Sarah Thyre - Dark at the Roots

Table of Contents

For Andy

Authors Note

Most of the events described in the book happened as related; others were compressed, expanded, or altered. All names, except for those of some of the authors immediate family, have been changed, and some of the individuals portrayed are composites.

1975

Would the mother of Rene Thyre please come to the front of the store?

The assistant manager of Venture stepped away from the microphone and wiped his mouth on his wrist. We were up in his managerial aerie, a skybox that looked out onto Kansas Citys first superstore. His name tag read Garry and he was a little greasy at the temples, but I could still imagine being happily adopted by him.

Have some more popcorn, Rene, Garry said, shaking the bag at me. Dont worry, Im sure your mother will be here sooncmon, gimme a little smile!

I smiled up at him the way an adorable seven-year-old named Rene would, batting my eyelashes like Disneys Sleeping Beauty, Briar Rose. I reached for the popcorn daintily, and was just about to ask for something to drink when my mother rushed up the steps of the platform and shot through the half-door.

Oh my god, Sarah! I have been looking all over this store for you! I was just having them cut the fabric and I look over and youre gone! They still havent caught that kidnapper, you know!

Garry took a little half-step between my mother and me, his feet in ballets third position. I felt so safe.

Maam, I think theres a misunderstanding? This is Rene. Rene Thyre?

Mom threw back her head and burst into laughter. Well, thats what she told you. Her names not really Rene! Its Sarah! But shes always telling people its Rene! For some reason she just loves that name, Rene. I dont know where she even heard it. Can you imagine?

Garry swept his feet from third to fifth position and swiveled his hips away from me. In that swift, subtle shift of his body, he left my sideme, Rene, his future ward!and went over to Moms. Together at last, they regarded me with heartless, unchecked mirth. I half-expected Mom to get on the store microphone and say, Hey everybody! That announcement a little while agothe one about Rene Thyre? Well, there is no Rene Thyre! Its just Sarah Thyre. Kay?

Youre always ruining my life! I cried in the car on the way home. Why did you have to go and TELL him?

The whole thing would have been worth it if I knew that just one person, just Garry, lived the rest of his life believing my name was Rene.

Wed gone to Venture that morning because Mom was having Prayer Group at our house later that afternoon. She needed to pick up a few yards of cheap calico fabric to make some quickie cloth napkins. All ours were stained and the Prayer Group ladies might notice.

Prayer Group consisted of Mom, four or five of her friends from church, and a Catholic priest named Father Donatello. The purpose of the meeting seemed more social than worshipful. The first order of business was grousing about the damn hippies who had taken over St. Lucys and how things were so much better before Vatican II, when priests said Mass in Latin and women wore doilies on their heads. Pamphlets were distributed, or bookmarks embossed with a holographic saint. Lunch, usually a gourmet casserole, was served, but merely picked at if eaten at all. Hard liquor was poured. Piety drifted into levity, and levity exploded into ribaldry. Dance steps were demonstrated; cigarettes were French inhaled. When one of us kids got hungry or injured, the party would break up. Everyone staggered out to a chorus of Best prayer group ever! God love you!

My mother was a nervous wreck whenever Prayer Group was at our place. About a week before, shed launch her campaign for me and my three sisters to pitch in and clean up the house.

How did it get so bad? Mom would say, kicking a path through the thick blanket of clothes, toys, and assorted paper products on our floors.

So bad? It was never good. Our house was always a mess. Banks of detritus built up against the walls, as though blown there by gale-force winds. Youd need a rake, possibly a pickaxe, to make a dent in it.

The night before Prayer Group, Mom began the preparations for her signature classy entre, eggplant parmigian. She sliced and salted and stacked layers of eggplant between clean cloth diapers and cast-iron skillets to leech out the extra juice, as she so appetizingly put it. In the morning she assembled the dish, layering the now brownish eggplant, Hunts tomato sauce, an entire green can of Kraft parmesan cheese, and liberal sprinklings of dried Italian seasoning. The whole thing was topped with long-ignored mozzarella slices from the back of the fridge, trapezoid-shaped from having their moldy edges trimmed off. When she took it out of the oven, it had all coalesced into a rust-colored plank that drew rave reviews from adults, and suspicious no thanks from children. We knew a napkin-filler when we saw it. It was the perfect dish to serve when you wanted the kids to buzz off so you could live it up and pray.

When we got home, Mom laid the calico out on the dining room table and started to mark off squares with her fabric pencil. She looked up at the clock.

Dammit, I wont have time to baste the edges. Im just going to have to use my pinking shears.

The heavy, black-handled pinking shears would give the napkins a snazzy zigzag edge that, in a pinch, was an acceptable alternative to a finished seam.

Where are my pinking shears? Sarah!

I was the last one to get caught with the pinking shears. The day before, I had used them to trim my little sister Hannahs bangs into a nice jagged brim. Standing back to admire my styling skills, I nicknamed her Cappie on the spot. She burst into tears when she looked in the mirror.

Initially I played dumb. Whats wrong, Cappie?

I look stupid! Hannah wailed.

Aw, its okay, Cappie, I said.

I couldnt even sell myself on this one. She did look terrible. Worse, she looked poor. Though Hannahs face was nicely tanned after a summer of playing outside, her new shelf of bangs revealed a strip of fresh white skin that underlined, practically illuminated, their crisp triangular edge.

I dont have the pinking shears. You took them away and hid them, remember? I said. An accusatory tone flavored my voice. Maybe Mom would think twice before stifling my budding creativity again.

She flared her nostrils. Is that poddy? I smell poddy.

Poddy was our family word for the actual turd, the feces, the shit, the log. It never was potty or pottie, and never meant the toilet/chair hybrid used for training toddlers. Nor was it used to describe the act of going, as in Time to poddy or, Do you have to poddy? It was used with go, but poddy itself was always a noun. When one said, I have to go poddy, one meant I have to go make poddy, the way one would make cookies or an ice sculpture.