Chapter 18
MEALTIMES AT THE SAUNDERS’ WERE THE WORST PART OF THE day. I didn’t like most of the food. To be fair, it was probably quite good and nutritious, but unfamiliar. And I was dreadfully anxious.
When Lenore wasn’t looking, I’d swallow my lima beans and other offenses without chewing or tasting. After a few days of this, she figured out what I was doing.
“Patsy, if I catch you gulping down food with your milk one more time, I’ll not let you have anything to drink until after the meal!”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Patsy! Put your milk down now. Put it in the middle of the table until you finish eating!”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I’d stare at the mound of lima beans that seemed bigger than before. I hated the tomato noodle casserole. Beef was well done, and I didn’t like country ham. No matter what might have been served, I didn’t have an appetite. While I struggled to clean my plate my every move was edited.
“Elbows off the table!”
“Don’t slump!”
“Hold your fork properly!”
“Your manners are deplorable!”
I didn’t know what deplorable meant but could tell from Lenore’s cold hard stare that it wasn’t a compliment. When we drank from a glass, we were supposed to crook our little finger like nobility. To this day, I’ll do it automatically if I don’t catch myself.
“Spoon the soup away from the center of the bowl. Away from you,” she instructed.
One didn’t get up until excused, and then I’d help clear the table, standing on a footstool in front of the kitchen sink to wash the dishes.
Lenore waited nearby, her fists on her hips, inspecting.
Sometimes she’d make me scrub the same dish three, five, ten times, refusing to tell me what was wrong, and I’d begin to shake.
After we’d been with the Saunders several days, she drove my brothers and me to Collins Department Store in Black Mountain where Ruth Graham had opened an expense account for my family.
I dimly remember buying essentials, including matronly underwear that came up to my ribs.
That was the only time I left the Saunders’ house except for school and attending church on Sunday mornings.
I’ve had allergies all my life, and early on I made the mistake of sneezing.
I must be catching a cold, Lenore decided.
I assured her that I wasn’t. Sneezing was normal for me, and often my nose ran.
It didn’t mean I was sick, but she wouldn’t listen.
Marching me into the kitchen, she opened a cupboard and pulled out a tall water glass.
Next, she retrieved a bottle of apple cider vinegar and a jar of honey. Tablespoons of both were mixed with tepid tap water that I was supposed to drink. She’d stand there and watch as I gagged down the last drop.
“To kill germs and other cold-causing things,” she explained.
Maybe my brothers were subjected to this superstitious treatment.
If they were it wasn’t often. I was increasingly convinced that the concoction of honey and vinegar was a punishment, not a medicine.
If my allergies were bad enough, I’d drink the awful stuff multiple times daily, and she’d forbid me to wash my hair. I was to clean up with a washcloth.
After we’d been with the Saunders a few weeks, my father found out where we were and that Mom was in a psychiatric hospital.
I don’t know who told him, but he started writing and sending presents.
A rock tumbler was followed by a Spin Art set that included paints in squirt bottles.
Lenore relegated such gifts to the basement in my family’s house.
One day, I heard the fantastic news that Dad was arranging for my brothers and me to fly to Miami. We’d live there until Mom was better, and I was delighted. The plane tickets arrived, and I packed my red Amelia Earhart suitcase, appropriate for someone who gets lost everywhere.
The day before we were to fly out of Asheville on Piedmont Airlines, Lenore appeared in the living room while my brothers and I were playing Monopoly.
She sat down and said she needed to talk to us.
She announced that we wouldn’t be going to Florida after all, and it felt like the prison door had clanged shut, the lock turning.
It was complicated, Lenore explained. Our mother had legal custody of us, and our father’s intentions were criminal.
Apparently, the plan wasn’t for us to live with him, having fun like the early days.
He’d lined up three different foster families in the Miami area.
Jim, John, and I would have been separated.
Lenore said that she was in constant communication with Calvin Thielman and the Grahams. They would make sure that a judge signed a court order preventing my brothers and me from leaving the state.
We were told that our father was threatening to fly to Asheville and take us back to Miami with him.
Lenore warned that we’d have to be more careful than ever.
I turned away from her so she wouldn’t see me cry.
I hate you. I hate you. You mean ugly lady. I wish you would die.
The snows continued through the second week of February, the school buses still not running.
I wanted to leave the house, but it wasn’t allowed.
Meanwhile, my brothers played outdoors with impunity while I stayed in and did chores.
After cleaning up the kitchen one morning, I took the risk of asking Lenore if I could join my brothers outside.
“Absolutely not.”
“But why?” I wouldn’t let it go. “Please?”
“NO! Your father might have someone lurking in the woods to kidnap you!”
It had happened before when Dad took us to Perry Nichols’s house. But how did Lenore know that? Or did she? And why would my father send someone all the way from Miami to kidnap me but not my brothers? I could hear them outside having snowball fights.
It wasn’t fair and made no sense. I was good in sports, even better than the boys in many instances.
I could keep up with my brothers just fine.
But I was a girl, and Lenore made sure I didn’t forget it.
Clearly, my mother had taught me nothing about how to act.
Lazy, I had no polish and was useless around the house. I was spoiled, and selfish.
One morning Lenore marshaled me into the living room, sitting me down on the sofa, placing a sewing basket next to me.
It was filled with packages of needles, pin cushions, and spools of colorful thread and skeins of yarn.
She drew a pattern on a laundry bag and handed it to me.
I obviously wasn’t interested, and she erupted again.
“It’s no wonder your mother isn’t well! She had so much on her and what have you ever done to help?”
Lenore left me trying to make loop stitches, following the dotted line she drew on the white cotton. My daisy petals weren’t good, everything crooked. The thimble wouldn’t stay on my finger and I could hear my brothers playing Army outside in the rhododendrons.
“CHARGE!” one of them yelled, imitating a machine gun.
I was tempted to kick the sewing basket across the room. I wanted to cry but knew better. If I dared, all hell would break loose.
“I’m sick to death of you feeling sorry for yourself!” Lenore would scream.
She began calling me names. “Little Miss Priss.” And “Miss Pity Party.” My mood sank lower when she unfolded an ironing board one day.
Momentarily, she licked her finger, flicking the iron with a quiet hiss.
She plucked a wrinkled white shirt from the laundry basket, and ironing was the next phase of my domestic education.
Oddly, she didn’t teach me to cook, a chore I would have enjoyed.
“When is Mom coming home? Do you think it will be soon?” I made the mistake of asking while ironing, and Lenore looked at me with those snake eyes.
“Don’t even think about such things,” she warned, wagging her finger.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Your mother may be home in a month. Or it could be a year. Or never.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Just expect the worst, and then you won’t be disappointed.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t be foolish and think nothing bad’s going to happen. Or when it does, you won’t be ready.”
I nodded, not needing her to tell me that. I knew all about bad things happening. She left me to finish ironing everything in the laundry basket, and I did a very foolish thing. Something possessed me to find a snack that I might like. Maybe there was a cracker or a cookie somewhere.
Climbing up on the kitchen counter, I began opening cupboards. I was startled by footsteps, and there she was in front of me, her face a mask of fury.
“Just what are you doing, young lady?”
I looked down at cold, dark eyes and tight lips.
Terrified, I made up a story. I thought I saw a funny bird fly into the kitchen and was looking for him.
I told her about Dickie Bird and his treats as my face got hot.
She berated me as she would so many times, a vein popping out in the middle of her forehead.
“If there’s one thing I won’t condone, it’s lying!” Fists on her hips, her body rigid. “You know not to help yourself to things in the kitchen! And do you know why?”
“No, ma’am.”
I wished I could disappear. I wanted to fly away with Dickie Bird and live where he did.
“Well, I’ll tell you why! I can’t afford to be buying you snacks. Your father hasn’t sent any money, and the church out of goodness and generosity has been supporting you.”
“I’m sorry.” I felt sick with guilt and fear.
“Just another sign of your ingratitude. You think it’s fun for me to take care of you three?”
I shook my head. No.
“Huh! Fun my foot! If you don’t shape up, I’ll take you to Swannanoa and put you in the children’s home!” Then she turned on her heel and hurried up the stairs, a door shutting loudly.
That night while I hid under the covers in bed rocking myself, I prayed to Dickie Bird. I apologized for blaming him after I got caught. I begged him to bring my mother home soon. I was sorry for telling Lenore about him.
“Don’t fly away! Please don’t fly away and leave me!” I thought.
He promised he wouldn’t, confiding that he lived in a shoebox in my closet. But I wasn’t to look, or he’d vanish. There would be no choice.
“Okay,” I whispered. “I promise…”
“PATSY, BE QUIET AND GO TO SLEEP!” Mrs. Saunders’s voice crackled from the intercom speaker on the wall.
The next day at dinner, she passed a basket of country ham biscuits around the table as I stared at the mound of lima beans on my plate. I eyed my glass of milk, trying to figure out a way to gulp down the food without her noticing.
“Let’s give thanks.” She folded her hands on the edge of the table.
I closed my eyes, trying to block out the unpleasant aromas, wondering how I was going to eat everything without being sick.
“… We most humbly show our appreciation for supplying our needs when we ourselves are unable…”
I contemplated pretending to chew the beans. Then I’d wait for a pause and pick up my milk, swallowing everything at once. Maybe I could hide food in my napkin, emptying it in the garbage when she wasn’t looking.
“… Bless all the starving children in the world. Forgive those who have sinned,” Lenore prayed, pausing just long enough for the hair to prickle on my scalp.
She was talking about me. My eyes peeked open as she went on and on. I was greeted by John’s wide stare, his fingers in his mouth up to the knuckles.
“… Amen.”
“My food’s cold,” Jim announced, moving beans around on his plate.
Lenore nailed him with that stare of hers. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to, the color draining from his face.