You’re welcome, Tom. Lucille might get stupider and meaner, but Tom just gets sweeter. I bet Mrs. Heidelberg would be glad to know that if I could ever damn tell her.

It is close to seven o’clock. Willy May is due anytime now. Anytime. Lord knows what these two left sitting out. Their whole room smells like a damn liquor factory; I nearbout feel drunk breathing it myself and am afraid the smell will leak out under the door.

Tom sits up again like he has something important to say. Meg. Meg? he says.

Yes, Tom.

Tomorrow we’ll go swimming, alright, Meg?

I smile at him. Sweet, dear Tom. Yes sir. Tomorrow we’ll go swimming.

When Willy May comes in at seven, I got the place under control. Dishes done, countertops wiped down in case she brings in the bloodhounds. I gathered up all the pages in Tom’s office and shut the door again.

I tell Willy May, Lucille and Tom are not feeling good today. They must’ve picked up a head cold of some kind. They said for you to go on back before you catch it. I hope this will keep Mrs. Heidelberg away too. We have not seen her all week.

They both feeling sick?

That’s right. Both of them. Tom said to tell you to go on back to the big house, we will be fine.

When Willy May goes on, I do some pacing around. Checking did I miss this, that or the other. Once I am satisfied, I sit down with my new arithmetic book, might as well try and get ahead.

It is hard to pay attention when you got a problem to solve across the hall bigger than which is a integer.

I tell myself, it was only the one night, Meg.

And everybody needs a drink now and then. Even President Roosevelt said so in the newspaper.

I have half convinced myself when, wouldn’t you know, the black car pulls up.

I put a petticoat on quick and run downstairs. She is knocking on the door like to beat the band. I locked it in case something like this came up. You cannot be too careful when it comes to a concerned mother.

I open the door and right off she says, Why was the door locked, Meg? Willy May said Tom and Lucille aren’t feeling well?

Yes, ma’am, that’s right. They are upstairs resting.

She takes a step forward, but I stay in the doorway. I don’t know if you can stop a woman like her from coming in a house.

Mrs. Heidelberg, believe me, you do not want to go up there. Those two are sneezing and hacking things up in their throat. I would hate for you to catch it. At your elderly age, a cold turns to flu, a flu to even worse, and then where does that leave us? That could be the last cold you ever get.

She looks a little put off by that elderly part. How sick are they?

Not … very. I overdid it and made it sound like they are on a damn deathbed. It’s just that Tom doesn’t want you to catch it.

But I’m his mother. I don’t care if I catch it.

My heart feels like it’s beating down its door now. Course she has to be dressed all in red again today, a color hard to argue with. I decide to pull out the big guns. I did not want it to come to this.

Mrs. Heidelberg … the truth is, Tom said he doesn’t want to see you.

Her mouth falls open. Lines of red lipstick have leaked into the little cracks around her mouth. Because … he’s sick? I shake my head and try and look ashamed. I … see , she says. Well I. I’ll call on the telephone then. And check on them later.

That’s a good idea. You call on the telephone. I take her arm and steer her out onto the front porch.

Her lip trembles. Meg, how is Tom faring? After everything last weekend?

I cannot lie to her, not about this. His heart is broken, Mrs. Heidelberg.

She swallows and her eyes fill with tears. I look off past her at old Mr. Oney waiting by the car. He seems so sad. I wish I knew how to help him.

I do too , she whispers. Oh how I do , and she reaches out and takes my hand. Please keep a close watch on him for me, would you, Meg? You’ll let me know if it gets any worse?

I swallow a knot in my throat, thinking how Tom looked like a little boy this morning. Yes, ma’am, I will let you know.

While Tom and Lucille sleep the rest of the morning, I slip into Tom’s office. I try and read some pages, but without page numbers, they don’t make much sense. I can see why Tom likes to work in this room, though. It is calming, with three curved windows looking out on the front yard. Tom’s chair swivels around in a full squeaky circle. I do that a few times. Push a key on the typewriter. The lever pops against the wheel and I jump. I feel like a criminal up in here, snooping and touching his things … and what is this …

Pushed under a bookshelf, I spot something yellow. I pull it out and it is a Deluxe Box of Twenty-Two Color Crayons with a color wheel, and there is even a coloring book under there with it! These must have been left over from when that mean Gloria’s family lived here. I take them in the living room where I got a good view of the front door and the stairs.

The coloring book is titled Fun with Nursery Rhymes! and all the pictures have black outlines around them to keep you in control. Baby pictures like Little Bo-Peep, cow jumping the moon, a Jack be nimble, that type thing. I don’t know how old Gloria’s little sister is, but I do know she was not a very good colorer. Looks to me like she scratched the first crayon she could grab across every page without even trying to stay inside the lines, just coloring back-and-forth frantic with no set plan. Pink trees, lime skies, purple cats. Oh it eats me alive, looking at it. So I try and fix some of her mess. First I draw a thicker black line around the Bo-Peep to cover the scribbles and make her not look to where she has her finger in a socket. It makes me think of Birdie, how she fixed up the office. I never thought of it before now, but she did that for me. She knew she was going home soon, but she did it so I wouldn’t have to sit in that nastiness. I bet Birdie’d be a fine colorer.

After my outlining, I look for the color that makes more sense over the wrong ones. Problem is, the most important colors are missing from the box, your basic red, blue, and yellow. That is too bad. I color the sun English Vermilion and the grass Ultramarine Blue and even if it looks interesting, it is still a couple shades from the truth.

After a while of coloring, I start to feel a little better. Now we can get back to how things were. Tom will sleep it off like Lucille does, and we can start fresh at being a family.

Around noon, Tom comes downstairs, still wearing the blue shirt from yesterday. It is only half tucked into his pants, and his hair is all wrong. When he sees me, he looks down at himself and shakes his head. Like he is surprised his ownself it has come to this. I think he has forgot exactly what he came down here for.

Tom, I think it would be important to—

I try again, the way I rehearsed it. Tom, I think it would be important to get the second opinion on your book. If you will just get the pages in order and let me read it, I could tell you what I think since I have heard the second opinion is very important in life.

I know I messed that up. Tom smiles, but it is sad. He does not seem back to his regular self yet. That’s very sweet of you to offer, Meg. I’d like to think that over. Are you … will you be alright on your own? I don’t think I’m up for swimming today.

Do not worry about me, Tom. I will be fine. He is already easing toward the kitchen. I follow him. I got everything cleaned up before Willy May got here this morning and I stacked the pages on your desk and I stuck those bottles in your side drawer and your mama —maybe I shouldn’t mention her, but— she came by here this morning so I told her you and Lucille were sick and not to … come in or … He is toting Lucille’s pitcher with some ice and a glass to his office. I trail after him to his doorway. But she will be calling. On the telephone … He has taken a fresh bottle out of his closet and set it all on his desk.

Thank you, Meg , he says. I’ll see you a little later, alright?

Yes sir.

He closes the door.

See now I didn’t think this was even a option. I thought last night was one big exception to the rule. Not even Lucille starts on the liquor alcohol this early. She said day drinking will make a lady fat.

When Lucille finally does come down, she says, He’s still on a bender, huh?

I got no idea what a bender is, but I could wring her neck. Way she set that glass at Tom’s place, calling him a world-class failure, what did she expect him to do, ask for a hot tea? Go to bed early?

You better believe there is some sass in my voice when I tell her about my day. She came by here, you know. Mrs. Heidelberg did. I lied and told her y’all had head colds and not to come in and get it!

Good job, Meg , she says. I should’ve tried that a long time ago.

I don’t thank her for that. And I am usually a sucker for somebody telling me I did a good job.

I wouldn’t lose too much sleep over this , she says . Believe me, I’ve been through it before. He’ll drink a few days and then sleep it off and everything will go back to like it was. And even if his mother finds out, what’s she going to do, cut us off the deposits? She laughs at that like she is funny.

She decides to make her own damn self a martini. I tell her don’t bother hunting for the pitcher, he already has it in there.

What I am now is just plain scared. Tom’s mama is already woid sick , and if she finds out I am lying, not only about Lucille’s drinking but now about Tom’s too, she will take me back to that Orphan in a snap. But if I tattle on them, then Lucille will do the returning. I don’t see how ole Nutmeg can win at this confusing game anymore.

When the telephone rings, Lucille comes down and answers it. I listen to her tell Mrs. Heidelberg they still got head colds, it’s best for them not to see anybody for a while. Telephone in one hand, a damn martini in the other.

Supper for me is ham slices and sweet potatoes I eat right from the cold dish. Maybe Lucille is right. Tom will drink himself silly and in a day or two he will wake up and be regular.

Late in the night I wake up again —Lord, is she going at him or was that me screaming? But no, that is Tom’s voice. And it is not screaming at all. I think … I think he is singing something. It sounds like he is singing out in the damn yard. I am so tired waking up two nights in a row, my bones don’t operate good a minute, but when I go look out the window, there Tom is, singing loud and searching the ground. He spots something he likes the look of and snatches it up like it is a nickel on the street, examining whether he might should keep it. Maybe he is hunting for Indian arrowheads, he likes to look for those. Whatever it is, he smiles and puts it in his pants pocket.

I pull my window up.

I greet you with a song in my heart. I behold your adorable face …

Just a song at the start. But it soon is a hymn to your grace.

When the music swells …

I didn’t know Tom was a good singer, but it is loud and strong. It carries up and off through the yard and down the long drive for the house. I remember that song from when I was little living in my mama’s house. Rolling up the blue rug to dance to the song slow …

He bends down and picks something else up, but throws it back down. He takes a drink off a bottle and goes back to singing.

Tom , I yell down at him. What are you doing out there? You need to go to bed!

He stops and looks around and up at me. Then waves and smiles like I am a old friend from Yale College. He still has the same damn dirty blue shirt on.

Meg, I’m sorry I woke you up. You go back to bed, alright?

I can’t, Tom. Your singing probably woke people up in Memphis!

He grins at this. Alright, turkey. If I stop singing, you promise you’ll go back to bed?

But I want him to go to bed too. Tom, please come inside and get some rest so we can go swimming tomorrow? Please?

He stops smiling and stares up at me. Dirt and things sifting through his fingers. I’m so proud of you, Meg , he calls, like he didn’t hear what I asked. I’m so proud. I think you’re just spectacular, Meg. Now you go back to bed, alright?

Yes sir.

Good night, Meg.

Good night, Tom.

I shoot up in bed. Willy May will be coming in—Lord, what time is it? It is already six thirty in the morning! Tom’s bedroom door is all the way open, and I run downstairs. Lights are on all over the house and … everything looks pretty good. Just like I left it last night. Tom’s office door is shut, there’s not even a bit of that red wax anywhere, and then I remember the yard. The way Tom was singing drunk, he’s apt to’ve left a bottle on the ground.

I open the back door in the kitchen. The sun is just starting to come up, turning everything pink.

I’ve hardly got the door shut behind me when I see Lucille. Lord help us, first Tom out here and now her too? She is dressed in her long white nightgown like a sane lady would wear to bed, not some drunk lunatic running out the woods. When she gets closer, I see rips in the skirt part and long scratches on her ankles. If she is not drunk, well she is damn something.

Lucille, where have you been? You are going to get us in trouble! I don’t know where I get the gall, but I have had it with her!

She stops and puts her hands on her knees, huffing.

At the lake , she says. She was not down there for swimming, I know that. She would rather chew her arm off than rinse out her hairstyle.

Go get in bed with Tom before Willy May gets here. You’re a filthy mess , I say. There are leaves in her hair and she has wild animal eyes.

Lucille is trying to get some air in. After every gasp, she gets a few words out.

Tom’s not in bed, he …

… tied bags to his arms and legs …

… filled his pockets with rocks and he …

What are you talking about? I don’t know if I ask it, but I do think it.

Tom took the boat into the middle of the lake and jumped in.

I stare at her. All I can think to say to her is, It gets awful deep in the middle.

Lucille has run past me inside, and now she is bawling into the telephone—

Get somebody out there , she cries, he’s out there—

No! she says. I saw him, he’s in the lake, he’s drowning!

I hear a wind in my ears. The person on the telephone doesn’t believe her.

No, he didn’t wander off—no, he didn’t have a fever! HE WAS DRUNK AND JUMPED IN THE MIDDLE OF THE LAKE!

Lucille drops the phone and the bang makes me jerk. Out the front door she goes, and I run after her, I don’t want to get left. She starts her car, so I pull open the back door and get in with her. When she drives, she leans up close, gripping the wheel, and after two turns she slams the car to a stop at the top of the hill that’s next to the lake. I hear rumbling behind us. There are trucks, and a colored man and a colored boy my age get out of one. The boy is running.

Lucille points out to the middle of the lake, hollering at them. All I can hear is that wind in my head. The empty boat is floating close to the edge, and the colored boy wades out and pulls it in, long pants and all. Big Mr. Heidelberg and Tom’s brother are here too now, and Lucille screams through the wind for them to goddamn hurry . The brother and the boy row out to where it is awful deep and they jump over the side of the boat and me and Lucille watch as they both go under. I am holding Lucille’s hand tight. Her nails dig into my skin.

One pops up for breath, goes down again. Another pops up, goes down again. I don’t know how long a man can live under the water.

Lucille sinks down into the wet grass and pulls me down with her. I see Mrs. Heidelberg standing by her husband, bent over like she is trying to breathe. She gives me and Lucille one long look like we were in this together.

It is a long time that goes by before the boy pops up and hollers, I found him!

He’s out in the middle where it’s awful deep, too deep if you are just learning to swim, or if you stuffed your pockets and tied bags of rocks to your feet and arms.

It takes many men to drag him up to shore.

At least that is what I heard. I did not see that part in person, they made me and Lucille and Mrs. Heidelberg leave when they pulled him up. Oh but I see it all just fine in my head.

Tom still singing while he goes down.