Perennials

by Julie Cantrell

  “Can I help you?”

  I grab some tissue and dab beads of sweat from my hairline. The words won’t form. Help me?

  SEVEN

  “Home, sweet home!” Mother cheers as we make our way up the gravel lane. A troop of crape myrtles salute us, their bony limbs contrasting with the giddy azaleas as we turn the curve.

  Landscaped without flaw, the grounds are idyllic, as if a fictional character could be living just around the bend. When Chief’s loyal black lab, Manning, runs up the lane to meet us, thoughts of Dorothy and Toto spring to mind. “Bitsy and I used to pretend this was the yellow brick road.”

  Chief pats my knee. “Glad to have you home, Lovey. It’s been too long.”

  Emotions surge as I remember my childhood fascination with The Wizard of Oz and Chief’s stern warnings about tornadoes. “They come hungry, and they leave full.” That’s what he would say as he held the storm-shelter door, telling us to “hurry quick” and “climb inside.” Mother always kept one hand on my back as I’d lower myself into the safe room, a backyard shelter used by many in these parts. I always hoped we’d emerge after the storm to find a gang of cheerful munchkins from the Lollipop Guild.

  Together, the four of us have huddled through many a storm, listening to hail slam the hatch as the winds grew fierce. We’d pass the time by singing or playing games, and sometimes Mother would read aloud, raising her voice above the downpour as if even the gusts had no power over her. We kept a few books there on hand, including a copy of The Wizard of Oz. I can still hear Mother assigning parts, encouraging each of us to impersonate the colorful characters. My favorite was Glinda, the Witch of the South. She was described as being “kind to everyone . . . a beautiful woman, who knows how to keep young in spite of the many years she has lived.” I wanted to be the good witch, but Bitsy always got to play that role.

  The storms never lasted long. On occasion we’d exit the safe room to find our property stripped of a few trees or shingles, but we were the fortunate ones. Never a casualty to count aside from a few “tornado chickens.” Most of the hens we’d find days later, clucking behind a downtown gas station or pecking away in some stranger’s yard with hardly any wear aside from a missing feather or two. But a couple were never to be seen again, and that always pinched.

  Now, as Chief parks beneath the shagbark hickory tree, my stomach settles. Indeed. It has been too long.

  “Bitsy plans to meet us in the morning,” Chief says, insisting he be the one to carry my luggage from the car. “I figure we’ll head out no later than nine.”

  “You still won’t tell us where we’re going?”

  “No, no,” Mother interrupts. “Surprises are much more fun. Now come see the gardens!”

  Dolly P. stays on our trail as Mother leads me through the pebbled paths. Dogwood blooms have already fallen, cushioning our steps to the sun-soaked beds where vibrant lilies are in bloom. “I just kept toying with combinations until . . . this!” Mother cups a spectacular melon mix, its edges delicate, crinkled like a pageant dress.

  My own hands move effortlessly, pulling a withering stalk from the first round of daylilies and uprooting any stray shoots daring to invade the bed. As a child I learned to deadhead the zinnia, pamper the peonies, and divide the irises nearly as soon as I took my first steps.

  “There’s no place I’d rather be.” I surprise myself by the truth in this. For the first time in years, I don’t want to leave.

  I follow Mother past hot-pink roses, all in early release. When I lean in for the ancient fragrance, my heart settles to a slow, smooth beat, transporting me back to my high school graduation party, when friends and family gathered right here.

  Fisher and I had been madly in love for a couple of years, but I had no idea he was about to pop the question. He was still playing baseball for Ole Miss, and I was barely eighteen—nowhere near ready. My parents had married late in life, and unlike most of my friends, weddings had never been a part of our family conversation. But there Fisher stood, ring in his hands and hope in his heart.

  I grew faint, shaky. My entire future flashed before me: wedding, babies, grandchildren, conformity. The whole idea was terrifying, but we were in love, after all. I convinced myself that’s what really mattered. That people had married this young before. That it wasn’t the craziest idea in the world.

  Maybe . . . just maybe we can make it.

  I let Fisher slide the ring on my finger. And I whispered the word yes.

  Then, from the fragrant row of gardenias, Bitsy gave me a glance. It was subtle, nothing anyone else seemed to notice, but with one twisted brow and a drawn cheek, she made clear I was making a mistake.

  A week later, as I flipped through magazine pages of wedding gowns, Bitsy stood behind me in the kitchen where only I could hear her.

  June 1989

  “You know what’s sad?” Bitsy asks. “It’s likely Finn will never marry, what with all those scars.”

  I dog-ear a page corner, marking a dress I like. “I’m sure he’ll find the right person.”

  “Probably not, Lovey. He’s never even had a girlfriend.”

  I look up. She’s staring right at me. “He’s still young, Bitsy. Give him time.”

  “Time’s the problem. You and Finn may be on good terms now, but it won’t be long before Finn looks at you and Fisher and your happy little family, and he starts to feel bitter. He’ll resent you.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Despite my resistance, Bitsy’s warning takes hold.

  “But I do know. Fisher loves you, but he loves his brother more. You’re setting yourself up for a whole lotta hurt down the road. Trust me.”

  And that was the final blow. It no longer mattered how much I loved Fisher, how much he loved me. Marrying him would mean trapping myself in a space of never-ending guilt and shame, and staying in Oxford would mean a life lived in the wake of my sister’s attacks. There was only one way I could ever escape Bitsy’s lies and Finn’s pain. In a panic, I rebelled. Tears fell as I told Fisher, “I’m sorry.” I accepted the scholarship to Arizona State. By summer’s end, I left Mississippi and all I had ever known of love.

  “My Lady Banks are nearly gone,” Mother says, zapping me into the now as she moves toward the few remaining blooms that wrap the front-porch pergola. The miniature roses are based by billowing hydrangeas and a climbing sprawl of clematis, whose impressive purple flowers haven’t yet stolen the show.

  I tuck myself beneath the arbor, settling into a rocking chair my grandfather made by hand. Mother takes the swing as Dolly P. jumps into her lap, demanding a head rub.

  “I can’t believe you’re really here,” she says, and then her voice grows somber. “Why has it been so long, Lovey?”

  It’s not like Mother to talk about such things, and I sense she has mustered all her strength to do so. She’s steeped in the practice of ignoring hard truths, pretending the ugly parts of life don’t exist and focusing solely on the pretty pieces. For that reason alone, she’s spent nearly eight decades skimming the surface, never facing what swims beneath the shine.

  But now it seems she’s ready to dive deep, and I’m caught off guard. Why has it been so long?

  I am no longer with Mother on the porch. Instead, I am lured right back to the Reed Incident, and once again I’m moving through moments as if time doesn’t really exist. How can I tell her the hurt I still carry? Not from Reed’s betrayal, but from the response I received when I ran home for help.

  All my life I’d take a hard knock, never expecting the world to go easy on me, but when Reed betrayed me, it was more than I could handle. I needed my family to stand up for me, help me heal. Instead, Bitsy attacked, Chief stayed silent, and Mother told me never to speak of it again.

  June 2013

  “A married man. Who does that?” Bitsy glares.

  I pass the milk and sugar, hoping to help my family understand. “I never would have gotten myself into that situation, Bitsy. I didn’t know.”
I pour myself a second shot of caffeine, filling a mug made of Mississippi clay.

  “That’s what they all say.” She rolls her eyes. “I mean, seriously. How could you date a man for four years and not know he has a wife? And worse . . . kids? A quick Google search is all it takes.”

  “Good coffee,” Mother interjects, as if we’d better make peace at any cost.

  I ignore the warning. “You don’t think I searched? I found nothing. Only a website from his practice and a LinkedIn profile.”

  “I don’t believe that for a second. What I do believe is that my sister is a home wrecker.”

  “That’s not fair, Bitsy.” My voice elevates, and I try not to shout. “Search for yourself. There’s not one family photo, not a single mention of his wife. He’s a master manipulator, I’m telling you. A con of the worst sort.”

  “Girls, must we talk about such things?” Mother butters pancakes with a disappointed look.

  “Well, if I should have known about his family, then you should have known too, right?” I throw it back at Bitsy. “Y’all thought he hung the moon.”

  “Don’t expect me to carry your cross.” Bitsy stares coldly, crunching every syllable. Ice.

  This does it. “You always want to blame the person who gets hurt instead of the one who does the hurting. I guess that means you think I knew when you were hooking up with Harland Henson behind my back?”

  I let this long-held secret come tumbling out, one of many wounds Bitsy delivered during childhood. “My first boyfriend stolen by my only sister. How much more Jerry Springer does it get? You’d have taken Fisher too, if he had let you. I know all about how you tried to kiss him while I was getting dressed for prom.”

  She slams her hand against the table and her coffee spills, a dark stain seeping across the vintage linen tablecloth.

  “Enough.” Mother moves between us, butter knife in hand.

  The three of us pause, frozen in a standoff, waiting for someone to make the next move. As usual I’m the one who gives in. But this time, I don’t apologize. Instead, I turn my back and head for the door, then slam it. Hard.

  Bitsy follows me out beneath the hickory. Far beyond Mother’s earshot, she spits these words: “Nobody believes you, Lovey. You’ve always been a liar.”

  “I know the truth.”

  “Do you?” She shoots me a glare that means to challenge. “So that’s why you’re about to run away again? Because you’re telling the truth, right?”

  That’s all it took to send me back to Arizona. But I don’t tell Mother the real reason I’ve stayed away so long. Instead, I pet Manning and say, “Time just got away from me, I guess.”

  “Bet they don’t feed you like this in the desert.” Chief savors another bite. Thanks to greenhouse transplants, we spent the afternoon harvesting a basket of tender yellow squash and zucchini—the first of the season. Roasted with hand-pressed olive oil, the fresh produce serves as an early supper, dished with homegrown herbs and a piping-hot bowl of fettucine. For dessert, Mother’s peach pie, baked from preserves and balanced with a heaping scoop of vanilla ice cream, all drizzled with a warm, dark loop of honey tapped straight from my father’s hives.

  I fall back against my chair and cover my bulging belly. “What in the world have I been thinking? I’m never leaving y’all again. Never.”

  “I hope not.” Mother gazes at me, and I have rarely felt so loved. Despite the enticing spread, she has barely eaten, and her frail frame seems particularly noticeable now as she declines dessert.

  “Just a little slice?” I nudge the pastry her way as Mother brings two photo albums to the table.

  “Nothing has much of a taste these days.” She shrugs. “Besides, I’m watching my sugar.”

  I’ve read about people losing their appetite, even their sense of taste as they age, but it seems odd for her to act as if this is normal. I don’t push, but I do worry as she opens the albums and begins reminiscing about the early years. As we flip through the pages, I am met with a carefree little Lovey, a joyful spirit who spent her childhood laughing and exploring these red-dirt ravines.

  “Your mother’s been organizing all the old photos,” Chief says. “Quite a job.”

  “Don’t want you girls to ever forget the good times.” She gives me a hopeful smile.

  Indeed, she has managed to preserve an entire childhood of delightful moments, pure joy on my face in every shot. And there’s another thing about the story these photographs tell. Nearly every image shows me stitched to Bitsy’s side. Proof there was a time when nothing could have kept me from her.

  “I wish Bitsy would have joined us.” Despite all she’s done to me, I miss my sister. I miss her children too.

  “She’s got a pretty full plate.” Mother reverts to making excuses again. “A teenager and a middle schooler. That’s a lot to manage.” Then she lowers her jaw, as if I wouldn’t understand. Maybe I don’t, but Mother would never acknowledge I, too, have a lot to manage back in Arizona. It’s a world as foreign to her as Jupiter, and why I’ve chosen to live there as an unmarried woman with no children of my own is beyond her.

  As the family stories surface and memories take hold, I realize why Bitsy hasn’t bothered returning my calls. She’s got everything she needs right here in Oxford. I’m the one on the outside looking in.

  After the dishes have been cleaned, Chief and I take a long walk, with Manning leading the way. “Just look at all the lightning bugs,” I say. “It’s the little things, you know?”

  This makes my father smile, and the spark is not lost on me. “Won’t be long before the rest of the bugs return too.”

  “First time I came home from college, I couldn’t believe the noise. Cicadas. Crickets. Frogs. I had to raise my voice just to talk over all that buzzing and croaking.”

  He looks toward the pond. “Funny. I hardly even notice anymore.”

  “I’m telling you, Chief. I’ve traveled half the globe. There’s no place as alive as this.”

  My appreciation draws a pleased grin and a story from his own youth—a day spent nabbing tree frogs with his cousin Ted. As the sun begins to set, fireflies dance above the wildflowers, spreading wide across the horizon and shining out their sparks of light. It brings me right back to childhood, when Fisher, Finn, Bitsy, and I would spend warm summer evenings filling Mason jars, counting our catch.

  Chief shares my delight. “You used to think they were magic. Remember?”

  “Those vacations in the Smokies? Best ever!”

  His smile grows broader, revealing a slight discoloration between his real teeth and the dental bridge he’s worn since a particularly brutal tackle in the NFL. “One of the only places in the world where they all light up at once. You were only about four, I think, that first time. Long before all the tourists starting showing up in droves. Soon as those signals fired, you were hooked.”

  “Looked like someone had strung a bunch of Christmas lights through the forest. The kind that blink.” I can still picture the swell of firefly lights stretching out between the trees. Then they all went dark. Couldn’t see a thing. But just when I thought it was done, another wave of light flared, then another. The beetles would shine and then dim as if the trees were breathing in light, inhaling and exhaling, again and again. That same old circle of life Marian talks about.

  Chief closes the gate behind us, the metal latch releasing a steely sound. “I’ve never seen anything else like it.”

  “You told me we were in Neverland.”

  He chuckles. “You believed every word.”

  As we reminisce Chief and I move beneath the redbuds, their bright-pink blooms long gone. The legume pods are already forming, bobbing like miniature sugar snaps in the slight evening breeze. By season’s end they’ll become dry, rattling as if the tree is a shaman, blessing all who pass.

  When we reach the barn, our old tack room calls with its smell of leather saddles and rusted bits. Years of riding lessons have left their mark here, proven by shelves of
trophies and award ribbons, saddle blankets, and boots—all turning to dust by the day. Even with a limp, Chief’s pace is fast as he makes his way through the indoor riding arena. This is where he taught Bitsy and me to polish our tack and place our weight in the stirrups, insisting, “If you can work a horse, you can do most anything.”

  Summer 1977

  “Posture, girls. Are you a princess or a pauper?” Chief stands in the middle of the arena. Bitsy rides her Hanoverian. I have my Paint. “One more round.”

  “Then can we plant the trees?” I’ve been itching to get my hands in the dirt ever since Chief came home with a truck full of crape myrtles.

  He clicks his tongue. “Show me better posture, and it’s a deal.”

  I do as he says, press my toes and pull my chin proud. I’m six, but Chief says I can already handle my horse like a champ.

  “Atta girl!” He claps and smiles big at me.

  “Watch this!” Bitsy yells. He turns like she wants him to do, so I finish my circle on my own.

  When Bitsy comes back around, Chief helps us remove the saddles, store our tack. We give the horses water and hay. Then we lead them to the pasture and head for the truck. Chief has parked it so we can unload the trees. “Lovey, you’re in charge of the white ones. Bitsy, you take the pink.” He counts ten big steps between each mark and challenges us to use different languages: Uno, dos, tres. Un, deux, trois.

  The hose has been running, so the dirt is soft for digging. Perfect for mud pies. “You know what the man at the garden center told me? He said these aren’t really trees at all,” Chief teases. “They’re actually a bunch of old ladies. At night they throw big parties, and sometimes they leave glitter on the ground. Wait and see.”

  This makes my sister smile, so I dance around and sing, “Glitter! Glitter!” until she tells me I’m being a brat.