The Vanishing Half(49)

Or at least, she’d thought, until after dinner, when the doorbell rang and she found Loretta Walker on her welcome mat, holding Kennedy’s doll. For a moment, under the soft glow of the porch lights, hugging that blonde doll against her stomach, Loretta almost looked like a girl herself. Then she thrust the doll into Stella’s hands and walked back across the street.



* * *



—

FOR THREE WEEKS, Stella avoided Loretta Walker.

Forget spying out of her own curiosity—now she glanced through the blinds before fetching the mail, just to ensure that she wouldn’t run into Loretta. She went to the grocery store on Tuesdays, never Mondays, terrified that they might bump into each other down the milk aisle. So far there’d been only one accidental pileup on Sunday morning, when both couples left for their churches at the same time. The husbands had been pleasant but the wives didn’t even speak, each helping her girl into the car.

“She’s not too friendly,” Blake grumbled, backing out of the driveway, and Stella said nothing, plucking at her gloves.

She had nothing to be embarrassed about, really. She’d behaved exactly as Cath Johansen or Marge Hawthorne might have. Still, she didn’t tell Blake. What if he wondered why she’d overreacted? Or thought she was behaving like the Louisiana swamp trash his mother had always said she was? He believed in a moderate country. What he wanted most, he always said, watching policemen club protesters on the news, was for everyone to get along. So he would be embarrassed, as if she weren’t enough already. Because even though she knew she hadn’t done anything wrong, she still felt sick each time she pictured Loretta standing on her porch, hugging that doll. It would’ve been better if Loretta had sworn at her. Called her a backward, small-minded bigot. But she wouldn’t. She was decent because she had to be, which only made Stella feel more ashamed.

“Did you know that Walker woman sent a letter to the school?” Cath asked her one Sunday, squeezing next to her on the pew.

“A letter?” Stella said. She felt too exhausted to keep up with Cath’s breathless innuendo. Even here, at church, she couldn’t avoid Loretta Walker.

“A legal letter,” Cath said. “From some big lawyer, saying that if they don’t let her girl come here in the fall, she’ll sue. Can you imagine that? A whole lawsuit over that one little girl? I swear, some people just love the attention—”

“She doesn’t seem that way to me,” Stella said.

“And how would you know?” Cath said. She folded her arms across her chest. Stella raised her hands, surrendering.

“You’re right,” she said. “I don’t know.”



* * *



—

IN JUNE, she baked her guilt into a lemon cake with vanilla frosting. The idea arrived suddenly—before she could second-guess, she was tugging a bag of flour out of the cupboard, hunting through the refrigerator for eggs. She would go crazy skulking around her own home, glancing out the window each time she wanted to venture outside. She was tired of her stomach clenching when she imagined the Walker girl abandoned on the sidewalk by the strewn dolls, staring back at her with those big eyes. She had to apologize. She wouldn’t feel better until she did. She’d bake a cake to bring over as a housewarming gift. At least then she could be cordial to the woman. Decent. Hospitality wasn’t the same as friendliness, and if anyone asked, she would say that she’d been raised to be hospitable. Nothing more, nothing less. One lemon cake for her peace of mind felt like an easy trade.

In the afternoon, she let out a deep breath before starting across the street, the cake balanced on a glass platter. The tan Buick was parked in the Walkers’ driveway. Good, Loretta was entertaining. All the easier to bring the cake, apologize, and go.

Loretta answered the door in a shimmery green dress, a golden scarf draped around her neck. Already, Stella felt embarrassed in her ordinary blue dress, holding her slumping cake.

“Hi there, Mrs. Sanders,” Loretta said. She was leaning against the doorway, holding a glass of white wine.

“Hello,” Stella said. “I just wanted to—”

“Why don’t you come in?”

Stella paused, not expecting this. A peal of laughter escaped the living room, and she felt a sharp pang. When was the last time she’d sat around, laughing with girlfriends?

“Oh no, I couldn’t,” she said. “You have company—”

“Nonsense,” Loretta said. “No reason for us to be talkin out here on the porch.”

Stella paused in the entrance, startled by the palatial decor: the living room floor adorned with a white fur rug, a floor lamp topped by a gilded shade, the tiled vase on the mantel. Her own home was simple, a marker of good taste. Only the low class lived like this, furniture covered in gold, knickknacks crowded everywhere. On the long leather couch, three colored women sat drinking wine and listening to Aretha Franklin.

“Ladies, this is Mrs. Sanders,” Loretta said. “She lives across the street.”

“Mrs. Sanders,” one of the women said. “We’ve heard so much about you.”

Stella flushed, knowing, from the women’s smiles exactly what they’d heard. Why had she agreed to come inside? No, why had she brought the cake over in the first place? Why couldn’t she just be like the rest of the neighbors and keep her distance? But it was too late now. Loretta steered her toward the kitchen, where Stella set the cake on the counter.