14
As we pull into Union Station, I see Omie and Opie waiting, as much a pair as bookends. Their clothes aren’t alike, Opie’s gray coat and Omie’s rose, but they stand close and their faces look for the same thing.
Me.
All of a sudden, I feel shy, backward. My going-away dress Mama was so proud of looks dull and homely. My hair hangs limp, like someone cut it in the kitchen, which Mama did.
But Omie and Opie don’t seem to notice.
“She’s grown a mile!” Opie exclaims, giving me a hug.
“She’ll outstrip her mother in no time.”
“Let me see your hands, child,” Omie says, putting her gloved hand palm to palm with mine. “Heavens, yes. Your hands are already larger than Rena’s. You must take after me.”
Omie is tall, and draws herself up as she says this.
Mama calls her “Tall and handsome.”
Daddy always adds, “Like a sailing ship.”
We ride home in Opie’s car—black with curtains and a bud vase. There’s a rosebud in it, pink and tight as a baby’s fist.
When we get to the house on Poplar, Omie sends me up to bathe while she finishes Sunday dinner.
Like magic, hot water comes out of a pipe into the huge cold tub. I’m used to bathing in a washtub in the kitchen in shared water. I cant believe all this luxury is for me. I take off my clothes and slide in, like a spoon in a big sauce boat, and lie back and close my eyes. There’s a wonderful smell of enamel and rosewater soap drifting over the soothing sway of the bath. It’s like the train only quiet and sweet smelling. Like the train …
“Dinnertime, Mandy!”
I must have been asleep! The water is cool and I haven’t even washed. I do my face and hands and feet and climb out quickly. It wouldn’t do to keep them waiting.
Omie's table is not just set, it’s arranged. Everything has a special dish and they all match. I set myself down slowly, not wanting to break even the silence.
But of course Omie and Opie want to hear all about home—Omie asking about Mama and the babies, and Opie asking about Daddy and the mill. And the lads, as he calls David and Ben.
“Do they know their wood?” he asks me. “Can they walk a boundary of timber?”
The truth is, I don’t know whether they can or not.
“They can wash clothes,” I tell him.
“Wash clothes!” he rumbles.
Opie never thunders, but he lets on like he might. His eyes are gray and what hair he has is white and stands out like lightning. He’s just a little taller than Omie, and portly.
“Yes, wash clothes,” answers Omie. I can’t answer. My mouth is full. “Rena has been sick you will remember.” Then she says she’s proud of how we all managed. “Especially you, Mandy,” she says, reaching for my hand. “Your mama told me you helped with the house and the baby like you’d been doing it all your life.”
Not exactly, I want to say, remembering the time I set Willie’s clothes on fire; and the time I served spoiled meat, not recognizing the smell; and the time I tried to make cookies with leftover oatmeal. Not exactly. But I just smile.
“You’ll be that much ahead when you’re a wife and mother yourself,” Omie goes on. “A baby won’t be a jolt to you.”
No indeed, I think, because I won’t have one. But I don’t say that. I butter the roll I’ve lifted from Omie’s silver basket. It’s light as a baby’s breath.
After dinner and dishes, we sit at a card table in the living room playing Rummy. There’s never time to play cards at home—too many bodies to look after. I’m just about to say this when Opie says, “Remember how Rena loved to play bridge? I never knew a soul better at it. She could beat us all when she’d been playing only two weeks.”
That’s a surprise. I’ve never seen Mama play cards.
“Of course, she played wild,” Opie continues.
“Wanted to take the bid regardless of her cards. But her bluff was sufficient.”
That sounds even less like Mama.
“And as soon as you realized that,” Omie says, “you made her your partner. That meant you both were going to win.”
“Have to look out for your prospects,” Opie answers, sweeping up the cards to shuffle. “Can’t do millwork if you don’t know the grain of the wood.”
“Honestly,” Omie sighs. “The world to your granddaddy is an oak tree and a buzz saw.”
“And Jim Perritt’s the same,” Opie counters. “And Rena’s is rinse water and a coconut cake.”
“That shows what you know about women’s work,” Omie tells him. “You’re like a child trying to sound the Mississippi with his school ruler.”
She winks at me.
I’ve thought about that ever since I got in bed. Omie means it to seal the secrets that we share, woman secrets. But I’m not sure we share them. I think I might choose the ruler and the river. I think I’d like to let myself down into something too big to measure. Cake pans and wash kettles are just too small for me.