Shiloh and Other Stories - Bobbie Ann Mason [35]
“Oooh!” Tammy makes a twisted face. “Why can’t you just buy it already fried?”
“Hah! We’re lucky we don’t have to pull the feathers off. I used to kill chickens, you know. Whack their heads off, dip ’em in boiling water, pick off the feathers. I’d like to see you pick a chicken!”
Cleo reaches around Tammy and hugs her. Tammy squeals. “Hey, why don’t we just eat the cat?”
“Now you’re going to hurt somebody’s feelings,” says Cleo, as Tammy squirms away from her.
Tammy prances out of the room and the noises return. The television; the radio; the buzz of the electric clock; the whir of the furnace making its claim for attention. The kids never hear the noises. Kids never seem to care about anything anymore, Cleo thinks. Tammy had a complete toy kitchen, with a stove and refrigerator, when she was five, and she didn’t care anything about it. It cost a fortune. Linda’s children always make Cleo feel old.
“I’m old enough to be a grandmother,” Rita Jean said early in their acquaintance. Rita Jean had lost her husband too.
“I think of you as a spring chicken,” Cleo told her.
“You’re not that much older than me. Louise Brown is two years younger than me, and she’s a grandmother. Imagine, thirty-five and a grandmother.”
“That makes me feel old.”
“I feel old,” said Rita Jean. “To think that the war could be that long ago.”
Rita Jean’s husband was twenty-one when he left for Vietnam. It was early in the war and nobody thought it would turn out so bad. She has a portrait on her dresser of a young man she hardly knew, a child almost. Now Rita Jean is old enough to be the mother of a boy like that.
Cleo told Rita Jean she could still get married and have a baby. She could start all over again.
“If anybody would have me,” said Rita Jean.
“You don’t try.”
“Sometimes I think I’m just waiting to get into Senior Citizens.”
“Listen to yourself,” said Cleo. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard. Why, I’m not but fifty-two.”
“They say that’s the prime of life,” said Rita Jean.
—
“Where are you going, Mama? Tell me where you’re going.” Davey is pulling at Linda’s belt.
“Oh, Davey, look. You’re going to mess up Mama’s outfit. I told you seven times, Shirley and me’s going to Paducah to hear some music. It’s not anything you’re interested in, so don’t be saying you want to go too.”
Linda has washed her hair and put on a new pants suit, a tangerine color. Cleo knows Linda cannot afford it, but Linda always has to have the best.
Tammy, sitting with her legs propped up on the back of the divan, says, with mock surprise, “You mean you’re going to miss Charlie’s Angels? You ain’t never missed Charlie’s Angels!”
“Them younguns want you to stay home,” Cleo says as Linda combs her hair. It is wet and falls in skinny black ringlets.
“I can’t see what difference it makes.” Linda lights a cigarette.
“These children need a daddy around.”
“You’re full of prunes if you think I’m going back to Bob!” Linda says, turning on the blow dryer. She raises her voice. “I don’t feel like hanging around the same house with somebody that can go for three hours without saying a word. He might as well not be there.”
“Hush. The children might hear you.”
Linda works on her hair, holding out damp strands and brushing them under with the dryer to style them. Cleo admires the way her daughter keeps up her appearance. She can’t imagine Bob would ever look at another woman when he has Linda. Cleo cannot believe Bob has mistreated Linda. It is just as though she has been told some wild tale about outer space, like something on a TV show.
Cleo says, “I bet he’s just held in and held in till he’s tight as a tick. People do that. I know you—impatient. Listen. A man takes care of a woman. But it works the other way round too. If he thinks you’re not giving him enough loving, he’ll draw up—just like a morning glory at evening. You think he’s not paying any attention to you, but maybe you’ve been too busy for him.”
Cleo knows Linda thinks she is silly. Daughters never believe their mothers. “You have to remember to give each other