by Beth Duke
It All Comes Back to You
Beth Duke
Copyright © 2018 Beth Dial Duke
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictionally.
ISBN: 978-0-578-44883-1
For the best man I know, Jay Duke
There’s a bit of you in every hero I write.
You were the only world I wanted to live in.
one
RONNI
Audrey Marie Haynes Ledbetter was pitching a full blown, deep fried Southern hissy fit. She squirmed back and forth in her wheelchair yelling, “There are vines in my vaginny! Vines in my vaginny!” She struggled valiantly to stand.
I eased her albino cricket body back down gently. “I’m sure there aren’t, Mrs. Ledbetter. That’s not possible. We would notice.”
She narrowed her eyes and shot me a look designed to fork-pierce my jugular. “You nurses don’t notice anything! There are vines. VINES, I’m telling you.” Audrey paused for a wheezy breath and added in a conspiratorial hiss, “In my vaginny.”
Donna, our director of nursing, poked her head into the hall. “Ronni, before you leave, schedule a gyno with Dr. Aronson.”
“Really, Donna? She’s been going on about this for over a month.”
“We can’t have her waking up with morning glory twisted around her legs, can we?” Donna nodded at Audrey and smiled. It was easy to be indulgent when you spent your days in a rose-scented office eating chocolate.
Audrey Marie Haynes Ledbetter calmed immediately and flitted onto a new subject, asking Kait sweetly, “How soon is lunch?”
My shift partner Kait blew her blonde bangs upward, ignoring the question. She muttered, “We could just call in a gardener. Or maybe a shot of Round-Up?”
Kait has the only sense of humor at Fairfield Springs more wicked than mine. It’s necessary for preserving sanity in the workplace.
“Mrs. Ledbetter, we’ll get the doctor to see you.” I patted her hand, noting her fingernails would soon qualify as deadly weapons.
“It’s about time,” she snapped. “The Haynes family will shut this place down if you ignore my medical needs, you know. The vines are terrible, just terrible.” She never missed an opportunity to note her glorious lineage. Audrey was descended from an Alabama peanut and cotton dynasty, and I wondered if her vine fixation might have something to do with peanut flashbacks. Maybe she had gynecological kudzu nightmares.
Kait snickered and whispered something to me about pruning shears. I had twenty minutes to go today, and my love/hate relationship with my job was running about 20/80. I felt my pocket for the lavender envelope Donna handed me earlier, my name etched on front in Violet’s scrolly chicken-on-valium handwriting. I wanted some privacy to open it, because thoughts of Violet made my heart feel like freshly furrowed earth. I waved to Kait to signal she was in charge of the daily lunch debacle and headed off to sit on hold with Dr. Aronson’s office.
Hours later Halle Berry, my black Persian cat, greeted me and threaded my legs enthusiastically in hopes of tuna. I sank into a worn kitchen chair and she leaped into my lap to decorate my white scrubs with fur. My hands shook as I pulled Violet’s letter out and unfolded it.
Dearest Ronni,
How best to thank you? The care you gave me and the loves of my life was the best anyone could ask, and you deserve to be rewarded. My attorney, Melvin Sobel, will be in touch with you soon about that. I set aside a nice sum for you; enough to help launch your writing career and maybe get you out of that uniform and Fairfield Springs.
You have talent, darling. Use it. You’re free now to tell the stories I shared with you, and the letters. I’m gone and the world can know everything—no more secrets. When you get the book written, send it to Jennifer Meyer at Bravissimo Books. Jennifer is Mel’s niece, and he will furnish you her contact information. She will be waiting to read your manuscript. I have no doubt you’ll have a best seller on your hands.
Take care of yourself with the same tenderness you showed me.
With love,
Violet
It was hard to see through the waterfall, much less process what I’d read. Violet had changed my world in so many ways throughout the past five years, and she was still doing it a week after her funeral. Halle licked a tear from my face and jumped to the floor, utterly unconcerned with anything but her food bowl.
“We’re starting a new life again, cat, in true Violet fashion.” I reached for the can opener. “This one may be the best yet.”
Violet Louise Thompson was beautiful and elegant at eighty-two and so scandalous in the manner she passed away Fairfield Springs was being sued for negligence. I alone knew why Violet was where she was when her heart stopped beating. With her permission, the world would soon find out.
She planted the seed of my writing career when I was a newly licensed practical nurse and had worked in the assisted living facility/nursing home for two months. Violet was relentlessly inquisitive; all it took was a few literary references from me in casual conversation.
“You love to read, don’t you? I’ll bet you dream of writing, too.”
I’d secretly been penning sappy poetry since the age of seven and changing song lyrics in my head to suit every situation. My tenth grade English teacher, Mrs. Herold, insisted I had enormous talent and imagination. My short story on mothers and daughters made her cry. Of course I dreamed of holding my own book in my hands.
“Doesn’t everyone, Violet?”
“Maybe,” she smiled, “but they actually pursue it. You’re spending your days tending to God’s waiting room.”
“I love my job.”
“Yes, but you have a knack for painting pictures with words. You’re obliged to use it. That short story you showed me was as good as anything Flannery O’Connor wrote.”
She’d been an aspiring novelist in her younger days and encouraged me every chance she got. “Encouraged” is too mild a word. She pushed me with the subtlety of a tsunami.
“Honey,” she said, watching me dab sweet potato casserole from Mr. Hardy’s chin, “have you started writing a novel yet?” She swept her chin-length hair back, lustrous and snow-white but immersed in a pale field of lavender before Kelly Osbourne even thought of it. Her brown eyes sparkled at the men who joined her in the dining room every day at the elderly equivalent of the Cool Kids’ Table. Johnny was always seated beside Violet, though Sam was obviously highly favored, too. James, Clifton and Harvey joined in the daily adoration.
“Not yet, Violet. I’m still trying to imagine the story I’ll tell.”
“You don’t need to imagine a thing,” she nodded and gave my hand a fluttery pat. “My life would make a pretty interesting novel.” She turned her gaze to Mr. Raintree, who smiled shyly and regarded his lime jello. The other men exchanged knowing smiles.
She had no family or visitors save one nephew through marriage who trotted in occasionally bearing a pot of (predictable) African violets. She accepted them with a gracious smile but walked them over to our long-term care patients as soon as Herb left. “He thinks he’s in the will,” she said, shaking her head at her nephew’s retreating form, strutting in tight jeans and a shrunken black tee shirt. “Herb’s a fawning fake. Look at him...thinks he’s Simon Cowell. His hair is dyed the color of burnt toast. I swear, Ronni, he tried out a British accent on me today. Called me his favorite Aaauhnt-eee Vee.” Violet laughed and whispered into my ear, “Fairfield Springs is getting a lot of my money. Y’all are going to need a new entertainment room when I’m gone.”
“We sure will, Violet,” I told her. “You are the life in this place.”
This was
undeniably true. Homecoming queen at seventeen and Fairest of Fairfield at seventy-seven, Violet wore her beauty effortlessly. The old ladies generally despised her, but the men—every single one—took in her smiles and laughter like parched ground drinks spring rain.
Fairfield employed a man named Emory who piloted an ancient white Lincoln Town Car for its residents. Violet referred to him as “my driver.” His Friday afternoons were spent waiting outside The Coiffure & Couture while she got her hair done, then dropping her off at the grocery store for fancy cheese and crackers. Violet’s last stop was Duffy’s Liquor Store, where she sauntered in and purchased the same fifth of bourbon, sugar cubes and maraschino cherries each week. Five o’clock every day she enjoyed a cocktail or two in her apartment. I was extended an open invitation but usually had to work through six-thirty unless I was working night shift, which made a visit impossible. By that point, Violet was entertaining gleefully in the dining room, sneaking salt onto tasteless chicken.
She didn’t need assistance of any kind, at least not for the first few years of her stay. Violet was there for love, pure and simple. The man she’d adored for more than fifty years―her biggest secret―was in extended care at Fairfield. Having Johnny, Sam, James, Clifton and Harvey by her side was icing on her social cake.
The facility surprised every visitor with its beauty. Fairfield drew a moneyed crowd from all parts of Alabama, especially the upper crust families in surrounding counties. There was nothing remotely comparable in the state, and it wasn’t unusual for people who’d played teenaged tennis together at area country clubs to find themselves reunited as they strolled around the gardens and lake.
The lobby, library, sitting room and administrative offices were housed in a renovated Queen Anne Victorian. Wings on the east side were for independent living. On the west was an extended care complex where I worked. Residents and workers met in a posh dining room and common area behind the lobby. That’s where Violet shared her first stories with me, sitting in her favorite wingback chair and transporting me to post-WWII Alabama.
The memories nibbled at my heart like minnows. Violet was my surrogate grandmother, my closest confidante, and the source of what little understanding of life’s mysteries I had. As soon as Halle finished licking her bowl, I took four legal pads of notes, the cardboard box holding her countless letters and my laptop to the bedroom to contemplate writing her story.
Violet had chosen the title for my work, though she gave me permission to brainstorm an alternative. “Everybody Loved Her” was the epitaph she’d chosen for her headstone and her (typically) modest suggestion for the novel based on her life. I pored over my notes, staring at the first sentences she’d told me to write down.
“A love story can be described, but it’s truly known to only two people. They share the first accidental brush of fingertips, every sigh and private joke. They dance to the same music in their hearts for a lifetime.”
I wiped away fresh tears and read her note for the tenth time. No matter what inheritance she’d arranged, I couldn’t simply walk away from my job. Fairfield had been very good to me, and besides, there was no guarantee of my producing a book, much less having success with it. The bad part of Violet’s wonderful news was having no one to tell. My family was gone and friends at work would be less than thrilled to hear I’d inherited money from a resident.
Halle jumped to my side and began pawing legal pads left and right. I swatted her toward my feet and she curled up, content to let me read until her stomach beckoned for service. I sighed at the five pound box of letters and journals. I hadn’t looked at a single one, and knew I should start.
It was overwhelming to contemplate a beginning and middle to Violet’s story. I knew the ending all too well. Fifty three old people in an overheated funeral home, the women dabbing their eyes dramatically over the loss of one they’d considered a rival. Her nephew and his family shaking hands solemnly as we filed out after the brief service; Herb glancing at his watch. I wouldn’t have been surprised to find a Porsche brochure in his suit pocket.
I’d spent a lot of my childhood in Violet’s hometown of Anniston. I despised it, but it was the cradle of all that was dear to her. As soon as she found out I had a car and some Saturdays off, she asked me to drive her around and reminisce.
I’d rather have reminisced about my first root canal.
Violet looked at the few landmarks that remained from her youth and described a Frank Capra movie unfolding before her eyes. “Stop, Ronni! This is the house where Johnny lived. See that bright yellow ginkgo tree? Dr. Perkins planted it for his wife after seeing one in Georgia, at Emory Hospital. He adored that woman.” She sighed and shook her head. “Anyway, it was just a tiny twig and he forbade us to go near it. He even built a protective wire fence. I don’t remember the thing ever growing past two feet. Johnny accidentally hit the tree with a basketball once and nearly died of worry.” Her eyes were wide and teary. “Now it towers over everything.” She bit her lip. “I wonder if Johnny’s been back here. He would love seeing it.” The tree was magnificent, at least thirty feet tall and blazing yellow. “They only stay like this for a few days. The yard will be carpeted in golden leaves soon.”
The house was a two story brick rectangle with ivy climbing its side. The white front door opened and a woman my age with a ponytail and yoga pants maneuvered a running stroller onto the small landing. “Hurry,” Violet said, “Get us out of here.” I started the car, smiling and nodding at the mom, who was now staring at us. Violet had her face in her hands.
“Are you okay?” I asked her.
“Yes,” she nodded. “That was just a big jolt into the present, seeing that strange girl there.” She patted her knees. “Let’s see some of your favorite places.”
“I don’t have any,” I shook my head firmly. “Nothing good happened to me here.”
“Well, at least show me where you lived.”
“What about where you lived, Violet?”
“They knocked down my childhood home and built a pediatrician’s office. It would only make me sad. Show me yours.”
I managed to locate the rundown house on Knox Avenue. There were tricycles and neon orange plastic toys strewn across the scraggly front yard. “That’s it,” I announced. “The mimosa tree on the left is my reverse equivalent of your ginkgo. It seemed much larger years ago. I used to climb up and hide in there to read.”
“What sorts of books did you like?”
“Anything I could get my hands on. My first book-love was “They Loved to Laugh” by Kathryn Worth.”
“Oh,” Violet said, “I remember that book. It’s a wonderful story.”
“And I read lots of successful woman biographies, daydreaming about the important life I’d have someday.” I laughed. “Maybe I was a feminist in my early years. Or maybe I just wanted revenge.”
Violet offered her sage smile. “You didn’t want revenge, honey. That’s ugly. You wanted what you have: a career you enjoy and the opportunity to help people.”
“I’m not nearly as noble as you think, Violet.” I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. “Hey, you went to Anniston High School, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but they’ve torn it down, too.”
I smiled and made a right turn onto Quintard Avenue.
“This isn’t where the school was, Ronni.” Violet was gazing at the pizza joints and supermarkets lining the street, shaking her head. “It used to be lined with elegant Victorian homes. They’re all gone, replaced by this mess.”
“Look toward the center, Violet.” The wide median was populated by huge leafy oaks and azaleas in full bloom.
“Yes, at least that part’s still beautiful,” she allowed.
“Now look ahead on your right.” I nodded.
“Oh, my gosh! Is that what I think it is? The arches. We have to stop.”
“We will.” I parked the car and led her to the preserved entrance from Violet’s old school, tall brick and concrete arches towering near on
e of Anniston’s many war memorials. She placed her hands on their worn surface and closed her eyes.
“This was one of the happiest places in my life,” Violet said. “Right here, under this entryway, Johnny and I held hands as we walked in and out every day. It was so perfect in our world, Ronni. We had everything, absolutely everything.” She swiped at a tear rolling down her cheek. “I can’t believe they saved this.”
“I’m sure it means a lot to many people.” I smiled as she touched her lips and planted a hand-kiss on the inside of the arch.
“I can practically see Johnny and Sam and Katie Ruth and Johnette and Mary Nell...God, I’m the only girl left in that group. We were all so close, once upon a time. Katie Ruth died last August. You would have loved her.”
“I’m sure I would have. Here, let me take your picture.” I held up my phone as Violet struck a very sixteen-year-old pose, one arm extended up a row of bricks, the opposite arm and leg playfully extended like she was preparing to cartwheel. Her pleated ivory skirt and jacket were perfect.
“Adorable. You need saddle shoes.”
“Darling,” she came to examine the pic and nodded, “I never wore saddle shoes. That’s pretty cute. Will you print it out for me?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you for bringing me here. So many good memories.” Violet gazed at the arches one last time.
“You are most welcome. Where to now?”
“If you know any decent restaurants, let’s get a non-institutional meal. I’m buying.”
I drove to an upscale place called Classic On Noble, all chandeliers and fancy salads for ladies who lunch.
“This used to be Woolworth’s!” Violet blinked at the crystal sparkling in the windows. “Imagine that. From soda fountain to chic. I love it.” She swung her car door open and walked her ballerina walk to the waiting doorman as I schlepped behind her, feeling like I should be carrying her train.
