by Karen White
Chloe’s face underwent a contortion as she fought between scowling and smiling. In the end, she took the last bite of her banana so she couldn’t do either. I speared her with a look, and with her mouth full she said, “Thank you, sir.”
I turned back to making breakfast so I wouldn’t roll my eyes at both of them. “You’re early,” I said.
“I know. But I ran out of coffee and thought I could grab a cup here.”
I nodded toward the coffeemaker. “Help yourself. I think my head might spin off my shoulders if I have another.” I turned toward my mother. “Carol Lynne, would you like a cup?”
She looked at me with vacant eyes. “Do I like coffee?”
I stared back at her, and I imagined my eyes were as vacant as hers. “I don’t know,” I said truthfully. “Why don’t I get you both some orange juice?”
Tripp sat down at the table, sliding the newspapers out of the way so he could put down his mug.
“Tripp, if you don’t mind, could you move those papers off the table? They’re from the archives, and Mrs. Shipley will probably have me arrested if anything happens to them.”
“Sure.” He pushed back his chair, but before he could grab them, my mother noticed the one I’d left on top, opened to the studio photograph of Adelaide and Bootsie.
“Pretty baby,” she said, pointing at Bootsie, unaware that she was pointing at her own mother.
I poured the whisked egg whites and red pepper with a little bit of low-fat cheese into a bowl and began mixing it. Carrying it over to the table while I stirred, I looked down at the photograph. “Yes, she was.”
Carol Lynne continued staring at the photo, tilting her head to the side as her finger drifted up toward the necklace Adelaide wore, and the ring hanging down from the chain in the middle of her chest.
“That’s pretty, too,” she said.
The spoon stilled in my hand as I watched her finger continue to tap the photo. “Have you seen it before?”
Tap-tap. “Oh, yes. Of course.”
My eyes met Tripp’s over the top of my mother’s head. “Where? Where did you see it?”
Her finger stopped. “I wasn’t supposed to. I was snooping in her room and she found me and told me I needed to give it back, because it was a secret.”
“Who said it was a secret?” I asked gently, almost afraid to breathe.
She shook her head. “She said she was good at keeping secrets.”
Tripp placed a gentle hand on her arm. “Who is, Carol Lynne? Who said they were good at keeping secrets?”
She leaned back in her chair, her face expressionless, as if she were lost in concentration. Finally, she smiled up at us, and we all seemed to hold our collective breath. “I think I’m hungry. Is it time to eat?”
I closed my eyes for a moment, wishing I knew how much of my mother’s memories was real and how much was just her imagination. “Sure. I’ll have your breakfast ready for you in just a minute.”
I poured the contents of the bowl into the warmed pan, the loud sizzling noise almost obliterating the sound of my own disappointment.
The sun had just begun its descent by the time we climbed back into Tripp’s truck at Horseshoe Lake, the large cooler in the bed of the truck conspicuously empty of any catfish.
Chloe hadn’t known to question the absence of rods or reels when she and the dog had climbed into the truck, nor had any idea what was in store for her when Tripp began wading into the brown waters of the lake without goggles and told her to watch him so she’d know what to do.
It was only after he’d disappeared into the opaque water and emerged a little bit later with a catfish in his hands that she understood. And quickly began screaming and running out of the water faster than I’d ever seen her move. With a shrug Tripp had gone to his cooler and opened it, only to be stopped by new shrieks from Chloe.
“But if you put him on that ice without any water, he’ll die!”
Tripp tried to look as sympathetic as he could with a flapping catfish in his hands. “Sweetheart, that’s kind of the point.”
A look of horror passed over her face, and I had visions of her screaming, “Fish murderer!” and scaring away the bass and other fish that the men on a nearby dock were hoping to attract to their baited lines.
He’d returned the catfish to his home in the water, and instead of fishing we’d had a long picnic that I’d brought with us, then did a little hiking along the shore of the lake and a lot of dock sitting, spotting fish we weren’t allowed to catch. And, despite generously slathering on the sunscreen, we all ended up with pink noses and cheeks, and I knew if I looked in a mirror I’d find new freckles. I couldn’t remember a time when I’d been so relaxed, or had so much fun doing absolutely nothing, or seen Chloe in such a prolonged pleasant mood. It had all been worth a few freckles.
The truck stopped in the front drive under the shade of an oak tree, and we both looked into the backseat, where Chloe slept soundly, her head on top of the dog like a pillow. The dog lifted his head to look at us, then lay back down, content to be a pillow as long as Chloe needed him.
“She looks like an angel,” Tripp whispered.
“Hard to believe, but yeah, she does. Makes me not want to wake her.”
“I’m in no hurry to get home. I could hang out here a bit if you want.”
“Sure. And you might as well stay for supper. I’ll go in and grab a couple of beers and let Cora know. I’ll meet you on the porch.”
I quietly let myself out of the truck while Tripp lowered all of the windows, allowing in a cool breeze that had begun blowing from the west.
He was waiting for me when I returned and handed him a beer, his attention focused on a black swirl of birds that shifted from tree to tree like an impatient child and then took off over the house. “Come on,” he said, stepping off the porch steps and heading around the corner toward the back of the house and to the prone cypress tree.
The birds—crows, I could see now—had settled in the old limbs, calling to one another, mocking us. “I’ve never seen crows behave like that. Sparrows, sure, but not crows,” he said, taking a long pull from his bottle. He turned to me. “You know that old nursery rhyme, right? ‘One crow for sorrow, two for mirth’?”
“Of course. Mathilda taught it to me when I was little. There are too many to count, though, and I’m glad. I don’t need a bunch of crows to tell me things look bad.”
“Do they?” he asked quietly.
I took a drink from my beer, thinking. “Things don’t seem as bad as when I first arrived, but I don’t feel like I’ve won the lottery, either.”
“You’re off your pills,” he said, watching the crows begin to lift their wings.
For now, I thought. “Yeah. And I’ve got Chloe for a couple more weeks. That’s all good. But my mother still can’t remember things, and now I’ll never know why she kept leaving.”
“She came back, though. For good. Doesn’t that count for something?”
I shook my head. “It was too late.”
He didn’t say anything and I sighed. “It was,” I said again for emphasis.
“I didn’t argue.”
I took another drink from my bottle. “You didn’t have to. I could hear your disapproval in your silence.”
He laughed softly. “I deal with enough dead people to know that it’s only too late once you’re in the ground.”
I frowned, thinking of Adelaide in the roots of the tree. “I wish Bootsie had known what had happened to her mother. That she didn’t leave her on purpose.”
“Do you think that would have changed anything?”
I thought hard, believing that the answer should be a lot simpler than it was. “Of course. If I understood why my mother left me, I think I’d be a different person today.”
He watched me carefully, and I thought for a moment that
it would be another one of his silences. Instead he said, “Sure, you’d be different. But I don’t think you’d be better. An easy life makes for very boring people.”
The birds settled onto their limbs, the cawing silenced by a rustling of black wings. I drained my bottle, then stared down at the empty hole where Adelaide had been for all those years. “I dream about her. Most nights. Like she wants to tell me something. And then other times I dream that I’m in the hole and somebody’s shoveling dirt on top of me. Like I’m being buried alive.”
Tripp drained his own bottle. “Do you want me to interpret that, or can you figure it out on your own?”
He grinned, and before I could tell him that he didn’t know the first thing about me, he leaned over and kissed me. His lips tasted of cold beer and warm sunshine, and we seemed to fit together perfectly, our lips meeting with just a tilt of our heads. I wondered why I’d never noticed it before. I moved closer, liking it, wanting more, pressing myself into him, touching him, running my hand through his thick hair. I heard his empty bottle drop to the ground and then both of his arms were around me, his hands stroking my back, then moving up until he cupped my face like a treasure.
This is Tripp. I ignored the little voice in my head, the rest of me enjoying the kisses too much to pay any attention. This is Tripp. The voice came again, louder this time, and my eyes popped open as if to verify that I’d heard correctly.
I stepped back, seeing the green specks in his eyes that I’d always known were there but never bothered to really notice. “What are we doing?”
I watched half of his mouth turn up. “I don’t know what you call it in California, but here in Mississippi we call it kissing.”
“You know what I mean,” I said, torn between wiping off his kisses with my arm or never washing my face ever again. “You. And me. It just . . .”
“It just what?” he asked, his voice innocent-sounding. As if he were unaware of how wrong it was for the two of us to be kissing.
I tried to think of all the reasons I’d given him while growing up, but none of them seemed to fit anymore. “Because I’m not the girl I used to be. I haven’t been her for a long time.”
We stared at each other in the blue light of the coming evening, neither of us saying anything.
Finally, he said, “I know that, Vivi. You’re nothing like that girl I used to know. The girl I knew I wanted to marry the first time I saw her. The girl who strutted around in her bikini in front of me because she didn’t think it mattered, and who went with me to all the dances so she could flirt with all the other boys. The girl who was so hell-bent on leaving this place that she didn’t bother to say good-bye to the people who loved her most. You’re right, Vivi. I don’t see that girl anymore.”
I stared at him, wanting to cry, wanting to grieve for somebody we both had once known. To say a eulogy for a girl I was glad was gone.
“Great,” I forced out. “Glad we’re on the same page.” I began walking back toward the house, unable to name the emotions that I was finally allowing myself to feel.
A loud fluttering erupted from the branches behind me, and I looked back in time to see the cloud of black crows emerge from the dead tree, then begin their erratic path toward the fields.
“You didn’t let me finish, Vivi,” Tripp called after me, and I began to walk faster. “I wanted to say that I’m glad that girl is gone. Because I like the new Vivi a whole lot more.”
I kept walking without turning around, my response the slamming of the screen door.
Chapter 39
Carol Lynne Walker Moise
INDIAN MOUND, MISSISSIPPI
MAY 2002
Dear Diary,
I almost died five months ago. From an overdose, same as Michael. I remembered how peaceful he’d looked and I think that’s why for a long time I didn’t think I’d mind if I died. But I was found in time and taken to the hospital. I just kept thinking about Tommy and Vivien and that’s when I knew I didn’t want to die. I had two reasons to live, and I’d never seen it that way before. Maybe it’s only when we’re faced with losing everything that we finally get to see what we’ve had all along. I remembered what Mathilda had said about chasing ghosts, and when I was lying in that hospital bed fighting for the life I never valued, I finally understood. I’ve spent so much time looking for something more, and bigger, and better, that I never stopped to see how much I already had.
So now I’m home for good, and I’m clean and finally ready to stay that way. Tommy was the first out of the house, not running—because he’s a mature college grad of twenty-six—but his hug was just as big as when he was a little boy. Bootsie and Mathilda were next, moving a lot more slowly than when I’d seen them last. Vivien stayed in her room, and I was okay with that. I understand; I do. And I will wait as long as it takes until she’s ready to forgive me and let me be the mother I want to be, and that she needs me to be.
I looked at the steps, waiting for Emmett and Cotton, somehow knowing that I’d never see them coming out to greet me again. I suppose human nature makes us believe that those we love will be around forever, or at least long enough for us to tell them how much they mean to us. That’s something else I want to teach my children.
I thought of Emmett’s hatbox, and how it had been so important for him to give it to me when he died. But Bootsie didn’t know what had happened to it, thinking it might have been lost during the store’s move from downtown to Tommy’s new shop in the shed. I can’t help but wonder if he’d left some message there for me, and if I’ll ever find out what it was. I asked Mathilda, but she just shook her head. I remembered what she’d told me all those years ago when I’d been snooping in her room and taken something that belonged to her. When she asked for it back, I told her not to tell Bootsie. And she said not to worry, because she was good at keeping secrets. So I guess I’ll never know. Or maybe Mathilda’s just waiting until it’s the right time for me to learn something new.
I’ve been watching Vivien garden, taking over for Bootsie, whose knees and back bother her too much for her to do any kneeling or lifting. Vivien never liked getting her hands in the dirt, but now that she sees Bootsie needs her, she doesn’t seem to mind. She’s so nurturing and gentle, making sure all of her plants are strong and healthy. I know she doesn’t think so now, but she’ll be a wonderful mother one day.
This will be my last diary entry. I started it when I was seventeen and I think that it’s time to put it away. I’ve been a child up until now, but it’s time—I need to be an adult. I cleaned up my room, packing up books and childish mementos of a person I don’t want to remember, and put the box in the attic. While I was up there, I thought it would be a good place to store this diary. Maybe Vivien and I can look at it together sometime, and maybe she will finally understand all that I was never able to tell her.
When I came down from the attic stairs to get the diary, Mathilda was waiting for me, and she asked me if I was done chasing ghosts. I told her I was, and that I wished it hadn’t taken me so long to figure out what she’d meant. I guess we all figure things out in our own time. Maybe that’s why I didn’t die out there in California—because I still had so much to learn. I told the Kellys that I had to get back to Mississippi to teach my children what I’d learned so that they wouldn’t make the same mistakes I have. Especially my baby girl. She’s the one I’ve hurt the most, I think. And I will spend the rest of my life trying to make it up to her. If she’ll let me.
Mathilda laughed in that way she has that’s loving and tender but tells you that you’re being foolish, too. Then she said that Tommy and Vivien will have their own way of learning things, and in their own time, and that I have to do what all mothers have done since the beginning of time: wait. As long as it takes. And, when they’re finished chasing their own ghosts, be there to welcome them home.
Chapter 40
Adelaide Walker Bodine Richmond
INDIAN MOUND, MISSISSIPPI
FEBRUARY 1927
The rains continued, swelling the river’s banks to record levels in Louisiana, Arkansas, and Mississippi. But the levees held, and the engineers expressed confidence that modern technology could defy Mother Nature. I could only think that the engineers should have talked to more delta farmers who’d been fighting the river for generations, and have understood that the river has eternally sought its home in the sea, regardless of the boundaries humans have made. Uncle Joe kept talking about the Titanic, and how it had been created by expert engineers, too, and he started making evacuation plans for his family and field-workers.
Bootsie continued to grow and thrive, my love for her stronger each day. She could even make John laugh, something for which I was grateful. He’d come home each day, his face drawn and his eyes empty, with an anger surging under his skin that could be erased with only a look at our smiling girl.
He was working longer and longer hours, and I was never sure if he was at the jewelry store or making his rounds for Mr. Berlini, whose territory had grown to include neighboring LeFlore County and parts of Arkansas. And the more he worked, the angrier he became. I tried to remind him that this was temporary, that he was thinking of our well-being and doing what was right for his family. But my words drowned in his well of anger and frustration toward a situation that was no longer in his control to manage or change.
On another typical rainy Friday night, I called Sarah Beth—who was back in Indian Mound on a rare trip home from New Orleans—and asked her to come over and keep me company. Mathilda had already put Bootsie to bed, and Aunt Louise and Uncle Joe had gone to a community meeting to discuss emergency preparedness in case the levees broke. Willie hadn’t come home after work, and I assumed he’d gone to one of his political meetings. I knew in the morning I’d read about a man tarred and feathered or horsewhipped, or a disappearance. The Klan made a big show of their financial donations to churches and hospitals, but their vigilante justice was kept from the newspapers, their deeds known only to those they wanted to warn. I needed to tell Uncle Joe what his son was involved with, because my uncle was a man who’d never shown any tolerance for bigotry of any kind, but John held me back, saying Uncle Joe had other things to worry about right now. When the rain finally stopped, I’d have time then.
