by Karen White
“And Tucker didn’t offer to help you?” Lillian asked, leaning forward, her fingers tucked tightly around a sherry glass.
Without meeting anyone’s eyes, I said, “I didn’t think to ask. My only thought at the time was to get away from the horse.”
Helen raised two fingers to Tucker and he pulled out two martini glasses. He spoke as he mixed the drinks. “Although, as I told her at the time, she’s the first person he’s shown any interest in at all. Either he sensed your fear or . . .” He handed me my drink. “Or it was something else entirely. Maybe a familiarity with horses, even.” He walked over to Helen and placed a drink in her hand. He returned to the armoire and picked up a double old-fashioned, the bottom filled with amber liquid.
I realized that everyone was looking at me, expecting an answer. I took a large gulp of my drink, my head already spinning. “I used to ride—a long time ago. But I fell off and I haven’t had the need or desire to get back in a saddle again.” I took another sip of my drink, alarmed that I was at the bottom of the glass already, and forced a smile. “Like every young girl’s horse obsession, mine ended and I grew up.”
The younger girl, Sara, had scooted over to sit by my feet. I was wondering what to do with my empty martini glass when I felt a small hand on the bare skin of my leg. “You’ve got a big boo-boo.”
I looked down at her, wide crystal blue eyes turned up at me. Her forehead was creased with worry, her lower lip quivering. As much as I knew it would hurt, I squatted in front of her so that I would be at eye level. “It’s an old boo-boo and it’s all better now.” I wondered how much I should tell her, knowing that because she was a young girl being raised around horses, I should leave out the part about how a large horse had caused my injury. Instead, I asked, “Have you seen The Wizard of Oz?”
Sara nodded emphatically.
“So you know the Tin Man. Well, the doctors put a piece of metal in my knee so that it would work better.” I tapped on it. “See? Right as rain.”
She continued to frown. “It must be rusted because you walk funny. Maybe you need some oil.”
“That’s enough, Sara,” Tucker said as he approached and lifted Sara into his arms.
I stood, my knee stiff, and caught Tucker’s gaze. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “Children . . .”
“It’s all right. She was just curious.” I looked at Sara, who’d gone back to playing with her bracelet, and noticed how awkwardly her father held her, as if he didn’t do it very often. He saw me looking and quickly set her down, her dress twisted and creased in the wrong way. Without thinking, I bent down to straighten it. As my fingers sifted through the tulle and cotton, I had a flash of memory of my grandmother braiding my hair before a big event, her worn hands pressing down my jacket and brushing off any lint.
I stood, feeling dizzy, the memory fresh, the guilt heavy. I’d never remembered her at my events, but she must have been there. Who else would there have been to make sure my riding costume was beyond reproach?
“Are you all right?” Tucker’s eyes had narrowed with concern.
I was spared from answering by Odella’s appearance at the door. “Supper’s waiting on the table. You’d best get at it before it gets cold.”
Tucker moved to assist his grandmother out of her chair and lead her from the room as Helen called for Sara to come take her hand. That left the older girl, Lucy, and me. To my surprise, Lucy walked somberly over to me and slipped her hand into mine.
She spoke quietly, each word pronounced with care as if she were used to being misunderstood. “You can lean on me, if you need to. I don’t mind. I think your knee must still hurt you and that’s why you limp. Aunt Helen’s blind and Mama was . . .” She stopped, and I willed her to continue. “What I meant to say is that we’re used to people with handicaps.”
I stared down at this young girl, amazed at her astuteness and my own ignorance. Since the accident I’d never once thought of myself as handicapped—wounded and victim, sure, but never handicapped. For the first time I saw myself as others must, and the portrait made me cringe.
The dining room with its crimson walls and ornate ceiling was dimly lit, the candles on the table throwing shadows like draped lace. The blinds were closed on the four floor-to-ceiling windows, the enormous crystal chandelier and matching wall sconces that lined the walls losing the battle to encroach upon the darkness.
Tucker sat Lillian at one end of the table and then held the chairs one by one for the rest of us before taking his place at the other end. Odella had already set all of the serving pieces and utensils on the table and we began by serving ourselves before passing the food in a clockwise motion. Tucker was to my left and Lucy on my right. I’d thought she’d need some help with some of the heavier dishes, but she seemed determined to do it all herself without any assistance.
I watched as Tucker placed the food on Helen’s plate and then Sara’s, cutting into small bitefuls everything on both plates before standing to pass the platters on to Lillian’s end of the table.
I studied him surreptitiously from the corner of my eye, watching his serious expression as he sawed a knife into meat, saw his face relax as he addressed Helen, saw the slightly bewildered looks he gave to his daughters. It made me think of the dead Susan, and where she would have fit at the table, realizing with a start that I was most likely sitting in her seat. Maybe that was why he seemed to be avoiding looking at me altogether.
Helen turned to her grandmother. “Malily, it occurred to me while I was talking with Earlene the other day that you might be able to help with some of her research.” She chewed thoughtfully on a forkful of ham. “She’s working on a project for a friend, researching all the families in the area. Anyway, we were in the cemetery looking at Grandpa Charlie’s obelisk and I realized that I really know nothing of your life here at Asphodel before you were married. Maybe if you could share some of that with her, maybe give her some of the names of people that were here at that time, that would probably be a big help.”
Helen’s sightless eyes rested on me for a moment, and although I knew she was blind, I could almost believe that not only could she see me, but she could see inside me, too. And I wondered if she realized how much she and Lucy were alike.
Lillian was on her second glass of wine and her eyes had taken on a faraway look. I figured that Helen had probably realized this and that was why she’d planned her first foray into her grandmother’s past at the dining table.
Lillian’s words were softly slurred, the ending consonants dropping off slightly as if they’d fallen down a short incline. “I was born here at Asphodel. Right up there in the bed I sleep in every night. I was probably conceived in that bed, too, but that wasn’t ever a subject a properly brought-up young lady would ever ask her parents.” A slight twitch lifted one side of her face in a gruesome smile.
She took another sip of her wine. “That was in nineteen nineteen, just a year before women won the right to vote and blacks couldn’t despite the fifteenth amendment that said they should, and well-bred women were expected to have no bigger aspirations than to get married and have children.” She paused, sifting through years of memories. “I was an only child, although it wasn’t for lack of trying. There are four graves in that cemetery of the brothers who didn’t make it past their first year. I never knew my mother. She died when I was eight and before that she was too busy crying over her dead babies.” She stared into her wine. “I suppose that’s why I have no patience for people who can’t move on.”
Lillian stopped abruptly, her gaze flickering over Tucker, who’d gone very still. She drained her glass. “Doctors weren’t sure whether it was the hard births or the grief that finally took her, but I always thought that she was relieved to go.”
Lillian sat back in her chair, holding her empty glass close, and a dreamy look settled on her face as if she’d moved on to a different place, leaving us all behind. She closed her eyes. “It was a lovely time to be alive, to be young. It was just me an
d Father, and all of my lovely, lovely horses. I rode every day. Even in the rain or when it was too cold or too hot to do much of anything. All of those lovely horses,” she said again, her words slurring.
“What about Grandpa Charlie? You’ve never told us how you met.”
Lucy and Sara were dutifully eating a bit of everything from their plates, including their vegetables, although it looked like most of Sara’s peas were rolling off her plate and onto the starched white linen tablecloth. Although she was sitting on several phone books, her chin was barely over the edge of the table, but still she persevered. She wore a look of determination and I wondered if she’d gotten that from Tucker or Susan.
Lillian picked up a piece of ham on her fork and considered it briefly before returning it to her plate. “My father introduced us. Charlie was an up-and-comer at the bank and Father thought we would be suitable for each other.”
“And you fell in love?” Helen asked.
I glanced over at Helen to see if she’d meant it to sound so hopeful.
“Charles was the most beautiful dancer. He could do all the old dances and the new dances equally well. He’d take me to parties and we’d dance all night until I’d worn a hole in my dancing shoes.”
Helen’s empty gaze was focused on her plate and I wondered if she’d also realized that Lillian hadn’t answered her question.
I cleared my throat. “Helen and I went to the family cemetery yesterday. His monument is very striking.” I waited for her eyes to find me so I could gauge how much I could press on. Her eyes were filmy and unfocused, although her expression had lost none of its haughtiness. I continued. “In the back corner, near the large oak tree, is a small gravestone, marked only by an angel. Near the moonflower vine. I’m curious as to who might be buried there and wondered if you might know.”
Her expression didn’t change, but something flickered in her eyes as her gaze settled on me. “I’m afraid I don’t. I’ve always assumed it was one of my little brothers. He could have been stillborn and never named.” Carefully, she placed her wineglass on the table and picked up her fork, her hand shaking almost imperceptibly. “It was a long time ago, you understand. My memory isn’t as good as it used to be.” She speared a bite of roasted potato and lifted it to her mouth.
“What about any friends, Malily? Did you have any close girlhood friends?” Helen asked, her face turned toward her grandmother.
I stared at Helen, wondering how she’d known which question to ask. I turned to Lillian, and waited for her to answer.
She lifted a bite of food to her mouth and forced herself to swallow. Then she dropped her fork on the plate, the metal hitting the china and echoing in the still room as we all watched her. Slowly, her hand moved to her neck, where she wore her angel charm, identical to the one I’d remembered to remove before I came, and her ruined fingers grasped it.
“No,” she said softly, and I watched as Helen stilled. “A few, perhaps. But no one in particular.” Her thin chest rose and fell as if with heavy exertion, the angel charm winking at me in the candlelight.
I watched as Helen reached for her bread roll and Tucker slid the butter dish over to her, tapping it against her plate. She took the butter knife and I watched as she cut a perfect square of butter and placed it on her plate. Her voice was studiously nonchalant, as if she’d known Lillian’s answer for the lie it was. “Are you still in contact with any of them?”
Helen faced me, her eyes meeting mine, and I had the uncanny feeling again that she could actually see me, could know why I held my breath as I waited for Lillian to speak again.
A sigh rolled out of Lillian’s bony chest, a sigh that carried with it past years, and the lost hours gone without remark, but missed in retrospect. “They are all dead now. There’s no one left who remembers . . . who remembers . . .” Her voice trailed off as her hand reached for her wineglass, then stilled when she realized it was empty.
“Who remembers what, Malily?” Tucker asked, his own utensils held aloft, suspended as we all waited for her to speak. A clock in the hallway chimed the hour. I counted eight chimes and considered how quickly the time had passed.
She stared into her empty glass, a soft smile on her face. “Him.”
“Grandpa Charlie?” Tucker asked, his silverware now resting on the edge of his plate.
Lillian straightened in her chair and looked around as if realizing where she was. She shook her head as if trying to clear it. “No,” she said. “I’m the only one who remembers. . . .”
I watched as Lillian focused her gaze on Sara, reached over, and stroked the soft skin on the back of her hand, the way a mother touches her baby’s face. A cold chill crept up my spine, needles of apprehension teasing at my nape.
“Who remembers what?” Helen leaned toward her grandmother, her gaze turned toward the window, where the feeble light of the closing day glowed beyond the closed shutters.
Lillian’s last words were barely audible, so quiet that I could almost believe that I hadn’t heard them at all.
Lillian’s face paled and Tucker stood, his chair skidding behind him. He rang a small bell that sat at the edge of her plate and took her hand. “I think this heat is getting to you, Malily. Odella’s going to come take you to your room so you can lie down, all right?”
Odella appeared carrying a tray with coffee for the adults and ice cream for the children. She looked at me. “If you wouldn’t mind taking care of this, I’ll get Miss Lillian up to her room.”
I nodded, watching with concern as Tucker helped Lillian stand, her hands shaking so badly that they couldn’t hold her cane. Tucker watched as Odella took hold of Lillian’s shoulders and gently guided her from the room.
All eyes were focused on me as I turned to the dessert tray and began pouring coffee, Lillian’s words swimming in and out of my head like the tide, settling and disturbing sediment at the same time. The truth, she had said. And I remembered the way she’d touched Sara’s hand, and the blue baby’s sweater and blanket I’d found in my grandmother’s house, how Lillian had lied about not having any particular childhood friends. But I’d heard her say The truth. And I wondered if Lillian’s truth could be the spray of light I needed to shine into the darkest corners of my own grandmother’s past.
CHAPTER 10
“Aren’t you having anything?” Helen asked, turning her face to Earlene. “I can’t hear your cup against its saucer. Aren’t you having any coffee?”
“No. I . . . I have trouble sleeping. I try not to drink caffeine too late in the day. Can I get you any sugar or cream?”
Helen shook her head. “No, thank you. I take a teaspoon of sugar but Tucker’s already taken care of that for me.” She reached over and patted his arm, not sure if she was reassuring herself or him.
“Will she be all right?”
Helen didn’t have to ask who Earlene was talking about. “Malily’s a tough old bird—and I don’t mean that disrespectfully. She’d probably even agree. I think it would take a strong wind to blow her off her feet. Did she say anything that you might find useful for your research?”
There was a brief pause before Earlene answered. “I’m not sure. I’ll go home and make notes and then when I’m doing research something might come up that will reference something she said. Then I’ll know, but not before.”
Helen stirred her coffee thoughtfully. “Will you keep me posted on anything you find? I’ve always wanted to do what you’re doing, digging into the past. There’s something about not knowing your own history that’s a bit bewildering.”
Earlene’s hands rubbed against the tablecloth, as if they were suddenly nervous at finding themselves with nothing else to do. “It’s a bit like drifting in a boat on the ocean without an anchor.” Her words were spoken quietly, as if she wasn’t sure she wanted anyone else to hear them.
Helen sat back in her chair, feeling her brother watching her as she listened to the girls scraping the ice cream from their bowls. She felt an odd connection with this
quiet, sad woman. Maybe it was because they were both essentially motherless, set adrift without their stories to guide them. Or maybe it was because Helen sensed that they were both traveling in a world that had been darkened by events they’d had no control over.
Helen leaned toward Earlene. “Before you leave, I have something to give you that might help you with your research.”
“Helen.” Tucker’s voice held a note of warning.
“Just some papers and family letters,Tuck. Everything else I gave to Malily when I cleaned up the cottage.”
“I just don’t want . . .” His voice faded, and she pictured him indicating Earlene.
“I know,” she reassured him. “It’ll be fine.”
She felt her brother relax back into his chair, his breathing slowed. When he spoke again, his words were directed at their guest. “So you ride?”
“I used to.” Earlene’s voice held a note of wariness and Helen wondered if Tucker could hear it, too.
“She told us she fell off of her horse, remember, Daddy? That’s why she doesn’t ride anymore.” Sara’s voice was raised, but they’d all grown used to her conversations that sounded a lot like shouting contests. Helen supposed that was what happened when you were the youngest and had to fight to be heard. The little girl continued. “Malily always says that the best thing to do when you fall off is to get right back up again. ’Else you forget the reason you used to get up on the horse in the first place.” Sara spoke with a mouth full of ice cream, but Helen didn’t correct her. She was too interested in hearing what Earlene would say.
She could sense Earlene forcing a smile. “Yes, I suppose your grandmother is right.” Glass clinked and Helen pictured Earlene taking a drink from her water glass. “But I . . . well, I guess I just figured I’d ridden long enough and that it was time to try something else.”
