35
Passing Torches
Christine propped herself against a pillow on her twin bed in the back bedroom. She finished a chapter in her library book and let it fall shut. Turning her head toward the other bed, she studied Leone’s slouchy canvas bag that spilled out reading material, notebooks, and odd-looking clothes.
Why did Leone look so different? What did Nana mean when she said that Leone had lived a hard life? Dancing in Hollywood, living and writing at the beach, it all sounded fun, but Leone’s eyes guarded secrets. Her eyes were dark, like Nana’s, but the sadness was different.
Nana’s eyes were like cups of warm cocoa. You knew sadness lay in lumps at the bottom, but as you drank, the lumps dissolved and added flavor. Was sadness like that? She thought about the sweet whipped cream Nana always spooned over her cocoa. The cream floated on top and melted slowly into the warm drink. It took the bitterness away.
Christine had heard about her grandmother’s sorrow: two dead husbands, a dead baby, but there was some other kind of sadness. Even though Nana never complained, she must be sad that both her daughters were so … angry.
A sudden thump jolted her from her thoughts. Sadie, the solidly built, black and white bobtail cat came out from underneath the bed and jumped up to settle at Christine’s feet. Opal peeked her head in.
“Time to tuck you in and say your prayers?”
Christine yawned and set her library book aside on the night table.
“Is that for school?” Nana was always interested in her studies.
“No. I’m reading Oliver Twist for myself, but I can’t keep my eyes open.”
Opal sat down on the bed next to her granddaughter. Sadie opened one green eye, stretched out her front legs and showed her claws, and then tucked her paws under her chest. She rested her chin on Christine’s outstretched legs and went back to sleep.
“Do you want me to review your Sunday school lesson with you?”
“Sure.” Christine reached for the paper tucked inside the Bible that lay in the stack of books on the nightstand by her bed. Her library books traveled back and forth between her house and Nana’s house, but her Bible and her comic books were treasures she kept here.
Opal glanced at the paper. “You haven’t done much with this.”
“I read it. I just haven’t filled it out yet.” Christine lay back on her pillow while Opal read through the lesson.
“Do you know what the root of evil is?” Opal asked her.
“I know that one. It’s money.”
“Is that the answer? I’m not sure that’s true.” Opal reached out and lifted up the tiny gold cross Christine wore around her neck. She worked it back and forth on its chain, then gently laid the cross back down on the child’s chest, just above her heart.
“I think the root of evil is bitterness. If you have any of that in your heart, confess it when you say the Our Father. Are you ready to say your prayers?”
Christine nodded, but she wasn’t quite ready. “What is bitterness?”
Opal thought a moment. “It is the sin of Cain.”
“He’s the one who killed his brother. So, wouldn’t murder be the sin of Cain?”
“Murder was the result. Cain’s sin was disappointing God and refusing to make amends. Instead, he let anger grow in his heart. That is bitterness.”
“Oh.” Christine closed her eyes and started to say the prayer her grandmother had helped her memorize. Before she made it to “Thy will be done,” she was asleep.
R
In the early morning hours, the springs on the twin bed next to Christine’s squeaked and groaned. Or it might have been a low, cursing moan that woke Christine, or the thud as the green canvas bag rolled off the bed, hit the floor, and spilled its contents. Christine opened her eyes a slit and peered into the dark. The moon dropped just enough light through the window for her to make out the shape of her aunt wrapped in the coverlet that lay on the bed. A soft breeze from the open window carried a sour smell past her nose. She rolled over, buried her nose in her pillow, and went back to sleep.
A few hours later, the smell of coffee and toast woke Christine. She rubbed the sandy sleep from her eyes and sat up. Underneath her thin pajama top, the one with pink French poodle and black Eiffel Tower patterns, she hunched her shoulders to keep warm. Rocking back and forth to wake herself up, she felt pressure in her bladder. It was too soon to put bare foot to cold floor, so she set her eyes on the face of Jesus printed on a prayer card stuck to the dresser mirror.
The card had a glow-in-the-dark cross she had wanted since she first spotted it in the gold offering plate that held Bible-themed prizes. Children who recited Bible verses from memory during children’s church received awards. She liked the saying too: Let the words of my mouth, and the meditation of my heart, be acceptable in thy sight, O LORD, my strength, and my redeemer. She hated to memorize, but this verse had a nice rhythm. It was easy to learn.
The pressure became urgent. Christine threw off her covers and looked over to the other bed. It was made up. The neatly packed green canvas bag sat upright at the end of the bed. Christine hung her feet over the side of her bed and dangled them. Slowly she lowered one foot to the floor, then the other. She ran on tiptoes down the hall to the bathroom.
“Christine, your toast is ready. Your oatmeal will be done in a minute.” Opal’s voice was as clear through the wall as if she had been standing right beside the toilet. Christine knocked on the wall in response. While she sat, she leaned over and put her ear to the wall. A metal spoon circling inside an aluminum pot kept rhythm with the measured tones of conversation.
“I’ve ordered a taxi,” she heard Leone say. “It should be here in an hour.”
The stirring stopped. “But …”
“But listen, can you do me a favor? Take Christine shopping today. Buy her a dress. Tell Jane I bought the dress. I will send you the money for it.”
“You can’t give me the money for it now?”
“No. I didn’t plan on having to take a taxi to the bus station.”
“You don’t have to, you know. Why do you feel you have to leave today?”
“I just do.”
“I could drive you to the station.”
“It’s okay. I’ve already made arrangements.”
Christine flushed, and the conversation stopped. A few moments later, she padded into the kitchen in the puffy slippers she had found under the bed. Nana would have sent her back to get them if she had shown up barefooted. Leone sat at the far end of the table, drinking coffee. Christine slid into her chair, and Nana slipped a plate of her favorite cinnamon toast in front of her. Generous sprinkles of sugar and cinnamon melted into warm butter spread on toasted white bread. Christine bent over and inhaled the sweet spiciness.
“Mmmmmm.” She looked up at Leone. “Do you like cinnamon toast?”
“Never had it.” Leone began to push herself away from the table.
“Pshaw, I made it for you all the time,” Nana said.
“I don’t remember.”
“Aren’t you going to finish your coffee?” An edge of pleading embroidered Christine’s voice. “Because I have something for you.” She jumped up from the table and ran into the bedroom. When she returned, Leone picked up her coffee cup and set it in the sink. Opal retrieved the cup, emptied it’s cooling contents into the drain, and added it to the soapy dishwater she had prepared.
“Always making me look bad,” Leone half-joked.
Christine thrust a piece of ruled paper into her aunt’s hand. “Here. I wrote you a poem.”
“You write poetry?”
“Some of my poetry has been published in the newspaper.” Christine rocked back and forth on her feet.
“Your school newspaper?” Leone set the paper down on the table and folded her arms across her chest.
“No, the Times; the one that gets delivered in the afternoon. It’s not as important as the one that comes in the morning.” Christine sat back down at the table and shoveled a spoonful of oatmeal into her mouth.
Leone picked up the paper and looked at the poem. “Is this one of the poems that got published?”
“No. I wrote this one last night.”
“The Bay City,” Leone read the poem aloud. “Why did you write a poem about San Francisco for me?”
“Because you like that city, and I do too.”
“This isn’t bad. You should send it to the paper.”
She shook her head. “No. This one is for you.” She pushed her half-eaten oatmeal aside and began to trace the ivy vine pattern in the tablecloth with her finger.
“Well, I have something for you too.” Leone went to the bedroom and returned with her bag and a folded sheaf of yellowed legal-sized papers held together by rusty paperclips. Opal looked over from where she was washing dishes in the sink.
“I wondered where those went. How long have you had my mother’s stories?”
Leone didn’t answer. She unfolded the papers and laid them on the table in front of Christine, “Look at these.”
Opal wiped her hands on her apron and walked over to the table to stand behind Christine. Peering over the girl’s shoulder, she clucked her tongue. “I’ll be. I haven’t seen those stories since we all left Oregon.”
“These are stories your great-grandmother Nellie Belle wrote about her life,” Leone told Christine. “You keep them, and someday when you are a famous author, you put Nellie Belle Scott’s stories in one of your books.”
Two short honks on a taxicab horn saved Christine from having to say anything. Leone folded Christine’s poem and put it in her pocket, picked up her bag, and walked briskly to the front door. Opal followed but stopped in the kitchen doorway. Christine joined her grandmother, who drew her close. Together, they waited for Leone to say something.
Leone pulled open the door and fumbled with the latch on the screen. Just before she disappeared down the steps, she turned around and flashed a big smile, her audience smile. “Bye, you two.”
Opal walked to the front doorway and looked through the screen at Leone’s back. “Will we see you again?” she asked.
“Of course,” came the response from the bottom of the steps.
Back in the kitchen, Christine wrestled the window up far enough to where she could stick her head out. She strained to catch a glimpse of her aunt’s face as the taxi backed out of the driveway, but Leone wasn’t looking their way. When the taxi turned into the street, she thought she saw a hand wave, but she couldn’t be sure.