by Karen White
I sat down next to her. She didn’t move away, but she didn’t acknowledge me, either.
“I’ll take good care of your garden,” I ventured. “And the dog. I’ll keep him here, but that means we’re going to have to come up with a name for him.”
She kept staring down the drive, as if willing a taxi to appear so she could leave.
“I thought we’d call him Cotton Two, after Tommy’s dog. Would you like that?”
She didn’t answer, just squinted into the morning sun.
I wanted to tell her that what she’d heard that night hadn’t been true, that what I really wanted was to talk her dad into letting her stay. But I knew she wouldn’t believe me, even if she stayed long enough to hear everything I wanted to say. From my brief experience with children, they learned by what they saw adults do, not what they said. I’d been doomed before I’d even opened my mouth.
As if it were conjured, I saw dust from an approaching car, and then a limo emerging from the alley of trees into the circular drive before stopping behind Tripp’s truck.
“Who’s that?” I said, my chest constricting.
“My dad. I told him I didn’t want to sit in a car with you for two hours, so he said he’d come get me.”
I wanted to cry. I’d pictured those two hours alone with her as the time I needed to explain things. To tell her I wanted her to stay. That I thought my heart would break if she left without plans to come back. That I’d made mistakes that I didn’t want to be permanent. But that opportunity was now gone.
As the limo pulled up, the front door opened and my mother and Tripp came out onto the porch. The driver turned off the engine and opened the windows, anticipating being there for a while, then opened a back door of the limo. I watched as Mark exited the backseat and then came around to the other side to help out what looked to be a human Barbie, with large pink sunglasses that stood out against her suntan and a silk scarf tied in her hair. She didn’t look much older than Chloe.
“Hello, Chloe,” Mark said. He gave her a perfunctory hug while she stood motionless.
“Hello, Chloe,” the Barbie doll said, smiling with frosted lips.
The limo driver approached and put Chloe’s suitcase in the trunk while Mark turned his focus on me. “Hello, Vivien.” He studied me for a moment before tugging at his two shirt pockets. “Looks like you could use a little lift.”
I heard heavy footsteps behind me and had a horrible feeling that Tripp was about to punch Mark in the face. Instead, he was holding out his hand to shake. “Hello, Mark. I’m Tripp Montgomery. Pleased to finally meet you.”
Mark accepted the offered hand but frowned up at Tripp. “Are you the Tripp Montgomery who’s been sending me notes with the lab reports?”
“The very same. I hope you enjoyed all the little extras I included on those reports.” He smiled widely, and even I had to admit he looked like a redneck who by some miracle of fate had kept all of his teeth.
Carol Lynne, in her Jackie O costume, came down the steps, her arms held wide. “Welcome to my home. Won’t you come in and have some tea?”
The dog, who’d been frantically pacing as if he knew he was about to be separated from Chloe, began growling at Mark. Tiffany, with a protective hand over her abdomen, ran to the limo and slammed the door.
“Get that mutt away from me and my wife,” he said, and I hoped Chloe hadn’t noticed that he’d omitted her name.
“That’s Cotton Two,” she said. “He’s mine. Maybe he can come live with us. . . .”
The dog continued to growl at Mark, showing his teeth, and Tripp had to step forward to take him by the collar.
“That dog’s not coming within two feet of me or my family,” he said.
“Come on in,” Carol Lynne said, as if this were a normal visit and she was the grand hostess, standing on the porch in her high heels and motioning for everybody to join her.
Mark looked at her as if he’d just entered a circus tent. He rubbed his hands together. “Is that all your stuff, Chloe? If that’s it, go ahead and get in the car. Maybe we can catch an earlier flight.”
She began walking toward the limo, then turned around. I took a step forward before I realized that she was running toward my mother to hug her.
“Where are you going, JoEllen? Are you coming back soon?”
“I don’t think so,” Chloe said, her words full of tears. “Thanks for teaching me how to French-braid my hair.”
“You’re so welcome,” Carol Lynne replied with a smile, as if she’d remembered doing so. As if she remembered teaching me the same thing when I was twelve.
“Chloe,” I called, stepping toward her, but she ignored me, turning briefly to offer a wobbling smile at Tripp before getting into the limo.
“Nice job,” Mark said. “She couldn’t even take two months with you.”
I opened my mouth, wanting to tell him that the only reason he’d bothered to drive two hours to pick her up was to make me look bad. But it didn’t matter. He’d won. Again.
“Let me know if you need another prescription for your happy pills. I can have my office call it in to your nearest drugstore. Assuming they have them here.”
I had to remember to breathe so I wouldn’t pass out in the dirt as I watched Chloe turn her head away from the open window.
“That’s it?” Tripp said softly. “You’re just going to let her go?”
Breathe. Breathe. The engine started, and I heard the driver shift the gear into drive.
“Wait,” I shouted. “You forgot your gardening journal.” I ran to the porch and grabbed it, shoving it through the window for Chloe.
She turned away. “I don’t need it. I don’t have a garden.”
I bent my head so she couldn’t see me cry, and the limo started forward. My gaze fell to my hand clenched around the journal, to the finger with the wire-and-bead ring that I’d worn every day since Chloe had made it for me, even though it turned my finger green. Because I’d wanted her to know how I felt. But maybe showing her hadn’t been enough.
“Chloe!” I shouted, jogging after the car, the windows still open. “I love you. You are my daughter, and I love you. I always will.”
I stopped running, the limo too far ahead. I stared after it until it turned out of the drive, with Chloe’s face watching me from the rear window.
Chapter 44
Adelaide Walker Bodine Richmond
INDIAN MOUND, MISSISSIPPI
APRIL 19, 1927
The rains continued, tensions rising as high as the river. We’d barely seen the men for three days, the call for hands—both black and white—to help with sandbagging coming from up and down the river. The men slept in tents on the levees in the rain before awakening in the morning and moving farther upriver to do it all over again. I prayed for their safety, and that John remembered to keep his neck warm to ward away a chill.
On Mrs. Heathman’s most recent visit—disguised as a visit to see me, even though I knew she mostly wanted to hold Bootsie—she mentioned she’d stopped by Peacock’s to resize a ring for Sarah Beth, and she’d said how nervous Mr. Peacock had been about making sure he had time to secure his merchandise. It seemed the entire downtown was moving everything from the lower floors, preparing for the worst. Even she and Mr. Heathman had decided to leave and had already made plans to go to Vicksburg.
I was packed and ready to go at a moment’s notice. The impending flood made it easier, my packing no longer suspicious. But the longer we had to wait, the more nervous I became that something bad would happen. I kept reassuring myself that if the rain and possible flood interfered with our plans, it would also interfere with the plans of others.
There had been no arrest in the Angelo Berlini case, and I wondered if they’d been able to return his body to New Orleans with so many roads and bridges overrun with water. I didn’t want to think of him in
a wooden box, waiting indefinitely to be shipped home. I thought of Bootsie’s ring, and wondered what had happened to it, then immediately chastised myself. A man was dead. A baby’s ring was so insignificant in comparison.
I was sitting in the parlor, mending a pair of John’s socks while Aunt Louise was at church praying for an end to the rain. I looked up at the sound of a car in the drive and then frantic knocking on the front door.
Mathilda, who’d been crossing the foyer, answered it. Sarah Beth stood on the threshold without a coat or hat, despite the rain and unusually frigid temperature. I stood, the sock falling to the floor, as she rushed into the room and flung herself at me. She seemed unaware of her sodden state, or that she was making me—and the chair I’d been sitting on and the floor beneath her—almost as wet as she was.
She was trembling and sobbing into my neck, holding so tightly that I could barely breathe.
“What’s wrong, Sarah Beth?”
Mathilda appeared with a blanket and I helped her wrap it around Sarah Beth before leading her to the settee by the fireplace, where the last of the dry wood burned. I sat down beside her.
“I go get somethin’ warm her up some,” Mathilda said.
“Thank you, Mathilda. Coffee, please.”
I took Sarah Beth’s icy hands in mine and began rubbing them, trying to bring the blood back into her long, delicate fingers. Despite her matted hair and smeared makeup, she was still beautiful. Like what I imagined the sirens of my fairy tales might look like: not quite of this world, her eyes appearing darker and wider in her pale face.
Her lips trembled so much she could barely speak, and when she did she had to talk very slowly so I could understand.
“Where . . . is . . . Willie?”
“Uncle Joe’s on the levee guard. He took Willie and John to help with the sandbagging. They’ve been gone for three days.”
Her head sagged along with her shoulders, making me think of a drowned bird I’d seen in the yard that had fallen from its nest. “Angelo. He’s . . .”
“He’s dead. I know. John and I read about it in the paper.”
She lifted her head, and I saw she wasn’t wearing the emerald earrings. I remembered the look on Willie’s face when he’d seen the earrings the night he and Chas had come here drunk, and it occurred to me that Sarah Beth hadn’t wanted to wear them where Willie might see them again.
“Were you and Angelo . . . ?” I almost said “lovers,” but I didn’t want to hear her confirm what I’d believed to be true for a long time. I still remembered Sarah Beth as a young girl, and I hated to see what she’d become. But in my heart, I knew. I’d seen her wearing the emeralds.
“He’s . . . gone,” she said, her lips trembling hard now, as if it weren’t just the cold that made her nerves shiver.
“Did you love him?” I asked, unable to look her in the eyes, imagining his body floating in the pond, alone. I remembered the secrets she and I had shared as children and wanted to ask her if she knew how he’d died, wanted to tell her that John and I thought it was his business associates, and that we were going to Missouri to be safe. But I couldn’t. We were past the age where a secret told was a secret kept.
When she didn’t respond, I lifted my gaze to hers and saw eyes that had grown cold.
She didn’t answer my question. Instead, she said, “When will . . . Willie be . . . back?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. Not until the rain stops or the danger of flooding is over. Do you have a plan to get somewhere safe? You can’t go back to New Orleans—all the roads are flooded.”
She threw back her head and laughed. “I know . . . that’s . . . where I just . . . came from. There’s no . . . safe place.”
I rubbed her arms again, trying to get the shivering to stop. “I heard your parents have refugeed to Vicksburg.” Their house had been built on the highest point in the county, but I supposed that wasn’t safe enough for the Heathmans.
Sarah Beth nodded, her lips staying pressed together.
“You can’t be at your house alone. You must stay with us until it’s safe, and you can evacuate with us if it comes to that.”
She looked at me with those empty eyes and didn’t say anything.
Mathilda returned with a coffee tray and poured coffee for us, and I pressed a cup into Sarah Beth’s hand, but she put it down on the coffee table with a thud, a drop of the liquid spilling over onto the polished wood. With trembling fingers she pulled a small flask from her garter and poured a generous amount into her cup, emptying the flask. With a shaking smile, she picked up the cup with both hands and drained it, not noticing the hot coffee as she gulped it down.
She seemed to have warmed up after that and stood, clutching the blanket around her shoulders as she moved closer to the fire, her back to me.
Her voice only trembled slightly when she spoke again, her gaze on the bright orange flames. “I need your help.”
“Of course. I already told you that you can stay here. I’ll get the guest room—”
“I’m going to have a baby.”
My next words vanished, their importance and meaning erased by Sarah Beth’s.
I remained sitting, trying to digest what she’d just said. “You’re pregnant?”
She faced me, a weak smile on her face. “Aren’t you supposed to say ‘Congratulations’?”
I tried to keep the shock from my voice as I stood and approached her. “Of course,” I said, hugging her. “The news of a baby is always good.”
Her jaw twisted. “Not always. Not when there’s no wedding ring involved.”
“But I know Willie’s crazy about you. He always has been. He’ll marry you in a heartbeat, Sarah Beth. I know he will.”
“I’m not so sure.” She returned to staring into the fire. “Especially if he knows I’m already pregnant.”
“But all the more reason for him to want to marry . . .” I stopped, her odd mood suddenly making sense to me. “Is he not the father?”
She shook her head, and the blanket sank to the floor without her notice. I took her hand and we returned to the settee, and I could feel her fingers trembling in mine.
“Angelo?” I whispered the name, as if the dead could hear.
“Yes.” She squeezed my hands painfully. “He said he was going to marry me. That his engagement to Carmen was just to make his boss happy. Don’t you see, Adelaide? That’s why you have to help me. Willie must marry me now, or I’ll be ruined.”
“But what could I do? Surely Willie will know it’s not his.”
She avoided looking at me. “It might be.”
I sat back, trying to hide my shock but knowing I was failing miserably. I understood Sarah Beth’s attraction to men and their attraction to her. And even accepted that she might have a lover. But not those two men, and not at the same time. “Oh,” I managed. “Then you should tell him that it could be his, and I know he’ll do the right thing by you.”
“I already did.” Her gaze slid away. “Right before Angelo was killed.”
When she looked back at me it was as if she were trying to tell me something with her eyes, something she wanted me to know without saying it aloud.
“What is it?” I asked, dread filling me.
“Willie says he won’t marry me. And I need your help desperately. I need you to tell your aunt and uncle that I’m in the family way. They’re good people, and I know they’ll make Willie do the right thing. They trust you and won’t ask any questions. And if he tells them stories about how he might not be the daddy, you can back me up and tell them it’s not true.”
“I’ve never lied to them before. And this is such a big lie.” I looked at her, an idea springing into my mind, my earlier thoughts about secrets easily forgotten in the turmoil of her predicament. “John and I are planning on going up to Missouri for a while. You can come with us. Hav
e the baby there. Maybe by then Willie will have changed his mind. And when he sees that baby, I know he’ll do the right thing then.”
Her words were stiff. “And if he doesn’t?”
“Then the baby can be adopted. Like you were. And raised by a loving family.”
“No!” she shouted, and I leaned back, never having seen this new emotion in her before. She was like a cornered bear, lashing out at those who would save her, because she didn’t know what else to do. “My parents will disown me if they ever find out I had a baby without being married. You have no idea what would happen.”
She put her hand over her mouth, pacing over and over the same patch of carpet, her heels digging into the wet wool. “I’ve thought about getting rid of it, going to some back-alley doctor and getting it taken care of. But I’m as likely to die as the baby.”
I stood again, trying to reason with her. “Sarah Beth, if I didn’t see any alternatives, I might agree that forcing Willie to marry you would be the best thing. But lying is never the answer. I’m sorry; I am. But I won’t lie for you. I’ll help you, but I won’t lie for you.”
Her face was so contorted I barely recognized my old friend. “But I need a husband’s protection; don’t you see? Somebody who’s not afraid to take matters into his own hands if the baby’s born . . .” She stopped, her mouth closing quickly, as if she were afraid that the word would fall out on its own.
“If the baby’s born what?” I tried to finish her sentence. “With dark hair and eyes like Angelo’s? But you have dark hair and eyes, too. People would just say that the baby looked like you.”
“I thought you were my friend!” she screamed at me, and I suddenly realized that it wasn’t so much the disappointment that I wasn’t going to help her do what she wanted me to. Her anger was all about her not getting her way. I saw with new eyes that she’d never grown up, not really. She still thought and behaved like a spoiled child.
