The Vanishing Half(57)
“Like what?”
“Well, friendly.”
She laughed. “I’m just being neighborly. Aren’t you the one who’s always telling me to get out more?”
“But you’re gone all the time now.”
“What am I supposed to do?” she said. “Tell Kennedy she can’t have friends?”
He’d been a shy child, so he never had many friends, colored or otherwise. But he did play with Jimbo, an ugly black rag doll with a plastic head and queer red lips. His father hated his son running around with a doll, a nigger doll at that, but Blake carried him everywhere, whispering all of his secrets into those plastic ears. This was a friend, someone who guarded your feelings behind that frozen red smile. Then one day, he stepped into the yard and saw clumps of cotton scattered all over the grass. On the dirt pathway, there was Jimbo, gutted, arms and legs strewn, his insides spilling out. The dog must’ve got to it, his father told him, but Blake always imagined him tossing that doll into the dog’s snapping jaws. He’d knelt, picking up one of Jimbo’s arms. He’d always wondered what the inside of the doll might look like. For some reason, he’d thought the cotton would be brown.
* * *
—
BY CHRISTMASTIME, Stella had spent so many afternoons at Loretta’s house that, out of habit, she told Loretta one Monday that she’d see her tomorrow. “It’s Christmas Eve, honey,” Loretta said, laughing, and Stella laughed too, embarrassed that she’d forgotten. She always dreaded the holidays. She could never stop thinking about her family, even though their celebrations were nothing like hers now. A tree so tall the star brushed against the ceiling, so much food for dinner that she got sick of leftovers, and mountains of presents awaiting Kennedy. Each December, she piled into the department store with the other mothers, clutching the letter to Santa, and tried to imagine a childhood like this. The twins always received one present apiece, something useful like a new church dress. One year, Stella received a piglet from the Delafosse farm that she named Rosalee. For months, she’d fed Rosalee, running when the pig chased her around the yard. Then Easter Sunday came and her mother killed the pig for supper.
“And I ate every single bite,” she told her daughter once. She thought the story might teach Kennedy to be a little more grateful; she hadn’t expected the girl to burst out crying, staring at her as if she were some monster. Maybe she was. She didn’t remember crying for that pig at all.
“You all doing anything exciting for the holidays?” Loretta asked.
“Just a few people coming over,” Stella said. “A small thing, we do it every year.”
The party was not a small event; they’d hired caterers and a string quartet, invited the entire neighborhood. But of course, she couldn’t tell this to Loretta. She’d known, licking the invitations shut, that she could never invite the Walkers.
On Christmas Eve, the Johansens arrived first, bearing a brick-hard fruit cake, then the Pearsons carrying bourbon for the eggnog. The Robertses, deeply Catholic, brought a tiny blonde angel for the tree. Then the Hawthornes waving from the front steps with homemade fudge, the Whites with an ironic beach snow globe, and soon the living room crowded with company. Stella felt hot from all the people, or the mulled wine, or maybe even from knowing that, across the street, Loretta could probably hear the music. She must have seen that endless parade of neighbors climbing up the steps. Or maybe not. Her own parents had arrived that evening; Stella had watched the elderly couple climb out of the Cadillac, Reg hefting the suitcases from the trunk, Loretta wrapping her arms around their backs as they glanced around the neighborhood, as dazed as if they’d stumbled into another country. Wouldn’t her own mother look at her new life the same way? At least Loretta’s parents would be proud. She had come upon her nice things the honest way, not by stealing a life not meant for her. Then again, she and Loretta had both wound up in the Estates by marrying well. Maybe there wasn’t such a big difference between the two after all.
Blake swapped her empty glass with another mulled wine, bending to kiss her cheek. He loved hosting parties, even though it only made Stella want to find a corner and hide. Betsy pulling her into a conversation about linens, Cath asking where she’d purchased an end table, Dale dangling mistletoe over her head. She was lingering on the edge of a circle, wondering if her daughter was still spying through the bannister, always afraid that she was missing something exciting. Then the circle of neighbors lit up with laughter, smiling at her, awaiting a response.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “What was it again?”
She was so easily embarrassed at these parties. She’d catch herself on the edge of a political discussion—the Vietnam situation, perhaps, or an upcoming election—and someone would ask what she thought. Even though she read the newspapers and had her opinions like anyone else, her mind went blank. She was always afraid that she’d say the wrong thing. Now Dale Johansen was smirking at her.
“I said I’m wondering when your new friend might show up,” he said.
“Oh I don’t know,” she said. “I think everyone’s here by now.”
When the others exchanged amused glances, she blushed. She hated being the butt of a joke.
“What’re you talking about, Dale?” she said.
Dale laughed. “I’m just asking if your friend from across the street is coming. I’m sure she can hear the music out there.”