They kept the machine next to the door on the wide, screened back porch. Twice a week Patsy pulled the washer from the outside wall, ran the electric wire to a kitchen plug, added water and Duz detergent to the tub, allowed it to agitate for a few minutes, and then added the clothes. While they washed, she ran clean water into a wooden rinse tub, which she then dragged to the back side of the washer. After flipping the chrome switch of the machine to the off position, she pulled the soapy clothes into the rinse tub, added another load to the wash, and then began the back-breaking task of wringing the individual pieces.

When it was all done, she hung the clothes on the line, then set everything to rights on the back porch, including returning the Duz powder to its place under the skirted kitchen sink.

Oh, how her mother loved Duz. Their kitchen had been furnished by the goblets, dishes, dishrags, and drying cloths that came inside its box, which meant she didn't have to spend any extra of the allowance Mr. Liddle gave her, and she could still have nice things.

On the days she wasn't washing the laundry, Patsy ironed it. And on the days she didn't iron the laundry, she dusted the house and broom-swept the carpets. Living on a dirt road in a house that sat on a plot of land without a blade of gra.s.s meant the house always stayed dusty, and the rugs sometimes felt like a sandbox to bare feet. To keep from stirring the dust, she used the sprinkling bottle from laundry days and cast droplets of water on top of the worn wool before sweeping. She thought it a good idea, and her mother had even praised her for it.

One thing she was never allowed to do, though, was enter into her mother's bedroom, the one she shared with Mr. Liddle. Had it been up to Bernice Liddle, Patsy could have played in there all day. But it wasn't. Mr. Liddle said children didn't belong in the bedroom of their parents. Even though Patsy wasn't technically their child, she was forced to comply.

Until the day her mother was overwhelmed with other people's laundry and two little boys who'd eaten too much of the taffy they'd pulled the day before. "Patsy," she called out the back door as Patsy walked up from the vegetable garden; a bushel of peas rocked against her hip as she toted it in the late morning sunlight.

Patsy shielded her eyes against the sun and squinted to the back of the house. "I got enough peas to sh.e.l.l for a month of Sundays," she called back.

"Never mind that now," her mother hollered.

Patsy made her way to the unpainted wooden steps leading up to the porch before she set the bushel basket at her feet. "What's going on, Mama?"

"I need you to help me out here, clearly I do. I'm running back and forth with a chamber pot for your brothers and trying to stay on task with this wash here. Mr. Liddle will be home tonight from his sales route, and if he sees the dust that's built up in the house . . . well, you know how he gets. Go put on one of my ap.r.o.ns and get to work in the house, now."

Patsy ascended the steps and got right to it. Some time later she went to the kitchen in search of her mother, finding her there stooped over the sink, wearing her old house dress and a pair of Red Goose shoes in need of resoling, washing the peas from the earlier picking. "Mama, I dusted the whole house except for your room."

Her mother glanced over her shoulder. Her eyes went first to the kitchen wall clock and then to Patsy. She raised her hand to press against the brush rollers that held her hair in tight curls. "Lord-a-mercy, I gotta get my hair done too, so go ahead and dust in there too."

Patsy did as she was told before her mother could change her mind. Oh, how she wanted to be in that room . . . to touch the dainty items that rested atop her mother's vanity. She walked into the room as though entering a church-reverently, taking it all in. Every bit of furniture, every framed picture, every needlepoint pillow from her mother's hand. She started her work with the four-poster oak bed. She stuck a finger into the dust cloth, dropped lemon oil onto the finger so as not to spill it, and then meticulously cleaned the carved roses in the headboard.

She moved to the bedside tables, ever so careful to pick up the lamps, dust under them, and return them to the exact spot she'd found them. Patsy swallowed hard when she came to Mr. Liddle's chest of drawers. If he thought for a moment that Patsy-rather than his wife-had been the one to touch his things . . .

She drew in a deep breath, picked up each item one at a time-the brush and comb set, the matching lint roller, the small jewelry box placed perfectly in the middle. A library book-Listen, Germany by Thomas Mann-rested along one edge. Patsy picked it up to run the oily cloth over the wood. Thinking herself quite wise, she laid the book on the white crocheted bedspread her mother had made from a Star Book pattern so as not to get oil stains on the back cover of the book.

Her mother's vanity was neatly arranged. Her lotions, perfume, and dusting powder were to the left of the oval mirror. To the right, a faux gold filigree lipstick holder, with Cupid playing a guitar in the outside center, held four tubes of lipstick with the matching vanity set angled to the left in the center. Patsy glanced toward the opened door. With a captured breath, she removed each item and placed it on the padded stool at her knees. She oiled the wood until the patina all but reflected her image. Before replacing her mother's pretties, she pulled a dry cloth from the pocket of the ap.r.o.n and wiped each one as though she were drying a freshly bathed infant. She hummed in her efforts, imagining herself as the wife of some wonderful man-unlike Mr. Liddle-and caring for her own delicate things. When she came to the lipsticks, she took each short tube from its gold holder, slipped off the lid, and twisted the base. She watched with wonder as the cylinder of waxy color emerged, then quickly sent it back into its cave. When she got to the pink, she pretended to slide it across her bottom lip, pressed her lips together, then pursed them and peered into the mirror. My, my, Miss Sweeney, but aren't you lovely this afternoon in your house frock and smelling like lemons?

Before finishing the vanity, she inhaled from both the perfume bottle and the dusting powder tin and imagined herself getting ready for a fancy party, the likes she'd most probably never see. When everything was as it had been before she entered the room, she straightened and smiled. She'd done a good job, she thought. Maybe Mama would let her do it again.

"Patsy?" The voice came from behind her; it was neither harsh nor gentle.

"Oh, Mama," she said turning. "You startled me."

"Hurry, child, before Mr. Liddle comes home."

Patsy crossed the room to where her mother stood framed by the doorway. "I did a good job for you, Mama," she said.

"I know you did, now, come on. The boys need a bath and the dining room needs preparing, and then I want you to comb out my hair."

Her mother always put Mr. Liddle's traveling things up the minute he returned home from his sales trips, while her husband played with his sons first, then smoked a pipe and read the paper in wait for supper to be on the table.

He never said a word to Patsy other than, "Girl, you been helping your mama?"

"Yes, sir," Patsy always said. She tried not to look him in the eyes-they were steel gray and sharp as a shark's tooth-when she answered. She just replied and then went on her way.

It had always been like that between them. He only spoke to her-really spoke to her-when he was giving her a whipping. On those occasions-not as frequent since her twelfth birthday-his words came in staccato beats. "What. Did. I. Tell. You. About . . ." and then he'd finish with whatever he'd told her about that she'd not done. Or had done. It made no never mind. He'd hold her forearm by one st.u.r.dy hand and swat her with the other, most often on her rear end. One time he hit her across the back so hard she lost her breath. That night Mama tucked her into bed, which was unusual, asked if she was all right, then said, "Just don't make him mad, Patsy, and you'll be fine."

He never hit the boys. For that, at least, Patsy was grateful. But he'd hit Mama a few times-most often a slap across her face. Those times he called her names like "stupid" and "worthless" and said she was lucky he came along when he did and rescued her sorry self from "that pit five-and-dime and Mr. Harvey Jenkins."

Patsy didn't know what that meant, exactly, but she knew better than to ask.

That night-the night of the bedroom dusting and Mr. Liddle's return-was no different from the others. At least for the most part. While the boys sipped broth in their bedroom, Patsy and Mama listened while Mr. Liddle spoke of his travels and sales between bites and swallows. Afterward, Patsy cleared the table and cleaned the kitchen so Mama could tend first to the boys and then to her husband.

Patsy said good night to her mother-who sat knitting in her chair in the living room, the one she'd polished to a shine earlier in the day-and a quick, "Glad you're home safe, Mr. Liddle," to the man who chewed on his pipe and listened to Abbott Mysteries on the Philco console radio between him and his wife.

"Good night, Patsy," her mother said.

"See to it that you check on the boys before turning in," Mr. Liddle answered.

She did as she was told-the boys were both sleeping in their upstairs bedroom already, the one right across the hall from their parents'-and then returned downstairs to her own simple but comfortable room. She stripped out of the clothes she'd changed into for supper-they weren't fancy but they weren't ripe with the smell of field peas and lemon oil either-out of her under-things and into the pretty, thin cotton pink gown Mama had made for her.

It was some time later-she couldn't be sure how long since she'd slipped between the cool sheets of her bed-that she heard the racket coming from upstairs. Her mother's voice pleading. Mr. Liddle's voice demanding. On instinct she slipped out of bed and into her mother's cast-off slippers. Patsy was out the door and halfway up the stairs before she had time to think better of it.

"I've told you and told you," Mr. Liddle shouted. "Haven't I?" Patsy could hear the slap of flesh against flesh. "Haven't I?"

"Please, Ira," her mother whimpered. "The boys . . ."

Patsy took a few more steps up the stairs. She hardly breathed, but her eyes blinked rapidly. She'd never interfered in her mother's fights with Mr. Liddle before, but this time sounded . . . different.

"A man has to know," Patsy heard him say, as though spoken through clenched teeth, "that he can leave his home in proper order and come home to it the same way."

"And you have." Her mother's voice shook.

Patsy heard something-someone-stumbling across the room followed by the sound of something else dropping to the floor.

The book! She'd left it on the bed, had failed to return it to the chest of drawers. He would know her mother would never be so forgetful. Bernice Liddle kept everything in perfect order for her husband.

"I expect that when I leave this house, you and you alone come into this room. Haven't I made myself clear on that issue?"

Mama's answer came in sobs. "But . . . if you knew . . . how hard today . . . has been for me . . ."

"Stop your nagging." He swore the expletive Patsy's best friend Mitzy once told her saying was the unpardonable sin, then said it again and a third time. "I don't want that girl in my bedroom. And if I have to beat that into you, then so be it."

Patsy heard the sound of his belt buckle coming undone, the swish of it leaving the loops, the first smack of it against her mother. She fled up the remainder of the stairs, pushed open the nearly closed bedroom door, and screamed, "Stop it! Stop it! If you're going to hit someone, hit me! I left the stupid book on the bed!"

She reasoned later that it had been the shock of seeing her standing there and of hearing her shouting like a madwoman that stopped Mr. Liddle from hitting her mother that night. That it had been the sight of her nearly nude body silhouetted by the night's bright moonlight bursting through the gauzy drapes and open windows which caused him to stop seeing her as "the girl" and start seeing her as she soon was to be. A woman, fully budded. No longer did the gray of his eyes hold steel ready to rip her to shreds. Instead, they held something more monstrous than that. Something she'd never witnessed before but knew to stay away from.

And-she knew-no longer did his hands itch to hit her but to embrace her. To stroke her. To touch her in a way that would leave her permanently burned.

So it was that a few weeks later her mother had packed her bags. Without so much as a day to say good-bye to her friends, Patsy found herself on a bus bound for a small town just outside of Charleston, South Carolina . . .

And the brother she'd always known of but had never gotten to hold.

23.

"I can do it," I said to Steven after he returned from getting Patsy's prescription filled.

"I know you can," he said. His voice was kind but firm. "But the point is, Kim, you don't have to do it alone."

We stood in the middle of Patsy's doorway, me on one side of it, Steven on the other. Oreo's body slinked around my legs. His purr sounded more like an old truck's engine; no doubt he was hungry. I looked down at him, then back to Steven. "I'm not trying to do it alone."

"Then let me come in and help you." He extended the small white bag holding Patsy's meds toward me. "I can at least feed the cat for you."

I turned and walked toward the kitchen as he closed the door behind us. "I'll go ahead and give her the first dose," I said. I pulled a bottle of liquid medicine from the bag. "I guess the cat's food is in the pantry." I bobbed my head toward the narrow door at the opposite end of the room.

Steven stepped in the direction I'd given. "I'll find it."

I rattled around in the silverware drawer for a teaspoon. "His bowl is in the laundry room." I looked at Steven, who peered at me from around the open pantry door. "I know this because I started a load of clothes while you were gone."

"Ah," he said.

I took the medicine along with a small gla.s.s of juice to Patsy, woke her using the same technique Dr. Willingham used, and gave her the first dose. She made a face at me, said, "Awful. You'd think they could come up with something that tasted like fried chicken or at the very least chocolate cake."

I stifled a giggle before helping her to lie down again. "Do you need anything else?" I asked.

"Just sleep. Sleep is always the best medicine."

I put the medicine bottle in the bathroom before returning to the living room, where Steven had stretched out on the sofa. His shoes were off; they sat side by side on the floor near the end of the sofa where his legs crossed at the ankles. "Make yourself at home," I said. "Did you find the cat food?"

He shifted to upright. "Sorry," he said. "Yes, I did. In the laundry room." He waved me over to sit next to him and-in spite of thinking it not a good idea-I complied. He ran his fingertips along the side of my face, forcing me to look at him. "Hi."

I smiled. "Hi."

"You okay?"

I nodded. He leaned in for a kiss, sweet and quick. "I'm going to a.s.sume that our date is off for this evening."

"You a.s.sume correctly, sir." I leaned my face into his hand still resting against my cheek. "I can't leave her."

"Nor should you." He straightened fully before saying, "I've already got this thing figured out though."

"Oh, do you now?"

"Mmmhmm. I'm going to order us some pizza and we'll eat right here."

"Steven-"

"Because the way I see it," he continued before I could argue a word, "you're not leaving Patsy and I'm not leaving you. All gallantry aside, I'm hungry." He leaned toward me. "Are you hungry?"

I nodded. "Yeah, a little."

"Okay." He slapped his hands against his knees before holding up the index fingers on both hands. "Cedar Key has two-count them, two-great pizza places." He wiggled the fingers at me. "I'll tell you a little about them and then you can choose."

I ended up going with suggestion number one. Steven placed an order over the phone, hung up, and said, "It'll be ready when I get there." He gave me a swift kiss-the kind I used to imagine I'd get from him as he left for work each morning-mumbled, "See you in a minute," and left.

I made another trip to Patsy's bedroom to check on her-she continued to sleep and her fever already seemed to be breaking-then walked outside to the balcony to make the phone call I'd dreaded since earlier in the day.

My brother-in-law answered with, "Hey, Kimberly."

"Oh, the joy of caller ID." I pulled up my feet to rest them on the aqua-painted railing.

"That and I've half-expected your call."

I wondered what he meant but decided against asking. Andre-a brilliant mind if there ever was one-was too astute for someone like me to challenge. "Are you able to talk right now?"

"It's as good a time as any."

"Are you at work?"

"No. I just pulled up to the library, to tell you the truth."

The library. It didn't seem like an Andre kind of thing to do on a Sat.u.r.day. My stomach churned, half from hunger and the other half from concern. "Oh." I took a deep breath and plunged right in. "I talked with Heather this morning . . . more or less . . . and I'm very worried about her, Andre."

"Me too. I'm worried about her too." He paused. "I love her, Kimberly. I don't know what she's told you, but I want that much said before we go any further with this conversation."

I watched as a small flock of seagulls glided past me. They called to one another in screeches I was all too familiar with.

When I didn't say anything, he asked, "How's Cedar Key?"

"It's good. It's real good, actually."

"Heather told me she was surprised you'd gone. She told me about what happened when you were kids there. About Steven."

"Oh, did she now?"

He chuckled. "Anything to take the focus away from her and her problems."

I took another breath. "Well, since you've now brought it up, do you mind telling me what's going on with the two of you?"

"Did she indicate I'm having an affair?"

Right to the point. Wow. "She thinks you are."

"I'm not."

I closed my eyes at the revelation, praying he was telling me the truth. Charlie and I had been donned the perfect couple, but no more perfect than Andre and Heather.

"Can I be honest?" he asked.