Winter Flower

by Charles Sheehan-Miles

  When my father said such things, Mama would always cringe. Not because she was any less racist than he was; rather, it was because to her, a sophisticated vocabulary, good posture, and a neat presentation meant far more than substance or character. Mama grew up in the dying world of the Charleston royalty, eking out the last vestiges of their antebellum status in the few square blocks of Charleston they still occupied. In those few square blocks, the Civil War (or, as they called it, the War Between the States) might as well have never happened.

  Virginia Carolyn Roberts (née Grady) was a sixteen-year-old debutante when she was swept off her feet by my father, at that time a naval ROTC cadet at Georgia Tech. Despite the dire predictions of his own father, Daddy had graduated from Riverside with honors and was accepted to Georgia Tech with a full scholarship.

  The two of them married the day after Daddy graduated college and received his commission as a Second Lieutenant in the United States Marine Corps. Nothing in his experience up to that time had changed his perspective about women, politics, or race. He was fundamentally a mountain boy, mean as a snake, and even less predictable. The only thing that had changed over the years was the polish. After decades of trying, my mother’s rough tongue and genteel Southern upbringing had worn Daddy down just like flowing water smooths out the edges of a stone.

  I’d struggled to explain some of this to Erin without directly saying my parents were racists. To be honest, it was a little embarrassing, in this day and age, to hear my father talk.

  “By ‘not politically correct,’ what do you mean?” Her tone sounded a little wary.

  I shrugged. “They’re from the Old South, Erin. Not academics like your parents … Daddy was a Marine.”

  “They’ll hate me, won’t they? I’m too liberal.”

  I brought a fist to my mouth and coughed. “Karl Marx would think you’re too liberal.”

  Erin gasped in mock outrage then took a verbal swipe right back at me. “Cole! Being knowledgeable and caring about people doesn’t make me too liberal.”

  I laughed. “Don’t worry. Even my parents care about people. Mama mostly cares about her bridge club, and Daddy cares about the Marines.”

  “So, what you’re saying is, we should avoid talking politics.”

  “Yeah…” My voice trailed off. Avoiding politics was necessary, but I doubted it would be enough.

  Nearly fourteen hours after we left Washington, we drove into my parents’ semi-circular driveway in North Atlanta.

  My parents didn’t live in the house I grew up in. Daddy was in the Marine Corps until 1989, so I grew up floating from base to base, year by year. I was lucky enough that he spent his last years in the Marines at Atlanta Naval Air Station, which gave me enough stability to attend the same high school for four years. During those years we lived in a rickety house not far from the base, south of Marietta.

  When Daddy retired from the military, he was quickly hired by Lockheed for three times as much as he’d made as a Marine Lieutenant Colonel. The year before I met Erin, he bought a five-bedroom brick colonial in a much better neighborhood than he’d ever lived in as a Marine.

  When I parked, it was behind a beautifully maintained ’76 Corvette. Daddy was going all-out with the midlife crisis.

  The lawn was shockingly verdant for January, the landscaping precise. Red brick contrasted with the black shutters and front door, and all of it gave the impression of a carefully manicured golf course. The beautiful, almost serene setting was ruined by the appearance of a foot-high figure on the lawn not far from the front entrance, depicting a black boy in a red and white outfit and cap. The skin on the figure was very dark, the eyes oversized and white, standing out only slightly less shockingly than the bright red oversized lips.

  “Oh, my,” Erin said.

  “That’s new,” I murmured.

  “You know my godfather’s African American, right? And that the twenty-first century is right around the corner?”

  “I know these things. My father does not.”

  She closed her eyes. “Well, let’s do this.”

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Yeah?” Her voice was pensive.

  “Give them a chance, okay? They shocking anachronisms, but they’re also my parents.”

  She gave me a smile that I supposed was intended to reassure; in fact, it only increased my apprehension. “Of course.”

  The front door opened as we approached. Mama stood there, wearing a green dress with long sleeves which might have easily appeared in a catalog from the fifties. Her hair, still black as always (I suspected she had it dyed, but she would never tell), was bound up in a complicated fashion. She wore a lengthy necklace of white pearls and bright red lipstick.

  “Cole,” she said, holding out a hand to mine.

  “Mama,” I said. “This is Erin Bennett. Erin, this is my mom.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Roberts.”

  “Erin, you must call me Virginia. Mrs. Roberts makes me feel dreadfully old. Come in! Come in!”

  We followed Mama into the house.

  Erin sucked in a breath as her eyes scanned the entryway. The front atrium was floored with polished cherry, and an awe-inspiring crystal chandelier hung over the entry. French doors opened on either side of the entryway, the formal dining room on one side and the family room on the other.

  “This is amazing,” Erin said. “I love your home!”

  “Thank you, dear,” Mama said. “Cole’s father worked very hard for it.”

  Lest Erin think I grew up in these polished circumstances, I said, “They moved here three years ago. Most of my life we lived in base housing.”

  “It’s true,” Mama said, her voice dripping with ennui. “I don’t know what your father does for a living now, but it certainly pays better than being a Marine officer.”

  I said to Erin, “He left the Marines, so now he sells things to the Marines.”

  “Don’t be crass, dear.”

  As always, Mama put me in my place.

  “Where’s Dad?”

  I swear her eyes showed a wrinkle of amusement. “Oh, he’s around here somewhere. Maybe check out back. In the meantime, why don’t you help your lady friend with her bags? We put her in the front room upstairs. You can stay in the guest room next to the library.”

  Mama turned to Erin. “Come with me to the kitchen, sugar. You must be exhausted from the drive. Would you like some sweet tea? Or … I daresay it’s not too early for a glass of wine.”

  Erin murmured, “A glass of wine sounds wonderful.”

  As Erin followed Mama into the kitchen, I went out the front door to the car to gather our bags. Undoubtedly, Mama would subject Erin to the third degree, but she’d probably do it in such a painless way that Erin wouldn’t even notice. In the meantime, I unloaded my one bag and Erin’s three and got them inside and to our rooms. No surprise that Mama put us at opposite ends of the house. Anything to avoid the appearance of impropriety.

  The front room where Mama had put Erin—I didn’t fool myself into thinking Daddy had anything to do with it—had a decidedly feminine cast. The bottom half of the walls was paneled with white wainscoting, and the top half had a somewhat girly flowery blue and white wallpaper. The window was framed with white lace curtains; the double bed was piled high with comforters and blankets, all white.

  Erin would be amused. Her own taste tended toward hippie Americana. Her dorm room was festooned with incense burners, a statue of Buddha, and a poster featuring the cover of Joseph Campbell’s The Hero with a Thousand Faces. It was charming and quirky and somewhat adolescent. I secretly hoped she would grow out of that by the time we got more serious or moved in together … or if we got married.

  After putting Erin’s bags away, I wandered downstairs to the guest bedroom in the back. This room, squeezed in next to the library, was clearly not intended for the important guests. A single bed was jammed up against the wall next to a three-drawer bureau. Between the bed and the opposite wall th
ere was maybe a foot and a half of space to maneuver. It was perfect for me. Even better, Daddy was visible in the backyard, bent over a bed of flowers.

  I stepped out the back door, down the steps, and walked along the red brick pathway to where my father crouched.

  He glanced up at me, raised an eyebrow, then said, “Pass me the clippers from over there.” A few feet away, in the wheelbarrow, were the hedge clippers he indicated. I walked over and got them then carried them back to my father.

  He took them and began carefully trimming the tiny bush next to the flower bed. “You had a good drive down?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I thought you were bringing a girl.”

  I nodded. “Erin. She’s in the house undergoing interrogation.”

  Daddy winked at me. “Well, Godspeed to her, then.”

  “You want to come in and meet her?”

  Instead of answering, he handed me the clippers then began to pull tiny weeds from the flower bed. “You bring her on out here.”

  I nodded. I understood … no matter that they had been married for many years, my father assiduously avoided his wife whenever possible. I couldn’t say that I blamed him. Mama was much easier to bear in the abstract.

  “Lucas got arrested again.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “What for this time?”

  “While you’re standing there jawin’ why don’t you throw on a pair of gloves and help me weed?”

  “Sure.” I grabbed another pair of gloves out of his wheelbarrow. “What did he get arrested for?”

  The creases on either side of Daddy’s mouth deepened until it looked like his mouth might break. Then he spit out the words, “Heroin. Possession with intent to distribute.”

  I crouched down next to Daddy. “How am I supposed to tell the good ones from the weeds?”

  Daddy gave a low chuckle and said, “The flowers or your cousins?”

  “Well, let’s not get into philosophy right now.”

  He let out a laugh like a bark then pointed at a flowering plant. “Them there is the ones you want to keep. Pull up everything else.”

  This is how it was with Daddy. He was usually a pretty closemouthed son of a bitch, but if you could catch him while he was doing something, like gardening, he would talk. I wasn’t looking forward to dinner, because guests or not, my mom and dad were rarely able to contain the tension between them. For that matter, I couldn’t be near them for long either. I hadn’t finished college like both wanted, nor had I joined the Marine Corps like Daddy wanted. It didn’t matter that I was making almost six figures at twenty-two years old. I’d dropped out of college, and in their eyes, that made me a failure.

  An hour before dinner, Erin and I were able to regroup for a few minutes. Outside, of course, on the porch, because Mama was not going to let us be in the same room alone.

  “How bad was it?” I asked her.

  She laughed. “It was fine. Your mom asked me ten thousand questions. She was thrilled to learn that Dad’s a doctor and Mom’s on the faculty at Duke.”

  “Does she know they’re old hippies?”

  She giggled. “I left that out.”

  “What else?”

  “She told me about you as a little boy. Showed me pictures.”

  I started. “What? Pictures? Of what?”

  “You with your dad. Others with your cousin. You never mentioned cousins.”

  “That’s because they’re all white trash.”

  She flinched. “Really, Cole?” She wasn’t asking if they were really white trash. She was asking if I’d really said it.

  “Actually, yes, really. Dad just finished telling me about Lucas, he went to jail on a heroin rap. Dealing, not possession.”

  “Ouch,” she responded. “Pretty harsh.”

  “Yeah, well.” I didn’t have anything good to say about Lucas. “Anyway, after dinner, I want to get out of here. Take you to meet Jeremiah.”

  “Does he know I’m coming?”

  “Yeah. And, he’s got a girl he’s serious about, and I haven’t met her yet.”

  “Does she require your approval?”

  I grinned at her. “No more than you require his.”

  “Smart-ass,” she replied, grinning. “Okay. I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Just … do me a favor? Don’t mention Jeremiah around my dad.”

  She raised her eyebrows.

  I leaned close. “Jeremiah’s black. Daddy … he’s just … he’s not much changed from the past.”

  “Your mom didn’t say anything horribly or blatantly racist.”

  “Yeah, her manners would preclude that. But my father doesn’t have any manners.”

  Reluctantly, she agreed. But her silence was pointless. As we were finishing dinner, when I told my parents we were going out, Daddy said, “Going to see that nigger roommate of yours?”

  Mama reproved him immediately. “James, we don’t use that word…”

  Erin frowned. “Mister Roberts … you’ve made such a good impression up until now, I’m so sorry to see it spoiled.”

  Silence instantly fell on the room.

  Erin plunged ahead. “First, you should know my godfather is black. Second, you should know it’s the nineties, and we left slavery and Jim Crow behind decades ago.”

  Red spots were beginning to glow on Mama’s cheeks. It didn’t matter that she constantly harped and bitched at Daddy—she would never put up with another woman doing it.

  Daddy leaned forward in his seat, a frown on his face. “Now see here, Miss. I’ll make allowances for you because it’s clear Cole really cares for you. But you don’t come insult a man in his own home.”

  “I’m sorry, Mister Roberts. But my father told me to always tell the truth and to confront bigotry when I see it.”

  A flash of displeasure on his face. “I’m no bigot. I’ve got friends who are black. I served with blacks in Vietnam—in fact, one of ‘em saved my life. There’s some people who are black, and they’re okay in my book. Then there’s some people who are niggers. And that’s just the way it is.”

  Mama tried to salvage the situation. “James, maybe we should just drop the subject?”

  I just sat there, admiring Erin more and more every second.

  Erin didn’t back down. “Let me ask you, sir. Who are the ones most deserving of that label?”

  Anger flashed through my father’s tone. “Well, the ignorant ones. The ones who don’t know how to talk or how to act. The ones who go around with guns and killing good people.”

  Quietly, Erin persisted. “You mean, the ones from poor neighborhoods, with lousy schools? The ones who come from broken families? Families whose histories of being broken go right back to when husbands and wives and sons and daughters were often sold away without so much as a word? The ones that we prevented from voting, or learning to read, or having decent jobs? Are those the ones you mean?”

  “Well, my appetite is ruined,” Mama announced. “I believe I’ll retire to my room now.”

  “We should go, too,” I said. I took her hand and practically pulled her out of there, with none of the ceremony you might have expected.

  That might have been the end of it. Not long after that, we got out of there and spent the evening enjoying ourselves with Jeremiah and Ayanna. Jeremiah took us all to Blind Willie’s, where we listened to a jazz quartet that almost put me to sleep (the three of them loved it).

  Ayanna was enchanting. She was a senior at Georgia State, planning to go straight into graduate school, and had a beautiful smile. Poised and cheerful, she had an electric laugh. Halfway through the show, I leaned over to Jeremiah and whispered, “I’m impressed, buddy.”

  We high fived, looking mystified when Ayanna and Erin asked what it was about.

  The next morning, the funniest thing happened. Everyone pretended nothing had happened at all, and we had a pleasant breakfast. But before we headed back to Washington two days later, Daddy pulled me aside.

  “Just wanted to tell
you, Cole … don’t let that one go.”

  “What?” I sputtered. “I assumed you hated her.”

  He chuckled. “What, because of our disagreement? Naw. Maybe I learned something from her. Maybe not. But she’s got spirit, that one. You treat her right, and she’ll make you happy.”

  You treat her right, and she’ll make you happy.

  Those words stayed with me, that hour, that month, that decade.

  Sadly, more than anywhere else in my life, treating Erin right was the one area where I failed the most.

  Twelve: Two Years Ago

  Brenna

  When I look at the devastation of my life, I still can’t blame Chase for what happened. I wish I could. But it wasn’t his fault. I loved him. Back when I believed in love, when I was nothing but a dumb teenager who thought nothing bad could happen. When I believed love could solve anything, that it could give you anything, that it wasn’t just another thing to be twisted and broken, another weapon to be used against you until you couldn’t even recognize your own face in the mirror.

  I thought I knew so fucking much. When my mother got in my face and yelled that I was putting myself in danger, I just rolled my eyes and ignored her. When Chase told me he didn’t trust Rick, I didn’t listen.

  The only person I ever really listened to was Grandpa. Everyone else saw this old guy who puttered around in the garden after he retired, but whenever we talked it seemed to me there was a world of hurt going on behind his eyes. He never talked about it—if I asked him about growing up, he’d tell me a funny story about poverty in the North Georgia mountains. When I asked about Vietnam, he’d say, “It wasn’t what you see in the movies. War is mostly boring.”

  I wish I could see Grandpa now. Crazy.

  My dad? He was a hypocrite who had an affair. Mom? She didn’t understand. Her whole life was college and being perfect and impressing her parents. And Sam was too young to understand being in love.

  Maybe that’s the curse of being young. You think you know everything. You think nothing can ever hurt you. You think you’re invincible.

  If so, then I’m not young anymore, and I never will be again. Now I live in hell. Now I know just how badly I can hurt, and just how much I’m not invincible.