Little Altars Everywhere by Rebecca Wells
Afterwards, I always go home and beg Mama to use powdered milk. She sometimes buys some to indulge me, but there’s no way tuna loaf will ever pollute her kitchen. My parents are steak-and-baked-potatoes people, and that smell of Lea & Perrins steak sauce sprinkled on near-raw meat drifts out from under the broiler at least five nights a week. Daddy raises his own cattle, so after dinner we’re all expected to say, Umm, good meat, Daddy! Like it’s his own flesh we’ve just eaten instead of a dead cow’s. On Fridays when we can’t eat meat, Mama cooks red snapper or fried shrimp. But her idea of a meal does not include tuna loaf.
All I want is the Williams’ macaroni and day-old bread, and the way Marie’s mother makes things last, and her father wearing those green overalls, and the brother Jude with his old Popular Mechanics magazines.
Oh, their bathroom is so heavenly. It smells like cedar, and they have these huge bottles of the cheapest shampoo and creme rinse like I always see at Kress. They use Sweetheart soap and they have those kind of towels that come free inside of jumbo boxes of laundry detergent. Even with all the people who use that bathroom, it’s always clean. Mrs. Williams has a handwritten sign by the sink that says: “Did you clean up after yourself?”
Sometimes I lock myself in there, just to stare at all the poor people’s stuff in their cabinets. Gigantic industrial-sized bottles of aspirin—and they never use toothpaste, only baking soda in huge boxes. There is a picture of the Holy Family next to the sink mirror, with Jesus, Mary, and Joseph standing behind a gate. I do a few genuflections there in the bathroom and murmur a quick prayer before one of the little girls starts knocking on the door needing to get in and pee. I feel lighter and purer every time I step out of the Williams’ bathroom. It’s almost as good as going to Confession. I swear, if the Pope himself came to Thornton on a surprise visit, he’d drive straight over to the Williams’ house and not be disappointed.
On Saturday mornings when it’s cold outside, Mrs. Williams makes a huge pot of oatmeal. Each of us gets up and ladles some into a cup, then we crawl back into bed to eat it because the house hasn’t warmed up yet. They don’t have heat in the bedrooms, so it’s much warmer under the covers. But your toes freeze off from walking barefoot to the kitchen and back. If Mama ever found out I was this cold, she would stop me right away from ever visiting them again. But as it is, I knock off days in Purgatory right and left, just by spending the night in that wood frame house.
Marie and I lie in the top bunk in the morning and pretend to be missionaries, and we sing “Dominique” like the Singing Nun. We discuss how we’ll be missionary nurses instead of nuns, because in Africa what they really need is medical help. Plus, we don’t want face warts with stiff hairs sticking out like Sister Osberga.
At the Williams’ house, every single bit of food is rationed. If you take more than your share, it’s against the rules. I know that, because it was one of the first things Marie explained to me when I started spending the night over there. I love it! It feels like we’re all pulling through a war together by not being pigs.
But one Friday night at dinner when they are passing around the plate of day-old sliced white bread, I swear I get possessed by Lucifer. I know that there’s only enough bread for each person to have one slice. But that does not stop me from reaching out and grabbing two pieces so fast that nobody notices. I hold the pieces together so they look like only one. I smear one of them with margarine and put the other one in my lap.
The blue plastic bread plate gets handed all the way around the table, and when it stops in front of Mrs. Williams, there is not one single solitary slice left for her.
I stare down into my spaghetti and tomato sauce as Mrs. Williams asks, Who helped themselves to two pieces of bread?
I start sweating. I begin balling that second piece of bread up in my palm so it fits there like a sticky little glob of Play-Doh.
Each of the Williams children looks up at their mother with these totally innocent eyes. Mrs. Williams calls the roll, to find out who the greedy one is. Marie? Bernadette? Kathy? Theresa? Monica? Jude?
She leaves out Mr. Williams and the baby girl who is still in a high chair.
I’m so thrilled with what I’ve put into motion that I can hardly sit still. I don’t know how I can ever confess this! It feels great, like something I was born to do. I play with my food and steal little glances at the holy family’s drama.
Finally Mrs. Williams settles on Jude. Leave the table, Jude, she says.
But Mama, he protests, I only took one piece, I promise!
Please leave the table until you can learn not to take more than your share, she tells him.
It’s not fair—he starts to say, but Mr. Williams interrupts, You heard what your mother said, Son.
And Jude gets up from the table without saying another word.
I have never seen a boy take something like that. All humble, like Jesus when he was unjustly accused. And all because of me!
After dinner I say to Mrs. Williams, Thank you for the lovely meal. May I please be excused now?
Then I go into the bathroom and flush that balled-up bread down the toilet. Later that evening I teach Marie and Bernadette the dance number to “Personality” that I’ve been learning in dance class. I tell them, I don’t see how yall can stand living here—there’s not any room to tap dance at all.
The next day, Mama comes to pick me up on her way home from one of the Ya-Ya bourrée games. Her hair is particularly poofy, with the hairpiece done in this cascade of waves. She has that anything-can-happen Saturday afternoon look and her arm is propped on the partially rolled-down window with a cigarette dangling between her fingers. Mrs. Williams comes out of the house, wiping her hands on a dishtowel, and walks to the end of the driveway to be polite. Marie and I hug goodbye and I climb in beside Mama, with her plastic tumbler of vodka and grapefruit juice sitting on the seat between us.
Mrs. Williams says, Oh Mrs. Walker, your hair always looks so pretty.
Mama smiles generously. Thank you, dahling, she purrs. You don’t know what I go through to get it like this! I only have three hairs on my entire head, you know—the whole thing is done with mirrors.
Mama loves to put herself down when she’s feeling all superior to someone. It’s how you can tell something is coming. She lifts up her sunglasses and then French-inhales while she stares at Mrs. Williams’ hair. This is the first time I notice how oily and stringy it is. It has no luster to it whatsoever. It looks like the kind of hair that if you sniffed it, it would just smell too human to bear.
Mama says, You know, Antoinette, you really ought to get yourself on over to the House of Beauty. Talk to Jeannine. She’s my girl. Tell her I sent you. Would do you a world of good! You really shouldn’t let yourself go like that.
I cannot believe my ears! Mama telling a poor holy woman that her hair is ugly!
Mrs. Williams rubs her hands on the dishtowel like they’ve got something on them. She takes a tiny step back from the car and stares down at the grass growing through the cracks in the driveway.
Then she clears her throat and says, I wish I could. But I…We…We just can’t afford it.
Don’t be ridiculous, Antoinette! Mama exclaims. You can’t afford not to!
Then Mama puts the car into reverse and slowly backs out into the street. Idling the motor for a minute, she instructs me, Tell Mrs. Williams what a delightful time you had, Sidda.
I cannot bear to look at Mrs. Williams with her hands hanging at her sides. Marie is standing beside her, and for a second I have this clear vision that when Marie grows up she will look exactly like her mother.
I say, Thank you, Mrs. Williams. I could not have had a more enjoyable time.
But what I’m really thinking is, I’ll have to do penance for my mother’s sins—along with my own—for the rest of my life.
Mama points the car toward home and I turn on the car radio because I do not want to talk to her.
She takes a sip of her drink and says, Did yall
I tell her we pretended to be Connie Stevens. I don’t mention a word about our missionary plans. Mama reaches into her purse and hands me a piece of gum. I put it on the seat beside me.
She keeps driving along for a minute or two before she says, Listen to me, Siddalee, and listen good: There is no excuse to let your looks go, no matter how poor you are. Cleanliness might be next to godliness, but honey let me tell you, ugliness will get you nowhere.
Yes Ma’am, I say. And I stare out the windshield of the T-Bird.
Well, after that, I am just too ashamed to set foot in the Williams’ house. Marie asks me to spend the night and I just have to tell her: No thank you. Even though it breaks my heart in two.
A couple of months go by and I’m at Bordelon’s Drugstore, with Mama waiting out in the car for me while I run in to pick up some of her nerve medicine. And who do I see over by the vaporizers but Mrs. Antoinette Williams! At first I don’t even recognize her because she has lost weight and she has this new haircut. I think about running and hiding, but she spots me and walks right over.
Siddalee, she says, how are you? We sure have missed you over at our house.
You have? I think.
I say, You look so different, Mrs. Williams. I mean—you just look so pretty.
She says, Well, I have your mother to thank for that, Siddalee. She is the one who inspired me to start taking care of myself. Your mother is a good lady. Don’t you ever let anyone tell you different.
I can’t think of a thing to say, except Thank you.
She says, Don’t be a stranger to our house now. You’re welcome anytime you want.
Then she walks away down the aisle and I pick up Mama’s medicine. When the druggist rings up the bill, I sign for it on Daddy’s charge account. Then I walk out of the store. I feel light and good. I feel like I’ve just come out of Confession, even though I’ve only been in a drugstore, not a Catholic church. Even though Mrs. Williams is a regular person, not a priest or a nun or a saint.
The Elf and the Fairy
Siddalee, 1963
Our Lady of Divine Compassion Parochial School is surrounded by sycamore trees. In the fall those big leaves turn yellow and the scorching days of summer are almost over, and you can start breathing again. I walk every school day underneath those trees to the music building, which is between Divine Compassion and Holy Names Academy, where the high school girls walk and talk in their blue-and-white straight skirts and starched blouses. I can hear them at choir practice while I’m walking along with my music folder under my arm. I love the high school girls, especially the ones with bubble hair-dos. But mainly I love getting out of regular classes to take piano. It’s the calmest part of my day. I get so tired of everyone—from my classmates to my brothers and sister to my mother—making so much noise all the time. I take my quiet wherever I can find it.
On lesson days, I knock on Sister Philomena’s frosted-glass door. When she says, Do come in, I open the door and say, Good afternoon, Sister. She is a big nun with a wide face who quotes the Bible a lot. She always seems glad to see me. I’m working on my recital piece, “The Elf and the Fairy,” which is considered quite a difficult composition for fourth grade.
At first Sister Philomena asks me, Siddalee, are you certain that you want to choose such an advanced piece for your recital?
Yes Sister, I assure her. I love that piece. I can handle it, I promise you.
This is my big chance to take something hard and do it right.
The first time Sister Philomena plays “The Elf and the Fairy” for me, I close my eyes and go somewhere else. To a place in another state that doesn’t have all the hot white light of Louisiana. There are waterfalls there and the air is so sweet and easy to breathe. There are actually fairies darting around, and when you see them you can’t tell if they are working or playing—it’s all the same thing to them. My grandmother Buggy talks to fairies frequently. She calls me on the phone and tells me about her conversations with them. Fairies aren’t strange to me at all. They’re sort of like midget guardian angels with a good sense of humor.
I am determined to take myself to that same magic place by learning my recital piece perfectly. I practice for hours and hours, alone in the tiny practice room in the music building. That room is like a monk’s cell and I enjoy it—just me, the piano, and one window where the afternoon light comes in and tries to make me sleepy. Sometimes I am tempted just to lie on the floor and take a nap, but Sister Philomena says: God will not allow us to be overwhelmed by temptation, but with it He will provide a way of escape so that we will be able to endure it. I play those notes over and over, until it feels like I can climb up inside them and live there. Piano practice is the best way I know to feel organized.
It’s just impossible to practice at home because Little Shep and Lulu do nothing but make fun of me. They run around the piano like wild Indians, screeching out their imitations of opera singers like hyenas. It is kind of a family hobby, to make fun of opera singers. Mama taught Lulu to sing in pidgin Italian, “Ahhh! Spitonya! Ahhh! Pick-aya-boogers!” and other nasty high-pitched phrases, and that is now Lulu’s specialty for our family skits. Playing the piano is right up there with opera singing for Little Shep and Lulu in terms of being something to make fun of.
The other problem with trying to practice at home is that you never know when the place is going to be filled with the Ya-Yas. They roar up in their station wagons and Cadillacs to drink and play bourrée. After they play and scream and cheat and drink and smoke, they always start singing songs about men.
They moan out how fish have to swim and birds have to fly and so they have to love one man till they die.
You just cannot concentrate with all their moaning going on. But when I complain to Mama, she says, Don’t get dramatic with me, Little Miss Sarah Bernhardt.
So I make a bargain with Baby Jesus: If I play “The Elf and the Fairy” perfectly at my recital, He will forgive me for pinching Lulu in church just to make her cry. If I play the composition flawlessly, Baby Jesus might also forgive me for some other things that I can’t quite name but always feel guilty for anyway.
I work harder and harder on the piece, picturing those notes while I try to fall asleep at night. My fingers strike the mattress until it feels like the bed is vibrating. I get all my memory work, fingering, timing, and phrasing down. All I have left to do are the final polishing touches.
But the week before the recital, Mama goes to a big Ya-Ya party out at Little Spring Creek and cuts her foot up something awful on a broken Coke bottle. The other Ya-Yas take her to the nearest emergency room and get the wound sewn up, but the cut is so deep she has to use crutches to get around. We have never seen Mama crippled like this before and it is kind of scary.
The night after Mama’s injury, Lulu and I are already in bed. I’ve sharpened my pencils and laid out my clothes for school the next day. They sit next to my book sack where my books, papers, and art supplies are arranged all neat. I can never fall asleep until everything is organized and ready to go at the foot of my bed.
When I first hear the screaming from my parents’ room, I think it’s hurt dogs or something. I bolt up and dash down the hall. I can feel my bare feet squeak on the shiny wood floors. When I get to the entrance of Mama’s long narrow dressing room, Lulu, Little Shep, and Baylor are already there. How did they get there so fast before me? Daddy is standing next to the chaise longue in his socks and boxer shorts. He has a toothbrush in his hand. Mama has on her pink nightgown with the lace, and the way its gathers fall, you can’t hardly tell she’s using crutches. I can smell the nightcream on her face. In one hand she has one of the squatty crystal glasses she drinks out of at night, the ones with heavy bottoms that don’t tip over.
They are already in the middle of it.
Mama says, You redneck bastard, don’t you dare make those kinds of insinuations to me!
Daddy says, Insinuations, hell! I said you’re a goddamn drunk
Even though he hasn’t touched her, Mama looks like Daddy has split her up for kindling. Her expression changes and she goes for him, slapping him hard in the face.
They stand there yelling like the four of us are invisible. One closet door is open and I can see Mama’s ice-blue crepe sheath hanging with a laundry bag over it.
Daddy lets Mama slap him, then he knocks the glass out of her other hand. The glass falls to the floor and breaks, ice going everywhere, and you can smell bourbon in the dressing room along with Mama’s rose sachets that hang in the closet.
Mama braces one of her arms against the wall and raises the fist of her other hand and punches Daddy in the stomach.
As if you can talk, you pathetic excuse for a man! she yells. You cowardly dirt-farming loser!
This is not happening, I think. I am not in this room.
Then she goes to hit him again, but he pushes her away—not hard, but like she’s a duck trying to bite him. It throws her off-balance and she falls down. Those crutches just fly out from under her.
This is the first time in our lives we’ve ever heard one of them call the other a drunk. It is like dynamite. It’s bigger than even seeing her hit him, or the way he pushed her. Just his saying that word “drunk” changes everything, even changes the air in the room.
I don’t cry because I can’t breathe. Lulu starts eating her hair, like she does whenever she gets upset. Little Shep and Baylor are mute, and Baylor is shaking. He looks so much like a little bird to me.
Daddy looks down at Mama on the floor and then he looks at us. But we won’t look at him. He says to Mama, You are not fit to raise these children. Then he turns and walks out of the room.
I help Mama up on her crutches. She is shaking and crying and she says, We are getting out of this hell-hole. Yall go get your school clothes.