Delia Sherman Page 5

  “I don’t care, Lord knows, but Sister’s likely to blame my slovenly ways for all those books and clothes you got lying everywhere. Better make your bed, too. And when you’re done tidying, get in the bathtub and scrub yourself. Those knees are a disgrace.”

  Sophie obeyed to the extent of pulling up the chenille spread, shelving all the books, and stuffing her clothes in the armoire. She drew a bath, scrubbed her hands and knees until they were sore, and washed her hair. She hid her scratched feet in white ankle socks and sandals and put on the pointless bra and her Sunday blue-gingham shirtwaist. She was scraping her hair back with a plastic headband when she heard a familiar honk and ran out to throw her arms around her mother.

  “Hello, darling.” Mama pushed Sophie to arm’s length and examined her critically. “What on earth have you been up to? You look like a wild Indian!”

  Aunt Enid came out the door behind the stairs, wiping her hands on her apron. “And you, Sister, look like a French poodle.”

  Mama laughed self-consciously and patted her short, tight, chestnut curls. “I got a permanent wave. Do you like it?”

  In fact, Mama had gotten a whole new outfit. Her dress was black and white, with a narrow skirt that just covered her knees. Her belt and purse were bright red, and matched her high-heeled, pointy shoes. Sophie was enchanted. “Mama, you look just like a movie star!”

  Aunt Enid snorted. “That’s as may be. And won’t Mama just create when she sees that skirt!”

  Aunt Enid served supper in the dining room—fried chicken, succotash, and homemade biscuits—and Mama entertained them with stories about Soule College and her new job and all her wonderful new friends.

  Round about coffee and dessert, Aunt Enid lost patience. “I’m sure that’s all very interesting, Sister. But it doesn’t explain why you drove all the way down here three weeks before we expected you.”

  Mama’s fork, full of gingerbread and whipped cream, paused in mid-air. “Randolph has remarried.” She popped the gingerbread into her mouth.

  Randolph, Sophie thought, is Papa’s name. Randolph Perault Martineau.

  “Stop staring, Sophie, and close your mouth. You look like an idiot child. Your father has remarried—an artist woman he met in New York, Judith something.” Mama sipped her coffee. “Horowitz. Judith Horowitz. He’s moved into her apartment in the Village, wherever that may be. Doesn’t sound very elegant, does it?”

  Sophie jabbed her half-eaten gingerbread with her fork. She felt slightly sick.

  “Judith Horowitz,” Aunt Enid said. “That’s not exactly a Southern name, is it?”

  “Well, Enid, what would you expect?” Mama said, bright as a button. “He clearly didn’t want a Southern lady. He didn’t want a lady at all. He wanted a beatnik, Jewish—”

  “Helen Fairchild Martineau!” Aunt Enid sounded shocked. Mama’s cheeks flushed pink.

  Sophie stood up. “Can I please be excused?”

  Mama lifted one perfectly plucked eyebrow. “Don’t you want to see your father’s letter?”

  Sophie shook her head wordlessly, pushed in her chair, and went up to her room. She took The Story of the Amulet from the bookcase and sat down with it on the window seat.

  Was it worse when someone died, she wondered, or when they ran away and left you behind? What was Papa doing up there in New York, anyway, apart from getting married? Was it more interesting than playing Monopoly and going to see South Pacific with his daughter?

  Sophie cried a little, blew her nose, picked up the book again, and opened it. Mama came in, dropped an envelope on the bed, and went out again.

  The envelope was addressed to Mama, in Papa’s writing. The four-cent stamp honored the American Woman with a picture of a mother and daughter reading a book together. They didn’t look as if they liked it much.

  Sophie pulled out the single, typewritten page.

  Helen:

  This letter is to inform you that I’ve remarried—an artist named Judith Horowitz I met at a gallery opening. It was as much of a surprise to me as it must be to you. We’ll be living in her apartment in the West Village—address and telephone below. Could you tell Sophie? I’ll write her when things get settled down a little, maybe have her come out for a visit so she can meet Judith. But I’d appreciate it if you prepared her.

  Thanks. Rand.

  Sophie folded the letter up again and put it back in the envelope because Mama would pitch a fit if she tore it into pieces. Then she went into the bathroom and pushed the envelope under the connecting door.

  On Sunday morning, Mama accompanied Sophie and Aunt Enid to church. The good ladies of Oakwood Methodist stared at Mama’s permanent wave and short skirt, and the Reverend D’Aubert was moved to speak about how women working outside the home led to desegregation and moral degeneration. Sophie wanted to crawl under the pew, but Mama sat and listened with an interested smile, and was extra-bright and charming to everyone during coffee hour. She chatted about apartment-hunting all the way home, and when they got to Oak Cottage went straight upstairs to sit with Grandmama. At loose ends, Sophie trailed Aunt Enid into the kitchen.

  Her aunt gave her a harried look. “After that morning, I think I need a little solitude. Why don’t you go cut some roses for Mama’s room? I noticed some Gloire de Dijons coming on to bloom this morning. They’re the yellow ones, over by the cabbage bed.”

  It was a sign of how rattled Aunt Enid was that she hadn’t even noticed it had come on to rain. Shears in hand, Sophie stood under the gallery, watching the water sheet down over the garden, knowing she should wait for it to let up, or at least put on her aunt’s gum boots and oilcloth jacket. Instead, she stepped into the downpour and lifted her face, feeling the lukewarm water soaking through her dress and plastering her hair sleek as a muskrat’s. She squelched through the grass to the drooping golden roses and cut a big armful, cradling them in the sling of her blue gingham skirt. Then she ran back to the house, straight up the back stairs to the gallery, and through the parlor to Grandmama’s room, leaving a puddled trail across the polished floor.

  “Sophie!” her mother exclaimed.

  Grandmama squinted. “What is it, Helen? Is the child hurt? You should look out after her better.”

  Mama’s mouth snapped into a hard, bright smile. She grabbed Sophie’s shoulder and dragged her up to the bed. “Look, Mama. Sophie brought you flowers. Isn’t that nice?”

  Grandmama’s faded eyes fastened on Sophie, then fluttered shut, as if in pain. “When I was young, girls were taught to cut and arrange flowers properly. Go to your room, Sophia, and come back when you’re dressed like a Christian.”

  “Now, Mama. She meant well. Look at those beautiful roses. You’d better put them in something, darling. You don’t want them to wilt.”

  Sophie looked from mother to grandmother. Grandmama’s face was all pursed up like a shelled pecan; Mama’s was as bright and blank as a doll’s.

  “There’s water in the pitcher on the washstand,” said Mama. “My land, Mama, if you could just see your face! Didn’t you always say a lady should cultivate a pleasant expression?”

  She smiled at Grandmama; Grandmama smiled back, sharp as a curved sword. Sophie shivered.

  “Hand me that towel, darling,” Mama said. “You don’t want to catch your death of cold.”

  Sophie unloaded the roses into the pitcher and found a linen towel. Her mother took it from her and commenced scrubbing at her dripping hair. “I was just telling your grandmama all about my accounting course and how much money I’ll make when I get to be a real Certified Public Accountant.”

  Grandmama picked at her sheet and her bed-jacket, her withered cheeks pink. “This is the Lord’s day, Helen. You remember what Our Lord said to the money-changers in the Temple?”

  Mama’s hands stilled on Sophie’s head. “I’m not a money changer, Mama. I’m an accountant.”

  “It’s not becoming, Helen. A lady does not speak of money and business. She shouldn’t even think of them.”
>
  “A lady who earns her own keep must think about them.”

  “A lady does not work for her keep,” said Grandmama decidedly.

  “Then how does a lady eat? How does a lady keep a roof over her head and a rag to her back?”

  “A lady is provided for. But it’s plain to be seen you’ve given up acting like a lady. I begin to have some sympathy for Randolph, if that is how you spoke to him.”

  “I treated Randolph exactly the way you taught me to.”

  Grandmama pursed her mouth. “Don’t talk ugly. You were the one insisted on marrying him. It’s nothing to me if he ran off and left you without a penny to your name.”

  It was bad enough for Grandmama to light into Mama, but at least Mama was there to defend herself. Papa was not. “That’s not fair, Grandmama!” Sophie burst out. “Papa gives us money. It’s just everything is so expensive, and—”

  “You hush up, young lady,” Mama snapped. “You know nothing about it. I like working. I like keeping figures straight and showing other people how to keep theirs, and most of all, I like getting paid for doing it.”

  Grandmama reached a trembling hand toward Sophie. “Come here, you poor child. You love your old grandmama, don’t you? You won’t break her heart with foolishness.”

  Mama dropped the towel and marched out of the room.

  “Well.” Grandmama felt under her pillow, brought out a little glass bottle. “I declare, that girl will be the death of me. I’d never have dared to speak to my poor, sainted mama in that hard, selfish way. Never.” She shook the bottle impatiently. “Well, child? Are you going to open my salts or aren’t you?”

  Sophie took the bottle and tried to unscrew the tiny metal cap. It wouldn’t budge.

  “I’m very faint, Sophie,” warned Grandmama. “Excitement is bad for my heart.”

  “It’s stuck, Grandmama.”

  “A lady doesn’t make excuses, miss. I told Helen no good would come of marrying that man. His mother was from California, I believe.”

  Sophie struggled grimly with the smelling salts, wishing she was anywhere except in this dim, overcrowded room that smelled of old lady and damp and suddenly, overwhelmingly, of ammonia, as the neck of the bottle broke, spilling its pungent contents over the crocheted counterpane.

  “Clumsy girl!”

  Sophie rubbed her nose and streaming eyes. “I’m sorry, Grandmama.”

  “Well, fetch a towel, girl” Grandmama sneezed and edged away from the spill. “Look at you, haven’t even got the sense to stay out of the rain. You’ll come to no good, you mark my words. Just like your no-account father.”

  Sophie looked up from mopping at the sheets. “Papa’s not no-account! He’s funny and he’s good and he loves me.”

  Grandmama bared her false teeth in a pitying smile. “If he loves you so much, where is he, miss? You’d be better off if he simply knew his duty.”

  Choking with fury, Sophie flung the ammonia-soaked towel down on the bed and ran, pursued by the irritable silver tinkling of Grandmama’s bell. In her room, she threw herself on the bed, remembered she was still wet, and got up again.

  “Sophie?” Her mother called from her room. “Sophie, go see to your grandmother.”

  Sophie went through the bathroom into Mama’s room. She had closed the shutters and was sitting in the rocker with her hands in her lap. Sophie could hear her breathing, very slow and deliberate, with a hitch in each breath. She’d never heard her cry before, not even when Papa left. It was unnatural, like the sun rising in the West.

  She came closer. “She doesn’t need seeing to. She’s in a temper.” She hesitated. “Please don’t cry, Mama.”

  “Be still, Sophie.”

  She sounded sad and tired. Sophie tried again. “I’m glad you like school and accounting. I think you’re—”

  “I said, be still! ”

  Sophie bit her lip. “I’m sorry. I just thought—”

  “Nonsense,” Mama said flatly. “You didn’t think at all. You never think. And you’re always sorry. You’re the sorriest child I’ve ever laid eyes on. Just look at you, all covered with mud and soaked to the bone. Your hair looks like a hooraw’s nest.”

  Sophie’s hands flew to the hair Mama herself had rubbed into a tangled mess. “I brush it every day, just like you told me.”

  Mama sighed. “That’s a fib. I declare, sometimes it’s hard to believe you’re my daughter at all. The only explanation is a touch of the tar brush in your father’s family. Those French planters didn’t care who they married, and that’s a fact. Go away and comb your hair, if you can. And change your dress. That one is ruined.”

  Sophie ran into her room and shut the door. She’d probably cry soon. And then Mama would be mad when she came down to dinner with her eyes all red. Maybe she just wouldn’t go down. Maybe she’d read instead. Maybe she’d read until Mama left for New Orleans, and not say good-bye.

  Kneeling in front of the bookcase, she reached blindly for a book, any book, that might distract her. The Time Garden. Perfect. Magic adventures, and not a parent anywhere in sight. She curled damply in the corner of the window seat.

  I should change, she thought, and then, I don’t care.

  “Don’t care killed the cat,” said a voice in her ear.

  Sophie’s heart skipped a beat. “Where are you?”

  “Here and there. Betwixt and between. Takes a heap of doing. What you in a state about?”

  “I’m not in a state!”

  “Yes, you is. The State of Louisiana.” It laughed out loud.

  Sophie glanced fearfully at the door. “Hush. Mama’ll hear you.”

  “And what can you mama do to me? If’n she can even find me, which she can’t?”

  “Nothing. She can’t do anything to you.”

  “Aw,” said the Creature sympathetically. “You all upset. She whup you?”

  “No,” said Sophie. Mama didn’t think much of people who resorted to violence to control their children. “She just hates me, that’s all. I wish I was dead!”

  “Don’t you be saying things like that in front of me, child.” The Creature sounded alarmed. “Not less’n you means it.”

  “Well, then, I wish I wasn’t me.”

  “Who you want to be?”

  Sophie held out The Time Garden. “I want to be like Ann and Roger and Eliza. I want to travel through time and have grand adventures and brothers and sisters and have everybody love me.”

  The room was very still. “That a wish?” the Creature asked solemnly.

  Sophie was in no mood to be cautious. “Yes,” she said. “It’s a wish.”

  “Well, now,” the Creature said. “Love is something you gots to earn for youself. I might could see about giving you some family, though. And adventures just come along natural with going back in time.”

  Sophie stood up, leaving The Time Garden on the window seat. “Okay, I’m ready. Is there anything I need to do?”

  “You done it,” said the Creature. “We’s here.”

  Chapter 6

  “Where’s here?” Sophie asked.

  Her only answer was a fading giggle.

  And wasn’t it just her luck, she thought, to get the kind of magic creature that would transport her somewhere and leave her without explanation? Just like the Natterjack in The Time Garden, come to think of it. And the Natterjack had always shown up when the children really needed it. Irritating as the Creature was, she was sure it would, too.

  In the meantime, here she was, back in the Good Old Days, in a room that both was and was not hers.

  Every piece of furniture seemed to come from somewhere else. The princessy bed with its high headboard was from Mama’s room, but what was that gauzy material hanging from the half-tester? The mirrored armoire and dresser belonged in Grandmama’s room, and the last time Sophie had seen that desk, it was in the parlor. The familiar faded wallpaper was gone, and so was the ratty rug, replaced by deep rose paint and pale matting. The only clues to the room’s occu
pant were the striped scarf across the bed and the scribbled paper scattered across the desktop.

  Sophie padded over to the desk to investigate, picked up an ivory pen, its gold nib crusted with dried ink. Beneath it was a half-written letter. She couldn’t make head or tail of the scrawly handwriting, but the date was clear enough: June 12, 1860.

  Sophie’s hand shook a little.

  The War Between the States was due to start in—Sophie thought for a moment—less than a year. She wondered whether she should warn her ancestors about it, decided she shouldn’t risk changing the course of history by mistake and returning to the present to find out she hadn’t been born. She might, however, let the slaves know that they’d be free in a few years—nothing too specific, just a hint, to give them something to look forward to.

  But that was for when she’d actually met a slave. She put the letter back where she’d found it.

  On the marble-topped nightstand, she found a white leather Bible and a copy of Hiawatha by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, which had been used for pressing flowers. Inside the nightstand were a white porcelain pot and a faint stink that reminded her of a not-very-clean public bathroom. She shut the door quickly. Chamber pots were a part of the past she’d never thought much about.

  Neither were corsets, which she found in the big mirrored armoire, hanging on hooks next to mysterious white cotton garments and pastel dresses with long, bulky skirts. She touched a flounce, wondering whether the Fairchild it belonged to was old or young, and if she might let Sophie try on her clothes.

  Next, Sophie went to the window. In 1860, there was no window seat, just a square bay with a vanity table set it in to catch the light. A white gauze curtain framed the view she’d glimpsed by moonlight two nights before. Then, it had disappeared like smoke. This time, it wasn’t going to go away.

  Sophie caught sight of her reflection in the triple mirror on the vanity. She looked like she’d been dragged through a hedge backwards. There wasn’t much she could do about the mud on her dress and arms, but she couldn’t bear to meet her ancestors with her hair looking, yes, like a hooraw’s nest. Sophie searched through the clutter of bottles and jars and ribbons until she found a silver brush. It wasn’t polite to use someone else’s brush without asking, but this was an emergency.