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Friday, September 9, 2011

Chapter 4 of The Possibility of Justine


Aaron’s Last Supper, Part I
Justine clutched her robe as she ran down the hall, smack into Viola at the front door under the water cooler.
“Get that hair out of your face, child.” She’d come from the kitchen.
Viola felt spongy and smelled sweet. That brief contact held Justine the way Viola used to – reading to her, pulling on her tights before school on a rainy day, after waking up early and no one else but Viola and her warm, spongy lap.
Lately, her reaction to Viola – always in her white button-down dress uniform, white shoes, and stockings rolled up tight on her thighs like they were knee-high socks – had been anything but spongy and sweet. One look from Viola made Justine’s head fall farther forward, anything to avoid those penetrating dark eyes.  
Viola sighed, smoothed her starched uniform and opened the door.
Grandma and Grandpa stood on the front stoop in their Sunday best. The net of Grandma’s hat swooped across her forehead, her cheek. White gloved hands folded in front of her over the handle of her patent-leather pocketbook. Grandpa in his fedora.
            “Aaron!” Grandma walked through Viola and Justine, still clutching her robe, and stopped in front of Aaron, standing in the hallway. He looked handsome in his dress khakis, his tie tucked in.  
“Give Grandma a squeeze.”
            “Aaron, my boy,” Grandpa said, ignoring Viola and Justine.
They watched Aaron hug his grandparents. Justine found a fresh spot in her mouth that wasn’t sore yet and bit down. She peaked at Viola.
            “Come help in the kitchen, after you get dressed. Make sure you pull that hair back.”
            Justine watched Viola lumber through the living room, back to the kitchen. She was limping. Her grandparents, one on each side of Aaron, dragged him past her into the living room. Justine stood there, alone now in the hall but for the water cooler blowing cool air down on her.
            Later, after making sure Cooper had plenty of water in the laundry room, Justine tied on an apron over her white sleeveless blouse and a blue cotton skirt. It was hot in the kitchen.
“Why the oven on a hot day?” she asked Viola.
“Your brother likes his ham warm,” she said. “Now grate these carrots but do it over there so you’re not in my way.”
Not a word about the stupid velvet bow holding her bangs to one side. Or the ponytail. Just stay out of the way.
Be invisible.
It felt close to right when no one said anything, but not at all close to good. Justine didn’t understand why that made her eyes water. She tasted blood before knowing her teeth had bitten into her lip.
She peeled and grated carrots, daydreaming about Jesse – calling her on the phone, showing up at her door, at school on the first day. That led to imagining a new teacher, one who’d never even met Aaron. A teacher who wore one of those off-white, crocheted dresses, looking like Twiggy.
Dad barged into the kitchen, his still wet hair now combed flat, his white cheeks smooth. The smell of minty cinnamon wafted in with him, the swinging door fanning cooler air in with him.
            “Stiff drinks all around,” he said, pulling the lever on the ice trays and plopping ice into the ice bucket. “Need you in there, Justine.”
            “I’m helping.”
            “Go on,” Viola said. “I’ll finish the coleslaw.”
            Waiting in the dining room for Dad to mix cocktails on the buffet, Justine noticed Grandma sat too close to Aaron, who was sitting up stiff and straight on the green Naugahyde davenport. Mom sat too close on the other side. Between them, Aaron looked big, bigger than she remembered.
            “I promise I won’t cry if you promise to—“
            “I promise.” Aaron raised both arms and put one around each of them. “I promise to take good care of myself.”
            From this distance, he looked like Dad, his arms around them instead of the other way around.
            Justine delivered the cocktails as directed. Manhattans to Mom and Grandma. Martinis for Aaron and Grandpa, who had settled himself in Dad’s chair, the matching over-stuffed armchair between the davenport and the fireplace. Not wanting to squeeze in next to anyone, Justine backed up to the fireplace, her hands behind her as if it were winter and a fire blazed behind her.  
            “I see you poured the good stuff,” Grandpa said, after sipping his martini.
            To Justine’s surprise, Dad handed her a drink.
            “A fitting time for your first cocktail, me thinks,” he said, kissing her on the forehead.
            Then he faced Aaron and Justine saw their eyes meet. Dad raised his glass.
            “You didn’t make her a Manhattan, Hugh?”
“No, Maggie. Made her an Old-Fashioned,” Dad said to Mom.  
            “Are you going to make the toast, Hugh, or shall I?” Grandpa asked.
            They all looked at Grandpa. Justine jingled the ice in her drink, raising her glass. She saw moisture already beading up on the outside of her glass.
            “To an honorable end to this goddamned war,” Grandpa said.
            “To troops coming home,” Mom said.
            “I’ll drink to that,” Grandma said.
            “To some first hand information for a change,” Grandpa said, raising his glass again.
            “L’chaim,” Justine said.
            “What the hell did you say?” Grandpa asked.
            “It means ‘To life,’” Mom explained.
“In Spanish?”
Justine laughed and Grandpa glared at her.
Doesn’t he know the difference between Spanish and Hebrew?
“From that book I gave you,” Mom said, looking at Justine. “The Chosen. It’s a lovely novel about two Jewish boys. You liked it?”
            “Mm hmm,” Justine said as she drank more of her drink. It tasted sweet but bitter. Like cold fire.
            “Honey, sip slowly,” Mom said to her.
            “Whatcha reading about Jews for, Teeny-girl?” Grandpa said, settling himself back down in his chair.
            God, don’t call me that. I hate that.
 “Grandma,” Aaron said, putting his arm back around her, “how about telling us my favorite story?”
“Not that again,” Grandpa said. “We all know if it hadn’t been for your grandmother, we’d have lost it all. End of story.”
            “Wasn’t it because you were scared of horses, Grandma?” Aaron asked.
“Aaron,” Grandma said, blushing, “you’ve heard me tell it so many times.”
“I want to hear it again, Grandma. Before I go.”
“What we need is some music,” Dad said. He stepped into the dining room and opened the hi-fi.
“Not Miles Davis again,” Mom said.
“How ‘bout Louis Armstrong?”
 “She was scared of horses. You got that right,” Grandpa said, shaking his head as if he still couldn’t fathom it.
“You tell the story, Grandma,” Aaron said.
“I’m going to need another round, Hugh,” Grandpa said, lifting his already empty glass in Dad’s direction.
Grandma shifted her hips so she could face Aaron. She smoothed her dress at her knees. “I was afraid of horses, but I was even more afraid of going into town.”
“So who ran errands for you, Grandma?”
Justine watched Aaron charm the story out of their shy grandmother.
Unbeknownst to her busy husband, one of the hired hands – the only “good man” on the place – ran all the errands for her.
“Good ole Hank,” Grandpa said.
For the first time, it occurred to Justine that Grandma and Grandpa both referred to Hank as the only “good” man because he was the only white man. She sipped her cocktail.
How could I have missed that detail?
“And how did he know what you needed, Grandma?” Aaron asked.
“I’d tuck my list under a dishtowel in my basket, always next to a freshly baked pie. In summer it’d be peach or strawberry. In the fall, rhubarb. Late in the fall—”
“Hell, damn, spit, woman. Tell the story.”
“Late fall, what kind of pie, Grandma?” Aaron asked.
Grandma looked from her husband to Aaron.
“Onion. Have I ever made you an onion pie? Or pumpkin. Anyway, Hank would come up the porch steps where he knew my basket waited with a pie in it,” she said, looking at Grandpa. “He would touch his thumb to the tip of his hat. He knew I hid behind the kitchen door, afraid to talk to him. A scaredy-cat.”
            “I gave her all the cash,” Grandpa said. “To take to town. To deposit in the bank.”
“How could Grandpa not know you were afraid to go to town?” Mom asked Grandma.
“He was oblivious, Maggie,” Grandma said.
“I’d tell her when I needed cash – To pay the hands or give to Hank for seed,” Grandpa said.
Justine sipped her drink.
And he’s still oblivious.
“So Hank took the money?” Aaron asked, even though he and everybody knew the answer.
“Oh, no. I never sent Hank into town with money for the bank,” Grandma said, knowing everybody knew. “I sent Hank into town with money for flour or thread but never any large amount.”
“What did you do with all the cash, Grandma?”
“At first, I hid it under the embroidery thread in my sewing basket but, after a time, it came to be such a big bundle. I fashioned a lining out of unbleached muslin and kept the money under the lining at the bottom of my cedar chest.”
Grandma sipped her drink and looked over her shoulder at Justine.
“The same cedar chest that belongs to you, now.”
            Uncomfortable with everybody’s eyes on her, Justine did what she always did in that situation: She looked to Aaron.
            “Tell us what happened on the day of the crash, Grandma,” Aaron said.
            “That was October, 1929. Your grandfather came into the kitchen, his eyes as big as egg yolks, a desperate look on his face, and he dropped down onto his knees right there on the linoleum, taking hold of my hands, looking to all the world as if he were going to cry.
“I had good reason to cry,” Grandpa said.
“What did he say next, Grandma?”
“ ‘The banks have closed,’ he said. ‘We’ve lost everything.’ ”
            “What did you do?” Aaron asked as if he were hearing the story for the first time.
            “She took me by the hand—“
            “Grandpa, let Grandma tell it,” Aaron said, his eyes on Grandma.
            Blushing, Grandma patted Aaron’s leg and took a sip of her drink.
            “I did take him by the hand – and I don’t know why you came along,” she said, looking at Grandpa, “but you did.”
Grandpa smiled.
“He let me lead him through the house. To that chest. It was at the foot of our bed.”
            “When I saw the—”
            “Shhhh,” Aaron insisted.
            “I opened the chest and pulled the quilts out. Those quilts are in that chest right now, aren’t they, dear?” Grandma said, again looking at Justine.
“Mother, will you tell the story so we can all have another drink.”
“You’re already on your second, Walt,” Grandma said, handing her glass to Dad.
“Not another for Justine,” Mom said.
Dad winked at Justine and took her glass.
“Come on, Grandma,” Aaron said, taking her hands in his. “Just tell it to me.”
Grandma spoke into his eyes.
“He did cry when he saw all the bills I’d saved.”
            “I cried like a baby,” Grandpa said.
“Dinner is served.” Viola stood in the archway between the living room and the dining room.
“L’chaim,” Justine said again, raising her freshened cocktail.
            “There you go again, Teeny-girl?” Grandpa heaved himself out of the chair.
            “Can you stop calling me that?”
Oh, shit. Did I say that out loud?

            “You’ll always be my Teeny-girl,” Grandpa said, walking over and squeezing her cheek between his thumb and forefinger.
            “Walt,” Grandma said. “She’s too big for that.”
            “Nonsense,” Grandpa said, throwing his arm around Justine. “She loves it.”
            Justine let him steer her toward the dining room, holding her fresh drink out in front of her. She was glad only Grandma seemed to hear talk back to him.
            “My favorite,” Aaron exclaimed in the dining room as if he hadn’t been able to smell the ham for hours.
            “I told her it was too hot and to serve it cold,” Mom said, “but Viola insisted.”
            Aaron walked right over to her, put his arms around her shoulders, and hugged her.
            “Lord, child,” Viola said, backing into the kitchen.
            “Hell, damn, spit, Aaron,” Grandpa said.
            Justine saw looks dart between her grandparents, her parents. All uptight about Aaron hugging Viola. What’s the big deal?
Did I say that out loud?
She pulled out her chair at the dining table and, remembering to put the drink down first, she plunked into the chair. She could have hugged Cesar Chavez today if she’d wanted to. What would they think of them apples? What if they knew she wanted to kiss a Mexican boy?
Justine grinned at her drink, the red of the cherry so striking in the amber liquid.




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