The Lost Hours

by Karen White

  Papa also taught me to drive his Ford. It was scary at first, but now I love it and I do think I’m a better driver than he is (although I could never tell him because it would hurt his feelings). Papa said that now I’m all grown-up and taking on new responsibilities, I should start thinking about a husband and family. I didn’t answer him. I think it’s because the first thought I had was, Why I would want to settle down so soon after finding my freedom for the first time?

  I’m putting a picture in the scrapbook of me behind the wheel of Papa’s car. Paul Morton, the thirteen-year-old son of Papa’s lawyer, took the picture of me and gave it to me as a gift. Papa said the boy is sweet on me and I laughed because he’s still just a child.

  P.S. I’m adding a charm of a Model T to Lola.

  I sat up at the mention of Paul Morton’s name. He had said he’d known my grandmother, but that was all. I smiled to myself, thinking of old Mr. Morton as a young boy with a secret crush on a girl five years older than himself and wondering why he hadn’t mentioned it to me.

  I turned back to the scrapbook pages and continued to read. I skimmed over the entry from 1935, a simple laundry list of Annabelle’s household chores and her duties with her father, quickly turning the page in the hope that her next entry might be more interesting. I wasn’t disappointed.

  January 15, 1936

  Tonight is a night of celebration. Thurgood Marshall, a lawyer for the NAACP, has successfully won his case to admit a black student into the University of Maryland Law School. Freddie told me it would happen and he’s so persuasive that I think that even I believed it a little. But now it’s fact, and the course of public education in this country is bound to change.

  Papa said that there might be trouble brewing in the streets tonight and that I should stay home. I didn’t want him to worry, so Josie and I snuck out of my window with Freddie’s help and we went to an establishment on West Bay Street that I knew Papa wouldn’t approve of, regardless of his liberal views of society. I was the only white woman, but I felt safe and protected by Freddie, who commands a great deal of respect wherever he goes. I had my first taste of whiskey (Papa definitely wouldn’t approve!) and I almost swooned, which made Freddie laugh and that alone was worth the embarrassment of being such an ingenue. He doesn’t laugh a lot, and it always makes the world a whole lot brighter when he does.

  Josie ended up singing on the bar where some of Freddie’s friends had lifted her and I was amazed again at what a presence she had and what an incredibly beautiful voice. She’s been talking a lot about moving to a northern city, where there are more opportunities for women of color. I love her like a sister, but I can’t be selfish and demand she stay with me. She tells me that she’s not serious, that even the famed Josephine Baker was called a “Negro wench” in the New York Times, and she would starve or worse if she left Savannah. But I think she should follow her dreams, wherever they might lead. I confided in her something I’ve never told anyone: that I want to be a doctor like my father. I have no idea how I’ll accomplish getting into medical school, but if Josie has the courage to pursue her singing, maybe I can do this, too.

  I spend a little bit of every day in my garden. Josie’s mother, Justine, has officially handed it over to me, putting me in charge of the herbs and vegetables that she uses in the kitchen in addition to my beautiful blooms. She says I have a way with flowers, that all I have to do is touch dry earth and something beautiful springs from it and that my mother was the same way. It makes me feel close to the mother I barely knew, imagining her working by my side as I dig holes for bulbs or tie back vines that have become unruly. Justine told me that my mother liked her garden a little wild, so I’ve let a section of lantana go without pruning, and I like the way it makes its way to the back porch—like a reminder that even flowers have their own wild nature if left to themselves. My garden is a bit like my soul, I think; its blooms like refreshing rain to my spirit. I’ll take a few rose clippings to Lillian next time I see her as a sort of peace offering for her own garden, a permanent tie between us and the gardens of our hearts.

  I haven’t been up to Asphodel Meadows in over a month. Lillian hasn’t written or called—she says she doesn’t have time because she’s too busy with her social life and her horses. I know there’s something else, but she won’t admit to it. It doesn’t matter—she’s the sister of my heart and I forgive her for everything. Always.

  Her new horses aren’t the pure breeds she was used to, but instead horses whose owners have abandoned them because they could barely feed themselves, let alone an animal. She’s acquired four so far and her father says that feeding them will bring them all to ruin, but Lillian’s being allowed to keep them.

  Freddie is still working at Asphodel and says he’ll take me this weekend to see Lillian and to ride. It’s been so long and I wonder if my restlessness is because I haven’t ridden Lola Grace in so long, or if it’s because of something else I feel shimmering on my horizon. Maybe when I’m at Asphodel with Lillian, Josie, and Freddie this feeling will go away as I sink back into the comfort of how it was when we were younger. But I’m afraid something has changed for all of us; maybe it’s just because we’re older now. Or maybe it’s something else entirely.

  I wore Lola to the celebration party, and the charm I added was a dove, which symbolizes peace—a hopeful symbol that all Americans seeking education shouldn’t be denied.And that the rumblings of war in Europe that Papa is always grumbling about won’t touch us here.

  Yet when I turn off my light at night, the restlessness returns like a persistent insect, pecking at me until I finally manage to fall asleep.

  I stared at the picture of my grandmother standing in front of an old black sedan next to an older man I imagined to be her father. She was holding a large black doctor’s bag and smiling a secret smile that made me think of her dream to be a doctor.

  I pushed the scrapbook pages away from me, their splayed position like that of a dead bird, then gathered the blanket and sweater in my hands, burying my face in their softness. My grandmother had wanted to be a doctor. I felt as if I stood before a locked room and I couldn’t shake the impression that Lillian held the key high above my head, where I couldn’t quite reach it.

  And yet I felt no compunction to continue reading. I was like a person stumbling down a hill trying to stop my descent, knowing that reaching the bottom would hurt. I knew how my grandmother’s story ended; but I didn’t know the part in between that had turned an independent-minded young woman who loved horses and wanted to be a doctor into the thin shade of a person I had known. There was a large part of me that didn’t want to know the truth, didn’t want to see the part of her that might be a part of me, too.

  Frustrated, I slid my chair back and stood. After circling the living room and kitchen several times, I left the cottage, not really sure where I was heading.

  Helen sat on the ledge at the bottom of the obelisk and took another drag from her cigarette. She’d taken to smoking in places where the children couldn’t find her, their disapproval taking all of the fun out of smoking. Mardi crouched beside her as if making sure she wouldn’t slip off the narrow ledge while her heels sank into the soft earth around her grandfather’s grave.

  The canvas she’d been working on sat tucked behind the obelisk, out of the sun. She’d been painting Earlene, using Tucker’s description, seeing her clearly now in her mind and hoping she’d managed to at least convey part of it onto canvas. She wasn’t sure if she was done, and would wait a while before calling Tucker to come and retrieve her and her paints.

  Helen heard the approaching uneven footsteps before Mardi sat up at attention and let out a bark of warning. “Earlene?”

  The sound of crunching leaves became louder. “Is my limp really that bad?” Earlene’s voice sounded more amused than annoyed.

  “Just distinctive,” Helen assured her. “You know, maybe you should talk to Emily about exercises you could be doing that might lessen your limp. She’s studying
to be a physical therapist.”

  Earlene’s footsteps stopped abruptly in front of Helen. “I don’t need fixing.”

  Helen smiled, then took another drag from her cigarette. “Oh, we all need fixing.”

  Earlene leaned against the ledge. “You shouldn’t smoke; it’s really bad for you.”

  “I was blinded by measles as a child. I figure lightning has already struck me once—it’s not going to strike me again.”

  Silence fell on the cemetery, the only sound that of the wind in the trees and a small sigh from Earlene.

  “I used to think the same thing. When my parents died I thought I’d already lived through the worst thing that could happen to me. But I was wrong.”

  “You had your accident on the horse.”

  “Yes.”

  “And now you think fate’s gunning for you, waiting to trip you up again.” Helen took a long drag from her cigarette, waiting for her words to sink in. “I don’t believe life works that way. Helps me to get out of bed each morning, knowing that I’ve got more to look forward to than dread.”

  Helen took another drag. “But yes, I know that smoking’s bad for me. The girls keep telling me that and eventually I’ll quit. I’m just enjoying it too much right now.” Helen blew out smoke away from Earlene. “How’s your research going?”

  “Frustrating. The more I find out, the more I don’t know. I know all the puzzle pieces fit together, but I just can’t see how.”

  “Like they’re all white pieces with no picture to show you how they fit.”

  There was a short pause before Earlene answered, “Exactly.”

  “Was the family tree Susan made helpful to you at all?” She heard a squirrel run through leaves a second before Mardi bolted from her side.

  Earlene’s words sounded measured. “Not yet. I plugged all the names and dates into my software, so at least I’ve got them for reference. I also found the burial records for all of the plots in this cemetery, and I was able cross-reference each grave with a name on the chart. Except for one. The small angel marker in the corner without any inscription. There’s nobody in the Harrington-Ross family tree who’s not accounted for. I’m beginning to think it’s not a marker at all.”

  Mardi returned to Helen’s side and bumped his head against her leg. She reached down and took the stick from his mouth and threw it in the direction of the small angel, listening as the dog raced toward it.

  “Oh, there’s definitely something buried beneath it.”

  She felt Earlene looking at her. “How do you know?”

  Helen gave a small laugh. “I’m almost too ashamed to tell you, but I figure it was long ago enough that I can blame it on my youth. But once, when Tucker and I were still kids and full of mischief, we wanted to find out what was under that little angel. I guess we were curious because there wasn’t a name or anything on it like the rest of the markers in the cemetery. We made a bet—I thought it would be dog bones but Tucker thought there was buried pirate treasure. So we each took a shovel from the gardening shed and began digging.”

  Helen pictured Earlene holding her breath. “And what did you find?”

  Helen rolled the cigarette between her fingers, remembering the smell of damp earth and rotting leaves. “It was some kind of cloth—Tucker thought it might be a rotting blanket, but it was hard to tell because it looked like it had been there for a long time. I guess we were both spooked because we didn’t stick around to find out more. We dropped the shovels and ran away screaming. Our mama caught up with us and she was so angry over what we’d done that I thought she might knock us into next week.”

  “So what happened?”

  “She made us swear that we’d never desecrate a grave again and then she marched us over to the groundskeeper and we had to help him refill the hole and replace the grass. I think it was almost a year before either one of us stepped foot in the cemetery again.”

  Earlene’s voice sounded distant, as if she’d turned her head away to face the lonely angel marker in the corner of the cemetery. “Did you ever ask Malily or your mother about it?”

  Helen thought back for a moment, remembering. “My mother didn’t know anything about it, and made it clear she had no interest in knowing. She was all about saving the world, oblivious to what needed saving in her own backyard. But Malily—well, I did ask her once.”

  “And what did she say?” Earlene was facing her again, the soft scent of her perfume bridging the space between then.

  “That she didn’t know. But I think she was lying.” She turned her face up to Earlene. “I’ve found flowers on it, and always in the late summertime. Like there’s an anniversary being remembered.”

  “Interesting,” Earlene said slowly. “I suppose I’ll have to dig a little deeper in the archives. But I don’t think I could be persuaded to dig up a grave.”

  Helen recognized Earlene’s attempt to lighten the conversation and smiled in response. “Have you found out anything else that’s interesting?”

  “The only other thing that really struck me was that your uncle was born nine months to the day after your grandparents’ wedding.”

  Helen smiled to herself. “Are you suggesting my grandmother was less than pure on her wedding night?”

  “Or just really fertile.” Earlene shifted her position on the ledge. “Do you remember your grandfather Charlie? And his relationship with Lillian?”

  Helen jerked her head in Earlene’s direction. “Your friend—what was her name, Lola?—needs that kind of information?”

  “My friend . . . ? Oh, no . . . I’m just curious, that’s all. I’m sorry if I’m getting too personal.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Digging up information is probably just an occupational hazard for you. And I don’t mind answering. I’ll admit that it’s been refreshing to have you here at Asphodel and to have someone to talk to about things not related to horses or flowers.”

  Helen took a long draw on her cigarette. “But in answer to your question, yes, I knew my grandpa Charlie. I was twenty when he died. He really loved Malily. And I’m pretty sure she loved him, too. Still . . .”

  “What?”

  Helen listened as Mardi began to prowl the perimeter of the fence, scattering squirrels and leaves as he approached. “My grandmother has finally decided to share her girlhood scrapbook with me. One of the parts she read to me is when she’s seventeen years old and her father is throwing her a come-out ball. She mentions my grandfather being a great dancer and dancing with him. She wrote that her father was wasting his time throwing her a ball to find a husband because she’d already fallen in love.”

  “With your grandfather.”

  Helen nodded. “Of course. Although she never said it, that’s what I was led to believe from everything else she wrote.”

  Earlene stood, her feet soft against the pine needles and leaves that lay scattered on the ground, like accessories for the dead. “Did you ask her to clarify?”

  Helen laughed. “In case you hadn’t noticed, my grandmother isn’t the sort of person who likes being questioned about anything. She charts her course and plows right on through, oblivious to who she might accidentally roll over, and don’t ask her to make any apologies or explain herself. She claims that she’s survived the Depression, a World War, and the loss of a husband and child, and she’s doing just fine, thank you very much. I was just so happy to be asked to share her scrapbook that I didn’t really want to say anything.”

  Helen held up her hand. “Don’t get me wrong. I love my grandmother. I’ve never doubted that she loves me, and I owe her a great deal. She’s the one who’s made sure I have as normal a life as possible and don’t feel sorry for myself. She planted that garden for me and painted my bedroom exactly as I wanted it. But still . . .” She paused, not sure what she wanted to say next.

  “But still . . . ?”

  Helen thought of the portrait she’d made of Earlene, of a woman with large eyes who always seemed to be searching for something tha
t was just beyond her grasp, like a fistful of wind. Helen had left the background blank, unsure of what setting to place Earlene in. But from what she already knew about Earlene, she wouldn’t place her inside at a desk poring over somebody else’s family tree. The Earlene she wanted to know was the girl who’d been brave enough to risk whatever it was that had caused the scars on her knees. The type of girl Helen had once imagined herself to be.

  She took a deep breath, deciding to share confidences, hoping Earlene would give some of herself away, too. “I don’t feel as if I really know her. There’s a huge part of her life I know nothing about. And I’m pretty sure it was intentional. Until now.” Helen smashed the end of her cigarette into the stone base, then left the stub on the ledge. “She received news a few months ago that an old friend had died. Even though she hadn’t seen this friend in a very long time, it seemed to make her face her own mortality. Like she could suddenly count the hours she had left. And those she hadn’t used.”

  Earlene took a few deliberate breaths. “Your grandmother’s friend—that would be Annabelle, right? Is she in your grandmother’s scrapbook?”

  Helen nodded. “Yes. Quite a bit.”

  Earlene was silent for a moment. “I’d like to see her scrapbook. Do you think she’d let me?”

  Helen shook her head. “No, she wouldn’t. My grandmother has only chosen to share it with my mother and Susan and now me. I think there’s something in her past that conflicts with her idea of who she believes herself to be—the persona she’s built around herself. She’s already failed twice in her attempt to receive validation. And I think the only reason why she’s chosen me now is because she knows her time is short and there’s no one else.”