The Vanishing Half(74)

“Beating on her?” Stella paused, softening. “I mean, is she still—is my mama still—”

“They’re still down there. My mama works at the diner.”

“Lou’s? My God. I haven’t thought about Lou’s in—” Stella stopped. “Well, it must’ve been awful for you.”

Jude glanced away. She hated the thought of Stella pitying her.

“My mama kept looking for you,” she said.

Stella’s mouth curved, like she was going to smile or cry, her face, somehow, caught in between. Like a sun shower. The devil beating his wife, her mother used to say, and Jude imagined it every time she heard her father rage. The devil could love the woman he beat; the sun could burst through a rainstorm. Nothing was as simple as you wanted it to be. Without thinking, she reached toward her aunt but Stella jutted her arm out. Her eyes were shining.

“She shouldn’t have,” Stella said. “She should’ve forgotten all about me.”

“But she didn’t! You can call her. We can call her right now. She would be so glad—”

“I’ve got to go,” Stella said.

“But—”

“It’s too much,” she said. “I can’t go back through that door. It’s another life, you understand?”

Headlights washed over them, and for a second, bathed in yellow light, Stella looked panicked, as if she might run into the car’s path. Then she clutched her purse tightly and disappeared into the night.



* * *



—

AT THE CAST PARTY, all of the actors and musicians gathered around to watch their show lead get hammered and complain, to anyone who might listen, that her mother hadn’t shown. “Can you believe it?” she kept saying. “Closing night and all she gave me is that she would try. Not too hard, apparently!” No one had ever seen her in such a nasty mood. She’d barely lingered onstage past the curtain call, ignored the cast members who tried to congratulate her, dumped the roses the director had given her into the trash. She hadn’t even offered to sign Playbills at the stage door. Now she was spending the first half hour of the cast party pounding tequila alone at the bar.

“My first big show,” she told Jude. “All she had to do was sit through it. And she couldn’t even do that.”

Across the bar, Reese was roving, snapping candid photos of the cast. She should have been happy for him, behind the camera again, but instead, she was standing at the bar beside a surly drunk girl, still shaken. She’d met Stella but Stella didn’t want to know her. It shouldn’t have been surprising. She hadn’t wanted anything to do with the family for decades, so nothing had changed. But why did Jude feel as if she’d lost someone? Again, she saw herself reaching toward Stella, Stella pushing her away. She felt as if she’d reached for her mother and only felt her shove her back.

“I have to go,” she said. She felt too hot in that crowded party, desperate for air.

“What’re you talking about?” Kennedy said. “The party just started.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I can’t stay.”

“Come on,” she said. “Just have a drink with me. Please.”

She sounded so vulnerable, Jude nearly said yes. Almost. But she imagined Stella disappearing into the night, glancing over her shoulder, panicked, as if she were being hunted, and she shook her head.

“I really can’t,” she said. “My boyfriend’s ready to go.”

Across the room, Reese was packing up his camera and chatting with Barry. Kennedy glanced over, watching the two for a second.

“You’re really lucky, you know,” she said. She was still smiling but meanness wedged inside her voice.

“What do you mean?” Jude said.

“Nothing. But you know. Nobody really expects someone like him to be with you, do they?” Kennedy laughed. “You know I don’t mean anything by it. I’m just saying. Your men usually like the light girls, don’t they?”

Years later, she would always wonder what exactly pushed her. That sly smile, or the way she’d said your men so casually, as if it didn’t include her. Or maybe it was because Kennedy was right. She knew how lucky Jude felt to be loved. She knew, even though Jude tried to hide it, exactly how to hurt her.

For weeks, she’d followed Kennedy around the Stardust Theater. She’d helped her dress, brought her tea, listened to her trill notes in the hallway. She’d cleaned toilets to talk to her, wondering always how this strange girl could be related to her. But she finally saw it: Kennedy Sanders was nothing but an uppity Mallard girl who believed the fiction she’d been told.

“You’re so stupid,” Jude said. “You don’t even know what you are.”

“And what’s that?”

“Your mother’s from Mallard! Where mine’s from. They’re twins. They look exactly alike and even you would see it—”

Kennedy laughed. “You’re crazy.”

“No, your mother’s crazy. She’s been lying to you your whole life.”

She regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth, but by then, it was too late. She had rung the bell, and all her life, the note would hang in the air.



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