Durable Goods_ A Novel - Elizabeth Berg [22]
“Even your brother and sister?” I asked.
She smiled. “Especially them.”
“What did you do?”
She stared ahead, remembering, “Well, I cried, of course. And I hardly ever wore them. I tried to get by without them.”
“Oh.” I took her hand, held it for a while, turned the wedding ring on it around and around. Then I said, “I think you look pretty in glasses.”
“Thank you,” she said, but she was out of the moment and on to her list. “Baked potatoes or mashed tonight?” She stopped walking, leaned close to me. “Or scalloped?” she asked, a little excited. “How would you like that?” It was a whole thing for her, rich and satisfying, planning what we would eat each night. She worked to make things match. She clipped recipes constantly, filed them in scented envelopes, used them like friends.
I come out the back door and wave to Belle. “Hey, Katie,” she says, and Cherylanne sits up, squints at me.
“Oh, good,” she says. “Put some on my back, will you?” She holds up the Coppertone bottle. I squeeze some in my hands, rub it on in the way I know she likes. You aren’t supposed to get it on her swimsuit straps. “Want to lie out with me?” she asks.
Well, I don’t. I find it boring, suntanning in the backyard. It’s strictly for tanning emergencies. The only sounds you hear are airplanes droning, army men calling out army things, the cars going by in the distance. Ants can crawl on you whenever they want. When you lie on your back, you get a wet itch all along the middle of it; and when you turn over, you get it on your stomach. I like lying out at the pool, the sound of water keeping you cool even if you aren’t in it.
“Let’s go swimming,” I say.
She looks at her watch. “Can’t. I have an afternoon date.”
I have never heard of such a thing. “What for?”
“I’m going bowling.”
“With who?”
“Bill O’Connell.”
“Again?”
“We haven’t been bowling.”
“I know, but you just saw him last night.”
Cherylanne looks at her mother, then at me. In a low voice, she says, “I know that.”
Belle anchors the last towel on the line, pulls the empty basket up to rest on her hip. “You can help me bake,” she says. “I’ve got to make a cake today.”
I shrug. “Okay.” I like helping Belle. Even when I’d never broken an egg before, she just went ahead and let me do it.
“I might mess up,” I had warned her, the shame already curled low in the bottom of my belly.
“Try it,” she said. Her voice was as comfortable as a quilt. I held my breath, cracked the shell against the side of the bowl. The yolk smashed; pieces of shell fell into the bowl with it. I was so sorry, and feeling scared to look up, and all she did was give me a clean bowl and another egg. “Try again,” she said, and walked away. She started humming. Country western was what she really liked.
“But I messed up,” I said.
She stopped singing, came to stand by me. “Do you like scrambled eggs?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, you didn’t hardly mess up, then.”
I had to keep my smile tight, so much was in me. And that wasn’t all. Next she said, “You know, if you didn’t like scrambled eggs, you still wouldn’t have messed up. You’re just learning, Katie. That’s all. You go ahead and mess up all you want. Hell, I got a million eggs. They’re on sale over to Piggly Wiggly.”
I didn’t do anything else wrong. I figured I might not. I’d been taught tenderly, and that’s how a lesson stays. I can separate eggs now, one-handed. It’s all Belle’s. It’s so easy to go the other way. One of the reasons I have trouble with math is that the teacher punishes you for being wrong. When you miss too much, he draws a circle on the blackboard just above the level of your