Perennials

by Julie Cantrell

  She holds tight to the magazine. “Fine. But don’t think for a second this means I’ve forgiven you.”

  “Forgiven me? For what?”

  She rolls her eyes and opens the door, once again leaving all the blame on me.

  “Can’t believe it’s already June,” Mother says, blotting her lipstick as Chief drives. It’s been five days since I learned of Mother’s cancer, and I still can’t process this new reality. When I try to care for her, she resists. When I question the diagnosis, she changes the subject. When I give her names of specialists or links to research studies, she shrugs it off as if there’s no hope for recovery. She’s made it clear she will not spend one ounce of energy discussing her health. So we skirt the subject as if it’s a big, deep ravine between us.

  Since the original road trip was delayed, Chief now drives us forty miles east of Oxford to the place where William Faulkner was born. “Twenty years since I’ve been to this town and hardly anything has changed.” I look out the window as we enter New Albany.

  “Well, they converted the railroad into a bike trail.” Chief slows his speed as we reach the downtown streets. “Forty-four miles each way. Quite a ride.”

  “Ninety miles?”

  “Almost.”

  “That’s nearly the distance from Phoenix to Sedona.” I’ve driven that route each weekend for years now, but the red rock buttes are already fading in my mind. Mississippi and Arizona couldn’t be more opposite, and there’s no longer any doubt which one feels more like home.

  We’ve already passed the hospital, its multilevel architecture a counterweight to the Walmart distribution complex that keeps many employed in these parts. But now that we’re downtown, I’m surprised to see that cars still park in the middle lane of the road and men still pay a slim penny for a straight-blade shave. The iconic red, white, and blue poles let visitors know where to find such service, and from the looks of it, dough burgers are still a lunchtime favorite, skillet fried and sold on the cheap at a colorful cash counter. With flour mixed into the meat, the pancake-thin patties are savored for their crunchy exterior, a recipe born to stretch a poor man’s dollar and one that lands the diner on Best Burger lists still today.

  This picturesque community is reminiscent of Leave It to Beaver, and I indulge the fantasy. Today, I’ll walk these quiet streets with my family, settling into the slow, simple rhythms of small-town life. If Bitsy dares to bite, I won’t let her see me bleed. She can go right ahead and gnaw on my bones until her teeth fall out, but I’ll never run away again.

  Chief leads us over the tracks to the Union County Heritage Museum. It’s a one-story brick building, with classic columns and a pair of ferns that welcome us through the wide white door. We receive warm greetings from a young woman who holds a toddler in her lap. She explains she’s “just watching the desk until the director returns.” When the phone rings, her child tries to take the phone, then the pen. Frazzled by the sudden chaos, the mother’s eyes widen.

  A nurturer by nature, Mary Evelyn wiggles her fingers and entertains the tot, drawing an appreciative smile from the mom who is struggling to jot a message.

  The rest of us step into the next room to explore the collections. “Talented curator,” I say, impressed with the permanent exhibit. Trip, our history buff, heads straight for the Chickasaw display, admiring the primitive weaponry carved from stone and wood.

  “I heard they may be sponsoring an atlatl contest.” Mother points to the ancient spear-throwing tool with her grandson, whose curiosity is piqued.

  Chief, too, leans in for a closer look. “Reminds me of that plastic thing that helps me throw Manning’s tennis balls.” He pulls his arm back as if slinging the tool through the air for an intense game of fetch.

  “You should enter,” I tell Trip. “You’ve got Chief’s genes. Natural athlete.”

  Trip shrugs off the compliment, much more interested in the facts he’s just read on the display. “Sold six million acres to the government?”

  “Treaty of Pontotoc, 1832.” Chief taps the placard, filling in the blanks. “There’s a sellout in every group. All the government had to do was find the weakest link.”

  Trip reads the rest. “Says most ended up in Oklahoma.”

  Bitsy moves ahead to the textile exhibition where she examines a boll of cotton, but Trip asks at least ten more questions. “Was that when they had to walk the Trail of Tears? What if they didn’t want to leave? Will they ever get their land back again?”

  Chief accepts each with excitement, happy to share some local history with his grandson. The conversation circles through the story of our native tribes, the resettlement of the Chickasaw, and the wars that were fought as French and English explorers claimed new territories.

  Near the center of the room, Mary Evelyn now fidgets with a light-up timeline of Union County. “Says here the Indians taught the settlers how to barbecue.”

  “Hmmm . . . barbecue.” Bitsy shows signs of life. “Anybody hungry?”

  “It’s barely eleven.” Mother laughs, indicating she will likely eat little again today.

  I keep quiet, capturing every subtle gesture and sound Mother offers, determined not to forget a thing. After discussing a collection of primitive tools, some dating back ten thousand years, we move to a room filled with exotic animals that have been harvested from all corners of the world.

  “First time I’ve ever seen a wild dog.” I head toward the bizarre African beast and consider the roles we all play in the world—some predator, others prey.

  “What is that thing?” Mary Evelyn follows.

  “Half hyena, half wild boar?” Trip inspects the animal’s strong jaws, large ears.

  We’re discussing taxidermy when the museum director joins us, her feet forming soft steps along the wooden hallway. With a smile ever as friendly as the young volunteer’s, she explains she “had to run a box of fossils up to the school.”

  “We came to see the garden,” Mother says. “Our daughter’s down from Arizona. Can you believe she’s never visited the museum?”

  I shuffle with shame, offering excuses.

  The director tilts her head in a way that suggests she understands. Then she gives a gentle smile. “Glad you’re here.”

  With a graceful gait she leads us outside to the Faulkner Literary Garden. We enter through an arbor of wisteria, the branches swollen with dense interweaving, awaiting their second bloom. “We pulled this from Miss Lucy Hawthorne’s place, over near Ole Miss,” she explains. “Supposedly, Faulkner would stand under this exact wisteria, visiting on the porch before hunting quail on their property.”

  She points to the placard: Wistaria. “That’s how Faulkner spelled it.” She humbly credits the New Albany Garden Club for such detailed research and exceptional garden design. A few of their volunteers are here this morning, adding fresh mulch to the beds and clipping stalks from the irises that have already begun to fall.

  One of the women chimes in, a clump of weeds in hand. “I like knowing whose yard they came from. Don’t y’all?”

  The others agree, noting which blooms they contributed and giving us a story with each.

  “That’s like your garden, Grammy. All those pass-alongs.”

  Mother lights up as Mary Evelyn shows such interest, and I’m charmed she still uses the affectionate term Grammy instead of Grandmother or the like.

  Another volunteer works the roses. Beside her, a plaque references “Retreat” from The Unvanquished, mentioning “Mrs. Compson’s rose cuttings wrapped in a new piece of paper in her hand.”

  She notices me reading the quote. “Can’t you just smell the roses in that scene? Here.” She holds a handful of petals out for us before she drops them into a small basket. “I add them to my bathwater.”

  The director smiles, then points out the pokeberry, noting it may need to be tied soon. “Isn’t it interesting that Faulkner’s fictional Yoknapatawpha County was centered around a town he named Jefferson? He was born right here on Jefferson
Street,” she says. “Forty miles from the university, just like the county seat he created for his novels.”

  “When we were younger, Mother would treat us to dessert if we could spell Yoknapatawpha and Mississippi.” I lift my brows at the kids, a challenge.

  Mary Evelyn accepts, singing the familiar childhood spell-song: “M-I . . . Crooked-Letter-Crooked-Letter-I . . . Crooked Letter-Crooked Letter-I . . . Humpback-Humpback-I.”

  “I would’ve failed y’all completely if I couldn’t even teach you that much.” Mother laughs, and the whole world lights around her.

  With full-moon stepping stones drawing us through the blooms, I stop to read each inscription. Much in the way Eudora’s garden has been preserved back in Jackson, this one, too, is designed to link literature to nature, inspiring us to take better notice of both. The director’s enthusiasm stirs me as she notes the many plants and the novels that prompted their inclusion here.

  •Lemon verbena, which Faulkner described as having an odor you could “smell alone above the smell of horses.”

  •Honeysuckle, which he said was the “saddest odor of all.”

  •Lantana, which many believe he described as a “fierce lush myriad-colored paradox.”

  My favorite is the Carolina jessamine, her twisted vines lining the fence like tangles. From around the bend another group of visitors arrives, and the director takes leave to greet them. As I catch up with Chief, I read a quote from Absalom, Absalom! It’s a reference to some of the plants that have already lost their blooms: “. . . and you said North Mississippi is a little harder country than Louisiana, with dogwood and violets and the early scentless flowers, but the earth and the nights still a little cold and the hard, tight sticky buds . . . on Judas trees and beech and maple . . . you find that you have been wanting that pretty hard for some time . . .”

  In his story Faulkner may have been suggesting a lustful want for the maiden Judith Sutpen, but I take it another direction. As hard as Mississippi can be, I realize now I have indeed been wanting that pretty hard for some time.

  If only I had known to avoid the wisteria. Instead, I said no when I should have said yes; said yes when I should have said no—and that mistake has nearly choked the life from me.

  With a perfect pedicure and even better posture, Bitsy walks alongside the garden’s wooden fence. The pickets reach only to her hips, a modest height that would allow for neighborly conversations, and I picture my sister sharing whispers with friends as the flowers capture every secret. She’s faced brutal betrayals too, and yet she’s still standing. Still mothering. Still holding her own. With such confident ease, perhaps Bitsy has now become the “strongest girl in the world.”

  Chief waves his hand, calling the kids to join us around the spindly redbud. “I’ve got a story,” he says, causing Mary Evelyn to roll her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, but this is a good one.”

  “That’s what you always say.” She laughs, and Chief pretends his feelings are hurt. Then he gives a wink to his grandchildren, and they bend toward him as if he’s magnetic, the same impact he had on me as a kid. Still does.

  I press my hand against the trunk, allowing the bark to form a grooved impression across my palm just as my father makes his own sweet impression on our hearts.

  “Some people call this the Judas tree.” He lowers one of the branches.

  “Like Judas Iscariot?”

  Bitsy shines a proud smile at Mary Evelyn, and Trip tries to one-up her. “A traitor in every group.”

  “That’s right, Trip.” Chief seems pleased his lessons are taking root. “It wasn’t an enemy who told the guards where to find Jesus. It was Judas, a man he loved and trusted.”

  “Yep.” Bitsy says this with an intensity that suggests she knows about Whitman’s affairs. I try to read her, but she shifts quickly as if I’m intruding.

  My stomach clenches as Chief offers another of life’s lessons: “Be careful who we trust. And be trustworthy in return.”

  “I do believe you missed your calling, Brother Sutherland.” I turn my attention to a robin, try to avoid the triggers that are firing.

  “Amen and hallelujah!” Trip draws me back with a high five. If Welty and Mother share the language of flowers, Trip and I must share the language of sarcasm, a bond even time and Bitsy haven’t managed to break.

  “Some say Judas was the worst kind of villain, but maybe it was part of the plan. You can’t have the good without the bad. You see?”

  Now Chief has hit a nerve. “No, I don’t see.” Bitsy shoots me a look of warning, but I continue. “Judas chose to torture an innocent man. A man who had done nothing but offer pure, unconditional love to people who refused to receive it.”

  Mother’s eyes soften.

  “Maybe you’re right, Lovey.” Chief speaks sincerely. “But Judas was human, like the rest of us.”

  “Oh, please. Judas knew exactly what he was doing, and he did it anyway. You think he should just wave his hands in the air and say, ‘Oops! I’m only human’?”

  I’m making a fool of myself in front of the kids, but Chief’s story has angered me. Not one thing happened to Reed, despite all the pain he caused. No one has ever held Bitsy accountable for her lies and cruelty. Executives like The Dragon go for the jugular every day, justifying their greedy choices by saying, “It’s just business.” No matter how much harm these predators cause, those of us left in their wake are expected to let it go, get over it, accept they are “only human.”

  “You know what, Chief?” I continue. “You’re right. We’re all imperfect people faced with impossible choices every day. I get that. Every one of us is a messy combination of all that has happened in our lives, all the hurts and heartaches, mishaps and mistakes. But there’s one big difference. Some of us choose to love in spite of it all. And some of us don’t.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” Chief says. “Isn’t that the point of the story?”

  Mother puts her arm across my back, and Chief takes charge again, looking toward the kids to make his lesson clear. “Despite what we think of Judas, if it weren’t for him, we may never have heard the story . . . the story of forgiveness. And love.”

  I move back into the sun. “Now you’re trying to tell me Judas was the hero?”

  He shrugs. “I’m just saying it’s all connected. Every part has a purpose. The good, the bad, and the ugly.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  On the way out of the garden, Mother leans against Chief with a nurturing nudge, and I can’t take my eyes off her. I try to capture the way the sun highlights her blonde tones, giving her a golden glow. I want to hold this image forever, lock down her every grace, like how her left cheek carries a row of freckles and her lips draw higher to the right when she smiles. I never want to forget the sound of her voice, gentle but steady, or the way she walks, a positive force if I ever saw one. A bit like Bitsy but with less sass, more class. Less bitter. More sweet.

  How many more moments will we have? Will the years carry the sound of her laughter with them, erasing this woman who gave me entry into life? How does anyone go on without a mother? How will I?

  She leans low over a patch of larkspur, says she used the fernlike greenery in her bridal bouquet.

  “I ever tell you kids our wedding disaster story?” Chief steals Mary Evelyn’s attention with his humor, so she scoots closer with an eager grin. “By the time it finally dawned on me that Cousin Ted wasn’t gonna show up to give me a ride to the church, it was too late. Operator tried calling everybody we knew, but they were all at the sanctuary . . . waiting on me.”

  Mother is laughing, soothing every cell within me. “Nearly all of Oxford was there. It was small in those days. Only person missing was the groom!”

  “How’d you end up getting there?” Mary Evelyn asks, as if she, too, realizes our moments together are limited and that we can’t waste a second more.

  “Walked. In my suit! By the time a farmer stopped and offered me a ride, I was all hot and bothered.”

/>   “I think his name was Harold,” Mother says. “I insisted he sit up front with the family. Remember?”

  “You didn’t know him?” Trip seems stunned.

  “Oh, I’d never do a thing like that now,” Chief insists.

  “Never.” Bitsy gives her kids a look of warning.

  “So you see, the moral of the story is . . . you can’t trust Cousin Ted.” Mother lowers her voice to imitate the slack best man: “‘No, Laurel. Haven’t seen nor heard from Chief all day.’”

  “He thought it’d be funny to act like I was MIA.”

  “Wasn’t funny at all!” Mother wails. “I thought I’d been jilted. My poor daddy was storming through the pews.” She imitates her father now. “‘I’m gonna wring ’im by the neck!’”

  “Chief?” Trip laughs, imagining his grandfather being attacked by the father of the bride.

  “Wanted to kill him,” Mother says. “Probably would’ve too, if he really had bailed on me. Daddy never would have stood for that.”

  Chief agrees. “Put his fist to my face and warned me that better be the last time I ever disrespect his daughter. But that wasn’t the worst of it. I jumped out of that farmer’s truck straight into a swarm of church ladies. And let me tell you, nothin’ stings more than a bunch of angry church ladies.”

  Even Bitsy is laughing now.

  “Oh well, I forgave you the minute I saw you.” Mother steals a quick kiss.

  Then Chief taps Trip’s ball cap and says, “I guess the point is, if Ted hadn’t made your mother fear I’d left her, she may never have appreciated the fact that I actually showed up to marry her.”

  “Oh, I’m not so sure about that,” Mother argues. “Most of us know how to find the good. We don’t need a dose of bad to make us notice it’s there.”

  “True.” Chief looks at Bitsy. “But some of us do.”

  After the museum visit, we place our order at the counter of Tallahatchie Gourmet, a popular blue-plate café. The small eatery is packed with bankers, lawyers, farmers, and doctors, a catchall for New Albany locals who all take time to speak to one another before finding a seat anywhere they choose. It’s the way Oxford used to be, before the growth got out of control and the newcomers outnumbered us all.