Call Your Daughter Home

by Deb Spera

  II

  8

  Annie

  A tire on the automobile went flat on my way to the train station this morning. I must have run something over, but I’ve no idea what. Stranded on the roadside I found myself up against time without a soul in sight. I had a choice: go forward and meet my son or go back for help. I left the automobile tilted sideways on the grass by the roadway and set off on foot. The train station isn’t far, but I am not as quick-footed as I used to be, and the month of August is not to be toyed with. More than one person has suffered from heat stroke in these parts this time of year. So many trees have been excavated for the road the sunshine has become more than just a menace; it’s become a danger. I likely would have missed the train altogether had Dr. Southard not come along in his carriage.

  “Is there a reason you are out walking in the hottest part of the day?” he stopped to ask, looking at me as if I’d grown another head. I was so flustered that my manners escaped me, and I climbed into his carriage and directed him to the train station without so much as a please or thank you. He reached back and pulled the bonnet of the carriage up for shade and put his horses to a trot. The wind resuscitated me, and we made it with time to spare.

  Lonnie was pacing on the platform. Even from afar I could read his anxiety. He insisted on being absurdly early. I told Edwin I was taking the train up to Columbia to visit a friend. It was a harmless lie. Two hours up and back, we’ll be home in no time and surprise him if and when we have success. Victory will change how he sees his son. Edwin is embarrassed to have Lonnie working in a sewing factory and is determined, still, after all these years, to make a man of him. What my husband doesn’t yet know is the Sewing Circle is on track to become a real influence in the county. I may not live to see it flourish in the way I believe it can, but Lonnie will. He will solidify the Circle’s foundation for success. Expand or die, that’s what the politicians say. I posted that exact phrase above the desk in the office so Lonnie can see it every time he enters, and I do believe it’s helped. In the end Edwin will see what I see. Our son is a force who’s been hiding in plain sight for years.

  The train station sits empty, save Lonnie and me. No one comes and goes to the city in off hours this time of year. It’s harvest season, and there’s too much work to be done. Retta’s prepared pralines for the journey, Sarah’s favorite. I hope Sarah will be accepting of my showing up unannounced. I never should have let our resentment grow. Positions are taken, lines are drawn, and before you can think again, time is gone. I’ve withheld myself from who and what I love, my daughters and Charleston. We shall make up for the loss. That is my hope.

  Otis McEntyre takes my money at the window without looking to see who is purchasing the tickets. The only time that man lights up is when supply trains make their run through the station. Then he jumps from his seat and races outside to count each boxcar, proclaiming in the end, to no one but himself, the exact number of cars the engine pulls. “Imagine that,” he says every time. No matter the number, he is astonished as if it’s the first time he’s seen it. Give him a machine over a person any day of the week.

  Lonnie excuses himself to the men’s room while I purchase box lunches and two bottles of Coca-Cola at the counter for the train ride. His stomach is upset. He claims it’s something he ate, but I know better. He’s mopping sweat from his brow and sighing heavily. He’ll be fine once he gets to the other side of his mission. It’s the shift into the unfamiliar that is always the hardest. I’m forced to knock on the bathroom door when the train pulls into the station. Lonnie comes out wiping his mouth with his handkerchief.

  “Really, Lonnie,” I say, “you’re just making it worse for yourself.”

  He ignores my comment and gives me his arm. Despite his discomfort, he cuts a handsome figure. He’s dressed impeccably in a green-and-white-striped seersucker suit he designed and made. Seersucker was originally only used and worn by the poor people of the region, but Lonnie liked the fabric, and in an act of what he calls reverse snobbery, he designed an elegant men’s summer suit. “Let the poor lead the way for a change,” he said. The tightly fitted jacket with a high pinched waist and narrow shoulders fits beautifully. He’s wisely chosen suspenders and a bow tie that were purchased at Berlin’s when he was a younger man, proving that the right accessories never go out of style. He looks like his father, and I can’t understand why he doesn’t have women fawning over him. His speech affliction has held him back in every way, but afflictions mustn’t be death sentences.

  The car is virtually empty of passengers, save two men and a woman traveling, it seems, together. Lonnie sits on the bench seat across the aisle from me to practice his script. He doesn’t want to rehearse aloud; it makes him more self-conscious. Once we’re settled I undo myself. It’s such a relief to take off the hat and gloves. Appearances are so bothersome. There was a time I didn’t have to work so hard to maintain them; youth has its own simple value that we never fully appreciate until it’s gone. I had many proposals when I was young, but said yes only to Edwin. Now I am Dear or Madam, the words of people who look through instead of at.

  “Drink the soda,” I say to Lonnie from across the aisle. “It will help.”

  I sip the cold liquid to calm the butterflies in my own stomach and focus on the pictures of the outside world as they pass by my open window. I always loved trains, their roar, their might and speed. I never grow weary of it. We will be in the city in two hours’ time, and I shall relish every moment.

  My very first train ride was at the onset of the Civil War, when Papa came to retrieve my brothers and me. He was traveling back and forth from Charleston to Manhattan for his textile trade while we, his children, stayed in the city of our birth, cared for by our mother’s spinster sister. His plan was to spirit all of us away at night, but Auntie refused to go north out of principle and was so heartsick over me going that she hid me in the laundry hamper so Papa couldn’t find me. I’ll never forget the anger on his face when he finally discovered my hiding place. He carried me, running, with my brothers at his side, through the crowded station. We arrived in the last few minutes before the train left. I was six years old. Most of the time we lived in New York, that loud and wretched city, but we spent some years away on ocean liners, traveling with Papa for business throughout Europe and Asia. Seasickness plagued me, but even that I would have endured if it meant going home. Finally, six years later, when I was twelve, Papa permitted me to return to Charleston. My brothers chose to stay and seek their fortunes alongside Papa, but not me. All that time we lived in New York and on ships I longed for space. I longed for the Carolinas.

  By the time the train rolls into the Charleston station Lonnie is pale, and neither of us has touched our food. He’s gotten himself so worked up it takes him a good thirty minutes to hire a carriage.

  “Do you need a shot of whiskey to steel yourself?” I ask.

  “No,” he says, “I just w-wish I w-was a different kind of m-man.”

  “Well, you’re not. You are your own man. Let the work speak for itself, and for God’s sakes, breathe. They are just people. The Berlin boy’s father came here with $1.83 in his pocket and began this very store until eventually his sons took up the business. They are no different than us.”

  He nods his head and goes back to his script. I leave him to his thoughts so I can gather my own, and as the carriage turns down King Street, I gaze out the window to see if there is anything left of what I remember from my youth.

  Oh, Charleston. If the South has grown weary of discontent, you would never know once you set foot in this city. In spite of the ever-growing population and increasing automobiles zipping along the streets, I still recognize every landmark, every tree and every tombstone. There is Kerrison’s, where Auntie bought my first pair of heels, and Colton’s, the old pharmacy with the sign shaped like a thermometer. I’ve stayed away too long. Spite has stolen years from me. The church bells strike two as
the carriage arrives in front of Berlin’s on the corner of King and Broad. It’s a lovely store, with all the latest men’s fashions in the window. Lonnie’s eyes light at the sight of the colorful summer suits that adorn the mannequins. We make plans to meet back at the train station at five o clock.

  “Promise to have a good story to tell me,” I say.

  I watch my son straighten his shoulders and stride into the store carrying the shirts he’s designed. He doesn’t look back.

  At my behest the driver takes me down Broad Street and around the Battery so I may take in the sights. The beauty is undeniable. When I returned to Charleston as a girl, the city lay in ruins, but even the crumbling rubble couldn’t hide its treasures. Back then, the scars along Broad and Meeting Streets were powerful reminders of what we human beings are capable of doing to one another. Buildings were in shambles, and wounded soldiers in ragged uniforms loitered on corners, hungry or seeking money for the long journey home. No one would believe me now if I attempted to describe how badly the city was torn asunder, although there are a few photographs that exist as testament to my memories. Only the homes in the center of the Battery neighborhood lay intact, as if a secret pact had been made by both the Union and Confederacy to protect them.

  The driver stops in front of the house where I grew up, and I pay him for his services. I’ll walk from here. My childhood home was within the Battery and, so, survived. It was used late in the war as Union headquarters for officers. After returning I recall remnants of their presence throughout, small things, spectacles, a button from a uniform. I ran from room to room, lying in the middle of each with my arms and legs outstretched. In the drawing room Auntie placed Papa’s pipe on the end table, just as it was before we left, and in the drawer the tobacco he allowed me to pack it with. Noise from one side of the house to the next was virtually undetectable. I couldn’t hear Auntie in the kitchen talking to the help. I couldn’t hear the boys in the street playing baseball. I could only hear what was present in the room I was in: my breath, the ticking clock and my footsteps on the wooden floors. I was so happy. I always longed for quiet, even as a child.

  I peer from the street through the wrought-iron gates and into the windows, but no one looks to be home.

  “Can I help you?”

  An old Negro man in overalls steps out from behind the hedges. In his hands is a large pair of shears. I’m startled, and he apologizes for frightening me.

  “I used to live here as a child,” I tell the man. “The Anderson family?”

  He shakes his head. “No, ma’am, can’t say I know them. The Maybank family lives here now, but there ain’t nobody home. They go over to the Blue Ridge Mountains this time of year on account of the heat.”

  What else is there to say? I am forgotten here. Walking the streets, I resist the urge to grab a stranger, tell her my name and ask if she knows who I am. Surely someone will remember me. Move on, I tell myself. Gird your loins, buck up, do what you came to do.

  Sarah and Molly live a block from one another, and only two from where I grew up. It comforts me they have each other. Being the only girl in my family I always envied my friends who had sisters. Sisters share secrets. My girls were always close, sometimes to a fault. When three are together there is always an odd man out, and I seemed to serve that purpose as the only other female in the home, predominantly in their teenage years. My goodness, there were months coming home from the Circle where I steeled myself against what I knew was coming. I always assumed Molly would outgrow her contentious phase, but time seemed only to exacerbate. Sarah was much more malleable but only when her sister wasn’t around.

  Sarah’s house is on East Battery, and Molly’s is around the corner on East Bay. Each home faces the Charleston Harbor.

  Sarah was so sweet when I finally worked up the nerve to call on Saturday. I was both terrified and delighted when she answered.

  “Mother?” she asked upon recognizing my voice. “Is everything all right?”

  Hearing her stirred me. It’s a strange thing to hear your daughter’s voice for the first time after so many years. When Edwin threw them out of the house in the heat of that terrible argument so many years ago, all Sarah said, as her sister and father raged, was, “Mother, please,” over and over again, “Mother, please,” as if I could stop what was already in motion. Looking back I wonder if I could have. Buck’s death hurt us all in ways I still can’t understand.

  “No one is dead,” I said, “if that’s what you’re asking.”

  I wanted to tell her the fairy kingdom is thriving, that the lavender is back in the south field and you can smell it as you come around the bend for a good half mile before you arrive, how some things even boll weevils cannot destroy. I meant to say how this summer the fairies were out in droves looking for her and Molly, that the fireflies were so thick in the forest behind the slave quarters the woods practically glowed in the dark of the new moon, but my tongue grew thick and I didn’t know if she would remember the whimsy of her youth. Instead I asked after her health and that of her sister’s.

  She asked about the fruit trees. When each child was born I planted a fruit tree; Sarah was my plum. Before I could ask about Camp, Edwin came in from the fields unexpectedly. I asked if we could speak again. She hesitated, but I promised to call the following day and hung up before she could say no. I never told Edwin. He’s as hardened against them as they are to us. It will take time to heal the hurt. But we can heal. We can be a family again. I’m convinced.

  We spoke once more. I haven’t brought up old wounds nor has she. I’ve learned a bit more of Sarah’s and Molly’s lives. Molly is still employed and earning a decent salary, though her husband is wealthy and they don’t need the money. Her husband doesn’t mind and is even encouraging, but that is all Sarah has told me. Though she never said it outright, I could read between the lines. Molly has no interest in speaking. Perhaps seeing me will diminish her resolve, as I know how the mere thought of seeing Molly diminishes mine. I am her mother, after all.

  Sarah is married to a prominent man and sees to a large home. She has a full staff, though she says none can cook like Retta. Retta gave Sarah all of her favorite recipes when she first moved to Charleston, but Sarah says none of her cooks can prepare them properly. She wrote how to make each dish word for word, but it wouldn’t have mattered for all she understood of them. She still tells the cobbler story.

  “Get yourself some peaches,” Retta told her.

  Sarah asked, “How many peaches?”

  Retta said, “Depends on how much cobbler you want.”

  Sarah wrote it all down anyway, trying at least to capture the ingredients if not their quantities, but lost all hope when they got to the crust.

  “Pour your flour in a bowl,” Retta said.

  “How much flour?”

  “Depends on how much cobbler you got.”

  Oh, how I loved hearing Sarah tell that story again. Her imitation of Retta is gold.

  “I must see you soon, sweetheart. Let’s make a plan,” I said.

  “Let’s wait and see, Mother. Let’s go slow.”

  “Yes, yes of course. We’ll go slow.”

  Go slow. Impossible. I’ve wasted so much time already. Going slow could mean a death sentence before this is rectified, and I’m not prepared to die without my girls. No. Slow is no longer an option. Not with the days ticking by as they do. Yesterday it was Christmas. Tomorrow it will be summer again. We cannot afford patience. I may be seventy, but I still have the mantle of age and perspective to offer my children. She needs to listen to her mother. I finally take myself in hand and do the thing I’ve avoided for hours. I knock on my daughter’s door and pray she will not reject me.

  A Negro girl, no more than twenty, answers. She is dressed in a black maid’s uniform and white apron, and is surprised to see me.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “I’m l
ooking for Sarah Abbott. Is she in? I am her mother.”

  The girl’s eyes grow wide. “She’s not here, ma’am. She walked over to Miss Molly’s house. You know where that is?”

  A cargo ship coming into harbor blasts its horn, and I jump for the unexpected noise.

  “I’m sorry. I’ve traveled a long way and would love a glass of water. May I come in and sit down?”

  “Ma’am, I can get you that water, but I can’t let you in. I would if Miss Sarah was here, but I can’t without her permission.”

  “That’s fine, just water then.”

  I sit on the porch step and look out at the sea where Fort Sumter lies empty in the distance. Black cannons along the Battery face the fort. The briny smell of the ocean remains the same and I am transported back to days where I would sit on the balcony outside my bedroom, listening to the waves lap the shore. There is comfort in the constant coming and going of the tide. The front door opens and I turn for my water. Instead a child stands barefoot on the porch. She’s no more than eight. Her blond hair is loose about her shoulders and her countenance is that of a serious child, one who observes. She is a miniature replica of Sarah at that age.

  “Hello,” I say. “And who are you?”

  “Emily.”

  “What a beautiful name. Emily was my mother’s name. Is Sarah your mother?”

  The child nods her head, my daughter’s daughter.

  “I brought pralines for your mother. They are her favorite. Would you like some?”

  “No, thank you,” she says.

  “I’m Annie, your mother’s mother. Do you know what that means?”

  She doesn’t.

  “That means I am your grandmother.”

  “No, my grandmother’s dead,” she tells me. “Mother said.”

  The maid returns to the porch with water in a beautiful crystal glass.