Bloodline(37)

“They also founded the Fathers and Mothers.” Catherine is fixed on me, expression as keen as a razor, as she says this. She expects a response, but I can’t for the life of me guess what it would be.

“They must have had a lot of children,” I quip, “to have named the organization that.”

The women at the table exchange another tight expression. And as if I’ve upset God, a bowling ball of thunder rumbles across the sky. I tug my cardigan closer. A storm tonight was unexpected.

“You know the Fathers and Mothers insignia?” Mildred asks. The desperation to avoid conflict rolls off her, rancid and salty smelling. She’s trying to get me to back off, but I’m not sure from what. I can’t find my footing with these women.

The thunder cracks again, followed by a yellow jolt of lightning.

In that electrified space, I hold up a V with one hand, like a peace sign, three middle fingers upside down with the other for the M. Mildred leans over and tucks my ring finger into the palm of my hand, so now it’s two Vs, one up and one down. She moves the up V over the top of the down V. My hands now perfectly re-create the emblem I spotted at the Washburne Avenue building.

There’s something graphic about making this symbol, the pink flesh of my fingers straining apart. I pull my hands back, reclaiming them. “I understand the M for Mothers,” I say. “But the V?”

Rain is thrashing the sky now, pounding on the roof and windows, drumming up the smell of earth and ozone. The lights flicker.

“Vater,” Catherine says, the word so natural coming out of her strong, angled face. “German for father. Mutter is mother. The V always goes on top.”

“Because Father knows best,” all the women murmur in unison, like a catechism. Dorothy is caressing a necklace. I realize it’s the white enameled locket she was wearing the first time I met her. It’s in the shape of a lily. Surely it contains a photograph of Stanley?

I lick my lips, suddenly aware I’m gripping the edge of my chair.

The next roar of thunder is so loud, so unexpected, it startles me to my feet, a yelp escaping my mouth. The hot dish that was so comforting sloshes in my stomach. For a moment, I fear I’m going to vomit on the table, in the middle of the dirty plates, right on the plastic flowers. I gulp air, and the nausea recedes.

“I’ll clean up,” I say, reaching shaking hands toward plates.

“I’ll help!” Mildred offers, and the other women follow suit. They bundle up silverware and cups and tureens so efficiently that suddenly it’s only Catherine and me around the dining room table. I feel her hot eyes on me, but I don’t meet them.

The thunder and rain argue with each other outside.

I stack some plates and am carrying them to the kitchen when I notice Catherine’s ceramic collectibles for the first time, really see them in a blinding flash of lightning. They’re scattered around the house, but here in the dining room, they have a dedicated hutch.

They’re all blackface caricatures.

Mammy and Pappy saltshakers, skin the darkest black, aprons the whitest white. Ashtrays that are only pitch-black heads, mouths open to swallow the detritus. A blond-haired, black-skinned baby eating a slice of watermelon twice his size, his face so gape-mouthed that he appears more fish than human. An Amos and Andy plate.

A mix of fascination and disgust threatens to eject the hot dish yet again.

“I’ve been collecting them for years. Everyone knows what to get me for my birthday,” Catherine says from immediately behind me. It’s all I can do to swallow a squeal of fear.

She steps around so we are face-to-face. I try to arrange my expression into something neutral, but judging by her flinty eyes, I am unsuccessful.

“Are you feeling all right?” She puts her hand on my arm, her palm so hot it burns through my cardigan.

“The pregnancy,” I say, hoping to distract her. “It takes its toll.”

“I remember those days.”

After a final glance over her shoulder, I tear my attention away from the wall that feels more like trophies than collectibles, turning my back to it, swearing never to return to this house even if it’s on fire. I set the plates back on the table and pretend to gather more silverware, my back again to Catherine. “You have children?”

“One. A boy. Quill.”

I pick up the plates again and turn, wondering why there are no photographs of her son displayed. “Does he live in Lilydale?”

Catherine’s face is open for a moment, revealing some long-held sorrow, but then it slams closed. “I’m afraid not. He’s a lifer. Never seemed to fit in anywhere else.”

“I see,” I say, assuming she’s referring to the military.

But I don’t see. Lilydale seems the perfect place for a person who doesn’t fit in anywhere else.

As long as you’re one of them.





CHAPTER 26

I have breakfast waiting for Deck when he tramps downstairs the next morning. I tell myself it isn’t because I want to be a good wife, isn’t because I must prove to him that I’m not a risk, isn’t because I’m now inexplicably frightened of the Mill Street women.

I’m lying to myself, of course.

I know because I have Deck’s breakfast waiting at the dinner table rather than the breakfast nook.

“Hi, honey!” I stand behind the scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, and morning paper like a prize model on a game show.