The Excellent Lombards(13)
“They came ovuh to talk to Dad,” Amanda bragged, ignoring my correction. “We alweady know them.”
“They’ll be in Velta,” I said, letting loose the secret name, something I’d never done before, Mary Frances full of mystery, full of knowledge. “In Velta,” I repeated, tossing my head.
Adam came through the hall and went to the refrigerator, opening it and removing a package of ham. He was going into seventh grade, possibly smarter than Amanda, preoccupied with NASA, Stephen Hawking, and especially the particle accelerator in Batavia, Illinois.
“What’s Velta?” he said, rolling three thin pieces of ham into a cigar and sticking it between his fingers.
“We’re talking about the Kwaselniks,” Amanda said, as haughty as I’d been.
Dolly came up the back stairs just then carrying a basket of tomatoes. She had to be mindful to not activate a burglar alarm that Sherwood had made, one of my favorite things about the kitchen, the marble-type run that involved an egg beater, a cow bell, a wind chime, and a bicycle horn. It was a golf ball that got the whirring and tinkling and honking going.
“Don’t eat that ham,” she cried, Adam retreating with the booty down the hall.
Amanda’s mother was nothing like a real Lombard, having before her marriage been a Muellenbach, a local girl, Dolly with a puff of black hair, everything about her soft, a little blurry, her round face with what kind of nose, what color eyes, how shapely the mouth? You couldn’t recall the details in someone who was merely Dolly, tall enough, not thin but not fat, the mother who happened to be in the background.
Before she’d set the basket down she was talking to us. “If I was a doctor’s wife I wouldn’t work.” Her slow easy speech filled the kitchen. “What would I do with myself?” She was fetching an enormous tray from the pantry. “What would I do with myself?” she repeated. She started to arrange the tomatoes on the tray. “She’s not Jewish, she’s not the religious one. Nobody would have argued with her if she’d kept her own name. But then she wouldn’t be Doctor and Mrs. Kraselnik. You girls will be the doctors, the men lining up to sponge off you. If I didn’t have a job in the apple business I’d ride my horse—me with a horse! Spend a lot of time grooming old Chief. And shopping for supplies, you have a horse you need supplies. Saddle soap, maintain the leather, nothing worse than brittle leather.” Dolly was a champ at merrily keeping herself entertained, the interviewer and the subject in one person. “What else? A curry comb. And oats, got to have oats and a feedbag. And those Klan-type hoods, keep the gnats out of Chief’s eyes. Mrs. Kraselnik is teaching the four–five split so you girls will both have her—that’ll be nice for you. I’ll bet she’ll have pictures of Chief on her desk. I’d do steeplechase, get a black velvet helmet, that’s what I’d do, taking the fences, a little noodge with the boot to the flanks, over you go, a little noodge.”
Wait. Four–five split? What did that mean? I stared at Dolly, hoping for the same loop to repeat, as it often did, before she went on to a different loop. Amanda and I were going to be in the same class? Is that what Dolly had said? I was starting the fifth grade, Amanda in fourth, the two classes joined? My cousin looked up from her paper, she, too, registering the essential sentence. And yet she didn’t seem alarmed. She said, “Mom says Mrs. Kwaselnik is intwested in geogwaphy, that we’uh going to pawticipate in the National Geogwaphy Bee.”
“I know,” I lied.
“Mrs. Kwaselnik will want me to bwing in my Suez Canal memowabilia for Show and Tell.” Amanda really did have a collection, Stephen Lombard having once sent her maps and a key chain from Suez when he’d passed through Egypt. “She’ll teach us to use a dweidel.”
It was a matter of urgency that I leave the manor house immediately, that I get to the library where my mother worked. The Mrs. Kraselnik information could not possibly be true. Amanda and I were nothing to each other in school. In the mornings we waited for the bus together on our driveway but once we climbed the steps, even before we found our own seats, we no longer knew each other. This unknowing was an unspoken and mutually agreed-upon law. We weren’t embarrassed by our connection. It was only that we were entirely different persons outside of the orchard. On the way home we were with our friends and could not say hello. The second our feet touched the gravel drive we were again familiar, restored to our Velta-Volta selves, planning our after-school activities. It could not be explained to my mother why Amanda being in my class was a violation; I knew only that it must not happen.
Because my mother was the director of the library, and because there was no place in town except the tavern to gather, the gossips came to the circulation desk to tell all. In that way Nellie Lombard knew everything, the font of knowledge. I made an excuse to Amanda and left my glitter picture. Always in the Dolly kitchen I hurried past the door that led up the stairs to May Hill’s part of the house. It was a fact that she lived right overhead, but it was a fact I did my best not to consider. Her house, even though it belonged to the same structure as the downstairs, was in a different plane, a different realm. This truth also could not be explained. In any case, I ran down the back stairs of Amanda’s house, only to see Sherwood at the basement sink.
“Hallo, Francie,” he said. “You interested in seeing—” He held up a root of some kind but I didn’t look, didn’t stop, said I had to get home, although Velta was not my precise destination. I ran down the drive, past the barn, down the orchard path, up along the potato garden and the marsh, skirting the near hay field, past Gloria’s cottage, up to the baseball diamond, and ragged with running that quarter mile I burst into the library. My mother was at the circulation desk checking out the Bushberger children, Mrs. Bushberger putting no limit on the number of picture books each of her six children was allowed to take home.