“Mama! Where are you?” Nine-year-old C.J. shouted from somewhere in the house. His restless energy hadn’t dissipated at all, and Edith found it exhausting yet not worrying. He was a growing boy, and needed to run about and be loud and physical and make dents in walls. Even after they grow into men.
She brushed her hand through the air to erase the thought and the smoke and stood. “I’ll be right down,” she called, but not too loudly. Even though Calhoun had been dead for so long, there were still things she couldn’t bring herself to do. Like shouting. Or wearing anything too loud or too short. Cutting her hair even though it was past her waist and so very hot in the summertime. Or driving. She’d like to drive, but she’d have to buy a car, and she hadn’t the first idea how to do that by herself. Her friends’ husbands would surely help her out, but she was uncomfortable being alone with them, and couldn’t imagine sitting inside a closed car with one.
“Mama!”
Edith’s gaze strayed to her pack of cigarettes, wishing she had time for another, and then past it to her current project. It was, of all things, a back balcony in an apartment building involving a clothing line, a block of firewood, and a woman. She examined the doll’s face for a moment, wondering whether she’d made it just the right shade of blue, and whether the print on the blouse was accurate enough. She wanted to hurry and finish it so she could go back to her biggest project, the one that consumed most of her waking thoughts. She was so close now to an answer that it was hard for her to focus on anything else.
It would have to wait until the following day when C.J. was at school. He didn’t like her spending time in her workshop any more than Calhoun had. He wasn’t allowed up there, and she was careful to lock the door when she left, putting the key in its hiding place in her closet. To make a prohibited place less appealing, she’d told him it was hot and stuffy, that there were lots of spiders, and all she did was work on her sea-glass wind chimes. She hoped she’d made it sound boring enough to him that he wouldn’t be interested in finding the key.
She took her cardigan off the back of her chair and slid it over her shoulders before heading down the attic stairs, being careful not to trip in her high heels. After carefully locking the door and pocketing the key, she found C.J. in the upstairs hallway, bouncing a small rubber ball against the wall, which she’d told him not to do at least a dozen times.
“I’m here,” she said, reaching over and grabbing the ball in midbounce.
He looked annoyed. His shirt had a tear at the hem and the neck had some unidentified food stain. His dungarees had holes in the patches on his knees, and his high-top sneakers looked exhausted, with their tongues and laces dangling over the sides. But she didn’t say anything. Betsy had told her that the modern method of child rearing in that book by Dr. Spock was about choosing battles. C.J. played hard; that was all. Edith could accept that.
“Jimmy wants me to come over for dinner.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. But you know Tuesday is bridge night. Debbie Fuller is coming over to babysit, and I’ve got a Swanson TV dinner in the oven already.”
“No,” he groaned. “I don’t like Debbie Fuller, and I hate TV dinners.”
This was how he generally responded when things didn’t go his way. “I’m sorry that’s how you feel, C.J. But Debbie is responsible and reliable and I like her.” She’s also the only babysitter who will still come stay with you. “And I think you’ll like this TV dinner. It has a dessert—an apple cobbler.”
“I hate apple cobbler,” he shouted, rushing past her to the stairway and sliding down the banister. She’d told him too many times to count not to do that, that it was dangerous, but it didn’t seem to matter. He was like his father that way, a rushing, boisterous presence in a room. She’d loved that about Calhoun—once, a long time ago. She didn’t want to erase it completely from his son.
The doorbell rang and Edith answered it. Debbie Fuller was only four years older than C.J., but about a foot taller and years older in terms of maturity and poise. She wasn’t frivolous like those other girls who were suddenly no longer available to babysit when Edith called. Debbie was a serious girl, her hair always crimped back in a tight ponytail and heavy bangs over thick, dark glasses. She was the oldest of six and the only girl, which was probably the reason she wasn’t daunted by watching C.J. the few times Edith left him.
“Hello, Mrs. Heyward,” Debbie said, her expression serious. She looked like one of those girls who was born old, as if their life’s plan were already laid out in front of them and they followed those plans with the seriousness of a nun. Edith might even have envied that about her, the knowing what the future held. Maybe then she might have done things differently.