Page 2 of Fragile Wicked Things
"Yes, also handy to awaken your father after his drink."
Mrs. Reed clamped her mouth and turned to her husband. People often gave me strange looks about my father, but I knew where he went most nights.
"Did you find him?"
"Mr. Smythe found him along the way. He's made arrangements for you and your mother," the Reverend said.
"Me?" I said, but no one answered.
"Why did you scream, child?" asked Mrs. Reed. "It sounded frightful."
"I wanted to be with my mother. The cloth fell, and I saw her ghost, confused by the mirror just as you described, Mrs. Reed. She tried to touch me."
My last statement frightened Mrs. Reed for she took in a quickened breath. "From the mirror?"
"Nonsense," Reverend Reed said. "Don't let my wife's superstitions get the better of you. Go to your room and rest awhile. Mrs. Reed will help you gather your belongings."
"My belong...," but I didn't finish before Mrs. Reed helped me off the floor and guided me through the kitchen towards my bedroom. Father sat at the table, bent over a steaming cup of coffee. He knew I was in the room with him. I could feel it, but not once did he look up at me. What arrangements could he be making? It appeared to me he made none. Once in my room, I turned back to look at him before Mrs. Reed closed the door behind us.
"I'm not tired," I told her.
"Let me help you gather a few things. After the funeral, it's best you stay elsewhere for a while where someone can care for you."
"My father can."
Mrs. Reed opened the door to my wardrobe, took out an overnight bag that belonged to my mother and placed items in, commenting more to herself, "Oh, such a pretty dress. No pink? The clothes are plain and dreary, plain like you. Poor, plain Jane."
I hated her at that moment. Mrs. Reed didn't say anything I hadn't heard before. But with my mother gone and my father having abandoned me, I unleashed a fury on her.
"Put my things back!"
Mrs. Reed's shoulders fell slightly, and her voice grew softer when she spoke. "This is a difficult time for you, child, but you must not stay here after the funeral."
"I won't go!" I reached for my plain Jane dress, made in a dusty rose fabric by my mother, and pulled at it, but Mrs. Reed would not let go. "Give it!"
"Calm down, child."
Again, I pulled until I heard a rip. The sound made us both stop. I examined the tear at the seam, and a wave of anger grew inside me so much so that when I reached out again, I dug my nails into Mrs. Reed's skin. She let out a terrible scream that brought the men. My father's hands grabbed me by the shoulders and threw me to my bed. Reverend Reed stood by his wife, inspecting her wounds.
"Look at my arm. She scratched me, the mad cat. This is why she must go."
"She just lost her mother, and I lost my wife." My father had spoken so little since his return, and I jumped on the opportunity to plead my case and threw my arms around his waist.
"Please don't send me away, Daddy. I'm sorry I scratched Mrs. Reed. Please let me stay. I can take care of you."
My father looked to the Reverend and then to Mrs. Reed as if my statement made sense. Yes, I can take care of him. I know how to sew a little, boil potatoes, launder and make his coffee strong and black, just as he likes it. I'll keep smelling salts about the house for when he comes home and succumbs to the drink.
But I knew that I had lost when he shook himself free from me and left the room without looking into my eyes.
* * *
After the burial,a few women from church descended on my mother's tiny kitchen and chatted away as they prepared food and drinks. I sat rooted to a spot near the hearth, silent, then trembled, helpless against the looks they gave me. Their whispering surrounded me and grew louder by the moment. They touched things that didn't belong to them, wiped counters and swept the dirt from the floor. They were erasing her. I stood, clenched my fist, then loosened it and wandered into the living room. How strange to call it a living room with my father in it. He sat in my mother's chair, drink in hand, and when Mrs. Stephenson passed by, she took the glass from him and replaced it with lemonade in one swoop. I'm certain Father hadn't noticed.
I drifted to some men gathered in a corner of the room and caught snippets of their conversation. Their presence annoyed me. I wanted them all out: the women from my mother's kitchen, the men from my living room, and my father from my mother's chair.
"...no, no, no Eisenhower is the right man for the job," said one man in a striped bow tie.
"He'll clean house and take care of the Soviet spies in the Truman administration, that's for sure," offered another man.
